Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  Now it so happened that all the Dirties were at home when the Romfords — that is to say, Mr Romford and Mrs Somerville — arrived at Beldon Hall, for Miss Bridget, a tall, stout, startling brunette, with the blackest of hair and the brightest of eyes, had recently been discharged from Farmer Roughfolds’ of Loggan Hill, for leaving her cows unmilked one morning while she went over to Casterton to get herself photographed, and Miss Agatha had long been vacillating between the duties of an occasional dressmaker and a barmaid, in the expectation of the coming of a tall grenadier, who a gipsy had predicted would marry her. Agatha was a beauty too, though of quite a different order of beauty to that of her sisters, being of the medium height, and plump, with a noble forehead, arched in matchless symmetry by its own beautiful drapery of chestnut hair. Her complexion, we need scarcely say, was of the delicate pink of the wild-rose leaf, and her eyes of the brightest, most searching hazel. The tall grenadier could hardly have known what a beauty awaited him, or he would surely have come.

  Then Mrs Almond, the grocer’s wife, at Henfield, had just paid forfeit on Ruth, Dirtiest of the Dirty — rather than have so troublesome a young lady in her establishment. All the three daughters were thus at home, forming a complete party, but still a heavy tax on the six shillings a week, for the girls spent all their earnings in dress and decoration, gaudy bonnets, glass beads, and brass-eyed boots. It was, therefore, an important point with Mrs Mustard, Dirty No.1, to get some of them fastened on the Romfords if she could, and Mr Lonnergan’s imperious conduct favoured the design.

  Having, therefore, chaperoned Mrs Somerville all round about the house, and now brought her to a stand-still in the magnificent drawing-room, she began sounding her on the important topic of servants, asking where Mrs Somerville would like her maid to sleep, and how many beds Mrs Mustard should get ready for the rest of the domestics. Now this question was rather a poser, for Lucy had never had a maid, let alone an establishment of servants, having always lived in lodgings, where the people of the house did everything for her. But, being a woman of ready wit, she parried the question by saying she really couldn’t tell, so much depended upon her brother, Mr Romford, but she supposed they could get an occasional servant or two in the neighbourhood until they decided about bringing their own. Whereupon Mrs Mustard exultingly replied, “Oh dear, there could be no difficulty about that; there was herself and her three daughters, all of whom would be most happy to do anything in their power; she” (Mrs Mustard) “was not a professed cook, but she had lived in some great families, noble families, indeed she might say — Mr Boyston, of Boyston, amongst the number, and her daughters were equal to all sorts of duties — indeed they were all quite finished servants, and could undertake any sort of work, but p’raps Mrs Somerville would like to see them — if she would please to step into the breakfast-room, where there was a fire, she would bring them up to her,” Mrs Mustard leading the way to the indicated apartment. This was a comfortable-sized room, some eighteen feet by twenty, with a southern aspect, affording, with the aid of a fire, a much better climate than Mrs Somerville had been enjoying while making the grand tour of the house. Moreover, it was not “put away,” as the rest of the house was, having been got ready for the great Mr Romford. And Mrs Mustard having got Mrs Somerville there, then closed the mahogany door and went away on her errand.

  Having surveyed herself in a stately mirror over the richly-carved Carrara marble mantel-piece, and compared notes by a second look in a pannelled one between the windows, she came to the conclusion that, though she wanted a new bonnet, she was not looking far amiss, and would make some little sensation in Doubleimupshire. With this comfortable reflection she took a seat at the round table before the fire, and helping herself to an illustrated copy of “Rogers’s Poems,” began reading —

  Oh could my mind, unfolded in my page,

  Enlighten climes, and mould a future age,

  while her thoughts were wandering amongst all the bonnet-shops in London.

  Meanwhile Mrs Mustard having made a rapid descent into the lower regions, for the kitchens were underground, found all her elegant daughters clustered and anxious to hear the news, so much so indeed, that they would hardly listen to her exhortations to get themselves ready to go upstairs to see the lady.

