Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (29 page)

To hear Mr Hazey talk, one would fancy that his boy Bill was the best done-by boy Bill in the county; but those who were behind the scenes said that, unless Bill's views coincided with those of his worthy father, Bill had very little chance of getting what he wanted. My boy Bill, to all appearances, had a couple of horses, and Hazey used to point him out ostentatiously to parties as Bill changed from one to the other at the cover side, exclaiming,

“
There!
there's my boy Bill! Show me the man who turns his son out better than I turn out my boy Bill!”

But if anybody would buy my boy Bill's horse, Bill might go on foot till Hazey picked him up another twenty-pounder, to be again converted into a fifty, and sold as before.

And now, as Bill grew up to manhood, he became a sort of chaunter to his excellent parent—praised his hounds, praised his horses, praised his sport, praised everything belonging to him—was quite equal to supersede Silkey, if they could but get rid of him. Nay, more, Bill could not only praise, but anticipate objections, palliate weak points that he saw might arise, either to hounds, horses, or anything. If the Hazey carriage was not quite so good as it might be, Bill would say to a stranger as it came round to the door, “Ah, this is a coachmaker's carriage—ours is getting done up;” or, if the horses were shabby, “Ah, these are our night-horses.” So with his hay, his straw, his oats, his everything that was Hazey. Silkey, on the other hand, rather magnified deficiencies, thinking, perhaps, to make his master rectify them thereby.

B
ELDON
H
ALL UNDERWENT A GREAT
change in its domestic arrangements soon after the visit of our friends the Watkinses, when Dirtiest of the Dirty had to act the part of footman, receive and announce the company, and reconduct them to their carriage. This proceeding Lucy did not approve; she felt it was derogatory to the dignity of the place, and inconsistent with her brother's elevated position of Master of the Larkspur Foxhounds. So, with her ready wit, she set about seeing how it could be rectified.

Now the Viscount Lovetin kept a gardener, one Billy Balsam, or Sweet William, as Mrs Mustard lovingly called him, who, like herself, was of the poverty-striken order; a man who was ready to turn his hand to anything in a slovenly make-shift sort of way—leaving it to the parties who employed him to judge whether he did his work properly or not. There are plenty of these sort of creatures in all countries. He had sixteen shillings a week from the Viscount for what Balsam called looking after the garden that is to say, seeing that no one ran away with the trees, the tool-house, and anything of that sort; and the sixteen shillings a week coming in regularly, whether he worked for Lord Lovetin or not, Balsam had plenty of time for doing little things for other people—stacking hay, taking bees, killing pigs, getting in coals—any of the hundred-and-one odd jobs that are constantly occurring in the country. “Send for Billy Balsam!” was always the last resource of the destitute, just as housekeepers used to say, “Send for one of the Mustard girls!” in case of a domestic emergency.

Billy was a stout-built, well-legged man, of about sixty years of age, with a large, full, red face—the nose slightly indicative of drink—the whole surmounted by a most respectable silvery-grey head—just the sort of man that a stranger would suppose had lived all his life in one family, instead of having been in twenty different places at least, before he alighted at Beldon Hall.

Bob Short, who dignified himself with the title of stud-groom, being the man who answered Facey's advertisement for a “strong, persevering man, to clean horses,” was much of the same build, though possessing more brains than Sweet William. Indeed his abundance of brains had got him into trouble; for, living coachman with a gentleman of large fortune who knew nothing whatever about horses or stable-management, Bob (who quite understood his business) had so imposed upon his master's credulity as to bring himself within the scope of the criminal law,—that inconvenient Act, we believe, which enables justices to dispose of certain thefts in petty sessions. Be that as it may, however, Bob Short fell from his high estate, as the reader may suppose, when we find him accepting such a situation as Mr Romford's—not that the place was degrading, but the pay was so poor. Well, it occurred to Lucy that one or other, or perhaps both, of these worthies might be made available in raising a suitable Beldon Hall establishment, and, both of them being extremely ready, she enlisted them as occasional footmen,—Sweet William in ordinary, and Bob and he on a Sunday.

