Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (22 page)

M
R
M
ARTIN
M
UFFINGTON
, at the White Swan Inn, Showoffborough,

T
O
M
R
G
REEN
, Brown Street, Bagnigge Wells Road, London.

“Ah, well, all right,” said Goodheart, “will have to pay his expenses both ways, at all events.”

And here we may observe that Goodhearted Green behaved well in the matter, for he didn't want Martin to have him; but Martin, seeing the horse's name, “Placid Joe,” put conspicuously up in black and white letters on a board in front of his stall, became enamoured of him, and attributed Green's objections to letting him have him to another cause, namely, his wanting to keep Joe for somebody else. So Martin would have him, though we daresay if Green had made similar objections to Muffington having Placid Joe under the name of “Pull-Devil-pull-Baker,” he would have been equally anxious, Muffington having the vanity to think that he could ride anything.

The fact was the Baker was only placid when he was either ground down with work or “Rarified,” but as soon as ever the rarifaction wore off he was just like an uniced glass of champagne—not good to be taken till he was iced again.

Still he was just the horse for Mr Romford, a sixteen-hands bay, blood-like, and handsome, with great substance, and plenty of liberty. Everlasting and he were as handsome as horses could well be, with the most opposite qualities, the Baker being as hard as the other was soft. Everlasting, however, was such a gay deceiver, and Mr Romford had so many opportunities of placing him advantageously, that Mr Green determined to send him instead of Bell Metal. Having thus made up his mind, he retired into his little den of an office and poured forth all his hopes and fears upon paper to Facey, beginning at the top of a large sheet, and going right though to the end of the fourth page, with one continuous paragraph, full of the flow of the milk of human kindness, regrets, promises, hopes, and expectations. How, if he had known only three days before, he could have suited Mr Romford to a T, but how that the season was then at its height, and everything with the slightest pretention to hunting was caught up in an instant, but how that many of his stud wouldn't suit everybody, and, as sure as ever anything came back worth its keep, it should be sent off direct without a moment's delay to Beldon Hall in Doubleimupshire, while others should follow as fast as they could be procured; and the ominous letter, equal to two pages of this work, concluded by a grateful acknowledgment of the compliment Mr Romford had paid Green by asking him to Beldon Hall, where he assured him he would visit him before the end of the season, for he felt a real and sincere interest in his distinguished customer's comfort and convenience. Never, indeed, had he known anyone in whom he took so great an interest.

And Placid Joe returning as advised, the next day's post conveyed the following invoice:—

These, with what Facey had before, viz., Honest Robin, Brilliant, and Leotard, made him up a tolerable starting stud, reinforced as it was to be with further consignment from the same orthodox quarter.

All things now conduced to that period of excitement when the orchestra having at length tuned their instruments to their satisfaction, the leader flourishes his baton, and forthwith the music strikes up. The Swig and Chowey garments had come, also Mr Romford's upper things, and though Bartley and Hammond declined clothing the extremities, there were plenty of others proud of the honour of working for the great Turbot on its tail.

The coming of a new family into a county, especially, to occupy such an important place as Beldon Hall, was sure to make a considerable sensation, but when with the strange family was coupled with a new bachelor master of hounds, the excitement was intense. Things, too, had been managed so quickly and quietly that though there were two parties in the hunt, there was no time for the reaction of inquiry and pulling to pieces. All parties, hunting and non-hunting parties, agreed that it was a most fortunate thing for the country to get such a man as Mr Romford to take it, and the acquisition of Beldon Hall stamped the transaction so conclusively, that if anyone had had the impudence to get up and say this Mr Romford is a penniless imposter, and “I'll prove it,” he would have been looked upon as mad. There was, therefore, no doubt or hesitation about calling at Beldon Hall—no, not even any looking into the “Landed Gentry,” to see if it was all right about this widowed sister. All was taken for granted as readily and agreeably as either Mr Romford or Mrs Somerville could have wished. The only contest seemed to be who should be first to call upon the new comers, a feat that was accomplished by our, or rather Independent Jimmy's friend, Mr Watkins.

And this distinguished family now forming a prominent feature in our story, we will take the liberty of introducing the members of it before we throw off with the hounds.

H
AVING NOW INTRODUCED THE READER
as well to the out-door offices as the in-door magnificence of Beldon Hall, let us proceed to dilate a little upon its immediate neighbourhood, and on Doubleimupshire generally. And taking parties pretty much in the order in which they figure in our story, we will first revert to Independent Jimmy's dandified hair-brushing friend, Mr Watkins of Dalberry Lees, commonly called Willy Watkins, who has already had the advantage of that free-spoken gentleman's opinions passed upon him, as Jimmy charioteered Mr Romford along in the melon frame. Jimmy, it will be remembered, made a sort of rough guess at Willy's antecedents, which we will now supplement with more reliable information.

Well, then, we may commence our introduction of these important personages in our story, by saying, that when Willy Watkins went to the “diggins,” he had exhausted friends, credit, and estate! Everybody was sick of Willy Watkins. It was—“Oh, ‘D' Willy Watkins!” and “‘B' Willy Watkins! I never want to hear more of Willy Watkins!” Now, however, he was quite another Willy Watkins.

But before displaying him as he now is, let us glance at what he once was. Willy's misfortune was, being a good-looking fellow without any brains. That misfortune was aggravated by his looking wise, for it was not until a man had worked and tried Willy in all ways, that he saw what an empty-headed creature he really was. He was tall, nearly six feet high, well set up and well proportioned, with a clear dark complexion, intelligent eyes, and good features generally.

