Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (54 page)

“Oh, certainly, a few men,—couldn't have a party without them, you know.”

“And do ye give them anything?” asked he.

“Oh, just a little tea and coffee,” replied Lucy.

“Tea and coffee,” repeated Facey, thinking that would not do much for him.

“P'r'aps a sandwich and a glass of sherry before they go away,” added she.

“Sandwich and a glass of sherry,” muttered Facey—“sandwiches and a glass of sherry,” repeated he, thinking the latter would not cost anything. “Might have a rabbit-poie and a cheese,” suggested he, thinking they would be cheaper than ham-sandwiches.

“Oh, but people don't eat cheese of an evening,” replied Lucy only light things—confectionery, and such like.”

“Humph! good things at any time, I think,” replied Romford, who was a great man for cheese—good, stiff, leathery sort of stuff he used to indulge in, too.

“And what do you do then?” asked he.

“Oh, just look at each other and talk—ask Mrs Brown if she's seen Mrs Green, or Mr Black if he's heard from Mr White lately.”

“What next?” asked Mr Romford.

“Oh, well then, when you've got a good boiling you begin to let them simmer off to cards or something. Perhaps the best way will be to begin with a little music—Mr Romford and you can open with ‘Old Bob Ridley,' or any other tune; then you, Betsey, can accompany yourself on the guitar, after which we could begin to pair people off to play and sing together, or let them wander about the house and do as they like.”

“Don't let them go into my bed-room!” exclaimed Facey, who had no fancy for having his valuable wardrobe or expensive toilette table exposed.

“Oh, no, lock the door,” replied Lucy—“lock the door—lock all places up that we don't mean them to go into.”

“And you're sure they won't make me make a speech, or anything of that sort?” inquired Facey, anxiously.

“Oh, no,” replied Lucy, “nothing of that sort—quite a free-and-easy—a ladies' entertainment, in short. The master of the house may wander about just as if he were one of the guests.”

“Well, then, oi'll wander off to bed,” said Facey, rising and lighting himself a candle, observing to Lucy, as he shook hands with her, “oi think you'd better consider about the rabbit-poie and the cheese—come cheaper than ham, oi'm sure.” So saying, he rolled out of the room. And as the door closed, and his slipshod feet were heard retreating along the passage, the ladies rose from their chairs, clapping their hands and jumping for joy at the idea of having an “A
T
H
OME
.” They were perfectly astonished at their own success. Never thought our Master would come in so easily. They little thought how much he was influenced by the idea of the fair lisper at Dalberry Lees forming one of the little musical party. The ladies then thought they had better clench the consent by sending out a few invitations; and opening a pack of “at home” cards that they had providentially had engraved and sent down by book-post from London, they commenced filling in the names—

—to the extent of some ten or a dozen, which they enclosed in superfine envelopes, sealed with the “Turbot-on-its-tail” seal, and told Dirtiest of the Dirty to take them to the lodge to meet the pedestrian postman in the morning. This done, they retired to rest, Betsey dreaming that she brought young Large to book before they had got half through the evening, when other gentlemen came pouring in apace, until she was perfectly overwhelmed with offers. Mrs Somerville, too, having then recently received a copy of Crow's “Illustrated Manual of Mourning Fashion,” dreamt that she was so captivating in a Clotilde tulle evening dress, with its diamond-shaped bouillons, crossed with straps of satin, that she wrote off and ordered one the next morning without further to-do, and also a rich Zingaree Lyons velvet cloak for Miss Hamilton Howard, both, of course, to be sent to the care of the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Lovetin, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire.

I
T WAS A GOOD ARRANGEMENT
of Mrs Somerville's pitching her party to the key-note of an “At home,” they are at once such elastic and compressible entertainments. If nobody came, she was still “At home;” if half the county came, she was there also. An “At home” may mean anything—anything except a dinner. It may be merely a conjuror, it may be a magic lantern, it may be tea and turn out, it may be tea and Terpsichore, it may be a carpet dance, it may be a quiet evening and a little music, or it may be a ball and supper. It pledges itself to nothing. Still, it has this inconvenience, that unless an answer is specifically requested through the medium of those talismanic letters “R.S.V.P.,” half the recipients of cards don't answer them, thinking it just a sort of open thing to be gone to or not as they feel inclined on the evening of the day. The absence of the letters is rather indicative of its not making much matter whether the guest comes or not. Mrs Somerville, therefore, obviated this by having the “R.S.V.P.” on her invitations, which, coupled with the novelty of anything being given at Beldon Hall, caused a great sensation throughout the country. There was no fear of any refusals, or of the invitations not being responded to. There was no hunting in Burke or Hart's Army List, to see who Mrs Somerville was—everything was taken for granted. As soon as the first surprise had subsided, the note-paper was produced, and the answers becomingly arranged. Mr and Mrs Joseph Large, and Mr J. Bolingbroke Large, had the honour of accepting Mrs Somerville's polite invitation, &c. Mr and Mrs Hazey, Miss Hazey, and Mr William Hazey, had much pleasure, &c., Miss Hazey thinking the party was made for her. Mr and Mrs Watkins, and Miss Watkins, had great pleasure, &c., Miss nothing doubting that the party was made for her.

