by R S Surtees
The result of a long conference was, that the little slip-shod girl of the house was sent to Wardour Street for a furniture broker, to whom Lucy sold everything for ready money, with a stipulation that it was all to be cleared away that night, and, having packed up her clothes, together with the remaining stock of cheroots and manillas, she drove off in a four-wheeled cab to her mother in Hart Street, there to ruminate on the past and contemplate the future.
Next Morning, “THE SPONGE CIGAR WAREHOUSE, WHOLESALE, RETAIL, AND FOR EXPORTATION,” was closed!
And when Nathan Levy heard the said news, he wrung his hands in anguish, vowing that he was utterly and inextricably ruined. Never! no never, should he get over it.
And selfish Facey, having established Mrs Sponge, presently took his departure to look after his hounds, very glad that things had terminated as they had done, for at one time he thought they locked very ominous.
The reader will therefore now have the goodness to accompany Mr M.F.H. Romford into the country.
1. “Would you have the goodness to hold the baby while I get out?” asked a young woman of a respectable looking gentleman sitting next her, at the same time placing it on his knee. The next thing he saw, was the young woman disappearing in the thick of the crowd by the Mansion House. The omnibus went on, the gentleman sitting with his little charge, saying nothing. When, however, it stopped again, at the end of Cheapside, he repeated the operation on his next neighbour, saying, “Would you have the goodness to hold the child while I get out.” When, having done so, he instantly disappeared up St. Martin’s-le-Grand.
VII
MINSHULL VERNON
RAILWAYS HAVE DESTROYED THE ROMANCE of travelling. Bulwer himself could not make anything out of a collision, and trains, trucks, trams, and tinkling bells are equally intractable. No robbing, no fighting, no benighting, no run-away-ing. One journey is very much like another, save that the diagonal shoots across country are distinguished by a greater number of changes. But with the exception of certain level crossings, certain mountings up, certain divings down like a man changing his floor at a lodging, there is really nothing to celebrate. It’s, “Away you go!” or, “Here you are!”
The H.H. country had scarcely been screeched and whistled awake by the noise of railways. It had few requirements that way.
There were no factories, no tall chimneys, no coal pits, no potteries, no nothing. The grass grew in the streets of what were called the principal towns, where the rattle of a chaise would draw all heads to the windows. The people seemed happy and contented, more inclined to enjoy what they had than disposed to risk its possession in the pursuit of more. In fact, they might be called a three per cent sort of people in contradistinction to the raving rapacity of modern cupidity.
It was long after dark ere the little dribbling single line branch railway, that Mr Romford had adopted by means of a sort of triumphal arch on quitting the main one at Langford Green, deposited him at the quiet little town of Minshull Vernon, the nearest point to the H.H. kennel. He had been in and out of so many trains, paced the platforms of so many stations, and read the announcements of so many waiting rooms, that he felt as if he had traversed half the kingdom, and was thankful to get his luggage out for the last time in a quiet, unhurrying way. The train was twenty minutes behind time as it was, and the guard did not seem to care if he made it thirty before he got to the end of his short but slow journey. Minshull Vernon was a very small station, too insignificant for any advertiser save a Temperance Hotel keeper and a soda-water maker to patronize. Even their placards looked worn and dejected. There wasn’t a bus or a cab or a fly or a vehicle of any sort in attendance, only a little boy, who however was willing to carry any quantity of luggage. Such a contrast to the leaving in London.
Finding there were but two inns in the place, The White Swan, and The West-end Swell, our friend, true to his colours, patronised the latter, and was presently undergoing the usual inquiry “what he would like for supper,” from a comely hostess, Mrs Lockwood, the widow of a London groom, who in all probability had christened the house after his master. Romford wasn’t a dainty man, and having narrowed the larder to the usual point of beef steaks and mutton chops, he said he’d have both, which he afterwards supplemented by a large cut of leathery cheese. Two pipes and two glasses of brandy and water, one to his own health, the other to that of the hounds, closed the performance, after which he rolled off to bed in a pair of West-end Swell slippers. He was soon undressed, in bed, and asleep.
