Mr Facey Romford's Hounds

by R S Surtees

  Mrs Somerville leads the way merrily with Willy Watkins, closely followed by Betsey Shannon with Bolingbroke Large, while the undying one starts off with Miss Hazey.

  The long-secluded room is soon in a perfect petticoat whirl. The ball is well established; every Jack has got his Jill, and is ingratiating himself to the utmost of his ability. Red coats and black coats mingle with blue dresses and green, while yellow ones and white ones complete the scene. Here we might paraphrase Mr Romford’s favourite apostrophe of Beckford on the fox breaking cover, and say, “Now, where are all your sorrows and your cares, ye gloomy souls? or where your pains and aches, ye complaining ones? One pint of sparkling has dispelled them all!”

  Even the fiddlers seem infected with the common enthusiasm, and stamp and shake their elbows with convulsive energy. It is to be hoped that they have some extra fiddle-strings in their pockets, for it would be a pity to put a stop to such a party for want of a little forethought.

  The ice is now fairly broken, and even Mr Facey Romford resigns himself to the abandon of unrestrained gaiety. He doesn’t care a copper for anything.

  “Go it, ye cripples! Newgate’s on fire!” he inwardly exclaims, as he sees the blooming ladies and light-footed beaux rushing and floating and frolicking about the room. Though no great performer himself, he encircles the lisper’s smart waist with his great red arm, and goes boldly in for a dance, bumping against this party, thumping against that, stamping on t’other fellow’s toes. But the pace is too good to apologise.

  And now the thick-winded ones begin to stop. Willy Watkins first falls out, and his example is speedily followed by Bolingbroke Large, who has been going in distress for some time. The latter is quite blown; Betsey feels him heaving: Puff—wheeze—gasp—just like old Jugglebury Crowdey running after a poacher.

  “Come and have some refreshment,” says she, now acting deputy-mistress of the house. And the youth, being too much out of breath to reply, she leads him away; and fortunately they re-enter the supper-room just in the height of the before-mentioned foray of servants, and as Mr Beddingfield’s servant is disappearing with the Elephant and Castle. Betsey, seeing what has happened, rang the bell violently, disturbing Mr Percival Pattycake’s tête-à-tête with Dirtiest of the Dirty, and causing a general rush of attendants to the room. Mr Pattycake is greatly distressed at the loss of his magnificent elephant, and forthwith offers a reward of ten shillings for its recovery; whereupon Billy Balsam goes out among the carriages, and offers the choice of half-a-crown or a constable to the man in possession, who prefers taking the half-crown; but the castle having been lost off the elephant’s back in the transit, Mr Pattycake refuses the full compensation, saying the castle was the most valuable part of the concern, and he would only give half price.

  Betsey now walked away with young Large. “Now let you and I have a spin,” said she, putting herself in form for the Antelope Gallop, as they approached the ball-room door, starting off with a score directly they got within the portals. But Large was only a little better for his refreshment, and made a very poor response to the twinkling movements of Miss Shannon’s pretty feet, so she very soon, what she called, “stopped the tap,” and without much ceremony claimed the hand of the Honourable Lovetin Lonnergan, who, however, did not come up to her now champagne-inspired mark as a dancer. But as she was bent on business as well as pleasure, she thought to see what a little perambulation would do; so when the dance was done she walked him away, making a tour of the rooms, the passages, entrance-hall, and all, and finally brought him up at the familiar supper-table, now again in fall array with the regulation complement of attendants—Dirties, footmen, Pattycake, and all. Here, after a glass of champagne a-piece, they began to pull bon-bons, and the Honourable Lovetin presented Betsey with a sparkling sugar-plum, with the following motto:—

  Before you take this pleasing sweet,

  Let our fond lips together meet.

  “Couldn’t do it here, you know,” whispered Betsey, smiling, but though she took him another excursion, and even asked him, when in the now deserted cloak-room, if he knew how to spell the word “opportunity,” he did not rise to the invitation. Having heard of Mr Romford’s “cat”-spelling exploit, he thought there was some catch in it, and began, o-p-op-p-o-r-por-oppor-t-u—

  “Ah! that’ll do, Solomon,” said Betsey, turning him round for the door.

  And now Mrs Somerville re-enters the supper-room just as Mr Percival Pattycake popped off the last bottle of champagne, to whom he delicately intimates the position of affairs. Then Lucy passing round the table to the before-mentioned invisible door, summons him to follow her, and after rebuking him for his master’s non-fulfilment of the order (as people do who are not going to pay for a thing), she gives him out a couple of dozen of Lord Lovetin’s best sparkling, telling him she would deduct the price of it from Mr Fizzer’s bill, he having contracted to supply supper with unlimited wine, at so much per head: a safe venture for Lucy to make, seeing that Fizzer was not there to contradict her.

