Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (35 page)

“Good mornin', Miss,” replied Facey, taking and squeezing it, adding, “I declare you look quite bewitchin' in this fine new thingumbob,” taking hold of it as he spoke.

Miss smiled, and showed her pretty pearly teeth, fresh from the application of the dentifrice; and while Facey was busy staring and turning a compliment, Mrs Dust's unlucky maid opened the green-baized door communicating with the back stairs, and spoilt the production. Miss then gave a whisk of her crinoline, and the two concluded the descent of the staircase together. On entering the dining-room, they found the heads of the house busily engaged superintending the final arrangements of the table,—marshalling the plate, adjusting the flower vases, pointing out the position for the egg stands, and the places for the toast, the twists, the tea cakes—the light artillery generally.

“Good morning, my dear Mr Romford,” exclaimed Mrs Watkins, advancing gaily and tendering her hand to our master, quite pleased to see him and her smiling daughter arriving so amicably together.

“Good morning, Romford: how are you?” exclaimed Willy, now seizing Facey's hand in the hail-fellow-well-met of a brother fox-hunter; adding “here's a fine day—hope there'll be a good scent.”

“Oh, yes, and a good fox, too,” rejoined Mrs Watkins.

“Hope so,” said Facey; adding “I'll give a good account of him if there is.”

“Do,” exclaimed Willy; “in ‘Bell's Life' and the ‘Field.'”

“Hut! you and ‘Bell's Life,'” growled Facey in disgust.

The large richly-chased silver Queen's-patterned teakettle now came hissing into the room, with its corresponding teapot, sugar-basin, and cream ewers, and simultaneously an antique melon-pattern coffeepot, with similar accompaniments, alighted at the low end of the table. Honey, jellies, jams, then took up positions at regular intervals in support of the silver cow-mounted butter-boats, and next long lines of cakes, muffins, buns, rolls, toasts, filled up the interstices.

A Westphalia ham, a Melton pie, and a
pâté de foie gras
mounted the plate-garnished sideboard, just as Mrs Somerville came sailing in, and the first ring was heard at the front door bell.

Mrs Watkins, having greeted Mrs Somerville warmly, hoping she had slept well and not been disturbed by the wind, then backed her into her overnight seat by her husband, and, sailing up the room, installed herself in her own chair, with Facey on her right again and Cassandra next to him, just as Burlinson brought up the first comers, in the persons of young Brogdale, Mr Tuckwell and Mr Horsington, who, after smirking and smiling, subsided into seats and began eating as if they had not tasted food for a week. Some people never miss a show meet.

Ring—ring—ring—ring; ring—ring—ring—ring—ring; ring—ring—ring—ring—ring—ring
then went the bell, each particular man seeming to think it necessary to ring for himself, though the door was yet open for his predecessor. Then whips of all sorts clustered together, and pyramids of hats and caps rose in the passage; and the cry was still “They come—they come!” Gayslap, and Rumball, and Botherton, and Brown, and West, and young Felt, and old Muggleswick, and we don't know who else besides.

Great was the variety of hunting costume, great the run on the cups and saucers to supply the behests of the wearers. “Cream, if you please.” “Have you got any sugar?” “May I trouble you for the salt?” Then arose a surge of mastication that was quite opposed to the idea of the parties having breakfasted before. It was very much a repetition of the Pippin Priory performance, only the appointments were finer and grander. Mrs Watkins had no idea of being outdone: only let her know what the Larges had, and she would soon get something better. If they had had a boar's head, Mrs Watkins would have had a bull's or a buffalo's.

Facey, though not quite happy, was yet far more comfortable than he had been overnight, or when he run the gauntlet of inquisitive eyes as he made his way up the breakfast-room at Pippin Priory. Here he sat somewhat like a gentleman taking his ease in a penny chair in Hyde Park, having the population paraded before him, and if the servants would only have let him alone, he would have done pretty well; but either the butler persecuted him with buns, or the footman teased him with toast, or Miss lisped something that he couldn't understand, and was obliged to ask her to say over again, so that the act of deglutition proceeded slowly and irregularly. He was accustomed to swallow his breakfast like a foxhound. All he wanted was to get it down, and then pocket a crust for future want, and be off.

