Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (59 page)

The best of friends, however, must part; and as our guests, unlike Goldsmith's

had higher aspirations than the mere movement of the moment; so first Mrs Watkins, and then Mrs Hazey, were shocked at the unwonted lateness of the hour, and Willy and the boy Bill were respectively told that they must look after the carriages directly, while the rivals were whispered that they must stop dancing at the end of the quadrille, as it was time to go home. And neither of them thinking to be able to complete the victory that evening, they were content to retire simultaneously, each feeling satisfied that none of the remanets could touch her. So with a smiling “I pity you” sort of air, Miss Cassandra Cleopatra presently sailed past her opponent, closely followed by Willy and Mamma, the latter giving Anna Maria a half saucy salute, that as good as said, “You won't be mistress here, my dear.” And Facey, who had smote his knock-knees with dancing till they were sore, gladly furthered the departure by tendering his red arm to Mamma, who whispered her gratitude to him for the beautiful ball he had given her daughter as they went along, first to the cloak-room, and next to the carriage. Then, having got them tucked in, the lady to whom allegorically he

squeezed the former most affectionately ere she drew up the window-sash. Spanker then touched the ready greys, and away they bowled from the door, just as the stable-clock struck four.

“Wonderful work,” muttered Facey, as he rolled back into the house.

The Hazeys were then just emerging from the cloak-room, and Facey having paid them the same tribute of respect that he had paid the Watkinses, he returned to the ball-room to see if he couldn't, in publicans' parlance, get his house cleared. He gave a great unmuzzled yawn as he entered the apartment, that as good as said, “Oh, dear, but I'm tired of it.” Nor was his anxiety to be done diminished by seeing that ugly old Bonus twirling Mrs Somerville about in a waltz, while Betsey Shannon in vain tried to get the reader's old friend, Robert Foozle, to follow.

“You are not much used to waltzing, Mr Foozle, I think?” said she, stopping short.

“No, I'm not much used to waltzing,” gasped Robert.

“Better have some lessons in waltzing, I think, Mr Foozle,” said Betsey.

“Yes, I'd better have some lessons in waltzing, I think,” rejoined Robert.

“Ah, come to me some morning, and I'll spin you about,” said Betsey, now slipping away from him.

Whish, crush, bump! fatty Stotfold and Miss Lonnergan now knock Robert clean out of the ring. Facey then gives another great yawn.

It is melancholy work watching the decadence of a ball, the exhaustion of the dancers, the struggles to be gay against the ability to be so, the decline of the dresses until none but the shabbiest remain, the flickering of the candles, the droppings of wax, perhaps the premature demise of a lamp. All these symptoms now followed in rapid succession at Beldon Hall. The fat Misses Lonnergan got partners, the thin Misses Pinker exhibited their steps, and even Miss Mouser was induced to stand up in a quadrille. Still the thing was wearing itself out apace, and if it hadn't been for the aftermath or chaff as to the lateness of the thing, they would all just as soon have been in bed. So, sooner than give in, they danced and grinned till their cheek-bones ached.

At length the last of the crinolines disappeared under the guidance of our athletic Master, and nothing remained but those few male lingerers who so seldom get to parties that they never know when to go away—who stick to the supper-table so long as any vestige of anything remains.

Lucy and Betsey, now dreading the reckoning, stole away to bed as soon as they saw Romford's broad red back disappearing with his last convoy, and our friend, on returning, seized a sherry glass, and, holding it up in mid air, exclaimed in an Independent Jimmy sort of tone, “Come gentlemen! Oi'll give ye a bumper toast. Fill your glasses, if you please!” an invitation that was most readily complied with, in hopes of its being the precursor to a final carouse, when Facey speedily dashed the cup of hope from their lips by adding, “Oi'll give ye our
next
merry meeting!” an appeal that was too urgent for the most inveterate sitter to resist. So they quaffed off their glasses in silence, and, like the sick man's doctor,

