Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (53 page)

“I'll show you the short way through the fields, if you'll allow me now,” said Mr Sterling, putting himself a little in advance of the pack.

“Please,” said Mr Romford, who liked soft riding.

Mr Sterling then proceeded to pilot him along Buttercup Pasture, through Farmer Rickstone's fold-yard, up Bushblades Banks to the “Good Intent” inn, on the Woodberry Down Road. From thence an extensive view of the neighbouring country is obtained; Dozey Cathedral one way, Downley Castle another, Ritlington Clump a third.

“Now,” said Mr Sterling, pulling up short and addressing Mr Romford—“Now, your way is along this Holly Hill Road to Harpertown—there, you see the steeple straight before you; then ask your way to the ‘Fox and Hounds' at Mowlesley, and Mr Gallon, the landlord, will direct you to Fleckney, from whence you will have no difficulty in finding your way to Beldon Hall. So now I'll bid you good day,” continued Mr Sterling, taking off his doeskin glove and tendering his hand to our Master; adding, “I'll be glad to see you at my place overnight the next time you come to draw my cover;” adding, “we'll have that badger burrow fired, or made safe somehow.”

“Thank ye,” said Mr Romford, joining hands—“thank ye;” adding, “I'll beat up your quarters, and we'll see if we can't prevent his gettin' to Constantinople another time.” So saying the horses' heads diverged, under sky-scraping salutes from Chowey and Swig, Chowey telling Swig, as he unfurled his mouth with a grin, that, if he wasn't mistaken, he had seen that ere gent in Snoremboremshire.

They then proceeded with a greatly reduced cavalcade, which kept further diminishing by withdrawals at various way-side houses. At length Mr Romford and his men had the road to themselves, and our Master conned over the run as he went, thinking with delight of the performance of the pack. If they were not the best in England, they were not far off, he thought.

And the badger presently looking out of his door, and seeing the coast clear, retired with a grunt to his bedroom, thinking what a punishment he had given the intruder; while the fox, taking a quiet survey from the door, also trotted leisurely off without saying “good morning,” or thanking his host for his hospitality. And the fox slept that night at Rockwood Law, the next at Bowershield, and returned in due time to his old quarters in Light-thorn-rough. He didn't see any he liked better, and found that all places were more or less liable to be disturbed; Light-thorn-rough, perhaps, as little as any. So he again adopted it for better or for worse, as the saying is.

T
HE MENTION OF MINCE-PIES
in a previous chapter will have prepared the reader for the near approach of Christmas: that festive season, when children come smiling home, with long bills in their boxes to lengthen their parents' faces when unexpected and most-wonderfully-lengthened accounts come pouring in apace, and enter prising Ticks and never-dunning milliners—discarding the
persiflage
of patronage—demand their money “on or before Saturday next,” with an urgency that looks very like a near approach to bankruptcy or the workhouse. Christmas was coming!

The interchange of cupboard love was about to take place. Oyster-barrels rose pyramidically on the counters, for transmission to the country; and cock pheasants and hares went wandering about on their first and final visit to the capital, seeking for the parties to whom they were directed. Day and night became pretty much as one, and the denizens of darkness long for the light of the shires.

This laudable yearning was largely partaken in by our before-mentioned friend, Miss Betsey Shannon, who not only sighed for the sight of

but longed to see how her old friend, Lucy Glitters—afterwards Mrs Sponge—now acted the part of Mrs Somerville in the provinces. And as she had been useful to Mrs Somerville, as well in rigging out her footmen as in a variety of other ways, and, moreover, knew that Lucy was not the woman to ask her down if she did not want to have her, Miss Shannon now wrote to say that, if it would be convenient to Mr Romford and herself, she would be glad to pay them a visit at Beldon Hall. Then, as good luck would have it, the larder being pretty full, and the sport with the hounds first-rate, and Facey—perhaps, wanting someone to keep Lucy quiet when he went on his fluting excursions to Dalberry Lees, readily assented; and Lucy wrote back that they would be delighted to see Betsey down whenever she liked to come. But she said that, as they were now doing high life altogether, it would be well to abandon the name of Shannon, and adopt that of Miss Hamilton Howard for the occasion; adding, that if she wanted any clothes to support the character, she would be glad to let her have some, as, thanks to the credit of her friend, she was very well found—better, indeed, than ever she had been before.

