Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (18 page)

“We just gav three-and-thorty shillin' for him,” continued Jimmy, unburthening his mind without further circumlocution. “Ald Hazey wanted twe pund, but wor ald maister's just as keen and as hard bitten as he is, and began by bidding him thorty shillin', and efter 'boot six weeks' hard barginin', he got him for three-and-thorty.”

“Cheap enough,” said Mr Romford, eyeing his honest pulling.

“Why, he's not iv'rybody's money, you see,” replied Jimmy. “He's o'er leet for the 'bus, or o'er wake for the ploo, and if he couldn't carry the lad wi' the letters, what could Hazey de wi' im? Sink ar think he did varry weal to get three-and-thorty shillin' for him,” continued Jimmy, rubbing the old horse again on the ribs with the crop of his whip to coax him along.

The fall of the road favouring a trot, Jimmy then bowled along for some half-mile in silence. Mr Romford at length broke it.

“Who have we here?” now asked he, as a spacious stone mansion with a couple of crest-decorated gates and lodges suddenly loomed upon them.

“Oh, this be Lees—Dalbury Lees. Willy Watkins—Squire Watkins lives there,” replied Independent Jimmy, with a twirl of his whip and a chuck of his chin, as if he did not think much of him.

“Does he hunt?” asked Romford.

“Hont! no—shut noither,” replied Jimmy.

“What does he do, then?” asked Facey.

“Nout. Brush his hair mainly ar should say,” replied Jimmy.

“He whiles put on a red coat, but it's only for show, ar should say.

“Sink,” said he, half to himself and half to Romford, “but I de think they are the biggest feuls in arl the country. Leuk, noo” said he, “at them there lodges with the red and gould lion crests and grand fancy gates, just as if they belanged to a duke. Arm dashed but that chap was a painter and glazier, or somethin' of that sort only t'other day,” continued he, flanking the bay, as if to get past the obnoxious gates as fast as he could.

“Painter and glazier,” repeated Mr Romford, “he must have had a good trade.”

“No, he hadn't,” replied Jimmy, “a varry bad un—at least he couldn't make nout on't, so he went to Horsetria, ye see, where they dig out the gould.”

“Australia, p'raps,” submitted Mr Romford, whose friend, Soapey Sponge, was now there.

“Ay, Horsetrilia—that's the varry name of the place,” replied Jimmy—“Horsetrilia. Well, there he dug a mint o' money, and came home with a grand set-up wife and sich a conceited darter, ar don't think ar ever seed sich a sarcy pair, and took this place of old Squire Dobbindale, puttin' oop these grand crests at the gates and gatherin' all the lazy scamps o' sarvants i' the coountry. They'll take anything that they say has lived with a lord. As to the darter,” continued Jimmy, reverting to her, “she's just the impittantest, sarciest gal i' the world, arlways tossin' aboot and givin' gob. Noo, there's the Ladies Rosebud, Lord Flowerdew's darters, when ar gans to the Castle, for any body there, they speak quite civil and plizant; ‘Good morning, Jimmy.' ‘How do ye do, Jimmy? hoo are all the little Jimmys?' (for ar ha' thorteen on 'em,” added Jimmy, parenthetically) “and so on, while this sarcy thing taks had of her stickin'-out claes, and cries, ‘Now, man! get out of the way, man; see, man! look, man! mind, man!' just as if I were a twoad. Sink, I'd skelp her ivry other day gin she were mine;” and thereupon Jimmy gave Hazey's horse some scientific cuts, just as if he were dealing them out to Miss Watkins.

“Sink, but ar often wonders,” continued Jimmy, now looking down at his lack-lustre shoes, now up at the firmament; “sink, but ar often wonders who those sort o' fondies think they impose upon. It can't be the likes o' me,” continued he, “for we know all about them; it can't be the gentlefolks, for they'll ha' nout to say te them. It mun just be their arn silly sels,” at length added he, solving the problem as he proceeded.

They then passed on within sight of several other country houses, of more or less pretensions, of all of whose inmates Jimmy discoursed in terms of easy familiarity, d——g one, praising another, scouting a third. It is always well for county gentlemen to keep in with the drivers of public vehicles past their places. Being abused—say twice a day—every day of the year comes to a good deal of abuse in the course of a twelvemonth. To-day, for instance, Mr Romford made the acquaintance of the most distinguished characters in our story, all through a chance journey with Independent Jimmy.

And Jimmy had his favourites as well as his foes.

“Noo this be a genleman comin',” said he, as a sporting-like man in leather leggings and a shooting-jacket came tit-tup-ing along on his pony; “though he has neither powdered footmen nor piebald gates, Storlin [Sterling]—Stanley Storlin of Rosemount.”

