by R S Surtees
“Well, what do you think?” asked Facey, seeing Proudlock rather craned at the question.
“Oh, it could be altered easy enough,” replied the man of powder and shot. “The only question in my mind was, whether his lordship — that is to say, Mr Lonnergan — might like it or not.”
“And who’s Mr Lonnergan?” demanded Facey, it being the first mention he had heard of the name.
“Oh, Mr Lonnergan,” replied the keeper, in the deferential tone, due to a man in authority— “Oh, Mr Lonnergan, you know, is my lord’s representative here, — he and his son, Mr Lovetin Lonnergan, at least; and we never do anything without consulting one or other of them.”
The fact was, Lonnergan had been the last lord’s agent, and had hardly been able to realise the fact that he (Lonnergan) was not the real owner of the property, and the present Lord Viscount an intruder.
“And where do they live?” asked Mr Romford.
“At Flush House, near Bury St. Bees, about nine miles from here,” replied the retired giant, pointing in the direction in which it lay.
“Well, then, I’ll tell you what; you go over there, with my compliments, in the morning, and say that, as I’ve taken the place, I s’pose there’ll be no objection to my makin’ a few little temporary alterations, which I’ll restore before I leave.”
“Yes-’ir,” said Proudlock, adding, “shall I say what they are, sir?”
“Well, no,” replied Romford. “No; you see I can’t ‘zactly know myself; but just say, generally, triflin’ alterations — triflin’ alterations.”
“Just so,” replied Mr Proudlock, who now saw the give-an inch-takean-ell principle upon which the inquiry had to proceed. And, after a few more inquiries and inspirations, the friends separated, each with a high opinion of the other.
It was a wise step on the part of friend Romford sending Proudlock over to Flush House, for it conciliated Mr Lonnergan, and procured an answer from that promising youth, commonly called the Honourable Lovetin Lonnergan, whose father was away, that very materially assisted Mr Romford’s further proceedings, namely, that Mr Lonnergan had no instructions from Lord Lovetin on the subject, but that as a friend of the family, “one of them,” as he familiarly said, Lovetin Lonnergan had no doubt Mr Romford might do as he liked. And, of course, the first thing he liked was to convert the aforesaid coach-houses into kennels, which he did in the most liberal way, by not only employing Lord Lovetin’s joiners, but making the estate supply him with the necessary material, Facey observing that it would be none the worse for his work after it was done. So, having made himself two capital lodging-rooms with airing-yards in front, he set up his boiler behind, and converted the harness-room into a feeding-house.
And here for a word on the Lonnergans.
Lord Lonnergan was one of a now nearly bygone generation, whose antiquity is proclaimed by their dress. He wore a large puffy shirt-frill and a puddingey white tie with flowing ends, a step collared buff vest, and a blue coat with bright buttons. He had long adhered to tights and Hessians, and it was only when he found himself left alone in his glory that he put his fat legs into trousers. He was a porcupine-headed little man, who tied his cravat so tight as to look as if he were going to throttle himself. He was a short, sallow, plethoric, wheezing, scanty-whiskered man, with eyes set very high up in his head, like garret windows; a long unmeaning-looking face, surmounted with a nose like a pear. His mouth was significant of nothing except an aptitude for eating. As we said before, he had a voluminous double-chin.
He drew his great warming-pan-like watch up from his fob with a massive kitchen-jack-like gold chain, to which was attached a bunch of seals, the largest and most striking whereof had been purchased with the surplus cash from a tea-service testimonial presented to Mrs Lonnergan by the tenants on Lord Lumbago’s Lubberey estate in Easyshire, and contained around a plough the significant motto, “Rents should never Rise.” And rents certainly never did rise with Lonnergan, for he would always rather excite the landlords to compassion, than urge the tenants to activity still he had some capital forms of agreement to the fulfilment of which he never attended. Of course he did not use the “rent should never rise” seal when he wrote to any of his employers, but another butterpat-like production with his initials “J.L.,” John Lonnergan, cut in the open-hearted, undisguised capitals of the old engravers. No writhing hieroglyphics for him.
