Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (32 page)

“All very well,” muttered he, “tellin' one there's nothin' to do after; it's very much like tellin' a man there's nothin' on the other side of the fence, when perhaps there's a great yawnin' ditch big enough to hold both him and his horse.”

However, friend Facey felt he was committed to the engagement, and, much as he disliked the idea, he must go through it with courage and fortitude. “Grin and bear it,” as he said. So he left the rest of the arrangements to Lucy.

At length came the all-important day, and with it came Independent Jimmy, and the melon frame, to convey our party to Dalberry Lees,—Mr Romford, Mrs Somerville, and Dirtiest of the Dirty.

“Ye cannot all get in there,” said Jimmy, looking round, as the trio appeared at the door to follow their boxes into the frame.

“No: I'm goin' outside with you,” replied Facey, chucking his grey wing cape on to the box; and, leaving Lucy and her maid to cram in as they could, he bounded up, and was presently sharing the box-seat apron with Jimmy.

“
Gip!
” said Jimmy, jerking his reins as he heard the door close; and away they rumbled, Jimmy applying the brake to the wheel down the hill to the lodges, lest the vehicle should run the old weak nags off their legs. They presently shot through them at a sort of shuffling canter.

“Dalberry Lees,” now announced Facey, as they got upon the turnpike.

“Thout ye'd be gannin' there,” replied Jimmy; “left some fish and pea-soup there i' the mornin'.”

“Soup and fish?” said Facey. “Don't they make pea-soup at home?”

“A—why—yes,” replied Jimmy, flourishing his flagellator. “It wasn't pea-soup; it was some stuff they get from Lunnon—tortle they call it; comes from the Ship and Tortle Tavern.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed Facey, half afraid of the consequences; “goin' to have a reg'lar blow-out, are they?”

“Blow-out, ay! bout up half the poltry in the country.”

“
Humph!
” grunted Mr Romford, seeing his worst fears were about to be realised. He had dreamt that he had tumbled over a poodle in the drawingroom, and squirted a bottle of porter right into a lady's face. “Who's there goin' besides ourselves?” asked Romford, wishing to know the worst at once. “Better be killed than frightened to death,” thought he.

“A, why, the house is full; and arre got to go for the Dobbinsons after ar set ye doon, and then for aud Mowser and the Dusts. Arm sure ar don't know when ar shall get them all there.” Saying which, Jimmy gave each of his old nags a refresher with his whip, as if to say, “Let us get ye set doon as quick as ar can.” So they bowled along at a somewhat amended pace.

There was indeed a great to-do at Dalberry Lees. It was so long since the Watkinses had had a great spread, that many things had “gone to pieces quite cliver” in the hands of the servants since the event. The late butler, for instance, had imposed upon ingenuous Willy by showing him a shelf full of lamp-glasses when he left, saying he “'Sposed he needn't take them all down,” and when they came to be wanted taken down they were all found to be broken, the whole sides having been placed outside for show. Many other departments were in a similar state of dilapidation, so that the energies of the family were by no means confined to the acquisition of fish, soups, or poultry. Besides, a dinner party and a house full of company are very different things. A dinner party can combine the united services of the whole establishment; whereas a house full of company scatters the forces to the different departments, thus depriving the commander-in-chief of any extra assistance.

Then, what with men who come without valets, men who come without grooms, coachmen who won't wash their masters' carriages, to say nothing of the requirements of those most elegant and sensitive creatures, the ladies' maids—who are often much more difficult to please than their mistresses,—the house is regularly turned up-side down. The servants considering their characters for hospitality quite as much involved as those of their masters, the only wonder is that anything gets into the dining-room at all. On the last occasion, when Willy thought to have a nice dish of hashed venison for his dinner after the company were gone, he found some lingering grooms had eaten it all for their luncheons! Very different are the toils of town hospitality to those of the country.

