Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (38 page)

“Not a bad-like shop,” observed Facey to Lucy, as he kept one little roving pig-eye on his hounds, the other on the house.

“No, it's not,” replied Lucy; adding, “I vote we go in and see what it's like inside;” adding, “they were all over ours, you know.”

“Too much bother,” rejoined Facey; “the women will be all astir.”

“Oh, never mind that,” said Lucy. “Let's see what they are like.”

Facey still kept holding his hounds on, more for the sake of making a survey of the place, than in any expectation of their hitting off the scent. At last he came to a swing cattle-gate, across a widish brook at the far end of the lawn; and, the country beyond not appearing inviting, he resolved to give in, hoping that Hazey might hunt the fox back into his country some other day.

“No use potterin' on after the beggar any longer,” said he, turning the reluctant Baker round, with a “Cop—come away! cop—come away!” to his hounds. “First bagman I ever hunted,” said Facey, “and it shall be the last. Do one's hounds more harm than enough.”

So saying, he kicked the Baker into a trot, and swung gaily over the green, as if to make the hounds believe he had done all he intended. He had got the Baker's back down, at all events; and would have him quiet for the next day he was wanted.

“I should like a cup of tea very much now,” said Lucy, reverting to Bill's proposal.

“Dash you and your tea! You women are always wanting tea—should go about with a kettle tacked to your saddles,” replied Romford.

“Well, I'm sure it's a very harmless beverage.”

“Harmless enough,” retorted Facey; “but it does you no good.”

“Well, there's not much feeding in it, perhaps; but, still, it's very refreshing.”

“Well, then, come and refresh yourselves,” said Facey, turning his horse's head towards the house, with a view of encountering the crinolines.

So they jogged over the greensward to the stables, Facey thinking, as he looked at his old lacklustre boots, that Lucy would have to do the decorative part of the entertainment, as he was only in very “so-so” guise. He would rather have his hot woodcocks at home, than damage his appetite by anything he might get at Hazey's. However, he would see how the land lay.

M
R
H
AZEY'S BOY
B
ILL, IN
the exercise of a wise discretion, had run back to the house to give the alarm of “Company coming! company coming!” while Mr Romford made his final caste for his fox about the place. Bill informed his beloved parents in breathless haste as they still sat at their morning meal, that i' wasn't old Muggeridge who was towling about the grounds with the rum-and-milk harriers, but no less a personage than the great Mr Romford, who, with his sister, Mrs Somerville, he believed was coming in to breakfast. He did not say that he had asked them, lest that should have been wrong, but left it to be inferred that they had invited themselves.

“Breakfast!” ejaculated Hazey, throwing down his “Times,” and glancing at his garments.

“Breakfast!” exclaimed Mrs Hazey, thinking of her cream, eggs, and honey.

“Breakfast!” repeated Miss, recollecting that she looked rather yellow as she dressed.

And away they all started on their respective reviserships. But the boy Bill, having been seen, stood his ground in the way of dress, and confined his endeavours to rousing the establishment.

“Look sharp! look sharp!” was the cry; “there's company coming! there's company coming!”

And the news flew with such electricity that when our master and Mrs Somerville rode into the stable-yard, sly Silkey the groom and a couple of helpers were on the look-out for their horses, while a lad held back the door of a loose-box for the reception of the hounds. Having dismounted and got the latter housed, Facey locked the door, and putting the key in his pocket, proceeded to assist his sister to descend from her horse. A light bound from the saddle landed her on the ground, when, having shaken out her habit, she arranged it becomingly, with a due regard to the interests of her pretty booted feet and neatly fitting trousers. In truth Lucy looked very lovely. Her smart habit showed her natural figure to advantage, and the fine fresh morning air had imparted a genial glow to her bright complexion. Her hair, too, was all right.

“Now,” said Facey to Silkey, “you give these horses half a pail of gruel and a feed of corn apiece;” adding, “and don't take the saddles off, but throw a rug over each of them:” so saying he stamped the thick of the mud sparks off his rusty Napoleons, and then proceeded to follow Lucy, who was already tripping along the gravel walk to the house.

“Rot the women,” muttered he, eyeing her; “they are never happy unless they are pokin' their noses into each other's houses. Can't possibly be hungry so soon.”

