.dt Market Harborough and Inside the Bar, by G. J. Whyte-Melville—A\
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<s>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in\
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Market Harborough
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<s>“‘It’s open I think,’ remarked the Honourable.”</s>
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[Illustration: “‘It’s open I think,’ remarked the Honourable.”]
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<xl>Market Harborough</xl>

<s>and</s>

<xl>Inside the Bar</xl>
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By
<l>G. J. Whyte-Melville</l>
<s>Author of “Sarchedon,” “Cerise,” “Black but Comely,” etc.</s>
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Illustrated by John Charlton
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London
<l>Ward, Lock & Co., Limited</l>
<s>New York and Melbourne</s>
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CONTENTS
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<sc>CHAP.</sc> | | <sc>PAGE</sc>
<sc>I.</sc> | One of the “Old Sort”| #9:ch01-01#
<sc>II.</sc> | “Mr. Job Sloper”| #18:ch01-02#
<sc>III.</sc> | “Your Handwriting, Sir”| #22:ch01-03#
<sc>IV.</sc> | Marching Orders| #29:ch01-04#
<sc>V.</sc> | “Boots and Saddles”| #36:ch01-05#
<sc>VI.</sc> | Hazy Weather| #46:ch01-06#
<sc>VII.</sc> | A Leicestershire Lark| #51:ch01-07#
<sc>VIII.</sc> | A Dove of the Same| #59:ch01-08#
<sc>IX.</sc> | Four o’Clock, Stables| #65:ch01-09#
<sc>X.</sc> | “Hail! Smiling Morn!”| #72:ch01-10#
<sc>XI.</sc> | “A Merry Go-rounder”| #80:ch01-11#
<sc>XII.</sc> | “Dead for a Ducat”| #87:ch01-12#
<sc>XIII.</sc> | “After Dark”| #97:ch01-13#
<sc>XIV.</sc> | “Before the Dawn”| #106:ch01-14#
<sc>XV.</sc> | Taking a Hint| #111:ch01-15#
<sc>XVI.</sc> | Riding to Sell| #116:ch01-16#
<sc>XVII.</sc> | “Tempted to Buy”| #126:ch01-17#
<sc>XVIII.</sc> | The Dove-cote| #134:ch01-18#
<sc>XIX.</sc> | “The Boot on the Other Leg”| #143:ch01-19#
<sc>XX.</sc> | Deeper and Deeper| #148:ch01-20#
<sc>XXI.</sc> | The Magnum Bonum| #154:ch01-21#
<sc>XXII.</sc> | A Wet Night| #159:ch01-22#
<sc>XXIII.</sc> | Doughty Deeds| #169:ch01-23#
<sc>XXIV.</sc> | The Ball| #173:ch01-24#
<sc>XXV.</sc> | The Race| #182:ch01-25#
<sc>XXVI.</sc> | The Match| #188:ch01-26#
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<i>INSIDE THE BAR.</i>
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<sc>CHAP.</sc> | |<sc>PAGE</sc>
<sc>I.</sc> | “The Genius Loci”| #193:ch02-01#
<sc>II.</sc> | Tips, the Horse-breaker| #207:ch02-02#
<sc>III.</sc> | Mr. Naggett| #221:ch02-03#
<sc>IV.</sc> | Tom Turnbull| #234:ch02-04#
<sc>V.</sc> | Old Ike, the Earth-stopper| #247:ch02-05#
<sc>VI.</sc> | Miss Merlin| #259:ch02-06#
<sc>VII.</sc> | Miss Merlin| #272:ch02-07#
<sc>VIII.</sc> | Young Plumtree| #286:ch02-08#
<sc>IX.</sc> | In the Trap| #299:ch02-09#
<sc>X.</sc> | The Old Squire| #312:ch02-10#
<sc>XI.</sc> | The Soakington Field-Day| #325:ch02-11#
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<xl>MARKET HARBOROUGH</xl>

