THE WET DAY
When the dirty slip-shod housemaid came in the morning with her
blacksmith's-looking tool-box to light Mr. Sponge's fire, a riotous
winter's day was in the full swing of its gloomy, deluging power. The wind
howled, and roared, and whistled, and shrieked, playing a sort of aeolian
harp amongst the towers, pinnacles, and irregular castleisations of the
house; while the old casements rattled and shook, as though some one were
trying to knock them in.
'Hang the day!' muttered Sponge from beneath the bedclothes. 'What the
deuce is a man to do with himself on such a day as this, in the country?'
thinking how much better he would be flattening his nose against the
coffee-room window of the Bantam, or strolling through the horse-dealers'
stables in Piccadilly or Oxford Street.
Presently the over-night chair before the fire, with the picture of
Jawleyford in the Bumperkin yeomanry, as seen through the parted curtains
of the spacious bed, recalled his over-night speculations, and he began to
think that perhaps he was just as well where he was. He then 'backed' his
ideas to where he had left off, and again began speculating on the chances
of his position. 'Deuced fine girls,' said he, 'both of 'em: wonder what
he'll give 'em down?'--recurring to his over-night speculations, and
hitting upon the point at which he had burnt his lips with the end of the
cigar--namely, Jawleyford's youth, and the possibility of his marrying
again if Mrs. Jawleyford were to die. 'It won't do to raise up
difficulties for one's self, however,' mused he; so, kicking off the
bedclothes, he raised himself instead, and making for a window, began to
gaze upon his expectant territory.
It was a terrible day; the ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along, and
the lowering gloom was only enlivened by the occasional driving rush of the
tempest. Earth and sky were pretty much the same grey, damp, disagreeable
hue.
'Well,' said Sponge to himself, having gazed sufficiently on the uninviting
landscape, 'it's just as well it's not a hunting day--should have got
terribly soused. Must get through the time as well as I can--girls to talk
to--house to see. Hope I've brought my _Mogg_,' added he, turning to his
portmanteau, and diving for his _Ten Thousand Cab Fares_. Having found the
invaluable volume, his almost constant study, he then proceeded to array
himself in what he considered the most captivating apparel; a new
wide-sleeved dock-tail coatee, with outside pockets placed very low,
faultless drab trousers, a buff waistcoat, with a cream-coloured once-round
silk tie, secured by red cornelian cross-bars set in gold, for a pin. Thus
attired, with _Mogg_ in his pocket, he swaggered down to the
breakfast-room, which he hit off by means of listening at the doors till he
heard the sound of voices within.
Mrs. Jawleyford and the young ladies were all smiles and smirks, and there
were no symptoms of Miss Jawleyford's _hauteur_ perceptible. They all came
forward and shook hands with our friend most cordially. Mr. Jawleyford,
too, was all flourish and compliment; now tilting at the weather, now
congratulating himself upon having secured Mr. Sponge's society in the
house.
That leisurely meal of protracted ease, a country-house breakfast, being at
length accomplished, and the ladies having taken their departure, Mr.
Jawleyford looked out on the terrace, upon which the angry rain was beating
the standing water into bubbles, and observing that there was no chance of
getting out, asked Mr. Sponge if he could amuse himself in the house.
'Oh yes,' replied he, 'got a book in my pocket.'
'Ah, I suppose--the _New Monthly_, perhaps?' observed Mr. Jawleyford.
'No,' replied Sponge.
'Dizzey's _Life of Bentinck_, then, I dare say,' suggested Jawleyford;
adding, 'I'm reading it myself.'
'No, nor that either,' replied Sponge, with a knowing look; 'a much more
useful work, I assure you,' added he, pulling the little purple-backed
volume out of his pocket, and reading the gilt letters on the back:
'_Mogg's Ten Thousand Cab Fares_. Price one shilling!'
'Indeed,' exclaimed Mr. Jawleyford, 'well, I should never have guessed
that.'