  Indeed, the command caused an evident disappointment, for they thought Mr Romford was a bachelor, and hoped accordingly. Mrs Mustard seeing this, rectified her error by announcing, “No! no; he’s not married! She’s only his sister! but come quick, one of you; come upstairs, and see the lady.”

  Now it so happened that, upon this occasion, Dirtiest of the Dirty was the cleanest of the three, having on an only three days’ worn blue-andwhite striped print, with magenta-coloured stockings, and being decidedly the least marketable of the three, Mrs Mustard was glad to show her first, so giving her uncapped head a rub over with the old joint-stock hair-brush, she told her to pull her shoes up at the heel, and follow her, and to mind curtsy and speak civil. As they ascended the staircase together, she charged her to assent to all she (Mrs Mustard) said, and by no means to let out anything about the low places she had been in, particularly to keep the seaside visit quiet. With these and similar injunctions they reached the door of the room that held the great lady, and, a respectful knock being answered by a “Come in!” the two entered, and curtsied to our fair friend.

  “My daughter Ruth,” said Mrs Mustard, whereupon Dirtiest of the Dirty curtsied again, and Mrs Somerville began questioning her just as the managers of theatres used to question her herself when she sought an engagement. Dirty acquitted herself so well, that Lucy, albeit no great admirer of her own sex — indeed she used to say that the only thing that reconciled her to being a woman was that she could not by any possibility have to marry one — was very much taken with her. Dirty, from her own account, could do anything, sew, darn, mend, get up fine linen, and all. Of course, when asked if she could dress hair, she replied “No, but she could learn.”

  Lucy then adroitly took hold of the hair-dressing deficiency to disparage her other acquirements, observing, she was afraid she must have her own maid down, when Mrs Mustard, fearing she was going to lose her market, asked Mrs Somerville if she wouldn’t be pleased to take her daughter on trial, mother Mustard well knowing that Dirtiest of the Dirty would soon make up for a little deficiency of service if there was any money or jewellery left lying about. And the trial system suiting Lucy best, after due deliberation and many inquiries into Dirty’s middling morals, Lucy said, that as her stay at Beldon Hall was very uncertain, and her maid was visiting a sick mother in Somersetshire, she would just see what her daughter could do, but that she would have to keep herself to herself, and be extremely neat and tidy in her person, not wearing flash or tawdey dresses, or going gossiping about the country, or letting people come to the Hall — adding, that if Ruth conducted herself properly, it might be the means of getting her into a high situation.

  And Mrs Mustard, shark-like, having thus succeeded with one daughter, then broached the subject of another, observing that she had a daughter quite equal to the housemaid-work, but Mrs Somerville, who had been conning the matter over, while she was airing her eyes with —

  O could my mind, unfolded in my page,

  put a peremptory veto upon that, observing that her mother was coming next day, and that Mrs Mustard and Ruth would be quite equal to all that was required for the present. She then told Ruth to go and heat a poker, and light a fire in her bed-room, whither, accompanied by old Dirty, she then proceeded, walking through the stately hall and corridors with great satisfaction.

