Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (12 page)

At first, Leotard, having been kept on low diet by Romford, and exercised with the hounds, of which he was very fond, behaved pretty well; but common grooms being so fond of stuffing themselves, that they think they can never sufficiently stuff horses, so crammed him with corn that he soon began to relapse into his former bad ways. After one or two minor ebullitions of temper, Mrs Rounding and Leotard came to a decided difference of opinion at the cross-roads between Crowfield and Linghurst Hill, Mrs Rowley Rounding wanting to go to the right, Leotard evincing a decided preference for the left, though there was no earthly reason why he should care for either. And Mrs Rowley Rounding being little accustomed to be thwarted, and never considering that a pampered, over-fed, under-worked pad differed from the obedient rocking-horse animals she had been accustomed to do what she liked with at the watering-places, struck him rather smartly on the shoulder with a gold-mounted, amethyst topped riding-whip, which Leotard instantly resented by rearing almost perpendicularly, and sliding her down over his tail into a soft newly-scraped mud-heap on the road-side. Then, having deposited her as in a pudding, he struck off home, where he arrived to the terror and consternation of the household, and rushing into his stable, proceeded to eat the remains of a feed of corn that he found in another horse's manger. And Mrs Rowley Rounding, with her dirty habit, presently arrived in the postman's gig, none the worse, but very angry at what had happened. Then there was a council of war held, as to what should be done with the horse, one recommending that he should be ridden back to the place and made to go the way he was then wanted to go; another, that he should be taken into the adjoining fallow and well lathered for his pains; a third, that he should be well licked in the stable; a fourth, that he should be beat at the door. And as they were all very angry, and imparted a portion of their ire to the horse by scolding and slapping him whilst he was eating, they did not at all improve the prospects of his obedience, and when the tea-tray-groom Postilion came to mount him to give him a good round in the paddock, the active Leotard very soon sent him, pink jean jacket and all, flying over his head. Then there was a fresh commotion, fresh anathemas at the horse, fresh recommendations as to what should be done with him.

And as there is always some great, heavy-fisted horse-breaker in every neighbourhood who will undertake to ride anything, Tom Heslop, of the “Bee-hive” beer-shop, the hero of that district, was sent for, who undertook to Rarey-fy the rebellious spirit forthwith.

Leotard let the dirty Heslop mount very quietly, and obeyed his dictation pretty readily, until an unlucky brewer's dray happened to come along the road, when, catching suddenly at the bit, he sidled up to it and proceeded to rasp Tom's leg against the wheel, rubbing it backwards and forwards till he made him bellow like a bull. Then the drayman got to the fractious horse's head, and after a desperate conflict succeeded in rescuing the unfortunate man from his intolerable oppression. Heslop then jumped off, and led the refractory horse home.

Another council of war was presently held, at which the butler, the gardener, and Matilda Mary the lady's-maid severally contributed their quota of wisdom, when they all agreed that Leotard was vicious, and a most improper 'oss for missus to ride. So Heslop and another man were despatched to Colonel Chatterbox's with Leotard, and a request that he would be good enough to return the horse to Mr Romford, and get back the money.

Now returning the horse was one thing, and getting back the money was another, for Mr Romford particularly refused to refund one single farthing; alleging first, that it was an out-and-out sale, without any warranty or condition whatever; secondly, that the horse was sold to Colonel Chatterbox, and was quite quiet with anybody who could ride,—a double reflection, seeing that it involved an imputation both on the Colonel and Mrs Rowley Rounding's horsemanship. But Facey politely added, that the horse might stand in his stable at the usual remuneration of four-and-twenty shillings and sixpence a week, all of which was repeated and commented upon by the gentlemen of the H.H. hunt, to the disparagement of Facey, who was thought to have been rather too sharp in the matter. But the Colonel having stretched a point as well as Facey, they could not make much of the transaction, and Mr Rounding was at length glad to take twenty pounds for his bargain, in payment of which our master assigned him Mr Tom Slowcome's subscription to the hounds, which there was always great difficulty in getting,—Facey alleging, as he gave the order on Slowcome for the money, that he never gave cheques for such “trifles as twenty pounds.” So the wondrous Leotard returned to Mr Romford's stable, there on diminished fare to undergo fresh discipline.

