by R S Surtees
The announcement caused great satisfaction in Doubleimupshire, for Mr Romford’s name was good, and, as he could only be changing for the sake of improvement, the superiority of their county would doubtless compensate for any little deficiency in the matter of funds. And some of the small subscribers began to wish they had put themselves down for double the amount, seeing it was not likely to be called for. So Mr Simon Greenfield was requested to rejoin forthwith, and thereupon a reciprocity of paper-politeness took place between Mr Romford and him, in which the latter expressed his readiness to meet Mr Romford to confer on the matter at any place he might choose to appoint. And Facey, not caring to have him too near, replied, after a good consultation and calculation of Bradshaw, that fair play was a jewel, and he would meet him half way, naming the Trench Crossing station of the Union Railway, at Hopton Heath, which appeared to divide the distance as nearly as possible, and being quite private, would prevent any chance of interruption; in other words, prevent any one seeing him, and letting out that he was the wrong Romford. And so a meeting was appointed to take place accordingly.
XVIII
THE HONORARY SECRETARY TO THE LARKSPUR HUNT—TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF
THE TRENCH CROSSING STATION OF the Union Railway at Hopton Heath was an isolated shed upon a bleak, barren plain, inhabited only by a solitary snipe of a station-master, who but for the appointment would have made a capital hermit. The Express trains shot past it with disdain, the first and second classes only stopped on demand, while the pick-ups and parlies alone pulled up voluntarily, and having once stopped seemed as if they would never go on again. Facey had been down that way once before on a crusade against Sir Charles Goodacre’s pheasants, and knew how to change his third-class ticket for a first one at Fiddler’s Ferry station so as to come up all right first class at the heath. His appearance on this occasion was very different to what it was then, his tenpenny wide-awake being exchanged for a good black hat, and his rough pouched-like garb for a very becoming sporting attire. In truth, Lucy Glitters—we beg pardon, Mrs Sponge—had civilised him amazingly, trimming his mane, and reducing the ruggedness of his uncouth all-round-the-face whiskers. Upon this occasion he sported a neat scarlet-and-white striped tie, secured with a splendid diamond (Brighton diamond) ring, that would have been worth many hundreds had it been real, whereas he had only given eighteenpence for it. Still it looked very handsome, and, though Mr Facey was ugly enough, he had the size and the action that carry a thing off. Then, when he discarded his smart gray or rather lavendercoloured paletot, he disclosed a neat, single-breasted, dark gray morning coat, striped buff vest, with Bedford-cord trousers, and buttoned boots. In his dog-skin gloved hand he clutched a green silk parasol-like umbrella, the property of Lucy, which looked altogether out of proportion to the monster who carried it.
A railway journey, unlike a road one, can either be made long or short, or middling, according to the taste and inclination of the traveller, and there is no limit to what steam will accomplish. Hence, it follows that time affords no criterion of the distance that a man may travel in a day. It all depends upon the train, whether he has flown by express, or taken it quietly by an ordinary train. Mr Romford did a little of all sorts, changing from one line to another, from one class to another, as did his travelling coadjutor from the contrary direction, until, like the weird sisters in Macbeth, they at length met upon the “blasted heath.” Facey came up in a slow train. Puff-whew-hew-ew-whiou, whew! and the sluggish monster at last got its cumbrous length laid alongside the little station. Out came the Snipe for a stare, never imagining that two passengers could want to alight there in one day. Two baskets he had had, and three boxes, in one day, but he never remembered two passengers. So he didn’t proclaim the name of the station. Mr Romford, however, looked out and saw it, and prepared to alight. On the little platform stood a mildly drawn looking pink and white young gentleman, of some five-and-twenty or thirty years of age. Just the sort of man that Facey would like to have to negotiate with. A glance of his keen ferreting eyes told him that he could, what he called, “talk him off his legs in no time.” He was glad to see he was alone, for then he needn’t mind what he said. Lowering the third of the remaining carriage window in which he was seated, he called to the Snipe to open the door, and then alighted with the stately deliberation of a man doing the consequential instead of the hurrying out of a second or third class carriage. Advancing towards where the stranger stood, he gave his new hat a groomy sort of a rap with his fore finger, accompanied by a duck of the head, and a mutter of “Mr Greenfield, I believe.”
