Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (60 page)

The two then entered the more genial atmosphere, and were presently deeply absorbed in the discussion of the condition and performance of Ben and the Baker, the peculiarities of Perfection, the deficiencies of Everlasting, the action of Oliver Twist, and the looks and eccentricities of the rest of the stud.

Lucy and Betsey were sorry that Mr Green had not come in time for the ball, which they felt certain he would have greatly enjoyed; while Mr Romford's anxieties were directed solely to the continuance of the frost, fearing Goodheart might not get a turn with his brilliant hounds.

The ladies received Mr Goodheart very cordially, feeling that he would be useful in warding off any further attacks about the ball, and as Facey would not hear of any extra expense being incurred for entertaining him, they did their best to make a great man of him by putting him into the best bedroom, one that Lord Lovetin himself would not have accorded to anyone under the rank of a duke, or a prince of the blood-royal, at least. There, under a magnificent temple-like canopy, nestled the old horse-dealer, a man more accustomed to the deficiencies of a garret than the delicacies of a dressing-room.

Still Goodheart was a versatile, agreeable man; and being only a lowish sort of fellow—the son of a cabman—of course he had a great knowledge of high life and Court proceedings, and could tell more of what was passing at the Palace than any lord in waiting so, what with small talk for the ladies, and horsey talk for Facey, they got on very well together; and Goodheart was found to be a very agreeable addition to the party.

T
HE
B
ELDON BALL MADE A
profound sensation in Doubleimupshire. It was talked of far and near. Those who were there, lauded it to the skies; those who were not, set about contriving how they could establish an acquaintance with our fair friend, Mrs Somerville, so as to get to another if she gave one. There was no longer any doubt or hesitation in the matter. No more “Pray, who
is
this Mrs Somerville? Do you know anything about Mrs Somerville? Have you called on Mrs Somerville? Are you going to call on Mrs Somerville? Do you know if Lady Camilla Snuff has called on Mrs Somerville?” It was all, “Oh, dear! do you know Mrs Somerville? I should
so
like to know Mrs Somerville? Charles, my dear, I must have the carriage to go over and call on Mrs Somerville!” Then, on the Friday following, the old “Doubleimupshire Herald,” a muddly county paper that seemed to edit itself, varied its quack-medicine advertisements with a list of the Lady patronesses for the forthcoming Infirmary Ball, in which Mrs Somerville's name headed the commoners, coming before Mrs Watkins, Mrs Large, Mrs Brogdale, and many others who thought themselves very great ladies indeed.

And this interpolation had been made, notwithstanding the ball had been fixed and the names published for some weeks before. Then came a letter from the secretary, requesting to know how many tickets he might have the honour of sending Mrs Somerville, which brought the matter fairly on the
tapis
—that is to say, under the cognizance of Mr Romford, whose little pig-eyes had detected the advertisement, though he had not thought proper to mention it. Bold Betsey, as usual, led the charge, taking advantage of a lull that occurred between the consumption of a couple of bottles of Lord Lovetin's best port, and the adoption of gin and pipes by the gentlemen. At first, cunning Facey pretended not to hear, being busy with his baccy; so she addressed herself to our friend the horse-dealer, who commenced business with a cigar.

