While these events were occurring on the sea-shore, matters were
progressing, as the Americans have it, in the metropolis, and the
two pair of lovers enjoying a felicity to which, spite of all their
inclinations and affections, they had previously been strangers.
Rushton, taught by the precepts and encouraged by the practice of
Sir Charles, began to think that a woman might be lively without
being vicious, sad without thinking of his rivals, and civil to her
acquaintance without being a coquette; while Sir Charles, assured
of Mrs. Dallington’s esteem, began to appreciate the merits of her
character, and understand, which to him were before incomprehensible,
the fluctuations of spirits and variation of temper which he had
frequently remarked, but which, until the recent _éclaircissement_ took
place, he never suspected to have their origin in his own coldness and
apparent indecision.
Out of evil comes good; and, whatever faults Mr. Brag possessed, he
certainly had the merit of bringing matters in the Dallington family to
a crisis. The double marriage already began to be spoken of, and hints
were even given upon the subject in the fashionable intelligence of the
Morning Post.
Of the other party, the Browns and Meads, we know enough for the
present; they are on their way to Paris, as happy as may be, having
left Mrs. Brown the elder, who declined the tour, at the doctor’s
house in Burlington Gardens, where she was to reside, even after her
daughter’s return from the Continent, which could not long be delayed,
in consequence of Mead’s professional engagements in London.
While these quieter persons are moving regularly in their proper
spheres, it becomes our duty to regard the movements of the exploded
Jack, with the same sort of attention which we bestow upon the
wrigglings and twistings of the animalculæ in the great microscope,
the natural insignificance of which render the developement of their
limbs and motions matters of interest, being such as to leave their
distinctive characteristics perfectly invisible to the naked eye.
The bill was scarcely paid, and the change settled, before Jack’s
terribly alarming post-chaise and four rattled up to the street-door of
“The Ship,” making the cliffs reverberate with its clatter, and--
“----the very stones prate at its whereabout.”
Open flew the door--bang went the steps--pop went the cork of
the bottle of soda-water--down went the draught at full speed,
nearly choking the patient, or rather the impatient, with its
effervescence--and at three skips and a jump the little man sprang into
the “carriage,” and throwing himself into one of its corners, as if
anxious to conceal himself from the anxious gaze of the public, not one
of whom was looking at him, away he went, boiling with rage and foaming
with vexation, and resolved to pay Lord Tom off in his own coin, and no
mistake.
Little did the furious John know what he was driving to; little did
he anticipate what was to happen to him at Eastbourn, which was his
eventual place of destination, or what strange events his sudden
dismissal from the friendship of Lord Tom was to bring about. The
immediate purpose of his soul was to reach Hastings that night, in time
to despatch a letter to his mother, directing her _not_ to direct his
letters to Paris.
Arrived at Hythe, Jack’s fever had by no means subsided; yet, upon
ascertaining the hour at which the post left Hastings, and feeling
certain, since he did not mean to “carry on” with four horses, that
he should not arrive there in time to despatch his filial epistle by
the night’s mail, he resolved to rest for an hour or two where he was,
until he saw the boys returning with the chaise to Dover, so that by no
means it might be discovered that he had discarded his leaders, (as men
sometimes in a pet, feel very much inclined to do,)--and that he might
have time to write his letter, which he did, in the following terms:--
“White Hart, Hythe,
Thursday evening.
“MY DEAR MOTHER,
“I wrote to you yesterday from Deal; and, as Jem Salmon would say,
a deal has been doing since I wrote. After having seen Brown and
his new wife, and having been bullied, as I told you, by the doctor
to whom that snivelling Nance is married, I thought there was an
end; so in course, I went back as soon as the smoke of the Ferret,
the steamer in which they crossed, told me they were off. I had a
very pleasant ride to Dovor, for I had made an acquaintance with an
uncommon gentlemanly man, a captain of a Dutch man-of-war lying off
that port, with whom I was so much pleased that I gave him up my
sleeping-room, which in course was the crack apartment of the hotel
where I lodged. So, in the morning, he would insist upon attending me
back. Indeed, it was generally supposed I was going on a visit to the
Castle; and it was with great trouble I undeceived them, for, being
so much with the nobility in these parts, in course they took for
granted ten thousand things which one can’t help.
“Well, when I arrived at Dovor,” for so Mr. Brag thought it
uncommonly smart, to spell it, “I found Lord Tom with a couple of
females talking, on the pier, which somehow I did not like;--I am, my
dear mother, very particular in that respect;--so, directly I saw it,
I said to Lord Tom, ‘Tom,’ says I, ‘this won’t do before people of
character,’ and that kind of thing--and so I walks right away.
“Well, up I goes to ‘The Ship;’--that’s the inn here, the only place
a man of any character can go to, and where in course I am uncommon
well known;--and who should I see there but old Ilfracombe, Tom’s
uncle,--a kind of a bore of a lord whom I have always made a point
of shirking, with his wife, and son, and daughter-in-law, and a Lady
Fanny Smartly, which rides in the Park. So when I goes in--‘Jack,’
says my lord, ‘I’m delighted to see you. Where’s Tom?’ meaning Lord
Tom Towzle, which is his nephew. Says I, ‘My lord, I can’t say; I
have left him on the pier with two rum ones.’ Upon which my lord
says, ‘Never mind _him_; come up and have some luncheon.’ I said, ‘My
Lord,’ says I, ‘I never lunches.’ But that war’nt no go; he would not
have it at no price. ‘Come along, Jack,’ says he, and up he drags me,
smack smooth into the room with all his relations, and no mistake.