She then turned her attention to dressing them. It is a good thing to have walked the stage; for, besides the easy self-possession acquired by so doing, it not only teaches people how to dress themselves or others up for any particular part, but also where to get the right properties for the occasion,—crowns for emperors, wreaths for victors, helmets for soldiers, liveries for servants. And turning to the column headed “Public Amusements” in “Bell's Life,” to see what places were open, she found her old stage friend, Miss Betsey Shannon—of whom more hereafter—figuring under her assumed name of Gertrude Dalrymple at the Royal Amphitheatre over the water, and who, she knew, would have great pleasure in executing any commission for her. So to Miss Shannon she wrote, asking her to send her down to Beldon Hall, in Doubleimupshire, as soon as ever she could, a couple of rich lace bedizened job liveries for two substantially built footmen, in the baronial style; adding, that she did not care so much about price as having the liveries smart and capable of bearing the garish light of day. And, by way of stimulating Miss Shannon to extra exertion in the matter, she told her, if all went right, as Lucy expected things would, Mr Romford would be glad to see Miss Shannon down at the Lord Viscount Lovetin's, at Beldon Hall, to spend the Christmas holidays. And Miss Shannon—who dearly loved an outing into the country, and moreover entertained a lively regard for her old friend and coadjutor (then Lucy Glitters) in the saw-dusted ring—exerted herself to the utmost, going from. Nathan's to Levy's, and from Levy's to Abraham's, and from Abraham's to Solomon's, bartering and bargaining with the hook-nosed
costumiers
till she finally settled on a couple of very passable pea-green coat with gold aiguillettes, yellow vests, and yellow plush breeches, at Moses Mordecay's well-known establishment in the Minories. They had their imperfections, it is true; the coat buttons bearing a lion rampant, those of the shorts “an eagle;” but callers are generally in too great a flurry, and too busy thinking of themselves and their own attire, to pay attention to such minutiæ. In other respects the clothes were very passable, and, being slightly worn, showed at all events that the owner was not just then setting up his servants. Indeed it was arranged that Mrs Somerville should call the servants hers, which got rid of any difficulty about the turbot-on-its-tail crest.

These liveries, then, with pink silk stockings and buckled shoes, Miss Betsey Shannon engaged by the week, with a considerable reduction in price if they were kept any time, or the option of purchasing them if Mrs Somerville liked. Indeed, Miss Shannon executed her commission so adroitly, flourishing Lord Lovetin's title so imposingly, as to make Moses Mordecay believe that the due execution of the order would be the forerunner of a good deal of custom, and actually induced him to part with the garments without any deposit. And no sooner did they arrive at Beldon Hall than Lucy opened them out and sent forthwith for Billy Balsam, notwithstanding she knew he was then particularly engaged in killing Mr Proudlock's pig. Billy, with the aid of hot water, have presently made himself Sweet William again after the operation, was then requested to try on both suits, and present himself to Lucy in whichever fitted him best. This he presently did, and came along a perfect figure of fun to himself and all the Dirties. “
He, he, he! ho, ho, ho! haw, haw, haw!
” laughed they. Dirty No.2 could hardly contain herself. She thought she had never seen such a sight—no, never since the mountebanks came down.

Then Lucy took Billy through her hands: told him to hold up his head, turn out his toes, and walk as if he were a drum-major, and not as if he were wheeling a barrow full of greens along the garden walk. And she marched him round the room two or three times, telling him to look in the mirrors, and see how much better he looked with his head erect than doubled up as if he had got a touch of the stomach-ache, or had stolen a pat of butter and had it in his pocket. And Billy thought there was something in what she said, which, coupled with the promise of a shilling a day for his services, reconciled him to the situation. The ladies, in all probability, would give up laughing after they had seen him once or twice. And what a quantity of spirits the money would buy! So he went fairly in for his lesson.

She then proceeded to show him how to open the drawing-room door and announce the guests.

“Now,” said she, “this devonport,” laying her pretty hand upon one at which she had been writing, “this devonport will be me; I will be the guest—the caller, you know—Lady Kingsborough, say—and you must open the door and show me into the room, announcing me as Lady Kingsborough.”

So saying, Sweet William and she withdrew, and Mrs Somerville closed the door after her, in order that they might go through the whole ceremony. They were then in the vestibule, Mrs Somerville now turning round to be piloted. Sweet William, however, hesitated.

“Please, mum,” said he, scratching his white head, “is it to be Lady Devonport or Lady Kingsport?”

“Oh, stoopid, no!” exclaimed Lucy; “the devonport—the thing I showed you—is supposed to be me, and I'm Lady Kingsborough come to call upon Mrs Somerville; but, as I can't possibly know by intuition who is coming, you must inform me by announcing the name.”

