Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (55 page)

“Made two great blazing fires, I see,” replied Facey, gruffly adding, “but I don't know that that will be any improvement in my pocket.”

“Oh, but it's worth all the money,” rejoined Miss Shannon, “especially on a cold frosty night like this; and when, too, you have a few friends coming to take tea and spend the evening with you.”

“Well, well,” rejoined Mr Romford; “but there's reason in all things—reason in all things. No use making two fires when one would do. Folks can warm themselves just as well at one fire as at two. And who's been at the biscuits?” demanded he, reverting to his original gravel grievance.

“Nobody,” replied Lucy, boldly.

“Nobody!”
retorted Facey. “Coom, that won't do; bin two, if not three carriages here, oi'll swear.”

“Oh, that's Independent Jimmy with—with—” faltered Mrs Somerville.

“With what?” demanded Facey.

“Oh, just some things for Miss Shannon,” replied the lady, recollecting herself.

“Things for Miss Shannon!” retorted Facey. “Why, he must have brought half creation.”

“You see, now,” interposed Betsey, playfully taking him by the button of his red coat as she spoke,—“you see I've a cousin in the confectionery line, and he has lent us some little sugar ornaments and things to set the supper table out with.

Facey.
—“Supper table! Why, I thought we settled there was to be a rabbit-pie and some cheese—I mean sherry and sandwiches?”

Miss Shannon.
—“Oh, yes—sherry and sandwiches, too; but you know these are just ornamental things, not meant to eat, you know; and as my cousin offered them, why, we thought we might as well have them, specially as they cost nothing.”

“Cost Independent Jimmy's journeys, at all events,” replied Mr Romford, thinking what a lot of rabbit-pies the money would have bought. However, as he couldn't say Miss Shannon might not do as she liked with her own, he turned the conversation by exclaiming to Lucy, “And what's there for dinner, lass?”

“Resurrection pie and roast apples,” replied Lucy.

“Resurrection pie and roast apples,” repeated Facey, adding, “well, let's be at it as soon as you like, for oi'm very hungry and ready to be doing.”

“They'll be ready as soon as you are,” replied Lucy, glad to see he was inclined to expedite matters, adding, “p'raps you won't mind taking your pipe in the bedroom?”

“What for?” demanded Facey.

“Oh, only because we should like to have this room for a cloakroom.”

“Cloak-room!” replied Facey; “why the deuce can't they put off their cloaks in the hall? What are the two great rousing fires for, I wonder?” asked he, reverting to the old grievance.

“Oh, but then the ladies must have combs and pins and looking-glasses, to arrange their hair and simpers,” observed Miss Shannon, coming to the rescue.

“Dash them! they surely don't mean to dress their hair here?” replied Facey.

“No; but then to see it's all right after the jolt of the road, you know.”

“Gentlemen don't understand these things, you see,” added Miss Shannon.

“Don't oi?” growled Facey, as if he understood a good deal more than she thought. He then rolled out of the room, wondering what the deuce the women were after—why they couldn't have a few friends to tea without all that kick up.

It was only an uncomfortable meal as far as Lucy and Betsey were concerned, for they were anxious to expedite matters, and durst not open their mouths on the subject of the coming entertainment; while Facey seemed to dawdle over his dinner, a most unusual circumstance with him, who generally gobbled it up like a hound. If he only knew how anxious they were to get rid of him, he surely would be good enough to go. Oh dear, what a deal they had to do! And there! he was taking another slice of cheese. At length he gave his great mouth such a sounding smack as indicated he was done, and, turning short round to the fire, he stuck out his legs as if preparing for his pipe. Lucy then rang the bell for Dirtiest of the Dirty, and as she cleared the things away, Lucy took advantage of a lull in the noise to ask if Mr Romford's fire was burning.

“Yes, mum,” replied Dirty.

“Hang these ‘at homes,'” growled Facey; “they seem to make a man not at home. Light me a candle,” added he, seeing there was no help for it. He then rose and slouched off in his slippers, muttering something as he went about “women and the price of coals.”

“Thank goodness, he's gone!” exclaimed Betsey, almost as soon as he had closed the door.

“Hush!” rejoined Lucy; “you don't know what quick ears he has. Now he is away,” added she, as she heard him turn up the passage leading to his bedroom. The ladies then laid their heads together to expedite matters—so much to do, and so little time to do it in. The fact was, Facey should not have had any dinner at home that day. And to aggravate matters, there came notes from parties begging, as the greatest possible favour, to be allowed to bring others, or exchange samples, with the weary bearers waiting for answers, and of course retarding matters down below.

