by R S Surtees
All or any were liable to be detected at any moment — Mr Romford by Lord Lovetin’s making his long-meditated journey to England, Mrs Somerville by the frequenters of theatres and cigar shops, Miss Shannon by half the counter-skippers in London, and Sir Roger Ferguson by any stray tourist or stableman with whom he had ever done business.
The only way our friends bore up against the accumulation of deceit was, by never thinking of the consequences. Enough for the day was the evil thereof, they all felt. There was no disputing one thing, namely, that they had been most wonderfully favoured, and that people seemed quite as much inclined to deceive themselves as they were to deceive them. But a day of reckoning always comes at last, though in this case neither man nor woman was the immediate cause of its advent.
Leotard, the wondrous Leotard, the cream-coloured lady’s horse, who has already played such a conspicuous part in our story, was now destined to fulfil still greater achievements. The last we heard of him was, when the boy Bill satisfied himself of his paces by private trial at Tarring Neville, while Mr Romford and Mrs Somerville were regaling after the hunt with the considerate Mrs Watkins’s bag fox. Since then Mrs Somerville had ridden Leotard with varying success and satisfaction, the horse sometimes going remarkably well, sometimes only middling — oftener, perhaps, middling than well — at other times ill, or rather not at all. Lucy, however, never risked an open rupture with him. If she found he was going to be queer, she went home with him, pretending that his way was hers also. So the horse maintained his reputation for beauty and docility. Mrs Somerville and her horse were always greatly admired: people were proud to open the gates for her.
Foremost among the horse’s admirers was Independent Jimmy’s friend, Mr Hazey, or Second-hand Harry, as he was commonly called. Hazey was always on the look-out for horses, not so much to supply his own wants as to know where to lay hands on them, in case he could place them to advantage, — that is to say, get a little more for them than he gave. He was always touting, and sneaking, and “do-you-know-anything-to-suit-me-jug?” every man he met. Cheating in horses has become quite a science. Formerly the dealers had the monopoly, but what they now facetiously call the “gentlemen” have trod heavily on their heels of late. They are more skilful, more unscrupulous, and, we really think, lie better. The fact is, the real professionals haven’t time to concoct the ingenious and elaborate schemes now hit off by the disengaged idler. Moreover, the amateurs have access to society that the dealers have not; know the haunts and habits of victims better, and how to cajole them.
What is the waste of a week to a man who has nothing whatever to do but sit in the Park and pick his teeth with a quill? But time is money with a horse-dealer. He may have to be in Edinburgh, or Exeter, or Horncastle, while the other gentleman is arranging his plant.
Hazey had a great connection in what Mr Thackeray would have called the “Roundabout” line — many touts, many spies, many stable sneaks, many idle gentlemen, looking out for him. He knew how to keep the lower order of veterinary surgeons in good humour, so as to get them to pass almost anything. One of his cardinal rules was, never to tell where a horse came from. If he bought him in Cheshire, he would declare he came from Shropshire; if he came from the east, he would say he came from the west. In this there was good policy, for there is nothing so easy as to find out all about a horse, provided you can but find out where he comes from. Every ostler and helper can tell you something, and they generally speak truly, too. Tommy will “mind” his being foaled; Jacky will remember his being backed; Tomkins can tell when he was shod; and plenty will remember when he first came out with the hounds with Willy Winship on his back, who, of course, showed them all the way.
Now, as ill-luck would have it, among Mr Hazey’s many miscellaneous friends, was the well-known Captain Coper, late of that distinguished corps, the Horse Marines, who, at this juncture, knew a man who knew a “female woman” who knew a gentleman who knew the Right Honourable the Countess of Caperington, and her ladyship wanted a horse — a perfect lady’s horse — for which her noble husband would give any reasonable price. And a lady in that position not being likely to remain long unsuited, — at all events, unsolicited, — she was presently besieged with horses of all sorts and sizes: hay horses, brown horses, black horses, a great variety of horses; but unless a party is properly introduced, that is to say, has made a satisfactory arrangement with the middle-man, he has very little chance of effecting a deal, and the Countess had rejected horse after horse that might have suited her uncommonly well if they had not been crabbed by the go-between, who, of course, had not been properly propitiated.