Others followed quickly, the Blantons, the Pyefinches, the Cramberledges, the Ellerbys, the Baker-Bensons, the Brogdales, the Bigmores, all coming, and some asking to be allowed to bring friends, Mrs Dust pleading for a nephew, Mrs Lolly asking for the addition of a lady. Then out went more cards, and more cards still, in such numbers that if Mrs Somerville had not done old Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent. out of a hundred pounds' worth of shares in the Half-Guinea Hat Company, the outlay for postage stamps would have been rather inconvenient. Then came the consideration of feeding the multitude.

Old Dirty could roast and boil, but as to anything like ornamental dishes, still less confectionery, it was wholly and totally out of the question. She candidly said she couldn't do it. She, however, half solved the difficulty by suggesting that her friend Mrs Carraway, the confectioner of Hardingford, could be had over for a few days, who would be able to set out a supper fit for a prince to partake of.

“That old thing,” said Betsey to Mrs Somerville, “may be all very well in her way, but I should doubt very much her being able to set out anything superior, and in all probability she will charge you quite as much for a tenth-rate thing as a good confectioner would for a first; so why not have a first-rate one, and enjoy the credit of it?”

“Well,” replied Mrs Somerville, “there's something in that only,” added she, after a pause, “where is one to get the superior article?”

“London, to be sure,” rejoined Betsey; “London's the place to get everything. Get lions, tigers, unicorns, elephants, temples, pagodas, palaces,—all the skill and beauty of the most practised hands in each department of the sugary art.”

“Ah, but how about Mr Romford?” sighed Mrs Somerville.

“Ah, Mr Romford, indeed!” ejaculated Betsey, recollecting his rabbit-pie-and-cheese proposal. “Well, that is a difficulty,” added she. “Couldn't make him believe that old Dirty had made them, could we?” asked she, after a pause.

“Oh, no; he's far too sharp for that,” replied Mrs Somerville. “Knows every ounce of everything that comes into the house, and everything that goes out of it, too. One would think he had nothing a year, paid quarterly, instead of thirty thousand from land, and I don't know what from other sources.”

“You don't say so!” exclaimed Betsey, who hadn't heard of such money. “Well, but if it didn't cost him anything he wouldn't mind, perhaps, would he?” suggested Miss Shannon.

“Well, I don't know that he would,” replied Mrs Somerville “but the thing is how to do it.”

“I think I have it,” replied Miss Shannon.

“How?” asked Mrs Somerville.

“Well, then, you see, as we are only lodgers, as the Irishman said when they told him the house was on fire, I think we may as well make hay while the sun shines; and with my fine new name and aristocratic connections, there can be no difficulty in my ordering whatever we like, and telling Mr Romford that I stand Sam for the occasion.”

“No more there will!” exclaimed Mrs Somerville, delighted at the proposal.

“Have the things directed to me, you know—‘Miss Hamilton Howard, or Mrs Hamilton Howard, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire.'”

“Capital!” exclaimed Mrs Somerville, clapping her pretty taper-fingered hands; “excellent, indeed. But we had better have in the Lovetin title, or they may take us for some of the smaller fry, and hesitate to execute the order.”

“Well, I'd have it in mildly, then,” replied Miss Shannon. “Say, ‘at the Lord Lovetin's, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire;' not ‘at the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Lovetin's, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire,' or they may think we are vulgar people unaccustomed to the nobility. They'll soon refer to the Peerage, if they have any doubts, and give him all his honours themselves.”

“Then who should we give our valuable custom to?” asked Mrs Somerville.

