Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (17 page)

Facey was struck with the argument. That £80 had excited his cupidity and made him wish for more. He thought it might be very easily got. A very little riding of the horse by Lucy would do to establish his name for perfect temper and docility—perfect manners, as the advertisers say.

The severity of the conflict now passing in his mind was evinced by the number of samples he culled from his chin and rejected without examination. He ran the matter quickly through his mind—the profit, the loss, the risk, and so on.

“No, it won't do,” at length said he; “the world is censorious, and we should only get into a scrape.” Facey felt the importance of now making hay while the sun shone—viz., getting an heiress, if he could. He must start fair at all events.

But Lucy was a good coaxer, and combated his objections with great adroitness. She ridiculed the idea of her presence being the cause of the Heavyside rupture. It was all because they were jealous of her riding. She might have added “looks,” but she left that for another to say—who, however, did not say it.

They then had a great discussion upon the feasibility of the thing—the possibility of Lucy again living alone as she had done at the “West-end Swell” without exciting curiosity; and it was decided by Mr Romford that she could not. Still her resources didn't fail her. Why shouldn't her mother come down and live with her and make herself useful—she could graft stockings there with her quite as well as in Hart Street.

“
Humph!
” growled Facey, appealing again to his beard. “Don't see what good that would do,” at length observed he, after a long pause, fearing, amongst other things, that he might have to pay for the quarters. “If your mother was to coom, she'd better coom to the Hall, where there's plenty of room,” observed he.

“And why not!” exclaimed Lucy. “I'm sure she'd be most happy.”

“Then folke would say, ‘Who the deuce are these people he's got with him?'” replied Facey.

“Say I'm your sister,” rejoined Lucy.

“Hoot! we're not a bit alike,” growled he.

“Half-sister, or sister-in-law, then,” said Lucy, anxious to accommodate matters.

Still Facey was afraid.

She then suggested some complicated state of relationship arising out of an imaginary double marriage of her mother that would cure all defects of looks and family connection, and argued it so scientifically, that she completely bamboozled our Master. He could neither comprehend nor confute her. And the lady, as usual, got her way. After a great deal of doubt and controversy, it was at length arranged that Lucy should accompany Mr Romford to Beldon Hall, and that her “moother,” Mrs Glitters, who will hereafter be known by the name of Sidney Benson—Mrs Sidney Benson—should come down to keep her company, on the express understanding that Mrs Benson was to make herself generally useful in the house, and Lucy out of doors:—Facey strongly impressing upon Lucy that it was only an experiment which might or might not answer, but that, under no circumstances, could he have anything like riotous housekeeping—“sheep-chops” and batter-puddings being Facey's idea of luxurious living. It was also further arranged that Lucy might pass as his half-sister—sister by courtesy—assuming the name of Somerville, and passing as the widow of an Indian officer.

The present is undoubtedly the age for furthering Romfordian speculations, for dress has become so queer and eccentric, and all people are put so much upon a par by the levelling influence of the rail, that a versatile man may pass for almost anybody he likes—a duke, a count, a viscount. Mr Romford, however, was so satisfied with the distinguished name of Romford, that he had no desire to be taken for anyone else; indeed, he thought Romford was just about as good a name as a man could have. If people chose to confound him with his namesake, the other Mr Romford, it was no business of his. So, discarding the detested name of Gilroy on leaving the “West-end Swell” at Minshull Vernon, he directed his packages, “Francis Romford, Esquire,” only; but then he added, “At the Lord Viscount Lovetin's, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire,” which made them very commanding, and procured him great attention. They were not numerous, neither were Lucy's, but things are so procurable all the world over, that there is no occasion to travel about with any great stock. Moreover, Lucy—we beg pardon, Mrs Somerville—on whom of course devolved the burthen of display, meant to work the Turbot-onits-tail seal upon the London milliners as soon as she got established at Beldon Hall.

Being now aware of the importance of first impressions, Facey sent his own and his men's measures up to the celebrated Mr Tick, the tailor in Civil Row (whose aptitude for dressing sportsmen is so universally appreciated), in order that they might not appear in the disreputable-looking garments they had been accustomed to wear with the now discarded Heavyside hounds. And he also communicated fully with Mr Goodhearted Green, urging him to send down a supply of horses—good, bad, or indifferent—as quick as he could, adding, that if Goodheart came with them himself, he would put him up and find wear and tear for his teeth.

