Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (64 page)

M
R
F
ACEY
R
OMFORD, LIKE MOST
good sportsmen, eschewed show meets: he also avoided making them at inns or public-houses. He had no fancy for being waylaid by skirmishers on the look-out in the highways and byways, to bring in all they could catch to be stuffed with a second breakfast before he had half digested the first. Still less to have his hounds pressed upon or ridden over by pot-valiant horsemen fresh from the joys of the tap or the table. Hence some of his meets were rather ambiguous, especially to strangers, of which, however, there were few came into the country. A bridge, a milestone, or guide-post were all favourite places of his; but among the anonymous ones was a place called Spite of All, whose locality was difficult to fix. The name was not very promising, suggestive more of the tenacity of the squatter than the politeness of the country. And Spite of All was one of those troublesome encroachments against which the Lord Lonnergans of former times used to be content to issue their edicts without seeing them enforced. Spite of All had therefore become a freehold, and had to be respected, notwithstanding it stood on the domains of a Duke. But it so happened that Spite of All was not the only place of this description in Doubleimupshire. On the north-east side was its duplicate, called Stand against All, and people in the hurry of the moment were very apt to mistake one for the other. There was an obstinate resistance recorded against each, with a triumphal retention by both the parties in possession.

Well, the meets of Mr Romford's hounds for the week were, Monday, Raw Marsh; Wednesday, Thorncross Hill; Friday Spite of All; Saturday, the tenth milestone on the Larkspur Road. Friday is generally considered an unlucky day; at all events a day that people do not generally choose for their pleasure expeditions; and it was unlucky on this occasion; for if the meet had been transposed, Friday the tenth milestone, and Saturday Spite of All, Mrs Somerville would have been at Spite of All, and not at the road meet, while, in consequence of the confusion of manner and ideas, the Countess would have been at the road meet, and not at Spite of All, so they would never have met, for Mr Hazey picked up another customer for the Leotard horse before the Monday.

But we anticipate.

One might as well ask a hairdresser or a haberdasher about the meets of the hounds as the waiter at an inn, but attached to the “Lord Hill” hotel was an antediluvian postboy—one Benjamin Bucktrout, the last of the twelve who had driven from that door—whose geographical knowledge was said to be great. Bucktrout was an illustration of the truth of the old saying, that nobody ever saw a dead postboy, for if he had been anything else he would have been dead long since. As it was there was little left of him but his chin and his hands, save what people might conjecture was in his jacket and boots. And the Countess of Caperington, who was accustomed to have everything arranged for her, told her maid Priscilla, when she herself retired to her great tabernacle of a bed, to find out how long it would take to go to Spite of All, and to call her accordingly. Then Bucktrout being appealed to, declared he knew the place quite well, and that it would take him an hour and twenty minutes to go there, part of the road being, he said, in a very indictable state of repair. And so he was ordered to time himself to be there at 10.30 to a minute, the Countess never allowing anyone to be unpunctual but herself.

Accordingly next morning, Bucktrout, having made himself as great a swell as he could,—scrumpy red jacket, with blue glas-buttons and tarnished silver lace at the black cotton-velvet collar and cuffs; questionable breeches, with seedy boots, turned round a very passable queen's-coloured barouche with a gorgeous crown on the panel, drawn by a pair of high-boned, hard-featured white horses, the usual accompaniments of wedding festivities. Then the footman and Priscilla the maid, and the landlord and the landlady, having made as much fuss and preparation as they could, what with cloaks and cushions and furs and footwarmers, stood waiting the descent with a graduated sliding scale of spectators tapering away from the doorsteps down to the kennel. And, after a sufficient pause old Timothy announced that the “Countess was coming!” the “Countess was coming!” Then all was eyes right and attention: Bucktrout, subsiding in his saddle, contemplated his horses' ears, while John Thomas stood bolt uprights holding the carriage door in his right hand. Priscilla occupied the other side of the steps to assist the crinolines in their ascent into the carriage, while the rest of the party ranged themselves in a semi-circular
tableau,
after the manner of actors when the curtain is going to fall. The great people get in, the voluminous clothes are arranged, and the door closed quickly to prevent an egression.