<s>OR,</s>

<i>How Mr. Sawyer went to the Shires</i>
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CHAPTER I||<s>ONE OF THE “OLD SORT”</s>
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<sc>Most</sc> men have a sunny spot to which they look back in
their existence, as most have an impossible future, to attain
which all their energies are exerted, and their resources
employed. The difference between these visionary scenes
is this, that they <i>think</i> a good deal of the latter, but <i>talk</i> a
good deal of the former.
.pi
With some fellows the golden age seems to have been
passed at Eton, with others at the Universities. Here a
quiet, mild clergyman gloats over the roistering days he
spent as a Cornet in the Hussars; there an obese old gentleman
prates of the fascinations of London, and his own
successes as a slim young dandy about town. Everybody
believes he liked that rosy past better than he did. Just
as we fancy that the hounds never run nowadays as they
used, when we had lungs to holloa and nerves to ride; and
that even if they could go the same pace hunters are not
now to be got of the stamp of our old chestnut horse, concerning
whose performances we think no shame to lie, year
by year, with increasing audacity; there is nobody left to
contradict us, and why should we not?
.bn 010.png
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Now, Mr. Sawyer, too, will descend into the vale of years,
with a landmark on which to fix his failing eyes, an era
which shall serve as a date for his reminiscence, and a
starting-point for his after-dinner yarns. This shall be the
season when Mr. Sawyer went to the Shires. It is not yet
very long ago. Perhaps it may be well to relate a few of
his adventures and doings in those localities ere they lapse
into the realms of fiction under the romantic colouring with
which he will himself begin to paint them, when their
actual freshness has worn off.

Touching Mr. Sawyer’s early history, I have collected
but few particulars, not enjoying the advantage of that
gentleman’s acquaintance till he had arrived at years of
maturity. I gather, however, that he matriculated at
Oxford, and was rusticated from that pleasant University
for some breach of college discipline, sufficiently venial in
itself, but imbued with a scarlet tinge in the eyes of the
authorities. I have heard that he rode an Ayrshire bull
across Peckwater in broad daylight, having previously attired
himself in a red coat, with leathers, &c., complete, and clad
the patient animal in a full suit of academicals. Also that
he endeavoured to mollify his judges by apostrophising the
partner of his trespass, in the words Horace puts into the
mouth of Europa,
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“Si quis infamem mihi nunc juvencum;”
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and so on to the end of the stanza. As, although Mr.
Sawyer’s fluency in all Saxon expletives is undeniable, I
never heard him make use of any language but his own, I
confess to my mind this story bears upon the face of it the
stamp of improbability, and that perversion of the truth
from which Oxonian annals are not entirely free.
.pi
It is a good old fashion to commence a narrative by a
personal description of its hero; such as you would see in
the <i>Hue and Cry</i>, or the advertisements for that missing
gentleman in the <i>Times</i> who has never been found yet,
and whose humble costume of half-boots, tweed trousers,
and an olive surtout, with a bunch of keys and three-halfpence
in the pockets, denotes neither affluence nor display.
Upon this principle let me endeavour to bring before the
mind’s eye of my readers the outward semblance of my
.bn 011.png
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worthy friend, John Standish Sawyer, a man of mark,
forsooth, in his own parish, “and justice of peace in his
county, simple though he stand here.”

Mr. Sawyer is a well-built, able-bodied personage, standing
five feet eight in the worsted stockings he usually
affects, with a frame admirably calculated to resist fatigue,
to perform feats of strength rather than agility, and to put
on beef: the last tendency he keeps down with constant
and severe exercise, so that the twelve stone which he
swings into his saddle is seldom exceeded by a pound.
“As long as I ride thirteen stone,” quoth Mr. Sawyer to
his intimates after dinner, “no man alive can take the shine
out of me over a country. Mason! Mason’s all very well
for a <i>spurt</i>! but where is he at the end of two hours and
forty minutes, through woodlands, in deep clay? Answer
me that! and pass the bottle.”

Our friend’s admirers term his person square: his enemies,
and he has a few, call it “clumsy:” certainly his hands
and feet are large, his limbs robust, but not well-turned;
and though it would make him very angry to hear me, I
confess his is not my <i>beau idéal</i> of the figure for a horseman.
Nevertheless, he has an honest English face, round and rosy,
light-grey eyes, such as usually belong to an energetic and
persevering temperament, with thin sandy hair, and a good
deal of stiff red whisker.