And as Miss Shannon is now going to play a more prominent part in our story than the mere livery-hunter and commission agent of London, we will here introduce her more fully to the reader.

Miss Shannon was now just turned five-and-twenty, her birthday being on the 1st of December, though she looked almost younger,—an extremely healthy constitution and active habits enabling her to withstand the united effects of bad air and rouge. She had long been attached to the minor theatres and City places of public entertainment, where her broad, dashing style of pleasantry procured her many admirers among the counter-skippers and “elegant extracts” of those regions.

Altogether she was a most attractive little woman, almost a sort of red-and-white edition of our friend, Mrs Somerville. What with her acting, her singing, her dancing, and modelling she managed to eke out a comfortable livelihood, and pay ten shillings a week for her second-floor lodgings in Hornsey Road, Islington.

Well, Betsey was delighted when she got Lucy's letter, which she did after cutting her way home through a dense yellow fog from Highbury Barn; and she jumped and danced about the room with such emphasis, that she awoke a most respectable clerk in a no less establishment than the Bank of England itself, who thought the house was on fire, and rushed to the first floor or drawing-room window, calling frantically for an “escape.”

Having arranged matters, as well with the manager at Highbury Barn as with the proprietor of the Sir John Barleycorn Music and Dancing Saloon in Whitechapel, she presently left London, with three sovereigns in her pocket, and as light a heart in her bosom as ever accompanied fair lady into the country. And as the snorting engine swept the train out of town—passing from streets to crescents, from crescents to semidetached villas, and from semi-detached villas to the magnificence of real ones, disclosing as it went real fields, real cows, real sheep, real barns, real everything,—her spirits rose to exuberance, and she thought she would never come back; she would rather be a dairy-maid in the country, than have to dance for her dinner in town. And as she passed from station to station, her feelings became fortified in that line. The country was the place for her.

At length, after repeated stops, hisses, and starts, our fair friend found herself before a station that, somehow or other, she thought she had heard of before; and diving into her lavender-coloured kid glove, she produced a little yellow-and-white striped ticket, bearing the duplicate of the name, Firfield—“London to Firfield”—upon it.

“Oh, guard! porter! here! let me out!” cried she, protruding half her person through the window; let me out.” And forthwith a sturdy porter was at the door complying with her request.

“Noo then! where are ye for?” demanded a coatless, pillar-post-shaped man, with a pig-jobber-like whip in his right hand. “Noo then! where are ye for?”

It was Independent Jimmy asking Miss Howard where she was going.

“Beldon Hall,” replied our friend in a clear, musical voice.

It was lucky that our friends at Beldon Hall had the prudence to get Miss Shannon to change her name to something more aristocratic, for if she had gone into Doubleimupshire under her proper patronymic, she would never have been noticed, and might very likely have damaged the whole Beldon Hall concern. “Betsey Shannon! What a name!” people would have said. “What sort of people can those Romfords be, to associate with such a person.” Then her manners, though not offensive, were rather forward, particularly with gentlemen; and altogether she required a little toning down. This, then, she had in the much-coveted name of Howard; for what would have been downright vulgarity in a Shannon, became the easy manners of high life with a Howard.

And as people are not easily stopped if they want a thing—the standing orders of society being quite as capable of suspension as those of the Houses of Parliament—so the fact of Mrs Somerville not having returned anyone's call did not at all prevent the same parties coming again to pay their respects to Miss Howard.

