Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (24 page)

To this Lucy, who knew Facey's forte was not capering in a ball-room, made no reply; but Mrs Watkins followed up the charge briskly by saying, she supposed Mr Romford had an excellent set of dogs.

Lucy said he had, and spared no expense in procuring them. And Mrs Watkins heard he was an excellent sportsman too. Lucy replied that he was.

And now, Mrs Watkins having laid a foundation of flattery, proceeded to raise a superstructure of inquisitiveness upon it. She hoped Mrs Somerville was going to stay among them. Indeed, she didn't see how Mr Romford could do without her, though Mrs Watkins inwardly thought he would do much better with her beautiful daughter Cassandra Cleopatra. Lucy parried this home-thrust, by saying that she would most likely stay till she saw her brother comfortably settled—an answer that might involve any period of time, seeing that the comfort is so much a matter of opinion. Some people might think the West-end Swell comfortable; others, again, might require the elegancies of the Clarendon or of the Lord Warden at Dover, before they returned a verdict to that effect.

“Well, but as the winter was so far advanced,” observed Mrs Watkins, returning again to the charge, “Mrs Somerville would most likely stay it out.”

“Lucy couldn't say. It would depend a good deal upon the weather.

“Was she afraid of cold?”

“Not particularly,” replied Lucy, “only the country is always colder than the town.”

“But this seems a warm, comfortable house,” observed Mrs Watkins, looking round the well-furnished room. “Had they taken it for any length of time?”

Lucy couldn't tell; didn't know whether it was a lease, a loan, or what it was; Mr Romford and Lord Lovetin had managed the matter between them.

“His lordship's a peculiar man, I th'osse,” now lisped Miss, who, at one time, thought she might perchance be Lady Lovetin.

“Is he?” said Lucy, who did not feel at all inclined to lead the charge against their noble landlord.

“Oh, very,” assented Mamma; “quite a recluse. Does he lock up all the things, and just let you have the bare walls?”

“Oh, no,” replied Lucy; “we have whatever we want.”

“Ah, then Mr Romford will be a friend,” suggested Mrs Watkins—“Mr Romford will be a friend. I know a party who wanted to take the place, and his lordship would hardly let them have anything for their money—wanted to be be paid extra for everything.”

“Indeed,” said Lucy; “he's quite different with us—I mean with my brother. He has all he wants, and more.”

“It's a good houth, I th'osse?” lisped Cassandra Cleopatra.

“Very,” assented Lucy; adding, “would you like to see it?

Miss would, and so would mamma—the latter particularly, for, independently of the natural taste all ladies have for seeing over houses, she wanted to see what servants they had. So Lucy, handing Mr Watkins last week's “Bell's Life” (Facey's sole instructor), to amuse himself with during their absence, opened the door and away they floated on the grand tour of the house—upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber. Whatever Mrs Watkins saw that was fine, she determined to have at Dalberry Lees.

Meanwhile friend Romford, who was busily engaged cleaning his gun in his shirt-sleeves in the butler's pantry down below, was sorely put out by the repeated rings at the door bell, and severely objurgated all the Dirties for letting the callers in, telling them, as he met them on the wing after the mischief, always to say that they were “
not at home
,” when anybody came. And he then returned to his former occupation, now wishing the Watkinses were gone, now wondering why they came, next dreading lest they might eat his dinner for luncheon, then thinking how he came to miss his last woodcock that morning. “It was that confounded mountain-ash in the way,” said he.

In the midst of his speculations the rustle of robes and the sound of female voices came softened down below, and, listening attentively, friend Facey distinctly heard Lucy's voice pioneering the marauders. “This is the servants' hall,” said she, “and beyond it is the butler's pantry,” the voice advancing that way.

“And, rot it, they're comin',” said he, depositing his gun and ramrod on the table, and making his escape by the opposite door. He got into the stillroom—no still room, however, for him, for the voices presently approached that door, driving him into the housekeeper's room, from whence there was no escape save through the scullery and up by the coal-cellar grate. Determined not to be caught—especially in his shirt-sleeves—he dashed valiantly at the iron bars, and, mistaking the side of the cellars, crawled out right in front of the Watkins' horses' heads, to the astonishment of Mr Spanker and the magnificent footman, who at first thought it was the long-expected ale-jug coming. Not being, however, easily disconcerted, friend Facey just asked them, in a careless indifferent sort of way, if they had seen a rat come up, and, being answered in the negative, he turned in again at a side door as if nothing particular had happened, the Watkins's men wondering if it was the gardener, or who it could be.