But we are now approaching those magnificent crest-decorated lodges that aroused Independent Jimmy's wrath on the occasion of the Romfords' arrival, and the leafless trees show the glittering sun lighting up the many-windowed house as if for a complimentary illumination. A rather winding approach through a few flat iron-fenced fields discloses its further proportions; not so fine as Pippin Priory, not so large as Beldon Hall, but still very good and comfortable. Facey, however, wished himself going away from it instead of coming. A few jip-jips and jerk-jerks from Independent Jimmy lays the vehicle well alongside the blue pipe clayed steps of the sash-windowed front-door, and Jimmy's ring immediately conjures up a tableau of livery footmen with a portly butler in the background. The melon-frame compartments then began to fold, slide, and recede, and the iron steps being clattered down, first Lucy and then Dirty, being extricated from their confinement, began to shake themselves out to their natural, or rather unnatural, proportions. Mr Romford, too, alights, and stamps and flops himself generally—thinking that life would be very pleasant if it were not for its enjoyments.

“Ar'll tac the luggage roond,” now said Independent Jimmy, regaining his box, whereupon Lucy took Mr Romford's arm, while Dirtiest of the Dirty sheered off for the back settlements under convoy of a passing page. The procession then proceeded.

“Mr Romford and Mrs Somerville,” announced Lucy, slowly and distinctly to Mr Burlinson, the portly butler, who now duly received them at the hands of his subalterns the footmen, and forthwith proceeded to pilot them along the passages just as he used to pilot the great guests at his late master's, Lord Omnibus, until the exigencies of Burlinson's betting-book compelled him to pawn his lordship's plate. Burlinson, like Bob Short, had undergone captivity; but we will draw a veil over all that. We are now going to raise the curtain for the domestic tableau of “reception”—or, perhaps, “deception.”

Although when the Romford-Somerville alarm-bell rang, Mrs Watkins was half choked with anger at Priscilla Pallister, the housemaid, for not having the best lace-fringed toilet-cover on to Mrs Somerville's dressing-table, she yet managed to smother the remainder of her rage, and had subsided into a luxurious cabriole frame chair in burnished gold, covered in needlework, with a copy of the “Cornhill Magazine” in her hand, when her visitors were heralded into her splendid drawing-room by her obsequious butler. Miss, too, who had been busy examining the fit and folds of her new dress in her own cheval glass, had rushed down the back stairs and got herself settled to her harp, the exertion of running imparting a slight glow to her naturally pale cheek. Mrs Watkins was so absorbed with her book that Burlinson had opened the door and got his guests piloted half up the room ere she awoke to a consciousness of the presence of strangers, when, laying down the number on the table, she hastily arose and advanced to meet them. Standing on her own territory, surrounded with elegance and splendour, she felt that now was her time to patronise; so, meeting Mrs Somerville, she seized her eagerly with both hands and imprinted a kiss on her right cheek. Facey stood transfixed, for he was not sure but he ought to reciprocate the compliment; but Lucy, anticipating the dilemma, just drew him a little forward, saying, with a pressure on his arm, “My brother, Mr Romford;” and the gobby girl then entering the room and joining the group, they got through the presentations without further confusion. Chairs were then the order of the day.

If the half-hour before a London dinner party is a bore, pity, oh pity—the sorrows of a man—a poor young man—condemned to two mortal hours in the country before that interesting period. Tea has somewhat come in to the relief of the ladies, but it does nothing for men—especially those unaccustomed to take the bloom off their appetites. Indeed it was rather a stumbling-block to friend Facey; for Mrs Watkins, having proposed some to Lucy, who declined it, said she supposed it was no use offering any to Mr Romford, whereupon our master replied “No; he'd come to dine, and not to tea,” an observation that the gobby girl giggled at, thinking it was meant to be funny.

And here let us say a little more about our heroine—heroine No.2, at least, for we mean to be so extravagant as to indulge in two. If Miss Cassandra Cleopatra would not have been picked out as a beauty in a crowd, she would nevertheless have passed muster as an exceedingly showy, handsomely-dressed girl, being well set up and set out, with a calm, cool, self-possession, betokening either perfect ease or perfect indifference. Taken however singly, as we have her this evening, without any competitor, surrounded by all the luxuries and elegancies of life, she was calculated to make a speedy impression, and as she lithped and talked—and lithped and talked, now about horthes, now about houthes, Facey gradually and insensibly began to be attracted by her. At first he thought her lisp was affected, and that she ought to be whipped, but he soon got used to it, and then thought it rather pretty indeed. He presently summed up his observations by a mental repetition of the opinion he delivered as he saw her getting into the carriage at Beldon Hall, namely, that she was a good-like lass.