“Now, who are you goin' to ax for?” demanded he, overtaking her just as she gained the little iron wicket at the end of a well-kept gravel walk that evidently led to the front of the house.

“Oh, there's no occasion to ask for anyone,” replied Lucy; “just ring the bell; they asked us in, you know.”

“Humph,” rejoined Romford; “not so clear that they meant us to come, though.”

“Well, if they didn't, it will teach them to be more truthful another time,” replied Lucy, laughing; “besides,” added she, “this will do instead of returning their call, you know.

“Hut, oi never meant to return it,” growled Romford.

Tarring Neville now resembled a theatre at the critical moment of ringing up the curtain. Whatever bustle and confusion may have prevailed behind the scenes, all must be hushed and still at that momentous summons. So at Tarring Neville, when the ominous front door bell sounded there was an end of hurry and preparation. Basket the butler suddenly dropped from a trot to a walk; Henry the footman ceased fumbling at his coat-cuffs the breakfast tableau was recomposed, Mrs Hazey, in command of the teapot as before, while Hazey subsided, “Times” in hand, into his arm-chair, as though he had been sitting quietly at his meal, instead of having been to his dressing-room to exchange a shabby old silk frayed surtout for a smartish coatee and fancy vest.

“Mr Romford and Mrs Somerville,” now proclaimed stage-manager Tomkins, opening the breakfast-room door, when up started Hazey, laying down the “Times,” as though quite surprised and overjoyed at the announcement. He
was
rather pleased, for he was half inclined to think the Romfords wouldn't visit him, and then adieu to his chance of a deal.

“My dear Mrs Somerville, how do you do?” exclaimed he, advancing and grasping her hand fervently; adding, “let me introduce Mrs Hazey. Mrs Hazey, Mrs Somerville; Mrs Somerville, Mrs Hazey. Then, while the ladies were bobbing and curtseying and showing each other their teeth, he turned to Romford, who was making a comparison greatly in favour of Lucy, and, shaking hands with him, said, “This is indeed quite an unexpected pleasure. Up betimes this morning, I guess—early bird that gets the worm, eh?”

“Doesn't always get the fox though,” replied Facey with a chuckle.

“What! you've been hunting, have you?” exclaimed Hazey, with well-feigned surprise, ignoring the boy Bill's visit, old Muggeridge, and all the out-door proceedings. “Well,” continued he, seeing the action of the ladies' backs fast subsiding, “let me introduce Mrs Hazey. Mr Romford, my dear,” added he, “brother master of hounds; so glad to see you, Romford, you can't think,” continued he, knocking off the mister, and turning again to his guest, adding “now pray be seated and have some breakfast, and tell us all about it. Where will you sit, Mrs Somerville? Where will you sit, Mr Romford? Stay, Mrs Somerville, I'll pull the blind down, and keep the sun off your eyes,” so saying he lowered the shade, and Mrs Somerville, conscious of a healthy complexion, sat boldly down with her face to the light.

The footmen and Tompkins then came in, the former bearing a tray with a reinforcement of cups and other crockery ware, in the midst of which rose the tall form of a coffeepot, with its usual accompaniments of hot milk and sugar, together with hot toast, hot rolls, hot everything. Mr Romford took tea, and Mrs Somerville took coffee, and our master nearly knocked the bottom out of a muffin plate by leistering two layers of roll with his fork at a blow. Hazey congratulated himself that it wasn't his No.1 set when he heard it. “Rough fellow, that Romford,” thought he, eyeing his muscular arm; “strikes as if he was pronging a salmon.”

And now the usual sound of eating being established, after a careful listen at the door, Miss Anna Maria made her appearance, as if for the first time that morning, taking the chance of her breakfast things either being removed, or of Mrs Somerville not noticing them. The fact was, Miss, considering the importance of the occasion, had determined, as she glanced at herself in the cheval glass, to make a complete revision of her person, regardless of the time it would require; and so, beginning with the damask cheek, she removed the before-mentioned pallor by the slightest possible touch of rouge, and that giving satisfaction, she then proceeded to array herself in a charming
négligée
of black and violet
foullard.