I’d rather have been in a pigstye; however, Lady Dawlish and Lady
Fanny smothered me with kindness, and I was forced to sit down and
sham eating; which, in course, I did.
“Well! in comes Lord Tom; and he was in a regular humour because I
would not speak to the two promiscuous females which he was parading
about with. So I stands no nonsense, but ups to him in a minute, like
a game cock, before the females and all, and just gave him as good as
he could bring. I told him my mind, and pitched into him about the
money he owed me. Had him there!--in course he couldn’t stump a dump:
so I just shook my whip--it was my little whip--right before him, and
I says, ‘Good by’e, my lord! When you learn manners, we associate
together again; for the present I cut you,--not with _this_,’ says
I, shaking my little Crowther again right in his face; ‘but the next
time I see you, by Job I’ll have my money out of you!’ With that,
he walked away just like a dog with his tail what the soldiers call
countermarched; a regular try-back, and run into the kennel amongst
the females of his family.
“And see what a fool he is: I was to ride for him on the Champy
Mas at Paris next Sunday--got my new jacket all ready:--and now
he’ll lose that, and no mistake. So instead of stepping over the
herring-pond, I am going to Eastbourne, which is a nice, retired
place, and where I hope you will send me down fifty or a hundred
pounds; for to tell you, my dear mother, the plain truth,--I’m
stumped. So don’t forget, and direct to the hotel, Eastbourne.
“Yours affectionately,
“JOHN BRAG.
“P. S.--Tell me something about Kitty: I can’t make it out. Brown has
got one child, and two carriages:--there’s a go!”
When he had written and sealed this, he enquired, as usual, of the
waiter, the way to the Post-Office; and having been properly directed,
himself slipped his packet into the box. The epistle despatched,
Jack got into his new chaise, and proceeded towards the place of his
destination with a “happy pair” of posters.
It was lateish in the evening when he reached Hastings, and was driven
to that admirable inn, “The Swan,” which certainly combines all the
attributes which a man does not require in a house of the sort at a
watering-place. Jack, however, bundled out of his yellow-and-two, and
being in no humour to soliloquize, betook himself to the ill-smelling
coffee-room, and contented himself with ordering a bed, and--as he
seldom failed to do--a preparatory glass of hot brandy and water.
Dinner he had had none--(his appetite was not particularly sharp under
all the circumstances)--but, by way of what he called a “stay” to his
stomach, he told the waiter to bring him a sandwich--the only single
word in the English language which comprehensively describes in a
dissyllable, dirt, butter, and mustard, laid between two bits of stale
bread.
As for Hastings--Jack cared nothing. Whether it had been founded by
Jack Hastings, the Danish pirate, or whether Athelstan had coined money
in it, was all one to him:--Whether Robert, earl of Eu, or John de
Dreux, had the better right to the castle, disturbed not Jack; nor, in
the present temper of his mind, would he have cared one pin, if, after
the French burned it in 1377, it had never been rebuilt. He was, as he
told his mother, regularly “stumped”--not exactly in the way he wished
to make her believe--but still, stumped he was: and perhaps never did
little man experience fall so sudden or deep as that by which Jack had
been afflicted during the last four-and-twenty hours.
It was impossible, however, for the little man to withstand the impulse
of his inherent infirmity:--the old, stale, worn-out trick of asking
after his servant and carriage, was again played off at “The Swan.”
“No, sir,” was, of course, the answer to the enquiries if his man and
phaeton had arrived.
“I told him to come here,” said Jack, who, till he reached the place,
did not even know that the sign of the inn was “The Swan.”
“I’ll send to enquire, sir,” said an officious waiter; “he may have
gone to some other house. What name shall I say?”
“Brag,” said Jack;--“and, stay--if he should be at any other inn
by mistake, tell him to bring me up the large leather case with my
writing-desk, and the small one with my dressing-case--and the brown
cloak lined with fur:--remember, the brown one--not the blue.--But I’d
bet my life he has made some infernal mistake.”
Away went the man. Jack had gratified his ruling passion, and again
fell into no pleasing reverie.
It was in this state of mind that Jack sat looking at the “drink,”
which had been placed before him until his eyes seemed to swim in the
glass. The time began to verge on nine o’clock when a sort of scuffling
noise outside the coffee-room door aroused his attention; and turning
his eyes to the source of the disturbance, he beheld a slim, pale, and
what is called an “interesting-looking” man, enter the room somewhat
feebly, assiduously wrapped up in divers and sundry coats and cloaks;
his face peeping out from under a fanciful kind of foraging cap,
overlaid by a pink silk handkerchief, looking like the pale queen of
Night peeping to earth through some intervening clouds.
Jack saw that the approaching object was what he considered “uncommon
genteel;” and when it threw itself down upon a seat in a state of
exhaustion, he began to think he had discovered somebody upon whom
he might make an impression--in whom he might find an agreeable
listener;--which was, after all, his notion--when he could find one--of
a pleasant companion.
“Pay the chairmen,” said the stranger to the waiter, “and tell
Rummagee-Doss to bring me some Eau de Cologne.”
The waiter disappeared.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the stranger to Brag, “but I am a sad
invalid,--and so hipped and wretched--upon my life, I declare, I can’t
tell how:--so low and miserable from ill health, that I prefer this
corner of the coffee-room to any private room of my own--and, I am
afraid, I cause a great deal of inconvenience. I declare, I wouldn’t
for the world, if I--”
“None in the least,” said Jack. “Don’t mind _me_, sir; I’m not
particular any how:--take everything as it comes--straight up, right
down, and no mistake.”
