Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (25 page)

And Mrs Somerville, who understood stage effect, and the advantage of uniformity, saw that Swig and Chowey were properly dressed, clean shaved, clean white cravats, good gloves, and well put on well-polished boots, which, with their new London caps and coats, made them look as unlike themselves—as unlike the remnants of men that they were when Mr Romford picked them up at Tattersall's, as could possibly be.

Facey, too, was very fine—very different to what he was when he mounted the Dragon of Wantley, to take his first day with the Heavyside Hounds. He was not only well dressed, but he had lost a good deal of the shaggy Lion Wallace appearance he had about the face, by judicious trimming and polling. Then his clothes were quite unexceptionable, for if a man will only employ good London tradesmen, they will always take care that he doesn't make a guy of himself. All he then has to do is, to put them on properly.

And when they were all mounted, Romford on the magnificent Pull-Devil-Pull-Baker, late Placid Joe; Swig riding Everlasting; and Chowey on Perfection, the nutmeg-coloured grey with the
penchant
for carriages, the blooming well-conditioned pack of hounds around them, they really looked remarkably well,—thanks to “Tick” and their other numerous friends and benefactors. Thus, with eighteen couple of picked hounds, Mr Romford set off to undergo the scrutiny of the assembled science of the Larkspur Hunt.

Trot trot, bump bump, trot trot, they went—Facey thinking if Swig and Chowey looked so well, what must he do; new hat, new coat, new everything—besides being such a good-looking fellow. Oh! for a good line of plate-glass windows to admire himself in. He felt as if he had lit on his legs. And in the exuberance of spirit he chucked Tony Parker, the pikeman at Bewley side-bar, a shilling, without ever asking what the toll was.

Tony picked it up, saying as he did it, “Now that's a
real
gemman, that is.”

The meet was at Pippin Priory, the elegant mansion of Mr Joseph Large, who having taken a prominent part in the resuscitation of the Larkspur Hunt, under Mr Romford's auspices, was well entitled to have the first show-off of the new establishment, on the verdant lawn before his gaudy house.

Mr Large was not a sportsman, nor yet a regular Doubleimupshire squire, being nothing more nor less than a tea-pot-handle maker—a great tea-pot-handle maker—carrying on business both in London and Birmingham. And, though it seems a curious trade, yet, if we consider the enormous number of people there are with tea-pots—each, of course, with a handle—and how few men there are in the handle-making line [we question if the reader ever met with one before], it is no wonder he made a good thing of it. Joseph was rich—very rich: we wish we could give the reader an adequate idea of his riches, but he kept all his balance-sheets to himself, not even showing them to beloved Mrs Large. He did not go about saying “I am the great Mr Large, with a redundancy of money;” but if anybody were mentioned who was not in similar circumstances, he would say, with a scornful, up-turned lip, “Poor man—very poor man. Could buy him fifty times over—a hundred, if that was all.”

Singular enough, Large was a good deal of the tea-pot build himself, being short and squat, with a very sallow complexion, and a stiff row of black curls round his otherwise bald head, somewhat resembling a coachman's wig. It was hard to say whether his vulgar, vacant face or his great sticking-out stomach was the most offensive; for he used to bring the latter to bear upon one in the most arrogant way, as much as to say, “There! there's a stomach with good fat capon lined! Match it if you can!”

Young Large—Joseph Bolingbroke, as he was magnificently called—was the exact counterpart of his father, barring the disparity of years, and that he had a full crop of curly black hair instead of the ivory-like apex of papa. He also sported a moustache, and had whiskers extending all round the chin up to the mouth. He was quite as purse-proud, though still not so good a man as his father, for he would have nothing to do with hunting, having, indeed, been trundled off both fore and aft; so papa, who had a very exalted opinion of the advantages of the chase, was obliged to do the dangerous both for self and son. It was hard upon the old boy, who, the reader will see, was not at all adapted for the sport; but pride feels no pain, and he went at it like a man—not horse—tight boots, round legs, wash-ball seat and all. He had been an ardent supporter of Mr Romford, fully believing he was the Turbot-on-its-tail, and thinking that Romford might be useful in getting Bolingbroke into that high society wherein he could pick up a nobleman's daughter, a connection with the peerage being the height of the tea-pot-handle maker's ambition.