“Right!” cries the gold-lace-hat footman, as he jumps into the rumble, and away they bowled up the grass-grown High Street of Dirlingford, drawing many fair faces to the windows, and eliciting many ejaculations of “Who can those be?” “Who can those be?” “Bless us, what swells!”

Bucktrout did his best to keep the old nags up to their collars as they pottered over the uneven cobble-stones of the street, not knowing how a judicious display might tend to take the wind out of the sails of the opposition spicey greys at the “Golden Fleece” inn; but as they got upon the level surface of the Silverdale Road the old gentleman gradually relaxed in his exertions until a very gentle rise in his saddle alone denoted that the horses were not walking—indeed, at one time, they looked as if they were all going to sleep together.

Bucktrout was a ruminating old boy, and between cogitations as to whether he should drag down High Higson Hill, or risk it, where he was likely to get his dinner, and what the Countess would be likely to give him over his mileage for driving, he directed his attention to the question of getting to his destination. “Stand agin All,” muttered he—“Stand agin All; that'll be by Fitzwarren, and round the old tower to Happyfield Green and Ringland.”

“Stand agin All—Stand agin All. Sure it was Stand agin All that they said,” continued he, rubbing his nose on the back of his old parchmentlike glove as a sudden thought came across his mind, whether it was Stand agin All, or Spite of All that they said. “Sure it was Stand agin All, they said,” repeated he, giving the led horse a refresher with his knotty whip, as if to get him to coincide in that view. Still Buckey had his doubts about it, and as he jipped and jogged he began, like a prudent general, to think how he should manage matters in case he was wrong. “Spite of All and Stand agin All were very much alike,” he said; “one as bad as the other a'most; couldn't make much difference which they went to. Most likely it was one of those things they call pic-nicks, where folks make themselves as uncomfortable as they can, and call it pleasure. Sure, for his part, he would like to sit at a table with a clean cloth before him, and a knife and fork to eat with, instead of his fingers.” Then he gave his own horse a dig with his spur, by way of preserving the balance of pace.

Meanwhile the Countess and party, having timed themselves as well as they could by their watches, began looking about for the usual indications of the chase—foot-people in a hurry, grooms with their masters' horses, sedate gentlemen jogging on with their own. The Countess expected to see the naughty Leotard pop up at every point. But no; neither pedestrian, nor equestrian, not even the man with the colt in the breaking-reins appears. Major Elite suggested that perhaps Mr Romford's half-past ten meant eleven. Many masters of hounds, he said, were very unpunctual.

The road, which for some time had been twisty and turny, to say nothing of what the Countess called “cogglecy,” presently became worse, being formed of nothing but soft field stones ground down to excellent housemaid's sand, and after a slow tug through its laborious depths, the old screws came to a standstill just opposite where another road branched off at right angles, and the veteran Bucktrout, turning half round in his saddle and pointing to a wretched mud cottage with a thatched roof built into a bank, announced with a grin and a touch of his greasy old hat, “Please 'urn this be Stand agin All.”

“Stand against All!” exclaimed the Countess. “That's not the name of the place we want to be at!
Spite
of All, not Stand against All!”

“Well, mum, it's all the same, mum,” replied Bucktrout, now satisfied of his error, but determined to brazen it out. “Some rolls call it Spite of All, you see, my leddy, and others call it Stand agin All, you see, my leddy. It's the place you mean, the place they had the great 'size trial on aboot, before Lord Chief Justice Best and a special jury, which doubtless you've heard tell on.” Bucktrout thinking it immaterial whether the Countess saw the cause of one assize trial or another. Both places had been in Court.

But here we may observe that Spite of All would have felt rather humiliated by the comparison, for while Stand against All let it smoke out of the four-square-paned window or the ricketty door. Spite of All had a fine fire-brick chimney rising boldly out of a substantial grey roof; two fairish windows, and a door that a moderate-sized man could get under without stooping. Moreover, Spite of All was in a good country with fine wild foxes, and Facey Romford knew where to find them.

