Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

by Robert Smith Surtees

  CHAPTER LVI

  NONSUCH HOUSE AGAIN

  Poor Jog again varied his hints the next morning. After sundry prefatory'Murry Anns!' and 'Bar-tho-lo-_mews_!' he at length got the latter toanswer, when, raising his voice so as to fill the whole house, he desiredhim to go to the stable, and let Mr. Sponge's man know his master would be(wheezing) away.

  'You're wrong there, old buck,' growled Leather, as he heard the foregoing;'he's half-way to Sir 'Arry's by this time.'

  And sure enough, Mr. Sponge was, as none knew better than Leather, who hadgot him his horse, the hack being indisposed--that is to say, having beenout all night with Mr. Leather on a drinking excursion, Leather having justgot home in time to receive the purple-coated, bare-footed runner ofNonsuch House, who dropped in, _en passant_, to see if there was anythingto stow away in his roomy trouser-pockets, and leave word that Sir Harrywas going to hunt, and would meet before the house.

  Leather, though somewhat muzzy, was sufficiently sober to be able todeliver this message, and acquaint Mr. Sponge with the impossibility of his'ridin' the 'ack.' Indeed, he truly said that he had 'been hup with him allnight, and at one time thought it was all hover with him,' theall-overishness consisting of Mr. Leather being nearly all over the hack'shead, in consequence of the animal shying at another drunken man lyingacross the road.

  Mr. Sponge listened to the recital with the indifference of a man who rideshack-horses, and coolly observed that Leather must take on the chestnut,and he would ride the brown to cover.

  'Couldn't, sir, couldn't,' replied Leather, with a shake of the head and atwinkle of his roguish, watery grey eyes.

  'Why not?' asked Mr. Sponge, who never saw any difficulty.

  'Oh, sur,' replied Leather, in a tone of despondency, 'it would be quiteunpossible. Consider wot a day the last one was; why, he didn't get to resttill three the next mornin'.'

  'It'll only be walking exercise,' observed Mr. Sponge; 'do him good.'

  'Better valk the chestnut,' replied Mr. Leather; 'Multum-in-Parvo hasn't'ad a good day this I don't know wen, and will be all the better of abucketin'.'

  'But I hate crawling to cover on my horse,' replied Mr. Sponge, who likedcantering along with a flourish.

  'You'll have to crawl if you ride 'Ercles,' observed Leather, 'if not walk.Bless you! I've been a-nussin' of him and the 'ack most the 'ole night.'

  'Indeed!' replied Mr. Sponge, who began to be alarmed lest his huntingmight be brought to an abrupt termination.

  'True as I'm 'ere,' rejoined Leather. 'He's just as much off his grub as hevos when he com'd in; never see'd an 'oss more reg'larly dished--more--'

  'Well, well,' said Mr. Sponge, interrupting the catalogue of grievances; 'Is'pose I must do as you say--I s'pose I must do as you say: what sort of aday is it?'

  'Vy, the day's not a bad day; at least that's to say, it's not a weryhaggrivatin' day. I've seen a betterer day, in course; but I've also seenmany a much worser day, and days at this time of year, you know, are apt tochange--sometimes, in course, for the betterer--sometimes, in course, forthe worser.'

  'Is it a frost?' snapped Mr. Sponge, tired of his loquacity.

  'Is it a frost?' repeated Mr. Leather thoughtfully; 'is it a frost? Vy, no;I should say it _isn't_ a frost--at least, not a frost to 'urt; there maybe a little rind on the ground and a little rawness in the hair, but thegeneral concatenation--'

  'Hout, tout!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, 'let's have none of your dictionarywords.'

  Mr. Leather stood silent, twisting his hat about.