While all this was going on, Mr Willy Watkins, whose whole soul, as we said before, was centered in dressing and dinner giving, was taking his last survey of the dining-room, preparatory to handing it over to Lieutenant-Colonel Burlinson. It was, indeed, a grand display. There wasn't an article of plate in the house, except perhaps Willy's silver shaving-box, but what was enlisted into the service, either on the table or sideboards.

At length, having got everything most tastefully arranged on the usual principle of appearing to have twice as much money as they had, Willy took a last lingering look, and then, passing noiselessly into the passage, crowned himself with a drab wide-awake, with an eagle's feather in the parti-coloured band, and came whistling along into the drawing-room, as if unaware of any arrival.

“Ah, my dear Mrs Somerville!” exclaimed he, with well-feigned surprise, advancing gaily towards her with extended hand, “I didn't know you were come. Pray, 'scuese my not being in to receive you,” continued he, as he squeezed the pretty widow's little hand with considerable
empressement
. Mrs W. couldn't see that, he knew.

Then, without waiting for an introduction, he turned short upon Facey, with his puddingy paw, and said,

“Most happy to see you, sir,” shaking his hand as he said it. “I hope you are quite well, Mr Romford? I hope your hounds are quite well? I hope your horses are quite well?” Just as if they formed part of the family.

Romford assured him they were all quite well, and would be ready to bucket a fox for him in the mornin'. Whereupon the dreadful word fox shot through Willy's heart like a dagger, and almost deprived him of utterance.

“Why were foxes ever made?” thought he. “Confound their nasty aroma! Confound their nasty precipitation!”

Then Facey, ever anxious to do business, began sounding him about the game at Dalberry Lees: whether there were any pheasants, whether there were many hares; if there would be any harm in his looking over the place occasionally with his dog and his gun, meaning of course, might he shoot there. And while the photographer in vain endeavoured to read his wife's meaning by her looks, the waning day was suddenly extinguished by the entry of the servants with lights—lights—more lights.

This gave Mrs Watkins an opportunity of saying, that perhaps Mrs Somerville might like to see her room; which offer being joyfully accepted, the drop-scene presently fell on the first act of the Dalberry Lees drama, by Mr Watkins leading Facey off to his apartment.

It must be a great relief to a lady getting away from the forced conversation of the overture to the tranquillity of her own bedroom, there to economise and rearrange her small talk, and contemplate the coming glory—perhaps victory of dress.

On a spacious sofa, between the magnificent bed and the sparkling wood and coal fire, lay a most voluminous coloured ribboned and twilled and flounced and flowered
robe
, so puffy and distended that a little distance would have made it look like a lady reclining at her ease.

On a richly inlaid Indian work-table on the right, lay a splendid wreath of pearls, with three important pendants.

“Oh, what loves of pearls!” ejaculated Mrs Watkins, clasping her hands, thinking how she would cut Mrs Somerville down with her diamonds.

Meanwhile, Mr Watkins having got Mr Romford into the state bedroom, looked round with an air of complacency, hoping there was everything our master wanted, adding, that there was plenty of time to dress, the first gong not having sounded, and there would be half an hour after that. And, having withdrawn, Facey, who could jump into his clothes in ten minutes, thought, that as he might not get his pipe after dinner, he had better have it before. So drawing a lounging chair to the fire, he dived into his side-pocket for the material, and was presently blowing a cloud, with a grand illumination going on all around. He didn't care for the candles—not he. A most scientific roll of thunder then presently proceeded from the gong, reminding Lucy of the cavern scene in
Der Freischutz
, and noting the lapse of time to friend Facey. Having finished his pipe, he then inducted himself into his new clothes—so handsomely furnished on credit.

After a satisfactory contemplation of himself in the mirror, he at length left the elegant room; and, following the richly-patterned crimson stair-carpet down below, he presently found himself in a confluence of corners and stayers, all making for the drawing-room door. There was Mr Burlinson receiving the candle of one guest and the name of another, while a couple of footmen stood bowing and motioning the ladies to Mr Watkins's study, now made into a cloak-room for them. Mr Romford then walked into the drawing-room with the consequence of a master of hounds, combined with the air of a man having a billet for the night. The man who sleeps where he dines always has a sort of crow over the pumps and pocket-comb one, who has to turn out in the cold—snow, blow, wind, or rain, whatever may have chanced to come in the meantime. What a bore, turning out and finding the country half a foot under snow—getting a shoeful of it at starting by way of convincing one of the fact!