“I have just arrived from India,” said the stranger. “I never suffered
anything like the wretchedness of the voyage: such a set of people!--no
sentiment--no delicacy about them;--so rough and noisy,--and I so
extremely indisposed!--so, the moment I could, I got on shore here.
The purser of the ship--a great coarse creature, who used to laugh
all day long like a hyæna--landed here with letters and things, all
about business, for those people in Leadenhall Street; and so I--it
was a very lucky chance--I said I would land here too:--I brought
nothing but half a dozen packages of things I wanted, and my man,
Rummagee-Doss, just to take care of me a little;--I only came ashore
yesterday--and I have been to take a warm bath, and I feel a great deal
better already; for the nasty smell of the ship, and such a great deal
of talking, and playing games and romps, and a parcel of women who had
no sympathy for a sick creature like me, quite upset me,--I really
never was so overcome in all my life!”
“It must be a deuce of a bore,” said Jack, “being boxed up for half a
year in one of those great arks.”
“Oh! sir,” said the stranger, “you have no idea of the misery of
it!--and the man--the captain--had nothing in the world to make one
comfortable. He had tea, but no milk--his cow died; and not a drop of
lemonade was to be got--nothing but wine and beer, and those things,
which one can’t drink you know--and no pastry after the first five
weeks! Oh! if you knew what I have suffered, sir, you would excuse any
little trouble I give.”
Hereabouts entered a fine-looking piece of brown humanity, done up
in muslin, with a high-caste yellow streak down his forehead, bearing
a bottle of Eau de Cologne, who turned out to be Rummagee-Doss, the
stranger’s Kitmagar.
“You don’t dislike _this_, do you, sir?” said the stranger, holding up
the Eau de Cologne bottle.
“On the contrary,” said Jack, “quite the reverse, and no mistake.”
“_Jou_,” said the stranger, and the muslin and streak retired.
“That’s a rummish cut of a toggery,” said Jack, who had never seen an
Oriental attendant before.
“A what!” said the stranger.
“Curious dress,” said Jack.
“Pretty and picturesque,” said the stranger, “ill suited to this
climate. I don’t mean to keep him in England--he is an excellent
creature--and so affectionate--I never saw so much kindness--all during
my illness--so sick. I declare--well I never did--”
“I’m not used to that sort of thing,” said Jack; “however, if you are
not going to turn in just yet, I’ll order another glass of ‘hot with’
just to keep you company.”
“Do,--you are _so_ good,” said the stranger, twisting himself about
gracefully; “I am sure we shall be great friends by and bye. I am going
to have a little weak tea, and I have taken such a fancy to a raspberry
tart, I think I shall indulge myself--for I am very unwell.”
“Tea and tarts,” said Jack, “that’s what I call a queer cross; but I
suppose you chaps from the East have a great many varieties of feed of
which we know nothing.”
“It is extremely agreeable there,” said the stranger, “but I have such
wretched health that I cannot enjoy anything.”
At this period of the dialogue, the waiter arrived with a tray, on
which a tea equipage was arranged, and sure enough, three raspberry
tartlets, ovals of jam covered with a trelliage of pastry, which might
be heraldically described as “Gules, fretty of Or,” but in which no
reasonable mortal--“not to speak it profanely,” above the age of
thirteen, indulges in the way of eating. Jack looked, wondered at the
taste of his companion, and ordered a replenishment of his glass.
“I shan’t discommode you,” said Jack, “shall I?--I’m not for late
sitting, but, finding a gentleman to converse with, why, I think,
eleven or so a goodish hour to turn in, and no mistake.”
“I shall be delighted,” said the stranger. “Oh dear! this tea is so
strong--Qui hi--oh, I forget I am--Rummagee--oh dear dear.--Waiter”--
“Shall I ring the bell?” said Jack.
“Oh don’t let me trouble you, sir,” said the stranger.
The waiter luckily appeared--more grog was brought for Jack, and a
little more hot water for his companion.
“Have you been long in India, sir?” said Jack--who began to feel his
natural desire to “find out” anything come strongly upon him.
“Only a few years,” said the stranger. “I did uncommonly well at
first, for my mother, who is an excellent woman--indeed I don’t know
how to speak of her in terms strong enough, for I declare I never did
see such a creature--got a friend of hers to put me on his staff.”
“Oh!” said Jack, stirring his grog, but not at all comprehending the
precise nature of the advantage to be derived from what appeared to him
a very extraordinary position.
“But at last,” said the stranger, “I could not bear the tyranny of the
old creature of a general, so I left him and joined my regiment; but
when I got to it, the sun was so hot, and the duty so hard, it was
too much for me; so I got sick leave, and I must say I never saw such
handsome treatment in my life; everybody--I declare they did--even
nasty creatures whom I hated--all of them were ready to bear witness
to my illness, and to get me home the very moment I expressed a desire
that way.”
It is a remarkable fact that people of education and even general
knowledge and experience, and all of them therefore wonderfully
superior to Jack Brag, have such strange and ill-arranged notions of
our Indian empire,--for so it may be called--that the sharpest and
cleverest of them will ask a man who has arrived from the East, if he
happen to know Mr. Hawkins, or Mr. Jenkins, or Mr. Tomkins, who went to
India about ten years before; without reference to the Presidency to
which he went, or even the service in which he was engaged, which, as
they who know the truth, know, is something tantamount to a Bengallee
asking an Englishman if he knows Mr. Smith of Great Britain; the extent
of territory in the one, equalizing the numerical superiority in
population in the other.
If wise men and clever men, and clever women and wise men, ask such
questions of returning Indians, is it to be wondered that Jack Brag,
who knew no more about India than Chaucer did, should venture to
inquire something about his horror, Brown, and, what really _was_
interesting to him, the fate of Brown’s wife? Of course the reader must
think that Brag would make those researches after his own fashion; and
so he did--but he _did_ make them.
