Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (20 page)

At the time of our story, Proudlock had been a year and a half at Beldon Hall, during which time he had ascertained the exact length of Mr Lonnergan's foot, as well as the ways and means of all the surrounding country. Lonnergan was fond of woodcocks, and Proudlock was too happy to supply them. Mrs Lonnergan liked hare-soup, and Proudlock knew how to snare them on someone else's property. Though often caught, he was always ready with an excuse, how he had followed that scoundrel, Jack Mason, off their manor on to the preserve he was found upon, or was lying
perdu
to see who came to take up the trapped pheasant on the other side of the hedge. Altogether, though he was much disliked and strongly suspected, yet no one cared to tackle with a nobleman's servant, especially one notoriously supported by the deputy nobleman, “Lord” Lonnergan, as the agent was called. So Proudlock strutted, and swaggered, and vapoured, and bullied, always presuming on his great size and proportions, and, though often threatening, never coming into actual collision with anyone. Independent Jimmy, indeed, was the only man in the country who had ever stood fairly up to him; but the generous giant said he refrained from touching him on the score of inequality of size, and that people would accuse him of having crushed a worm. Jimmy, however, who was very handy with his fists, hearing of this, then addressed him through the usual medium of communication,—viz., the pugilistic column in “Bell's Life in London,”—stating that Independent Jimmy was ready to fight the Big Bully of Beldon Hall for three pounds a side, in a roped ring, at the back of the Firfield station, any day between the coming of the 9 a.m. train, and the going of the south mail; but Proudlock did not take any notice of this either, merely observing in general company that a nobleman's servant could not demean himself by fighting with a 'bus-man.

Such, then, was the genius who encountered Mr Romford on his visit of inspection of the Beldon Hall stables; and, as next to a bit of pink, a bit of velveteen came nearest home to the heart of our hero, he returned the keeper's semi-military salute with a “How are you?” and a wave of his right hand, as though he had known him before.

Thus emboldened, Proudlock made him a bow, observing that he was glad to see Mr Romford amongst them, and hoped he would have good sport.

“Thank'ee,” said Romford—“thank'ee;” adding, “that depends a good deal upon gentlemen of your cloth, however. I know you are a good feller, and will do all in your power to promote it.”

“
Certainly
,” replied Proudlock, with an emphasis—“certainly,” repeated he, as though he had never shot a fox in his life, or turned down a bagman either.

“Not at all great fox-preservers down here, I believe,” observed Mr Romford, pretending to know a good deal more than he really did.

“Well (hum), there are (hum) scaly people in all countries,” observed Mr Proudlock; “but upon the whole, I should (hum) say they are (haw) as good here as elsewhere.”

Proudlock's preservation depended altogether upon the payment of his fees, for which he sent in his bill at the end of the season, as regular as a boot or shoe maker,—so much for a litter, so much for a find, so much for stopping or “stoping” as he spelt it.

But, though Mr Romford asked about foxes, he was quite as anxious to know about pheasants,—who was tenacious, who was extra fierce, who took it easy, and who might be poached upon with impunity. So, in the course of a running dissertation on racks and mangers, boxes and stalls, Mr Romford managed to blend a very useful inquiry into the particulars of the country generally, keeping foxes apparently to the fore, but at the same time casting about for general information.

Having criticised the stables, with their appurtenances, and pronounced them extremely good, our friend and his cicerone now found themselves before the spacious coach-houses on the left-hand side of the building, a few paces in front of which Mr Romford stationed himself, as if to stare them out of countenance: the idea floating uppermost in his mind at the moment being, that they would make very capital kennels; and a further investigation and division of the whole into four satisfied him on that point. And, having got on so well with Proudlock, he saw no reason why he should not take his opinion on that point.

“I say,” observed he, looking him steadily in the face—“I say, don't you think these coach-houses might very easily be converted into kennels?”

Proudlook drew breath and bit his thick lip, for he well knew that if there was one thing his noble master, Lord Lovetin, was more particular about than another, it was having the Hall and offices kept in perfect apple-pie order; not that his lordship cared about seeing them, but he liked to know that they were so, and that he could occupy them at a moment's notice whenever he chose to return to England. It was that feeling that prevented his letting Mrs Emmerson have the cut-pile carpet. He was afraid she would wear it down below the orthodox standard of other things, and so derange the grand order of uniformity. It
had
been down some time.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Facey, seeing Proudlock rather craned at the question.

