CHAPTER XVI

SIR ARCHEY DEPECARDE

AS yet our distinguished friend was in no position for taking the field, for though he had got a pack of hounds—such as they were—he had neither huntsman to hunt them, nor horses for a huntsman to ride if he had one. He was therefore in a very unfinished condition. Horses, however, are soon got, if a man has only money to pay for them, and a master of hounds being clearly the proper person to buy all the horses that other people want to sell, Mr. Jorrocks very soon had a great many very handsome offers of that sort. Among others he received a stiffish, presenting-his-compliments note from the celebrated gambler, Sir Archibald Depecarde, of Pluckwelle Park, and the Albany, London, stating that he had a very fine bay horse that he modestly said was too good for his work, and which he should be glad to see in such good hands as Mr. Jorrocks’s. Sir Archey, as many of our readers doubtless know—some perhaps to their cost—is a very knowing hand, always with good-looking, if not good horses, which he is ready to barter, or play for, or exchange in any shape or way that conduces to business. His recherché little dinners in the Albany are not less famous for “do’s” than his more extended hospitality at Pluckwelle Park, whither he brings such of his flats as require more deliberate preparation and treatment than the racket of London allows. Now our friend Mr. Jorrocks, though not exactly swallowing all the butter that was offered him, had no objection to see if there was anything to be made of Sir Archey’s horse, so by way of being upsides with him in dignity, he replied as follows:—

“M.F.H. John Jorrocks presents his compliments to Sir Archibald Depecarde, and in reply to his favour begs to say that he will take an early hopportunity of drivin’ over to Pluckwelle Park, to look at his Quadruped, and as the M.F.H. ’ears it is a goodish distance from Handley Cross, he will bring his night-cap with him, for where the M.F.H. dines he sleeps, and where the M.F.H. sleeps he breakfasts.”

Sir Archey thought the answer rather cool—especially from a mere tradesman to a man of his great self-importance, but being of opinion that there is no account between man and man that money will not settle, he determined to square matters with the M.F.H. by putting an extra £5 or £10 on the horse. He therefore resolved to pocket the affront and let matters take their chance.

As good as his word, one afternoon a few days after, our plump friend was seen navigating his vehicle, drawn by a Duncan Nevin screw, along the sinuosities of Sir Archibald’s avenue, in the leisurely way of a gentleman eyeing the estate, and gaining all the information he could by the way, and having arrived at the Corinthian columned portico, where he was kept waiting longer than he liked, he was shocked to find, by the unlocking and unbolting of the door, that Sir Archey was “from home”—“just gone to town”—(to look after a gambling-house in which he had a share on the sly).

“Dash my vig!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, nearly stamping the bottom of the vehicle out with his foot, and thinking whether it was possible to tool Duncan Nevin’s hack back to Handley Cross. “Dash my vig!” repeated he, “didn’t he know I was a comin’?”

“Beg pardon, sir,” replied the footman, rather abashed at the Jorrocks vehemence (who he at first took for a prospectus man or an atlas-monger). “Beg pardon, sir, but I believe Mrs. Markham, sir, has a message for you, sir—if you’ll allow me, sir, I’ll go and see, sir.”

“Go,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, indignant at the slight thus put on his M.F.H.-ship.

The footman presently returned, followed by a very smiling, comely-looking personage, dressed in black silk, with sky-blue ribbons in her jaunty little cap and collar, who proceeded in a most voluble manner to express with her hands, and tongue, and eyes, Sir Archibald’s regrets that he had been suddenly summoned to town, adding that he had left word that they were to make the expected guest as comfortable as possible, and show him every possible care and attention.

“Ah, well, that’s summat like,” smiled Mr. Jorrocks, with a jerk of his head, thinking what a good-looking woman she was. In another instant he was on the top step of the entrance beside her, giving her soft hand a sly squeeze as she prepared to help him out of his reversible coat. “Take the quad to the stable,” said he to the footman, “and bid ’em take great care on ’im”—adding, with a leer at the lady, “gave a’most a ’underd for him.” So saying, hack-like, the horse was left to take its chance, while our fat friend followed the fair lady into the library.

“I’ll have a fire lighted directly,” observed she, looking round the spacious apartment, which, like many bachelors’ company rooms, felt pretty innocent of fuel.

“Fiddle the fire!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, “fiddle the fire! dessay you’ve got a good ’un in your room,—I’ll go there.”