Miss Hazey was a pretty, sunny, blue-eyed girl of some twenty years of age, with a terrible taste for coquetting, which she gratified in the most liberal and promiscuous way. Lawyers, doctors, curates, soldiers, sailors, all were alike to her. Indeed, her sole employment seemed to be winning men's hearts, and throwing them away. Her own was said to be equal parts steel and whalebone. Such was the young lady who now re-entered the dining-room at Tarring Neville, with the full determination of trying the force of her artillery upon the great and desirable Mr Romford. It was not every day that she had such a chance.

Miss gave a well-feigned start, as if surprised at the unexpected presence of strangers, which mamma seeing, and knowing her talent for dissimulation, seconded by exclaiming, “Oh, come in, my dear! come in! It's Mr and Mrs Romford—I beg pardon, Mr Romford and Mrs Somerville. They've been out hunting already this morning, while you, idle girl, have been dozing in bed.” Then, turning to Mrs Somerville, who was just chipping the shell of a guinea-fowl egg, she said, “This is my daughter, Anna Maria, Mrs Somerville: Mr Romford, my dear.” Whereupon Miss Anna Maria gave two of her best Brighton boarding-school curtsies, and took up a favourable position, with her back to the light, immediately opposite our master. As she unfolded her napkin, she looked deliberately at him, and thought what a queer-looking man he was,—queer eyes, queer nose, queer hair, queer altogether. “Must be rich,” thought she, “he's so ugly.” And Facey, peering at her out of the corners of his little pig eyes, thought she was just as smart a little girl as ever he had seen—uncommonly smart little girl—just his fancy of a girl, in fact. He then leistered the other layer of roll. And now Mr Hazey, wishing to know to what cause they were indebted for the honour of this early visit—especially to know how Mr Romford's hounds came to be in his country—essayed to direct the conversation into the hunting line.

“So you didn't kill the fox, you say?” observed he, reverting to Mr Romford's early-bird rejoinder; “so you didn't kill the fox, you say?”

“No,” replied Romford, “no. Fact was, I didn't care much about killin' him.”

“Must have been a good fox, though,” observed Mr Hazey; “brought you a long way out of your country, you know;” wondering whether Mr Romford had been drawing his (Mr Hazey's) outside cover, Ravensclugh Gorse, on the sly.

“No, not a bad fox,” assented Romford; “not a bad fox. Indeed, that made me less anxious to kill him. You see, we had a blank day yesterday, and I thought if I could blood a few couple of hounds with a bad fox it would keep them steady for Saturday; but, as usual, when one wants a bad fox, one gets a good 'un, and he brought us here to breakfast with you. I've left him somewhere about your place here,” added he.

“Ah, well, I'm much obliged. I'll hunt him back to you some day,” replied Mr Hazey.

“Do,” replied Mr Romford, “and kill him, if you can, in the open; but mind, don't dig him!” added he, glancing significantly at Hazey, who was rather addicted to digging.

“Oh, no! honour bright!” replied his host. “Wouldn't do such a thing for the world!”

“Wouldn't trust you,” thought our master, remembering the character Independent Jimmy gave him.

Ladies are generally better hands at talking and eating at the same time than gentlemen are. At all events, Lucy eclipsed Mr Facey in that performance; for she chattered away, while Facey, in schoolboy parlance, “let his meat stop his mouth.” She talked about the opera, and she talked about the Prince and Princess of Wales, and she talked about the Court, and she talked of great people in such a social way, that Mrs Hazey felt as if she was regularly inducted into high life. It was quite clear Mrs Somerville moved in the highest circles; and Mrs Hazey thought what an advantage it would be to her daughter if Mrs Somerville would take Anna Maria by the hand. So she smiled, and simpered, and assented to everything Mrs Somerville said, mingling her applause with judicious appliances of coffee and tea. And Lucy, being pleased with her reception, and the evident respect that was paid to her, laid herself out to be extra-agreeable, and talked very magnificently of herself and her doings, and said that though Beldon Hall was a very comfortable place, yet it wasn't so good a house as she expected to find it. And Miss Anna Maria, who always let the gentlemen digest her beauty properly before she began to exercise her arts and allurements, now seeing Mr Romford examining her attentively, just went on playing with her breakfast, exhibiting first her pretty hand, then her pretty teeth, next her pretty dimples, by a smile; until thinking he was ready for the grand assault of the tongue, she fixed the artillery of her beautiful, well-fringed blue eyes full upon him, and asked if he was fond of archery.