Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (2 page)

Be that however as it may, Facey in early life had constituted himself heir to a maternal uncle, one Mr. Francis Gilroy, a farmer in the country, and a great cattle jobber in London. Gilroy was his godfather, and Facey was called Francis Gilroy Romford out of compliment to him. Now a cattle jobber is to the bovine world what the dealer is to the horsey world, and it requires an uncommonly cute, sagacious sort of chap to make a successful jobber. All this “Oncle Gilroy” was. He had a pair of little penetrating beady black eyes, set in a great red-faced chucklehead, that could almost look into an animal, see what sort of an interior it had, what sort of a thriver it was going to be, and tell what weight it was likely to get up to. He was a capital judge of stock, and had a fine discriminating genius that taught him the propriety of charging a gentleman customer a good deal more than a farmer. “Nothin' like changin' your stock often,” he used to say to the former, which, considering that Gilroy had a commission at both ends, to say nothing of very comfortable pickings in the way of luck pence, and market charges, &c., in the middle, was a very judicious recommendation. He was supposed to have choked more gentlemen off the cattle department of farming than any other salesman going. Indeed, so pleased were the graziers in one county with his performances in that line, that they presented him with a testimonial—a silver tankard. It did not make the noise these absurdities usually do, either from a lack of eloquence on the part of the chairman, or because

This eternal blazon must not be,

but came off very quietly.

“Francis Gilroy,” said the Chairman, producing a silver cup from his pocket after the market dinner, and stripping it of its pink tissue and whity-brown paper. “Francis Gilroy, there's the mug,” handing it to him.

“Gentlemen,” said Gilroy, taking it, “I thank you for the jug;” and so ended the ceremony. But they all knew what it meant. The inscription, “Gilroy, the Farmers' Friend,” told that.

Now Gilroy, who lived very economically in the country, was supposed to have accumulated a vast deal of money, and Facey Romford, who had been apprenticed or articled, or whatever they call it, to a civil engineer, thought there was no use in his toiling and slaving too; so he gave up the theodolite, intending to wait for his uncle's shoes, which Facey reckoned Gilroy would not be long in being done with. And having a decided turn for sporting in all its branches, he laid himself out for it by fair means and foul, doing a little poaching when he couldn't get it otherwise. And being a bit of a Vet, he generally had an old horse to cobble up, on which he used to scramble after the hounds, and sell when he would pass for sound. So he went on from year to year, living, as Gilroy said, “verra contagious to his farm,” now fluting to and flattering the old fellow that he would live for ever, now most devotedly wishing that he would, what he called, “hop the twig.” And the neighbouring farmers and people, seeing the terms they were on together, put up with a good deal more trespass and nonsense from Facey than they would otherwise have done. Thus Gilroy increased in years and corpulence, and Facey matured to a man, each trusting the other just as far as he thought right. Gilroy never said in as many words to Facey, “Francis, my dear fellow, all you see here and a great deal more will be yours,” but he always directed his letters F. Gilroy Romford, Esq., as if proud of the connection, encouraged him to look after his farm in his absence, to protect his Talavera wheat from Squire Gollarton's pheasants, and see that he got a fair day's work out of his women people at harvest and turnip time. And as there is perhaps no man so happy as an heir-apparent, Facey lived on in little village lodgings, beguiling his days with his rod and his gun, and his evenings with a tune on the flute, varied with mental calculations as to how much Gilroy was worth.

“There must be lots of money somewhere,” Facey used to say, as he sat smoking his cavendish in his diminutive sitting room; “there must be lots of money somewhere—bills, bonds, post obits, I O U's;” for Facey reckoned rightly, his uncle was too good a judge to put his money out to ordinary interest. “Shouldn't wonder if there was twenty thousand pund,” he used to say confidentially to himself. “Fancy me with twenty thousand pund, boy jingo!”

Nay, he has been known, under the influence of his third glass of gin, to get it up as high as thirty thousand, on which occasions his imaginings were very magnificent. He would have the best kennel of pointers and setters in the kingdom, and, like Mr Sawyer, would go to the Shires with such a stud of hunters as never were seen. Money! Money would be no object to him! He'd give anything for a good horse! Hope deferred never made the Romford heart sick; on the contrary, he rose with the occasion, flattering himself that the cash was only accumulating.
²

One dull winter afternoon, on which day had scarcely gained its supremacy over night, as Facey Romford was taking a stroll with his dog and gun round his absent uncle's farm,—the dog down in the dell on Squire Gollarton's side, Facey all right for a shot either way,—what should he see but the unwonted apparition of a dark luggage-laden vehicle crawling leisurely up the rutty lane leading to the house. Facey stood transfixed, like a pointer to its game, regardless of Juno's feathering below.