“But how am I to know?” asked Billy Balsam.

“Oh, by asking; or they'll tell you,” replied she; adding, “you mustn't expect to find them labelled like one of your Dutch flower-roots. Now, then, walk on, chuck up your chin, open the door boldly, and conduct me up to the devonport.”

Billy then did as he was bid, and after two or three attempts succeeded not so far amiss.

Then came the finishing stroke to the instructions; namely, answering the front-door bell. For this purpose, Lucy put on her hat of the day, and followed by Balsam proceeded along the passage, across the grand hall, and out at the front-door, which she closed after her, telling Billy before she did so to open it boldly and well when the bell rang, and not to peep through an aperture, as if he expected a bailiff or dun. And Lucy presently sounded an alarming summons,—a summons as if all the crowned heads in Europe had come,—that startled old Balsam, and brought all the Dirties to the old window of observation to see what was up.

“Hut! it's only the missus,” said Dirtiest of the Dirty, who had hoped to see a fine chay; and forthwith the sisters slunk off, leaving only old Mustard to witness the manœuvres of Sweet William—see him receive and set off on the return voyage of convoy—which he accomplished not amiss, though not so well as Bob Short, who had far more brains, would have done. But then the strong, persevering man had his stable to attend to, and could only be relied upon on Sundays, or for an hour or two on the very few days of the week that Mr Romford did not hunt.

Moreover, Bob, who had worn gaudy liveries and waited occasionally, required less coaxing to get him to invest himself in the Moses Mordecay suit than Billy Balsam had done.

However, there was no help for Short's absence, and the dignity of the house was obliged to succumb to the convenience of the stable. Still it was a great thing to have gained even two temporary footmen at a bound. And Mrs Somerville wrote to thank Miss Betsey Shannon most sincerely for her trouble; adding, that she supposed “old hook-nose” would be in no hurry for his money for the liveries—at least she hoped not—for she was sure she would be in no hurry to pay him.

T
HE
H
AZEYS, LIKE THE
W
ATKINSES
, were duly sensible of the importance of establishing an early acquaintance at Beldon Hall, as well for the purpose of cultivating an intimacy, as of warding off evil communications, which too often spoil good speculations. The Hazeys, too, had an enterprising daughter, of whom more hereafter. So Mr Hazey thus had two strings to his bow, he thinking to do a little business on his own account with Mr Romford in the horse-dealing way, Hazey's creed being to “do” other people, as he said they would “do” him if they had the chance. Then he had a good many backbiting informants to guard against, who might be stopped from telling if they knew he was on a friendly footing at Beldon Hall. For instance, there was old Mr Mugglesworth, of Fatfield Hall, to whom he had sold a confirmed runaway as an invaluable cob for an elderly gentleman; young Mr Topsfield, of Meadow Bowers Bank, to whom he had sold a most incorrigible rearer as a horse a child might ride; middle-aged Mr Thurrock, of Barnsdale, to whom he had sold an inveterate jibber and kicker as the steadiest horse in harness that ever was seen, but which, as Silkey said, reduced the family phaeton to lucifer matches in a minute. Altogether, Hazey had a long list of victims whose tongues he would like to deprive of their sting.

Indeed Hazey was never happy unless he was cheating somebody. No matter how much money he had, no matter how recent and vigorous had been the “do,” he was always ready and eager for another. His cold, lustreless grey eyes sparkled with animation at the mere mention of a victim. He immediately set about thinking how he could circumvent him—what he could offer him—how he could coax and sneak to inveigle him. When Hazey heard that Mr Romford had taken Doubleimupshire he was quite delighted, for the right Romford stood well with the sporting world, and Hazey's kennel being of the third-class character, our Mr Romford of course had not complimented him with an order for hounds, so the Romford reputation stood bright and unsullied. Indeed it would have been matter difficult to come over Mr Hazey, for he always required payment on delivery—horses and hounds being, he used to say, ready money. So sly Silkey the groom used always to be charged with a note when he delivered a horse, wherein Hazey, alluding to the uncertainty of human life, used to request the favour of a cheque by the bearer. Jawkins the huntsman, too, used to have a similar missive with hounds, for which he went snacks with his master, and therefore of course looked to the interests of both.