  XXI. MR PROUDLOCK, THE KEEPER — LORD LONNERGAN AND HIS SON, COMMONLY CALLED THE HONOURABLE LOVETIN LONNERGAN

  WHILE MR ROMFORD’S ADOPTED SISTER, Mrs Somerville, was thus making the tour of the fine house, friend Facey, on his part, was at work reconnoitring the out-of-door accommodation of the place. His fine natural instinct soon led him to the stables, partially concealed though they were from the north fron
t of the Hall by a line of magnificent ground-sweeping cedars. These premises were quite in keeping with the mansion, having been built by the same noble lord who surmounted the old Hall with the dish-cover. Indeed some said it was the apparent inequality of the increased house and the old stables that made his lordship think it necessary to rebuild the latter entirely, though the old stables were in reality a great deal larger and better than anything he himself wanted. There is often a laudable desire among noblemen and gentlemen to make their places as complete as they can for their successors, regardless of the selfish aphorism, that “posterity has done nothing for them.” Be that, however, as it may, friend Facey presently stood in the centre of a very magnificent pile of building. He needed no cicerone to induct him into the arrangements. There stood the stables forming three sides of a square, open in front, with a lofty archway in the centre leading to the places of deposit behind. On the right he read, as it were, the words “stables, straw-house, hay-house,” in the centre again the words “saddle-room, harness-room, stables, and straw-house,” while large folding-doors on the left proclaimed an infinity of standing-room for carriages. Above the whole line were granaries and apartments for servants.

  “V-a-ry good, v-a-ry good,” ejaculated our friend, as with a stick-propped chin he stood straddling, contemplating the edifice. “V-a-ry good indeed,” added he, as his little pig eyes had taken in the whole arrangement. If it had but stood at Allington Banks or Greenhope, he thought, it would have been the most convenient residence a master of hounds could possibly have had; might have reached every cover in the country without lying out, that lying out being a terrible bug-bear to Mr Facey, on account both of the expense and the irregular habits of Chowey and Swig. However, Mr Romford consoled himself by thinking that his lordship would be very sly if he got any rent out of him. He then proceeded to inspect the interior of the premises, beginning of course on the right, so as to end at the less-interesting portion of the building containing the coach-houses. While thus engaged, a foot-fall sounded behind, and looking round, Mr Romford confronted the before-mentioned Mr Proudlock, the keeper, a big black-eyed, black-haired, bushy-whiskered man of some five-and-thirty years of age or so. There was no mistaking his calling: his billycock hat, his baggy black velveteen coat, his lusty leggings, above all, his half-insolent air, proclaimed what he was. Proudlock was a man whose supposed strength and stature had procured him admission into good places, but whose bad conduct had immediately lost him them again, sometimes almost as soon as obtained. He stood six feet three, stretchable into nearly four with his navvy-nailed boots and upright bearing. He was large chested, full-limbed, and broad generally, and, having been drilled as a militiaman, had a very erect, imposing appearance, just the sort of man to salute a coming party of shooters, or to take the lead at a battue.

  He was, however, such a mischievous, lying bully — always back biting and getting his employers into hot water — that he came tumbling down the ladder of servitude till he finally landed among the grand body of poachers.

  His size, however, which was a recommendation as a keeper, was a disadvantage to him here, for he could be easily identified, and that at a great distance, and moreover the exertion was more than he liked; so, after two or three unsatisfactory appearances at petty sessions, he relinquished the trigger for a time, and took to showing himself as a giant, in conjunction with the celebrated Pig-faced Lady; but the confinement of the caravan was too great for him, and, the engagement having terminated, he again sought the freedom of the fields.

  He was then to be had very cheap, — twelve shillings a week, a house and coals, with two couple of rabbits, being all he asked and that being within the scope of Lord Lovetin’s means, especially as just at the time he had every expectation of Mr Emmerson taking Beldon Hall, whereby he would have got rid of an immense indoor expense, after very mature consideration he allowed Mr Lonnergan to engage him at that remuneration; his lordship, however, stipulating that though Proudlock might have his coals led by the antediluvian horse that drew them to the gardens, yet Proudlock must pay for the fuel himself, that being, as his lordship truly said, the best means of checking an undue consumption; and Lonnergan and his lordship carried on a correspondence that would have filled a number of “Bailey’s Sporting Magazine” on the subject.

