Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (33 page)

P
EOPLE WILL TALK TO EACH
other even up to the last moment—while some even begin before a quick-eared departing listener is well out of hearing. Mr Romford, on entering the drawing-room, now disturbed a covey of male and female inquisitives all clustered around Burke's bulky book of the Landed Gentry, as it lay open on the richly-covered side-table. We need scarcely say they were down on the letter “R”—R, for Romford—Romford, here it is!—“Romford, Francis, Abbeyfield Park, J.P., D.L., patron of three livings”—that's your man.

It seems that old Miss Mowser, who knew, or pretended to know, everything, had raised a doubt as to the identity of our hero, Miss Mowser contending that the Abbeyfield Romford was a little man with dark hair, whereas this Mr Romford was said to be a big one with red or gingery hair. Not that she had ever seen either Mr Romford, but—and here her narrative was interrupted by the entry of the big Mr Romford himself. Hush! was then the word. The book closed, and parties shied away from the table as if they had not been looking at it, but at “Ye Manners and Customs of the English” instead. Mr Watkins then advanced to do the duties of induction by presenting some of the non-hunting portion of his patrons—Mr Romford, Mr Lolley; Mr Romford, Mrs Dobbinson; Mr Romford, Mr Dust; and one gave him a bow, and another a hand, and a third both bow and hand. Then some sportsmen came wriggling up; men whom he ought to know, but, somehow, could not identify without their coats and their caps; and Facey addressed one man as Silver, who he ought to have called Salver; and another, whose grandfather had been a hatter, by his nickname of Mr Felt, instead of that of Mr Finch. Altogether he was very uncomfortable, and felt he was making a mull of it. Why the deuce did he come? He had plenty to eat at home—drink too. He didn't know what to do; whether to stand by the fire or sit on the sofa, or take up a paper and pretend to read.

Lucy, on her part, was as cool and collected as a handsome, well-dressed woman who has received the unanimous plaudits of the gods of the Victoria Theatre might be expected to be, conscious that the ladies must admire her new dress, whatever they thought of her figure and complexion. The gentlemen, she knew, would admire those and her figure not the less for being finely developed. So she twisted and turned, and smiled, and showed her fine shoulders and her fine teeth, and laid herself out for general admiration. And a good deal of admiration she got, much to Miss Watkins's mortification, who did not fancy being cut out in that way in her papa's own house. But she would try if she couldn't upset Mrs Somerville from Beldon Hall. So she quietly bided her time.

At length Mr Burlinson the butler's large white waistcoat was seen looming up the room, without the customary convoy of guests, and Mr Watkins, who had previously requested friend Facey to take his wife into dinner, having finished a platitude he was enunciating about the state of the moon, now presented his great red arm to Mrs Somerville and led her off to the radiant apartment illuminated with the joint efforts of fire, candles, and oil. It was a perfect blaze of light. Mrs Somerville having trod the passage, entered the dining-room with measured step, like a Tragedy Queen, and subsided in her seat on Mr Watkins's right.

Then Dirtiest of the Dirties' lessons operated favourably; for Facey, having seen Lolley, and Dobbinson, and Dust, the man whom he called Silver (but Salver), Felt, and all duly passed off, brought up the rear with Mrs Watkins: our master inwardly hoping, as he crossed what he called the vale of the entrance-hall, that—in schoolboy parlance—her meat might presently stop her mouth. So they sailed majestically up the spacious dining-room to the top of the table, where, by one of those masterly manœuvres that ladies understand so much better than men, Facey found Cassandra Cleopatra spreading her napkin over her voluminous dress on his right, just as Mrs Watkins subsided in her great arm-chair on the left. “Rot it,” thought Romford, “but I shall be talked to death between you.” He then picked the bun out of his napkin, and spreading as much of the latter over his legs as his fair friend's dress allowed him to do, he took a glance down the table to see what there was in the way of what he called “grub.”

“
Humph!
I thought it had been a dinner,” observed he, in tone of disappointment, to his hostess; “but there seems nothin' but fruit and things, like a flower-show.”