At length Captain Coper (who had then lately been rusticating “over the water”) heard of her Ladyship’s want, and bestirred himself to supply it. Resolving in his capacious mind the various parties he had done business with, he came to the conclusion that Mr Hazey, being a master of hounds, would be the most likely (supposing they could agree upon terms) to supply the deficiency and obtain a long price. So he wrote “Dear Hazey” a letter, asking what he had in the lady’s horse line, and the percentage he would stand for an introduction to a real live Countess in want of a perfect picture of a horse. And Hazey, albeit he had a horse or two that had something in the habit line, to wit, Bill’s gallant grey, and a bay that dug its toes into the ground at each tenth step, and shied at everything it met on the road, yet he still thought they were hardly up to the exalted honour of carrying a Countess — no doubt a pretty one, as Countesses always are. If she had been a commoner, he would have tried it on with these, declaring there were not two such paragons in the world, and were both so good that he didn’t care which he sold.
But a Countess might be made available in a variety of ways: she might call on Mr Hazey in London — she might present Anna Maria at Court, perhaps, which would be extremely agreeable. And the thought of Anna Maria presently brought Mr Romford to his recollection, and in due course came Mrs Somerville and her beautiful cream-coloured horse. “Ah, there now! — there was an animal!” mused Hazey, with a chuck of his chin; “the very thing, if Mrs Somerville would but sell him. And there was no saying but she might sell him — didn’t see why she shouldn’t sell him. He was sure he would sell him if he had him, and could get a good price.” Then the recollection of Facey and the hospital for decayed sportsmen rather checked him. They might be extra-independent, to be sure, but still he didn’t see why he mightn’t sound them; so he set Bill to set Silkey, to set Storey the horse-breaker, to set big Rumbold the veterinary surgeon of Burchester, to ferret out what chance there was of Mrs Somerville selling Leotard.
And now, whilst they are busy prosecuting their inquiries, we will say a few words respecting the Countess of Caperington herself.
The Right Honourable the Countess of Caperington, we need scarcely say, was not always the Countess of Caperington: no, nor anything approaching one. In fact, she began life as an actress, as Miss Spangles of the Theatre Royal, Bungington. Here her beauty and ardent coquetry captivated a fast young baronet, the late Sir Harry Scattercash, of Nonsuch House in G —— shire. Miss Spangles became Lady Scattercash, and did the honours of the house with great liberality so long as there was any house to do the honours in. All the sock-and-buskin tribe had a hearty welcome at Nonsuch House, and long and serious were the symposia that ensued. Mrs Somerville, then Lucy Glitters, had the run of the house, and it is not unlikely that what she there saw taught her how to manage matters at Beldon Hall. And of all the sock-and-buskin tribe none was more truly welcome than that celebrated actor Mr Orlando Bugles, late of the Surrey Theatre. Bugles had a bed whenever he liked to run down: nor was he shy in availing himself of his privilege.
Drinking, however, is only a question of time, and sooner or later has always the same ending. Worn out with debauchery and premature decay, Sir Harry Scattercash presently departed this life at the early age of thirty-two, and where could the lovely widow seek for sweeter solace than on the manly bosom of Mr Bugles. Lady Scattercash ma
rried him. But beloved Orlando, we are sorry to say, took to evil ways also — brandy-and-water was his bane too; and twice in three years Lady Scattercash found herself a widow. Having seen Bugles buried, “b-e-a-u-tifully put away,” as she described it, she again came to town, and presently terminated an engagement at the Lord Lowther music saloon by running away. The next thing heard of her was, that she had become the Countess of Caperington! How this came about nobody knows but the Earl and Countess themselves, and being a lady before the marriage this match excited far less attention than it would have done had it been contracted with Miss Spangles. Sir Charles Bridoon, the next taker of the title, or the Ladies Caresson, the Earl’s sisters, might complain and say, “Who is this Lady Scattercash?” but the world at large were content to take her Ladyship as a true and correct Countess. And, indeed, so far as looks were concerned, she was an ornament to the Peerage, for she was just in the full development of womanly beauty — fat, fair, and thirty, with as much ease and vivacity as Betsey Shannon herself. The Earl was as proud of her as if he had married her first-hand, and was never tired of contemplating her beautiful face under a variety of bonnets. Not only bonnets, but hats, caps, hoops, everything that appeared in the chronicles of fashion. When her Ladyship’s carriage drew up with a dash at Mrs Slyboots’ the milliner’s, in the commercial town of Worryworth, there used to be such a commotion raised in the shop, to the neglect of all the rest of the customers, Mrs Boots breaking off in her recommendation of thirteen-and-ninepenny bonnets for two guineas, with “Mary!” “Jane!” “Susan!” to her elegant young people who were serving, “look out! — look out! Here’s the Countess of Caperington coming! — here’s the Countess of Caperington coming!” as if all people’s wants were to succumb to those of her Ladyship. Then there was such curtseying, “your Ladyshipping,” and worshipping, as if nobody’s custom was worth anything compared to her Ladyship’s.