Facey, we may observe, kept the gravelled ring before the front-door well raked, and could tell at a glance when there had been callers—carriage callers or equestrian callers; but as he could not control Miss Howard's movements, he laid it down as an invariable rule that callers should have nothing but sherry and ship-biscuits when they came. Sherry and ship-biscuits, he said, were delicacies enough for anybody. He had no intention of having his dinner ate up at luncheon time by a party of ravenous callers. And sherry and ship-biscuits being more than our Master allowed at first, the ladies presently improved upon his liberality by getting Mrs Mustard to make a currant-cake as well. Then, at the gentle tinkle of the bell, old Balsam used to appear in his gaudy livery, bearing a fine silver salver studded with beautiful crystal and china accompaniments, making altogether a most respectable appearance. And as the ship-biscuits did not perceptibly diminish, and Mr Romford cared little about the sherry—Lord Lovetin finding that—he gradually became reconciled to the ringing of his bell and the dirtying of his door-steps, so long as he himself was not personally intruded upon. Moreover, he was out hunting when the great runs upon the house took place; and the ladies having found out the trick about the gravel, generally had it raked before he came home.

And Mrs Somerville being a good judge as to who were in earnest and who were philanderers, very soon saw that young Joe Large was very favourably disposed towards our auburn-haired friend, and therefore judiciously left them alone while she herself went about her domestic affairs, or peeped through the keyhole at them, as the case might be.

Still the boy was slow, being constantly cautioned by his mother to beware of the ladies, who, she said, had very little conscience in love affairs, and though he came pretty often, still Betsey could not report much progress. Dinners Mr Romford would not hear of, indeed they felt conscious they could not give them; but they both thought if they could have a little evening party, at which they could appear in ball dresses, it would be very delightful, and might either secure Large or spread the net wider to catch others. Ladies generally think if they can only show themselves in costly costume, that they will be sure to captivate the men, though they are quite mistaken in the matter. However, let that pass.

Well, the ladies both thought it would be uncommonly nice to have a little party. Oh dear, it would be so nice to have a little evening party. So easily done, too—such a charming house, such beautiful rooms, such nice losing-places. If only Mr Romford could be managed—oh dear, if they could only manage Mr Romford.

And, as good luck would have it, the chance soon came. Mr Romford's hounds had had an uncommon run from Hoyland Hill, killing in the open in Mr Hazey's country, with only Mr Stanley Sterling, himself, and Daniel Swig, up, the nutmeg grey having taken a violent fancy to scrubbing Chowey's leg against a carrier's cart, instead of pursuing the pleasures of the chase, making the man with the mouth vociferate vehemently. Then Facey, having made a sumptuous dinner off toad-in-the-hole and toasted cheese, proceeded to review the run, with a glass of gin and a pipe of tobacco, from the luxurious depths of an easy-chair, breaking out every now and then in ecstacies at the performance of some of the pack as satisfied Lucy that he was very well pleased with all he had done. Then she looked at Betsey, and Betsey looked at Facey, and, seeing his humour, Betsey arose, and going to the piano began to play his favourite air, “Jump Jim Crow.” Facey was delighted: “Jim Crow” and “Old Bob Ridley” he looked upon as the two finest efforts of the imagination, and after Miss Shannon had played “Crow” over to him three times, he went for his flute and proceeded to accompany her.

Then came the “leperous distilment” as per previous arrangement between Lucy and Betsey.

“How nice it would be to have a little music here some evening,” observed Miss Shannon, sipping her sherry negus.

“Wouldn't it!” exclaimed Lucy, as though the idea had just struck her.

“Such a nice house, and so well adapted for a thing of the sort,” continued Betsey.

“Well, but we've had a little music,” observed Facey, scrutinising them attentively; adding, “what more would you have?”

“Oh, yes, we have had music, very nice music,” replied Miss Shannon, gaily, “but rather in a selfish sort of way, you know what I meant was, to let other people hear us—‘Mrs Somerville at home,' or something of that sort, you know.”

“‘Mrs Somerville at home,'” repeated Facey—“what does that mean? Why, you're always at home, ain't you, when you're not out, ain't ye?”

“Oh, yes, but it doesn't mean that,” rejoined Lucy. “It means at home to receive visitors. It means dressing up; but then there's no occasion for you to do so. You needn't dress up unless you like.”

“Humph!” mused Facey, resuming his pipe, to consider how that would act. “Well, but is it a cock-and-hen club? I mean, are gentlemen asked as well as ladies, or is it only a lady party?”