by R S Surtees
“Well,” said Tom, as the delicacy of Simpkinson’s position recalled the peculiarities of his own and the injunctions of Angelena, “I think I’ll be taken on horseback, leapin’ a gate.”
“A full pictor, that’s to say,” rejoined Mr Ruddle, making a last effort to get a good order—” a full pictor, yourself leadin’, the rest followin’?”
“No, just myself,” replied Tom, not seeing the fun of immortalising Woodcock, head-and-shoulders Brown, or any of the Fleecyborough worthies who might desire it—” no, just myself,” repeated he firmly.
“I’m afraid it would hardly make what I call a historical subject,” replied Ruddle, staring intently in Tom’s face, “without some adjuncts — horses or dogs, or somethin’ to show you are huntin’.”
“Well, but my red coat will show that,” replied Tom.
“True,” assented Ruddle, biting his lips; “practically speakin’, it will, but, artistically speakin’, it will not. You see, you may be what they call larkin’ — cuttin’ across country for fun. There should be a few hounds or somethin’ introduced to show the real nature of your profession, your occupation, or calling.”
“Well,” replied Tom after a pause, “as far as a couple of hounds or so go, I wouldn’t mind, but I can’t stand — I mean to say, I don’t want a full picture; the fact is,” continued he, dropping his voice, “it’s for a lady.”
“I twig,” replied Ruddle with a wink of his eye.
“You’ll not mention it, of course,” observed Hall.
“Mum’s the word with me,” rejoined Ruddle, sealing his lips with his forefinger.
“You must do your best,” observed Tom.
“I’ll surpass myself, if possible,” asserted Ruddle. “I’ll throw Lawrence and Reynolds, and Watson Gordon and Grant, and all the incompetents far, far in the shade,” Ruddle holding up his dirty right hand as if they were all flying before him.
“And what will it be?” again asked Tom.
“Oh — why, sir — if it’s for a lady, sir, the lady, sir, shall set the price, sir.”
“Hem!” mused Hall, wondering how that would cut.
“I’m a-doin’ a gent on those terms already,” observed Ruddle, diving behind the red screen and producing a portrait of little Jug — Jug in full-dress uniform, a richly gold-laced coat, with kerseymere shorts and white silk stockings.
That was a sickener for Tom. There was no mistaking the little pig-eyed, spindle-shanked comet any more than there was who he was getting “pinted” for.
“This is the gent — the right honourable gent — that’s a-courtin’ the great heiress at the barracks,” observed Ruddle, dusting Jug over with a bandana, and biting his lips as he suddenly recollected to have heard that young Mr Hall was doing the same.
Tom glanced an angry glance at his detested rival, and telling Ruddle he would call again to arrange a sitting, rolled off downstairs, shaking his head and muttering something about “Cat’s-paw,”
“Not stand it,”
“Too old to be done,” and so on.
Having purchased a sheet of diachylon plaister — as a first step, we presume, towards a sitting — he returned home, when his thoughts were suddenly diverted by the receipt of a smart-sealed note, headed with an embossed hare hunt, inviting him to partake of the pleasures of a puss hunt with the well-known Major Guineafowle’s harriers — a character to whom we shall have great pleasure in introducing our readers.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHIEFLY BIOGRAPHICAL.
MAJOR GUINEAFOWLE WAS a great man — a very great man; indeed, most of our characters are great men somehow or another. The major, however, was a great man in a small compass; and here we may remark on the admirable dispensations of Providence, that whenever a man is troubled with an extra deal of consequence, it is generally put into a small body. But for this the world could never get along. All the roads and thoroughfares would be stopped and choked if great, gigantic lifeguardsmen fellows went strutting and fuming about like the little bantam-cocks of creation. But to the major. Though it would be difficult to say on what particular point our little great man was greatest, there were few upon which he was greater than that of being a master of hounds—” five-and-twenty years master of hounds, without a subscription,” as he emphatically adds, puffing out his cheeks, and diving into his pockets. And, certainly, “five-and-twenty years master of hounds, without a subscription,” sounds well in these poverty-stricken, money-scraping times. Five-and-twenty years master of hounds, without a subscription, shows that a man is a keen, steady-going sportsman, clearly above the wants and exigencies of this most necessitous world. When, in addition, a family man — a grown-up family man, too — a double-barrelled family man, indeed, dispenses with a subscription, there is every reason to think that, in the language of servitude, “money is no object.” So it was with Major Guineafowle.