“Couldn’t for the world,” whispered Mrs. Markham, with a shake of her head, glancing her large hazel eyes lovingly upon Jorrocks. “What if Sir Archey should hear!”

“Oh, he’ll never hear,” rejoined our friend confidently,

“Wouldn’t he?” retorted Mrs. Markham, “you don’t know what servants are if you think that. Bless ye! they watch me just as a cat watches a mouse.”

“Well, then, you must come in to me,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, adding—“I can’t be left mopin’ alone, you know.”

“It must be after they’ve gone to bed, then,” whispered the lady.

A hurrying housemaid now appearing with a red hot poker, Mrs. Markham drew back and changed the whispering conversation into an audible.

“And please sir, what would you like to ’ave for dinner, sir?”

“Oh, I don’t care,” shrugged Mr. Jorrocks; “wot ’ave you got?”

“There’s soup, and fish, and meat, and game, and poultry; whatever you like to ’ave, I dare say.”

“Humph,” mused Mr. Jorrocks, wishing the housemaid further, “I’ll ’ave a bit o’ fish, with a beef steak, and a fizzant to follow, say—”

“No soup?” observed Mrs. Markham.

“No; I doesn’t care nothin’ ’bout soup, less it’s turtle,” replied he with a toss of his head.

“I’m afraid, there is no turtle, sir,” replied Mrs Markham, well knowing there was not. “Gravy, macaroni, mulligatawney.”

“No, jest fish, and steak, and fizzant,” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, “Cod and hoister sauce, say—and p’raps a couple o’ dozen o’ hoisters to begin with,—jest as a whet you know.”

“Any sweets?” asked the lady significantly.

“No, I’ll ’ave my sweets arter,” winked Mr. J. licking his lips.

“Open tart, apple fritters, omelette, any thing of that sort?” continues she; intimating with her eye that the loitering housemaid might hear his answer.

“No; I’ll fill hup the chinks wi’ cheese,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, stroking his stomach.

“And wine?” asked the housekeeper; adding, “the butler’s away with Sir Archey, but I ’ave the key of the collar.”

“That’s all right!” exclaimed our friend, adding, “I’ll drink his ’ealth in a bottle of his best.”

“Port?” asked Mrs. Markham.

“Port in course,” replied Mr. J. with a hoist of his eyebrows, adding, “but mind I doesn’t call the oldest the best—far from it—it’s oftentimes the wust. No,” continued he, “give me a good fruity wine; a wine with a grip o’ the gob, that leaves a mark on the side o’ the glass; not your weak woe-begone trash, that would be water if it wasn’t wine.”

“P’raps you’d like a little champagne at dinner,” suggested Mrs. Markham.

“Champagne,” repeated Mr. Jorrocks thoughtfully, “Champagne! well I wouldn’t mind a little champagne, only I wouldn’t like it hiced; doesn’t want to ’ave all my teeth set a chatterin’ i’ my ’ead; harn’t got so far advanced in gentility as to like my wine froze—I’m a Post Hoffice Directory, not a Peerage man,” added he with a broad grin.

“Indeed,” smiled Mrs. Markham, not exactly understanding the simile.

“Folks talk about the different grades o’ society,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, with a smile and a pshaw, “but arter all’s said and done there are but two sorts o’ folks i’ the world, Peerage folks and Post Hoffice Directory folks—Peerage folks, wot think it’s all right and proper to do their tailors, and Post Hoffice Directory folks wot think it’s the greatest sin under the sun not to pay twenty shillins i’ the pund—greatest sin under the sun ’cept kissin’ and then tellin’,” added he, in an under tone, with a wink, as he drew his hand across his jolly lips.

“Well, then, you’ll have it iced,” observed Mrs. Markham, in a tone for the housemaid to hear. “Just a few minutes’ plunge in the pail,—enough to dull the glass p’raps?” continued she.

“Well,” mused our friend, “as you are mistress o’ the revels, I’ll leave that to you, and I makes no doubt,” added he, with another sly squeeze of her soft hand, now that the housemaid’s back was turned, “I shall fare uncommon well.”

And Mrs. Markham, seeing that the maid was bent on out-staying her, sailed away with a stately air, ordering her, in a commanding tone, to “bring some wood to the fire.”

And Mr. Jorrocks, we need scarcely say, had a very good dinner and spent his evening very pleasantly.