The ladies, having at length completed their tour, dairy, pantry, larder and all, began to arrange their features for farewell. Mrs Watkins considering whether she should offer Mrs Somerville her hand, or wait for Mrs Somerville to tender hers; Mrs Somerville thinking how to get them out of the house without an irruption of Dirties to show them the way. The Watkinses then recollected that they hadn't got Willy, so, returning to the breakfast-room, they found that worthy in the act of examining his side hair minutely in the mantel-piece mirror. “Come, Willy, come!” cried the imperious dame, and forthwith Willy relinquished the arrangement of his looks, and proceeded to recover his hat. That gained, Mrs Watkins assumed his arm, and thus fortified, then came the terrible conflict about the adieu. Whether 'twere nobler to make a curtsy and move on, or go in boldly for a shake of the hand. Momentous question!

That little ceremony has caused many a coolness—a coolness with some if you don't offer it a coolness with others if you do. Mrs Watkins would like to shake hands, but then came the terrible bugbear of the cold shoulder. She would like to get a footing at Beldon Hall, if it were only for the sake of Cassandra, but then, which was the likeliest way to obtain one.

In the midst of this dilemma, and just when the case seemed hopeless—the theatrical lady knowing the right time better than Mrs Watkins did—having got them to the room door, released the easy fold of her arms and tendered her hand to Madame, who grasped it with fervour. There is a great deal of significance in the shake of a hand. Miss quickly followed suit, and then Willy closed the affair by offering his and bowing himself out of the room. Mrs Somerville gave a random ring at the bell, more for the sake of the sound than in hopes that any of the Dirties would show themselves to open the hall-door. And Facey, having planted himself at the window of observation lately occupied by the Mustards, saw the visitors depart, observing to himself as Miss settled into her seat in the carriage, “Not a bad looking lass that.” He then ran into the larder to see what damage they had done to the meat, and finding all right, he went to discuss the visitors with Lucy. What she said, what they said, all how and about it; in fact Facey thought the “Somerville” dodge would do.

But he couldn't have any callers admitted—might ring as much as they liked at the bell, and leave their cards in any quantities; but coming in was quite out of the question, quite another pair of shoes. And, by way of checking the expected influx, he presently set up a garden-rake, which he kept behind the Indian screen in the entrance-hall, wherewith he used to recreate himself by raking the gravel before the front-door, so that he could tell whether there had been anybody there or not.

Let us, however, now attend to the departing visitors.

Well, Spanker having piloted his party safe off the premises, and Mrs Watkins having conned matters over in her own mind, came to the conclusion that it would be well to look knowing; accordingly, without consulting Willy, she uttered the homeward route, telling the coachman to drive by Peasmeadow Park, in order that she might show off before Mrs Clapperclaw, a lady with a great determination of words to the mouth. She was at home; and, the usual salutations over, with a short cut at the weather, Mrs Watkins opened fire briskly—for Mrs Clapperclaw's clock was twenty minutes too fast—by saying, “Well, they had been to Beldon Hall, and seen Mrs Somerville,—really a very nice sort of person—not above thirty or five-and-thirty years of age”—(this was an exaggeration, for Lucy was then only twenty-nine)—“evidently used to the best (dressed) society. Mr Romford was not in; but the hounds had come, and would hunt—Monday, Ashley Law; Tuesday, Thorney Row; Friday, Pippin Priory; Saturday—she forgot where.”

Indeed, it would not have been much matter if she had forgotten them all, for Monday, as we shall presently see, was Pippin Priory, and the other two places were transposed. All meets, however, are alike to the ladies, save at their own houses.

