Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (21 page)

he inwardly chanted. And having dined, he whiffed his pipe and sipped his gin, and at length retired to bed, full of caution and prudential considerations.

Morning, however, and the return of Proudlock from Flush House, with the satisfactory reply from Lovetin Lonnergan, that Mr Romford was to do as he liked, brought him confidence, and taking the Honourable at his word, he forthwith began to exercise his privilege in the most summary manner, for finding there was an excellent cellar of wine, he sent for Tom Hooper, the blacksmith, and bid him pick the lock, telling Dirty No.1, in Hooper's hearing, to be 'ticklarly careful in preserving the bottles in order that he might restore an equal quantity of wine when he left. As there was a large stock of champagne, which Facey said would not improve by keeping, Lucy and he indulged in it most freely, Facey acquiring, as he said, very gentlemanly ideas with the beverage. So much so, indeed, that after a pint, or perhaps three-quarters of a bottle, he did not feel so much out of his element at Beldon Hall as he did on his first coming. Lucy on her part took to grandeur quite naturally, and Dirty No.1, having supplied her as well with the “Beldon Hall” seal, as a good stock of coroneted paper (kept ready against Lord Lovetin's contemplated return, which he always said might take place any day,) she diffused her orders freely through the land. London, however, is the real place for unhesitating compliance with specious orders, and thither Mrs Somerville directed her chief attentions, patronising all the shops and establishments that she used to envy and covet, and look upon as utterly impossible, while living with Mr Sponge in Jermyn Street, Haymarket.

She reviewed her wardrobe, estimating its capabilities by her improved condition—sister of a master of foxhounds—mistress of a nobleman's mansion—and, finding it rather deficient, she wrote off to Madame D * * *, of B * * * Street, for sundry semi-mourning dresses, Paramatta twill, glacé silk, with flowers, black velvet with black satin, jet ornaments, and other articles, all of which came down with the usual alacrity of highsounding orders. One obsequious milliner indeed directed her bonnet-box to “The Honour Mrs Somerville,” an addition that caused Independent Jimmy to observe, as he handed it down from the bus to Dirtiest of the Dirty, “Sink, ar didn't ken yeer mistress had a handle tir her name.”

Handle, however, or no handle, things came down with the utmost despatch—wonderful alacrity—not only the outward and visible articles of dress, but the more delicate items of Edith night-dresses and under attire.

When the gentlemanly ideas were in, Facey did not so much grudge the orders, but with the evaporation of the champagne came prudent thoughts and fears for the future. Still, as Mrs Somerville ordered them all in her own name, he consoled himself with the reflection that he could not be made liable, and didn't know but it was just as well to have a handsome well-dressed woman about the house as a dowdy. He only hoped that none of the Heavyside Hunt, or any of his promiscuous acquaintance, would come and expose her—of that, however, he must take his chance, as he had chanced many a difficulty before.

And, in truth, she required refit, or rather, perhaps, an outfit, for, without going at all into the
minutiæ
of her wardrobe, it must be evident to every one that what did extremely well at the “West-end Swell” would be very insufficient for Beldon Hall. Nor, considering the precarious nature of her tenure, can she be much blamed for taking advantage of her opportunity.

thought Lucy, as she again applied the key to the drawer in the library table containing the coroneted note-paper with the talismanic words “Beldon Hall” in gilt characters on the top, in order that she might again test the liberality of the Londoners for shoes, scents, gloves, French cambrics, embroideries, cosmetics, and miscellaneous articles generally.

Mrs Glitters—now Mrs Sidney Benson, we should observe—arrived in due time, being as anxious for a run into the country as her daughter had been. When Independent Jimmy met her at the Firfield Station, in her large hoop and small stock of linen, he thought she was Mrs Somerville's lady's-maid, and told her “her missis was arl safe at the Harl.”

Facey was rather disappointed when he saw what he had imported, for Mrs Benson, being only accustomed to dress those who strutted upon the stage, not doing any “My name is Norval”-ing herself, had none of the easy self-possession that distinguished her elegant daughter. However, Facey consoled himself with the reflection that she would not be much seen, while her homely air and attire might enable him to get more work out of her than he might otherwise have done had she been fine. If she looked after the Dirties, and Lucy after the stables when he was away, the arrangement might answer and not be very onerous; but he dreaded the inflammation of his weekly bills, and, as he said, “was more afraid of the old lady's appetite than he was of her drinkite.” This latter requirement Lord Lovetin's cellar would supply, but the imperative butcher's bills would be his.

