Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

“Gad,” said his lordship, again sticking his back to the fire, after going through the usual evolution of showing the bell, the boot-jack, &c., “those are capital hounds of mine, and I’m very much obliged to Tattersall for buying me them.

  “Suppose we take a turn with them to-morrow,” continued he, after a pause.

  “We are going out with the Tear Devil hounds aren’t we?” asked Tom, turning the airing shirt at the fire by way of giving his lordship a hint that they ought to be dressing.

  “Ah, true!” replied he, with an air of a man awaking out of a revery, “to-morrow the Devils meet at Stallington Hill, nineteen miles from here, but that’s nothing with two good hacks.”

  “Ecclesford Green you told me in your letter, I think,” observed Tom.

  “Ah, true!” rejoined his lordship, “Stallington’s on Saturday — you’re right; to-morrow is Ecclesford Green, and a deuced bad place it is too.”

  Just as he gave Tom this pleasing piece of intelligence the tower clock chimed seven, and observing that he “supposed they ought to be dressing,” his lordship lounged out of the room, having now enlightened Tom as to the meaning of the footman, in saying that dinner was “ordered” at that hour.

  “What a queer bitch it is,” said Tom, as his lordship’s gaunt figure disappeared through the door-way.

  “He seems to be keen about hunting too,” continued he, running his proceedings and conversation through his mind; for we should inform the reader, that though we called him “Tom’s noble friend” in a former chapter, yet Tom knew very little of him, his acquaintance having commenced by helping him out of a bog at the close of last season, when his lordship had paid Mr. Neville’s hounds a flying visit of inspection with a very liberal stud of very fine horses — nearly as many as would have done for hunting a country twice a week.

  Not having a confusion of coats to bother him in a choice, Tom was not long at his toilette, thanks to the footman, who had laid all things out for him.

  * * * * *

  When he got into the spacious drawing-room, redolent of fragrance and gilt, and decorated to the highest pitch of French art, he found Lady Lazy-tongs with her lazytongs cocked on the sofa, who gave Tom the sort of distant bend that some ladies give their husbands’ friends.

  Fortunately Sir George Stiffnecke, a neighbouring knight of immense pretension, had arrived, and was doing the polite in his usual ponderous style, in which effort he was presently aided by Captain Windeyhash, a sort of general hanger-on of the house.

  The whole party having at length assembled, and some having looked at their watches more than once, his lordship at last strolled into the room with the air of a man who had had a good luncheon at three, for though the effervescence of the hare hunt was still in full froth when Tom arrived, it had been over about two, and the hounds back in kennel by three.

  However remiss his lordship might be about dinner, it was gratifying to see that he was still tenacious of the character of the sportsman, for he was now elaborately got up in the full dress uniform of the Dazzlegoose hunt. In the dress department even Lady Lazytongs seemed to take an interest, for she beckoned his lordship towards her, that she might have a nearer view of the richly braided gold fox with a silver tag on the crimson velvet collar of his beet-root coloured coat.

  Having eyed him up and down, and turned him round, as a child would a doll, she again sunk on the sofa, with the observation that she supposed he “might as well ring for dinner.”

  His lordship then strutted away in his rose-coloured breeches and white silk stockings, looking uncommonly like a mountebank.

  Dinner was shortly after announced.

  What pen could do justice to that meal? Who can describe the noble apartment, the ponderous plate, the splendid chandeliers, the glittering sideboard, the light and tasteful confectionery, the crystal-like glass, the snow-like diaper, the beautiful flowers — above all, the sparkling wines and rich and varied dainties?

  Not Tom Scott, certainly. Nevertheless, he did pretty fair justice to the victuals, as who would not that had breakfasted at eight and tasted nothing since?

  Indeed, to tell the truth, he ate so much, and of such variety, potage à la comtesse, or soup made of Countess, turbot à la Hollandaise, or Dutch turbot, with sauce we don’t know what, “hors-d’oeuvres” of all sorts that came in the way, to say nothing of two cuts at a leg of mutton basted with devil’s tears, followed by a slice of “dindonneau à la Nelson,” or nautical turkey, a turn at a “salade de grouse, à la soyer,” in addition to Nesselrode pudding, crème à la vanille, Charlotte Busse, and other trifles, that he was dreadfully afflicted with the nightmare, and fancied that old Louis Philippe and all his sons, with their wives, were squatting on his stomach together. But we anticipate.