And all things being prepared for a start, and Facey having taken a parting glass with Toby Trotter overnight, rose with the sun the next morning, and left Minshull Vernon, with hounds, horses, servants, Lucy, and all, much to the regret of Mrs Lockwood, the genial landlady of the “West-end Swell.”

The unwonted freight commanded great attention on the line. The various station-masters presented themselves respectfully at the carriage-door; the curious of each place peered in at the window; and the bustling guard, as he hurried along the platforms, kept replying “Mr Romford—Mr Romford,” to the numerous inquiries “Who it was?” So our travellers passed from line to line till they got to the Cross-street station at Howland Hill, where they ought to have changed carriages, but here a director happening to be on the platform, and hearing who it was, came forward, bowing and scraping, and begging that Mr Romford and the lady would not think of disturbing themselves, for the carriage they were in should go on to their utmost destination. Thus they proceeded, with great dignity and ease, laughing at the fools who thus worshipped them.

At length, after a long pace-slackening glide, the train stopped before a sort of Swiss cottage, and a large black and white board in the centre announced “Firfield Station.” The porters then began running along the line of carriages, exclaiming, “Field!—Field!—Fifield Station! Change here for Shenstone, Comb, and Danby! Change here for Shenston, Comb, and Danby!

Mr Romford having let the train fairly subside, then lowered his window, and called authoritatively to the head-porter to open the door. The mandate being quickly obeyed, our Master descended, with becoming caution and dignity, and then proceeded to hand out Lucy, the eyes and necks of the remaining passengers being strained to get a sight of the lady. “Very pretty,” the men said she was. “Middling,” said the ladies. With a clank of the coupling chains, off went the last joints of the tail containing Mr Romford's cargo; the hounds raised a melodious cry, and the now lightened engine presently snorted, and then shot away with the rest of the train.

“Tickets!—Tickets, if you please,” was then the order of the day; and tickets Mr Romford delivered up,—tickets for himself and Mrs Somerville,—tickets for Swig and Chowey,—also for Bob Short, who had replied to Facey's advertisement for a “strong persevering man, to clean horses,”—and voluminous documents for the hounds and stud. The “strong persevering man” being a teetotaller, Facey now put Swig and Chowey under his charge, while he escorted his sister—Mrs Somerville—to her destination.

It must be a poor spiritless place that does not sport a “bus;” and though none of the three old grey-roofed villages—or “toons,” as the natives called them—viz., Necton, Lingford, or Heatherey Clough, were important enough to keep one themselves, yet, by clubbing together, they not only had a bus, but also a nondescript vehicle and pair that might be engaged by those who objected to making the triangular tour of the “toons” by the bus. Both vehicles belonged to the same man, one Peter Cross, of all three places, Peter being a publican at one, a provision-merchant at another, and paper-hanger at a third. Peter and his man, Jimmy Jones, or Independent Jimmy as he was generally called, drove the bus and the “chay” by turns; and on the day of the great Mr Romford's arrival, Peter had the bus, and Jimmy the “chay.” Peter, who did the politeness—an article that Jimmy was rather deficient in—seeing who they had got to convey, strongly recommended the “chay” to our friends, observing that they would get to Beldon Hall in half the time that they would by the bus; and Peter even yielded the
pas
to the “chay,” keeping all the bus passengers waiting while he helped Jimmy to load and shove Lucy into the queer little cock-boat of a carriage, all curtains, slides, and glides, that no one can ever work in a shower until he is wet through.