He had lived in good times, when gentlemen were gentlemen, and trusted their land agents implicitly, never troubling themselves with farming or interfering with their tenants’ occupations in any shape or way, taking everything for granted, including both facts and figures. Still Lonnergan was a noted old screw in his own affairs, never missing a chance anywhere, and always on the watch for discount. He was too good a judge to receive tenant-farmer testimonials himself; but Mrs Lonnergan was open to the reception of any number — vases, inkstands, butter-coolers, fruit-stands, &c. A guest leaving his house one dark night mistook his lordship for the servant in the passage, and gave him a shilling, saying, “There, there’s a shilling for you, and mind your master doesn’t get hold of it.”
Lord Lonnergan did not encourage his son, Lovetin Lonnergan (so called, of course, after the last lord, who was his godfather), in anything like show or extravagance, but endeavoured to hold him on steadily in his own line, and make his father’s large accumulations still more. “Stick to the shop, and the shop will stick to you.” “Take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves.” “When has a man got enough money, Lovetin?” “When he has got a little more than he has,” were aphorisms of almost daily inculcation by old Lonnergan; but, somehow, Lovetin Lonnergan did not like the doctrine, and longed for a little more freedom and independence.
Not that Lovetin was extravagant; on the contrary, he neither shot, nor coursed, nor hunted, but he would like to ride about in a chaise. Riding about in a chaise was, he thought, the summit of all earthly happiness. He always looked upon Independent Jimmy’s friend, lolling along in his carriage, as the happiest of human beings, and longed to emulate him.
Lovetin Lonnergan, “the Honourable,” as he was called, was the exact counterpart of his father, making allowance of course for the difference of dress and the disparity of years. The same long, lugubrious, scanty-whiskered, sallow face, with the garret-window eyes, the same incipient pear nose, and the same absence of expression about the mouth.
In lieu of the warming-pan with the jack-chain and the butterpat-like appurtenances, he had a smart Albert chain attached to a small Geneva watch; and instead of excommunicating his chin with his tie as his excellent father did, he gave its looming proportions ample latitude over the turn-down collar and diminutive neck-string of the day.
Lovetin Lonnergin was now just turned of five-and-twenty, and had plenty of young ladies after him, plenty of mammas sounding his praises, but Lord Lonnergan was difficult to please, always asserting that it was utterly impossible for his son Lovetin to marry other than “a lady of fortin.” Lovetin was proud of his father’s wealth, and fond of expatiating upon its amount, not unfrequently winding up his discourses with a shake of the head and the filial ejaculation of “Ah, now, if father would but die!”
This youth, becoming a semi-hero in our story, we have introduced him more at large than we should otherwise have done. Let us now go into Beldon Hall, and see about something to eat.
XXII. THE INTERNAL ECONOMY OF BELDON HALL — GOODHEARTED GREEN AGAIN
PART OF LUCY’S — WE BEG pardon again — Mrs Somerville’s luggage consisted of the remains of her larder at the “West-end Swell,” viz., half a loaf of brown bread, three-quarters of a loaf of white, a pound and a half of pork chops, a slice of leathery cheese, a nip of tea, and some fivepenny sugar, Lucy observing that it was of no use leaving anything behind her. And, indeed, it was lucky she brought something, for an inspection of the Beldon Hall larder would lead to the supposition that the Dirties lived entirely upon air. There was not even the wretched ba
re shoulder-blade that generally seems to act the part of scarecrow in the most destitute of houses. Two eggs and a bunch of thyme was all the provender the larders of the proud Hall produced.
Still there never was a place yet where drink was not to be had, and Facey having now returned to the Hall, and found Lucy making herself quite at home in the breakfast-room, produced a half-crown piece, and told her to send somebody out for a quart of ale, and the rest of the money in gin, so that they might have their dinners as soon as possible, for Facey always dined when he was hungry without waiting for any specific hour of the day. And while Dirty No.1 was busy cooking the pork chops, and Dirtiest of the Dirty was laying the cloth, Lucy lionised our master over the magnificent mansion, taking much the same line as old Dirty had done. Friend Facey was greatly impressed with the magnitude of his venture, and almost doubted whether he was equal to the occasion. He wished that he mightn’t have put his foot in it. A house, he said, was a consuming animal, and people would think he was deuced rich, living in such a large one. He must be prudent and circumspect.
X was expensive, and soon became poor;
Y was the wise man who kept want from the door —
he inwardly chanted. And having dined, he whiffed his pipe and sipped his gin, and at length retired to bed, full of caution and prudential considerations.
