Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  Meanwhile friend Romford, who was busily engaged cleaning his gun in his shirt-sleeves in the butler’s pantry down below, was sorely put out by the repeated rings at the door bell, and severely objurgated all the Dirties for letting the callers in, telling them, as he met them on the wing after the mischief, always to say that they were “not at home,” when anybody came. And he then returned to his former occupation, now wishing the Watkinses were gone, now wondering why they came, next dreading lest they might eat his dinner for luncheon, then thinking how he came to miss his last woodcock that morning. “It was that confounded mountain-ash in the way,” said he.

  In the midst of his speculations the rustle of robes and the sound of female voices came softened down below, and, listening attentively, friend Facey distinctly heard Lucy’s voice pioneering the marauders. “This is the servants’ hall,” said she, “and beyond it is the butler’s pantry,” the voice advancing that way.

  “And, rot it, they’re comin’,” said he, depositing his gun and ramrod on the table, and making his escape by the opposite door. He got into the stillroom — no still room, however, for him, for the voices presently approached that door, driving him into the housekeeper’s room, from whence there was no escape save through the scullery and up by the coal-cellar grate. Determined not to be caught — especially in his shirt-sleeves — he dashed valiantly at the iron bars, and, mistaking the side of the cellars, crawled out right in front of the Watkins’ horses’ heads, to the astonishment of Mr Spanker and the magnificent footman, who at first thought it was the long-expected ale-jug coming. Not being, however, easily disconcerted, friend Facey just asked them, in a careless indifferent sort of way, if they had seen a rat come up, and, being answered in the negative, he turned in again at a side door as if nothing particular had happened, the Watkins’s men wondering if it was the gardener, or who it could be.

  The ladies, having at length completed their tour, dairy, pantry, larder and all, began to arrange their features for farewell. Mrs Watkins considering whether she should offer Mrs Somerville her hand, or wait for Mrs Somerville to tender hers; Mrs Somerville thinking how to get them out of the house without an irruption of Dirties to show them the way. The Watkinses then recollected that they hadn’t got Willy, so, returning to the breakfast-room, they found that worthy in the act of examining his side hair minutely in the mantel-piece mirror. “Come, Willy, come!” cried the imperious dame, and forthwith Willy relinquished the arrangement of his looks, and proceeded to recover his hat. That gained, Mrs Watkins assumed his arm, and thus fortified, then came the terrible conflict about the adieu. Whether ‘twere nobler to make a curtsy and move on, or go in boldly for a shake of the hand. Momentous question!

  That little ceremony has caused many a coolness — a coolness with some if you don’t offer it a coolness with others if you do. Mrs Watkins would like to shake hands, but then came the terrible bugbear of the cold shoulder. She would like to get a footing at Beldon Hall, if it were only for the sake of Cassandra, but then, which was the likeliest way to obtain one.

  In the midst of this dilemma, and just when the case seemed hopeless — the theatrical lady knowing the right time better than Mrs Watkins did — having got them to the room door, released the easy fold of her arms and tendered her hand to Madame, who grasped it with fervour. There is a great deal of significance in the shake of a hand. Miss quickly followed suit, and then Willy closed the affair by offering his and bowing himself out of the room. Mrs Somerville gave a random ring at the bell, more for the sake of the sound than in hopes that any of the Dirties would show themselves to open the hall-door. And Facey, having planted himself at the window of observation lately occupied by the Mustards, saw the visitors depart, observing to himself as Miss settled into her seat in the carriage, “Not a bad looking lass that.” He then ran into the larder to see what damage they had done to the meat, and finding all right, he went to discuss the visitors with Lucy. What she said, what they said, all how and about it; in fact Facey thought the “Somerville” dodge would do.

  But he couldn’t have any callers admitted — might ring as much as they liked at the bell, and leave their cards in any quantities; but coming in was quite out of the question, quite another pair of shoes. And, by way of checking the expected influx, he presently set up a garden-rake, which he kept behind the Indian screen in the entrance-hall, wherewith he used to recreate himself by raking the gravel before the front-door, so that he could tell whether there had been anybody there or not.

  Let us, however, now attend to the departing visitors.