'I dare say not,' replied Sponge, 'I dare say not, it's a book I never
travel without. It's invaluable in town, and you may study it to great
advantage in the country. With _Mogg_ in my hand, I can almost fancy myself
in both places at once. Omnibus guide,' added he, turning over the leaves,
and reading, 'Acton five, from the end of Oxford Street and the Edger
Road--see Ealing; Edmonton seven, from Shoreditch Church--"Green Man and
Still" Oxford Street--Shepherd's Bush and Starch Green, Bank, and
Whitechapel--Tooting--Totteridge--Wandsworth; in short, every place near
town. Then the cab fares are truly invaluable; you have ten thousand of
them here,' said he, tapping the book, 'and you may calculate as many more
for yourself as ever you like. Nothing to do but sit in an arm-chair on a
wet day like this, and say, If from the Mile End turnpike to the "Castle"
on the Kingsland Road is so much, how much should it be to the "Yorkshire
Stingo," or Pine-Apple-Place, Maida Vale? And you measure by other fares
till you get as near the place you want as you can, if it isn't set down in
black and white to your hand in the book.'
'Just so,' said Jawleyford, 'just so. It must be a very useful work indeed,
very useful work. I'll get one--I'll get one. How much did you say it
was--a guinea? a guinea?'
'A shilling,' replied Sponge, adding, 'you may have mine for a guinea if
you like.'
'By Jove, what a day it is!' observed Jawleyford, turning the
conversation, as the wind dashed the hard sleet against the window like a
shower of pebbles. 'Lucky to have a good house over one's head, such
weather; and, by the way, that reminds me, I'll show you my new gallery and
collection of curiosities--pictures, busts, marbles, antiques, and so on;
there'll be fires on, and we shall be just as well there as here.' So
saying, Jawleyford led the way through a dark, intricate, shabby passage,
to where a much gilded white door, with a handsome crimson curtain over it
announced the entrance to something better. 'Now,' said Mr. Jawleyford,
bowing as he threw open the door, and motioned, or rather flourished, his
guest to enter--'now,' said he, 'you shall see what you shall see.'
Mr. Sponge entered accordingly, and found himself at the end of a gallery
fifty feet by twenty, and fourteen high, lighted by skylights and small
windows round the top. There were fires in handsome Caen-stone
chimney-pieced fireplaces on either side, a large timepiece and an organ at
the far end, and sundry white basins scattered about, catching the drops
from the skylights.
'Hang the rain!' exclaimed Jawleyford, as he saw it trickling over a river
scene of Van Goyen's (gentlemen in a yacht, and figures in boats), and
drip, drip, dripping on to the head of an infant Bacchus below.
'He wants an umbrella, that young gentleman,' observed Sponge, as
Jawleyford proceeded to dry him with his handkerchief.
'Fine thing,' observed Jawleyford, starting off to a side, and pointing to
it; 'fine thing--Italian marble--by Frere--cost a vast of money--was
offered three hundred for it. Are you a judge of these things?' asked
Jawleyford; 'are you a judge of these things?'
'A little,' replied Sponge, 'a little'; thinking he might as well see what
his intended father-in-law's personal property was like.
'There's a beautiful thing!' observed Jawleyford, pointing to another
group. 'I picked that up for a mere nothing--twenty guineas--worth two
hundred at least. Lipsalve, the great picture-dealer in Gammon Passage,
offered me Murillo's "Adoration of the Virgin and Shepherds," for which he
showed me a receipt for a hundred and eighty-five, for it.'
'Indeed!' replied Sponge, 'what is it?'
'It's a Bacchanal group, after Poussin, sculptured by Marin. I bought it at
Lord Breakdown's sale; it happened to be a wet day--much such a day as
this--and things went for nothing. This you'll know, I presume?' observed
Jawleyford, laying his hand on a life-size bust of Diana, in Italian
marble.
'No, I don't,' replied Sponge.
'No!' exclaimed Jawleyford; 'I thought everybody had known this: this is my
celebrated "Diana," by Noindon--one of the finest things in the world.
