by R S Surtees
These liveries, then, with pink silk stockings and buckled shoes, Miss Betsey Shannon engaged by the week, with a considerable reduction in price if they were kept any time, or the option of purchasing them if Mrs Somerville liked. Indeed, Miss Shannon executed her commission so adroitly, flourishing Lord Lovetin’s title so imposingly, as to make Moses Mordecay believe that the due execution of the order would be the forerunner of a good deal of custom, and actually induced him to part with the garments without any deposit. And no sooner did they arrive at Beldon Hall than Lucy opened them out and sent forthwith for Billy Balsam, notwithstanding she knew he was then particularly engaged in killing Mr Proudlock’s pig. Billy, with the aid of hot water, have presently made himself Sweet William again after the operation, was then requested to try on both suits, and present himself to Lucy in whichever fitted him best. This he presently did, and came along a perfect figure of fun to himself and all the Dirties. “He, he, he! ho, ho, ho! haw, haw, haw!” laughed they. Dirty No.2 could hardly contain herself. She thought she had never seen such a sight — no, never since the mountebanks came down.
Then Lucy took Billy through her hands: told him to hold up his head, turn out his toes, and walk as if he were a drum-major, and not as if he were wheeling a barrow full of greens along the garden walk. And she marched him round the room two or three times, telling him to look in the mirrors, and see how much better he looked with his head erect than doubled up as if he had got a touch of the stomach-ache, or had stolen a pat of butter and had it in his pocket. And Billy thought there was something in what she said, which, coupled with the promise of a shilling a day for his services, reconciled him to the situation. The ladies, in all probability, would give up laughing after they had seen him once or twice. And what a quantity of spirits the money would buy! So he went fairly in for his lesson.
She then proceeded to show him how to open the drawing-room door and announce the guests.
“Now,” said she, “this devonport,” laying her pretty hand upon one at which she had been writing, “this devonport will be me; I will be the guest — the caller, you know — Lady Kingsborough, say — and you must open the door and show me into the room, announcing me as Lady Kingsborough.”
So saying, Sweet William and she withdrew, and Mrs Somerville closed the door after her, in order that they might go through the whole ceremony. They were then in the vestibule, Mrs Somerville now turning round to be piloted. Sweet William, however, hesitated.
“Please, mum,” said he, scratching his white head, “is it to be Lady Devonport or Lady Kingsport?”
“Oh, stoopid, no!” exclaimed Lucy; “the devonport — the thing I showed you — is supposed to be me, and I’m Lady Kingsborough come to call upon Mrs Somerville; but, as I can’t possibly know by intuition who is coming, you must inform me by announcing the name.”
“But how am I to know?” asked Billy Balsam.
“Oh, by asking; or they’ll tell you,” replied she; adding, “you mustn’t expect to find them labelled like one of your Dutch flower-roots. Now, then, walk on, chuck up your chin, open the door boldly, and conduct me up to the devonport.”
Billy then did as he was bid, and after two or three attempts succeeded not so far amiss.
Then came the finishing stroke to the instructions; namely, answering the front-door bell. For this purpose, Lucy put on her hat of the day, and followed by Balsam proceeded along the passage, across the grand hall, and out at the front-door, which she closed after her, telling Billy before she did so to open it boldly and well when the bell rang, and not to peep through an aperture, as if he expected a bailiff or dun. And Lucy presently sounded an alarming summons, — a summons as if all the crowned heads in Europe had come, — that startled old Balsam, and brought all the Dirties to the old window of observation to see what was up.
“Hut! it’s only the missus,” said Dirtiest of the Dirty, who had hoped to see a fine chay; and forthwith the sisters slunk off, leaving only old Mustard to witness the manœuvres of Sweet William — see him receive and set off on the return voyage of convoy — which he accomplished not amiss, though not so well as Bob Short, who had far more brains, would have done. But then the strong, persevering man had his stable to attend to, and could only be relied upon on Sundays, or for an hour or two on the very few days of the week that Mr Romford did not hunt.
