Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (56 page)

The Watkinses declining tea, which indeed they had taken before they left Dalberry Lees, proceeded, duly heralded by Balsam and Short, to the reception-room, about the centre of which, and as nearly under the richly cut glass chandelier as would escape any wax-drops falling on her dress or beautifully rounded shoulders, stood Mrs Somerville in the full blaze of light and admiration, receiving the compliments of the men, and undergoing the scrutiny of the ladies.

There too, a little on her left, was Betsey Shannon, now, of course, Miss Hamilton Howard, the centre of attraction to three young gentlemen at once, viz., Bolingbroke Large, Sick-mouth, and the Honourable Lovetin Lonnergan. But Betsey had
esprit,
or what she called chaff, for them all, and played her cards so well that each fancied himself the favourite, and wondered why the others didn't go away. She had held six men in tow at Highbury Barn before now, to say nothing of a fiddler and the cornet-à-piston in the orchestra. So she smiled and laughed and twisted and turned to show herself off to the greatest advantage.

And now the concentrated gaze of the room is diverted from the newcomers towards our great Master, Mr Romford, to see how he greets the reputed new mistress of Beldon Hall. Miss Mouser up with her glass, for hers was the eye that never missed the shadow of an ogle or the echo of a sigh. Mrs Brogdale put on her spectacles, and Mrs Bigmore her nose-glasses. On Romford comes like a great wave of the sea, until he reaches the reef of the family party. Then Mrs, then Miss, then Mr have him alternately by the hand. Miss is very smiling, for she now feels assured that the whole affair is in honour of her. He wants to show her the house to advantage, before he asks her to share it with him. Miss Mouser says, with a dig of her sharp elbow into Mr Blanton's ribs, “There's something in it, I'm sure.” She then shifts her place and proceeds to take a sidelong survey—“Clearly something in it,” she says to herself, as she watches the sparkle of the lisper's eye. But her triumph was of short duration.

“M
R
, M
RS, AND
M
ISS
H
AZEY, AND
M
R
W
ILLIAM
H
AZEY
!” now announces Mr William Balsam, piloting the party well up to the mistress. Then there was a fresh ebullition of feeling, more smiles, more bows, more curtsies, more shakes of the hand. Miss looks lovely, quite eclipsing Miss Watkins both in beauty and dress.

Miss Mouser is at her with her formidable glass, for she doesn't like her mother—Mrs Bigmore is at her with her double ones, for she doesn't like her father; and Miss Watkins is at her with her supercilious eyes, for she doesn't like herself. A good many others, too, gave her saucy stares, for she was far too pretty to be popular, and Mr Hazey himself was not much liked either. Mr Romford, however, consoles her for all the curling lips by the fervour of his greeting, quite satisfying Miss Hazey that the party was for her, and her only. If Cassandra Cleopatra could have felt the pressure of his great hand, she would have thought little of her own chance of preferment. But our lisping friend is not going to surrender without a struggle, and watching her opportunity, she sidles up to our host, and asks, with a glance at the piano, if they are not going to have a little music.

“Oh, to be sure!” exclaimed Facey, now recollecting what the party was for—“oh, to be sure! Oi'll get moy flute, and we will 'stonish the natives together.”

“Your flute is in the music-stand,” now exclaimed Mrs Somerville, who had been listening to the rivals, and feared lest Facey might go out of the room and upset all the other arrangements.

“Is it?” said Romford, “then let us be doing,” offering as he spoke his red arm to Cassandra, who joyfully accepted it, flaunting her dress at Miss Hazey just as a peacock flaunts his tail when he's not upon over good terms with the hen.

Then there was fresh nudging and looking and hushing, and whispering of “What's up now?” Going to have a little music, are we? What, a concert, is it?” with mutterings of “Oh,
she
can't play a bit, nor he either,” as the two approached the piano.

Miss Cassandra now draws off her closely-fitting white kid gloves, and depositing them with her fine lace and ciphered kerchief at the corner of the instrument, takes her voluminous seat on the stool, while Mr Romford screws his old flute together, and amid hishing and hushing the audience form a semicircle behind, preparing for the punishment; and Mrs Somerville stands on guard near the door to receive the fresh comers, closely attended by Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent., chairman of the Hall-Guinea Hat Company, with Betsey and her beaux for a vanguard behind.