Louis Philippe sent an agent over to this country expressly to buy it.'
'Why didn't you sell it him?' asked Sponge.
'Didn't want the money,' replied Jawleyford, 'didn't want the money. In
addition to which, though a king, he was a bit of a screw, and we couldn't
agree upon terms. This,' observed Jawleyford, 'is a vase of the Cinque
Cento period--a very fine thing; and this,' laying his hand on the crown of
a much frizzed, barber's-window-looking bust, 'of course you know?'
'No, I don't,' replied Sponge.
'No!' exclaimed Jawleyford, in astonishment.
'No,' repeated Sponge.
'Look again, my dear fellow; you _must_ know it,' observed Jawleyford.
'I suppose it's meant for you,' at last replied Sponge, seeing his host's
anxiety.
'_Meant!_ my dear fellow; why, don't you think it like?'
'Why, there's a resemblance, certainly,' said Sponge, 'now that one knows.
But I shouldn't have guessed it was you.'
'Oh, my dear Mr. Sponge!' exclaimed Jawleyford, in a tone of mortification,
'Do you _really_ mean to say you don't think it like?'
'Why, yes, it's like,' replied Sponge, seeing which way his host wanted it;
'it's like, certainly; the want of expression in the eye makes such a
difference between a bust and a picture.'
'True,' replied Jawleyford, comforted--'true,' repeated he, looking
affectionately at it; 'I should say it was very like--like as anything can
be. You are rather too much above it there, you see; sit down here,'
continued he, leading Sponge to an ottoman surrounding a huge model of the
column in the Place Vendome, that stood in the middle of the room--'sit
down here now, and look, and say if you don't think it like?'
[Illustration: 'THIS, OF COURSE, YOU KNOW?']
'Oh, _very_ like,' replied Sponge, as soon as he had seated himself. 'I see
it now, directly; the mouth is yours to a T.'
'And the chin. It's my chin, isn't it?' asked Jawleyford.
'Yes; and the nose, and the forehead, and the whiskers, and the hair, and
the shape of the head, and everything. Oh! I see it now as plain as a
pikestaff,' observed Sponge.
'I thought you would,' rejoined Jawleyford comforted--'I thought you would;
it's generally considered an excellent likeness--so it should, indeed, for
it cost a vast of money--fifty guineas! to say nothing of the lotus-leafed
pedestal it's on. That's another of me,' continued Jawleyford, pointing to
a bust above the fireplace, on the opposite side of the gallery; 'done some
years since--ten or twelve, at least--not so like as this, but still like.
That portrait up there, just above the "Finding of Moses," by Poussin,'
pointing to a portrait of himself attitudinizing, with his hand on his hip,
and frock-coat well thrown back, so as to show his figure and the silk
lining to advantage, 'was done the other day, by a very rising young
artist; though he has hardly done me justice, perhaps--particularly in the
nose, which he's made far too thick and heavy; and the right hand, if
anything, is rather clumsy; otherwise the colouring is good, and there is a
considerable deal of taste in the arrangement of the background, and so
on.'
'What book is it you are pointing to?' asked Sponge.
'It's not a book,' replied Mr. Jawleyford, 'it's a plan--a plan of this
gallery, in fact. I am supposed to be giving the final order for the
erection of the very edifice we are now in.'
'And a very handsome building it is,' observed Sponge, thinking he would
make it a shooting-gallery when he got it.
'Yes, it's a handsome thing in its way,' assented Jawleyford; 'better if it
had been water-tight, perhaps,' added he, as a big drop splashed upon the
crown of his head.
'The contents must be very valuable,' observed Sponge.
'Very valuable,' replied Jawleyford. 'There's a thing I gave two hundred
and fifty guineas for--that vase. It's of Parian marble, of the Cinque
Cento period, beautifully sculptured in a dance of Bacchanals, arabesques,
and chimera figures; it was considered cheap. Those fine monkeys in Dresden
china, playing on musical instruments, were forty; those bronzes of
scaramouches on ormolu plinths were seventy; that ormolu clock, of the
style of Louis Quinze, by Le Roy, was eighty; those Sevres vases were a
hundred--mounted, you see, in ormolu, with lily candelabra for ten lights.