Be that as it may, however, here were our friends at Stand against All, and though Bucktrout's assertion had an air of plausibility about it, yet there were no hounds to back the decision.

“Well, it's very odd,” said the Countess, looking about with concern.

“Must have mistaken the day,” observed Major Elite.

“No,” rejoined her ladyship firmly; “I'm certain I'm right. Friday, Spite of All; Saturday, the tenth milestone on the Larkspur Road.”

“Or the hour,” suggested Mrs Mountravers, looking at her watch, which however afforded little assistance, for it was standing at half-past two.

Bucktrout now stood up in his stirrups, contemplating the country like a whipper-in waiting to view a fox away. Nothing to be seen. Stand against All seemed to have it all to itself.

“Knock and ask,” now said the Countess, addressing herself to the footman as though she were at the door of a Belgravian mansion.

“Please, my lady, who shall I inquire for?” demanded he, touching his fine cockaded hat, as, having descended from his perch, he now stood at the carriage door.

“Ask if the hounds are coming here to-day,” replied her ladyship.

“Yes, my lady,” said the footman, trotting off, taking care of his shoes as he made for the ricketty, weather-beaten door of the miserable hut.

Rat, tat, tat, tat, tat, he went at the frail wooden fabric, as though he were going to demolish it.

“Who's there?” roared a stentorian voice, that a westerly wind wafted in full force to the carriage.

“Please, do the hounds meet here to-day?” asked the footman in his mild company accents.

“No, you ass!” roared the poacher, for it was none other than Giles Snarem, the notorious leader of the night gang, whose second sleep he had thus disturbed.

“Come away!” cried the Countess—“come away!” satisfied there was a mistake somewhere.

The order was satisfactory to old Bucktrout, who feared if the inquiry was prosecuted any further it would transpire that the hounds were at Spite of All, whereas he had driven the party to Stand against All, though he was certain about the action being tried before Lord Chief Justice Best, because one of the high sheriff's javelin men lodged at his house, and told him all about it—indeed, he believed the javelin man had been of great assistance to the judge in trying the case. At the word “home,” from the footman, he therefore caught his old screws short by the head, and turning the carriage round, what with flagellating one horse and spurring the other, he managed to make them plough through the heavy sand at a much better pace than they came. A respectful distance being thus established between Stand against All and our travellers, he presently relaxed into his old jog-trot pace, and having stopped to refresh himself and horses at the “Barleymow” wayside inn, he trotted into town with as much dash and vigour as he could raise. Those terrible greys at the “Fleece,” were always haunting his vision, urging him and his horses beyond the decaying powers of either.

Arrived at the “Lord Hill” hotel and posting-house, the first thing he did after setting down was to run and look at “Bell's Life” in the bar, and finding Mr Romford's hounds advertised for Spite of All, he told the landlord he had better book the journey to Spite of All, and then there would be no mistake in the matter.

“All right,” said he; “all right,” scrambling out crab fashion. “Spite of All, and Stand agin All 'ill be all the same thing—same thing—place they had the 'size trial on about afore Lord Chief Justice Best and a special jury.”

So that day's journey went for nothing.

F
OILED IN HER FIRST EFFORT
to get a sight of the redoubtable Leotard, the Countess of Caperington returned with vigour to the charge, sending, immediately on her return from Stand against All, into the commercial room of the “Lord Hill” hotel and posting-house for the old well-thumbed map of the county, and searching with avidity for the next meet of the hounds. Fortunately for Bucktrout, neither Spite of All nor Stand against All had obtained their present notoriety when the map was published, consequently they were not on it to contradict his assertion that they were one and the same place; and her ladyship having placed her pretty forefinger on the extensive stain denoting her then locality at Dirlingford, she proceeded to make a very scientific cast to the east in search of the diminutive town of Larkspur, formerly the residence of the Doubleimupshire hounds.