  Well, Spanker having piloted his party safe off the premises, and Mrs Watkins having conned matters over in her own mind, came to the conclusion that it would be well to look knowing; accordingly, without consulting Willy, she uttered the homeward route, telling the coachman to drive by Peasmeadow Park, in order that she might show off before Mrs Clapperclaw, a lady with a great determination of words to the mouth. She was at home; and, the usual salutations over, with a short cut at the weather, Mrs Watkins opened fire briskly — for Mrs Clapperclaw’s clock was twenty minutes too fast — by saying, “Well, they had been to Beldon Hall, and seen Mrs Somerville, — really a very nice sort of person — not above thirty or five-and-thirty years of age” — (this was an exaggeration, for Lucy was then only twenty-nine)— “evidently used to the best (dressed) society. Mr Romford was not in; but the hounds had come, and would hunt — Monday, Ashley Law; Tuesday, Thorney Row; Friday, Pippin Priory; Saturday — she forgot where.”

  Indeed, it would not have been much matter if she had forgotten them all, for Monday, as we shall presently see, was Pippin Priory, and the other two places were transposed. All meets, however, are alike to the ladies, save at their own houses.

  With regard to the establishment and prospects of gaiety, Mrs Watkins could give no very satisfactory information. No doubt Mr Romford was a friend of Lord Lovetin, and seemed to have complete control of the place; but the Mustards were all the servants the Watkinses saw, though there might be others elsewhere, or coming. If Mr Romford lived there as a bachelor, he might not entertain; but if Mrs Somerville remained, there was no reason why they shouldn’t give calls and take a prominent part in the festivities of the country. Indeed, Mrs Watkins observed, that, to her mind, entertaining and promoting conviviality was one of the principal uses of a master of hounds; for, as to the mere scampering over the country after a parcel of dogs, — getting their faces scratched and their clothes torn, she didn’t believe that one man in ten who went out really cared for it — she was sure Mr Watkins did not: indeed, nobody knew how unhappy he always was the night before hunting. “Nothing but a high sense of duty,” Mrs Watkins was sure, “could induce him to go out.” And Willy, who knew that doctrine wasn’t the ticket, kept frowning at his imperious wife while she delivered the opinion. “You know it’s a fact, W.,” said she, turning upon him with the effrontery of a brow-beating counsel; and, as there were none but ladies present, rather than have an argument, Willy admitted that he did not care much about it.

  Mrs Watkins — having thus delivered her budget, and sipped her second glass of sherry — began to feel at her crinoline; and Miss doing the same, mamma caught at the first pause in the conversation to arise; and, after much grinning, and handling, and teeth-showing, the exploring party retired, and “Home” was the word, for Dalberry Lees.

  Then Mrs Clapperclaw — who dearly loved to be knowing — having digested all Mrs Watkins had said, presently “three-black-crowed” the information, by telling Mrs Marcus Sompting, the next caller, that there were going to be grand doings at Beldon Hall. That Mr Romford was a gay young bachelor, with a dashing widow sister, who doubtless would keep the game a-going, and contribute very materially to the enlivenment of Doubleimupshire. And the news flew with great rapidity, and caused very general satisfaction, for the natives wanted stirring up sadly. Indeed, for long they had had nothing to do but abuse each other, which becomes tiresome after a time. It is
marvellous how country people hate, and yet hug one another!

  XXV. MR ROMFORD’S DÉBUT IN DOUBLEIMUPSHIRE

  THAT FIRST IMPRESSIONS ARE EVERYTHING is a truism that more people are ready to admit than to act up to; else how can we account for so many ladies disporting themselves in London in their old attire instead of waiting quietly till their new things come home from the milliners, thus stamping themselves as dowdies in the minds of their friends for the rest of the season. Who can expect that last great act of social fellowship — walking down St. James’ Street, arm in arm with a swell — if he is not properly attired for the critical occasion.

  Many a man has been turned adrift at the Piccadilly crossings without knowing the reason why.