“Oh, it could be altered easy enough,” replied the man of powder and shot. “The only question in my mind was, whether his lordship—that is to say, Mr Lonnergan—might like it or not.”

“And who's Mr Lonnergan?” demanded Facey, it being the first mention he had heard of the name.

“Oh, Mr Lonnergan,” replied the keeper, in the deferential tone, due to a man in authority—“Oh, Mr Lonnergan, you know, is my lord's representative here,—he and his son, Mr Lovetin Lonnergan, at least; and we never do anything without consulting one or other of them.”

The fact was, Lonnergan had been the last lord's agent, and had hardly been able to realise the fact that he (Lonnergan) was not the real owner of the property, and the present Lord Viscount an intruder.

“And where do they live?” asked Mr Romford.

“At Flush House, near Bury St. Bees, about nine miles from here,” replied the retired giant, pointing in the direction in which it lay.

“Well, then, I'll tell you what; you go over there, with my compliments, in the morning, and say that, as I've taken the place, I s'pose there'll be no objection to my makin' a few little temporary alterations, which I'll restore before I leave.”

“Yes-'ir,” said Proudlock, adding, “shall I say what they are, sir?”

“Well, no,” replied Romford. “No; you see I can't 'zactly know myself; but just say, generally, triflin' alterations—triflin' alterations.”

“Just so,” replied Mr Proudlock, who now saw the give-an inch-takean-ell principle upon which the inquiry had to proceed. And, after a few more inquiries and inspirations, the friends separated, each with a high opinion of the other.

It was a wise step on the part of friend Romford sending Proudlock over to Flush House, for it conciliated Mr Lonnergan, and procured an answer from that promising youth, commonly called the Honourable Lovetin Lonnergan, whose father was away, that very materially assisted Mr Romford's further proceedings, namely, that Mr Lonnergan had no instructions from Lord Lovetin on the subject, but that as a friend of the family, “one of them,” as he familiarly said, Lovetin Lonnergan had no doubt Mr Romford might do as he liked. And, of course, the first thing he liked was to convert the aforesaid coach-houses into kennels, which he did in the most liberal way, by not only employing Lord Lovetin's joiners, but making the estate supply him with the necessary material, Facey observing that it would be none the worse for his work after it was done. So, having made himself two capital lodging-rooms with airing-yards in front, he set up his boiler behind, and converted the harness-room into a feeding-house.

And here for a word on the Lonnergans.

Lord Lonnergan was one of a now nearly bygone generation, whose antiquity is proclaimed by their dress. He wore a large puffy shirt-frill and a puddingey white tie with flowing ends, a step collared buff vest, and a blue coat with bright buttons. He had long adhered to tights and Hessians, and it was only when he found himself left alone in his glory that he put his fat legs into trousers. He was a porcupine-headed little man, who tied his cravat so tight as to look as if he were going to throttle himself. He was a short, sallow, plethoric, wheezing, scanty-whiskered man, with eyes set very high up in his head, like garret windows; a long unmeaning-looking face, surmounted with a nose like a pear. His mouth was significant of nothing except an aptitude for eating. As we said before, he had a voluminous double-chin.

He drew his great warming-pan-like watch up from his fob with a massive kitchen-jack-like gold chain, to which was attached a bunch of seals, the largest and most striking whereof had been purchased with the surplus cash from a tea-service testimonial presented to Mrs Lonnergan by the tenants on Lord Lumbago's Lubberey estate in Easyshire, and contained around a plough the significant motto, “Rents should never Rise.” And rents certainly never did rise with Lonnergan, for he would always rather excite the landlords to compassion, than urge the tenants to activity still he had some capital forms of agreement to the fulfilment of which he never attended. Of course he did not use the “rent should never rise” seal when he wrote to any of his employers, but another butterpat-like production with his initials “J.L.,” John Lonnergan, cut in the open-hearted, undisguised capitals of the old engravers. No writhing hieroglyphics for him.