  The consequence of all this was, that Mr. Sponge determined to ride over toNonsuch House to breakfast, which would give his horse half an hour in thestable to eat a feed of corn. Accordingly, he desired Leather to bring himhis shaving-water, and have the horse ready in the stable in half an hour,whither, in due time, Mr. Sponge emerged by the back door, withoutencountering any of the family. The ambling piebald looked so crestfallenand woebegone in all the swaddling-clothes in which Leather had got himenveloped, that Mr. Sponge did not care to look at the gallant Hercules,who occupied a temporary loose-box at the far end of the dark stable, lesthe might look worse. He, therefore, just mounted Multum-in-Parvo as Leatherled him out at the door, and set off without a word.

  'Well, hang me, but you are a good judge of weather,' exclaimed Sponge tohimself, as he got into the field at the back of the house, and found thehorse made little impression on the grass. '_No frost!_' repeated he,breathing into the air; 'why it's freezing now, out of the sun.'

  On getting into Marygold Lane, our friend drew rein, and was for turningback, but the resolute chestnut took the bit between his teeth and shookhis head, as if determined to go on.

  'Oh, you brute!' growled Mr. Sponge, letting the spurs into his sides witha hearty good-will, which caused the animal to kick, as if he meant tostand on his head. 'Ah, you _will_, will ye?' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, lettingthe spurs in again as the animal replaced his legs on the ground. Up theywent again, if possible higher than before.

  The brute was clearly full of mischief, and even if the hounds did notthrow off, which there was little prospect of their doing from theappearance of the weather, Mr. Sponge felt that it would be well to getsome of the nonsense taken out of him; and, moreover, going to NonsuchHouse would give him a chance of establishing a billet there--a chance thathe had been deprived of by Sir Harry's abrupt departure from FarmerPeastraw's. So saying, our friend gathered his horse together, and settlinghimself in his saddle, made his sound hoofs ring upon the hard road.

  'He _may_ hunt,' thought Mr. Sponge, as he rattled along; 'such a rumbeggar as Sir Harry may think it fun to go out in a frost. It's hard, too,'said he, as he saw the poor turnip-pullers enveloped in their thick shawls,and watched them thumping their arms against their sides to drive the coldfrom their finger-ends.

  Multum-in-Parvo was a good, sound-constitutioned horse, hard and firm as acricket-ball, a horse that would not turn a hair for a trifle even on ahunting morning, let alone on such a thorough chiller as this one was; andMr. Sponge, after going along at a good round pace, and getting over theground much quicker than he did when the road was all new to him, and hehad to ask his way, at length drew in to see what o'clock it was. It wasonly half-past nine, and already in the far distance he saw the encirclingwoods of Nonsuch House.

  'Shall be early,' said Mr. Sponge, returning his watch to hiswaistcoat-pocket, and diving into his cutty coat-pocket for the cigar-case.Having struck a light, he now laid the rein on the horse's neck andproceeded leisurely along, the animal stepping gaily and throwing its headabout as if he was the quietest, most trustworthy nag in the world. If hegot there at half-past ten, Mr. Sponge calculated he would have plenty oftime to see after his horse, get his own breakfast, and see how the landlay for a billet.

  It would be impossible to hunt before twelve; so he went smoking andsauntering along, now wondering whether he would be able to establish abillet, now thinking how he would like to sell Sir Harry a horse, thenconsidering whether he would be likely to pay for him, and enlivening thegeneral reflections by ringing his spurs against his stirrup-irons.

  Having passed the lodges at the end of the avenue, he cocked his hat,twiddled his hair, felt his tie, and arranged for a becoming appearance.The sudden turn of the road brought him full upon the house. How changedthe scene! Instead of the scarlet-coated youths thronging the gravelledring, flourishing their scented kerchiefs and hunting-whips--instead ofbuxom Abigails and handsome mistresses hanging out of the windows, flirtingand chatting and ogling, the door was shut, the blinds were down, theshutters closed, and the whole house had the appearance of mourning.

  Mr. Sponge reined up involuntarily, startled at the change of scene. Whatcould have happened! Could Sir Harry be dead? Could my lady have eloped?'Oh, that horrid Bugles!' thought he; 'he looked like a gay deceiver.' AndMr. Sponge felt as if he had sustained a personal injury.