And now Mr Romford, having got his greasy old instrument licked and sucked and put together, proceeds to blow a few discordant puffs and squeaks, while the fair lady runs her light hand up and down the notes of the piano, as if to test the quality of her consignment. All being at length ready, with renewed cries of “hish, hush,” the sound of voices gradually subsides, and as the now attracted company are expecting some fine Italian air, away the musicians go with Facey's favourite tune of “Old Bob Ridley.”

“Why, what tune's that?” whispers one.

“Don't know,” mutters another.

“Surely it's not ‘Old Bob Ridley,'” says a third.

“Believe it is,” adds a fourth.

“Hush!” cries a fifth.

If Facey's Oncle Gilroy really damaged his wind by making him play the flute to him when a boy, he had a great deal to answer for, as we make no doubt the assembled company thought, for a more impotent exhibition was perhaps never heard, even though Cassandra Cleopatra did halt and help him along over the weak places, instead of hurrying on and showing off on her own account.

Still the lameness of the performance did not prevent the assiduous toadies expressing their gratification and thanks to them both when they were done, even though they inwardly hoped they might not have to undergo any more of such music.

But Facey, who had a firm conviction that he had mistaken his calling and ought to have been a flutist, received it all as well-merited laudation, and as soon as he had sufficiently recovered his wind, whispered to Cassandra, “Now let's 'stonish them with ‘Dixey's Land.'”

And Miss gladly obeyed, much to the comfort of some and the disquietude of others; and away they went more briskly than before.

During all this time the guests still kept arriving, Mr Telford, Mr Stoddart, Mr and Mrs Pinker bringing Miss Reevey, and Mr Baxton his two daughters and a gawky nephew, and when Facey turned round he was astonished to find such an assemblage. There could not be less than sixty or seventy people in the room, and Sweet William still kept piloting in more. Bowman and Barker and Lightfoot and Lorington, and we don't know who else besides.

“Well, the ways of the women are wonderful,” muttered Romford, surveying the gathering, thinking he would not be caught giving his consent for another quiet evening with a little music. Then the question where the sandwiches were to come from struck like a dagger to his heart. “Where, indeed,” thought he. “A 'underd and fifty people at least,” mused he, glancing round the room. “Terrible field, indeed.”

But Cassandra did not give him much time for reflection, for, knowing the power of her rival, she arose, and placing her delicate white arm within his red one, she lisped in his ear, “Now take me to the tea-room,” determined that he should not be charmed by her music, at all events.

“Tea-room!” muttered Facey; adding, “I don't think there is one.”

“Oh yes, there is,” rejoined Miss Cassandra; piloting him into the thick of the crowd,—“Oh, yes, there is;” adding, “your people offered us some when we came.”

And as she worked him on, they came upon the breakwater formed before the door, now shored up behind by the substantial figures of “Rent-should-never-rise,” Mrs and the Miss Rents, Fatty Stotfold, and other stout ones.

Then, having at length penetrated this apparently impervious phalanx, they came upon where the enterprising ladies were receiving at once their guests and the homage due to their own distinguished beauty; and Mrs Somerville, looking round, confronted the tall figure of her brother shouldering his way, with Cassandra Cleopatra clinging affectionately to his side.

“Oh, where are you going, my dear?” exclaimed she, anxiously, laying her hand on his arm.

“Tea!
Where's the tea?” muttered Facey.

“Tea!
—there'll be—” Here Mrs Somerville faltered; she would have said sandwiches, but she felt it was of no use further disguising the matter, so she substituted the word “refreshment;” adding, “and I want you to take in a lady.”

“Humph!” growled Romford, wondering what was up; muttering down his arm to his fair friend, “you'll get some gruel presently.”