“Mr Greenfield it is,” replied the placid stranger, with a smile, adding, “Mr Romford, I ’spose,” with a bow, whereupon Facey tendered him his substantial fist, and pump-handled him severely.
“Ticket, sir, please,” said the solitary Snipe, now coming up; which being delivered up, and Facey having arranged his paletot becomingly across his arm, and felt that the Brighton diamond was safe, turned again to the “Honorary Secretary,” saying, now let’s go in and have a talk.” Thereupon Facey led the way into the diminutive waiting-room furnished with four black horse hair-bottomed mahogany chairs, a round table, and a gaudy-coloured oil-cloth on the floor. In the little watch-pocket-like grate of a fireplace a few very inferior coals were gradually smouldering into white ashes.
“Bring some fuel!” roared Facey, digging his capped toe into the midst of the remnant; and the want being supplied, he invited his friend to be seated on one of the chairs, and, taking another himself, stuck himself well before the fire, and thus opened upon him
“Now tell me first,” said he, fixing his little ferreting eyes full upon him—“Now tell me, do your people eat, or do they drink, or do they hunt? I mean,” said Facey, seeing the Honorary Secretary did not understand him, “do they talk about their cooks or about their wine, or about the sport they have had with the hounds?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly,” replied Mr Greenfield, “they do a little of all three occasionally. There is a good deal of dinner company goes on, and where there is eating there will be drinking and talking too, you know.”
“Ah, I don’t care about dinners,” replied Facey, with a shrug of his great round shoulders; “a little shooting would be more in my way. Tell me now, are your people good-natured about their shooting, or do they kick up a dust if anybody gets on to their ground by accident or mistake?”
“Oh, some of them are very good-natured indeed, others are only so-so—men vary you know.”
“So they do,” said Romford—“so they do; one man is no more a criterion for another than one horse is a criterion for another, or one hound a criterion for another. Every herring must hang by its own head.” He then began biting his nails and weeding his chin, as was his wont on critical occasions.
“Now tell me about the hounds,” at length resumed he, coming to the real purport of the interview. “Tell me about the hounds. How many days a-week do you want the country hunted?”
“Four,” replied Mr Greenfield, promptly.
“And the subscription?” rejoined Facey.
“Well, from sixteen to eighteen hundred a-year,” stammered Greenfield, who had been told to begin low.
“Sixteen to eighteen ’underd,” muttered Facey, pulling a sample out of his beard, and examining it attentively at the fire. “Sixteen to eighteen ’underd a-year,” repeated he. “How comes the uncertainty? There’s a difference, you know, between sixteen and eighteen, you know—difference of two, I should say, though I don’t know nothin’ ’bout mathematics—’rithmetic, I should say.”
“There are always some people who put their names down and don’t pay,” replied the Honorary Secretary.
“So there are,” said Facey, “and be hanged to them—so there are, as I know to my cost. Well, but I suppose we might put the subscription down at eighteen ’underd a-year,” continued he, pulling out his betting-book, and doing a little “’rithmetic”—“eighteen ’underd from three thousand, and twe
lve ’underd remains. That would leave twelve ’underd a-year for me,” said he, with a “can’t-be-done-ish” sort of shake of the head.
“So much as that?” stared Mr Greenfield.
“The way I should do it,” replied Mr Facey—“the way I should do it. Of course there are some of these newfangled Marsh1-like masters who will do it for less, and live out of the subscription too, but that sort of work wouldn’t suit me. I must do the thing properly or not at all.”
Facey then arose, and diving his hands up to the hilts in his Bedford-cord trouser pockets, took a meditative fling round the little apartment, apparently lost in calculation, but in reality resolved not to miss such a chance.
“It’s too much for the master to pay,” at length said he, pulling up short, and sticking himself John Bull-ically (a coat tail over each arm) before the fire. “It’s too much for the master—but still I think it might be manished,—I think it might be manished. ’Spose now,” said he, sitting down again, and placing a foot on each hob, “’spose we were to say—subscription two thousand—subscription two thousand—that would leave a cool thousand for me—quite little enough for a man who has all the trouble and bother of the thing.”