“Dinner
à la Russe
,” replied Mrs Watkins, thinking he was joking, at the same time handing him a finely-embroidered French bill of fare.

“Ah, there's nothin' like a good cut at a round of beef when one's hungry,” observed Facey, laying it down again.

A servant, with two plates of soup, then asked him whether he would take thick or clear turtle?

“Thick,” replied Facey, thinking it would be the most substantial of the two.

The servant then set it down before him.

“Here! give us both!” exclaimed he, seeing how little there was in the plate he had got. He then took the other and placed it in front of him until he was done with the first. And he supped and slushed just like one of his own hounds.

“What's this stuff?” now demanded Facey, as servant offered him a green glass of something.

“Punch, sir,” replied the man.

“Set it down,” replied Romford, continuing his soup. Having finished both plates of turtle, he quaffed off the glass, and was balancing himself on his chair, raking the guests fore and aft, and considering whether mock-turtle or real turtle was best, when his lisping friend on his right interrupted his reverie by asking him if he was fond of flowers.

“Whoy, yes,” replied Facey, carelessly, “they are well enough in their way,” adding, “and I'm fond of hounds, but I don't like havin' them in the dinner-room.”

Miss saw she had made a wrong cast, so did not follow up the inquiry by pointing out the beauty of the heaths and geraniums in the blue and silver vase before her, as she intended doing.

Facey then got some fish, not so much as he liked, but still he would take it on account. So, helping himself copiously to lobster sauce—taking nearly half the boat—he proceeded to attack his turbot with great avidity.

Then came some hock and white hermitage; next, some in comprehensible side-dishes, or rather
entrées
, for, of course, they never got on the table at all; then some sparkling Moselle and Burgundy, followed by more anonymous viands, of all of which Facey partook greedily, not knowing but that each chance might be the last. And when he had about ate to repletion, and was balancing himself as before on his chair, a servant came and offered him some mutton, which he couldn't resist, saying, as he took it, “I wish you'd brought me that at first.” Next came the “sweet and dry,” to which he paid the same compliment, of wishing it had come before, observing confidentially to Mrs Watkins, that he thought champagne was just the best white wine there was, adding, that Lucy and he managed a bottle between them almost every hunting day. Meanwhile Miss Cassandra, baffled with her flowers, but anxious to be doing, thought to ingratiate herself by asking him a pertinent question connected with the chase; namely, whether he liked ladies hunting?

“No—hate it,” replied he, with a frown and an angry shake of his broad shoulders.

Miss was glad of that, for she was something like Mrs Rowley Rounding, better adapted for driving than riding. So she said she thought ladies had no business out hunting.

“Dangerous enough for the men,” replied Facey, filling his mouth full of potato; adding, “besides, they're always gettin' in the way.”

Having finished his mutton, they now offered him some turkey. Facey eyed it intently, wishing it, too, had come before. “Well—no,” said he, after a pause, “ar can't eat any more!” So saying, he dived his hands into his trousers pockets, and stretched out his legs, as if he was done. But his persecution was not over yet.

After another round of “sweet or dry,” the game began to circulate—grouse, woodcocks, partridges, snipes—to all of which offers our master returned a testy negative. “No! no!” exclaimed he, upon a third tease, “ar've had enough.”

Still there were the sweets to come—sweets without end—sweets in every sort of disguise—for Lubbins was great in that line. And they baited Facey with creams and jellies, and puffs and pastry, till he was half frantic.

“A man should have ten stomachs instead of one,” muttered he, “to stand such work.”

He thought the dinner never would be done: he had never been so tormented before. If that was high life, he didn't want any more of it. Give him his victuals when he wanted them—what he wanted, and no more. Rot the fellow! there he was again!

Footman
(with a silver dish).—“Little
fondieu
, sir?”

Facey
.—“No, ye beggar! I don't want any more!” growled he.

And, if it had not been for the look of the thing, Miss would quite as soon that our hero had not been so interrupted, for it interfered greatly with the progress of her proceedings. Whenever she thought she was what Facey would call well settled to the scent, a servant was sure to come and put her out. She wanted to know if he liked music—she wanted to know if he liked dancing—she wanted to know if he liked archery.