He had buried his first wife, who, though quite a suitable match for him at the time he married her (he having then recently failed as a wine merchant, and set up as an auctioneer at Tewkesbury), was, perhaps, rather below the advanced position he subsequently attained by the unexpected, descent of the Carol Hill Green estate, in Mangelwurzelshire, which also obtained for him the majority of the militia — an honour that very materially added to his consequence, “Major Guineafowle, Master of Hounds, of Carol Hill Green,” sounding much better than “Mr Guineafowle, auctioneer and appraiser, High-street, Tewkesbury.” His dear wife having left him three daughters, all fair, rather reddish-haired girls — Mrs Guineafowle being white and our major rather gingery, — and our friend being then quite in the “morning of life,” as the quack doctors say, resolved to send the girls to school, and in due time to have another venture in the lucky-bag — passing for a bachelor or otherwise, as circumstances might favour. Accordingly he placed the girls at the elegant Miss Birchtwig’s “seminary for a select number of pupils,” at Maida Hall, London, where, for fifty guineas per annum, and about as much more for extras, with “three months’ payment always in advance,” they were to be taught everything; and while Miss Birchtwig was fulfilling her part of the contract, the major mounted a dead gold button with a great border, and the letters “C.H.G.H.” (Carol Hill Green Hunt) in bright, on a green cut-away coat, with a buff vest, and proceeded to disport himself at the watering-places. Like a wise man, he did not take a servant from home with him, but picked up the first likely-looking one he fell in with, when, arraying him in his livery — green and gold — with a cockade in his hat, he gave him such a dose of his consequence—” moy hounds, and moy horses, and moy country, and moy regiment” — and so on, that the man was glad of a let-off at the saddler’s, blacksmith’s, and other importance-propagating places. The result was that the major very soon grew into consequence, and wherever he went he was always pointed out by those who take a pleasure in the sports of the field, and indeed by some who do not, but who like to be thought knowing, as the “great Major Guineafowle, the master of hounds,” or the “great Major Guineafowle, the gent who hunted Mangelwurzelshire.” The major, too, used to aid the delusion and gratify his own curiosity by lounging into the shops, under pretence of buying a knot of whipcord, a set of spur-leathers, or some trifle of that sort, when he would worm out all the secrets of everybody and everybody’s establishment — how many daughters Mrs Longhead had, whether there were any sons, why Mrs Meggison didn’t live with her husband, what Mrs Winship gave her coachman, and how many suits Miss O’Flaherty’s footman had. The wages of everybody, too, he knew; and altogether there was scarcely anything that didn’t seem to be worth the major’s cognisance. The curiosity, however, was not all on his side, for many were the questions raised and observations made upon our sportingly dressed, consequential little cock. Mrs Mantrappe thought it a pity he should be so devoted to hunting; Mrs Mouser heard he was very rich; Mrs Soberfield supposed he was a “great catch”; while Jack Lawless asserted that he had the finest pack of hounds in the world.
Thus our
bachelor-widower friend passed about from watering-place to bathing-place, and from bathing-place back to watering-place, always as the great Major Guineafowle, always talking about “moy hounds,” and “moy horses,” and “moy huntsman,” but always keeping his weather-eye open for an heiress or a widow. Several good finds he had, and several smart bursts he ran, always, however, ending in trouble and disappointment. The inquisitive ferreting women invariably turned up the daughters, and then all the big talk about “moy hounds,” and “moy horses,” and “moy huntsman,” went for nothing. Mrs Doublefile, who, while he passed for a bachelor, didn’t think him a day too old for their Sarah Jane, then discovered that he was a nasty made-up old fellow, who she wouldn’t let her daughter think of on any account. Mrs Grinner, who had hounded her daughter on with all the vehemence of a petticoat, then pirouetted, and said, “It would be a pretty thing for her beautiful Bridget to go and tackle with a nasty, ugly, old fogey-like Guineafowle, with a ready-made family.” The major had been so often repulsed that he began to lose heart, especially as he felt that each fresh defeat only increased his difficulties, women’s tongues, as he said, being bad to muzzle. He almost began to wish he had gone on the honest tack.
