by R S Surtees
“There’s Mrs. McDermott,” at length suggested our hero No. 1, whose heart hankered after the fair, more especially now when he meditated a trip to Roseberry Rocks races.
“To be sure!” exclaimed Mrs. Goldspink, “the very people. Be a nice present for them;” and forthwith she sent the knock-kneed half errand half footboy off for a basket, into which the Ducal haunch was speedily packed and despatched by that night’s mail-train. And they thought they had managed matters very cleverly, and saved themselves an infinity of trouble and expense.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE AHONTMOUS LETTER.
UP TO THIS time all had gone smoothly and well with our friend Mr. Bunting in Sea-View Place. John Thomas now let him in, as a matter of course, and pretty Perker the maid smiled attornment to his coming authority.
Miss received him with cheerful cordial encouragement, and Mamma was quite motherly and leave - them - alone - ical. Now, however, we regret to say things were going to take rather a different turn.
On the same day that the venison came, came one of those suspiciously-written letters that would puzzle an expert to say whether they are the production of a man, a woman, or a child, cautioning our fair friends against the insidious Mr. Bunting, and saying that he was nothing but a needy fortunehunting adventurer — advising them to question him about his castle and his consequence, and to ask him if he knew Miss Richley, or Miss Meadows, or Miss Featherwood. This was a poser to Mrs. McDermott, who was most thankful that Mrs. Goldspink mentioned in her letter announcing the haunch that Jasper was coming, so that they might trim the boat accordingly. Mr. Bunting had not come out with the specific words of an offer, so Mamma advised Rosa to be cautious and retiring, to keep him going on but to avoid coming to the point — that is to say to a declaration. And they looked at the letter again and again, wondered who had written it, whether it was any one who wanted him themselves, or some jealous person envious of Rosa. It was very perplexing.
In these days of wonderful science and discovery, when sighs are wafted on wires
“From Indus to the Pole,”
and the sun condescends to take portraits as low as a shilling a minute, it would be a great convenience if Mr. Adolphe Diddler or Didier the mesmeric somnambulist, or some other great necromancer, would invent some process by which the hidden thoughts of parties might be discovered and the deeds done in their absence made known to them. Then our esteemed friend Mr. Admiration Jack would have understood why it was that Mamma was more formal and Miss less confiding, and why instead of the sunny promenade on the gaily thronged esplanades and terraces they preferred a quiet walk on to the Downs, and took the unfrequented line of Brick-field Lane, Ivy Cottage, and Chewcud’s Dairy. At first, for want of a necromancer to explain matters, our friend thought they were afraid he was only trifling with fair Rosa’s feelings and wanted the tender prop: which he determined to make the very first opportunity; but that was just the very last thing they really did want, and Mamma guarded Miss against it with the most watchful and careful vigilance. No more leavings-alone or getting out of earshot for her. Whatever was said must be in her presence and hearing. So Mr. Jack was put upon a sort of half allowance of love, to be restored to the full diet or not according as things might appear. Three ladies he wouldn’t suit seemed rather too many, and Mamma thought it would not do to let Rosa be the fourth, especially if it was to endanger her prospects elsewhere.
However, Mrs. McDermott thought Mr. Bunting might be made useful in expediting the movements of our young turfite Mr. Goldspink, who was not quite so expeditious as the improved celerity of the times would require. Long courtships are not now in favour.