Facey couldn’t tell where he was in the morning. The excitement of the journey, the rapidity of events, all tended to confuse him.
He wasn’t at Mother Maggison’s, for he had no curtains to his bed there; besides, that game was all up. It wasn’t Beak Street, for those were brown and these were green; then it came across him where he was, and with a victorious swing of his great muscular arm, he bounded out of bed with a thump that nearly sent him through the old dry rotting floor. Mrs Lockwood thought it was the chimney-stack coming down.
Never having heard of Minshull Vernon before, of course Facey had not formed any expectations as to appearance; but when he came to look out of his window he found quite a different sort of place to what it looked over night. In lieu of a dull formal street he found himself on the reach of a beautiful river with its clear translucent streams sparkling in the morning sun. “Dash it but here’s fishing,” said Facey as he eyed the still trout holes—adding, “I’ll be in to you, by fair means or foul.” Having made a general survey of the scene, he then halloaed down-stairs for hot water just as he used to do at old Mother Maggison’s, and forthwith proceeded to shave and array himself.
Having ordered his breakfast—coffee and sausages, for which latter Minshull Vernon is famous—Facey put on his buttoned boots and turned out for a stroll in the street. It was a seedy-looking place, all the shops doing double duty, with no apparent pre-eminence among them. Jugs and basins commingled with ladies’ hoops, flour and fruit stood side by side, marbles and mustard were in the some bowl. Besom makers and beer shops seemed to predominate. At length Facey found a saddler’s, or rather half a saddler’s, for he dealt in cheese as well, far different to the saddler’s in whose window he drew in inspiration in Oxford Street. This was Toby Trotter, a first-rate gossip and liberal tipper of servants who brought work to his shop. To hear the tippees talk, one would think there wasn’t such another shop in the kingdom. Such leather, such sewing, such workmanship generally. Toby was what they call a jobbing saddler, a man who worked out by the day, either so much money and his meals, or so much money without his meals; but as people found that Toby managed to get his meals either way, they mostly adopted the system of paying and feeding him. This gave him a fine opportunity for picking up news, and many a story and many an arrangement that people thought quite snug all among themselves was promulgated at Toby’s shop. All the queer rumours and scandals in the county could be traced up to him. He had heard when taking his usual night-cap that there was an arrival at The West-end Swell, and was on the look out for a view. He now saw Facey coming, and began busying himself with the arrangement of a bunch of brass nailed cart whips hanging at the shop door. Toby was a little bald turnip-headed roundabout white-aproned man, who looked as if you could trundle him down street like a beer barrel. At first he thought Facey was a bagman—we beg pardon, representative of a commercial establishment—a conjecture that was speedily dissipated by his stopping short and asking for a set of spur straps. Toby had none by him, but would make him a set in a minute, which was just what Facey wanted, the imparlance, not the leathers, being the object of his visit. A saddler’s is always the place to pick up sporting news, just as a confectioner’s is the one to pick up matrimonial intelligence. So our friend entered and took a seat on a stool while Toby busied himself for what he wanted. Nay more, Facey made a mental inventory of the shop, and estimated its contents, cheese and all, at some eighteen pound odd. This, too, while he was talking on indifferent subjects with
Toby. Our friend’s honours were too novel and recent to admit of his keeping them to himself; and Toby, who was a bungler, had scarcely begun to cut ere Facey let out that he was the new master of the Heavyside hunt. Great was Toby’s awe and astonishment, and his hand shook and his cutter jibbed in a way that made very slovenly workmanship. Nevertheless his tongue went glibly enough, and he presently inducted Facey into his country, told him who kept a good house, who kept a middling one, who kept a shabby one, whose keeper shot the foxes, whose sold the pheasants, whose trapped the hares, whose wanted palming. Altogether, gave him a very satisfactory insight into what he might expect. And Toby declined taking payment for the spur leathers, handing Facey a card, and hoping he would allow him the honour of opening an account with him, a request that Facey was obliging enough to grant.