  When the ladies retired — for there were two or three besides Lady Lazy tongs — they had another burst about hunting from his lordship, who threw back his beet-root coloured coat as though he were going to make a “clean breast of it.”

  He had all the talk to himself, and never did Scott hear man run on so about horses and hounds, and the system of kennel.

  “Out upon Nimrod,” said Tom, who in his swell quarterly dinner at Melton — and that, too, after a splendid run — tells us the subject of hunting was never once mentioned.

  “Here have I been training myself,” continued he, “for civilised society upon a similar basis, and now I find my Lord Lionel Lazytongs, son of the Marquis of Fender and Fireirons, blazing away like an engine.”

  Tom then tried to get a word in sideways, but the steam of his lordship’s eloquence was still too strong, and he resumed the position of listener.

  Nor was Tom sorry; for his Lordship talked well, and apparently to the purpose, and, having seen hounds and countries that Tom only knew by name, what he said had the advantage of novelty, though it might want the charm of personal participation. What runs he told them of! What leaps he described! What brooks he cleared!

  As he went on, he built up places with knifes, forks, and spoons, and introduced finger glasses and tumblers till he brought the very places before their eyes. Then he criticised this master and that — compared one great establishment with another, and described their respective countries, till Tom almost regretted not living nearer so great a luminary.

  Like all great talkers, however, we are concerned to add that he did not circulate the liquor.

  Had Captain Windeyhash, who most needlessly acted the part of showman, or trotter out, leading his lordship on to his stories, and helping him out with the lame ones, devoted himself to the circulation of the bottle instead, it would have been quite as agreeable to the guests. However, “time and the hour against the longest day,” and the same able adversary conquers the longest evening too.

  When they got back into the drawing-room, the covey of company was broke, and then for the first time Tom had an opportunity of saying a few words as to the morrow.

  The first person he addressed was Major Tin-head, whom he had seen out with Mr. Neville’s hounds once or twice.

  “Hope you’ve brought your best horse,” said Tinhead, after a common-place or two, “for it’s a desperate country — stiffest in England, isn’t it, Blobbey?” continued he, catching that fat gentleman by the elbow, as he waddled along, coffee-cup in hand, to a sofa.

  “Oh, tre-men-dious country,” replied Blobditch, giving his head a solemn shake. “I always say that the man who can ride across our country needn’t be afraid of any country in the world!” With which compliment to himself, he proceeded on his journey.

  Tom got a similar account from Captain Tip-thorn; indeed they all seemed bent on the usual course of frightening the stranger.

  Music and cards in the drawing-room, with billiards and naps outside, filled up the evening, till at last it was bedtime, even for my lord.

  The ladies had retired shortly after Sir George Stiffnecke took his departure, and wine and water having filled up the interstices of the stomach, Lampoil again made his app
earance in front of an illumination.

  “Good nights” being exchanged, each man hurried off with his candle.

  His lordship’s politeness induced him to accompany Tom again to his bed-room, where, having stirred the fire, he established himself in his old position, and again began “harping on his daughter.” He forgot they were going out with the Tear Devil hounds, and talked of the Currant-jelly dogs as if they were going to have a turn with them.

  “Ah, true,” replied his lordship, in answer to Tom’s observation, that it was the Ecclesford Green day. “True, I forgot. Let me see, then,” continued he, ruminating.

  “You and I’ll breakfast together at half-past nine,” said -he, after a pause, “and then we shall be quite independent of every one. I hate bothering and waiting for a family breakfast on a hunting morning,” added he. —

  “So do I,” Tom would have added, but his voluble lordship did not give him time.

  “At half-past nine, then,—” continued his lordship: “in Dian’s Bower, the room to the left of the library as you enter.”