“I am afraid we could hardly raise the money,” replied Mr Greenfield, meekly.
“Oh, easy enough,” replied Mr Romford—“easy enough. Put on the screw! there are always plenty of fellows with more wool on their backs than’s good for them, who’ll stand a little fleecing.”
Mr Greenfield sat mute, for his instructions were to fleece Facey.
“It’s a disagreeable thing to talk about money,” observed Mr Romford, with a pish and pshaw, “but landed property is so different to money property, where you get every farthing paid to the day, that one’s ’bliged to be a little prudent and circumspect. Won’t do to live up to one’s income, you know,” added Facey with a shake of the head.
“True,” assented Mr Greenfield, who had some house property of his own, which was always either standing empty, tumbling down, or wanting a year’s rent laid out in repairs.
“Oh, I don’t think there could be any difficulty about it,” resumed Mr Romford, cheerfully, after a pause “I don’t think there would be any difficulty about it. It’s only like putting a per-centage on to the present subscriptions, you know. Just as easy to draw a cheque for sixty as for fifty. People don’t care half so much for parting with money by cheque, as they do in notes or sovs.”
Mr Greenfield sat mute.
“A man can’t leave home without loss,” observed Mr Romford. “When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” continued he, taking another sample out of his beard and examining it attentively as before. The two then sat silent for a time, Facey twisting the hair about and viewing it in various lights.
“You’ll have the country hunted as it never was before,” at length observed Romford, throwing the hair into the fire. “I don’t like boasting, but if anybody can show sport I can. I have a first-rate pack of hounds,” added he; “spared no expense in getting them.”
Mr Greenfield did not attempt to gainsay any part of this, his friends of the Larkspur Hunt being quite content to take Mr Romford, provided they could get him at their own price, but being a rich man they thought they should have him cheaper than if he was a poor one. And our friend, like the drunken actor who fancied himself the King, in the Coronation, and exclaimed as he crossed the stage, “God bless you, my people!”—our friend, we say, having talked so long in thousands, began a to think that he dealt in them too, and that he was really a rich man, instead of a rank impostor.
Having given the fire another poke with his toe, for they did not allow fire-irons at the Hopton Heath Station, Mr Facey Romford got up again and gave himself another fling round the room, as if for inspiration.
“You see now,” said he, resuming his erect position before the fire, “you see now, what I want is sport—sport is the first consideration with me; but sport can’t be had without money, and we ought to put our shoulders fairly to the wheel together to get it.”
The Secretary nodded assent.
“Well, then, you see,” said Facey, “besides what I shall lose by leaving home, I shall have to increase my establishment; and I needn’t tell you, who see me, that a man of moy weight can’t mount himself for nothin’. Three ’underd is generally the figure I have to give for horses. As soon as ever the rascals hear they are for Mr Romford, they immediately stick on the price. Then I should certainly like to know about a little shooting and fishing—not that I can say I should avail myself of either much, only it’s pleasant to have an object for a walk, and to feel that one can go out if one likes. Altogether I think we understand each other,” said Facey, thinking it would be very odd if the Honorary Secretary did. “Two thousand a-year guaranteed subscription, half in November and half in January, or the whole in November, if you like, for four days a week, with an occasional ‘bye,’ cover rents and stopping paid, and I’ll undertake to show you such sport as never was seen. But ‘of their own merits modest men are dumb’—only, if I can’t show sport, I don’t know who can; so that’s a bargain,” said he, extending his right hand for a shake.
“Oh! but I shall have to consult the gentlemen of the hunt, first,” exclaimed Mr Greenfield, drawing back in alarm. “I shall have to consult the gentlemen of the hunt, first.”
“Or’d rot it, I thought you’d been a reg’larly ’pointed Plenipotentiary,” replied Facey, pretending disappointment at the answer. “Or’d rot it, but I thought you’d been a reg’larly ’pointed Plenipotentiary,” repeated he. “However,” said he, “you know what I want, and must fig your fellows up to giving it. Tell them it’s only the superiority of their country that tempts me, nothin’ else.”
