Chapter LVII: The Anthony Thom Trap

SIR Moses was so fussy about his clothes, sending to the laundry
for this shirt and that, censuring the fold of this cravat and
that, inquiring after his new hunting ties and best boots, that
Mrs. Margerum began to fear the buxom widow, Mrs. Vivian, was
going to be at Lord Repartee’s, and that she might be saddled
with that direst of all dread inflictions to an honest
conscientious housekeeper, a teasing, worreting, meddling
mistress. That is a calamity which will be best appreciated by
the sisterhood, and those who watch how anxiously “widowers and
single gentlemen” places are advertised for in the newspapers, by
parties who frequently, not perhaps unaptly, describe themselves
as “thoroughly understanding their business.”

Sir Moses, indeed, carried out the deception well; for not only
in the matter of linen, but in that of clothes also, was he
equally particular, insisting upon having all his first-class
daylight things brought out from their winter quarters, and
reviewing them himself as they lay on the sofa, ere he suffered
Mr. Bankhead to pack them.

At length they were sorted and passed into the capacious depths
of an ample brown leather portmanteau, and the key being duly
turned and transferred to the Baronet, the package itself was
chucked into the dog-cart in the unceremonious sort of way
luggage is always chucked about. The vehicle itself then came to
the door, and Sir Moses having delivered his last injunctions
about the hounds and the horses, and the line of coming to cover
so as to avoid public-houses, he ascended and touching the mare
gently with the whip, trotted away amid the hearty—“well shut of
yous” of the household. Each then retired to his or her private
pursuits; some to drink, some to gamble, some to write letters,
Mrs. Margerum, of course, to pick up the perquisites. Sir Moses,
meanwhile, bowled away ostentatiously through the lodges,
stopping to talk to everybody he met, and saying he was going
away for the night.

Bonmot Park, the seat of Lord Repartee, stands about the junction
of Hit-im and Hold-imshire, with Featherbedfordshire. Indeed, his
great cover of Tewington Wood is neutral between the hunts, and
the best way to the park on wheels, especially in winter time, is
through Hinton and Westleak, which was the cause of Sir Moses
hitting upon it for his deception, inasmuch as he could drive
into the Fox and Hounds Hotel; and at Hinton, under pretence of
baiting his mare without exciting suspicion, and there make his
arrangements for the night. Accordingly, he took it very quietly
after he got clear of his own premises, coveting rather the
shades of evening that he had suffered so much from before, and
as luck would have it by driving up Skinner Lane, instead of
through Nelson Street, he caught a back view of Paul Straddler,
as for the twenty-third time that worthy peeped through the panes
of Mrs. Winship, the straw-bonnet maker’s window in the
market-place, at a pretty young girl she had just got from
Stownewton. Seeing his dread acquaintance under such favourable
circumstances, Sir Moses whipped Whimpering Kate on, and nearly
upset himself against the kerb-stone as he hurried up the archway
of the huge deserted house,—the mare’s ringing hoofs alone,
announcing his coming.

_Ostler! Ostler! Ostler!_ cried he in every variety of tone, and
at length the crooked-legged individual filling that and other
offices, came hobbling and scratching his head to the summons.
Sir Moses alighting then, gave him the reins and whip; and
wrapper in hand, proceeded to the partially gas-lit door in the
archway, to provide for himself while the ostler looked after the
mare.

Now, it so happened, that what with bottle ends and whole
bottles, and the occasional contributions of the generous, our
friend Peter the waiter was even more inebriated than he appears
at page 263; and the rumbling of gig-wheels up the yard only made
him waddle into the travellers’ room, to stir the fire and twist
up a bit of paper to light the gas, in case it was any of the
despised brotherhood of the road.—He thought very little of
bagmen—Mr. Customer was the man for his money. Now, he rather
expected Mr. Silesia, Messrs. Buckram the clothiers’
representative, if not Mr. Jaconette, the draper’s also, about
this time; and meeting Sir Moses hurrying in top-coated and
cravated with the usual accompaniments of the road, he concluded
it was one of them; so capped him on to the commercial room with
his dirty duster-holding hand.

