Mr Facey Romford's Hounds

by R S Surtees

  Lucy, we need scarcely say, was got up with the greatest care, looking more as if she was going to ride in Rotten Row, or along the esplanade at Brighton, instead of fighting her way across country, unseen, perhaps, by anyone.

  Mr Romford, on the other hand, was the sportsman in mufti, deer-stalker hat, rough brownish Tweeds, and rusty Napoleons. Thus attired, they set out on their travels, timing themselves so as to reach Tarring Neville towards dusk, in order to have as little of that terrible winter night’s entertainment before dinner as possible. And having a good eye for counting, Mr Romford made a détour that not only enabled him to fix his landmarks upon it, but also carried him clear of those troublesome obstacles to some people’s progress yclept turnpike-gates. So he reached Tarring Neville just at the time he proposed, and, landing his sister at the front door under the proper reception of the butler and footman, he led Leotard off with his own horse to the stable, in order to see them properly put up for the night before he thought of himself “Men can ask for what they want, horses can’t,” was Facey’s aphorism; and he always made a point of seeing to his horses himself, a precaution that was more practised by the last generation of sportsmen than by the present one.

  No one, to see Mrs Hazey’s reception of Mrs Somerville, would have imagined for a moment that there had been any objection made to asking her, so fervent and enthusiastic it seemed to be the only thing that at all damped the ardour of the greeting being the non-appearance of our hero Mr Romford at her heels. This passing cloud Mrs Somerville speedily dispelled by saying that her brother had just gone round to the stable, whereupon the glow of enthusiasm was renewed, and the seductive blandishments of the teapot recommended. Mrs Somerville declined tea, also the alternative of a glass of sherry and a biscuit, observing that she had lunched just before they came away; whereupon the conversation was turned into the weather-groove, from which it naturally ran upon the roads and the state of the country.

  Mrs Hazey was afraid Mrs Somerville would find the roads very dirty?

  Oh no, she hadn’t; they came by the fields. “That splash,” said she, looking at one on the side of her habit, “was got coming over Cuckfield Common,” and thereupon she held it to the fire to dry.

  Mr Hazey and Mr Romford then presently entered the drawing-room, after whom came the boy Bill, who had been loitering in the stable to see whether Facey’s horses were quiet to dress or not; and next Miss Anna Maria came sailing in in all the radiance of a recent toilette. Then, after a cast back upon the weather, the roads, and the state of the country, the gentlemen diverged upon the never-failing topic of hunting—each master magnifying his more recent runs, and the ladies discussing the taste and discrimination of milliners, and the probable shape of the approaching spring bonnets and mantles. At length the conversation began to flag, and Mrs Somerville, whose thoughts had been running for some time on an unpacked box, containing a charming evening dress she had brought for the occasion, gladly adopted Mrs Hazey’s suggestion, that perhaps she would like to see her room, and gathering up her habit becomingly, she followed her hostess up the staircase and along a passage to where a partially-opened door disclosed the gleam of a newly stirred fire. There, on the sofa, lay the charming evening dress, which ten minutes before had been decorating the elegant person of Dirtiest of the Dirty, who thought she looked uncommonly well in it. Mr Romford too, having got his candle, was conducted by his obsequious host to the other state apartment, which he presently perfumed with a strong smell of tobacco. He then proceeded to decorate himself for dinner—scarlet coat, white vest,, black trousers, such as he wore at Dalberry Lees. And he really looked very civilised. “Devilish handsome,” as he said, when he came to examine himself in the looking-glass.