He began life with a splendid pair of whiskers, and a head of dark glossy hair, which he petted and tended with the utmost care and solicitude. He was always feeling, and smoothing, and coaxing his side-locks. Even at the period of our story, when old Father Time had tithed them severely, he still kept fingering and feeling and putting them right, when he had nothing to do, which was pretty often.

Well, Willy's looks had been the ruin of him, for first one silly Woman, and then another, had smiled and flattered him into folly, until he fully believed he could marry a countess, or anyone he liked. With Willy, as with Facey himself, we are not prepared to give any pedigree, which we must leave to the reader to infer from his calling.

Willy had tried his hand at various trades before he finally settled on emigration. First of all, it was thought his good looks would ensure him success behind the counter, and he was duly installed with a yard-wand, at Messrs. Flimsey and Figments, hosiers and haberdashers, High Street, Brittlesworth. Here, however, he was such a lazy dog, that he could never get the shutters down in proper time, and the shop used to remain closed till half-past eight or nine o'clock in the morning, much to the amusement of Messrs. Scamp and Scurryworth's genteel young people opposite, and the inhabitants of the High Street generally. Flimsey and Figments couldn't stand this, and after two or three ineffectual scoldings they gave Willy up, who presently obtained a clerkship in a brewery, at Brackenworth, but here the dull monotony of counting cash and measuring malt contrasted so forcibly with the gay insouciance of selling silks and satins to the ladies that Willy emancipated himself at the end of a month, and, after nibbling at an auctioneer's, turned gentleman at large for a time. This, however, is but a poor trade—desperately poor when a man has to sponge on his friends for his meals, who give him his food with the sort of churlishness that one gives a strange dog a bone.

Willy soon became a seedy swell, a deplorable object at any time, and one that gets daily worse. His hat became glazy, his coat got threadbare and scrimpy, and his boots were patched like the driver's of an omnibus—for we believe nobody ever yet saw a driver of an omnibus with a whole pair.

In this dilemma, his friends subscribed and set him up a photographic studio, but Willy Watkins soon proved that he was no hand at high art. He made such frights of his friends that he scattered his business before it had well taken root—drove them away with walking advertisements of his incompetence in their hands. He then found it was easier to cozen the ladies with their linen than with their likenesses.

So the sun of his success soon set.

He first got rid of his barker, then of his boy, then of the apparatus itself, and finally, at the early age of twenty, went off to the diggings, in Australia, with the proceeds of the sale. And people were heartily glad when they heard he was gone, and didn't care if he never came back. Those who had lent him money wrote off the amount in their books, and those who had been photographed by him put themselves quietly away in whitey brown paper, to see if, like port wine, they would improve by keeping.

Time wore on, and years elapsed, ere anything was heard of Willy Watkins. Gradually, however, it became bruited in Brittlesworth, and elsewhere, that a man of the name of Watkins had lit on his legs, and was doing uncommonly well—found no end of Ballarat nuggets, in fact. Further accounts confirmed the statement, and the Watkins family began to consider quietly among themselves who was his heir. There was, however, no occasion to give themselves any trouble on that score, for Willy had anticipated their views by marrying a very aspiring lady, the daughter of a gentleman who had formerly “left his country for his country's good,” and who, by land speculations, wool speculations, and a little usury, had amassed a very considerable fortune. He had been transported for forgery under the name of Peter Corcoran, but on completing his term of servitude (fourteen years) he assumed that of Fitzgerald, Granby Fitzgerald, and married the daughter of a gentleman who had been transported for burglary, who had also discarded his own name, that of Thomas Duffy, for Conrad Cunningham. With Duffy, however, we have nothing to do.

The Fitzgeralds, on the contrary, furnish an important personage in our story. Well, they soon set up for great people. The Old Bailey reminiscences were merged in the Australian prosperity. They made out that they were the younger branch of an old English family, who had emigrated for elbow room, and always talked of returning to the old country next year, just as Boulogne gentlemen talk of going to London next week; but somehow they never go.

Old Fitzgerald kept his own counsel, and chuckled at the 'cuteness of his children, of which he had several; to wit, three sons and four daughters. Hearing that Willy Watkins was in for a good thing, he invited him to his house, Britannia Park, near Port Phillip, where the eldest and most presuming of his daughters, Miss Letitia, was allowed two clear days' start of her sisters, to enable her to capture Willy, which she did with the greatest ease, and presented herself to her sisters as a
fiancée
on their return from visiting the elegant family of a third ex-convict. Those were days when they did transport culprits, instead of giving them tickets of leave to hug honest people at home. Well, Willy and Miss Letitia were presently married, and one, and only one, child blessed the aristocratic union; viz., Independent Jimmy's fair friend, christened by the high-sounding names of Cassandra Cleopatra. And Willy's wealth increasing, though his family did not, as that solitary piece of perfection verged towards womanhood, he, with his aspiring spouse, resolved to revisit England, there to seek for Cassandra's equal in marriage,—if, indeed, such a
parti
was to be found.

Willy, too, longed to display his wealth in his native country, to drive up and down the High Street of Brittlesworth, and show off before the counter-skippers of Flimsey and Figments. Some people would have shirked that sort of scene, and broken fresh ground, but Willy did not appreciate the position, and his wife did not know of it. So, having appointed his excellent father-in-law manager of his property, the trio proceeded to England, and after one or two changes established themselves at Dalberry Lees a year or two before Mr Romford's accession to the country. Willy was then about five-and-forty, with just as much solicitude about his side-locks as he had when the now nearly bald crown was covered with a glorious crop of curly dark hair. He was always tending, and feeling, and plastering, and looking in the glass to see whether the side-locks were diminishing or any hairs absent without leave.