Having, however, little to do with our “Mathews-at-Home” of a master, we will proceed to introduce the man, who is a more important personage in our story. Independent Jimmy was well called Independent Jimmy, for he had a most independent way of his own: he did not seem to care a copper for any one. If a passenger tipped him, he took it; if he didn't tip him, he was equally civil without: he did not seem to care which way it was. Sometimes he sported a coat, and sometimes he didn't; and the more likely the weather was for wearing one, the more unlikely Jimmy was to have it on. He never said Sir, or Ma'am, or Miss, or used any of the circumlocutory forms of address, but just blurted out, “Noo then!” “Get oop!” “Get doon!” “Get in!” “Get oot!” and shoved his passengers about like so many sheep. He was a big, burly, strongly-built, blunt Northumbrian, with the strength of a Sayers, and the digestion of an ostrich. A man might as well pound at a sack of beans as at Jimmy. His healthy cheek almost outvied the bloom of his blue-glass-buttoned scarlet plush vest. He would take a trunk away from a tottering footman, and chuck it into its place like a quoit. He had been all his life among horses, either as an ostler, a helper, a post-boy, a bus-man, or a cab-driver, vacillating about the country, changing from the “Rose and Crown” at Heckworth to the “Leopard” at Bucknel, and from the “Bunch of Grapes” at Haywood to the “Hat and Feathers” at Heatherey Clough. Thus he had a very general acquaintance, and could have written or dictated a capital guide-book, giving as well an account of all the inns and places of public entertainment, as of all the private houses, with their respective staff of servants, and the strength of each of their raps. Jimmy was free of them all,—of all at least that gave anything away. There was a sort of an independence in his very gait, for his right leg gave a free-andeasy shake, as if it did not care a copper for the other. But we will let him parade himself as he goes.

We are now at the back of the Firfield Station, with the luggage on, and Lucy in, what the wags called the melon-frame. The day being fine, and Facey, not at all the man to submit to the impurities of a shut cab, as he called a close carriage, now intimated, by a jerk of his head and a turn of his wrist, that Jimmy might shut the carriage-door, which being done, Facey and he mounted the box on alternate sides, and Jimmy having tendered Facey half his old drab frieze over-coat to sit upon, clutched the hard weather-bleached reins, and with a jog and jerk and a click of his tongue, moved the old leg-weary screws slowly away out of the whinstonecovered ring at the back of the Firfield Swiss cottage station. The grinding noise subsiding as they got upon the well-kept turnpike road beyond, the two old nags—a bay and a chestnut—having first laid their heads together as if in consultation, seemed to agree that a voluntary trot might save them a rib-roasting, so, with wonderful unanimity, they both began to potter along, while Facey sat contemplating their dreary, leg-weary action, and Jimmy sat wondering what Facey thought of them.

“Not a bad-shaped nag, that old white-legged chestnut?” at length observed Romford.

“Good un,—varry,” said Jimmy, giving the horse an approving rub in the ribs with the crop of his pig-driver-like whip.

“Where did you get him, now?” asked Romford. “Wor maister bought him—bought him of Hazey—second-hand Neddy, as ar call him,” said Jimmy.

“What Hazey—the man who keeps the Hard and Sharp hounds?” asked our hero.

“Keeps the hunds!” ejaculated Jimmy; “the hunds more like keep him, ar should say.”

“Well, but we mean the same man,” rejoined Facey. “Same man,” assented Jimmy; “same man. Arn't two such men i' the world.”

“Mean man, is he?” asked Romford.

“Mean man,” assented Jimmy; “man that would do out; quite a wonderful sort of man for meanness.”

“But he's rich, isn't he?” asked Romford.

“Rich, ay; rich enough. But what signifies his riches; does things that a beggar would be sham'd on. A but hear him buy a hus and sell a hus is quite a the
a
tre performance: a man wadint know that he was talkin' 'boot the same animal. Ar arlways says that nobody knows what doonright cliver lein (lying) really is who hasn't heard Hazey. A, he's a reglar imposition,” said Jimmy, with a shake of his head and a chuck of the coupling reins, as if to make his horses get away from the thoughts of him.

“You wouldn't give much for him, I 'spose,” observed Romford, holding Jimmy on to the line of scent notwithstanding.

“Moch, no!” replied Jimmy. “Why, he's abun twenty years ald, and been doon iver se mony times—doon with the butler, doon with the coachman, doon with the gardener, doon with ivirybody a'morst.”

“A fi'-pun-note, p'raps,” suggested Facey.

“Fi'-pun-note!” retorted Jimmy, ironically, adding, “No sink; we get twe sich as him for that money.”

“The duece you do!” observed Mr Romford, laughing.