Altogether, he looks like a man you would rather drink
with than fight with, any day. Perhaps, if very fastidious,
you might prefer letting him alone, to doing either. Of his
costume, I shall only say that it partakes on everyday
occasions of the <i>decidedly</i> sporting, with a slight tendency
towards the <i>slang</i>. Its details are those of a dress in which
the owner is ready to get on horseback at a moment’s notice;
nay, in which he is qualified, without further preparation,
to ride four miles straight-on-end, over a stiff country; so
enduring are its materials, and so suggestive of equestrian
exercise is its general fit. Also, on Sundays, as on week-days,
in town or country, he delights in a “five to two”
sort of hat, with a flat brim and backward set, which denote
indisputable knowledge of horseflesh, and a sagacity that
almost amounts to dishonesty.

Not that Mr. Sawyer ever bets; far from it. He elbows
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his way indeed into the ring, and criticises the two-year-olds
as they walk jauntily down to the starting-post, as if he
speculated like the Leviathan, and owned a <i>string</i> like Sir
Joseph Hawley’s; but all this is simply <i>ex officio</i>. Wherever
horses are concerned, Mr. Sawyer deems it incumbent
on him to make a demonstration, and he goes to Tattersall’s
as regularly on the Sunday afternoons in the summer, as
you and I do to dinner. Like the Roman Emperor, the
horse is his high-priest, and the object of his idolatry.

I am afraid hunting is going downhill. I do not mean
to say that there is not an ever-increasing supply of ambitious
gentlemen who order coats from Poole, boots from
Bartley, and horses from Mason, to display the same
wherever they think they are most likely to be admired;
but I think there are few specimens left of the old hunting
sort, who devoted themselves exclusively to their favourite
pursuit, and could not even bear to hear it mentioned with
anything like levity or disrespect; men whose only claim to
social distinction was that they <i>hunted</i>, who looked upon
their red coat as a passport to all the society they cared to
have, and who divided the whole community, in their own
minds, into two classes—“men who hunt,” and “men who
don’t.”

In these days people have so many irons in the fire!
Look at even the <i>first</i> flight, with a crack pack of hounds; ten
to one amongst the half-a-dozen who compose it you will
find a soldier, a statesman, a poet, a painter, or a Master
in Chancery, whilst “maddening in the rear” through the
gates come a posse of authors, actors, amateurs, artists, of
every description, till you think of Juvenal’s stinging lines,
and his Protean Greek, who was
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“Grammaticus, rhetor, geometres, pictor, aliptes,
Augur, schœnobates, medicus, magus,” &c.,
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and vote a fox-hunter the conglomeration of all these different
accomplishments.
.pi
But Mr. Sawyer did not trouble himself much about
Juvenal or his opinions. Finding his classical career a
failure, and, what was more disappointing, his anticipated
season with Mr. Drake cut short in consequence of his
misadventure with the bull, he gave up the little reading
.bn 013.png
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which he had been compelled to take in hand, and confined
his studies exclusively to <i>Bell’s Life</i>, <i>The Field</i>, with
its questions and answers to correspondents, suggestive
alike of inventive ingenuity as of exhaustive research, and
the <i>Sporting Magazine</i>. The fact is, what with hunting
three and four times a week, talking of it the remaining
days, and thinking of it all the seven, with constant visits
to the stable and a perpetual feud with his blacksmith, Mr.
Sawyer’s mind was completely filled with as much as that
receptacle could be thought capable of containing.

My hero, like the champions of the Round Table, is
perhaps seen to the greatest advantage on horseback. Let
me introduce him to my reader, riding like a knight through
the wilds of Lyonnesse, up a deep muddy lane, as he returns
from hunting in the dull November twilight.

“Capital bit of stuff,” says Mr. Sawyer, knocking off
the ashes of his cigar with his dogskin-clad finger, and
apostrophising his “mount,” a very little grey horse, with
an arched neck and light mouth, and a tail set on high on
his quarters. “Capital bit of stuff,” he repeats, dangling
his feet out of the stirrups; “as game as a pebble, and as
neat as a pin.” “Two hundred—two hundred and fifty!
You’re worth two hundred and fifty, every shilling of it”
(he had bought him of a fishmonger for forty pounds and a
broken-winded pony). “Worth as much as any horse <i>can</i>
be to carry thirteen stone. Hang it; you’d <i>fetch</i> all the
money at Tattersall’s if any of <i>the customers</i> could only
have seen you go to-day!”

Then Mr. Sawyer placed his feet in the stirrups, and fell
to thinking of his day’s sport.