  XXXIX

  MR HAZEY’S HOSPITALITY

  MR HAZEY REVERSED DR CHANNING’S or somebody’s recorded opinion that, “not what a man has, but what he is, should guide us in estimating his true value,” for Hazey only looked to what his acquaintance had—we mean in the way of wealth. Hence, any man with plenty of money was sure to be a hero in Hazey’s eyes. Nothing so contemptible in his opinion as poverty. Nor birth, nor rank, nor taste, nor talent could compensate for this fatal deficiency, “Poor man—very poor man,” he would say, with an air of compassionate pity. Hazey dearly loved to talk about his own money; tell how much he had in railway shares, how much in Turkish scrip, and how much in Danish bonds and new hotels. In travelling, he generally studied his banker’s pass-book as a work of light reading for the rail, confidentially revealing to his next neighbour the amount of cash standing to his credit. “Humph!—not a bad balance,” he would say, pointing to the figures—£1,490 2s. 8d. or £2,013 17s. 1d.—“not a bad balance for a mere country gentleman to keep;”—Hazey omitting to mention that two-thirds of it were on a deposit receipt bearing three per cent. interest, or as near three per cent. as he could screw out of those who had it. With feelings such as these we need scarcely say he issued his invitations on the £ s.d. principle, baiting his trap as well with the inducement of having the great Mr Romford as the temptation of meeting the rich widow, Mrs Somerville. And Hazey having been good enough to report her reputed jointure of two thousand a year, paid quarterly, all the unmarried men in the country had been trimming their whiskers and bucking up their garments in consequence. Brisk widows are always in demand. Still Hazey’s house was never in great repute, for his cookery was only indifferent, and his cellar composed of cheap and second-rate wine. So he had to fire off a good many supplementary notes after the first issue; for people, like porpoises, generally come in shoals, or decline coming altogether. Mr and Mrs Joseph Large couldn’t come. They had a party at home. So they had, but it consisted only of themselves. The fact was, Large wasn’t pleased as to Mrs Large not being taken out first on a former occasion, and had resolved not to go to Tarring Neville any more.

  The Rollingers were extremely sorry they couldn’t come; Mr and Mrs Chipperfield were the same; and young Mr Anthony Hallpike, who was one of the catches of the country, declined rather unceremoniously, as young gentlemen will do sometimes.

  Then the tide of refusal took a turn, and they got some acceptances. Mr and Mrs Cropper would have great pleasure in, &c.; Mr and Mrs Gowleykins would be most happy; Mr Hibberbine had the honour; and Mrs Stirry and Miss Winkler had the same; the Rev. Mr Matthew Makepiece, the worthy rector of Slannington-cum-Starvington, was also at their command. Then Mr and Miss Makepiece, who at first were only invited to tea, were promoted to the dinner-table. Next there came a little contretemps; for the Pannets of Sycamore Hill, who at first were afraid they would not be able to come, Uncle Joe (from whom they had great expectations) having volunteered a visit, now wrote to say that Joe would put it off; and this, too, after the Hazeys had invited the Dumbletons to supply their places.

  However, it all came right at last; for the Dumbletons had bad colds, touches of influenza indeed; and the Pannets were not only better looking, but dressed better; in addition to which, Pannet was a water-drinker, which Dumbleton was not, indeed far from it, being one of the old sticking head-achey order, who never could be got away from the dinner-table. And Gritty, the cook, was then weighted with a party of sixteen, which might be increased to eighteen or twenty, according or not as the Beddingfields of Woldingham Manor, and Mr Bonus, who had as yet not answered, came or declined. But Gritty, like all the common cooks, was not easily overpowered. Only give her plenty of rum for the sauces, and she would undertake to get through anything.

  Well, Mrs Hazey, having duly arranged all the sauce and other matters in the morning, and Hazey having told Basket how to deal with the wine, they were free to enact the parts of disengaged host and hostess; receive their dear Mrs Somerville and Mr Romford when they came, then dress themselves diligently, and prepare to greet their equally beloved out-of-door friends when they arrived. Miss, of course, knew nothing of any of these domestic proceedings, and the boy Bill was equally ignorant.

  And, as the reader perhaps care
s not to follow the elders to their respective apartments, see Mrs Hazey reject her pink satin for her amber moire, or Hazey substitute a pair of candle-light kerseymeres for the bran new “Nicols” that Basket had laid out for his adornment, we will suppose that the worthy pair have at length descended into the drawing-room, where, with a well-swept hearth and a semi-illumination, they patiently await the coming of the company, wondering whether the clocks are right, and, if so, how they will be by other people’s. Hope nobody will think it necessary to come late—half-past six quite late enough for dinner in winter. Hark there’s the sound of wheels followed by a lull and a ring and a rush in the passage.