So much for the tender passion; let us now look at the venison. Much the same scene took place in the housekeeper’s room in Sea-view Place that had been enacted in Sivin-and-four’s little back-room at the Bank. Mrs. Meggison the cook-housekeeper unpacked and exhibited it, Bason the housemaid asked if it was pork, John Thomas replied it was panther; and when Mrs. McDermott appeared, the first question she put was how long it would keep. Now that was just what perplexed Mrs. Meggison, for she knew that a haunch of venison betokened a party and a party caused trouble, and as she considered that she was just as much away for her amusement as her mistress was, she had no idea of being involved in any such complications. So she replied “that she was really afraid it wouldn’t keep very long, indeed that it appeared to her quite ready for use, and considering the weather and the eat of the ouse p’raps the sooner it was used the better.” And as she spoke a great buzzing blue-bottle fly settled upon it and seemed to enforce the argument. “And then as to a party,” continued Mrs. Meggison, brushing it away, “we have no dish big enough to put it upon; nor indeed anything fit to set before company, nothink but the old-fashioned blue and white pattern, and as to a dessert-set, there aint two dishes alike — indeed I never saw what they call a furnished ouse so badly furnished — one with so little in it — in fact there were no pails, nor no pans, nor no peg to ang nothing upon, and as to the scullery it was a disgrace to be seen, and the kitchen was very little better, and the attics were shemful — and so she ran on with such a volley of complaints that Mrs. McDermott was glad to beat a retreat at the earliest possible opportunity. It being clear that Mrs. Meggison did not incline to a party, and without the cordial aid of the cook it is little use attempting one, Mrs. McDermott had then to consider what was best to be done with the formidable haunch. Her first impulse was to pack it up and send it down to her neighbour at Privett Grove, the Rev. Dr. “Wedlock, but remembering what an explosion a haunch of venison makes in the country, she was fearful it might be traced to its proper source and put down as a mere present of convenience. The same objection held good with regard to Mrs. Surfeit, Mr. Hill, Mr. Shaw, Miss Stern, indeed all the people in those parts. At last she hit upon a person on whom she thought it would be beneficially bestowed, and from whom some equivalent might be expected in return, namely, Mrs. Thomas Trattles, the champion of our now rather down-in-the-market hero, Mr. Bunting. Accordingly she had it repacked, and putting on a clean card label she directed it to “Mrs. T. Trattles, 25, Seagull Place,” omitting the date of the kill, “with Mrs. McDermott’s compliments,” and told John Thomas to deliver it, who gave a stray boy twopence for carrying it, who forthwith went along bolstering all the boys he met on the road. So, on the principle that beating a beefsteak makes it tender, the venison would be improved by the operation.
Mrs. McDermott was right in her calculations, for as soon as Jane Tongs, the maid of all work, and Mrs. Trattles had held their inquisition upon the haunch, turned it and smelt it and poked it and guessed how long it would keep, Mrs. Trattles put on her best flyaway bonnet and new black machinery-lace scarf and came trotting along to make her most grateful acknowledgments for it.
Mrs. McDermott having investigated her visitor’s shoulders from the balcony above, hinted Rosa to retire, thinking to pursue her inquiries more advantageously alone. So after the torrent of gratitude had subsided and the state of the weather been discussed, Mrs. McDermott guided the conversation among the pic-nics, the parties, the prospects of the season, and the state of the Roseberry Rocks’ heart market generally. They then condescended, as the Scotch say, on Mr. Bunting in particular. Some people are obliging enough to say anything they see other people want them to say, and Mrs. Thomas Trattles could accommodate herself to circumstances. At first when she thought Mrs. McDermott was full of him, she ran him up, then when Mrs. McDermott rather hesitated she “gave her pause,” as Hamlet says, when he considers the bare bodkin question in all its bearings. Certainly she considered he was a very eligible match, but then people might be mistaken, Mrs. McDermott knew; but then she (Mrs. Trattles) always made deductions for exaggeration and had done so in the present instance, and thought he might be fairly set down at ten or fifteen thousand a year, but say ten — ten was very comfortable; competence at least, There was no doubt he had a very fine place in Scotland — a castle — Buntingbury
Castle — whether there was a deer park or not she couldn’t tell; but there were grouse, for she knew a lady who had some from it, and very good they were. The thing however could be easily ascertained if Mrs. McDermott or any of her friends had any interest in the matter. “Oh no,” Mrs. McDermott “did not wish for anything of that sort — only as Mrs. Trattles had introduced him she thought she would know something about him, not that there was anything (hem) at present (hum) and (hem) — only” — with which innuendo she left Mrs. Trattles to take up the running.