  At the time of our story, Proudlock had been a year and a half at Beldon Hall, during which time he had ascertained the exact length of Mr Lonnergan’s foot, as well as the ways and means of all the surrounding country. Lonnergan was fond of woodcocks, and Proudlock was too happy to supply them. Mrs Lonnergan liked hare-soup, and Proudlock knew how to snare them on someone else’s property. Though often caught, he was always ready with an excuse, how he had followed that scoundrel, Jack Mason, off their manor on to the preserve he was found upon, or was lying perdu to see who came to take up the trapped pheasant on the other side of the hedge. Altogether, though he was much disliked and strongly suspected, yet no one cared to tackle with a nobleman’s servant, especially one notoriously supported by the deputy nobleman, “Lord” Lonnergan, as the agent was called. So Proudlock strutted, and swaggered, and vapoured, and bullied, always presuming on his great size and proportions, and, though often threatening, never coming into actual collision with anyone. Independent Jimmy, indeed, was the only man in the country who had ever stood fairly up to him; but the generous giant said he refrained from touching him on the score of inequality of size, and that people would accuse him of having crushed a worm. Jimmy, however, who was very handy with his fists, hearing of this, then addressed him through the usual medium of communication, — viz., the pugilistic column in “Bell’s Life in London,” — stating that Independent Jimmy was ready to fight the Big Bully of Beldon Hall for three pounds a side, in a roped ring, at the back of the Firfield station, any day between the coming of the 9 a.m. train, and the going of the south mail; but Proudlock did not take any notice of this either, merely observing in general company that a nobleman’s servant could not demean himself by fighting with a ‘bus-man.

  Such, then, was the genius who encountered Mr Romford on his visit of inspection of the Beldon Hall stables; and, as next to a bit of pink, a bit of velveteen came nearest home to the heart of our hero, he returned the keeper’s semi-military salute with a “How are you?” and a wave of his right hand, as though he had known him before.

  Thus emboldened, Proudlock made him a bow, observing that he was glad to see Mr Romford amongst them, and hoped he would have good sport.

  “Thank’ee,” said Romford— “thank’ee;” adding, “that depends a good deal upon gentlemen of your cloth, however. I know you are a good feller, and will do all in your power to promote it.”

  “Certainly,” replied Proudlock, with an emphasis— “certainly,” repeated he, as though he had never shot a fox in his life, or turned down a bagman either.

  “Not at all great fox-preservers down here, I believe,” observed Mr Romford, pretending to know a good deal more than he really did.

  “Well (hum), there are (hum) scaly people in all countries,” observed Mr Proudlock; “but upon the whole, I should (hum) say they are (haw) as good here as elsewhere.”

  Proudlock’s preservation depended altogether upon the payment of his fees, for which he sent in his bill at the end of the season, as regular as a boot or shoe maker, — so much for a litter, so much for a find, so much for stopping or “stoping” as he spelt it.

  But, though Mr Romford asked about foxes, he was quite as anxious to know about pheasants, — who was tenacious, who was extra fierce, who took it easy, and who might be poached upon with impunity. So, in the course of a running dissertation on racks and mangers, boxes and stalls, Mr Romford managed to blend a very useful inquiry into the particulars of the country generally, keeping foxes apparently to the fore, but at the same time casting about for general information.

  Having criticised the stables, with their appurtenances, and pronounced them extremely good, our friend and his cicerone
now found themselves before the spacious coach-houses on the left-hand side of the building, a few paces in front of which Mr Romford stationed himself, as if to stare them out of countenance: the idea floating uppermost in his mind at the moment being, that they would make very capital kennels; and a further investigation and division of the whole into four satisfied him on that point. And, having got on so well with Proudlock, he saw no reason why he should not take his opinion on that point.

  “I say,” observed he, looking him steadily in the face— “I say, don’t you think these coach-houses might very easily be converted into kennels?”

  Proudlook drew breath and bit his thick lip, for he well knew that if there was one thing his noble master, Lord Lovetin, was more particular about than another, it was having the Hall and offices kept in perfect apple-pie order; not that his lordship cared about seeing them, but he liked to know that they were so, and that he could occupy them at a moment’s notice whenever he chose to return to England. It was that feeling that prevented his letting Mrs Emmerson have the cut-pile carpet. He was afraid she would wear it down below the orthodox standard of other things, and so derange the grand order of uniformity. It had been down some time.