“Get me a private room, Peter; get me a private room,” demanded
the Baronet, making for the bottom of the staircase away from the
indicated line of scent.

“Private room,” muttered Peter.

“Why, who is it?”

“Me! me!” exclaimed Sir Moses, thinking Peter would recognise
him.

“Well, but whether are ye a tailor or a draper?” demanded Peter,
not feeling inclined to give way to the exclusiveness of either.

“Tailor or draper! you stupid old sinner—don’t you see it’s me—me
Sir Moses Mainchance?”

“Oh, Sir Moses, Sir, I beg your pardon, Sir,” stammered the now
apologising Peter, hurrying back towards the staircase. “I really
begs your pardon, Sir; but my eyes are beginning to fail me,
Sir—not so good as they were when Mr. Customer hunted the
country.—Well Sir Moses, Sir, I hope you’re well, Sir; and
whether will you be in the Sun or the Moon? You can have a fire
lighted in either in a minute, only you see we don’t keep fires
constant no ways now, ‘cept in the commercial room.—Great change,
Sir Moses, Sir, since Mr. Customer hunted the country; yes, Sir,
great change—used to have fires in every room, Sir, and brandy
and—”

“Well, but,” interrupted Sir Moses, “I can’t sit freezing up
stairs till the fire’s burnt up.—You go and get it lighted, and
come to me in the commercial-room and tell me when it’s ready;
and here!” continued he, “I want some dinner in an hour’s time,
or so.”

“By all means, Sir Moses. What would you like to take, Sir
Moses?” as if there was everything at command.

_Sir Moses_—“Have you any soup?”

_Peter_—“Soup, Sir Moses. No, I don’t think there is any soup.”

_Sir Moses_—“Fish; have you any fish?”

_Peter_—“Why, no; I don’t think there’ll be any fish to-day, Sir
Moses.”

_Sir Moses_—“What have you, then?”

_Peter_—(Twisting the dirty duster), “Mutton chops—beef
steak—beef steak—mutton chops—boiled fowl, p’raps you’d like to
take?”

_Sir Moses_—“No. I shouldn’t (_muttering_, most likely got to be
caught and killed yet.) Tell the cook,” continued he, speaking
up, “to make on a wood and coal fire, and to do me a nice dish of
mutton chops on the gridiron; not in the frying-pan mind, all
swimming in grease; and to boil some mealy potatoes.”

_Peter_—“Yes, Sir Moses; and what would you like to have to
follow?”

“_Cheese!_” said Sir Moses, thinking to cut short the inquiry.

“And hark’e.” continued Sir Moses: Don’t make a great man of me
by bringing out your old battered copper showing-dishes; but tell
the cook to send the chops up hot and hot, between good warm
crockery-ware plates, with ketchup or Harvey sauce for me to use
as I like.”

“Yes, Sir Moses,” replied Peter, toddling off to deliver as much
of the order as he could remember.

And Sir Moses having thawed himself at the commercial-room fire,
next visited the stable to see that his mare had been made
comfortable, and told the ostler post-boy boots to be in the way,
as he should most likely want him to take him out in the fly
towards night. As he returned, he met Bessey Bannister, the
pretty chambermaid, now in the full glow of glossy hair and
crinoline, whom he enlisted as purveyor of the mutton into the
Moon, in lieu of the antiquated Peter, whose services he was too
glad to dispense with.—It certainly is a considerable aggravation
of the miseries of a country inn to have to undergo the
familiarities of a dirty privileged old waiter.

435m

_Original Size_

So thought Sir Moses, as he enjoyed each succeeding chop, and
complimented the fair maiden so on her agility and general
appearance, that she actually dreamt she was about to become Lady
Mainchance.