But Green was not quite happy in good society. He was conscious that he rather knocked his H's about. Indeed he and his friend Billy Slater, the hatter of Bermondsey, had gone to the sign of the Mermaid at Margate only the summer before the period of our story, and Goodheart being spokesman had addressed the landlord (a cousin of Skittle's), who was smoking a Manilla with ineffable ease at the front door, demanding to know if they “could have a couple of good hairy bedrooms.” Whereupon the landlord, taking his cigar from his mouth, replied with a supercilious smile, “Well, I don't know; I can rub a couple with bear's grease for you, if you like.” And it was this not knowing whether to put the H in, or to leave it out, that made Goodheart uncomfortable. He knew that it was either one way or the other, and his anxiety to be right very often made him wrong. He, therefore, did not care to show off at the Infirmary Ball, and the long list of fashionable patronesses had no attractions for him. But the ladies, who saw the advantage, were all for going, and of course could not do without the gentlemen. Oh, what was to stop them from going? There was no hunting, and it would be something for them to do. The melon-frame would hold four, or two inside and two out if the gentlemen objected to the crinolines, and the cost of the conveyance would be all the same for four as for two. Then in answer to Goodheart's objections that he wouldn't know anyone, Lucy reminded him that she was a lady patroness, and her brother, Mr Romford, hunting the country. Lastly, Goodheart played his real card, namely, “that they would smoke him and blow him,” which would be prejudicial to the Beldon Hall ladies, as well as to himself. This argument rather told. Lucy was on her preferment, and must not do anything to bring her down the ladder of society. The associate of countesses, and viscountesses, and honourables must be discreet. Then Betsey Shannon, whose counterfeit abilities were first-rate, and who knew the advantages of a high-sounding name herself, suggested that Mr Green might go under an assumed one, or a title if he liked. And this idea being unanimously applauded, things began to get into the grooves that Lucy and Betsey wanted them. Facey thought it would be good fun to humbug the Larkspurites; and they began to consider what they should call Mr Green—Lord Topboots, Lord Silverpow, Lord Gammon, Lord Horseley, Lord Thoroughpin, Lord Spavin, Lord Stringhalt, Lord Glanders, and a variety of similar names.

“No, no,” interposed Betsey, seeing they were making fun of it, “that will not do; he shall not be a lord at all. That will only set them looking into their Peerage, and pulling him to pieces.”

“Let him be a Sir—Sir Somebody Something; and then if they say ‘he's not a Bart.,' you can say, ‘no, he's a Knight;' and if they say ‘he's not a Knight,' you can say, ‘no, but he's just going to be made one,' or put it off in that way.” And this idea being applauded too, they began to try on other titles, just as Mrs Sponge tried on names when she changed her's from Sponge to Somerville. Sir Reginald Rover, Sir Arthur Archduke, Sir Timothy Trotter, Sir Peter——

“No, no,” said Betsey, “let's have something that is neither too fine, nor too low—something that will sound so natural as not to create suspicion or inquiry, that will come trippingly off people's tongues.”

“Suppose we call him Sir Roger de Coverley,” suggested Mrs Somerville, still thinking of the ball.

“No, that would be too theatrical,” said Betsey; “but we might call him Sir Roger something else—Sir Roger Russell, Sir Roger Brown.”

“Sir Roger Ferguson 'spose,” said Facey.

“Very good name,” rejoined Betsey, “very good name. Your servant, Sir Roger Ferguson,” said she, rising and making Goodheart a low curtsey, just as she curtseyed for an encore at Highbury Barn.

And the man of the H's finding there was no halterative, was at length obliged to submit, and ultimately came in to the humour also of having a star to decorate his coat on the occasion. This Betsey Shannon undertook to procure from the same quarter as she did the liveries and the uniform for Mr Proudlock the keeper.

Behold, then, the auspicious evening—a bright starlight night—with her now noble horse-dealer arrayed in a gentlemanly suit of black, relieved by his glittering star and snow-white head. Mr Romford, on the other hand, was gay and gaudy, scarlet Tick, white vest, with his El Dorado shirt puffing out in front beneath a white tie, altogether a very passable swell, and on very good terms with himself.

The ladies, we need scarcely say, were quite differently dressed to what they were at the Beldon Ball, for who can be expected to appear twice in the same costume—certainly not Mrs Somerville, or her fair friend Miss Hamilton Howard
(vice
Shannon), who had all the resources of London dressmakers at their command. Nothing to do but send off the order, and have the things down in no time. The coronetted Beldon Hall notepaper was as good as gold in the London market, and Madame Elisa and Co. could never see too much of it. It was always lying about their show-rooms.

Considering that there was so much money in Doubleimupshire, so many teapot-handle-makers, so many Ten-and-a-half-per-Centers, it was strange that they should have no better ball-room than what the old town-hall at Butterwick, built on the principle of Goldsmith's

supplied. Nay, indeed, it had harder work than the chest of drawers, for it served as well for a corn and butcher market as a town-hall, while by closing up the interstices between the great stone pillars on which the brick edifice was raised, and opening a temporary staircase on the left, the lower part of the ball served for a theatre as well. So that, on an occasion like the present, the ball-comers might hear Hamlet junior objurgating his too too solid flesh, or get their toes trod on by the ghost of Hamlet senior stalking off the stage at cock-crow. Nay, indeed, at certain times—for instance, when an army was in motion, the setters-down had to wait for the nick of time before they could effect a passing at all, just as children at the sea-side have to wait till the receding wave gives them a chance of getting after their outward-bound boats. On this occasion a leathern-lunged Richard was roaring for his horse just as our Beldon party entered—“A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!”