Moreover, Bob, who had worn gaudy liveries and waited occasionally, required less coaxing to get him to invest himself in the Moses Mordecay suit than Billy Balsam had done.
However, there was no help for Short’s absence, and the dignity of the house was obliged to succumb to the convenience of the stable. Still it was a great thing to have gained even two temporary footmen at a bound. And Mrs Somerville wrote to thank Miss Betsey Shannon most sincerely for her trouble; adding, that she supposed “old hook-nose” would be in no hurry for his money for the liveries — at least she hoped not — for she was sure she would be in no hurry to pay him.
XXX. MR HAZEY’S MORNING CALL
THE HAZEYS, LIKE THE WATKINSES, were duly sensible of the importance of establishing an early acquaintance at Beldon Hall, as well for the purpose of cultivating an intimacy, as of warding off evil communications, which too often spoil good speculations. The Hazeys, too, had an enterprising daughter, of whom more hereafter. So Mr Hazey thus had two strings to his bow, he thinking to do a little business on his own account with Mr Romford in the horse-dealing way, Hazey’s creed being to “do” other people, as he said they would “do” him if they had the chance. Then he had a good many backbiting informants to guard against, who might be stopped from telling if they knew he was on a friendly footing at Beldon Hall. For instance, there was old Mr Mugglesworth, of Fatfield Hall, to whom he had sold a confirmed runaway as an invaluable cob for an elderly gentleman; young Mr Topsfield, of Meadow Bowers Bank, to whom he had sold a most incorrigible rearer as a horse a child might ride; middle-aged Mr Thurrock, of Barnsdale, to whom he had sold an inveterate jibber and kicker as the steadiest horse in harness that ever was seen, but which, as Silkey said, reduced the family phaeton to lucifer matches in a minute. Altogether, Hazey had a long list of victims whose tongues he would like to deprive of their sting.
Indeed Hazey was never happy unless he was cheating somebody. No matter how much money he had, no matter how recent and vigorous had been the “do,” he was always ready and eager for another. His cold, lustreless grey eyes sparkled with animation at the mere mention of a victim. He immediately set about thinking how he could circumvent him — what he could offer him — how he could coax and sneak to inveigle him. When Hazey heard that Mr Romford had taken Doubleimupshire he was quite delighted, for the right Romford stood well with the sporting world, and Hazey’s kennel being of the third-class character, our Mr Romford of course had not complimented him with an order for hounds, so the Romford reputation stood bright and unsullied. Indeed it would have been matter difficult to come over Mr Hazey, for he always required payment on delivery — horses and hounds being, he used to say, ready money. So sly Silkey the groom used always to be charged with a note when he delivered a horse, wherein Hazey, alluding to the uncertainty of human life, used to request the favour of a cheque by the bearer. Jawkins the huntsman, too, used to have a similar missive with hounds, for which he went snacks with his master, and therefore of course looked to the interests of both.
Mr Hazey’s house, Tarring Neville, was about nine miles from Beldon Hall by the road, but only some six or seven by the fields and those convenient cuts that foxhunters establish during the season. Being upon two distinct trusts, however, with an intervening mile of township road, the distance could be lengthened or contracted according to the wishes and views of the speaker. Thus, for instance, if Mr Hazey wanted Mrs Hazey and Miss to call upon Mrs Somerville and leave his card for Mr Romford, the distance would only have been seven miles by the road; but as Mr Hazey disliked riding in carriages, especially with women in hoops, the distance suddenly elongated to ele
ven,— “far too far,” as he said, “for calling on a short winter day, travelling over newly metalled roads without any moon.”