At length there were symptoms of a lull. The chopped cheese having made its circuit, was duly followed by Port wine, Beaujolais, Badminton cup, bitter and sweet ales; and Facey began to feel a little more comfortable. His roving pig-eyes raked either side of the table—now glancing at Lolly, now at Miss Mowser, now at Felt, now at Salver, now at Lucy, and anon at Mrs Watkins. Then they reverted to his fair neighbour on his right. “Good-looking lass,” thought he, examining her minutely behind. “Good head and neck, good shoulders;” just as he would look at a horse. And at that moment a thought struck him that she might be his——

“Cream or water ice, sir?” now asked a footman.

“Who said I wanted either?” growled Facey, just as he would to a shopkeeper who asked him, “What's the next article, sir?”

Miss, who thought that ices made her nose red, declined any also; and, passing her napkin across her rosy lips, she prepared for a little probing.

“Is Beldon Hall comfortable?” lisped she.

“Oh, yes,” replied Facey, “comfortable enough; more room than we want, a good deal.”

“It's a good thing to have plenty of room,” lisped the lady.

“Not if you've to fix it,” replied Facey.

“Is Abbeyfield large?” asked Miss.

“Tol-lol,”, replied Facey. “Make up twenty or five-and-twenty beds, p'r'aps.”

“Indeed!” lisped Miss. “That's a good many.”

“Master of hounds must be prepared for chance visitors,” observed he. “Never know how many you'll sit down to dinner till the day comes.”

Miss thought she would like that.

“Is there a good neighbourhood?”

“Much the same as elsewhere;” adding, “people all get sucked up to London, now-a-days.”

“London's a charming place!” ejaculated Miss Watkins; “but I never can get par and mar to go there.”

“I don't think so,” replied our master. “Give me the country—give me huntin', and shootin', and fishin',” added he; “and oi'l give moy share of Lunnon to anyone who likes it.”

Just then a persecution of fruit commenced—pineapple, grapes, and Jersey pears arrived—thus making a break in the conversation, and removing the occasion of an argument on the London point. Miss wanted to coincide, if she could; and, luckily, a most fortunate subject came to her aid—she touched the right chord at last: “Was Mr Romford musical?”

“Very!” replied Facey, brightening up; “play the flute beautiful!”—[Of all broken-winded, asthmatical
artistes
, Facey Romford was the most dreary and forlorn; still he flattered himself, if he had set up as a professor, he would have made a great fortune!] “Very,” replied he. “Play the flute beautiful,” was the answer he gave to Miss Watkins's inquiry.

“Indeed!” rejoined she, smiling. “I wish you would come and accompany me sometimes.”

“Well,” said he, “oi'l do that with pleasure.”

“Can you play Blumenthal's
Prière des Matelots
?”

“No; but oi can play ‘Dixie's Land,' ‘Old Bob Ridley,' and a heap of other pop'lar airs. Nobody knows what flute-playing really is, who hasn't heard me.”

And the science of “eating made easy” having been further developed by Burlinson helping them all round to a glass of wine and offering them another, an ominous lull suddenly took place in the conversation, and all the guests arose simultaneously—the gentlemen standing a pace or two back, while the ladies extricated their enormous crinolines from under the table. Then, the door being opened by the obsequious host, Mrs Somerville sailed out of the room, with the same stately air with which she entered it; and, after a little of the usual mock-modesty about each not going first, Mrs Watkins at length got the whole party collected, and drove them before her like a flock of sheep. And, having returned them back into the radiant drawing-room, she devoted herself to the development of her Beldon Hall friend; while the gentlemen closed up at the table, to see what they could make of old Facey. Lucy played and sang in the drawing-room, and Facey talked about hunting in the dining one, acquitting themselves with considerable ability.

The ladies thought Mrs Somerville would be pretty, if it wasn't for her affected manner; and Facey delivered a lecture to the men on the character and habits of the fox, very much in the style of a gamekeeper. Though they might think his manner queer, they couldn't gainsay his facts.