Meanwhile more gentlemen came stamping and clanking in from all quarters, in red coats, and green coats, and black coats; in white boots, and brown boots, and black boots, all apparently ravenous and settling to the viands as soon as, having bobbed to the ladies, they could get seated at the table. Some stuck to the sideboard, trying the noyeau, the
crême de Vanille,
the
parfait amour,
the cherry brandy, and so on. The Watkinses didn't give champagne, they were told it wasn't fashionable. Sip, sup, slop, clatter, patter, clatter, patter, was the order of the day. More tea, more toast, more coffee, eggs, muffins, and butter. Many people will give away any amount in victuals, from whom you could not get a penny in cash if it was ever so.

At length there was a lull; some stuck out their legs, others began exploring their mouths with their toothpicks, some again arose and began looking about the room at the various family pictures, Mrs Watkins in a green satin dress, Miss in a yellow silk one, Willy in a hunt coat, Willy in a dress coat, Willy in a shooting coat. Then there was a move to the window. The hounds had just come, attended by the usual cavalcade, and Facey rushed to see what sort of equilibrium the servants presented. All seemed right.

There was Daniel—the Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale's Daniel—sitting erect on that uncomfortable-actioned horse Oliver Twist; there was Chowey—insinuating Chowey—relaxing and contracting his extraordinary proboscis as if he was going to kiss all creation; and there was the strong persevering man who cleaned horses, riding that noble long-tailed brown horse Bounding Ben, whose only fault was that he could not be relied upon for bounding. Altogether a most respectable looking party, and greatly indebted to Tick. Then as Miss was lisping her admiration of the establishment to Mr Romford, the hum of conversation was interrupted by her mamma rushing wildly up the room exclaiming,—

“Oh, Mr Romford! oh, Mr Watkins! oh, Mr Romford! I
am
so shocked—I
am
so distressed—I hardly know what to do. I wrote to that tiresome Mr Castangs to send us a fox—a Quornite, if he could—and there's none come!—and there's none come! Was there ever anything so provoking!—was there ever anything so provoking! Oh, what
shall
we do, Mr Watkins?—what
shall
we do, Mr Romford?” continued Mrs Watkins, appealing imploringly first to one and then to the other.

Willy, of course, didn't know what to do, and Facey was too disgusted to answer the question; in addition to which, a giggle of laughter ran through the room, showing the position was appreciated. So, looking at his watch, and seeing it was a few minutes past time he gladly tendered his adieux, hurrying out of the room, exclaiming to Mrs Somerville as he got to the door, “I say, Lucy, mind, pork chops and smashed potatoes for dinner at five!” He then swung gaily into the hall, got his hat, and made straight for his horse in the crowd. The Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale's Daniel then saluted him with an aerial sweep of his cap, and Chowey, relaxing his proboscis, followed suit.

Mr Castangs having disappointed our friends, there was no occasion for Mr Romford to indulge in the usual make-believe draw round Dalberry Lees; so, getting on Pilot, he trotted quietly over Amberwicke Meadows, and, running the hounds through Walton Wood, passed on to Westdale Park.

But though the portly owner, Mr Banknewton, was an ardent supporter of the hunt, and always made a show of insisting upon his keeper having foxes; yet, not having notice, and of course relying upon Mrs Watkins supplying the wants of the day, his fox was not ready any more than the other. So Mr Romford passed on from hall to house, and from hill to vale, until he got entirely out of his stop; without, however, having exactly a blank day, for Chowey whipped a very fine fox off a hedge-row on Mr Mitford's farm at Ripple Mill, which immediately went to ground in a well-accustomed breeding earth behind the house.

It is, however, but justice to Mr Castangs to state that he had not been indifferent to his good patron Mrs Watkins's interests; for, when Independent Jimmy came with the melon frame to take Mrs Somerville back to Beldon Hall, the fox was seen sitting in his airy trellis-work box beside Jimmy on the driving seat. It had been carried past by the thoughtless guard of the 9 a.m. railway train. Better, however, that he should carry the fox past than the pea-soup. Mrs Watkins, however, determining not to profit by the occurrence, begged Mrs Somerville to take the fox back with her to Beldon Hall; which our fair friend consenting to do, and all things being at length ready, after a good deal of kissing and hugging, the ladies got parted; and Lucy and Dirty, being duly ensconced in their vehicle, drove away, leaving the late lively Dalberry Lees to relapse into its accustomed quiet. Dirty, we may add, had made rather a somewhat profitable visit of it, having picked a pearl and ruby ring off Mr Watkins's dressing-table, a gold thimble out of Miss Watkins's work-box, and extracted seven-and-sixpence from a drawer in the housekeeper's room, which none but herself would ever have suspected of holding a halfpenny.

