CHAPTER LXIII

THE LORD CORNWALLIS INN

IT was a dull winter’s day, with a cold rain beating right into the pit of his stomach, that a coat-collar-turned-up groom was seen working a couple of tuck-tailed horses round Barnfather’s Corner, asking his way to Burton St. Leger. This was our friend Mr. Crop, who, after a variety of perils by rail and by road, had at length advanced thus far into the bowels of the land, wondering when his journey would end, when his question, “How far is it to Burton St. Leger?” caused Morrison, the foot Post-messenger, to whom it was addressed, to pause and stare with astonishment at the idea of anybody not knowing Burton St. Leger.

“How far!” exclaimed he, eyeing Crop with incredulous suspicion—“how far! Why this be it, to be sure!”

“Oh, this is it, is it?” replied our Cockney friend, half-glad at the termination of his journey—half-shocked at the desolate appearance of the place, no flags, no gas, no cabs, no ’bus, no nothing; only a large green with a flock of geese on a pond in the centre.

“Then please where be the Markis Cornwallis Inn?” asked Crop, eyeing the scattered assortment of houses and cottages in the vista.

“The Cornwallis Inn be the great white house on the right there,” replied Morrison, pointing towards it; “there,” continued he, “where the man has just come out from under the entry.”

“Thank ye,” replied Crop, getting his horses in motion again and trotting up to the indicated quarter.

There stood a man in an old badger-skin cap, with a cadaverous countenance and desperately sore eyes, whose dirty fustian clothes might be improved, but could not possibly be spoiled, by the rain, of which indeed he seemed quite regardless, as with his hands in his tattered trowser-pockets he gazed, first up the street and then down, in the usual style of utter vacuity. Seeing horses approaching, he thought the rider might stop for a glass, in which case he would perhaps get something for holding them; so as their rounding heads showed which way they were coming, he stepped a little aside, to give them the shelter of the entry. But Crop passed under the arch into the narrow stable-yard beyond, the clatter of the horses’ feet on the pavement disturbing Mr. Muldoon over his glass, and bringing the man of the fustians up the yard to see what was wanted. This was the ostler, Sore-eyed Sam as he was familiarly called, a wonderful fellow for shuffling off work and making excuses, a sort of performance that a man who is good at is seldom good at anything else.

“Where’s the bell! where’s the ostler’s bell!” exclaimed Crop, looking wistfully round at the wretched, unspouted, red-tiled buildings, so unlike what he had left in the morning.

“I be the ostler, I be the ostler,” replied Sam, shuffling up to Crop’s knee, adding, “What may you please to want?”

“Horses put up to be sure,” replied Crop, wondering at anybody asking such a question.

“Put up,” repeated Sam, scratching his uncombed head; “put up—whoy be ye goin to stop here?”

“Why, yes—till my master comes at all events,” replied Crop, muttering “I don’t think we’ll stop long after that.”

The wretched creature then rubbed his red eyelids, thinking how he could best shuffle through the matter. He was not prepared for anything of the sort—he had a cow and a donkey in the two-stall stable, a Crosskill roller, a sow and pigs, and half a ton of hay in the three-stall one, and the old mare occupied as much of the long stable as was water-tight.

“If you’d ha’ com’d yesterday,” said Sam, staring, “I could ha’ done for you nicely.”

“Well, but I’ve come to-day, so stir yourself and get things ready, for my master will be here in no time,” replied Crop, alighting from the now dejected-looking Owen Ashford, and jumping and shaking the wet out of his clothes as he spoke.

“I’m sure I don’t know what to do,” continued Sam, looking quite bewildered.

“Well, you get the osses under cover, and don’t stand staring there like a stuck pig,” rejoined Crop, thinking what a contrast the wretch was to Mr. le Measurer, the orthodox head of the Haycock Mews, May Fair. “What have you here?” continued Crop, advancing and opening the door of the two-stall stable—“a cow and a donkey!” exclaimed he, adding, “turn them out and put my osses in ere.”

“Well, but where can I put the cow and the ass?” asked Sam.

“Put them where you please,” replied Crop, entering and turning them out himself. He then led Owen Ashford in, and the Exquisite followed of his own accord. It was a sad, dirty cob-webby place, but anything was better than the door on such a day as this. So Crop got them into their stalls, and fastened them up by the heads. “Now where’s the man of the house—the Markis of Cornwallis—to be found?” inquired he, returning to the door and dashing the wet from his hat on to the ground.