Eight o'clock now struck—quicker, if possible, and more impulsively than usual—and it wanted but an hour, one short hour, until the grand company would be entitled to come; and there is always some stupid gawk who arrives at the exact moment, doing as much mischief as a score of people would do. But, thanks to Mr Percival Pattycake, Mr Fizzer's head man, things were well forward, which they would have had little chance of being if the Dirties had been in command, for they all so bent on admiring themselves in their well-distended white muslin dresses, with cherry-colour sashes and little jaunty caps, as to be perfectly forgetful of the fact that they were meant to do anything but giggle and amuse themselves.

Very pretty they all were, though Dirtiest of the Dirty was decidedly the belle of the party, with her sylph-like figure, large languishing eyes, pearly teeth, and beautiful hands. She, however, felt rather hurt that, as a lady's maid, she was not allowed to wear a low-necked dress. “There should be a distinction made,” she said, “in favour of upper servants.”

Billy Balsam and Bob Short, too, got into their shorts in good time; and Billy was so disguised by his powdered head and gaudy livery, that none of the Lonnergan family—not even old “Rent should-never-rise” himself—recognised him.

But the great metamorphosis of the evening was that of our gigantic friend Proudlock, the keeper, whom Lucy had induced to put on a splendid green-and-gold French chasseur's uniform that Betsey had got down from the same unhappy hook-nose who supplied the liveries. There, with defiant false moustaches and a lofty feather-plumed cocked hat, Proudlock stood at the front door, receiving the carriages as they came up, striking awe and astonishment into the minds of the beholders.

One thing, to be sure, had been omitted in the arrangements, namely, to provide stable-room for the horses and refreshments for the servants. And as carriage after carriage set down, with the usual inquiry of the giant where they were to put up, the coachmen were told that he didn't know anything about putting up. Indeed, it never seemed to have occurred to the ladies that they would want anything of the sort. “As strong as a horse,” is a familiar phrase; and what did it mean but the power of resisting hunger and cold. Besides, how did the cab-horses and things do in London? Who, in the midst of preparations like these, could think of such things? “Drive on!” was therefore the order of the day. And now let us look at matters inside the house.

The two ladies dressed together, taking an hour and a half for the operation, at the end of which time they severally appeared in very chaste and elegant costume.

Let us now suppose them down-stairs, all ready for the ring-up of the curtain of company.

Hark! it's evidently a frosty night, for the notes of the stable clock reverberate through the house as though it were inside the mansion. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
nine
o'clock! Mrs Somerville “at home” at nine o'clock, and now she's due! Then, having snatched a parting glance at herself in the mirror, and feeling comfortable on the score of looks, she takes her delicate white kid gloves and richly embroidered feathered fan off the mantelpiece, and approaches the door of the reception-room, accompanied by Miss Hamilton Howard, each inwardly hoping that Mr Romford will be pacific under the violent surprise that awaits him,—the blaze of light, the great gathering, the gorgeous supper, the—we don't know what else besides.

Hark, again! Carriage-wheels sound on the now frozen gravel, and yet it's only five minutes past nine. The noise ceases, but the momentary calm is only the prelude to a most boisterous ring.

A country footboy has got the brass bell-knob in his hand, and pulls as if he were going to pocket it for his trouble. A tremendous peal is the result. It shakes the nerves of everybody in the house,—Dirties, Lucy, Facey, and all.

“There! there's somebody!” ejaculated Lucy and Betsey, as they both got into position, Lucy before the door, Betsey a
leetle
behind, ready to advance as soon as Mrs Somerville's smiling demands were satisfied in full.

“Dash my buttons, here they come!” exclaimed Facey aloud to himself, now in the last throes of his neckcloth. “Dash my buttons, here they come! and I not half dressed yet. Shouldn't wonder if it's Cass herself,” said he, thinking how she would pout if he was not ready to “Bob Ridley” her.

But he is all out in his reckoning. Cassandra Cleopatra, at this identical moment, is getting laced into a most elegant toilette of straw-coloured
Chambéry
gauze with six flounces of white
tulle;
and Spanker's man is just putting the harness on to the carriage-horses, to convey them to Beldon Hall.