  If people who give bad wine, hoping their friends won’t discover it, were to see how really good wine is appreciated, they would find their mistake, and perhaps amend their ways. Upon this occasion Lord Lovetin’s wine had not been up very long before it became bruited in the ball-room that there was a very superior supply of champagne going, and troops of panting dancers came pouring in, all anxiously asking for the popular beverage. Non-dancers, too, were attracted by its merits. Mr Tuckwell, and Mr Lolly, and Mr Finch, and Mr Roxton, and even Lord Lonnergan himself might be seen exalting his great excommunicated double-chin as he quaffed off a bumper of the Beldon Hall supply—little thinking whose wine he was drinking. Then this improved excitement, coming at an opportune time, infused fresh spirits into the party all

  Went merry as a marriage-bell,

  the right men getting the right partners, and swinging up and down and round about with redoubled energy. Even old Facey warms with the exercise, his knock-knees smite each other vehemently, and he gets over the ground better than before. He has divided his favours very fairly between the lady competitors; if he has galloped with one, he has waltzed with the other.

  So far so good—still there was a little deficiency in the arrangements. The people outside were still wholly unthought of. Facey couldn’t think of them, because he didn’t know how they were coming. Lucy didn’t think of them, because few ladies ever do think of those things. Betsey didn’t think of them, because it never occurred to her that the guests wouldn’t come in street-cabs, which would stand all about just as they do at Highbury Barn, and altogether there was a singular dereliction on the part of the promoters of the party for the comfort and accommodation of the outsiders.

  All people, however, are of consequence to themselves, and coachmen and footmen are no exception to the rule. It aggravated them to hear the sound of mirth and music inside, while they sat blowing their fingers, or flagellating their chests with their arms to keep the circulation alive. Nor was their dissatisfaction at all diminished by the report made by the invaders of all the fine things they found in the house. To guard against a second foray all the outer doors had now been locked and bolted, and the gallant green-and-gold Chasseur had retired within, to peep over the Dirties’ heads at the door leading into the ball-room—his stalwart figure and handsome uniform making a showy background to the nicely-dressed Dirties in front. And while he was thus pleasantly engaged, whispering his soft nonsense in their ears, a noisy peal came off the front door bell that sounded as if the Lord-Lieutenant himself had arrived. A second peal, equally vociferous, followed close on the heels of the first—nay, before the first had time to get its heels well out of the way. The grand Chasseur, whose astonishment at the evening’s proceedings had only been equalled by that of friend Romford himself, little doubting but it was some very great personage indeed, shook out the gay plume of his cocked hat, and restoring it with a military air to his head, summoned the two figure-footmen to precede him and open the
door, while he drew himself up to his utmost altitude in front to receive whomsoever happened to come.

  The lofty doors flew open, and in the noble portal stood coatless Independent Jimmy himself, whose temper having got the better of him, he had come to demand what time he was wanted.

  Proudlock stepped back scornfully, shocked at the rencontre, for of course he knew Jimmy, though Jimmy didn’t know him.

  “Noo then! What time’s ar wanted?” demanded Jimmy, thumping the butt end of his great pig-jobber-like whip furiously against the marble flags.

  “Wanted! What do I know about your wants!” replied Chasseur Proudlock, indignant at the idea of having answered such a ring.

  “Sink! D’ye think ar’s gannin to let mar husses stand starvin’ there an fleet?” roared Jimmy at the top of his stentorian voice.

  “Rush! you’ll disturb the dancers!” exclaimed Proudlock, waving his right arm imperiously for him to depart.

  “Sink! but oi’ll gan in and see,” said Jimmy, pushing his way past Balsam and Bob Short, and making direct for the giant himself.

  Proudlook, perhaps thinking that his military costume might intimidate, put himself in an attitude of defence; whereupon Jimmy, dropping the pig-jobber whip, at him in an instant, and planting two well-directed blows, laid him sprawling on the flags, with his right eye closed, and what the pugilists call the claret cork taken out of his nose. The giant fell heavily, and roared lustily. Oh, how he did roar! He stopped the music, and brought the dancers trooping into the hal to see what had happened. Then Old Dirty was found raising him up, with Dirty No.2 applying a white kerchief to his nose.

  “Who’s dead, and what’s to pay?” demanded Betsy Shannon, pressing forward through the crowd, leaning on the arm of the boy Bill.

  “That imperent Jimmy has beat him most brutal!” exclaimed Old Dirty, casting an indignant eye at our imperturbable friend.

  “What a go!” exclaimed Betsey, turning short round on her heel, having little doubt that Proudlock deserved it. He then got raised up and slunk off.

  “Why, he’s a regular Tom Sayers!” said she, looking at Independent Jimmy’s stout frame, adding to Bill, “now take me back to the ball-room;” and away the two tripped in a waltz.

  Great was Independent Jimmy’s astonishment at finding who he had been fighting with. “Sink! ar arlways said ar could polish him off in three rounds,” said he, picking up his whip, and preparing to depart. Then suddenly recollecting what he had come for, he exclaimed, “Ar say, what time’s ar wanted?”