Our business at present, however, is to get the Countess a horse; so, leaving her to turn over the contents of Mrs Slyboots’ shop at her leisure, we will proceed to inquire after Mr Hazey’s success in the equestrian line.
LVIII. THE DEAL
MR RUMBOLD, THE VETERINARY SURGEON, did not take much by his journey to Beldon Hall. The fact was, Mr Facey had his servants better drilled than to give information to people merely because they wanted to have it; and our friend being a bit of a vet himself, Rumbold was just about the last man he wanted to see hanging about his stables. Nor was Hazey more successful with either Jowers the blacksmith, or Mr Golightly the exciseman: for Chowey spun one of them out of his stable, and Swig the other. And Captain Coper being exigeant, — having, as he wrote, many applications from other parties anxious to suit the fair Countess with a horse, Hazey was obliged to “Dear Romford” our hero, and to have recourse to the lie applicable to the occasion. Thus he wrote: —
Tarring Neville,
Thursday Night.
DEAR ROMFORD. — I chanced to hear out hunting to-day that Mrs Somerville has some thought of parting with her cream-coloured horse (Blondin, I think she calls him); and I write to say that if it should happen to be the case, I think I know of a lady who would be likely to be a purchaser. Of course, at this time of year, ladies’ horses are not in great demand; but I think, with a little management, we might get what is fair and right, which I am sure is all that either of us would think of requiring. I hope this sale, if true, is not a sign of Mrs Somerville’s departure, for we can ill afford to lose so ornamental an appendage to our hunting-fields and to society in general. Mrs Hazey and my daughter beg their kind regards to her and Miss Herbert, with, my dear Romford,
Yours very truly,
H. Hazey.
FRANCIS ROMFORD, Esq.,
Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire.
The letter came very opportunely, for Sir Roger Ferguson was still at Beldon Hall, which enabled our Master to arrange with him the price of the horse, as well as to use Sir Roger as an incentive to the intending purchaser. There is generally a fat goose in every hunt, who is the reputed purchaser of all the horses that other people want to sell, and your regular “sticker” for price can never give a direct answer, without first indulging in a great, long exordium as to what said goose will give. So Sir Roger was now selected to fill the honourable post of puffer to Leotard. Lucy therefore wrote, on her own account, to say that her horse was for sale, and, by a single coincidence, their friend, Sir Roger Ferguson, was anxious to purchase him for a Park hack for himself; but, hearing that a lady wanted him, with his usual gallantry, the worthy Baronet consented to waive his preference, and let Mr Hazey’s friend have the refusal of him. Then, without saying anything about the horse’s merits, defects, or peculiarities, she branched off upon the weather, hoping the frost would soon give, and enable the poor pent-up fox-hunter to take the field! and reciprocated Miss Hamilton Howard’s and her own good wishes to Mrs Hazey and family, and volunteered to send Mr Romford’s and Sir Roger’s also.
Then, in a postscript, she adroitly added, that Sir Roger had offered £150 for Leotard, at which price Mr Hazey could have him.
The answer rather staggered friend Hazey, for £150 was a London price — quite an immense one in the country, where they expect to get two or three horses for that money; added to which, Hazey’s own profit and Captain Coper’s regulars would bring the price up to a couple of hundred. Then, on the other hand, there was a Countess and a Baronet to operate upon; and, all things considered, Hazey thought he should not be doing himself injustice if he wrote Coper word he had a perfect animal at command for £175; adding, that the Countess must be quick in her decision, for there was a Baronet after the horse, who didn’t stick at price. Hazey then gave a very minute description of Leotard, so glowing and flattering that few could resist him.