He had lived in good times, when gentlemen were gentlemen, and trusted their land agents implicitly, never troubling themselves with farming or interfering with their tenants' occupations in any shape or way, taking everything for granted, including both facts and figures. Still Lonnergan was a noted old screw in his own affairs, never missing a chance anywhere, and always on the watch for discount. He was too good a judge to receive tenant-farmer testimonials himself; but Mrs Lonnergan was open to the reception of any number—vases, inkstands, butter-coolers, fruit-stands, &c. A guest leaving his house one dark night mistook his lordship for the servant in the passage, and gave him a shilling, saying, “There, there's a shilling for you, and mind your master doesn't get hold of it.”

Lord Lonnergan did not encourage his son, Lovetin Lonnergan (so called, of course, after the last lord, who was his godfather), in anything like show or extravagance, but endeavoured to hold him on steadily in his own line, and make his father's large accumulations still more. “Stick to the shop, and the shop will stick to you.” “Take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves.” “When has a man got enough money, Lovetin?” “When he has got a little more than he has,” were aphorisms of almost daily inculcation by old Lonnergan; but, somehow, Lovetin Lonnergan did not like the doctrine, and longed for a little more freedom and independence.

Not that Lovetin was extravagant; on the contrary, he neither shot, nor coursed, nor hunted, but he would like to ride about in a chaise. Riding about in a chaise was, he thought, the summit of all earthly happiness. He always looked upon Independent Jimmy's friend, lolling along in his carriage, as the happiest of human beings, and longed to emulate him.

Lovetin Lonnergan, “the Honourable,” as he was called, was the exact counterpart of his father, making allowance of course for the difference of dress and the disparity of years. The same long, lugubrious, scanty-whiskered, sallow face, with the garret-window eyes, the same incipient pear nose, and the same absence of expression about the mouth.

In lieu of the warming-pan with the jack-chain and the butterpat-like appurtenances, he had a smart Albert chain attached to a small Geneva watch; and instead of excommunicating his chin with his tie as his excellent father did, he gave its looming proportions ample latitude over the turn-down collar and diminutive neck-string of the day.

Lovetin Lonnergin was now just turned of five-and-twenty, and had plenty of young ladies after him, plenty of mammas sounding his praises, but Lord Lonnergan was difficult to please, always asserting that it was utterly impossible for his son Lovetin to marry other than “a lady of fortin.” Lovetin was proud of his father's wealth, and fond of expatiating upon its amount, not unfrequently winding up his discourses with a shake of the head and the filial ejaculation of “Ah, now,
if father would but die!
”

This youth, becoming a semi-hero in our story, we have introduced him more at large than we should otherwise have done. Let us now go into Beldon Hall, and see about something to eat.

P
ART OF
L
UCY
'
S
—
WE BEG
pardon again—Mrs Somerville's luggage consisted of the remains of her larder at the “West-end Swell,” viz., half a loaf of brown bread, three-quarters of a loaf of white, a pound and a half of pork chops, a slice of leathery cheese, a nip of tea, and some fivepenny sugar, Lucy observing that it was of no use leaving anything behind her. And, indeed, it was lucky she brought something, for an inspection of the Beldon Hall larder would lead to the supposition that the Dirties lived entirely upon air. There was not even the wretched bare shoulder-blade that generally seems to act the part of scarecrow in the most destitute of houses. Two eggs and a bunch of thyme was all the provender the larders of the proud Hall produced.

Still there never was a place yet where drink was not to be had, and Facey having now returned to the Hall, and found Lucy making herself quite at home in the breakfast-room, produced a half-crown piece, and told her to send somebody out for a quart of ale, and the rest of the money in gin, so that they might have their dinners as soon as possible, for Facey always dined when he was hungry without waiting for any specific hour of the day. And while Dirty No.1 was busy cooking the pork chops, and Dirtiest of the Dirty was laying the cloth, Lucy lionised our master over the magnificent mansion, taking much the same line as old Dirty had done. Friend Facey was greatly impressed with the magnitude of his venture, and almost doubted whether he was equal to the occasion. He wished that he mightn't have put his foot in it. A house, he said, was a consuming animal, and people would think he was deuced rich, living in such a large one. He must be prudent and circumspect.