The handles,' continued he, drawing Sponge's attention to them, 'are very
handsome--composed of satyrs holding festoons of grapes and flowers, which
surround the neck of the vase; on the sides are pastoral subjects, painted
in the highest style--nothing can be more beautiful or more chaste.'
'Nothing,' assented Sponge.
'The pictures I should think are most valuable,' observed Jawleyford. 'My
friend Lord Sparklebury said to me the last time he was here--he's now in
Italy, increasing his collection--"Jawleyford, old boy," said he, for we
are very intimate--just like brothers, in fact; "Jawleyford, old boy, I
wonder whether your collection or mine would fetch most money, if they were
Christie-&-Manson'd." "Oh, your lordship," said I, "your Guidos, and
Ostades, and Poussins, and Velasquez, are not to be surpassed." "True,"
replied his lordship, "they are fine--very fine; but you have the Murillos.
I'd like to give you a good round sum," added he, "to pick out half-a-dozen
pictures out of your gallery." Do you understand pictures?' continued
Jawleyford, turning short on his friend Sponge.
'A little,' replied Sponge, in a tone that might mean either yes or no--a
great deal or nothing at all.
Jawleyford then took him and worked him through his collection--talked of
light and shade, and tone, and depth of colouring, tints, and pencillings;
and put Sponge here and there and everywhere to catch the light (or rain,
as the case might be); made him convert his hand into an opera-glass, and
occasionally put his head between his legs to get an upside-down view--a
feat that Sponge's equestrian experience made him pretty well up to. So
they looked, and admired, and criticized, till Spigot's all-important
figure came looming up the gallery and announced that luncheon was ready.
'Bless me!' exclaimed Jawleyford, pulling a most diminutive Geneva watch,
hung with pencils, pistol-keys, and other curiosities, out of his pocket;
'Bless me, who'd have thought it? One o'clock, I declare! Well, if this
doesn't prove the value of a gallery on a wet day. I don't know what does.
However,' said he, 'we must tear ourselves away for the present, and go and
see what the ladies are about.'
If ever a man may be excused for indulging in luncheon, it certainly is on
a pouring wet day (when he eats for occupation), or when he is making love;
both which excuses Mr. Sponge had to offer, so he just sat down and ate as
heartily as the best of the party, not excepting his host himself, who was
an excellent hand at luncheon.
Jawleyford tried to get him back to the gallery after luncheon, but a look
from his wife intimated that Sponge was wanted elsewhere, so he quietly saw
him carried off to the music-room; and presently the notes of the 'grand
piano,' and full clear voices of his daughters, echoing along the passage,
intimated that they were trying what effect music would have upon him.
When Mrs. Jawleyford looked in about an hour after, she found Mr. Sponge
sitting over the fire with his _Mogg_ in his hand, and the young ladies
with their laps full of company-work, keeping up a sort of crossfire of
conversation in the shape of question and answer. Mrs. Jawleyford's company
making matters worse, they soon became tediously agreeable.
In course of time, Jawleyford entered the room, with:
'My dear Mr. Sponge, your groom has come up to know about your horse
to-morrow. I told him it was utterly impossible to think of hunting, but he
says he must have his orders from you. I should say,' added Jawleyford, 'it
is _quite_ out of the question--madness to think of it; much better in the
house, such weather.'
'I don't know that,' replied Sponge, 'the rain's come down, and though the
country will ride heavy, I don't see why we shouldn't have sport after it.'
'But the glass is falling, and the wind's gone round the wrong way; the
moon changed this morning--everything, in short, indicates continued wet,'
replied Jawleyford. 'The rivers are all swollen, and the low grounds under
water; besides, my dear fellow, consider the distance--consider the
distance; sixteen miles, if it's a yard.'
'What, Dundleton Tower!' exclaimed Sponge, recollecting that Jawleyford had
said it was only ten the night before.