Silence then presently reigned through Beldon Hall, broken only by the airy tread of the pretty Dirties puffing out the candles, and the heavy tramp of the massive footmen bearing off the plate and the weightier articles of ornament. Facey then retired to rest, hardly able to realise the events of the evening. Nor did a broken harassing sleep contribute to the elucidation of the mystery. He dreamt all sorts of dreams—first that a Jew bailiff, dressed in white cords and top-boots, stepped out of his gig and arrested him for the supper bill just as he was finding his fox in Stubbington Gorse—that nobody would bail him, and he was obliged to leave his hounds at that critical moment. Then that all the musicians were sitting on his stomach, vowing that they would play “Old Bob Ridley” till he paid them for their overnight exertions. Next that he had backed Proudlock an even fifty to lick Independent Jimmy, and that Jimmy was leathering the giant just as he liked. Lastly, that Mrs Somerville was off with old Bonus, and that Facey's horse Everlasting stood stock still and refused to go a yard in pursuit of them.

Other parties had their dreams. Lovetin Lonnergan dreamed that “father was dead,” that he was in possession of Flush House with all the accumulations, and was just going to the coach-maker's to order a splendid blue and white carriage to take Miss Hamilton Howard to church; while young Joseph Large, between paroxysms of the cramp and broken sleep, dreamt that Miss Howard was his, and was coming to adorn the halls of Pippin Priory. Robert Foozle, too, dreamt that he had got a wife without his mother's leave, and was greatly rejoiced when he awoke and found it was not so.

T
HE DAY AFTER A BALL
is always a feverish, uncomfortable affair. It is far worse than the day before; for you have all the confusion without the excitement caused by the coming event. Nobody knows when to do anything,—when to get up, when to breakfast, when to lunch, when or where to dine. On this occasion the sun itself forgot to rise—at least, to shine; and those who slept with their curtains drawn and shutters closed, might have skipped the day altogether.

Jack Frost was as good as his word; and when Facey awoke, he found the landscape folded in Jack's icy embraces. “No hunting for me,” said he, as, casting aside the bed-curtains, he saw the head of Roundforth Hill powdered with a sprinkling of snow. “No hunting for me,” repeated he, turning over on his side; “but oi'll have a look at moy list, and see if oi can't bring some of my non-paying subscribers to book. No notion of carryin' on a country for the mere pleasure of the thing, and treat them into the bargain. Oi'm summit like the barber,” continued Facey, soliloquising, “who put up for a sign—

but when the customer, having been shaved, wanted to drink, too? the barber read the sign,—

O'im not goin' to hunt a country for nothin', and give them balls too.

So saying, our Master turned over in his couch, and presently subsided into a broken, fitful sort of sleep. Thus he remained until half-past one in the afternoon, a thing he had never done before; no, not even after the most ardent harvest dance, at which festivities he used to be a great performer. He then got up, and dispensing with a shave, jumped into his lounging-suit of grey tweed, and proceeded down-stairs, as well to test the severity of the frost as to get a mouthful of fresh air before breakfast. Passing over the still blood-stained flags, he arrived at and opened the front door. What a gravel-ring was there! So different to the nicely raked thing he usually kept. It looked as if all the horses in the country had been trampling and pawing upon it. There was the pineapple, with the great bite taken out, just as Mr Spanker, the Dalberry Lees coachman, threw it away. There were champagne bottles strewed all around, also the bottle of seltzer-water standing upright on the window-sill, and the elephant's castle lying crushed to atoms, just as it was when Mr Kickton's carriage-wheel passed over it. The invaders hadn't even been at the trouble of taking the borrowed ale-horn back into the house, but had chucked it down to take its chance in the general
mêlée.
A keen east wind wafted straws and paper shavings about in all directions.

“Bless us, what a sight!” exclaimed Mr Facey Romford, looking at the
débris
spread over the battle-field. “Declare it will take a man a month to put this ring right. All the way up to the stable the same mess,” added he, following up the line with his eye. “Well, if this doesn't cost something, I don't know what will! Sooner Betsey's cousin than me!” So saying, our friend picked up the pineapple and the horn, and, wheeling about on his heel, re-entered the house, and rang the bell for his breakfast.