At length the famous Rumbleford Wells befriended him. To it there came, just as the major had inflated himself to his fullest extent and mastered everybody’s affairs in the place — what Colonel Filer gave his coachman, what Mr Gobleton his cook, and why Miss Mantle’s maid was leaving — to it there came, we say, just as the major was thinking of packing up his portmanteau and going, the once capital but then slightly waning beauty, Miss Longmaide, with her fortune of sixty thousand pounds.
Miss Longmaide had overstood her market, and would gladly have recalled some of the earlier suitors whom, in the arrogance of youthful beauty, she had rejected. Her serenity was at this time more than usually ruffled by the last of these — the charming Captain Balmeybucke of the Royal Gentle Zephyrs, having come in for a large fortune, and married the “dear confidante” who strongly advised Miss Longmaide not to have him. Under such circumstances a woman is very pregnable, and the major was just the man for the occasion. He was in the Imperial Hotel yard as her green travelling chariot came jingling in (for this, of course, was before railway times), and soon learnt, through the usual course of hotel communication, all, how, and about her. He paused and drew breath as he pondered on the vastness of her wealth — sixty thousand pounds — sixty, not fifty, which made it look more real — but he presently recovered his equanimity, and felt he was equal to it whatever it was. He thought it seemed the very thing. Here was a lady no longer in her première jeunesse — a lady too, apparently, all in her own disposal, without being environed by troublesome busybodies whose sole object seemed to be the suppression of matrimony. The major had undergone much persecution, and seen much service in the wars of Cupid — more than he was ever likely to see in the militia, if he lived to be a thousand. He determined, however, to have another coup — the last — the very last, as he always said when he buckled on his armour. He therefore altered his plans, and took his lodgings on for another week.
This being in the days of bags, when every lady carried one, there was never any difficulty about an introduction, a lady having nothing to do but drop her bag in the library, or other approved lounge, when down would go the gentleman for it. Sometimes a couple would cannon with their heads, which made it all the more interesting. On this occasion, however, the major had it all to himself. Miss Longmaide visited Creamlaid and Satinwove’s library at an earlier hour than the beau monde frequented it, and found the major busy as usual with the ‘Morning Post,’ reading the fashionable parties, the Duchess of So-and-So’s; stud sales—” Messrs Tattersall will, &c., the entire stud of Mr Doneup, who is declining hunting” — and so on. She had marked the little man from her window; indeed, had met him strutting in the street the day before, when, though she thought him a queerish-looking, cod’s-head-and-shoulders httle man, still the glowing account her maid gave of his worth and his wealth, his hounds, and his horses — above all, of his exalted position, made her look complacently on him, instead of “eyes right”-ing as she passed.