  Just as these thoughts were passing in his mind, a drowsy, slatternlycharwoman, in an old black
straw bonnet and grey bed-gown, opened one ofthe shutters, and throwing up the sash of the window by where Mr. Spongesat, disclosed the contents of the apartment. The last waxlight was justdying out in the centre of a splendid candelabra on the middle of a tablescattered about with claret-jugs, glasses, decanters, pine-apple tops,grape-dishes, cakes, anchovy-toast plates, devilled biscuit-racks--all theconcomitants of a sumptuous entertainment.

  'Sir Harry at home?' asked Mr. Sponge, making the woman sensible of hispresence, by cracking his whip close to her ear. 'No,' replied the damegruffly, commencing an assault upon the nearest chair with a duster.

  'Where is he?' asked our friend.

  'Bed, to be sure,' replied the woman, in the same tone.

  MR. SPONGE'S RED COAT COMMANDS NO RESPECT]

  'Bed, to be sure,' repeated Mr. Sponge. 'I don't think there's any 'sure'in the case. Do you know what o'clock it is?' asked he.

  'No,' replied the woman, flopping away at another chair, and arranging thecrimson velvet curtains on the holders.

  Mr. Sponge was rather nonplussed. His red coat did not command the respectthat a red coat generally does. The fact was, they had such queer people inred coats at Nonsuch House, that a red coat was rather an object ofsuspicion than otherwise.

  'Well, but, my good woman,' continued Mr. Sponge, softening his tone, 'canyou tell me where I shall find anybody who can tell me anything about thehounds?'

  'No,' growled the woman, still flopping, and whisking, and knocking thefurniture about.

  'I'll remember you for your trouble,' observed Mr. Sponge, diving his righthand into his breeches' pocket.

  'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,' observed the woman, now ceasing herevolutions, and parting her grisly, disordered tresses, as she advanced andstood staring, with her arms akimbo, out of the window. She was theunder-housemaid's deputy; all the servants at Nonsuch House doing the roughof their work by deputy. Lady Scattercash was a _real_ lady, and liked tohave the credit of the house maintained, which of course can only be doneby letting the upper servants do nothing. 'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,'observed the woman.

  'Mr. Bottleends?' repeated Mr. Sponge; 'who's he?'

  'The butler, to be sure,' replied she, astonished that any person shouldhave to ask who such an important personage was.

  'Can't you call him?' asked Mr. Sponge, still fumbling in his pocket.

  'Couldn't, if it was ever so,' replied the dame, smoothing her dirtyblue-checked apron with her still dirtier hand.

  'Why not?' asked Mr. Sponge.

  'Why not?' repeated the woman; 'why, 'cause Mr. Bottleends won't bedisturbed by no one. He said when he went to bed that he hadn't to becalled till to-morrow.'

  'Not called till to-morrow!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge; 'then is Sir Harry fromhome?'

  'From home, no; what should put that i' your head?' sneered the woman.

  'Why, if the butler's in bed, one may suppose the master's away.'

  'Hout!' snapped the woman; 'Sir Harry's i' bed--Captin Seedeybuck's i'bed--Captin Quod's i' bed--Captin Spangle's i' bed--Captin Bouncey's i'bed--Captin Cutitfat's i' bed--they're all i' bed 'cept me, and I've gotthe house to clean and right, and high time it was cleaned and righted, forthey've not been i' bed these three nights any on 'em.' So saying, sheflourished her duster as if about to set-to again.

  'Well, but tell me,' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, 'can I see the footman, or thehuntsman, or the groom, or a helper, or anybody?'

  'Deary knows,' replied the woman thoughtfully, resting her chin on herhand. 'I dare say they'll be all i' bed too.'

  'But they are going to hunt, aren't they?' asked our friend.

  '_Hunt!_' exclaimed the woman; 'what should put that i' your head.'

  'Why, they sent me word they were.'

  'It'll be i' bed, then,' observed she, again giving symptoms of a desire toreturn to her dusting.