  “So be it,” replied Tom.

  “I’ll tell Lampoil to have breakfast ready to a minute,” said he. “How is your time by mine?” asked his lordship, producing a most diminutive “Geneva” watch, about the size of a half-crown piece, from his waistcoat pocket. “I’m now halfpast twelve,” said he, turning its little pale face towards Scott.

  “And I am twenty-five minutes past,” said Tom, showing his grandfather’s great gold turnip.

  “Au revoir, then,” said his lordship, extending a brace of fingers, repeating as he left the room, “Then MIND, half past nine, to a minute!”

  “Louis Philippe,” as we said before, having established himself and family on Tom’s stomach during the night, in consequence of the miscellaneous dinner he had eaten, Tom did not require much calling in the morning. Indeed he heard every hour strike after three, about which time the heavy monarch and party soused themselves down. He succeeded in dislodging them about four; but between that hour and five they returned with redoubled force, and Tom dreamt that the old fat Queen Mother of Spain actually sat herself down on his mouth.

  So he battled and struggled on till it was light.

  It was eight before day was fairly established, and, thinking it was no use interrupting the housemaids, Tom just lay in bed until within three-quarters of an hour of the breakfast time that his lordship had appointed, which he knew would enable him to be down to the moment.

  “Is his lordship up?” asked our friend of the jean-jacketted lackey who brought him up his hot water.

  “I don’t know I’m sure, sir,” replied he; “I’ve not seen his lordship’s valet yet.”

  “He’ll be sure to be up,” thought Tom, bounding out of bed at the recollection of the evening talk and the overnight injunctions.

  “Some men are only punctual in hunting matters,” continued Tom, lathering away at his chin.

  So he proceeded in his dressing.

  Boots certainly don’t carry well in saddle-bags, and Tom never understood the value of the fisherman or bishop’s sort until this morning. You can take and stamp them into saddle-bags just as you would a pair of dirty stockings, and they’ll unfold as smart and bright as ever; but woe betide the tops that have not elbow room to themselves. Tom’s turned out only “so so,” when he came to inspect them by daylight, and he knew it would be worse than useless asking a six-foot figure footman if he could remedy the little irregularities of putty powder they presented. Besides, he had not calculated his time to allow of — as the French say, so he just pulled them on as they were.

  Tom had some difficulty in finding the Hall of Dian; but when he did, he found that it was rightly named.

  It was a comfortable-sized room, small in comparison with the magnificent entertaining ones he had been in over night, but what would be considered a very good room in a moderate-sized house.

  It was square and lofty, with richly ornamented pannelled walls, and full-length portraits in each compartment.

  Those who have remarked the various representations of her. Majesty and Prince Albert, or indeed those of any other illustrious individual, will excuse Tom’s getting half way through the series before he discovered that they were all Lord Lionel Lazytongs’s.

  Above the richly-carved white marble mantelpiece his lordship stood beside a grey horse in the morning costume of the Dazzlegoose Hunt — bright apricot-coloured coat, white cravat, striped buff vest with black binding, white cords, and longish top boots.

  Next it, on the left, he appeared in scarlet on a gallant bay, careering over an open country, which, with the exception of a couple of swallows, he seemed to have all to himself.

  The third represented him about to do a little fantastic toe. Dressed in the evening dress of the Swell-boys’ Hunt — lavender-coloured coat, with rose-coloured linings, richly embroidered white satin waistcoat, with white kerseymere shorts and white silk stockings, he stood drawing on a pair of pink kid gloves before an opening door, which disclosed a cut-glass chandelier above sundry satin petticoats, whirling about with white-legged gentlemen.

  In a larger piece between the windows he appeared on horseback again. He was in the act of changing a white hack for a black hunter, in the imaginary dress of Master of the Buckhounds, an office he had bespoken for himself on the coming in of the Tories. Scene — Ascot Heath — the Grand Stand crowded with ladies, perfuming the air with their pocket handkerchiefs. Artist — of course, Frank Grant.