  Mr and Mrs Gowleykins, of Cock-a-Roost Hall, were the first guests to arrive; fat Gowleykins with a Gibus hat and diminutive tie, Mrs Gowleykins with a hoop that made her look like “the Great Globe itself.” It was with difficulty she could get herself compressed into a seat, and then there was a great balance bagging over the arm. Gowleykins was a big, baldheaded, butter-like man, who straddled and tried to look easy, though feeling extremely uncomfortable, and most heartily wishing himself back at Cock-a-Roost Hall. He was a rich man, having, as Hazey afterwards informed Mr Romford confidentially, full five thousand a year, which, coupled with a delightful simplicity in horsey matters, made him a most valuable ally to Hazey. He didn’t get less than fifty pounds a year out of the laird of Cock-a-Roost Hall—fifty pounds at least, all but the couple of sovereigns or so he gave the groom every Christmas to keep his master’s heart soft and emollient.

  Mr and Mrs Cropper, of Cowleyshaw Hill, Mrs Stirry, and Miss Winkler followed the Gowleykins, the two former having taken up the latter at their residence at Oaklands Grove, greatly to the prejudice of all three dresses. Cropper had growled the whole way at the unreasonable absurdity of crinolines, devoutly wishing that they and some of their inmates were at Jericho. He, too, was a moneyed man, variously estimated at from two to three thousand a year; and though he didn’t hunt, indeed his beer-barrel-like figure almost precluded the idea, yet Hazey managed to squeeze a pony out of him for the Hard and Sharps under the plea of patriotism—aiding the noble sport of hunting, which Hazey always maintained it was the bounden’ duty of every man to do. Scarcely had Cropper’s thick legs carried him round the now assembled circle, and brought him up safely on the hearthrug, than the door opened on the voluntary principle (that is to say, without the intervention of servants), and in rolled Mr Romford in the full array of the Larkspur Hunt—scarlet Tick, clean white vest, black kerseymeres, patent leather boots with elastic sides, for which latter elegancies we do not exactly know to whom he was indebted, but to a firm in St James’s Street.

  Then Mr Hazey, acting the part of bear-leader, made up to Mr Romford, and, getting him by the arm, forthwith began wheeling and circling him about, introducing him to this person and to that, supplementing his proclamation of names with an aside commentary upon their wealth, such as “Deuced warm fellow that—has his five thousand a year, if he has a halfpenny” (meaning old Cock-a-Roost); or “That’s a capital fellow, full of money, subscribes to the hounds, and does everything a man should do.” But the great object of Mr Hazey’s admiration was Mr Bonus, now of Shaverley Place, but formerly of the Stock Exchange, a gentleman who still retained a lively leaning to his old pursuits, being always ready for a deal, in which he generally managed to be successful too. “Wonderful fellow,” whispered Hazey to Romford, as, having effected the introduction, he led him off towards the lamp as if to show him the picture of a favourite hunter above—“wonderful fellow, turns everything he touches into gold. Do believe he gets ten-and-a-half per cent. for every halfpenny he has. Is chairman of the Half-Guinea Hat Company, one of the best specs going. Bought a cow of me that our people could make nothing of. Only gave me six-pun-ten for her, and—would you believe it?—she reared him two calves and made him twenty puns’ worth of butter besides.”

  This interesting genius was a slightly-built, middle-sized, yellow-haired man, who might be almost any age from thirty to fifty. The most remarkable feature about him was, a skew-bald fan beard, formed of alternate tufts of yellow and white hair, just like the fringe of a kettle-holder. He was a single man, and a good deal courted in the country.

  And now the door opened again, and in pops Mr Daniel Dennis, the stop-gap of the neighbourhood, a “rus in urbe” sort of youth, little remarkable for anything save living opposite a weathercock. “I live opposite a weathercock,” he was always telling people out hunting. “I live opposite a weathercock, and I saw at a glance this morning that the wind was at north-east;” or, “the weathercock opposite my lodging has been steady at south west these three days, and I predict we shall soon have rain.”

  Lucy, who understood stage effect as well as any woman, did not essay to descend until several successive wheel-rolls up to the door and rings of the bell led her to think the company would be about assembled, though she was informed as to who was arriving through the medium of Dirtiest of the Dirty, who had it from Hyacintha, Mrs Hazey’s maid. So she amused herself, during the progress of an elaborate toilette, with listening to the details of the internal economy of Tarring Neville,—who was mean—who was awful mean—who there was no a-bearin’,—and in speculating on the probable appearance of Mr and Mrs Cropper; what Mr Bonus would be like; what Mrs Gowleykins would have on; and whether Mr Dennis was good-looking or otherwise. At length a passage clock struck the quarter, and, after a final glance in the cheval glass, Lucy took up her white-kid gloves and fan, and sailed majestically out of the room, leaving Dirty to rearrange her things and extinguish the six wax-lights with which the apartment was illuminated. “No use in stinting oneself,” thought Lucy, as she quitted the blaze of light. She then made the grand descent of the softly-carpeted staircase, and was presently where Basket the butler, glass door-handle in hand, stood guard, as well over it as over a covey of flat candlesticks on the adjoining table.