  Mr Romford’s début with the Larkspur Hunt, in Doubleimupshire, was very different to what it was with the Heavyside one. Instead of the old pen-wiper-looking scarlet with its strong characteristic aroma of James’s horse blister, he sported a smart new “Tick coat,” built on the semi-frock principle of the simpering gentleman sitting on the wooden-horse in the tailor’s shop-window in Regent Street; and though Hammond and Bartley rejected his orders, other less eminent artistes, as we said before, were only too happy to execute them.

  “Francis Romford, Esq., at the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Lovetin’s, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire,” looked well on the new deal packing-cases standing conspicuously at their shop doors. So, what with Lucy’s — that is, Mrs Somerville’s — orders to London tradesmen, and Facey’s favours in the sporting and general way, Independent Jimmy was constantly leaving something or other at Beldon Hall lodge — new saddles, new bridles, new dresses, new boots, new bonnets, new everything. It is of no use people stinting themselves when they are not going to pay for what they get.

  At length all the orders, all the coats, and boots, and breeches, all the Goodhearted Green exertions, culminated in the throwing-off point, and the Larkspur Hunt was about to be revived under the auspices of the renowned Mr Romford.

  Swig and Chowey were severely admonished as to their drinking propensities, — told that if they ever transgressed again, they should not only have the full weight of Mr Romford’s right arm, the biceps muscle of which he invited them to feel, but that he would spend a whole golden sovereign in paper and postage stamps, to write to every master of hounds in the kingdom, cautioning them against engaging two such offenders. And by dint of big talk, Facey made them believe he was a very great man, and capable of demolishing them entirely.

  And Mrs Somerville, who understood stage effect, and the advantage of uniformity, saw that Swig and Chowey were properly dressed, clean shaved, clean white cravats, good gloves, and well put on well-polished boots, which, with their new London caps and coats, made them look as unlike themselves — as unlike the remnants of men that they were when Mr Romford picked them up at Tattersall’s, as could possibly be.

  Facey, too, was very fine — very different to what he was when he mounted the Dragon of Wantley, to take his first day with the Heavyside Hounds. He was not only well dressed, but he had lost a good deal of the shaggy Lion Wallace appearance he had about the face, by judicious trimming and polling. Then his clothes were quite unexceptionable, for if a man will only employ good London tradesmen, they will always take care that he doesn’t make a guy of himself. All he then has to do is, to put them on properly.

  And when they were all mounted, Romford on the magnificent Pull-Devil-Pull-Baker, late Placid Joe; Swig riding Everlasting; and Chowey on Perfection, the nutmeg-coloured grey with the penchant for carriages, the blooming well-conditioned pack of hounds around them, they really looked remarkably well, — thanks to “Tick” and their other numerous friends and benefactors. Thus, with eighteen couple of picked hounds, Mr Romford set off to undergo the scrutiny of the assembled science of the Larkspur Hunt.

  Trot trot, bump bump, trot trot, they went — Facey thinking if Swig and Chowey looked so well, what must he do; new hat, new coat, new everything — besides being such a good-looking fellow. Oh! for a good line of plate-glass windows to admire himself in. He felt as if he had lit on his legs. And in the exuberance of spirit he chucked Tony Parker, the pikeman at Bewley side-bar, a shilling, without ever asking what the toll was.

  Tony picked it up, saying as he did it, “Now that’s a real gemman, that is.”

  The meet was at Pippin Priory, the elegant mansion of Mr Joseph Large, who having taken a prominent part in the resuscitation of the Larkspur Hunt, under Mr Romford’s auspices, was well entitled to have the first show-off of the new establishment, on the verdant lawn before his gaudy house.

  Mr Large was not a sportsman, nor yet a regular Doubleimupshire squire, being nothing more nor less than a tea-pot-handle maker — a great tea-pot-handle maker — carrying on business both in London and Birmingham. And, though it seems a curious trade, yet, if we consider the enormous number of people there are with tea-pots — each, of course, with a handle — and how few men there are in the handle-making line [we question if the reader ever met with one before], it is no wonder he made a good thing of it. Joseph was rich — very rich: we wish we could give the reader an adequate idea of his riches, but he kept all his balance-sheets to himself, not even showing them to beloved Mrs Large. He did not go about saying “I am the great Mr Large, with a redundancy of money;” but if anybody were mentioned who was not in similar circumstances, he would say, with a scornful, up-turned lip, “Poor man — very poor man. Could buy him fifty times over — a hundred, if that was all.”