“I,” said Brag, drawing himself up, and setting his neckcloth to
rights--“I had some connexions in India--but they, like you, have come
home--extremely rich and all that--stumpy down, and no mistake;--left
them at Dover--cause indeed of my coming here on my way to meet a
friend of mine, at Eastbourn;--they are off to France--excellent
people--I have a very high regard for them.”
“What part of India do they come from?” said the stranger, bathing his
temples with one hand, and eating a tartlet with the other.
“What part!” said Jack, “Oh--I--I--don’t know--India--somewhere about--”
“What is the name of your friend?” said the stranger.
“His name,” said Jack, “I should think, must be pretty well known in
those parts;--Brown is his name.”
“Brown!” said the stranger, “dear me!--a gentleman!--”
“Why,” said Brag, “I don’t say much, sir,--but, as I have already said
he is a near connexion of mine, I need not, I suppose, answer your
question--eh!--don’t you think so?--I’m plain spoken--straight up,
right down, and no mistake. He’s a deuced fine fellow, with a deuced
handsome fortune, and married to my sister.”
“Oh!” said the stranger, “Ah!--then I don’t know;--but I _did_ know a
great horrid creature in India with a carman’s shoulders and balustrade
legs.--Oh--such a man--of the name of Brown, whose behaviour to a
young delicate creature, the daughter of the general, to whom I was
aid-de-camp, absolutely drove me out of India--that is--in point of
fact--”
“Oh,” said Jack, “that cannot be _my_ brother-in-law; he is a regular
good fellow; prime chap! what I call a regular switcher, and no
mistake.”
“Upon my word,” said the stranger, “you _do_ talk so!--a switcher!--I
don’t in the least understand you. The dreadful man, I mean, was a
serjeant in some regiment, who came out with a wife. Oh, if you had but
seen her--such a monster!--all I don’t know how--so coarse, and that
kind of thing, who voted herself a beauty; and so, somehow for _her_
sake, he wanted to be made a gentleman of.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack, beginning to grow rather suspicious that his
cast had been too good.
“I declare I never saw anything like those people,” said the stranger;
“so impudent, so pushing, and so rude! However, it did; it answered;
and a man--a major--kind of secretary in the general’s office, took
a fancy to him--Heaven knows why, _I_ never could see anything about
him to admire--and made him his clerk: from _that_, you would hardly
believe it, he became first an officer, then an aid-de-camp, and at
last--but then, there is such a long fie-fie story about that--he
married the general’s daughter!”
“What!” said Jack, affecting perfect indifference, his cheeks red as
fire and his hands cold as ice, “while his other wife was alive?”
“Oh dear no!” said the stranger; “she was dead. She was a very naughty
woman, quite paw, paw!”
“Quite what?” said Jack.
“Oh you understand what I mean,” said Fripps, (for Narcissus it was,
who spoke,) patting his arm,--“quite fie, fie!”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jack, nevertheless shrewdly
guessing--hating the half-uttered monosyllabic and mincing manner
of his raspberry-eating associate, and feeling, callous as he was,
something like a reflective affection for his sister,--“What did she
do?”
“Oh,” said Fripps, “I can’t tell you;--upon my word something so
shocking--and--I never did--it was--oh, very bad!”
“And,” said Jack, his lips quivering, “what--what became of her?”
“They buried her, poor thing!” said Fripps.
“But--but,” said Jack, “tell me, if you please, sir, was she parted
from George before _that_?”
“George!” said Fripps; “what--do you know _this_ Brown too?”
“No,” said Jack; “no, no--I--don’t know him--eh! You said his name was
George--didn’t you? She--I--should like to know about _her_--that’s
all. You have made me wish to know--that’s all.”
“What a dear sympathetic mind you have!” said Fripps; “but let me beg
you not to trouble yourself about tipsy Kitty!”
“There,” said Jack,--“you see--you call _her_ Kitty.--Well, you called
_him_ George.--You did not recollect; and so--she--she--”
“She,” said Fripps, “first took to drinking, and then--then--don’t you
know?--she left this great odious Brown--ran away from him.”
“Oh,” said Jack; “ah--yes, yes; that’s natural.”
“And as everybody said,” said Fripps, “as they do when a man dies after
a long illness, it was a happy release.”
“Yes, so it was--that’s what _I_ often say.--Poor Kitty!” muttered
Jack, to himself--but audibly striking his hand upon the table; “Poor
soul--poor soul!”
“There it is again,” said Fripps; “now you say Kitty.”
“_You_ said Kitty,” said Jack; “how else should I know?”
“There was nothing romantic about her,” said Fripps; “she was a
dowdy-looking thing, the daughter of a candle-maker somewhere in
London; and this Brown persuaded her that he was an officer, and so she
ran away with him, and, as she told a friend of mine, who really--upon
my word--I declare--people _do_ such things in India--used to meet her
and talk to her, sometimes in the evening after she had gone away from
cantonments,--she had a brother, who helped her to run away with Brown,
as she told _him_, because he himself wanted to be very civil indeed to
Brown’s sister--don’t you see?”
“Yes,” said Jack; not lifting his eyes from the table--“Umph!--I do--I
see it all.”
“It is so strange,” said Fripps, “that you should have asked me about
anybody of such a common name as Brown in all India, and that I should
have been able to give you such a comical history. However, as I told
you, _this_ Brown afterwards married the general’s daughter, and when
_that_ happened, I gave up my staff appointment,--I could not stop in
the place,--and so Brown succeeded me, and then the general died, and
left him the whole of his large fortune.”