  Mr. Sponge, who still kept his hand in his pocket, sat on his horse in astate of stupid bewilderment. He had never seen a case of this sortbefore--a house shut up, and a master of hounds in bed when the hounds wereto meet before the door. It couldn't be the case: the woman must bedreaming, or drunk, or both.

  'Well, but, my good woman,' exclaimed he, as she gave a punishing cut atthe chair, as if to make up for lost time; 'well, but, my good woman, Iwish you would try and find somebody who can tell me something about thehounds. I'm sure they must be going to hunt. I'll remember you for yourtrouble, if you will,' added he, again diving his hand up to the wrist inhis pocket.

  'I tell you,' replied the woman slowly and deliberately, 'there'll be nohuntin' to-day. Huntin'!' exclaimed she; 'how can they hunt when they'veall had to be carried to bed?'

  'Carried to bed! had they?' exclaimed Mr. Sponge; 'what, were they drunk?'

  'Drunk! aye, to be sure. What would you have them be?' replied the crone,who seemed to think that drinking was a necessary concomitant of hunting.

  'Well, but I can see the footman or somebody, surely,' observed Mr. Sponge,fearing that his chance was out for a billet, and recollecting old Jog's'Bartholo-_m-e-ws_!' and 'Murry Anns!' and intimations for him to start.

  ''Deed you can't,' replied the dame--'ye can see nebody but me,' added she,fixing her twinkling eyes intently upon him as she spoke.

  'Well, that's a pretty go,' observed Mr. Sponge aloud to himself, ringinghis spurs against his stirrup-irons.

  'Pretty go or ugly go,' snapped the woman, thinking it was a reflection onherself, 'it's all you'll get'; and thereupon she gave the back of thechair a hearty bastinadoing as if in exemplification of the way she wouldlike to serve Mr. Sponge out for the observation.

  'I came here thinking to get some breakfast,' observed Mr. Sponge, castingan eye upon the disordered table, and reconnoitring the bottles and theremains of the dessert.

  'Did you?' said the woman; 'I wish you may get it.'

  'I wish I may,' replied he. 'If you would manage that for me, just somecoffee and a mutton chop or two, I'd remember you,' said he, stilltantalizing her with the sound of the silver in his pocket.

  'Me manish it!' exclaimed the woman, her hopes again rising at the sound;'me manish it! how d'ye think I'm to manish sich things?' asked she.

  'Why, get at the cook, or the housekeeper, or somebody,' replied Mr.Sponge.

  'Cook or housekeeper!' exclaimed she. 'There'll be no cook or housekeeperastir here these many hours yet; I question,' added she, 'they get upto-day.'

  'What! they've been put to bed too, have they?' asked he.

  'W-h-y no--not zactly that,' drawled the woman; 'but when sarvants are keptup three nights out of four, they must make up for lost time when theycan.'

  'Well,' mused Mr. Sponge, 'this is a bother, at all events; get nobreakfast, lose my hunt, and perhaps a billet into the bargain. Well,there's sixpence for you, my good woman,' said he at length, drawing hishand out of his pocket and handing her the contents through the window;adding, 'don't make a beast of yourself with it.'

  'It's nabbut _fourpence_,' observed the woman, holding it out on the palmof her hand.

  'Ah, well, you're welcome to it whatever it is,' replied our friend,turning his horse to go away. A thought then struck him. 'Could you get mea pen and ink, think you?' asked he; 'I want to write a line to Sir Harry.'

  'Pen and ink!' replied the woman, who had pocketed the groat and resumedher dusting; 'I don't know where they keep no such things as penses andinkses.'

  'Most likely in the drawing-room or the sitting-room, or perhaps in thebutler's pantry,' observed Mr. Sponge.

  'Well, you can come in and see,' replied the woman, thinking there was nooccasion to give herself any more trouble for the fourpenny-piece.