With regard to the establishment and prospects of gaiety, Mrs Watkins could give no very satisfactory information. No doubt Mr Romford was a friend of Lord Lovetin, and seemed to have complete control of the place; but the Mustards were all the servants the Watkinses saw, though there might be others elsewhere, or coming. If Mr Romford lived there as a bachelor, he might not entertain; but if Mrs Somerville remained, there was no reason why they shouldn't give calls and take a prominent part in the festivities of the country. Indeed, Mrs Watkins observed, that, to her mind, entertaining and promoting conviviality was one of the principal uses of a master of hounds; for, as to the mere scampering over the country after a parcel of dogs,—getting their faces scratched and their clothes torn, she didn't believe that one man in ten who went out really cared for it—she was sure Mr Watkins did not: indeed, nobody knew how unhappy he always was the night before hunting. “Nothing but a high sense of duty,” Mrs Watkins was sure, “could induce him to go out.” And Willy, who knew that doctrine wasn't the ticket, kept frowning at his imperious wife while she delivered the opinion. “You know it's a fact, W.,” said she, turning upon him with the effrontery of a brow-beating counsel; and, as there were none but ladies present, rather than have an argument, Willy admitted that he did not care much about it.

Mrs Watkins—having thus delivered her budget, and sipped her second glass of sherry—began to feel at her crinoline; and Miss doing the same, mamma caught at the first pause in the conversation to arise; and, after much grinning, and handling, and teeth-showing, the exploring party retired, and “Home” was the word, for Dalberry Lees.

Then Mrs Clapperclaw—who dearly loved to be knowing—having digested all Mrs Watkins had said, presently “three-black-crowed” the information, by telling Mrs Marcus Sompting, the next caller, that there were going to be grand doings at Beldon Hall. That Mr Romford was a gay young bachelor, with a dashing widow sister, who doubtless would keep the game a-going, and contribute very materially to the enlivenment of Doubleimupshire. And the news flew with great rapidity, and caused very general satisfaction, for the natives wanted stirring up sadly. Indeed, for long they had had nothing to do but abuse each other, which becomes tiresome after a time. It is marvellous how country people hate, and yet hug one another!

T
HAT FIRST IMPRESSIONS ARE EVERYTHING
is a truism that more people are ready to admit than to act up to; else how can we account for so many ladies disporting themselves in London in their old attire instead of waiting quietly till their new things come home from the milliners, thus stamping themselves as dowdies in the minds of their friends for the rest of the season. Who can expect that last great act of social fellowship—walking down St. James' Street, arm in arm with a swell—if he is not properly attired for the critical occasion.

Many a man has been turned adrift at the Piccadilly crossings without knowing the reason why.

Mr Romford's
début
with the Larkspur Hunt, in Doubleimupshire, was very different to what it was with the Heavyside one. Instead of the old pen-wiper-looking scarlet with its strong characteristic aroma of James's horse blister, he sported a smart new “Tick coat,” built on the semi-frock principle of the simpering gentleman sitting on the wooden-horse in the tailor's shop-window in Regent Street; and though Hammond and Bartley rejected his orders, other less eminent
artistes
, as we said before, were only too happy to execute them.

“Francis Romford, Esq., at the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Lovetin's, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire,” looked well on the new deal packing-cases standing conspicuously at their shop doors. So, what with Lucy's—that is, Mrs Somerville's—orders to London tradesmen, and Facey's favours in the sporting and general way, Independent Jimmy was constantly leaving something or other at Beldon Hall lodge—new saddles, new bridles, new dresses, new boots, new bonnets, new everything. It is of no use people stinting themselves when they are not going to pay for what they get.

At length all the orders, all the coats, and boots, and breeches, all the Goodhearted Green exertions, culminated in the throwing-off point, and the Larkspur Hunt was about to be revived under the auspices of the renowned Mr Romford.

Swig and Chowey were severely admonished as to their drinking propensities,—told that if they ever transgressed again, they should not only have the full weight of Mr Romford's right arm, the biceps muscle of which he invited them to feel, but that he would spend a whole golden sovereign in paper and postage stamps, to write to every master of hounds in the kingdom, cautioning them against engaging two such offenders. And by dint of big talk, Facey made them believe he was a very great man, and capable of demolishing them entirely.