So now he was going to reap the first fruit of his patriotism, by entertaining the new master at a grand hunt breakfast at Pippin, or Pipkin Priory, as, of course, the wags called it, a spacious Elizabethan mansion built of yellow brick, with bands and arches of red ditto. It stood on a gently rising eminence, well sheltered at the back and sides by a judicious mixture of evergreen trees and oaks. It had been the site of an old Hall house, though, of course, not a quarter the size it is now.

There had been a great gathering of fowls, and hunting of eggs, and coaxings of cream in the immediate neighbourhood, and now the thing was to get people to come in and partake of the feast so provided. The hunt, we may say, had been divided between the merits of Mr Romford and those of that popular sportsman, Mr Jovey Jessop, and some of the malcontents showed their displeasure at the choice by remaining outside. Indeed, Mr Romford would much have preferred staying with his hounds, but both Lucy and her mamma had charged him to go in and make himself agreeable to the ladies, especially to Mrs Large, assuring him that all women liked attention.

So, when the gaudy green and gold Johnny came tripping over the lawn, taking care of his stockings, to summon him inside, Facey surrendered his horse to a servant, and left the hounds in charge of old Swig. It was a dangerous move; for ere Facey's substantial form darkened the Priory portico, a white-aproned man was seen fluttering along the yew-tree walk, bearing a sort of hen and chickens, in the shape of a black bottle with a brood of little wine-glasses clustering around on a tray. At first sight Swig's good resolution said “No.” “No!” it should be “No, no, I thank you sir,” at least, as became the
ci-devant
servant of an Earl. But as the white-aproned man turned out of the walk by the little green gate, the jingle of the wineglasses sounded rather too musically on Swig's ear, and looking at the tray, he saw some biscuits upon it. Taking a biscuit could do him no harm, he thought! so he suffered the tempter to approach him.

“Good mornin', Mr Swig,” said the man; for the aphorism that “more people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows,” holds particularly good as regards huntsmen and field servants. “Good mornin', Mr Swig,” said he, in the confident tone of a man who feels sure of a welcome.

“Mornin',” said Swig, still riding the good horse Resolution.

“Take a dram this morning?” continued the footman, balancing the tray on one hand, while he took the silver-headed stopper out of the bottle with the other.

He was now close up against Swig's horse's shoulder, and the aroma of the gin (for it was that beautiful beverage) mounted most generously up to the Swig snub-nose. This was too much for the veteran. Daniel! the Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale's Daniel! couldn't resist it.

“Just a thimbleful,” said he, as the servant began trickling the gin out of the full bottle into the clear glass. “Nay, man, that's a glass!” exclaimed Daniel, more in pleasure than in anger. Nevertheless, he quaffed it off saying, as he raised it to his lips, “Sir, I looks towards you;” meaning thereby that he was drinking the man's health.

Chowey then unscrewed his proboscis, and took his dram down without any emotion.

Thus fortified, the two turned to the hounds, and gave them a brisk cheerful sweep down the Park, returning, like moths, to the gin candle up above, and they then took another thimbleful each.

But we must now follow friend Facey, who has got among the Philistines in the house.

There was a great gathering inside, for Mr Large looked upon a grand breakfast as part of the ceremony of the hunt; and friend Facey, having been duly eased of his hat, whip, and gloves in the entrance-hall, and run his fingers through his hair, was presently at the lofty mahogany-door of the dining-room.

“Mr Romford, I think?” said the obsequious butler, turning half round as he laid hold of the ivory handle.

“Mr Romford it is,” said Facey, in a tone that as good as said, “Can there be any doubt on the point?”

The door then opened, disclosing a goodly assemblage of ladies and gentlemen, all apparently busy on masticating enjoyments, but still keeping a disengaged eye for the new comer.

“M
R
R
OMFORD
,” now announced the butler in a clear sonorous voice, to our bald-headed host, as he sat with his back to the door; whereupon up jumped the teapot-handle maker, with his mouth full of ham, and, getting Facey by the hand, proceeded to give him a most spluttering welcome, working him up the room towards his wife as he went.