W
HEN
M
R
F
ACEY
R
OMFORD RETURNED
to Beldon Hall after his visit to Dalberry Lees, he found what ought to have converted the nearly blank day there into a splendid triumph; namely, the unfortunate bag fox, now located in his own entrance hall. Facey got a whiff of what Mr Watkins would call his “aroma,” almost as soon as he opened the front door; but never dreaming of such a thing as a fox being in the house, he just chucked his hat and whip at random in the dusk on to the accustomed table near the screen behind which he kept his rake, and was making onwards, thinking of his pork chops and smashed potatoes, when a scratching noise arrested his attention on the other side of the spacious entrance. Facey stopped, and in the evening gloom the apparition of a new trellis-work cage stood in bold relief against the carved back of an old oak chair.

“Do believe it's a fox,” muttered Romford. “Can be nothing but a fox,” added he, making up to it, and looking in, as the unmistakeable scent greeted his nose. “It is a fox!” exclaimed he, wondering how it came there. He then called for a candle. Dirtiest of the Dirty presently came tripping along, with a thick-wicked tallow, in a block-tin candlestick, in her hand; and Romford, flourishing it over the cage, caught sight of the parchment label, and read,—

in the most elegant hand, added at the bottom.

“Humph!” muttered he, “this is a pretty present for a master of hounds to receive. S'pose they'll be sendin' me a colley dog or a pipin' bullfinch next. May mean it for kindness; s'pose they do,” continued he, thinking of the white shoulders; “but in reality it's anything else. Never hunted a bag fox in my life,” said he, scratching his head. “Should be 'shamed to hunt a bag fox. What would life be without foxes?” continued Facey, now lowering the candle, and looking into the cage to examine his present more minutely. Reynard, half timid, half savage, made for a corner, disclosing, however, enough of his proportions to let Facey see he was a fine one,—rather light-coloured along the back, with a full brush and a grizzleyish head. “Wonder what sort of mouth he's got?” continued Facey, making for the table, whereon lay his hunting whip, and returning to stir the fox up with it. “Snap!” He seized the stick with an energy that made Facey thankful it wasn't his thumb, disclosing, as he snapped, a set of slightly failing but still very serviceable-looking teeth. “Good fox, very,” said Facey, wondering where he came from. “Highlands, of course,” added he, shrugging up his high shoulders, well knowing he did nothing of the sort. “Well,” mused he, “this is the way to bring fox hunting to an end. Steal each other's foxes, and then we shall have nothin' to hunt. Bad work, very,” muttered he, “when it comes to this.” And if it hadn't been for the fair daughter, Facey would have abused Watkins right well. As it was, he let off his steam by abusing the sham-fox system generally, declaring he would rather hunt with a pack of rabbit-beagles on foot, than condescend to such work. “A rat in a barn, with a terrier, is worth two of it,” said he.

And he was half inclined to open the box and liberate the fox at the door; and nothing but the fear of his being ignominiously nipped up by some passing cur prevented his doing so. Facey, therefore, adjourned the consideration of the question what to do with him until after the discussion of the sumptuous fare he had ordered in the morning. So he now proceeded to his bed-room to divest himself of his hunting attire, and assume the easier clothes of the evening. Then, old Dirty having the repast ready at the appointed time, Dirtiest of the Dirty resumed her waiting avocation; while, between chops and cheese, Lucy enlightened Mr Romford as to the misfortunes of the bag fox, and Mrs Watkins's anxiety for the notification of the disappointment. Lucy had told Mrs Watkins that she did not think her brother would have anything to do with a bagman; but Mrs Watkins was positive the other way, asserting that a fox was a fox; adding, that surely it was much better to have one in a box ready for use, than to be at the trouble of searching and prowling about in a wood, without, perhaps, finding one after all.