Coper was a dashing dealer, always rounding his figures and going for guineas, and immediately made Hazey’s £175 into two hundred guineas, at which price he wrote the man who knew the “female woman” who knew the gentleman who was acquainted with the Countess of Caperington, that a perfect lady’s horse could be had. He also copied the descriptive part of Mr Hazey’s letter, and dwelt on the fact of the Baronet’s competition. And the offer, in due course, came to the Countess. Now, two hundred guineas is a longish price for a hack; but then it is a price that carries such respectability with it as almost to supersede the necessity of circumspection. Who would think of asking two hundred guineas for a horse that was not something out of the common way. A twenty is always a suspicious animal; but three-figure horses sell themselves. Moreover, the Countess fancied the cream-colour; thought she would look well upon it, with its flowing mane and tail; and so there was nothing for it but to have it. A cheque was therefore transmitted by the circuitous route that the message had come. Coper then docked off his “regulars;” Hazey took his; and, finally, Mrs Somerville received a hundred and fifty pounds for a horse that Goodhearted Green had bought for the various sums of thirteen pounds, twelve, and eleven.
Not that Lucy got the money; but Mr Hazey’s cheque was drawn in her favour; and she had to indorse it ere Mr Romford and Goodheart could manipulate the money, according to the peculiar arrangement that existed between them.
LIX. THE DISASTER — THE “LORD HILL” HOTEL AND POSTING-HOUSE
THE EARL AND COUNTESS OF Caperington were staying at their seat, Caperington Castle, enjoying the old-womanly sport of battueing, when the wondrous Leotard arrived. Here they were, entertaining a semi-distinguished party — not quite good enough to advertise, perhaps, but still very sounding in titles. Two or three dowagers, who lived half the year at their own expense and half at other people’s; some distinguished foreigners, some equally distinguished Englishmen. The guests being chiefly of the adhesive order, were about tired of each other; consequently anything that created conversation was extremely acceptable. Leotard now furnished some.
He was greatly praised and admired by all — all excepting Mr Bustler, who called himself his Lordship’s stud-groom,
though the stud only consisted of a few ponies. Bustler had not been properly propitiated in the £ — s — d transaction, and thought Leotard had been punctured for a spavin, though nothing of the sort had ever been done. Indeed, if Leotard’s mental qualifications had been as good as his bodily ones, he would have been a very nice horse, and well worth a hundred pounds. But, like many bipeds, he could better bear adversity than prosperity, and as soon as ever he got his condition up a little, back came all his bad qualities. He then would not do anything he didn’t like, and if coerced, resented it. He then either kicked the party over his head, or, in the language of the low dealer, “saluted the general” — that is to say, reared up on end.
Now Leotard, with a perversity that had always distinguished him, went perfectly well on the first days of trial: the Countess’s way being apparently his, and the Countess’s pace also. When, however, he became better acquainted with the roads and the country, he began to exercise a judgment of his own; and one day, when the Countess wanted to canter across the grass sidings of the Rosendale road, to meet the overladen market coaches, Leotard insisted upon taking her to Tewkesbury. Not that he had any acquaintance at Tewkesbury — indeed, we dare say if she had pulled him up for Tooksbury, as she called it, he would have insisted upon going to Rosendale. It was just a spirit of contradiction — a sort of equine awkwardness that nobody could account for. The Countess, however, had a spirit too; and, moreover, had no idea of a horse, for which her noble husband had given such a liberal price, presuming to exercise a will of his own. So she just administered the whip — one, two, three; but before she got four the horse was up straight on end, and the Countess was down over his tail. It was just Mrs Rowley Rounding over again. Then off went the horse, full tilt at first, but not finding himself pursued, he relaxed into a snorting, tail-distended, head-diverging trot, as though he were surveying the landscape — much after the manner of the Benicia Boy. General chasers made a “click” at him, as they called it; but Leotard evaded them all, and entered Caperington Park just as the noble Earl and his party opened fire on the rabbits on Fourburrow Hill. Then there was such a commotion, and sending off, and running heel, to track the offender back to the site of the dissolution of partnership. The Countess, however, had tucked up her habit, and one of the before-mentioned overladen market coaches coming up, she hailed it, and made three on the box, sitting between the coachman and a puffy butcher from Bassetlaw. Thus she met the affrighted party, easing their minds but not her own, for she was very angry with the horse, and wanted to give him a good whipping. When, however, she saw him stand and deliver Mr Bustler like a shot, she thought she had better do it by deputy; still more so when she saw a helper share her own fate. The horse was then unanimously pronounced to be vicious.