Well Mrs. Trattles would make some inquiries — she knew where to go to exactly, and of course would not compromise Mrs. McDermott; and having now got her cue she presently trotted off to contemplate her venison again and consider “what she should do with it,” as Sir Bulwer Lytton would say.
We must now introduce some more characters on the scene.
CHAPTER XVIII.
JOHNNY O’DICEY.
IF ALL THE victims of misplaced confidence were polled, we take it the great majority of sufferers would prove to have been the dupes of plausible people. We all deprecate plausible people — advise others to be cautious of plausible people, and yet somehow or other are easily caught by plausible people.
The fact is, we don’t know they are plausible until they have deceived us. Their extra goodness passes for honesty — suspicious, perhaps, in any one else, but doubtless sincere in them. In fact, we think they are the exception to the general rule, which teaches us to beware of those who profess to be better than their neighbours. So we end in being deceived.
Any one, however, — any one at least on the sunny-side of thirty — might be fairly excused for being duped by Johnny O’Dicey. The name Johnny inspires confidence. Everybody has a good friend Johnny, and our friend Johnny (if he will allow us to call him so), has such an airy, careless, happy-go-lucky sort of manner, that the inexperienced would think he was the noblest-hearted fellow under the sun — a victim instead of a shark. Always gay, always well dressed, always swinging into coffee-rooms at the critical time, calling for “devils” or hock-and-soda-water, scattering silver without rhyme or reason. No one would suppose that such a man was merely feathering about to catch the scent of some one with money — throwing away a sprat to catch a whale, as it were.
The same at the gaming-table — Johnny dashes down handfuls of sovereigns, apparently at random, leaving the Croupiers to rake them into place — then, if he wins, he goes in for doublets, or, if he loses, comes out with more. He walks away a loser quite as gaily as if he had been a winner.
“Oh, hang it, what’s the use of money if it isn’t to enjoy oneself!” cries he, twirling his Louis Nap-like moustache. Of course he returns the next morning and has his money all back, with a liberal percentage on the losses of the dupes he has brought. But that is going too deeply into the secrets of the prison-house. We have only to do with Mr. O’Dicey in his public capacity of man of fashion and youth-lightener of cash. To this end he devotes his whole energies, and makes everything he can contribute. He does everything for effect. His dinners are always the costliest and best. “Let’s have everything that’s expensive,” seems to be the order. The landlords are more obsequious, and the waiters how lower to him than to anybody else. A stranger would say that Johnny was a man of abundant, over-abundant means, who just played for pleasure. Altogether, he is quite the model of a dashing, off-hand, open-hearted knave, so different to the lynx-eyed Clinker, who goes crawling along to Tattersall’s, looking as if he dursn’t trust his own shadow, or little Ginger Curlew, who comes sneaking into a room as if he had stolen a pat of butter, and had it in his pocket. For rigging the plucking arrangements of private play, Mr. O’Dicey is also unrivalled. No man can confront or confederate with a cooler, “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you, face” — can produce a pack of cards more innocently or more opportunely, or deprecate play more earnestly than he does. He hates the sight of cards, he will say, frowning, and rubbing his side with his elbows, just as if he were going to do violence to his feelings to oblige the company. But once quietly down, with a sufficient inducement in view, and woe betide the innocent who thinks to rise a winner with him. Johnny knows when to turn the tide of fortune against him, and always makes such an indenture as saves the trouble of coming again. He will lay out of his harvest for months, but will always have it at lost, and generally a rich one. His impudence too is truly delightful. He won’t be cut, let it be ever so. “O, hang it, what’s the use of shieing!” he will say to an avoiding victim, running his arm through his, “what’s the use of shieing! Pluck up, and let’s have another turn, and see if luck won’t serve you!” So, even though said victim won’t have another turn, he can’t say that Johnny didn’t offer him one.