Still, Mrs Rounding being pretty and popular, and her husband giving good dinners, the spleen of the country was not satisfied, though it had not to wait long for an opportunity to break out in another quarter. Though Mr Romford rode Leotard to cover himself, to show he was quite tractable, they insisted that Mrs Rounding had been cheated.

It was quite a different thing, they said, being quiet with a great Herculean monster like our master, and with a timid delicate woman like Mrs Rounding.

“It was a monstrous shame to sell a lady a horse that was vicious,” said one in Facey's hearing.

“And at such a price too!” exclaimed another, a hundred guineas not being an every-day price in the country.

Lotherington went so far as to say that a man ought to be hung who sold a lady such a horse.

All these sayings in due time came to our master's ears, with, of course, a due allowance of exaggeration; and though our friend was not particularly thin-skinned, he yet feared that the Leotard transaction might operate prejudicially, as well on future sales of horses, as on his present position and popularity as a master of hounds. He hadn't got on far amiss as it was, his undoubted keenness and great money-reputation helping him along.

Facey, of course, didn't mean to contend, even to himself, that Leotard was a perfect lady's pad; but he well knew that, by judicious management, he could be made sufficiently tractable to last long enough to throw on the new owner the blame of spoiling him by bad riding. And in the course of his cogitations, Lucy's beautiful horsemanship, as seen with the late Sir Henry Scattercash's hounds, occurred to recollection, and he said to himself, “Ah! that is the woman that could do it, if she liked.” Twist him any way, and do whatever she liked with him. Never saw such a hand on a horse as she had. “She
was
a rider,” said Romford to himself, twitching his beard as he said it. “Dash it, but he would like to see her on him,” added he, throwing the sample away.

At length, galled by the reproaches and rebuffs which increased rather than diminished, he thought seriously of having her down to contradict their ungenerous assertions, by showing that Leotard was perfectly tractable with a lady. It was, only the dread of expense, and the fear of exciting scandal, that prevented him; but the expense he, at length, thought might be previously settled, and the consequences averted by judicious arrangement. He really thought it feasible. He had still eighty of the hundred guineas to the good, and wouldn't mind standing a trifle to vindicate his character.

He should like to see her cutting down some of the spurters who thought they could ride, and leading the lumberers over the heavy into grief and humility. “Cutting them down and hanging them up to dry,” as they say in the Shires.

At length he took courage, and wrote to Lucy, directing to the care of her mother in Hart Street, saying that, if she had a mind for a mount with his hounds, he would “stand Sam” for the Parliamentary train, directing her, if she came, to stop at the sign of the “West-end Swell,” at Minshull Vernon, whither the horse should be sent on the morning of the meet; but by no manner of means to think of coming on to the Dog and Partridge Inn.

Lucy jumped at the offer, for she was well-nigh suffocated with fog and bad air, and felt that a run into the country would do her an infinity of good. Moreover, she had been keeping her hands in by taking part in the monster steeple-chase at the Royal Agricultural Hall at Islington, under the title of Madame Valentine de Mornington, to the great admiration of crowded audiences. So her hat and her habit were in very good order. She was presently packed and away.

And the arrangement was most opportune, for Swig and Chowey, we are sorry to say, had rather relapsed into their former habits, and the Dog and Partridge Inn being closed against them by reason of Mr Romford's residence, they had been compelled to go farther a-field for their liquid fire; and a hunt servant, a man who rides where he likes in a red coat and cap, being always an object of admiration in the country, they had no difficulty in borrowing farmer Roughstubble's dog-cart to drive to the sign of the “Bald-faced Stag,” on the Ashcombe Road, where the Old Tom rum was capital, the gin pure, and the drink generally both strong and heady. Here, being Saturday night, they fell in with several gentlemen of their acquaintance—Jack Arrowsmith the farrier, Peter Marston the mole-catcher, Jack Miller, Squire Thompson's keeper, with Jacob the coachman, Geordy Banks the standing sot of the house, and others, all of whom were most desirous of trying the alcoholic test of friendship upon them, which they did so effectually that our sportsmen required a good deal of helping, and hoisting, and holding in their vehicle ere they ventured to drive off, being then fully impressed with the conviction that they were the two finest fellows under the sun.