  On the door-side of the room his lordship appeared in three panels, one clearing such a gate as never was seen, in the brimstone-coloured coat of the Tear Devil Hunt, another riding like fury at a thing like an arm of the sea, and a third cantering past the statue of Achilles on his return from a day in the Vale of Aylesbury, with Baron Rothschild’s Staggers. This was by Count d’Orsay, and was done to commemorate the feat of his lordship having ridden “all the way there and back.” There were a couple of niches vacant on the side opposite the window, one of which will most likely soon be occupied by him in the pea-green cut away, and leathers of the hare hunter.

  Altogether it was a regular sporting apartment, and only wanted breakfast, and a little knowledge of hunting on the part of some of the artists. Not but that there were symptoms of breakfast in the shape of a snug round table near the fire, garnished with a profusion of plate, but, as yet, there were no eatables.

  Tom took another hasty round of the pictures, but still there was no indication of breakfast.

  He then proceeded to stare out of the window to see if he could see any thing in the hunting line, and again returned to the fire and began to inspect the polished ivory handle of the bell-pull.

  * * * * *

  It was now a quarter to ten, and he began to be seriously uneasy.

  “Surely his lordship, so keen and precise overnight, can’t have changed his mind,” thought he. And then he began to wish his lordship had let him breakfast with the rest.

  “Perhaps there would be no great harm in ringing the bell and asking if breakfast was going on elsewhere,” continued he, laying hold of the knob, when just as he was going to turn it down, the well known “clonk, clonk, clonk,” of spurs in the passage arrested his hand, and drew Tom’s eyes to the door.

  It was his long lordship, who now came forward to greet him, but not in the dress Tom expected at that advanced hour of the morning.

  Instead of the coat and waistcoat of the fox-hunter, he was enveloped in a long, flowing blue and silver brocade robe de chambre, confined at the waist with enormous blue and silver cords, with tassels as big as bell-pulls. He had a heap of letters in one hand, and the Times, Post, and Morning Chronicle tucked under his other arm.

  “Gad,” said he, with a knowing look, “I really think the ministry won’t stand. It’s clear there’s a split in the cabinet. Old story — Grey and Palmerston — Grey and Palmerston — don’t like each other — don’t like each other. What do you think, Mr. Scott?”r />
  “Hang’d if I know,” said Tom; “don’t care either, so long as it don’t come a frost.”

  “Ah, true,” replied his lordship. “That reminds me we are going to hunt; better have breakfast, perhaps — better have breakfast, perhaps so saying, he gave our old friend the bell a hearty peal.

  “Well, but,” resumed he, taking a dressing-gown lap over each arm, and placing himself in his favourite position before the fire, “you’re a Tory, aint you?”

  “Dash’d if I know what I am,” said Tom; “it makes precious little odds what men like myself are. I was a Tory, or Conservative, or whatever you call it, and joined the gobemouches in abusing the Whigs, and hooraying Sir Robert; but I’ve thrown up politics, and devote myself to draining, and d — ning him instead.”

  “Ah, well,” rejoined his lordship, with a smile at the mixed occupation, “well, but you’d like to see the Whigs out, of course,” eyeing himself in the Master of the Buckhounds picture.

  “Not if it was to let Peel in again,” replied Tom. “I hate the sound of his name.”

  Just then in came Lampoil, followed by no end of footmen, with tea and coffee, muffins and meat, and eggs and ham, and potted game, to which Tom had hardly got a fair start before the noisy clock struck ten.

  “Is that nine, or ten?” asked his lordship, as it was still on the strike.

  “Ten, my lord,” replied Lampoil, who, with two footmen, were doing all but eat their breakfasts for them — handing every thing that was within reach, and so on. —

  “The hounds meet at, I presume?” said Tom, trembling for the answer.

  “A quarter to” replied his lordship; “we’re in plenty of time; they’re close saying which he again had recourse to The Post.

  A dead silence followed, broken only by the noise of their jaws, as they worked away at the viands.

  * * * * *

  “I’ll be with you in five minutes,” at last said his lordship, drawing himself slowly from under the table, and handing Tom the newspapers. “Send for the hacks,” said he to Lampoil.