It was all very well ringing, but there was nobody to answer the bell; nobody but Old Dirty, at least, and she didn't care to come. The fact was, the breakfast-room, as indeed all the others, were just as the company had left them; no fires lighted, candles as they were blown out, lamps as they were extinguished, chairs as they stood, some wide apart, others close together; everything, in fact, but the supper-table was in
statu quo.
This was clean swept, Mr Percival Pattycake, aided by Dirtiest of the Dirty, having packed up everything worth carrying off, and being then far on his way back to town, with the score of a hundred and ten people who had partaken of the Beldon Hall hospitality.

Facey rang again and again before Old Dirty came, and then she had nothing to show,—said the girls were all in bed, and declared they wouldn't get up that day. So Facey had to go down into the kitchen and get his breakfast there, fearing to await the dribbling assiduities of Old Dirty. And as he was busy making what the Frenchman called a “grand circumference” of toast for himself, first Betsey, and then Lucy, dropped in “quite promiscuous,” and a disjointed conversation arose, interrupted by the occasional entry and exit of Old Dirty, respecting the grand entertainment; Facey fearing that he would be let in for the cost, Betsey assuring him he had nothing to fear, as she and her friend had made it all right with old Fizzer. And though Facey did not see how a young lady who sang and danced for her maintenance could afford such a proceeding, yet knowing that the “ways of the women were wonderful,” he hoped for the best, and proceeded with his breakfast. This over, he looked at his watch, and finding it was nearly three o'clock, he gave up the idea of a stroll with his gun after the woodcocks, or anything else that turned up, and slouched away to the stable.

Among other miscarriages—or rather, misplacements—of the occasion, was that of the Beldon Hall letters. The correspondence of the house was not very large, being chiefly confined to invoices, with a slight sprinkling of refreshers in the way of bills delivered, though nothing at all approaching a regular “dun;” but it so happened that there was a letter from Goodhearted Green himself, dated from Wallingford, saying that he had just purchased a most desirable weight-carrier, only a difficult one to mount, which he would be glad to bring to Beldon Hall himself, and pass a few days in Mr Romford's agreeable company. And this letter, instead of being placed on the hall table, was laid on the library chimney-piece, and the first intimation Facey had of the coming guest was seeing a man of the Goodheart cut, riding a very superior-looking roan horse up towards the stables. At first, Facey thought it was Billy Barker, the brewer; then, that it was Harry Blanton, the tanner; next, that it was very like Goodhearted Green.

“And Goodhearted Green it is,” said he, running up and seizing him by the hand just as he was preparing to dismount. Then, as Goodheart saw there was unusual surprise, he proceeded to inquire about the letter, when mutual explanations and welcomes followed. Facey was very glad to see Mr Green, and Mr Green was very glad to see his good customer, Mr Romford. Then the two looked at the strawberry roan. He was, indeed, a fine horse, up to any weight: corky and cheerful looking, but with rather a sinister cast of the eye when anyone approached him.

“Has but one fault,” said Goodheart, complacently; “has but one fault—kick people over his 'ead as they mount; but easily hobviated,” added he; “easily hobviated—strap up a leg as you mount,” producing a strap from his pocket as he spoke.

“Well, but you can't ride him across country on three legs,” observed Romford.

“True,” assented Goodheart. “True; but then it's only a momentary ebullition of spleen. Soon finds out when he has got his master on his back, and then a child might ride him—ride him with a thread.”

“Well, we'll try him,” said Romford, now calling to Short, who came rubbing his eyes, still half-stupified with his over-night exertions. “Here, take this horse,” said Romford, “and put him into the five-stall stable, and send someone down to the Hall to say that Mr Green is come, and bid them get a bed ready, and some more sheep chops for dinner.”

The strong, persevering man then departed with his new charge and Facey, turning to his friend, said, “Now let you and oi take a turn of the stables.”