They had really had a good run—a fine, wild, old-fashioned
fox-hunting sort of run—from two hundred acres
of woodland, down a couple of miles of bottomless ravine, and
away over deep stiff ploughs and frequent straggling fences,
till they reached the far-stretching Downs. Here their fox
had made his point good up-wind, and the pace even of
those square-headed, deep-ribbed, heavy-timbered hounds
had been liberal enough to satisfy the most exacting. Mr.
Sawyer remembered, with a glow of pride, how, when they
descended into the low country once more, he had led the
field, and jumped an awkward stile, into a lane, to the
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admiration of all beholders. He could <i>ride</i>, to give him his
due; and, moreover, he knew what hounds were doing, and
was familiar with the country. Therefore he had slipped
away with them, when the pack, after three or four turns
round the huge woodland, had forced their fox into the
open; therefore he had kept on the down-wind side of the
ravine aforesaid, and therefore he had been fortunate enough
to see the fox handsomely run into, in an old double hedgerow,
after an hour and forty minutes, during which he had
unquestionably “gone best” from end to end. The huntsman
said so—a wary ancient, who, never showing in front
at any period, or running the slightest risks in the way of
pace or fencing, had a huntsman’s peculiar knack of turning
up when he was wanted, particularly towards the finish.
The doctor said so—an old rival, whose high character for
riding entitled him to be generous; and the fishmonger,
previous possessor of the grey, loudly affirmed, with many
oaths which it is unnecessary to repeat, that “Muster
Sawyer always was a hout-and-houter, and had gone audacious!”
Contrary to custom, none of the rest of the field
had been near enough to give an opinion, though excuses
as usual were rife for non-appearance. To judge from his
own account, no man ever misses a run, save by a concatenation
of circumstances totally unprecedented. Besides
every normal casualty, he would always seem to have been
baffled throughout by an opposing fiend of remarkable
perseverance and diabolical ingenuity.

As the sun went down in a deep crimson segment, like
the glow of a ruby, or the danger-signal on a railway, Mr.
Sawyer lit a fresh cigar, and began to ponder on the merits
of his own riding and the capabilities of his stud. As the
daylight waned, and the grey ash of his “choice Laranaga”
(seven-and-forty shillings the pound) grew longer and
longer, he began to think so much talent was quite wasted
in “the provinces”—that he was capable of better things
than “showing the way” to the half-dozen of red-coats
and couple of farmers who constituted his usual “gallery”—that
he was too good for the Old Country, as its sportsmen
affectionately designate that picturesque locality in
which they follow the chase—and that he was bound to do
himself and the little grey horse justice by visiting the
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wide pastures, the prairie-like grazing-ground of the crack
countries; to use his own vernacular, that he ought to
“cut the whole concern for a season, and have a turn at
the Shires.” His cogitations took some such form as the
following:—“Here am I, still on the sunny side of forty—in
the prime of my life, of my pluck, of my strength, and—ahem!—of
my appearance—none so dusty neither, on
horseback, whatever Miss Mexico may think, with her olive
skin and her stuck-up airs. After all, I don’t know that I’d
have had her, though she <i>was</i> a thirty-thousand pounder!
I don’t like ’em touched with the tar-brush. I’m all for
the thorough-bred ones—women, as well as horses. Well,
here I am, wasting my life in these deserted ploughs.
Even if we do get a run, such as we had to-day, I have no
one to talk to about it. The Grange is a crafty crib enough,
and I’m as comfortable there as a bachelor need to be; but
I can’t go home, night after night, to bolt my dinner by
myself, smoke by myself to digest it, and go to bed at ten
o’clock, because I’m so bored with John Sawyer, and it’s
the only way to get rid of him. No, hang it! I’ll emigrate;
I’ll go and <i>hibernate</i> in the grass. I’ll make Isaac a stud-groom;
I’ll buy a couple more nags, the right sort too—show
those dandified chaps how to <i>ride</i>, and perhaps sell
the lot for a hatful of money at the end of the season, and
have all my fun for nothing.” Deluded man! how feasible
the latter project sounds—how difficult to realise!