“He did, did he?” said Jack; “why then--” swallowing at one gulp the
remainder of his grog--“that--eh!--that was--straight up, right down,
and no mistake!”--and the laugh that followed the words was hollow and
sepulchral.
“What office did your relation fill in India?” said Fripps.
“I forget, at the moment,” said Jack.
“Was he civil or military?” said Fripps.
“Very civil, I believe,” said Jack; “but--I don’t know.”
“No, but,” said Fripps, “I mean, was he a civilian or a soldier?”
“I forget,” said Jack, who was quite “toppled over” himself for once,
“but we’ll--that is, if you have no objection--talk this over in the
morning. I’m what you call, right slick stumped; I have been riding
hard all the forenoon, and am regularly done. Perhaps we shall meet at
breakfast, sir.”
“I shall be so happy you can’t think!” said Fripps. “I shall try and
get up towards town to-morrow in the course of the day, perhaps as far
as Tunbridge Wells. But that will make no difference; and I shall be
quite delighted to renew our acquaintance in London when we meet there.”
“You are uncommon good,” said Jack; “I shall be very glad indeed”--at
the same time ringing the bell for a light. In a minute or two more he
quitted the room, with a bow to Fripps, who seemed greatly disappointed
at the growing want of cordiality which he thought he had discovered in
Jack’s manner, as their dialogue had advanced.
So, however, they parted for the night.
In a few minutes afterwards, Fripps rang to give Rummagee-Doss
notice of his approach to rest; and while he was half leaning, half
lolling on the table, on the edge of his departure for his room, he
incidentally asked the waiter if he knew the name of the gentleman who
had just retired.
“The gentleman’s name is Brag, sir,” said the man.
“Brag!” said Fripps; “you don’t mean that!--well! if ever--”
“That is the gentleman’s name, sir,” replied the man.
“Well then, if ever I did”--said Fripps. “What time is he going in the
morning?”
“He has ordered horses at nine, sir,” said the man. “The chaise is to
follow him to St. Leonard’s, as he means to walk on.”
“Well, never mind,” said Fripps: “only take care and don’t let anybody
call me till ten. I have no doubt--the name is so uncommon--but
that I have told the unhappy man the whole story of his wretched
fie-fie sister. _Her_ name was Brag--that’s all I know. I declare I
wouldn’t have done such a thing for a thousand rupees. Hitherow, come
along:--where is the creature? Here--help me up. Good night! Well, I
declare--come, Rummagee--it can’t be helped!--good night--good night!
Well--if ever----”
And so tottered up to his chamber the delicate Narcissus Fripps, who
had thus innocently afforded Jack all the information about his sister
which he perhaps could never have derived from any other source. This
advantage Jack had gained by boasting of his high Indian connexions;
while the misery of Fripps, consequent upon the discovery that his
companion was Mrs. Brown’s brother, was occasioned by Brag’s having
ostentatiously announced his name, while asking after his servant and
carriage.
It is needless to add, as the jest-books say, that Jack, who certainly
did not much admire the manners of his communicative companion, and
still less the nature of his communication, was up in the morning
by seven, and, before eight, was off towards St. Leonard’s. As he
walked onwards, his mind was as much occupied as it could be with
anything, with the account he had heard of his sister. From what Mead
had previously told him, the intelligence of the preceding evening
certainly did not so much surprise him as it otherwise would have
done; but every man has _some_ feeling, more or less as the case may
be; and Jack had been, at the moment, affected by the unexpected
recital of this piece of family history.
From the meditation in which he was absorbed, Jack was aroused upon
his arrival at that splendid creation of modern art and industry,
St. Leonard’s, which perhaps affords one of the most beautiful and
wonderful proofs of individual taste, judgment, and perseverance, that
our nation exhibits. Under the superintendence of Mr. Burton, a desert
has become a thickly-peopled town: buildings of an extensive nature and
most elegant character rear their heads where, but a few years since,
the barren cliffs presented their chalky fronts to the storm and wave;
and rippling streams and hanging groves adorn the valley which, twenty
years since, was a sterile and shrubless ravine.
Jack, who appreciated in a very slight degree the beauties of nature,
and who talked of a fine country only in reference to hedges, ditches,
stone walls, and five-barred gates, looked at the sea, only as a great
glittering body of water which dazzled his eyes--and at cliffs as
something uncommonly out of the way. His approbation of St. Leonard’s
was excited not by the great changes its establishment has made in
the face of the neighbourhood, nor by its intrinsic beauty; (and he
expressed his satisfaction to a promiscuous friend with whom he had
fallen into conversation in the street;) but because it reminded him of
the Regent’s Park; and he judiciously added, that if it could only be
got away from the sea, and set down altogether in a sporting part of
Leicestershire, with a lot more stables, it would be a regular “trump,”
and no mistake.
His temporary companion heard his opinion, looked at him, touched his
hat, and walked on.
It may be asked, if Jack had such an aversion for the sea, why he
should propose to visit Eastbourne--or why he had hovered upon the
coast? The truth is, Jack was like the king of the chess-board towards
the end of the game. The widow and her sister occupied the London
square, and if he moved thither, he would certainly put himself into
danger; from Dover he had been driven by Lord Tom’s check--or rather
checque; France was occupied by his adversary’s queen; and the inland
watering-places were filled by knights and rooks, who were so placed
as to keep him at bay if he ventured near their quadrates. Eastbourne,
he had heard, was quiet and retired; and the fewer people there were
resident in it, the less chance he had of being known; and obscurity to
him, just at this particular moment, was, strange to say, desirable.