By such a man therefore as Mr. O’Dicey, it is no great reflection to be “done,” and small blame will attach to our hero No. 1, for having been picked up by him at the Angel at Robberfield Paces, at the outset of his sporting career. Johnny, who has the best of information, knows who is in possession, who in reversion, who in remainder, and who in expectancy, had gone down express to make Jasper’s acquaintance, and dropped in upon him at an Englishman’s “secure hour” (full of cold beef and pickles), and after ringing both coffee-room bells, and storming the waiter, and denouncing the chamber-maid, subsided upon Jasper, by begging the loan of Bell’s Life, which lay beside him, for one moment. This being readily accorded, Johnny hastily conned the advertising columns, and then returned it with a profusion of gratitude, rarely met with in a coffee-room, where grumpiness and suspicion is generally the order of the day. Johnny then again rang the bell furiously, asked if Lord Broadmeadows had come, how long it would take to go to Spankerley Pork, with four horses, whether they had any Whits table oysters, Dunstable larks, or Cambridge brawn, in the house; and finally ordered in anchovy toast, with hock and seltzer water. When the toast came, he declared it was nothing but sprats soaked in brick dust, and ordered it away. The hock he threw into the grate, declaring it was vinegar. He then abused the household collectively and individually, and declared the landlord ought to be ostracised. The steam of disapprobation being thus blown off, he then addressed himself complacently to our friend on a few indifferent topics, as if he hadn’t the slightest idea who he was, and presently swung out of the room.
Such an epicure, so elaborately got up, for Johnny sported a bran new “Forester “-shaped Lincoln and Bennett, and was delicately toned down in brown and velvet, to harmonise with the colour of his whiskers and hair, could not but excite the admiration of a country-bred youth, like our Jasper, who felt flattered by the notice of such a man, and was sorry he had not stayed a little longer. And when he met him the next morning in High Street he gladly returned Johnny’s familiar nod, and was presently pleased to find his arm through his on his way to the News-room. A few more well arranged casual interviews, and an acquaintance was established. How are you Goldspink? How are you O’Dicey? and so on.
Hitherto Jasper’s turf, or rather money-making inclinations, had been fostered and encouraged by the Ostler’s son, at the Bear and Ragged Staff Inn of his native town, who by one of those turf freaks of fortune, that most people have witnessed, had suddenly risen from rags and ignorance, into broad cloth and impudence, to say nothing of rings, and chains, and other the paraphernalia of elegance.
To oust such a genius as this required little effort on the part of our friend, who indeed rather sneered him out of countenance than condescended to a regular remonstrance, and at the time of our story Johnny O’Dicey was completely installed in the direction of Jasper’s sporting, or rather gambling propensities. The great spread of blackleg-ism making it impossible to buy all backbiters off, Johnny adopted the anti-turf, anti-betting tone, advising Jasper to be wary, cautioning him who to bet with, always impressing upon his mind the sound doctrine, that it is easier to win than to get paid, and rather acting the part of a guardian than otherwise. Johnny did not show much with Jasper in public, preferring to drop upon him
in a railway train, or to spend a quiet evening with him in an inn. Railways have made racing wonderfully accessible, and contributed not a little to the gambling — miscalled sporting — propensities of the day. There are fifty “legs” now for one that there was five-and-twenty years ago. So Johnny met Jasper at Exeter, and Manchester, and Malton, and elsewhere, always friendly and admonitory, but never showing the slightest inclination to have any pecuniary transactions with him himself. Jasper’s hour was not yet come! But it was approaching.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE TURF.
NOW THAT STEAM has superseded horse-power, and Eclipse himself would cut a poor figure alongside the electric telegraph, it becomes a question whether country races are not more productive of evil than of good. They foster an enormous amount of knavery and idleness, to which the noblest animal is made subservient, and only put money into the pockets of those for whom the public generally have little taste, feeling, or community of interest. Racing is at best, too, but an idle lounging pursuit, producing none of the healthful invigorating enjoyment attendant upon sports in which all can take a part.