“Mr Romford, my dear,” gasped he, as he got him there;. whereupon the well-developed matron, all gorgeous in peach coloured, lace-bedizened moire-antique and jewellery, half arose from her chair, and smiled him into a seat on her right, that had evidently been reserved for the hero of the day. Friend Facey having got himself settled, then cast one roguish eye at her, the other glancing down the table, to see what sort of a set he had got amongst. He thought they would do.

“Will you take tea or coffee?” now asked Mrs Joseph Large, who seemed well primed with both, having great further tea capabilities in the richly chased silver urn before her.

Oh, Facey didn't care much about either. “Well, tea,” he thought, muttering something about “porridge, and one breakfast a-day serving him.” He then took a general survey of the table and room. Everything was very fine,—plate, linen, and china; flowers, and vases, and fruit. It seemed breakfast and dinner combined. He had never seen anything half so fine before. Wouldn't have touched his own eggs and bacon if he'd known what was in store for him. He had now got his tea, also sugar and cream, and the hum of conversation that had been interrupted on his entry was gradually resumed, though those in the immediate neighbourhood kept their ears open to hear what was said. Facey having pronged a piece of breakfast-cake to avoid the persecution of the servants, who were now offering him everything he didn't want, then bethought him of Lucy's injunctions, and proceeded to play what he thought the agreeable to the hostess.

“How many children have you?” asked he.

“Five,” replied Mrs Large.

“Five, have you (humph),—two couple and a half. How old are you?” Facey eyeing her intently, as if making his own calculation.

Mrs Large was not going to answer this question, so she parried it by telling the footman to hand Mr Romford the butter.

“What's your christian name?” was the next question.

“Mary,” replied his hostess.

“Mary (humph),—just plain Mary, is it?”

“Just Mary,” assented our hostess, who did not consider herself plain by any means.

The conversation then proceeded much as follows:—

Facey
.—“Is this place yours, or do you rent it?”

Mrs Large
.—“Oh, it's our own.”

Facey
.—“Much land about it?”

Mrs Large
.—“A good deal.”

Facey
.—“Two or three thousand acres, p'raps?”

Mrs Large
.—“Perhaps.”

Facey
.—“Much game?”

Mrs Large
.—“A good deal.”

Facey
.—“Is what's-his-name—your husband there——(nodding towards Mr Large) nasty particular about it?”

Mrs Large
.—“Well (hem), not more (cough) than other (hem) people.”

Facey
.—“Wouldn't mind one walking over it occasionally with one's dog and one's gun if it came in one's way, I s'pose?”

The conversation or rather interrogatories were interrupted at this critical point by “What's-his-name” rising at the other end of the table, and calling upon the company to fill their glasses—to fill bumpers to a toast he was about to propose, for which purpose the servants had been planting elegant grape-wreathed Dobson and Pierce glasses at regular intervals round the table. The champagne corks now began to fly. Mr Joseph Large, who dearly loved the sound of his own voice, then opened a volley of laudatory observations on friend Facey, talking of his great prowess as a sportsman, and the high compliment he had paid the Larkspur gentlemen in leaving his native county, with his great local influence and associations, to hunt their inferior one, though Mr Large hoped the welcome the Larkspur gentlemen would give him would compensate for the sacrifice. He then glanced at the great advantages of a pack of hounds in a county, which he was well qualified to do, seeing that he only hunted medicinally, and because he was told it was right.

Among the many merits of champagne may be mentioned that of its tendency to cut short long-winded speeches, for no one likes to sit nursing a glass of the sparkling beverage in his hand until its effervescence subsides, and premature cries of “Your health, Mr Romford!—your health, Mr Romford!” caused the speaker to conclude without the cut at the Jovey Jessopites he meant to have indulged in, while the clatter of the china, to get Facey up to reply, making Mrs Large feel for her cups, she at last asked Mr Romford if he had not better rise.

Then the man, “whose moother was a lady, but whose fatther was a gardener,” drew his Bedford cords slowly and deliberately from under the table, and, having gained his utmost altitude, essayed his maiden speech, amidst the most profound and anxious silence.