Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  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,

  took their leaves with signs of sorrow,

  despairing of a drink to-morrow.

  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.

  LV. MR GOODHEARTED GREEN AGAIN

  THE 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 —

  ‘What! Do you think

  I shaves for a penny

  And axes to drink?’

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

  ‘What I Do you think

  I shaves for a penny

  And axes to drink?’

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

  ‘Shave for a penny, and ax ’em to drink.’”

  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.”

  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.

  LVI. THE INFIRMARY BALL

  THE BELDON 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 name
s 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.