  Singular enough, Large was a good deal of the tea-pot build himself, being short and squat, with a very sallow complexion, and a stiff row of black curls round his otherwise bald head, somewhat resembling a coachman’s wig. It was hard to say whether his vulgar, vacant face or his great sticking-out stomach was the most offensive; for he used to bring the latter to bear upon one in the most arrogant way, as much as to say, “There! there’s a stomach with good fat capon lined! Match it if you can!”

  Young Large — Joseph Bolingbroke, as he was magnificently called — was the exact counterpart of his father, barring the disparity of years, and that he had a full crop of curly black hair instead of the ivory-like apex of papa. He also sported a moustache, and had whiskers extending all round the chin up to the mouth. He was quite as purse-proud, though still not so good a man as his father, for he would have nothing to do with hunting, having, indeed, been trundled off both fore and aft; so papa, who had a very exalted opinion of the advantages of the chase, was obliged to do the dangerous both for self and son. It was hard upon the old boy, who, the reader will see, was not at all adapted for the sport; but pride feels no pain, and he went at it like a man — not horse — tight boots, round legs, wash-ball seat and all. He had been an ardent supporter of Mr Romford, fully believing he was the Turbot-on-its-tail, and thinking that Romford might be useful in getting Bolingbroke into that high society wherein he could pick up a nobleman’s daughter, a connection with the peerage being the height of the tea-pot-handle maker’s ambition.

  So now he was going to reap the first fruit of his patriotism, by entertaining the new master at a grand hunt breakfast at Pippin, or Pipkin Priory, as, of course, the wags called it, a spacious Elizabethan mansion built of yellow brick, with bands and arches of red ditto. It stood on a gently rising eminence, well sheltered at the back and sides by a judicious mixture of evergreen trees and oaks. It had been the site of an old Hall house, though, of course, not a quarter the size it is now.

  There had been a great gathering of fowls, and hunting of eggs, and coaxings of cream in the immediate neighbourhood, and now the thing was to get people to come in and partake of the feast so provided. The hunt, we may say, had been divided between the merits of Mr Romford and those of that popular sportsman, Mr Jovey Jessop, and some of the malcontents showed their displeasure at the choice by remaining outside. Indeed, Mr Romford would much have preferred staying with his hounds, but both Lucy and her mamma had charged him to go in and make hims
elf agreeable to the ladies, especially to Mrs Large, assuring him that all women liked attention.

  So, when the gaudy green and gold Johnny came tripping over the lawn, taking care of his stockings, to summon him inside, Facey surrendered his horse to a servant, and left the hounds in charge of old Swig. It was a dangerous move; for ere Facey’s substantial form darkened the Priory portico, a white-aproned man was seen fluttering along the yew-tree walk, bearing a sort of hen and chickens, in the shape of a black bottle with a brood of little wine-glasses clustering around on a tray. At first sight Swig’s good resolution said “No.” “No!” it should be “No, no, I thank you sir,” at least, as became the ci-devant servant of an Earl. But as the white-aproned man turned out of the walk by the little green gate, the jingle of the wineglasses sounded rather too musically on Swig’s ear, and looking at the tray, he saw some biscuits upon it. Taking a biscuit could do him no harm, he thought! so he suffered the tempter to approach him.

  “Good mornin’, Mr Swig,” said the man; for the aphorism that “more people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows,” holds particularly good as regards huntsmen and field servants. “Good mornin’, Mr Swig,” said he, in the confident tone of a man who feels sure of a welcome.

  “Mornin’,” said Swig, still riding the good horse Resolution.

  “Take a dram this morning?” continued the footman, balancing the tray on one hand, while he took the silver-headed stopper out of the bottle with the other.

  He was now close up against Swig’s horse’s shoulder, and the aroma of the gin (for it was that beautiful beverage) mounted most generously up to the Swig snub-nose. This was too much for the veteran. Daniel! the Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale’s Daniel! couldn’t resist it.