“How are you, Jimmy?” nodded the Squire, as he now came up.

“How are you?” nodded Jimmy, as he passed along.

“Sink, now, if that had been Hazey, or Willey, or any o' them like chaps, they'd ha taken ne mair notice on me than if ard been a coo,” observed Jimmy, giving Hazey's old horse another refresher, adding,—“Arm dashed, but ard like to hev the lickin' o' some o' them chaps,” flourishing his whip as if he would give them it well.

A
SUDDEN TURN OF THE
road to the right now brought our travellers in full sight of a noble-looking mansion, standing open, but not exposed, in a rich, well-wooded park, sloping gently down to a broad, shining river, whose sparkling reaches ran parallel with the road along which they were passing. It was, indeed, a beautiful scene: beautiful even in the sterility of winter, lovely in the rich leafy honours of a glowing luxuriant summer.

“That be your shop, now,” said Independent Jimmy, nodding his head, and pointing towards the commanding edifice with his clumsy whip, adding, as he stared at it: “sink, but it's lang sin' ar seed them chimlies smokin' i' that way.”

Facey sat in mute astonishment, contemplating its vast proportions, which still kept increasing as they proceeded,—now the stables and the gardens, now the dairy, now the dove-cote, appearing panorama-like, as they proceeded. He had, indeed, got a large house—a very large house; but there was no occasion to occupy it all.

They now arrived at the massive Gothic lodges, slightly disfigured by the appearance of sundry clay pipes, gingerbread horses, and glasses of lollypops in the windows, all of which would have been removed, as they always were for Mr Lonnergan's periodical visits, had Mr Romford come a little later. As it was, our friends took the natives rather by surprise, the young lady who at length came to open the gates making her appearance with one red stocking on and the other off, beside being otherwise
en déshabille
.

“
Jip!
” cried Jimmy, as she at length got the iron gates open: and, passing through, he took the old horses by the heads, and began to bustle and prepare them for the circuitous ascent of the hill to the house. “Sink, ar I mind when there wasn't sic a thing as a weed to be seen on this road,” observed Jimmy, now contemplating its grass-grown dimensions. “That was in the ould lord's time,” added he; “not much weedin' done here now.”

Lucy, meanwhile, having been aroused by the stoppage at the gates, opened a melon-frame window, and proceeded to reconnoitre the place as successive winds of the road presented the grand house in a variety of views, south, east, and west. She was very much pleased with all she saw, and felt quite equal to the occasion. Not so friend Romford, who dreaded the expense of a large place. “A house is a consuming animal,” he always said. He liked the simplicity of the Dog and Partridge Inn, and the easy independence of the “West-end Swell.” However, he was in for it, and must brazen it out. He wasn't easily cowed.

The ascent being at length gained, a good piece of trotting ground presently brought the travellers up with a swing under the wood-paved portico of the front-door. They were now at battlemented Beldon Hall, with its deep bay windows divided by stone mullions and transoms, and other baronial evidences of strength. Independent Jimmy, having chucked the reins on the horses' backs, in apparently well-founded confidence that they wouldn't run away, then “got doon,” and proceeded to arouse the long-dormant house with a pull at the conspicuous brass-handled bell knob. It pealed as if it would never cease, and echo seemingly took pleasure to repeat the sound. It was long since echo had had any such recreation.

Before the noise ceased, one side of the folding-doors opened, disclosing the tawdry person of the before-mentioned Mrs Mustard, now struggling hard to open the other side, so as to let the great man enter in proper form. Mrs Mustard was rather surprised to see a lady in the vehicle, instead of only a gentleman, as she expected.

“All right!” said Romford, seeing her looks. “All right It's only my sister.”

So saying, Facey handed Lucy out of the carriage, and bid her go into the house and fend for herself.

“I'm sorry I didn't know the lady was coming,” observed Mrs Mustard, dropping a curtsy as she smoothed down her faded brown silk gown; “or I would have had the drawing-room ready.”

“Oh, hang the drawing-room,” replied Facey. “Do very well without it—do very well without it.”

“But his lordship would have wished you to find everything comfortable and proper,” replied Mrs Mustard.

“Oh, proper enough,” replied Facey, taking out the cloaks. “Proper enough. I'll tell you what to do. You get her a bedroom as near yours as yon can; for she hasn't brought her maid, and, moreover, is afraid of bogies and such-like things,” adding, “her moother's coomin' to-morrow.”

“Certainly,” replied Mrs Mustard. “Certainly—she can have the pink room, next door to mine, if you like.”

“That'll do,” said Romford. “That'll do. Now about the luggage. Chuck down the traps,” continued he, addressing himself to Jimmy.