His various defeats must inevitably become known, a circumstance which
would speedily bring the game to an end; and his last check would, in
all probability, arrive without the accompanying cry of “mate” from any
of the ladies whom he had so assiduously besieged, so to Eastbourne he
proceeded as soon as the appointed chaise from “The Swan” overtook him.
To those, to whom Nature has given a taste, the drive from Hastings to
Eastbourne is one full of interest; but Jack, who looked at Pevensey
Castle with a shudder on account of the owls and the ivy that were
about it, and considered the neighbouring martello towers as works of
coeval antiquity with its Roman brick walls, regarded with an “equal
eye” every other object, animate or inanimate, which he happened to
encounter or pass on his way to the place of his destination; and
most certainly, of all things that never entered his head, one never
was near it,--which is the fact, that we are indebted for the term
“merry-Andrew” to a native of the, at present, dullest little cluster
of houses in England--this very identical Pevensey itself. It was
there, that Andrew Borde, or, according to his own absurd latinization
of his name, Andreas Perforatus, first saw the light. He was educated
first at Winchester, and then at New College, where he studied physic,
and travelled over almost every part of the then known world. He
returned to England in 1542, took his doctor’s degree, and settled at
his native place, whence, finding the climate remarkable healthy, and
the people all exceedingly well, he proceeded to London, and became
first physician to Henry VIII.
He was, however, a wag; and used to visit fairs and markets, and make
speeches to the people, and crack jokes, by way of advocating the cause
of medicine, and especially the use of those particular remedies, which
his eloquence went most highly to eulogize:--hence his _sobriquet_,
wherever he was known, was “Merry Andrew,”--a nickname which, in the
first instance, descended to his successors in practice, but who, in
course of time and the progress of refinement, ostensibly separated the
functions of fool and physician; and while the medical part devolved
upon the doctor, the mummery was confined to the merry-Andrew.
Of this Borde--as I have mentioned him--I must add, that merry as he
was, and author as he was, of jest-books, and satires, and “books
of knowledge,” his eccentricity took another turn later in life,
and he practised all the austerities of the Carthusians,--a course
of discipline which might perhaps have well prepared him to endure
imprisonment in the Fleet prison, where he died in 1549. Some say he
poisoned himself; and others tell us that he was not incarcerated for
debt:--Wood, however, calls him “a noted poet, a witty and ingenious
person, and an excellent physician.”
This little digression, for which I duly apologize, just brings our
hero to the door of the “Hotel” at Eastbourne, which, magnificently
as the word sounds, does not, in point of fact, possess the striking
attributes of its more lordly contemporaries. Jack rather liked its
unostentatious appearance, and entered it with one of his liveliest
expressions of countenance, skipping as usual, rather than stepping out
of his chaise into the hall.
“Have rooms?” said Jack; “sitting and bed-room, eh?--all snug and
comfortable, and no mistake? Seen my servant down here, with the
phaeton, and my things.”
“No, sir,” said the landlady, “I think not. What name, sir?”
“Brag,” said Jack; “a young man--light weight--dark mixture frock,
leathers and tops, an olive-green phaeton, and pair of bright bays.”
“No, sir,” said the hostess; “no such person has been here; perhaps he
has gone to ‘The Lamb,’ or the ‘New Inn,’ at South.”
“Stupid dog!” said Brag; “perhaps he has. I told him ‘The Hotel,’ as
plain as I could speak.”
“Shall we send and see, sir?” said the wily landlady.
“I wish you would,” said Brag. “Where do you think he is gone?”
“To ‘The Lamb,’ perhaps, sir,” said the mistress of the hotel.
“Couldn’t mistake Lamb for Hotel!” replied our hero, looking as much
in earnest as if he really had expected the servant and equipage which
he so accurately described. “Never mind, I can do without him till
to-morrow, so don’t fuss yourself on my account. Just show me my room,
and I’ll order my dinner, and all that, and take a turn while it is
getting ready.”
Those who are not acquainted with Eastbourne, and more especially, the
‘Sea Houses,’ which give their name to the _quartier_ in which Jack had
established himself, can scarcely believe how very agreeable a place
it is. It is true there is nothing like gaiety going on; there are no
crowded promenades; there are no grand balls--no house in the whole
groupe is spacious enough to enable a man to inflict a large party
on his friends; but everything around one is, though humble, clean,
fresh, and delightful. The two extreme points of the place at which
civilization ends are distinguished by buildings which in other days
would have afforded but little gratification to cockney ears. “The
Round House” is the _ultima Thule_ of the promenade in one direction,
and the “Watch-house” the termination of it at the other. These are,
however, but local and conventional terms, and in the height of the
season you will generally find some delightful family located in the
one, and at all seasons a gallant sea-officer stationed at the other.
To enjoy the quiet of this peaceful village, for such it is, after
all the worries of the few preceding days, and “sniff the briny,”
which, although he did not admire its beauties, he admitted was
“uncommon refreshing,” was Jack’s first wish:--it might perhaps give
him an appetite; and then his wine would serve as a Lethean draft
after it; and then in the morning he should get up calm, and cool, and
comfortable, and seek his fortune at the Library, which to cockneys is
always a resource, and to Jack could not fail to be a very important
one. Accordingly, he hastened his “twilight,” and having calculated
the length of time required for dressing his fish and fowl, descended
the stairs, looking all fresh and smart, or, to use his own favourite
phrase, “as nice as nip!”
“How long,” said Jack, pulling up his collars, “how long will it be
before my dinner is ready?”
“About half an hour,” said the landlady.
“What do you call your best wine here?” asked Jack.