  “Oh, not this hour and fifty minutes yet,” replied young Mr Bigmore.

  “We won’t go home till morning,” exclaimed the Honorary Secretary.

  “Sink! it’s amaist that noo!” roared Jimmy.

  But he might as well speak to the winds.

  Then the dancers galloped and waltzed back to the ball-room, the stately ones following slowly and demurely, wondering what would be the result of the evening’s enjoyment. There were evidently many flirtations on foot; but would any of them ripen into an offer? They would see. Mrs Watkins and Mrs Hazey were equally confident of the success of their daughters. If Mr Romford had danced one more dance with Anna Maria than he had with Cassandra Cleopatra, still Mrs Watkins had the satisfaction of knowing that he had sat out a quadrille with her daughter, and also taken her (herself) in to the supper-room.

  And now the musicians, having imbibed a gallon and a-half of strong ale, and had some of the cheese, that Mr Romford proposed giving his guests, set to work as if they were going to fiddle the house down. And the dancers seem as if they were ready to assist them—the fat boy himself entering with avidity. So the ball is resumed with great ardour.

  The supplementary champagne sustains the credit of the house, and people generally admit that they never saw a thing better done. Mrs Somerville promised to be a great acquisition in Doubleimupshire, and Betsy Shannon was equally popular. It would be a shame to let them go out of the country. Long might Romford continue to hunt it. He was just the sort of man they wanted. And so the whole thing was a great success.

  The best of friends, however, must part; and as our guests, unlike Goldsmith’s

  —dancing pair, that simply sought renown,

  By holding out to tire each other down,

  had higher aspirations than the mere movement of the moment; so first Mrs Watkins, and then Mrs Hazey, were shocked at the unwonted lateness of the hour, and Willy and the boy Bill were respectively told that they must look after the carriages directly, while the rivals were whispered that they must stop dancing at the end of the quadrille, as it was time to go home. And neither of them thinking to be able to complete the victory that evening, they were content to retire simultaneously, each feeling satisfied that none of the remanets could touch her. So with a smiling “I pity you” sort of air, Miss Cassandra Cleopatra presently sailed past her opponent, closely followed by Willy and Mamma, the latter giving Anna Maria a half saucy salute, that as good as said, “You won’t be mistress here, my dear.” And Facey, who had smote his knock-knees with dancing till they were sore, gladly furthered the departure by tendering his red arm to Mamma, who whispered her gratitude to him for the beautiful ball he had given her daughter as they went along, first to the cloak-room, and next to the carriage. Then, having got them tucked in, the lady to whom allegorically he

  —had given his hand and heart,

  And hoped they ne’er again might part,

  squeezed the former most affectionately ere she drew up the window-sash. Spanker then touched the ready greys, and away they bowled from the door, just as the stable-clock struck four.

  “Wonderful work,” muttered Facey, as he rolled back into the house.

  The Hazeys were then just emerging from the cloak-room, and Facey having paid them the same tribute of respect that he had paid the Watkinses, he returned to the ball-room to see if he couldn’t, in publicans’ parlance, get his house cleared. He gave a great unmuzzled yawn as he entered the apartment, that as good as said, “Oh, dear, but I’m tired of it.” Nor was his anxiety to be done diminished by seeing that ugly old Bonus twirling Mrs Somerville about in a waltz, while Betsey Shannon in vain tried to get the reader’s old friend, Robert Foozle, to follow.

  “You are not much used to waltzing, Mr Foozle, I think?” said she, stopping short.

  “No, I’m not much used to waltzing,” gasped Robert.

  “Better have some lessons in waltzing, I think, Mr Foozle,” said Betsey.

  “Yes, I’d better have some lessons in waltzing, I think,” rejoined Robert.

  “Ah, come to me some morning, and I’ll spin you about,” said Betsey, now slipping away from him.

  Whish, crush, bump! fatty Stotfold and Miss Lonnergan now knock Robert clean out of the ring. Facey then gives another great yawn.

  It is melancholy work watching the decadence of a ball, the exhaustion of the dancers, the struggles to be gay against the ability to be so, the decline of the dresses until none but the shabbiest remain, the flickering of the candles, the droppings of wax, perhaps the premature demise of a lamp. All these symptoms now followed in rapid succession at Beldon Hall. The fat Misses Lonnergan got partners, the thin Misses Pinker exhibited their steps, and even Miss Mouser was induced to stand up in a quadrille. Still the thing was wearing itself out apace, and if it hadn’t been for the aftermath or chaff as to the lateness of the thing, they would all just as soon have been in bed. So, sooner than give in, they danced and grinned till their cheek-bones ached.

  At length the last of the crinolines disappeared under the guidance of our athletic Master, and nothing remained but those few male lingerers who so seldom get to parties that they never know when to go away—who stick to the supper-table so long as any vestige of anything remains.

  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.