  The door opened, and our magnificent prima donna sailed graciously into the room, radiant with smiles, radiant with inward satisfaction, and dazzling with costly jewels. Her new toilette completely threw in the shade the shabby silks, satins, and velvets of the other ladies. They began to wish they had been a little smarter: Mrs Cropper, that she had put on her violet; Mrs Beddingfield, that she had not come in blue. And then they blamed the gentlemen for advising them not. Meanwhile, Mrs Somerville having made a hasty survey of the scene, and satisfied herself that there was no one there to compete with herself, either in the way of looks or attire, droopped her black Spanish lace mantilla off her beautifully rounded shoulder, and proceeded to smirk and smile and show her pearly teeth to the company: “Mrs Gowleykins, Mrs Somerville; Mrs Somerville, Mrs Beddingfield; Mrs Cropper, Mrs Somerville,” and so forth.

  Masters of hounds are generally pretty punctual, as well at their meets as their meals, and Mrs Somerville had scarcely concluded her floating teeth-showing gyrations ere Basket sailed noiselessly into the room and announced in a whisper to Hazey, as if imparting a profound secret, that “dinner was ready.” Then Hazey, who had got sidled up to Mrs Somerville, as if he were going to make an attempt on her pocket, offered her his red arm, whereupon the other gentlemen began pairing off with the respective ladies they had had indicated to them as dinner companions: Mrs Cock-a-Roost with Old Cropper, and Mrs Cropper with Three Thousand Five Hundred a Year; Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent. with Miss Winkler; Facey ultimately brought up the rear with Mrs Hazey. By, however, one of those scientific man known only to great strategical commanders, Anna Maria’s capacious dress, like Cassandra Cleopatra’s at Dalberry Lees, was found extending itself half over Mr Romford’s chair, and this though her order of going would have indicated her place to be at the other end of the table; but ladies are always very obliging where there is any business to be done.

  Grace was then said by the worthy Rector of Slavington-cum-Starvington, and forthwith soup began to circulate from each end of the table. Sherry of course followed soup, and then came the fish—a
dish of smelts, and turbot with lobster sauce. Hock and Moselle then succeeded, and the gentlemen began to feel a little more comfortable. The ladies of course had dined at luncheon time, and, like Willy Watkins with his hunting, now only ate for conformity. Indeed, we often wonder for whom the great overpowering dinners are provided. If we follow a man to his club, and see what he orders, we shall find that soup, fish, and meat, constitute the dinners of nine-tenths of the whole. Tarts, sweets, savouries, are in little demand. But when a party of men sit at one table, instead of at several tables as they do at a club, there seems to be an idea that the accumulation of appetites requires greater appeasing, and makes it necessary to have an infinity of food.

  If people find certain dishes at one end of a table, they may be pretty sure what there will be at the other. For instance, a sirloin of beef is pretty sure to be faced by a turkey, whilst a roast leg of mutton generally involves some boiled chickens at the other. Then the ham, tongue, sausages, and so on, follow as a matter of course. Roast beef and turkey was the order of the day at Tarring Neville, for which there was a pretty equal demand; but Facey, not being much of a carver, willingly relinquished the honour of assisting Mrs Hazey to Mr Pannet, who sat on the opposite side of the table; thus enabling him to devote his attentions to Miss Hazey. But Facey was prudent and calculating. Anna Maria was certainly very pretty. Fine head and neck, beautiful brown hair, elegant figure; but then there was that confounded “Boy Bill” and another cub or two elsewhere. Besides, Hazey would live for ever, and Mrs H. looked like a tough ’un too. Altogether he determined to take the curb of his admiration up a link or two.

  Some people seem to think if they get a certain muster of guests together, and place a profusion of food before them, that that constitutes society, and that they may sit staring, just as the master of a union workhouse sits staring at the paupers.