No; it is the noble family of Lonnergan,—Lord Lonnergan of Flush House, accompanied by his amiable wife and accomplished daughters, who, however, have not been able to persuade papa that there is no occasion to come to the exact moment they are asked for. His lordship insists upon the contrary; adding, that he once missed the mail train in consequence of being half a minute behind time, and he has always made a point of being punctual ever since. So he confronts the gigantic Proudlock, who passes the party on to the figure-footmen, who in turn conduct the ladies to the breakfast-room door, where the sylph-like form of Dirtiest of the Dirty, now arrayed in white muslin with bright cherry-coloured ribbons, receives them; and his blue coated, short-breeched lordship is ushered into the library, where the other Miss Dirties, similarly attired, preside behind a well-garnished tea and coffee table. These beautiful girls his innocent lordship surveys with all the respect that old Don Quixote regarded the muleteer's wenches; thinking, if not princesses, that at all events they were Mrs Somerville's servants. But he declines both tea and coffee, having had both before.

And now the Honourable Lovetin Lonnergan, who had come on the box of the carriage, having got out of his wraps and joined the ladies, summoning the old lord from his survey, advances up the passage to the radiant music-room, preceded by both Balsam and Short.

“Mr and Mrs Lonnergan and the Misses Lonnergan—Mr Lovetin Lonnergan,” announces Billy Balsam in the orthodox way he had been taught; and forthwith there was a great bending and bobbing and showing of teeth, with introductions to “my friend, Miss Hamilton Howard.” And both his lordship and the honourable were much struck with the ladies' beauty.

Ring, ring, ring,
went the door-bell, and the giant was again astonishing the arrivals: Mr and Mrs Brogdale and Miss Brogdale this time, closely followed by Romford's suspicious friend Miss Mouser, who did not let any doubts she had upon our Master's genuineness prevent her begging Mrs Watkins to get her an invitation to his house. Then came the Blantons and Mr Finch, the gentleman our Master called Mr Felt.

And now, Mr Romford having descended from his bedroom, arrayed in all the magnificence of purple and fine linen, with a smart cambric kerchief in his hand in lieu of his old snuff-coloured bandana, found a cluster of ladies and gentlemen around our fair friends, quite as many as, with a slight addition perhaps, Facey thought would constitute a party—quite as many, at least, as he expected to be asked when he gave his consent to have one. Who the deuce was going to find sherry and sandwiches for the whole county? But still Billy Balsam kept piloting in more, mangling their names, and sometimes exchanging them altogether when he had two sets in hand, calling Mr Tuckwell Mr Brotherton, and Mr Brotherton Mr Brown, in the most arbitrary and uncharitable way. The carriages now came so quickly that the bell ceased ringing, and Billy had hardly time to receive one consignment from Bob Short and pass them to the Dirties, ere another party wanted to be passed from the Dirties to the music-room. Not so our fat friend from Pickering Nook, who seemed to think he had got among the fair damsels at the refreshment-room there, and kept laughing and talking, or rather squeaking first with one Dirty and then with another, as though he were going to stay there.

But here comes the weaselly-looking chairman of the Half-Guinea Hat Company, with his yellow-and-white beard carefully combed out, and his failing crop of sandy hair made the most of towards the top. He grins as though he has quite recovered from his “cat”-spelling loss at Tarring Neville, and was easy about the hundred pounds' worth of hat-shares Lucy had got. The fact is, he has just made a great hit in buying a piece of land with a favourite clump of trees upon it, which he threatened to cut down unless certain parties paid for their standing, and amongst them he has got three times as much as he gave.

“M
ISTER
, M
ISTRESS,
and M
ISS
W
ATKINS
!” now announced the Dalberry Lees' figure-footman in a loud authoritative tone at the front door, as though he were telling the giant something he didn't know. Mister, Mistress, and Miss Watkins had indeed come at last; and now, getting out of their opossum and black bear-skin wrappers, they descend slowly and deliberately from the well-appointed carriage, as though they did not care who they kept waiting behind. Having seen them into the middle of the entrance-hall, the coachman then further procrastinates matters by demanding to know where he is to put up his 'osses. On being told by the giant that he knows nothin' about 'osses, he indulges in some coarse invectives against the 'ouse generally, and with a vindictive cut of his whip at length moves on from the door. Mr Lolly's one-'oss-shay then crawls up. Then came the Kickons, the Bigmores, and a gentleman in a gig. Meanwhile the ladies, having dropped Willy at the tea-room door, proceed under the guidance of the two figure-footmen to the cloakroom, where they remove the last wrap that conceals the artistic triumph of Madame La Modiste. Miss, indeed, looks well.