Moreover, Miss Longmaide was tall and stately, and the major little, which, perhaps, made them incline to each other. She now came rustling into the library, extremely well got up in a close-fitting black satin dress and a white chip bonnet with a graceful white feather reclining over the left side. There being a couple of steps up to the library door, and this being before the nasty draggle-tail days, she slightly raised her dress as she ascended, showing very symmetrical bien chaussé feet and ankles. She passed her lavender-colour gloved hand down her Madonna-like dressed hair, and in lowering her arm dropped her bespangled reticule at the little major’s feet. “Old Flexible Back,” as they called him, from his great bowing capabilities, pounced upon it like a hawk, and in an instant was restoring it, with a profusion of grimaces, to the smiling beaming-eyed owner. They then struck up an acquaintance; and watering-place courtships always proceeding with railway rapidity, at the end of a week — during which time the major plied her well with “moy horses,” and “moy kennels,” and “moy hounds kept without a subscription” — Miss Longmaide, whose Bath and Cheltenham experience had made her familiar with the Duke of Beaufort’s and Lord Fitzhardinge’s establishments, concluded he must be very rich; and having her affections well in hand, despairing of ever supplying the place of the elegant charmer she had lost, she thought might just as well share the honours and attentions that our major represented were so freely lavished on himself. Indeed, we believe the gallant officer and liberal sportsman might have brought the affair to an earlier termination, had he not thought it prudent — due to himself, as he said — to get his lawyers, Keenhand and Blunderby of Tokenhouse-yard, to “cast their eyes” over the will of the late Marmaduke Longmaide of Slumpington Grove, in the county of Somerset, under whom she claimed. These worthies, who did all the major’s amatory business gratis, on the understanding that they were to have his settlement when he married again — a chance that they thought rather long in coming — reported that Marmaduke had died “seised and possessed” of several capital estates — to wit, of Slumpington and Squashington, in the county of Somerset; Scratchington, in the county of Salop; and Rushington, in the county of Kent; together with a colliery or coal-mine near Leeds, in the county of York — all of which he devised to trustees in trust for his daughters, Blanch, Clementina, Rosamund, and Priscilla, our fair lady, in equal shares and proportions. They further reported that, with regard to the Slumpington and Squashington estates, their client, Mr Heavybille of Glastonbury, knew them well, and reported that they were not only very large, but capable of great improvement — an assertion that may be safely hazarded of three-fourths of the estates in the kingdom; and altogether Keenhand and Blunderby, though they “didn’t advise,” thought it “very promising.”
The major turned the thing quickly over with his mental hay-rake, and though he felt it would have been better, more satisfactory, if the excellent Marmaduke had had his money in the funds, so that it might have been seen at a glance what each daughter was worth, yet when he came to reflect on the honours of land-ownership, with the perils and dangers of protracted courtships, the repulses he had suffered — repulses more galling and humiliating than anything Sir Harry Smith has since encountered at the Cape — he thought it wouldn’t do to haggle about it. In this view he was confirmed by recalling the particulars of the mishaps of some of his former adventures — how Miss Willowtree had jilted him at the last moment in favour of the captain of Heavy Dragoons, because, she said, he had been too inquisitive about her fortune, and she didn’t want any man to marry her for her money; how the rich widow, Mrs Quickly, would have taken him offhand if he had only had the courage to close with her at once, instead of waiting to ascertain the value of her Bridgewater Canal shares, thereby affording time for her too assiduous friends to find out about his daughters. Worse than all, h
e thought with horror of the long lawyer’s bill that accompanied the return of his proposals for a marriage with the eldest daughter of Mr Buttemail, the retired cheesemonger, whom the major thought would only have been too glad to have a gentleman of his calibre — a major and a master of hounds — for a son-in-law. These and many more mortifications flashed across his mind as he sat before the mirror making his morning toilet, taking an alternate scrape of his chin and a glance at Keenhand and Blunderby’s letter. He remarked with a sigh that his once gingery whiskers were getting rather grey, and the roof of his round head was not so well thatched as it used to be; that Time’s graver was biting furrowing lines deep in his once fat face; while Backstrap, the trouser-maker, had asked permission to pass the measure round his waist the last order he gave him — clearly intimating that he thought he was getting wyther stout.
The consequence of all this meditation and experience was that the major determined to risk it; and making an elaborate toilet — a cream-coloured cravat, whose diamond-pattem’d tie was secured with a gold pointer pin, a step-collar’d canary-coloured kerseymere vest, with a new light-green cut-away with velvet collar and “moy hunt” buttons, above fawn-coloured doeskin trousers and patent leather boots, his whiskers well trimmed, so as to show as much ginger and as little grey as possible, and his hair brushed out to the greatest advantage, he stuck his punt-hat jauntily on one side, and sluicing his blue bird’s-eye kerchief with lavender-water, he drew on a white doeskin glove, and, whisking the other in his right hand, set off on his sixteenth crusade.