“I’ll represent all you have said,” replied Mr Greenfield, guardedly.
“And in talking about it, mind don’t forget to broach the shooting. Say, I should like a little shooting.”
“I’ll not forget that either,” assented Mr Greenfield.
“Nor the fishing,” rejoined Facey; adding, “It would do your heart good to see me throw a fly. I really think the fish feel a pride and a pleasure in being hooked by me,” continued he, flourishing his right arm as if he were in the act of handling a fishing-rod.
He had had a good deal of fishing where he was, and what with his rod and his gun had kept the butcher’s bill down.
Our master then took a general suck of the Secretary’s brains, learning as much about the country and characters in it as he could. They seemed to be a lively sort—quite different to the old Heavysides. Dinners, balls, parties of all sorts.
The shrill shriek and screech of the whistle at length announced the coming of the down-train, and Facey, who had arranged the visit with a greater regard to his own convenience than that of the Honorary Secretary, now asked him to give him a help on with his paletot, which being adjusted, Facey gave him another pump-handling shake of the hand, and emerging from the little waiting-room, was presently seated conspicuously in a first-class carriage on his way back to Minshull Vernon, exchanging the first-class for a third one, as before. And the big talk, coupled with the Brighton diamond and gay get-up generally, had impressed the Honorary Secretary so favourably, that the Larkspur gentlemen resolved to secure Mr Romford, and, after trying eighteen hundred a-year unsuccessfully, Mr Greenfield was at length commissioned to close for the two thousand a-year, the name of Romford tickling the subscribers’ fancies just as Mr Facey said he tickled trouts when a boy.
And Facey chuckled at his own ’cuteness when he got the despatch announcing their acceptance of his offer, and said the Romford star was clearly on the ascendant.
When it became known that such a swell as the Turbot-on-its tail had taken the Larkspur country, he was beset by people with large places offering him their houses, at more or less remunerative prices. “Nothing for nothing,” is the motto now-a-days. One gentleman was going to Naples; another to Rome; a third wanted to make a tour in t
he East; a fourth in the West; and they would have no objection to letting their houses and gardens to a careful party without any children, and one who would not interfere with the game. The game was to be held sacred. But for this, Facey would have had no difficulty in taking a place, and paying the rent out of his gun.
The course of his inquiries, however, made him acquainted with the fact that Beldon Hall, the beautiful seat of Lord Viscount Lovetin, on the south-east of his country, was vacant, and had been so for some time,—a circumstance that generally has a mitigating influence on the expected rent. In this case it had a considerable influence; for his lordship had had so many cruel disappointments and vexations about letting it, that he was almost heart-broken in consequence. Not that the Viscount was poor—far from it—but this was the thorn in his side,—the one thing that made him miserable. Indeed, he had much changed with the unexpected acquisition of his title from his cousin, having been, when Jack Moneygull, of the Tom and Jerry Huzzars, one of the jolliest fellows under the sun, ready to back a bill, bonnet a Bobby, do anything light and frolicsome; but now, as the Lord Viscount Lovetin, he had become the meanest, most morose, penurious creature possible, always dreading expense and imposition, sitting calculating interest by the clock. He had shut up Beldon Hall and retired to the Continent, where he lived au troisième, au quatrième, au cinquième,—anywhere rather than at home,—never spending a halfpenny he could help, and talking as if he didn’t know where the next day’s dinner was to come from. Then he wanted to let Beldon Hall, and he didn’t want to let it. When it came to the point, he put so many restrictions and embargoes upon the parties, that nobody would take it. His lordship wanted the money, in fact, but did not want to give the tenants anything for it. Mr Challoner might have it, provided he wouldn’t use the drawing-room. Mr Coverdale might have it, provided he wouldn’t use the dining-room. Mrs Emmerson and his lordship quarrelled about the cut pile carpet in the music-room. He would have it put away, while she insisted upon keeping it down. So they separated, after consuming an immensity of paper, for they were both most voluminous letter-writers. And half-a-dozen other negotiations had gone off on similar quibbles, until the place was regularly blown. Nobody would look at it. People said it wasn’t to let.