Moreover, Mr Hazey wanted to look at a horse belonging to Farmer Lightcrop, of Hollywell Lane, and which Jawkins the huntsman said had gone pretty well with their, hounds on the Friday, and which Hazey thought might be picked up a bargain. And Sunday being a day on which farmers’ horses do not get much exercise, Hazey thought to come upon the horse au naturel, without its having had any of the bandagings and hand rubbings that Silkey and he were so well up to giving. So when Mrs Hazey began hinting and suggesting, half to him, half to her daughter, that they ought to be calling upon Mrs Somerville, Hazey lengthened the road, extinguished the moon, and mounting the “friendliness-amongfoxhunters horse,” proclaimed that Bill and he would ride over and make all square with the master.
“But Mrs Somerville! There’s Mrs Somerville to be considered — she can’t be squared like a sportsman,” exclaimed Mrs Hazey.
“Oh, yes, we’ll make her all right, too,” said Hazey; “I’ll pretend that you didn’t know that she had come, but that you will drive over and pay your respects at the earliest possible opportunity.”
“But why not all go now?” asked madam.
“Oh, no,” retorted Hazey; it will be far better for Bill and I to go over together and reconnoitre — see what sort of people they are, and then you will know how the land lies against you go over. Besides,” added he, “Mrs Somerville may be serious, and not like to be called upon on a Sunday.”
And, this latter argument prevailing, the ladies had no alternative but to submit, and let Hazey and Bill, duly attired in duplicate riding jackets and Chipping Norton trousers, canter over together.
It was lucky for the interests of our story that it suited Mr Hazey to go on a Sunday, and that too on the very first Sunday that our friends at the Hall were qualified to receive him with a proper display of footmen. Somehow, Mrs Somerville thought there would be callers, and she not only got herself and her servants up with extra care, but hid her mother, who, in truth, was not very produceable, and put old Billy Balsam through his facings, beginning at the front door and ending in the music-room, which she had fixed upon as her reception apartment. This was a beautiful circular, domed, gilt-ceilinged apartment, fitted up with violet-coloured brocaded satin damask, a splendid Tournay carpet, and magnificent mirrors, interspersed with costly statues, china, and articles of vertu. It was second only to the drawing-room in point of size and magnificence.
Mr Romford had been an advocate for living altogether in one room — the breakfast one — where, as he said, he could have his pipe and his newspaper and his flute and all things to hand; but Mrs Somerville insisted that it would cost nothing more to live in large rooms than in small ones, and that living in the latter would add very much to their comfort and consequence. So friend Romford, who had no objection to be made a great man of, provided it cost nothing, consented, more readily perhaps when he found he could get coals from the garden for nothing — at least for a trifling tip to the cartman who led them. Added to this, Lucy said it would keep the Dirties better employed, and give them less time for flirting with young Proudlock, the keeper’s son, or the butcher’s boy, proceedings of which she greatly disapproved. Thus they got into form on this conspicuous Sunday, when the knowing Mr Hazey came over on his complimentary visit of inspection.
Lucy had scarcely got Balsam through his facings, and instructed Bob Short how to support him during the advance, than, almost with the regularity of stage effect, the front-door bell rang a sonorous peal; and Mrs Somerville, after taking a last hasty glance at herself in the statuary marble mantel-piece mirror, subsided — in a half-recumbent attitude, with a volume of “Blair’s Sermons” in her hand — upon a richly carved and gilt sofa, covered with violet Genoa velvet and silk fringe.
“Who can it be?” exclaimed she.
“I wonder!” ejaculated Romford, taking a chair — an elegant gilt one, stuffed and covered en-suite with the sofa, as the upholsterers would say.
“Soon see,” rejoined Lucy, listening intently, with upraised hand to keep silence.
“Must be women, with their confounded pettikits!” observed Facey; “and can’t get out of the carriage.”
“Hark, they come!” added Lucy, dropping her hand as the solemn tramp, tramp, tramp, of old Balsam’s heavy feet approached the door. It opened.
“MR HAZEY! — MR WILLIAM HAZEY!” now announced Balsam — coming well into the room — in the clear distinct voice that Lucy had taught him; whereupon Mrs Somerville laid aside her volume of “Blair’s Sermons,” and Facey arose from his white-and-gold chair, into which he had just subsided.