VIII
THE H.H. HOUNDS
THERE ARE FEW THINGS so faithful as a dish of sausages, not the indigestible leadeny things cooks make in the country, but the light savoury productions of the practised hand; and friend Facey having eaten about a pound and a half of Minshull Vernon ones felt equal to any emergency; he didn’t think he would ever be hungry again, so he didn’t pocket his customary crust. Finding that the kennel was only seven miles off by the fields, he determined to attempt the expedition by the usual mystifying directions of the local bumpkins: “Ye mun gan to the Old Wood toll-gate and then torn to the left and then to the reet, and then keep straight endways till ye come to the pound, and then take the Hay Bridge Hill road till ye come to a four lane ends, after which ye cross the common and come oot by Newbiggin toon end,” all very plain sailing to a practised person, but quite bewildering to a stranger. However, Facey was used to country people’s directions, and by dint of keeping the kennel question steadily in view, he succeeded in reaching it in about double the distance he expected. Still, he did not care much for the détour, consoling himself with the reflection that he was seeing the country, and would be able to rectify his mistakes in returning. He now pulled up on a rising ground, a short way off, to contemplate the unmistakeable brick and slate structure standing on the slope of a corresponding hill opposite.
Its courts
On either hand wide opening to receive
The sun’s all-cheering beams, when mild he shines
And gilds the mountain tops.
“Va-ry good,” muttered Romford, eyeing it, “va-ry good, the stables I see are behind, clock in the middle, corn lefts above—have seen many a worse-looking place than that Facey feeling his own consequence involved in the appearance.
He then sunk the hill, and crossing along a little rustic foot bridge over a gurgling stream, presently deserted the footpath for the more generous amplitude of the kennel-surrounding carriage way.
Our friend was now at one of the hunt-endowed farms, Allertor by name greatly altered and improved since Mr Heavyside’s time. Indeed, its value had been more than quadrupled.
A bright green door with a highly polished brass knocker placed between diamond-patterned paned windows, now announced the huntsman’s house, and making for it, a very slight rat-a-tat brought a little hooped servant girl to answer it.
“Mister What’s-his-name at home?” asked Facey, who had either never heard, or had forgotten, the huntsman’s patronymic.
“Mr Lotherington’s in the kennel, sir,” replied the girl, dropping a curtsey.
“Then tell him Mr Romford’s here,” said Facey, thinking to have the whole establishment all out in a rush.
“Please sir, Mr Bamford’s here,” said the girl.
“Bamford, Bamford, know no such name; tell him to coom in,” said the Yorkshireman, who was busy in a kennel conference.
Jonathan Lotherington was a self-sufficient man, who firmly believed in the perfection of everything around him, consequently he never went from home, for change or advice. People might imitate him, he said, but he copied nobody. His was the glass to dress by. Jonathan had been many years with the Heavyside hounds, and though he came out beef-ier and beefier every season, he never recognised any change in himself. He thought, indeed, he rather improved than otherwise. He now rode eighteen stone, a grand weight, he said, for making horses steady and careful at their leaps.
Still, he had his admirers among the H.H., few more sincere than Colonel Chatterbox, with whom he was then conversing. The Colonel had been one of the old “Brothers Heavyside,” and always regretted the change that had taken place in the name. When Jonathan and he joined their sapience together they were very convincing. They could unravel a run and kill foxes over again. They were in the middle of a long towl about a twenty years’ old run from Lovedale Gorse to Brierly Banks, when the little girl interrupted the narrative. Though they were both very “’cute,” according to their own accounts, and were in daily expectation of the new master, yet they neither of them thought Bamford might be Romford, and so returned to the point where the confounded coursers headed the fox on Frankton open fields and drove him off the finest line of country that ever was seen.
When Romford rolled in, the fat huntsman was standing before the fat Colonel, each poking away at the other’s ribs, as they made their successful hits and recollections of the run. They were quite enthusiastic on the subject. Romford had no difficulty in recognising the huntsman, for he was attired in the last year’s robes of office, viz., a purply lapped coat, warm breeches and boots—a hat instead of a cap, and the absence of spurs, was all that denoted the non-hunting day. The Colonel was green-coated, buff-vested, white-corded, and leathered-gaitered. Carmelite had taken the liberty of wiping his feet on his cords, leaving him the only consolation that they were the second day on. Jonathan and he were now both prepared against further assaults in the shape of kennel-whips held under their arms.