There being no plant or stock-in-trade belonging to the Larkspur Hunt for Mr Romford to take to, he had to make up an establishment as well and as quickly as he could. So soon, therefore, as he got a bargain struck with the Doubleimupshireites, he wrote to Goodhearted Green, detailing his present position and equine wants, urging Goodheart to supply the latter as quickly as he could, adding if he had not the exact ticket, to send as near as possible; and Romford concluded by saying that he would be glad to see Goodheart down at his new residence, Beldon Hall, in Doubleimupshire, where he would mount him and find wear and tear for his teeth for a week or ten days, whenever he liked. Goodheart's great bosom swelled with honest emotion, for he had recently sent away some most remarkable malefactors—horses that kicked, horses that struck, horses that flew at people like tigers, horses that nobody could shoe, horses that nobody could saddle when they were shod, horses that nobody could ride when they were shod and saddled—some very notorious savages, in fact, as Mr Rarey would say.

“Oh dear! oh dear!” exclaimed he, stamping his foot and smiting his forehead, as the concluding paragraph of Romford's letter touched him in the quick. “Oh dear! oh dear! If I had but got this last week, I could have fit him with such a stud as would have astonished the natives. There's Bounding Ben, to be sure,” continued Goodheart, thinking over what he had left. “There's Bounding Ben—he's hup to sixteen stun; but he's uncertain in his bounding, or he wouldn't be called Bounding Ben. Ah! if I 'ad but kept Pull-Devil-pull-Baker!—he'd ha' shone conspikiously brilliant. Neck-or-Nothing, too, would ha' bin a grand oss for Mr Romford. But it's no use cryin' over spilt milk,” continued Mr Green, tinkling his little yard bell to summon his head man, Aaron Peacock, to his presence.

That worthy now emerged from his hiding-place, and came shuffling up the yard with the usual groom-like, crab-like action. He was a little, weasely, ginnified-looking man, with scarcely a hair on his head, or an ounce of flesh on his bones, but keen, twinkling, little grey eyes, that penetrated a horse in an instant. He looked right into them, as it were. He seemed to dress up to the character of Peacock, being gay and gaudy in his costume, and very various: scarlet tie, Lincoln green vest, lilac shirt, baggy breeches that had once been white and tight, yellow leather leggings, with mother-of-pearl buttons.

Though he was not an original liar—could not lead the gallop himself, yet he was a capital coadjutor, and would swear to anything that Goodheart said; so, what between Goodheart's generous volubility and Aaron's shakes of the head and solemn sententious sayings, a youngster was pretty sure to be handsomely cheated between them. Let us now see them together.

“Ah, here's that big Mr Romford written for osses,” said Goodheart to Aaron, flourishing the letter, as the little man got up to his master.

“So-o,” replied Aaron, drawing his breath, adding, “'ow many may he please to want?”

“Oh, ten or a dozen,” replied Green, as if it was quite an impossible number.

“Harn't that in the 'ole stables,” observed Aaron—“leastways, not fit to go.”

“Not with such a robustious giant as Mr Romford,” assented Goodheart, preparing to take a stroll of the premises, more with a view of arranging his thoughts than in the expectation of finding horses.

The yard was spacious—larger than it looked—for there were supplementary stables at the low end belonging to houses in Sylvia Street, which Goodheart let off in dull times to one Roughhead, a cab-master, and altogether he had standing for forty or fifty horses. Still, the exigencies of an unusually open season had depleted them, and he had not above twelve or fourteen horses in hand at the time of Mr Romford's sudden demand, and these were mostly of the weak, washy order—good flat-catchers, but good for nothing for work—all the real “playful rogues,” as Goodheart called them, being away, practising their vagaries in the provinces, much to the horror of huntsmen and masters of hounds therein. There is nothing so formidable as a rash young man on an intemperate horse, for he thinks he must ride as well to distinguish himself as to get his change out of his quadruped. Hence, he is always in the midst of the hounds—always rasping on, pulling and hauling, and taking a ten-acre field to turn his brute about in. These are the boys that baffle the sport.