“Who have we here?” muttered he, stopping and grounding his gun on his navvy-shod foot. The dingy looking vehicle went crawling on as before.

“No go, there,” continued Facey, as the driver now stopped and descended from his box to open the last gate, which having propped back with a bit of stick that he found lying on the ground, he re-mounted and drove up to the door with as much dash as he could raise. Facey stood looking, and calculating how long it would be ere the white horse's head reappeared at the end of the variegated holly hedge, that protected the Gilroy hereditaments from the cutting east wind. Then he wondered whether the fellow would have the sense to shut the gate, or would just leave it open as it was.

“Dash it, I shouldn't wonder if he was to leave it as it is,” said Facey watching; “these town fellows have no idea of cattle trespass, or anything of that sort, and think gates are just put to divide people's properties, or for larking foxhunters to leap over.” So Facey looked and looked, keeping one eye on the gate and the other on the old red cow, who knew just as well as a Christian when there was the chance of a dash at the great Scotch cabbages at the back of the garden. Still no horse's head, no vehicle appeared. “Devilish odd,” said Romford, staring; must be me Oncle Gilroy with a friend. Someone praps come down to see some stock. But it's never like him to hire a fly with his own gig mare only doing half day's works. Hope his friend pays for it. Never do to have him wasting the inheritance in that way. Must go and see,” continued Facey. Whistling up Juno, and shouldering his Joe Manton, he went striding away, closely followed by Juno, looking somewhat disconcerted at being done out of her fun. Facey was a capital hand across country, whether on foot or on horseback, and soon put the intervening fields between him and the house behind him. His heart beat quicker as he advanced, for he felt there was something unusual in the sight. He had never seen a shut cab at his uncle's before. It couldn't be that the long expected event had happened. Hardly, he thought. What was all the luggage for? However, he would soon see. On he went for the purpose. Kicking the little prop out from under the gate, so as to let it close on the swing, he hurried round the corner, and soon had the familiar house full before him. The fly was gone, gone to the stables behind. Couldn't be Oncle Gilroy, he wouldn't stand that, Facey knew. No fly-horses baited there; Red Lion was the place. Hark! sounds of mirth proceed from the parlour, children's voices screaming and shouting, Barley me this, Barley me that. “Oh, what a drum this will make!” exclaimed another, thumping away at Uncle Gilroy's hard hat.

“Who the deuce have we here?” muttered Facey, now lost in astonishment. Pushing through the partially opened sash door, he traversed the passage, and presently stood in the widely opened portals of the parlour. A great coarse-looking woman in deep mourning was arranging her crape bonnet in the diminutive mirror above the little imitation marble mantel-piece just opposite the door, while a perfect sliding scale of children, all clad in black too, were romping and rioting about in a way quite inconsistent with grief,—one had the Gilroy testimonial in its hand. The lady started as she saw Romford in the glass, and wheeling round turned a very brandified face, surmounted by a most palpable flaxen front, full upon him.

“Who are you?” ejaculated Facey, eyeing her intently.

“And who are you?” demanded she, putting her arms a-kimbo, and staring him full in the face.

She was a great masculine knock-me-down woman, apparently about five-and-forty, red faced, grey eyed, with a strongish shading of moustache on her upper lip. Facey trembled as he looked at her. He got the creeps all over.

“Me Oncle Gilroy's not at home,” at length ejaculated Facey.

“Hut, you and your uncle Gilroy! D'ye s'pose I don't know that?” exclaimed she, with a horse laugh.

“Well, but who are you?” demanded Facey, bristling up.

“Who am I!” retorted she. “Who am I! I'm the mistress of this 'ere 'ouse,” replied she; “and this is the young Squire,” patting a boy on the head, so painfully like Gilroy as to be perfectly ridiculous—big bristly head, beady black eyes, capacious mouth, and lop ears.

The truth flashed upon Facey with terrible velocity. His uncle was dead, and had deceived him. Frightful idea! Facey quivered all over. His knock knees smote each other. It was but too true. Gilroy, instead of retiring to the Royal Oak, or the King and Queen on Paddington Green, there to enjoy a quiet frugal glass before turning in to his seven-shillingsa-week lodgings, as he always represented to Facey and his friends, had a regular establishment in the sylvan retirement of Lisson Grove, St. John's Wood, where he had reared the covey of little Gilroys who now disported themselves profusely over his parlour. Gilroy was dead.