Though they both saw Romford coming, they neither of them thought a man in such a shabby hat, and seedy paletôt, with his Sydenham trousers turned up at the bottom, worth their attention, so they just went on poking and talking as before.
“Well, old boy,” said Romford, laying his heavy hand on Jonathan Lotherington’s shoulder, “I’ve come to see these ’ere canine dogs.”
“Presently, sir, presently,” snapped Lotherington, as much as to say, who are you, pray, that thus interrupts?
“Presently!” retorted Romford; adding, “I’m Mr Romford, the new master.”
Lotherington started at the announcement. Off went the hat with a sweep, commensurate with a five pound tip, looking as if it would never be restored. The Colonel, too, raised his a little, and salutations being over, Facey renewed his application to see the hounds.
“Certainly, sir, certainly,” replied Lotherington, presenting Facey with a dress-protecting switch, holloaing at the same time, “Michael! here, lad! coom!” to his whip.
The lad, who was about sixty, came shambling along in the peculiar manner of dismounted horsemen, and passing out of the flagged court in which the Colonel and Lotherington had been having their kennel lecture, they entered the first lodging-house yard beyond. The door being opened, the hounds were turned off their warm benches by the lad, and came yawning and stretching themselves, giving an occasional bay, as much as to say, what are you bothering us about now? Mr Romford, like a general at a review, then took up a favourable position from which he could criticise their looks. There were several throaty splay-footed crooked-legged animals among them, and Mr Romford thought there was scarcely one that he could not find a fault in. However, that he kept to himself, pretending to imbibe all Lotherington and the Colonel said in their praise. At length the Yorkshireman, having rather over-egged the pudding with his praise, Mr Romford observed that he thought some of them must be kept for their goodness rather than their beauty. This only made the parties more vehement, and as Facey had not the means of confuting them, he made what he thought the amende honorable by saying they might be better than they looked. They then proceeded to the other yard. It was ditto repeated. More blear eyes, more flat sides, more weak loins. But Lotherin
gton assured him he could carry their pedigrees right back into the last century.
“So much the worse,” muttered Romford. Then he continued his silent criticism. “Well,” at length said he, “the proof of the puddin’s in the eatin’, and I’ll see them in the field before I say anything. Let me see,” continued he, diving into his paletôt and fishing up his “Life,” “Wednesday, that’s tomorrow, Shivering Hill; Saturday, Oakenshaw Wood. What sort of a place is Oakenshaw Wood?” asked Romford.
“Very good, sir,” said Lotherington.
“Very good,” assented the Colonel.
“Then I shall most likely be there,” said Romford, returning Lotherington his switch, adding, and “now I must be off for the days are short, the roads dirty, and I don’t know my way.” So saying, with a sort of half bow half nod to the Colonel, he rolled out of the kennel.
But that Abbeyfield Park kept it down, the Colonel would have said “he’s a rum un.” Lotherington, less awed, thus expressed his opinion to his friend Grimstone, the head groom, who, as usual, came, crab-like, down from the stables to hear what was up.
“Ar think nout o’ this Romford, mister,” said he. “Why, he cam to kennel i’ buttoned boots! cam to kennel i’ buttoned boots!” as if it was impossible for a man to be a sportsman who wore such things. And Grimstone shook his head as much as to say he “wouldn’t do.”
IX
THE DÉBUT
NO MAN WITH MONEY IN his pocket need ever be long in want of a horse; this Mr Facey Romford well knew, having bought four-legged ones, three-legged ones, and two-legged ones—all sorts of horses, in fact. He had bought horses with money and without—more perhaps without than with. He would take them on trial, buy them if he saw he could sell them for more than was asked, or pay or promise so much for their use if returned. And being a bold resolute rider, people had no objection to seeing him shove their horses along, feeling perhaps that they came in for part of the credit of the performance. Many of them thought what they would give to be able to spin them along as Facey did.