Morning, however, and the return of Proudlock from Flush House, with the satisfactory reply from Lovetin Lonnergan, that Mr Romford was to do as he liked, brought him confidence, and taking the Honourable at his word, he forthwith began to exercise his privilege in the most summary manner, for finding there was an excellent cellar of wine, he sent for Tom Hooper, the blacksmith, and bid him pick the lock, telling Dirty No.1, in Hooper’s hearing, to be ‘ticklarly careful in preserving the bottles in order that he might restore an equal quantity of wine when he left. As there was a large stock of champagne, which Facey said would not improve by keeping, Lucy and he indulged in it most freely, Facey acquiring, as he said, very gentlemanly ideas with the beverage. So much so, indeed, that after a pint, or perhaps three-quarters of a bottle, he did not feel so much out of his element at Beldon Hall as he did on his first coming. Lucy on her part took to grandeur quite naturally, and Dirty No.1, having supplied her as well with the “Beldon Hall” seal, as a good stock of coroneted paper (kept ready against Lord Lovetin’s contemplated return, which he always said might take place any day,) she diffused her orders freely through the land. London, however, is the real place for unhesitating compliance with specious orders, and thither Mrs Somerville directed her chief attentions, patronising all the shops and establishments that she used to envy and covet, and look upon as utterly impossible, while living with Mr Sponge in Jermyn Street, Haymarket.
She reviewed her wardrobe, estimating its capabilities by her improved condition — sister of a master of foxhounds — mistress of a nobleman’s mansion — and, finding it rather deficient, she wrote off to Madame D * * *, of B * * * Street, for sundry semi-mourning dresses, Paramatta twill, glacé silk, with flowers, black velvet with black satin, jet ornaments, and other articles, all of which came down with the usual alacrity of highsounding orders. One obsequious milliner indeed directed her bonnet-box to “The Honour Mrs Somerville,” an addition that caused Independent Jimmy to observe, as he handed it down from the bus to Dirtiest of the Dirty, “Sink, ar didn’t ken yeer mistress had a handle tir her name.”
Handle, however, or no handle, things came down with the utmost despatch — wonderful alacrity — not only the outward and visible articles of dress, but the more delicate items of Edith night-dresses and under attire.
When the gentlemanly ideas were in, Facey did not so much grudge the orders, but with the evaporation of the champagne came prudent thoughts and fears for the future. Still, as Mrs Somerville ordered them all in her own name, he consoled himself with the reflection that he could not be made liable, and didn’t know but it was just as well to have a handsome well-dressed woman about the house as a dowdy. He only hoped that none of the Heavyside Hunt, or any of his promiscuous acquaintance, would come and expose her — of that, however, he must take his chance, as he had chanced many a difficulty before.
And, in truth, she required refit, or rather, perhaps, an outfit, for, without going at all into the minutiæ of her wardrobe, it must be evident to every one that what did extremely well at the “West-end Swell” would be very insufficient for Beldon Hall. Nor, considering the precarious nature of her tenure, can she be much blamed for taking advantage of her opportunity.
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
thought Lucy, as she again applied the key to the drawer in the library table containing the coroneted note-paper with the talismanic words “Beldon Hall” in gilt characters on the top, in order that she might again test the liberality of the Londoners for shoes, scents, gloves, French cambrics, embroideries, cosmetics, and miscellaneous articles generally.
Mrs Glitters — now Mrs Sidney Benson, we should observe — arrived in due time, being as anxious for a run into the country as her daughter had been. When Independent Jimmy met her at the Firfield Station, in her large hoop and small stock of linen, he thought she was Mrs Somerville’s lady’s-maid, and told her “her missis was arl safe at the Harl.”
Facey was rather disappointed when he saw what he had imported, for Mrs Benson, being only accustomed to dress those who strutted upon the stage, not doing any “My name is Norval”-ing herself, had none of the easy self-possession that distinguished her elegant daughter. However, Facey consoled himself with the reflection that she would not be much seen, while her homely air and attire might enable him to get more work out of her than he might otherwise have done had she been fine. If she looked after the Dirties, and Lucy after the stables when he was away, the arrangement might answer and not be very onerous; but he dreaded the inflammation of his weekly bills, and, as he said, “was more afraid of the old lady’s appetite than he was of her drinkite.” This latter requirement Lord Lovetin’s cellar would supply, but the imperative butcher’s bills would be his.