These were soon on the ground—gun-case, fishing-rod, landing-net, and all. Jimmy, again clutching the reins, reascended the throne, and drove off without any dallying, or loitering, or inquiring—railway-porter-like—if Facey had got this or that, in order to draw out the reluctant shilling. As Jimmy returned he met Squire Sterling again, who hailed him to stop.

“Who had you in your melon-frame just now?” asked he.

“Oh, it was Mr What's-his-name, the new maister,” replied Jimmy.

“The deuce it was!” exclaimed Mr Sterling, wishing he had taken a better look. “Well, what sort of a chap is he?”

“Seems well enough,” replied Jimmy. “Not a man of much blandishment ar should say,” added he, driving on.

Mr Romford, having seen Jimmy off, then walked into the house as if it was his own. The spacious entrance-hall showed it was a capital place, replete with comfort and every modern luxury. Pictures, vases, statues, busts, all betokening wealth and taste. Some people would have felt rather abashed at getting into such a place under the influence of a spurious broad seal, but friend Facey didn't look at it in that light. A master of hounds was a great man, and his lordship evidently wished to treat him as such. So he took possession with an air of confident ownership.

Lucy had not been long in the place ere she had explored every hole and corner—from the skylights to the scullery, wash-house, knife-house, laundry, larder, and all; and had informed Mrs Mustard as much of her history as she wished to have promulgated—viz., that she was the widow of an Indian officer; and had come to stay with her brother, the new master of the hounds, until he was comfortably settled at Beldon Hall. And though Mrs Mustard thought they were very little alike, yet her own daughters, whom we shall presently introduce, were very little alike either; and she felt it was no business of hers to make any observations. So Mrs Somerville and she proceeded from apartment to apartment, the grandeur increasing as they progressed, until the whole culminated in the noble put-away drawing-room, with its gilded ceiling and brown-holland balloons containing the richly cut-glass chandeliers.

Lucy was fired with a noble ambition, and thought what a glorious sight it would be to see herself seated on an ottoman—feathered, flounced, with a broad-laced kerchief in her gloved hand, arrayed for the reception of company.

“Satin damask,” now observed Mrs Mustard, lifting up the corner of a cotton print chair-cover, and showing the shining substratum of pink, adding, “I'd have had the room ready if I'd known you'd been coming, mum.”

And a thought struck Lucy, that as she had come she might as well have it; so, after casting a longing eye at the lofty muslin'd mirrors, resting on their pure white marble slabs, she said—

“I s'pose it could be got ready, if wanted?”

“Certainly, mum, certainly,” replied Mrs Mustard, dropping a curtsy, wondering where all the fine-figure footmen were to come from if it was used.

And Lucy's ambition rose as she saw the opportunity of gratifying it. What a change from the cigar shop in Jermyn Street, Haymarket! and the “West-end Swell” at Minshull Vernon!

Mrs Mustard was one of the pauperised order of housekeepers, who veer between temporary places and turnpike gates. No one kept Mrs Mustard long. She was only a job; job nurse, job cook, job anything. The regular turnpike people were shy of employing her, she required so much watching; while road trustees would as soon have thrown the gates open altogether, as appointed Mrs Mustard to collect the money for them. Her great recommendation to Lord Lovetin's place was that she was to be had very cheap; and his poor lordship having been so dreadfully depressed by the repeated failures to let Beldon Hall, found it absolutely necessary to reduce the expenditure upon the place to the lowest sum possible. So the housekeeper's wages had gradually come down, and down, and down, under successive administrations, until they at length fell to Mrs Mustard's mark—six shillings a week, which, however, was a shilling a week more than she got for keeping the Grabley side bar on the Shaverdale road. To be sure, she was allowed “garden stuff,” which, by a liberal construction of the term, was held to include milk, fruit, and fresh-water fish. The ponds at Beldon Hall were well stocked. It was also said that she kept a pig on the sly in the pigeon-house. The great advantage of the place to her, however, was that it enabled her to harbour her three dashing daughters, Bridget, Agatha, and Ruth, when any of them came dribbling home from place, which one or other of them did every month, or oftener, their services being as little appreciated as those of their worthy mother. Mrs Mustard, now about fifty-five years of age, had been a beauty in her day, and her daughters, though exceedingly unlike each other, were handsome, showy, dressy girls, though, like their mother, so slovenly and slatternly when not
en grand costume
, as to have earned for themselves the
sobriquet
of the Dirties, Mrs Mustard herself being called Dirty No.1; Miss Bridget Mustard, Dirty No.2; Miss Agatha, Dirty No.3; while Ruth, the youngest and prettiest of the whole, and who has more to do with our story than her sisters, was designated Dirtiest of the Dirty.