  Our worthy friend sat on his horse a few seconds staring intently into thedining-room window, thinking that lapse of time might cause thefourpenny-piece to be sufficiently respected to procure him something likedirections how to proceed as well to get rid of his horse, as to procureaccess to the house, the door of which stood frowningly shut. In this,however,
he was mistaken, for no sooner had the woman uttered the words,'Well, you can come in and see,' than she flaunted into the interior of theroom, and commenced a regular series of assaults upon the furniture,throwing the hearth-rug over one chair back, depositing the fire-irons inanother, rearing the steel fender up against the Carrara marblechimney-piece, and knocking things about in the independent way thatservants treat unoffending furniture, when master and mistress arecomfortably esconced in bed. 'Flop' went the duster again; 'bang' went thefurniture; 'knock' this chair went against that, and she seemed bent uponputting all things into that happy state of sixes and sevens thatcharacterizes a sale of household furniture, when chairs mount tables, andthe whole system of domestic economy is revolutionized. Seeing that he wasnot going to get anything more for his money, our friend at length turnedhis horse and found his way to the stables by the unerring drag ofcarriage-wheels. All things there being as matters were in the house, heput the redoubtable nag into a stall, and helped him to a liberal measureof oats out of the well-stored unlocked corn-bin. He then sought the backof the house by the worn flagged-way that connected it with the stables.The back yard was in the admired confusion that might be expected from thewoman's account. Empty casks and hampers were piled and stowed away in alldirections, while regiments of champagne and other bottles stood and layabout among blacking bottles, Seltzer-water bottles, boot-trees,bath-bricks, old brushes, and stumpt-up besoms. Several pair of dirtytop-boots, most of them with the spurs on, were chucked into the shoe-housejust as they had been taken off. The kitchen, into which our friend nowentered, was in the same disorderly state. Numerous copper pans stoodsimmering on the charcoal stoves, and the jointless jack still revolved onthe spit. A dirty slip-shod girl sat sleeping, with her apron thrown overher head, which rested on the end of a table. The open door of theservants' hall hard by disclosed a pile of dress and other clothes, which,after mopping up the ale and other slops, would be carefully folded andtaken back to the rooms of their respective owners.

  DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF NONSUCH HOUSE]

  'Halloo!' cried Mr. Sponge, shaking the sleeping girl by the shoulder,which caused her to start up, stare, and rub her eyes in wild affright.'Halloo!' repeated he, 'what's happened you?'

  'Oh, beg pardon, sir!' exclaimed she; 'beg pardon,' continued she, claspingher hands; 'I'll never do so again, sir; no, sir, I'll never do so again,indeed I won't.'

  She had just stolen a shape of blanc-mange, and thought she was caught.

  'Then show me where I'll find pen and ink and paper,' replied our friend.

  'Oh, sir, I don't know nothin' about them,' replied the girl; 'indeed, sir,I don't'; thinking it was some other petty larceny he was inquiring about.

  'Well, but you can tell me where to find a sheet of paper, surely?'rejoined he.

  'Oh, indeed, sir, I can't,' replied she; 'I know nothin' about nothin' ofthe sort.' Servants never do.

  'What sort?' asked Mr. Sponge, wondering at her vehemence.

  'Well, sir, about what you said,' sobbed the girl, applying the corner ofher dirty apron to her eyes.

  'Hang it, the girl's mad,' rejoined our friend, brushing by, and making forthe passage beyond. This brought him past the still-room, the steward'sroom, the housekeeper's room, and the butler's pantry. All were in mostglorious confusion; in the latter, Captain Cutitfat's lacquer-toed,lavender-coloured dress-boots were reposing in the silver soup tureen, andCaptain Bouncey's varnished pumps were stuffed into a wine-cooler. The lastdetachment of empty bottles stood or lay about the floor, commingling withboot-jacks, knife-trays, bath-bricks, coat-brushes, candle-end boxes,plates, lanterns, lamp-glasses, oil bottles, corkscrews,wine-strainers--the usual miscellaneous appendages of a butler's pantry.All was still and quiet; not a sound, save the loud ticking of a timepiece,or the occasional creak of a jarring door, disturbed the solemn silence ofthe house. A nimble-handed mugger or tramp might have carried off whateverhe liked.