“All very good, sir, I believe,” was the reply.
“What claret have you?” said Jack.
“Very good Lafitte, sir--Chateau Margaut,” said mine hostess.
“Oh--ah!” said Jack,--“any good Madeira--eh!--London Particular, and no
mistake!”
“Our Madeira, sir,” said the landlady, “I am afraid is not quite so
good.”
“Port and sherry, I suppose?” said Jack--“Kitchen wines, eh?”
“Both excellent in their way, sir,” said the landlady. “We get our port
from Paxton, and our sherry from Toone.”
“Very good names,” said Jack. “And champagne or hock?”
“Both, sir,” replied the landlady.
“Any ice in the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, very well,” said Jack; “I’ll--see about it. My man is not come, I
suppose?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor the carriage?”
“No, sir.”
“In half an hour, you say, dinner will be ready?” said Jack.
“Yes, sir,” said the hostess.
“I like dining early by way of a change,” said Jack; “something new
after the infernal late hours of London. I’ll be in time, rely upon it,
and no mistake.”
Saying which, he walked into his sitting-room, adjusted his hat on
one side of his head, pulled up his collars, and just giving himself
a sort of satisfactory shake before the looking-glass, sallied forth,
scarcely deigning to look at a man, of about his own size, dressed in
black, whose innocent mind he had been endeavouring to astonish, by the
dialogue which he had just concluded with the landlady on the subject
of the wines, and the ice, and the servant, and the carriage.
The man of about his own size, in black, however, was not to be so
passed over. He came forward as Jack advanced, and rather startled our
hero by a peculiar interest which seemed to pervade his countenance,
as Jack moved across the hall towards the door with an air and manner
something between a swagger and a wriggle, smacking, as usual, his
boots with his “remarkably small whip,” and thinking he was doing it
all right, and no mistake!
Jack cast a sort of contemptuous glance over the figure of his fellow
guest, with which he could scarcely avoid _favouring_ him, since he
seemed to force a notice of some sort from him. Who he could be,
Jack could not exactly comprehend;--In black--with a remarkably
bad hat;--too smart for an undertaker--not smart enough for a
parson--Village doctor perhaps, looking out for patients. No matter.
Heads or Tails, what did it signify to him? And away went Jack,
baffling the breeze, which blew right in his face, and came strong upon
him as he “opened” the sea between Weston’s shop and the library.
There were but few promenaders, and in the library not more than
three persons; one of whom was peeping through the little hole
of a kaleidoscope, another poring over the list of subscribers,
and the third, standing just inside the half-opened door beating
the old gentleman’s tattoo with his fingers upon the window-pane.
Jack looked in, enjoyed for a moment the well-known smell of green
baize, white-brown paper, kid gloves, Windsor soap, varnish, and
lavender-water, with which such gay receptacles are generally redolent;
then turned out again, and walked as far as he could in the direction
of Beachy Head, the state of the tide and the nature of the shore
limiting his excursion thitherwards, however, to about two hundred
yards.
Having done this, he followed the example of the other strollers, and
walked back again, extending his march beyond Mrs. Gilbert’s “Tea
Room,” and the life-boat, and concluding it by entering the garden of
the hotel, which opens to the beach, by which route he regained his
parlour, satisfied that the air was remarkably bracing, and the company
of the place as select as he could possibly wish it to be.
The cloth was laid; everything prepared; and nothing appeared to be
wanting but the summons--the rub of the lamp to produce the Genius.
Jack rang the bell;--all was ready. The smoking fish came, leaping
like a salmon to the board, and in five minutes Jack was seated fork in
hand.
“What wine do you take, sir?” said the waiter, who had heard the
conversation upon that particular subject which had passed between the
guest and his mistress in the hall.
“Wine?” said Jack, “why, half a pint of sherry; and bring some small
beer, if it’s very good.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, and, it is needless to add, did as he was
bid.
Jack certainly had been upset by the last night’s rencontre; but still,
as his stomach filled, and the genial influence of the cruet-full of
Toone’s super-excellent began to operate, he again reared his drooping
head; and resolving to care nothing for what could not be helped,
ordered a bottle of old port, and a bit of fire; for although the
season was young, yet the weather was coldish, and he felt chilly,
and besides, as one of the most beautiful women that ever fell into
solitude in the midst of a crowd once said to me--“To anybody who
lives so much alone as I do, a cheerful fire is company.” These simple
words sounded to _me_ deeply pathetic, and conveyed to my mind an idea
of the wretchedness of involuntary seclusion, which more eloquent
language, or a finer-turned phrase would perhaps not have produced.
That fair creature, however, once the gem-like centre of the circle she
brightened and adorned, is gone to her long account; and if retribution
were to be meted out to mortals in _this_ world, she would nearly have
atoned for all her faults before she left it.
“Put down some dessert,” said Jack, “clap a log on the grate, draw the
curtains, and bring me the London paper.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, who implicitly obeyed the commands he
received, but still looked somehow suspiciously at Jack, not as
doubting his respectability and solvency, or even questioning the
bright vision of the groom and the phaeton, but as if expecting that
something was likely to happen in the course of the evening to mar the
comfort of the ‘cheerful fire-side.’
The paper came; Jack occupied two chairs, and it would be doing the
vain simpleton injustice to deny that as he sipped his wine his
thoughts reverted to his sister Kate. The chain, it is true, contained
many links, and one end of it was riveted to the counter of the
candle-shop; but still there is no man so callous, or so heartless, but
that at certain moments he “feels:”--Jack _did_ feel, and even went
the length of repenting many things which he had done, and regretting
that he had not done many others which he had neglected, and was really
getting quite amiable. There certainly _was_ a reason for this--he was
alone,--and had no game to play.