'Sixteen miles, and bad road,' replied Jawleyford.
'The deuce it is!' muttered Sponge; adding, 'Well, I'll go and see my
groom, at all events.' So saying, he rang the bell as if the house was his
own, and desired Spigot to show him the way to his servant.
Leather, of course, was in the servants' hall, refreshing himself with cold
meat and ale, after his ride up from Lucksford.
Finding that he had ridden the hack up, he desired Leather to leave him
there. 'Tell the groom I _must_ have him put up,' said Sponge; 'and you
ride the chestnut on in the morning. How far is it to Dundleton Tower?'
asked he.
'Twelve or thirteen miles, they say, from here,' replied Leather; 'nine or
ten from Lucksford.'
'Well, that'll do,' said Sponge; 'you tell the groom here to have the hack
saddled for me at nine o'clock, and you ride Multum in Parvo quietly on,
either to the meet or till I overtake you.'
'But how am I to get back to Lucksford?' asked Leather, cocking up a foot
to show how thinly he was shod.
'Oh, just as you can,' replied Sponge; 'get the groom here to set you down
with his master's hacks. I dare say they haven't been out to-day, and it'll
do them good.'
So saying, Mr. Sponge left his valuable servant to do the best he could for
himself.
Having returned to the music-room, with the aid of an old county map Mr.
Sponge proceeded to trace his way to Dundleton Tower; aided, or rather
retarded, by Mr. Jawleyford, who kept pointing out all sorts of
difficulties, till, if Mr. Sponge had followed his advice, he would have
made eighteen or twenty miles of the distance. Sponge, however, being used
to scramble about strange countries, saw the place was to be accomplished
in ten or eleven. Jawleyford was sure he would lose himself, and Sponge was
equally confident that he wouldn't.
At length the glad sound of the gong put an end to all further argument;
and the inmates of Jawleyford Court retired, candle in hand, to their
respective apartments, to adorn for a repetition of the yesterday's spread,
with the addition of the Rev. Mr. Hobanob's company, to say grace, and
praise the 'Wintle.'
An appetiteless dinner was succeeded by tea and music, as before.
The three elegant French clocks in the drawing-room being at variance, one
being three-quarters of an hour before the slowest, and twenty minutes
before the next, Mr. Hobanob (much to the horror of Jawleyford) having
nearly fallen asleep with his Sevres coffee-cup in his hand, at last drew
up his great silver watch by its jack-chain, and finding it was a quarter
past ten, prepared to decamp--taking as affectionate a leave of the ladies
as if he had been going to China. He was followed by Mr. Jawleyford, to see
him pocket his pumps, and also by Mr. Sponge, to see what sort of a night
it was.
The sky was clear, stars sparkled in the firmament, and a young crescent
moon shone with silvery brightness o'er the scene.
'That'll do,' said Sponge, as he eyed it; 'no haze there. Come,' added he
to his papa-in-law, as Hobanob's steps died out on the terrace, 'you'd
better go to-morrow.'
'Can't,' replied Jawleyford; 'go next day, perhaps--Scrambleford
Green--better place--much. You may lock up,' said he, turning to Spigot,
who, with both footmen, was in attendance to see Mr. Hobanob off; 'you may
lock up, and tell the cook to have breakfast ready at nine precisely.'
'Oh, never mind about breakfast for me,' interposed Sponge, 'I'll have some
tea or coffee and chops, or boiled ham and eggs, or whatever's going, in my
bedroom,' said he; 'so never mind altering your hour for me.'
'Oh, but my dear fellow, we'll all breakfast together' (Jawleyford had no
notion of standing two breakfasts), 'we'll all breakfast together,' said
he; 'no trouble, I assure you--rather the contrary. Say half-past
eight--half-past eight. Spigot! to a minute, mind.'
And Sponge, seeing there was no help for it, bid the ladies good night, and
tumbled off to bed with little expectation of punctuality.
[Illustration: MR. SPONGE'S RAPID BREAKFAST]