Lucy, with folded arms, then made two of her best stage curtsies, one to Hazey, the other to Bill, motioning them respectively to conveniently-placed chairs as she did it. Facey seconded the motion, and all parties presently got seated.
Mrs Somerville, as usual, was extremely neat, and her beautiful hair was arranged to perfection.
“Mr Hazey! — Mr William Hazey!” muttered Romford, conning the matter over in his mind, as he scrutinised the two with his little, roving pig-eyes. “Mr Hazey and Mr William Hazey! Dash it! this is the hard and sharp man — the chap the ‘busman told me of.” And Romford reckoned Hazey up in a minute. “Looks more like a muffin-maker than a master of hounds,” thought he.
Mr Hazey felt rather uncomfortable, for he was now in the presence of a highly-bred gentleman, to whom a nobleman had lent his house, thus stamping him, as it were, with the impress of friendship; and he thought, perhaps, that Mrs Hazey ought to have accompanied him in this visit of ingratiation. Added to which, he wasn’t sure that he would be welcome on a Sunday. However, he got over that difficulty by recollecting that the old peacocks of footmen who let him in should have said “Not at home,” if Mr Romford or Mrs Somerville did not mean to see him; so, omitting the paragraph he had arranged in two sections in his own mind — one referring to his own occupations as a master of hounds on the week days, the other alluding to the greater certainty of finding Mr Romford and Mrs Somerville together at home on a Sunday — he began to strain at an apology for Mrs Hazey not coming, declaring she had got such a cold, she could hardly hold her head up. Whereas, his boy Bill knew that Hazey would not let her have the carriage.
And Mrs Somerville, who didn’t care much about seeing Mrs Hazey, accepted the apologies with the greatest readiness, expressing her obligations for the intention, but her hopes that Mrs Hazey would not think of coming until she was quite well, reflecting all the while on the good luck that Romford and she were in, by having got into the music-room, with the mirrors uncovered, and all the beautiful china and statuary displayed.
Romford’s mind, meanwhile, ran upon the probability of his guests wanting luncheon, and the unpleasantness of seeing his dinner voraciously despatched before his eyes.
The weather having been duly produced and disposed of, Mr Romford began to sound his brother master on the subject of hunting — scent, hounds, horses, the system of kennel — each thinking how he would like to have a chance of cheating the other: Romford settling in his own mind that the nutmeg-grey that scrubbed against carriages would carry Hazey capitally; Hazey, on his part, wondering whether Lightcrop’s horse would be up to Mr Romford’s weight. He (Romford) didn’t look such a monster out of his hunting things as people said he was.
“Yours is a three-days-a-week pack, I think,” said Facey, with the patronising air of a-man who hunts four.
“Three and a bye,” replied Hazey, anxious to make the most of himself.
“Not often a bye, I should think,” thought Facey, scrutinising him attentively.
“I wonder you don’t hunt four reg’larly,” said Facey; “if it was only for the sake of havin’ the same hounds out together.”
“Well — yes — no — yes!” hesitated Hazey; “only ours is a country that lames a good many hounds, and I shouldn’t like to attempt more than I coul
d accomplish satisfactorily.”
“Only a question of a few more horses and hounds,” replied Facey.
“Yes; but, then, horses and hounds involve £ — s — d,” rejoined Hazey, with a solemn shake of the head.
“Fiddle the farthins!” exclaimed Facey; “fiddle the farthins! — I mean, grudge money for huntin’! Give anything for good hounds — anything in moderation, at least,” added he.
“Ah, but then we haven’t all got Mr Romford’s deep purse to dive into,” rejoined Hazey, with a deferential bow to our great master. Hazey always wished to impress upon his boy Bill that he was poor.
They then got into a dissertation upon hounds, — Hazey expatiating learnedly upon legs and loins; Facey insisting upon nose as the sine quâ non.