So Miss Cassandra was impounded—impounded, too, in the most unpleasant way for Anna Maria, availing herself of the familiar artifice peculiar to orators and gentlemen troubled with a determination of words to the mouth, got up a call on herself for some music, which, after a certain amount of coyness, she acceded to, and was presently playing and warbling in the place of her predecessor. It is but justice, however, to Cassandra, to state that she talked as loud and made as much noise as ever she could; and as it is easier to find fault than to do better, she criticised Anna Maria's performance very severely.

At length the music ceased, thanks were tendered, curtsy made, and all parties began to think it was time for something else.

Mrs Somerville then braced herself up to the utmost, and approaching our Master, asked him to take Mrs Hazey into the dining-room.

“Dinin'-room!” muttered Facey, who thought the thing would be done on a tray where they were. He then did as he was bid, muttering as he went, “What's up now, as the frog said when its tail dropped off.”

W
E LEFT OUR FRIEND
M
R
Romford piloting one of his expectant mothers-in-law along from the music to the refreshment room, under a mixed effusion of compliments from her, and speculations of his own as to what was going to happen next

Mrs Hazey was now satisfied—indeed, revenged. She saw how it was: Mr Romford was civil to Mrs Watkins, but marked in his attention to her. It was clear the party was made for them (the Hazeys), though the Watkinses thought to appropriate it. That silly conceited girl (Cassandra Cleopatra) was always trying to make other women believe that the men were in love with her.

They now got to the door of the lofty “forty by thirty” dining-room, resplendent with light, glitter, and glare. Along three-quarters of its entire length, flanked in at the ends, was arranged a most sumptuous supper-table, interspersed with beautiful fruit and flower vases, alternating with the most exquisite confectionery.

Before the elegant young gentleman in black, with the costly jewellery on his vest, and his curly dark hair parted elegantly down the middle, stood a noble design of the royal arms—a perfect trophy—the whiteness of the sugar lions being relieved by the rich colour and gilding of the numerous flags and arms.

Half-way down, on Pattycake's right, arose a grand memorial of our Indian Empire, in the shape of a noble elephant, fully accoutred with its howdah, or castle, filled with sporting men, going out against the tiger; while a similar position on Pattycake's left was occupied by a barley-sugar pagoda, surrounded with
bon-bons.

At the far end, on the right, was Britannia, ruling waves of sugar, and her car drawn by dolphins, red, white, and blue.

On a crimson velvet-covered shelving stand at the back of the room arose a perfect pyramid of plate, commencing with the massive shields and salvers of olden times, and gradually tapering away into the cups and vases of the present. It had been so long locked up, that it almost seemed to stare, as if quite unused to society. Its noble owner, however, would have stared far more if he could have seen it.

The entertainment was, indeed, what Mrs Watkins's cook (Lubbins) would call a “grand uproar.”

O'er all this sumptuous elegance Mr Fizzer's head man, Mr Percival Pattycake, presided, having a Dirty on each side of him, and the figure footmen towards the ends of the table.

Old Dirty was kept below to wash up, whilst Dirtiest of he Dirty wandered about the rooms, pocketing sugar and picking up what she could.

Mr Romford started convulsively when he got to the dining-room door, just as if he had seen another “woman in black;” for, however bold the Beldon Hall ladies were, he did not think they dared have ventured on such a step as this.

Mrs Hazey, too, stared with astonishment, and inwardly thought it would be

The pressure, however, from the crowd behind was too great for much soliloquising, and the huge pent-up wave of society pushed on, and presently broke against the entire length of the supper-table, all equally anxious to be at the eatables. To see the onslaught that was made on the hams, and the tongues, and the turkeys, one could not help wondering what they would have done if there had not been any supper. Nor were the jellies, the creams, or the custards a bit more neglected. “Munch, munch, munch,” was the order of the day. At length the light artillery of
bon-bons
began to sound through the room, which, however, was quickly silenced by the more congenial fire of champagne. Fiz, pop, bang! went the corks from the right, left, and centre. Fiz, pop, bang! repeated others, and forthwith black arms and red arms, and fair arms, presented glasses across the tables to check the now overflowing exuberance of the bottles. Nor once, nor twice sufficed to repulse them—back came the glasses as though they had never been filled. The first glass, of course, was said to be good; the second middling; and the third “gusberry.”