“I'll suit you!” exclaimed Goodheart in the same tone, ignorant of the situation, and forgetful of his greatness. The side scenes passed, and the sort of scaling-ladder staircase ascending, the adjuncts to the ball-room were little better than the arrangements down below. There was no cloak-room for the gentlemen, who had to hang their hats and wraps up in the passage, while that for the ladies was of the smallest, most circumscribed order, being, in fact, the apartment occupied by the market keeper and his wife.

The ball-room, however, was large and lofty, seventy feet by fifty, open up to the dark oak rafters of the roof. The walls were decorated with town and country notabilities—some in peers' robes, some in aldermanic honours, some in plain clothes—all the work of first-rate country artists, quite ready to set Mr Ruskin and all the Royal Academy at defiance.

Of course a great man like our Master was hailed long before he got into the ball-room, and as Goodheart (now Sir Roger) and he stood waiting for the ladies—wondering what the deuce they were doing—Facey had an opportunity of introducing the Baronet to some of his acquaintances—Sir Roger Ferguson, Mrs Telford; Mr Bowman, Sir Roger Ferguson; Sir Roger Ferguson, Mr Lightfoot. But it was when the line of march was formed, and the gay-coloured party appeared improvingly at the door-way, the decorated Sir Roger beauing Mrs Somerville, our red-coated Romford escorting Miss Shannon, that the fever of excitement arose.

The opening dance was just over, the couples were sweeping the floor with their trains, while the
chaperones
sat by criticising their partners some feeling satisfied, others thinking they could have made a better selection. In a semicircular bay at the high end of the room, wherein they adjusted as well the weights and scales as the consequence of the county, was an imposing array of diamonded dowagers, locking terribly severe in their dignity of state. These were the titled patronesses, whose magnetic influence attracted sovereigns from the pockets of parties little accustomed to voluntary contributions. Even Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent. himself has been drawn. As the Beldon party entered the room, and gradually approached the crescent of consequence, eye-glasses were raised, and inquiries were—“Who are these?” “Who have we here?” eliciting whispers of—“Oh! this will be Mrs Somerville.” “This will be Mr Romford's sister.” The first questions being quickly followed by—“Who is this with her?” “Who is the man with the star?” A question that was not quite so easily answered.

On, on, our gallant party went, just as Lord Cardigan went against the cannon, only instead of charging right into them, they now wheeled round, our fair friends feeling satisfied that the dowagers could not take any more exception to the backs of their dresses than they could to the fronts. So they sailed slowly down the room again, looking out for admiration as they went.

Before, however, the party had got half way down the room there was a run upon our fair friends, Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent. claiming Mrs Somerville, while young Joseph Large and Lovetin Lonnergan hastily disposed of their then partners in order to be first for Miss Howard. Large, however, got the lady, Lovetin not being able to find his partner's
chaperone
so soon as the other, but Miss Howard made it all right by a sweet smile, and saying, “I'll dance next dance with you, Mr Lonnergan.” So Lovetin stood by, admiring her elegant figure and performance, thinking if father would but die he would marry her and set her up in Flush House to-morrow. Then came Lovetin's turn—a quadrille—and Miss Howard was equally assiduous with him, for, with a father to die on each side, there really was not any great choice between the two thick-headed suitors. Large then had the pleasure of looking on and seeing that “lout Lovetin” getting all the sweet dimple-making smiles and smirks which, with a certain quantity of eye and tongue work, constitute what ladies call flirtation. Then, as they couldn't both dance with her at once, they began to engage Mrs Somerville for what Facey called the “bye days,” and she adroitly insinuated to each that he was the especial favourite, and that Miss Howard did not care a halfpenny for the other. She also intimated Miss Howard would have a large fortune from her grandmother, who was very old and much addicted to drink. Thus quickened, each resolved, if possible, to steal a march upon the other.