It being a moonlight night, the road straight, and the horse steady, they had little difficulty in driving. Swig, who acted as charioteer, giving the horse his head, who kept well on the middle of the road, turning all approachers aside, until within a few miles of home, when they had the misfortune to meet Billy Barber the flying higgler's spring-cart, and Billy, being as drunk as themselves, charged right into them, shooting Swig one way, and Chowey another, then driving on with a damaged steed, despite of Swig's vociferations that he was “Daniel, the Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale's Daniel!” while little Chowey lay on his back, his india-rubber-ball-like mouth contracting and dilating as he muttered, in his usual bland way, “By all means, shir, by all means,” thinking he was helping a gentleman through a hedge with his horse, and wondering whether he would get half a-crown or a shilling for his trouble. Both were put, what Chowey elegantly called “
horse des combat
,” by the collision. So Mrs Sponge now took their place.

A
HABIT IN THE HUNTING-FIELD
was quite an unknown article in the Heavyside country, where nearly all the ladies had ample domestic duties to occupy them, and the gentlemen found it was about as much as they could manage to mount themselves, and, moreover, had no particular fancy for being outdone by their wives so the first flaunting of Lucy's elegant fan-tailed, blue and black braided habit, as she rode along with Facey and the hounds, created quite a sensation, which was little allayed by seeing it was borne by the refractory Leotard. Not only was it borne by Leotard, but the fair equestrian was absolutely going to act the part of whipper-in to the hounds: Swig and Chowey having got such “juices” of shakes as Chowey said, by their upset, as made them more like mummies than men. But for this untoward accident Facey might have passed Lucy off for a chance lady who had come down to look at the horse.

The meet was on Calderlaw Common—not a common by courtesy, as many now are, but a real unenclosed common of wildness and waste—rather a favourite fixture, for the roads were most accommodating, the country open, and, without being hilly, was undulating, very favourable for seeing, in fact; moreover, being mostly drained land, there were no agonising ditches to add to the terror of too formidable fences. So there was generally less “which way, Tomkins?”—“which way, Jenkins?” when the hounds met there, than when they were lower down in the vale.

The early birds of the hunt, those who rode their own horses on, Friar, Friskin, Coglin, and others, were now surprised by the unwonted appearance of a habit.

“What's up now?” exclaimed Friar.

“Woman, as I live!” rejoined Friskin.

“Why, it's Mrs Rowley Rounding,” muttered Coglin, staring intently.

“Not a bit of it,” replied the first speaker, who knew her figure better.

“It's her horse, however,” observed Friskin, eyeing the cream-colour as he ambled along.

“
Was
,” rejoined Coglin, who knew all about the sale and return.

And now, as the widely-spreading pack came straggling along the green lane leading on to the common, there was a general move that way to see who it was.

“I'll tell you what, I shouldn't be 'sprised,” said Coglin, seizing Friar by the left arm, and whispering in his ear as they rode along together, “I'll tell you what, confidentially, I shouldn't be 'sprised if it's that Mrs What'sher-name from the ‘West-end Swell.'”

“Not Mrs Spicer?”

“Oh no, that's the landlady. This is the mysterious lady who has just come down. My groom heard of her yesterday.”

“
Indeed!”
exclaimed Friar, now staring intently, wondering what Mrs Friar would say when she heard of it.

Facey, who gave his hounds plenty of liberty on the road, now rather contracted their freedom by a gentle rate to Favourite, who had got somewhat too far in advance, and the head receding, while the tail advanced, the pack came up in a perfect cluster of symmetrical beauty. There's a lot of charmers, thought Facey, as he looked them over, and then proceeded to nod to, and “how are ye?” the field. Our master's greetings were responded to, but the parties evidently seemed as if they expected something more; viz., to be introduced to the lady. This, however, Facey had no notion of doing, keeping, as he said, the coat's and the petticoat's account distinct, so he proceeded up the common to the usual halting-place; viz., the guide-post, where the Low Thornton and Hemmington roads intersected the waste.