There being no plant or stock-in-trade belonging to the Larkspur Hunt for Mr Romford to take to, he had to make up an establishment as well and as quickly as he could. So soon, therefore, as he got a bargain struck with the Doubleimupshireites, he wrote to Goodhearted Green, detailing his present position and equine wants, urging Goodheart to supply the latter as quickly as he could, adding if he had not the exact ticket, to send as near as possible; and Romford concluded by saying that he would be glad to see Goodheart down at his new residence, Beldon Hall, in Doubleimupshire, where he would mount him and find wear and tear for his teeth for a week or ten days, whenever he liked. Goodheart’s great bosom swelled with honest emotion, for he had recently sent away some most remarkable malefactors — horses that kicked, horses that struck, horses that flew at people like tigers, horses that nobody could shoe, horses that nobody could saddle when they were shod, horses that nobody could ride when they were shod and saddled — some very notorious savages, in fact, as Mr Rarey would say.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” exclaimed he, stamping his foot and smiting his forehead, as the concluding paragraph of Romford’s letter touched him in the quick. “Oh dear! oh dear! If I had but got this last week, I could have fit him with such a stud as would have astonished the natives. There’s Bounding Ben, to be sure,” continued Goodheart, thinking over what he had left. “There’s Bounding Ben — he’s hup to sixteen stun; but he’s uncertain in his bounding, or he wouldn’t be called Bounding Ben. Ah! if I ‘ad but kept Pull-Devil-pull-Baker! — he’d ha’ shone conspikiously brilliant. Neck-or-Nothing, too, would ha’ bin a grand oss for Mr Romford. But it’s no use cryin’ over spilt milk,” continued Mr Green, tinkling his little yard bell to summon his head man, Aaron Peacock, to his presence.
That worthy now emerged from his hiding-place, and came shuffling up the yard with the usual groom-like, crab-like action. He w
as a little, weasely, ginnified-looking man, with scarcely a hair on his head, or an ounce of flesh on his bones, but keen, twinkling, little grey eyes, that penetrated a horse in an instant. He looked right into them, as it were. He seemed to dress up to the character of Peacock, being gay and gaudy in his costume, and very various: scarlet tie, Lincoln green vest, lilac shirt, baggy breeches that had once been white and tight, yellow leather leggings, with mother-of-pearl buttons.
Though he was not an original liar — could not lead the gallop himself, yet he was a capital coadjutor, and would swear to anything that Goodheart said; so, what between Goodheart’s generous volubility and Aaron’s shakes of the head and solemn sententious sayings, a youngster was pretty sure to be handsomely cheated between them. Let us now see them together.
“Ah, here’s that big Mr Romford written for osses,” said Goodheart to Aaron, flourishing the letter, as the little man got up to his master.
“So-o,” replied Aaron, drawing his breath, adding, “’ow many may he please to want?”
“Oh, ten or a dozen,” replied Green, as if it was quite an impossible number.
“Harn’t that in the ‘ole stables,” observed Aaron— “leastways, not fit to go.”
“Not with such a robustious giant as Mr Romford,” assented Goodheart, preparing to take a stroll of the premises, more with a view of arranging his thoughts than in the expectation of finding horses.
The yard was spacious — larger than it looked — for there were supplementary stables at the low end belonging to houses in Sylvia Street, which Goodheart let off in dull times to one Roughhead, a cab-master, and altogether he had standing for forty or fifty horses. Still, the exigencies of an unusually open season had depleted them, and he had not above twelve or fourteen horses in hand at the time of Mr Romford’s sudden demand, and these were mostly of the weak, washy order — good flat-catchers, but good for nothing for work — all the real “playful rogues,” as Goodheart called them, being away, practising their vagaries in the provinces, much to the horror of huntsmen and masters of hounds therein. There is nothing so formidable as a rash young man on an intemperate horse, for he thinks he must ride as well to distinguish himself as to get his change out of his quadruped. Hence, he is always in the midst of the hounds — always rasping on, pulling and hauling, and taking a ten-acre field to turn his brute about in. These are the boys that baffle the sport.