  Passing onward, Mr. Sponge came to a red-baized, brass-nailed door, which,opening freely on a patent spring, revealed the fine proportions of a lightpicture-gallery with which the bright mahogany doors of the entertainingrooms communicated. Opening the first door he came to, our friend foundhimself in the elegant drawing-room, on whose round bird's-eye-maple table,in the centre, were huddled all the unequal-lengthed candles of theprevious night's illumination. It was a handsome apartment, fitted up inthe most costly style; with rose-colour brocaded satin damask, the curtainstrimmed with silk tassel fringe, and ornamented with massive bulliontassels on cornices, Cupids supporting wreaths under an arch, with opencarved-work and enrichments in burnished gold. The room, save the muster ofthe candles, was just as it had been left; and the richly gilt sofa stillretained the indentations of the sitters, with the luxurious down pillows,left as they had been supporting their backs.

  The room reeked of tobacco, and the ends and ashes of cigars dotted thetables and white marble chimney-piece, and the gilt slabs and the finelyflowered Tournay carpet, just as the fires of gipsies dot and disfigure thefair face of a country. Costly china and nick-nacks of all sorts werescattered about in profusion. Altogether, it was a beautiful room.

  'No want of money here,' said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he eyed it, andthought what havoc Gustavus James would make among the ornaments if he hada chance.

  He then looked about for pen, ink, and paper. These were distributed sowide apart as to show the little request they were in. Having at lengthsucceeded in getting what he wanted gathered together, Mr. Sponge sat downon the luxurious sofa, considering how he should address his host, as hehoped. Mr. Sponge was not a shy man, but, considering the circumstancesunder which he made Sir Harry Scattercash's acquaintance, together with hisdesign upon his hospitality--above all, considering the crew by whom SirHarry was surrounded--it required some little tact to pave the way withoutraising the present inmates of the house against him. There are no peopleso anxious to protect others from robbery as those who are robbing themthemselves. Mr. Sponge thought, and thought, and thought. At last heresolved to write on the subject of the hounds. After sundry attempts onpink, blue, and green-tinted paper, he at last succeeded in hitting off thefollowing, on yellow:

  'NONSUCH HOUSE.

  'DEAR SIR HARRY,--I rode over this morning, hearing you were to hunt, and am sorry to find you indisposed. I wish you would drop me a line to Mr. Crowdey's, Puddingpote Bower, saying when next you go out, as I should much like to have another look at your splendid pack before I leave this country, which I fear will have to be soon.--Yours in haste,

  'H. SPONGE.

  'P.S.--I hope you all got safe home the other night from Mr. Peastraw's.'

  Having put this into a richly gilt and embossed envelope, our frienddirected it conspicuously to Sir Harry Scattercash, Bart., and stuck it inthe centre of the mantelpiece. He then retraced his steps through the backregions, informing the sleeping beauty he had before disturbed, and who wasnow busy scouring a pan, that he had left a letter in the drawing-room forSir Harry, and if she would see that he got it, he (Mr. Sponge) wouldremember her the next time he came, which he inwardly hoped would be soon.He then made for the stable, and got his horse, to go home, sauntering moreleisurely along than one would expect of a man who had not got hisbreakfast, especially one riding a hack hunter.

  The truth was, Mr. Sponge did not much like the aspect of affairs. SirHarry's was evidently a desperately 'fast' house; added to which, theguests by whom he was surrounded were clearly of the wide-awake order, whocould not spare any pickings for a stranger. Indeed, Mr. Sponge felt thatthey rather cold-shouldered him at Farmer Peastraw's, and were in a greaterhurry to be off when the drag came, than the mere difference between insideand outside seats required. He much questioned whether he got into SirHarry's at all. If it came to a vote, he thought he should not. Then, whatwas he to do? Old Jog was clearly tired of him; and he had nowhere else togo to. The thought made him stick spurs into the chestnut, and hurry hometo Puddingpote Bower, wh
ere he endeavoured to soothe his host by more thaninsinuating that he was going on a visit to Nonsuch House. Jog inwardlyprayed that he might.