While Facey stood as it were transfixed, the lady had dived into her pocket and fished up a document that Facey saw at a glance was the will. “There!” exclaimed she, flourishing it open, so as to display the well-known Gilroy signature, “there's the writin's. Now have you got anything for to say?” demanded she. Facey was mute.

“I've heard of you, you nasty sneakin' mean-spirited wretch,” continued she, “thinkin' to rob me and mine of their dues. I've eat your cock fizzants and your 'ares, you nasty warmint, and laughed at your folly for sendin' them;” and thereupon she set up a chuckle that shot through Facey's every nerve. A waft of the will would almost have been enough to knock him down.

Just then old Mother Meggison, the housekeeper, who had already attorned to the new
régime
, came hurrying in with a red-hot poker to light the fire, and Facey gladly availed himself of the opportunity to beat a last retreat. He rushed frantically through the familiar fold yard, nearly upsetting the fly-man, who was crossing with a pail of water for his horse, then struck down the deep lane past the Lizzards, swung through Woodgate Marsh, and on to Ballishaw Barn, bottling up his grief until he got home. Arrived at his little lodgings at Dame Trotter's, he rushed upstairs, disregarding the liver and bacon he heard hissing for dinner, and entering his little partitioned-off room, threw himself on the stump bed, and groaned loud and audibly.

“Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me! Oh, dear, what shall I do!” Just as if he had got the stomach-ache. Then clasping his right knee with both hands, as he lay on his back, he held his leg up towards the ceiling, and apostrophised himself as follows:—“Oh, Francis Gilroy Romford, moy beloved friend, you are reglarly floored—done brown! That wretched old Oncle has sold you! Oh, Francis Gilroy Romford, discard the detested name of Gilroy, and be for ever after Romford only. Oh, Francis Romford, Francis Romford, what are you now to do—what are you now to do? Here for years have you been feasting and serving that vicious old man, sending him fish, sending him game, looking after his farm, nearly breaking your wind by playing the flute to him, and now—Oh, heavens, that it should ever have come to this!” and thereupon relinquishing the leg, he buried his face in his hands. Just then Dame Trotter, who had heard his groans and his moans, came hurrying in with her never-failing specific, a glass of hot gin and bitters, which Facey bid her set down on the drawers and retire. Then finding he was overheard, he moderated the expressions of his grief, well knowing that very little clamour would raise a troublesome body of creditors about him. Taking the gin and bitters, therefore, into his sitting-room, he halloaed down-stairs to Mrs Trotter to give his dogs their dinners, adding that he didn't want any himself; and drawing his wooden-bottomed semicircular chair to the fire, with a foot on each hob, and a pipe of tobacco, he quietly contemplated his condition. It was very bad; there was no denying that. Gilroy had been too many for him. He now understood why he so often had cattle left from one market-day to another, and which he must needs stay in town to look after. The woman in black explained all that.

Wicked old man, where could he expect to go? Would surely get quilted below. It was not only the money Facey had lost,—the thousands and tens of thousands,—but all the fine chances of preferment he had thrown away on the strength of being Gilroy's heir. He might have married Susan Burtree, who was reputed to have five thousand pounds,—three certainly,—with great expectations from an aunt. Miss Cropsey, now Mrs Jimmy Dobson, would have been delighted to have had him; and the rich widow Sago had set her cap at him, only she, as Facey said, was past mark of mouth. In the hey-day of heirship he was rather particular and difficult to please. Moreover he was a prudent Facey, and would never make up to a girl until he knew exactly what she had, because—as he used to explain to the mammas,—his Oncle Gilroy would be sure to disinherit him if he made an improvident match. So he never laid himself open to an action, or the charge of having used a girl infamously. He now felt he had built too much on Oncle Gilroy, and too little on himself. If he was not altogether handsome, he was of goodly stature—six feet high—and there was something about him, he said, that the girls couldn't resist. But perhaps the reader would rather have his portrait drawn by a more impartial hand than his own. Well, then, at the time the aforesaid calamity befell him, he was just turned of thirty-one, tall and muscular, with a broad expansive chest, heavy round shoulders, and rather knock knees. His large backward-growing-all-round-the-chin-gingery-whiskered face was lit up with a pair of little roving red-lidded pig eyes, that were constantly on the watch,—sideways, lengthways, cornerways, all ways save frontways. He looked as if he was always premeditating a parable, but somehow never produced it. Not that he was a fool—far from it, as those who had had anything to do with him in the betting or horse-dealing lines could testify; but he looked like a satirist who could cut a man in two with a sarcasm, only, like a generous giant, he refrained from doing so. In short, a sort of you'd-better-leave-me-alone-looking man.