“Oh, Fizzer, by all means. Fizzer has unlimited means, and can execute the largest order off-hand with the greatest ease. I know one of his genteel young people, who says they do business in the most liberal, confiding way,—never suspecting anybody with a handle to his name, or seeming to think it possible to be imposed upon.”

“That's the man for us!” exclaimed Mrs Somerville.

They then discussed the form of the Fizzer order.

“‘Miss Hamilton Howard presents her compliments to Mr Fizzer,'” suggested Lucy.

“No, I wouldn't compliment him,” replied Miss Shannon. “Too polite; might make him suspicious. Just write as you would to your milliner, in a scrawly-sprawly sort of way, saying what you want, and nothing more; leaving him a little margin for the imagination to play upon, and to enable him to suggest something himself. He may propose to supply wine too; in which case you would take him at his word, and save Mr Romford's, who, you know, only agreed to give sherry.”

And Lucy, who was a much better writer than Betsey, whose
forte
lay more in her toes than her fingers, then proceeded to order a champagne supper for eighty or ninety ladies and gentlemen, to be sent to Miss Hamilton Howard, at Beldon Hall, in Doubleimupshire, on the 11th, by the train that arrived at the Firfield station at 1.30 p.m.

The next post brought down a gilt-edged extra superfine note with the words, “Fizzer, Confectioner to the Queen,” on the pink stamp of the envelope, informing Miss Hamilton Howard that her esteemed favour had come to hand and should be duly attended to, adding, that if there was any extra plate, or waiters, or anything else required, perhaps Miss Hamilton Howard would have the goodness to communicate her wishes to Mr Fizzer; thus showing how grateful London tradespeople are for being handsomely imposed upon. And the note concluded by requesting a continuance of Miss Hamilton Howard's favours, which should at all times command Fizzer's best attention.

So far so good. They had now got supper, plate, and extra servants if they wanted them. The minor adjuncts only remained. Lucy was now in her glory.

F
ORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE; AND
the ladies at Beldon Hall seemed to be particularly lucky, for a bright sunny day went down with a blood-red sky, giving goodly promise for the coming frosty night. And indeed, before Mr Romford reached his kennel, after a fairish run in the lower part of Doubleimupshire, the ice began to crumble beneath his horse's hoofs, and the air assumed a crisp consistency that as good as said, “Mr Francis Romford, my good friend, your invincible hounds will not be out again in a hurry.” Nor in truth did our Master care much if he stopped for a while and took stock, for several of his subscribers paid the usual convenient tribute of respect to his great riches by withholding their subscriptions, and Facey would like to have them collected. How could he ever build his hospital if they didn't pay? In addition to this, he had two or three lame horses, besides some that were getting rather light in the girth; and as Mr Goodhearted Green had expressed his intention of being in Mr Romford's “shire,” as he called it, towards Christmas, Facey would like to have them plumped out a little before Goodheart came. So he resigned his horse to the strong persevering man, and fed his hounds without note or comment on the future. Two things Facey eschewed—hunting in wind and a frost; and he saw plainly enough that he was in for the latter. He therefore resolved to succumb without contending with the elements—a step that it would be well if other masters were to adopt. With feelings such as these, he now waddled down to the house at a sort of half-running-half-walking kind of gait.

The first thing that struck our Master as he approached the Hall, was the disordered state of the gravelled ring before the door. When he left home in the morning it was nicely raked, but now there were the marks of two if not three carriages upon it. “Rot it!” exclaimed he, “they'll never be done with their callers continually battledoring and shuttlecocking the cards,” thinking what a consumption of sherry and captains there would have been. “Straw, too!” added he, as he advanced farther and found a few blades, also some paper shavings. “What the deuce are they doing with straw?” Facey little thinking what two cargoes of goods Independent Jimmy had brought from the Firfield station, from Mr Fizzer's. But when he opened the door, and found a fire blazing on either side of the great entrance-hall, his consternation knew no bounds, and he thought the quiet evening and a little music had indeed assumed vast proportions. There are, however, people who will attempt to carry off anything with a matter-of-course air, and by going boldly in they oftentimes parry, or at all events break, the force of a blow. When, therefore, Mr Romford came striding into the breakfast-room, nursing his wrath as he walked, Miss Betsey Shannon essayed to take the wind out of his sails by exclaiming, “Oh, Mr Romford! Oh, Mr Romford! haven't we made an improvement in the hatmosphere of the 'ouse?