“The man o’ the house is a woman,” replied Sam, grinning at his own wit.

“What, a Marchioness is it?” rejoined Crop, equally sharp.

“You can call her what you like,” replied Sam, “I calls her the Missus.”

“Well, let’s have a sight of her,” said Crop, “I’ve got a good many orders to give.”

“There she’s!” said Sam, nodding to where a little roundabout woman was making darkness visible by stirring the fire of a bay-windowed little back room, answering the double purpose of parlour and bar. There were the “Old Tom” and the “Old Rum” and the “Old Gin,” casks ranged on a shelf against the wall, and there was the old cask of a husband sitting in a semicircular chair, with his pipe, by the now-refreshened fire.

The Marquis had about got to the time of day when he became

“O’er all the ills of life victorious,”

for he had imbibed his own bottle of brandy and several eleemosynary glasses from parties who had looked in “quite promiscuous,” as they say, to have glasses themselves. He was now on the free list with Jack Calcot the cobbler, who had ordered two shilling glasses of “hot with;” and just as Crop opened the sash-door, the Marquis was endeavouring to impress upon Calcot the “great ’spect and ’steem” he had for him, and how Calcot was welcome to the loan of his donkey any day or any hour—the Marquis nearly melting himself into tears, and blinking severely at the beaker of brandy as he spoke.

Crop’s appearance at the door rather interrupted the protestations of friendship, and drew all eyes to where he stood.

“Rooms for a gentleman and his valet,” now announced Crop from the door, in the usual style of London laconics.

“Heigh day!” exclaimed the Marchioness of Cornwallis, starting and bustling up, as if touched with a reminiscence of former times. “What was it you said?” exclaimed she, hurrying up to where Crop stood with the door in his hand, surveying the cheerful scene—good fire, round table, and glasses all round.

“Rooms for a gentleman and his valet,” repeated Crop, adding, “and a fly to meet him by the Express.”

“Fly!” ejaculated the Marchioness—“Fly! there’s not such a thing in the place.”

“Well, a covered conveyance of some sort,” rejoined Crop, supposing he must do the best he could under the circumstances.

“Covered conveyance of some sort,” repeated the Marchioness, sticking her hands in her fat sides and thinking matters over. She then pulled the string of the ostler’s bell outside, which presently brought dirty-shirted Sam to the presence, to whom she communicated the stranger’s behests. Sam, like a good many people, would rather be doing any work than his own, and after giving his red eyelids and snub nose an upward rub with his sleeve, he suggested that they might borrow Dr. Catcheyside’s little carriage, which he could drive, and then they might get old Tommy Lee to come into the yard to look arter the osses.

This suggestion being approved of, Sam was despatched on the double mission, while the Marchioness summoned her pretty maid-of-all-work, Rebecca Mary, to consult her about carrying out the domestic arrangements. Rebecca Mary was the belle of Burton St. Leger, a pretty smiling, blue-eyed, fair-haired maid, who notwithstanding a host of other suitors, had to undergo the persecution of Sore-eyed Sam. No sooner did Crop see her smart little clean-aproned figure than, with the susceptibility of his master, he almost became reconciled to the discomforts of the place—this, too, in spite of auburn-ringlets and the other attractions of the Coach and Horses. So he withdrew with the ladies into the kitchen, leaving Old Muldoon to renew his protestations of “’spect and ’steem” for Mr. Calcot, and offer the loan of his donkey “any day or any hour” as before.

The adjourned debate was then resumed before the kitchen fire, away from the observations and running commentary of the drunkards. Most women have some peculiar ideas of their own about comfort; some think half-roasting people alive is comfort, some that a fine teapot is comfort, others that a fine row of chimney-ornaments—shells, spars, and fossils—is comfort, while Mrs. Muldoon went altogether upon fine linen. If there were only fine sheets and pillow-cases to the bed, and a handsome toilette-cover to the dressing-table, she thought it made no matter what other things were like. The fowl might be stringy, the ham hard, pale, and indigestible, the eggs limey, and the toast tough; but if the linen was snowy all the rest would do.

So, having learnt all she could from Mr. Crop about his master’s greatness and intentions, she produced the key of the beloved linen-chest to make the necessary selection, while Rebecca Mary lighted the fires, and Crop returned to his neglected horses in the sorry stable, there to see old Tommy Lee fumbling and dribbling at the dressing.