The horses, as we said before, were almost all good flat-catchers, well calculated to please the eye, which Green knew was half the battle with the youngsters, and moreover, like the aforesaid Bounding Ben, were generally christened with high-sounding names diametrically opposite to their respective qualities. Thus, “Everlasting,” a handsome sixteen hands horse, with black points, and all the shape and strength necessary for a weight-carrying hunter, slackened his pace as soon as ever he got upon rising ground, and gradually subsided into a walk as he ascended a hill. He couldn't go up one, so it was no use trying to force him.

“Hearty Harry,” again, wanted no end of codlin and linseed-teaing; “Twice-a-Week” would hardly come out once a fortnight; while the “Glutton” looked as if he had lived altogether upon toothpicks and water.

“That Boundin' Ben oss is most like big Mr R.'s work,” observed Peacock.

“Yes, he is,” assented Goodheart—“yes, he is. Put him in as one.”

“‘Op Along,' then,” suggested Aaron.

“Why, yes, he's a neat oss—a takin' oss—with a very high bred determined hair about him,” replied Goodheart; “but he's lame of three legs, and not very sound on the fourth.”

“Only to lame the fourth, and make him all right,” observed Aaron.

“Well, that might do,” assented Goodheart; “but we musn't call him ‘Op Along' you know; call him ‘True Blue,' or ‘Bell Metal,' or something of that sort.”

“Ah, ‘Bell Metal's' the better name—a very taking name. Bean him, and call him ‘Bell Metal.' He'll be No.2. Now for another. Well there's ‘The Brick,'” suggested Aaron.

“The Brick,” repeated Goodheart, for he had had so many of that name that he could not hit off the horse at the moment.

“The brown oss with the star, and the dead side to his mouth—not the nutmeg grey that we bought of the soldier hofficer,” explained Peacock.

“Ah, that soldier officer's 'orse was a do,” sighed Goodheart “does nothin' but kick in the stable, and won't pass a wheeled vehicle of any sort or kind without scrubbin' his rider's leg up against it, to see which is 'ardest. To be sure he might do for a servant's oss,” continued he; “servants arn't so 'tickler 'bout their legs as their masters; besides, there are no vehicles in the hunting field for him to get to and scrub against. Oh, I would say christen him ‘Perfection,' and send him,” said Goodheart.

“And ‘The Brick'?” asked Aaron.

“And ‘The Brick,' too,” assented Goodheart. “His only fault is that he won't face water, but a whip can always go round by a bridge, or cross in a boat, or keep out of the way of water altogether. Then how about ‘Oliver Twist?'” continued Goodheart, pleased at the progress he was making.

“Oliver's not a bad oss,” replied Aaron, “barrin' that his fore-quarters are rather at wariance with his hind, but it don't make much matter which end of an oss gets through an edge fust, so long as they both land on the right side together at last.”

“True,” assented Goodheart—“true; put him in for another. How many's that?” continued he, telling them off on his fingers. “Ben one, Op—that's to say, Bell Metal two, the Brick three, Perfection four, Oliver five, and say—Everlasting or Twice-a-Week six.”

“Oh, Twice-a-Week will do nothin' for nobody,” observed Aaron, with a shake of his head. “Better send the Glutton than him.”

“But he's such a hungry-looking scarecrow,” replied Goodheart.

“Then say Heverlastin',” rejoined Aaron. “He's 'andsome enough with his great harms, magnific shoulders, and lean 'andsome 'ead.”

“'Andsome enough,” assented Goodheart, “but he's more fit for some bathing or watering-place buck, who wants to do the show off of the meet and the streets, than such a ramming, cramming, customer as this Mr R.”

And while yet they stood debating whether to send the Glutton or Everlasting, a blue and red telegram-boy came dribbling down the yard, fumbling for something in his leather-case as he came.

“Ah, now, here's mischief!” exclaimed Goodheart, advancing and taking the note from the boy, muttering as he opened it, “Somebody's got his skull split or been carried triumphantly over the moon. No, all right!” continued he, swinging joyfully round on his heel—“All right!—all right! only Placid Joe [late Pull-Devil] been too many for Mr Martin Muffington—only Placid Joe been too many for Mr Martin Muffington. What could he expect, a little Titmouse of a man like him getting on to an 'orse fit to carry an 'ouse! Told him he wouldn't suit him, but he would 'ave 'im. Thought he knew better than me. Many of these young gents do.” Goodheart then read the telegram again. Thus it ran:—