From the reverie or rather slumber into which the heat of the fire,
the strength of the port wine, and the very long leading articles of
the newspaper which he was reading without understanding one syllable
contained in them, had thrown him, he was aroused in about three
quarters of an hour by the re-appearance of the waiter, who said that a
gentleman wished to speak a few words to him.
“To me?” said Jack.
“Mr. Brag, I believe, sir,” said the waiter.
“Yes,” said Brag, “in course, that’s my name, and no mistake. What is
the gentleman’s name?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the waiter. “He is outside, sir.”
“Desire him to come in,” said Jack, who concluded it was either the
master of the ceremonies to nail him for a subscription, or the
apothecary to secure a patient, or perhaps some of the parochial
authorities desirous of knowing whether he would wish the bells at
“South,” as they call it, to announce his arrival at the Sea Houses.
The waiter opened the door, and all Jack’s suspicions were
confirmed when he beheld the man about his own size, dressed in the
shabby-genteel black, whom he had entirely astonished about the wines,
the ice, the servants, the horses and the carriage, in the hall before
dinner, enter the room with a low bow.
The waiter retired, and shut the door.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the shabby-genteel, holding his shocking
bad hat in his hand, “I believe, sir, your name is Brag?”
“It is, sir,” said Jack.
“Of Lower Grosvenor Street, in the Parish of St. George, Hanover
Square, Middlesex,” said the stranger.
“Exactly so,” said Brag.
“It is very curious, sir,” said the stranger, “that I should have been
lucky enough to meet with you here. I have been frequently to Grosvenor
Street, but the people there, said you never lived there. I heard, sir,
you had a house in Surrey, but I never could find out exactly where it
was. We did get a letter saying that the newspaper said you were gone
to Dover, and I should have gone over to that place from this, but
your arrival here saves me a great deal of trouble, and will make no
difference to you, sir.”
“No,” said Jack, drawing his little legs off the second chair, and
sitting upright to look at his visitor,--“but may I just ask why you
happen to be so very anxious to see _me_?”
“I am clerk, sir,” said the visitor, “to Messrs. Tapps, Tatlock, and
Shackleton, of Pump Court, Temple, and have been for these ten days
looking out to serve you with notice of action of trespass at the suit
of Thomas Grindleston of Wigglesford, in the county of Herts. We wrote
twice to you, sir, but, not getting any answer, and not knowing the
name of your solicitor, _my_ gentlemen ordered me to look after you at
Dover; but as I had some business here, on my way, the minute I heard
you asking for your carriage and servant, and mentioning your name, I
said to myself--‘That’s my gentleman.’--Here is the copy of the writ,
sir, which I now serve you with.”
“Upon my life,” said Jack, “I don’t know what I have to do with this.”
“It’s about the steeple chase, sir,” said the visitor, “of which
you had the management, and which did considerable damage to Mr.
Grindleston’s property.”
“But,” said Jack, “there are hundreds of steeple chases in the course
of the year, and nobody is prosecuted.”
“That is all according to taste, sir,” said the stranger. “Mr.
Grindleston, our client, sir, is not a sporting character, and
doesn’t exactly see why _you_, as having marked out the line, should
have chosen to draw it directly across his property;--even hunting a
fox, sir, over another man’s grounds, after the case decided by Lord
Ellenborough, (Earl of Essex against General Capel, 1809,) is held
to be a trespass. In the case of Merest and Harvey, the defendant
committed the trespass in the plaintiff’s presence after being warned
off--the jury there, sir, gave five hundred pounds damages; and Sir
Vicary Gibbs, who tried the case, refused a new trial, and said,
‘Suppose I had a walk before my house which I had a pleasure in looking
at or walking on, would it be allowed that a man should come and walk
there to my annoyance, and then offer me a halfpenny in satisfaction,
alleging that I had received no actual damage?’”
“But what am I to do now, sir?” said Jack.
“Nothing in the world, sir,” said the stranger; “just put that slip of
paper into your pocket, and the gentleman, whoever he may be, who is
concerned for you, will tell you all the rest.”
“Sir,” said Jack, “I don’t understand this at all; I have no gentleman
who is concerned for me--nor lady either, as I begin to think; and I
don’t comprehend it--it’s all gibberish--moonshine--nonsense--straight
up, right down, and no mistake.”
“No, sir, I will not trouble you any farther,” said the clerk; “_I_
know there’s no mistake--but I have done my duty, sir, and I wish you
good evening. I would not have intruded till the morning,” added the
shabby genteel; “but I have a chance of a cast to Lewes to-night, and I
thought it best to lose no time.”
“And who are your employers?” said Jack, who had just instinct
sufficient to know that he had got himself into a scrape.
“Messrs. Tapps, Tatlock, and Shackleton, of Pump Court, Temple, sir,”
replied the clerk: “good evening, sir.” Saying which, the unwelcome
visitor disappeared, and closed the door after him.
This was extremely agreeable; here was Brag saddled with an action
for trespass, singled out as the leader of the sport, and all the
burthens upon his mind crowned with a lawsuit, and all resulting from
his own empty vanity, in putting himself forward as the hero of the
day; a piece of absurdity rendered more objectionable to the plaintiff
Grindleston, because he thought proper to puff himself into possession
of the said plaintiff’s property. However, it was of no use thinking it
over, then--morning was the time for business; and so Jack, relieved
from the presence of the harpy, proceeded to read the paper and drink
his port, till he fell again into a profound slumber from which he
awoke only to ring the bell, order his candle, and go to bed.