The idea once having taken possession of our friend’s
mind, soon found itself cramped for room in that somewhat
circumscribed area. All dinner-time he was absent and
preoccupied; even Scotch broth, a beef-steak pudding, a
damson tart, and toasted cheese, did not tend to settle him.
Two of the Laranagas were converted into smoke and ashes
before he could come to anything like a definite conclusion.
Though a temperate man habitually (for the sake of his
nerves), he rang for the old brandy labelled V.O.P., and
mixed himself a real stiff one, with boiling water and one
lump of sugar. I have my suspicions that his final decision
was partly its result. The great difficulty was where to go.
A man of limited acquaintance and reserved manners has at
least this advantage—that all parts of England are equally
attractive as regards society. Then he had hunted too
.bn 016.png
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much to believe newspaper accounts of sport, so that looking
up the old files of <i>Bell’s Life</i> assisted him no whit to a
conclusion; also being of an inquiring turn of mind, wherever
fox-hunting was concerned, he had amassed such a quantity
of information concerning the “flying countries,” that it
took him a considerable time and another glass of brandy-and-water
to digest and classify his facts. Altogether it
was a complicated and puzzling question. First he thought
of Leamington and the Warwickshire North and South, with
regular attendance on the Atherstone and one field-day
per week with the Pytchley; but many considerations combined
to render the Spa ineligible as his head-quarters. In the
first place, the evening gaieties made his hair stand on end.
Since his rejection by Miss Mexico, Sawyer was no dancing
man; and indeed even in the first flush of his courtship he
was seen to less advantage in a white neckcloth than a blue
bird’s-eye. Some men’s hands and feet are not made to fit
boots and gloves as constructed by our neighbour the fiery
Gaul, and for such it is wise to abstain from “the mazy,”
and to rest their hopes of success on other and more sterling
qualities than the vapid demeanour and cool assurance which
triumph in a ball-room. Then, with all his fondness for the
applause of his fellow-creatures, he did not quite fancy
making <i>one</i> of that crowd of irregular-horse who appear on
a Wednesday at Crick or Misterton, to the unspeakable
dismay of the Pytchley <i>lady</i> pack, who, if there is anything
<i>like</i> a scent, scour away from them as if for their very lives;
and although it is doubtless a high compliment that two
hundred gentlemen in scarlet should patronise the same
establishment, Mr. Sawyer thought that as far as <i>he</i> was
concerned, the number might as well stop at one hundred
and ninety-nine.

I believe, however, that the dread of those wide and
fathomless rivers which are constantly jumped, in Warwickshire,
by at least <i>one</i> amphibious sportsman out of a daring
field, and of which the width from bank to bank, according
to the newspapers, is seldom less than seven-and-twenty or
more than seven-and-thirty feet, was what principally terrified
our friend. Accustomed to a leading championship at
home, he shrank from such aquatic rivalry, and resolved that,
with all its fascinations, Warwickshire at least should not
have the benefit of his patronage.
.bn 017.png
.pn +1

Once, after a steaming gulp of the stimulating fluid, the
idea of Melton flashed across his mind, but it was dismissed
as soon as entertained. “I’m not such a fool as I look,”
quoth Mr. Sawyer; “and I don’t mean to keep eight
hunters and a couple of hacks to meet a set of fellows every
day, who won’t condescend to notice me unless I do as they
do. Whist and dry champagne, and off to London at the
first appearance of frost; ride like a butcher all day, risking
twice as much neck as I do here, and then come out ‘quite
the lady’ at dinner-time, and choke in a white tie, acting
the part of a walking gentleman all the evening. No!
Melton won’t suit my book at any price. Besides, I’d
never sell my horses there; they order their hunters down
from London just as they do their ’baccy’ and their
breeches.” So the idea of Melton was dismissed; and a
vision of Oakham, or Uppingham, or even Billesdon rose in
its stead. He could not quite get those tempting pastures,
with their sunny slopes and flying fences, out of his head.
The same objection, however, applied to the last-mentioned
places that drove him from home, viz. the want of society.
That deficiency seemed to threaten him wherever he set up
his staff. At Wansford he would be as solitary as in the
Old Country; also he would be further from High Leicestershire
than he liked. The same drawback was attached to
Lutterworth, and Rugby, and Northampton. It was not till
the third glass that the inspiration seized him. Dashing
the end of his cigar under the grate, he rose from his easy-chair,
stuck his hands in his pockets and his back to the
waning fire, stamped thrice on the hearth-rug, like a
necromancer summoning his familiar, and exclaimed aloud,
“The very place! I wonder I never thought of it before.
Strike me ugly, if I won’t go to Market Harborough!”

Then he finished his brandy-and-water at a gulp, lit his
candle, and tumbled up to bed, where he dreamed he was
riding a rocking-horse over the Skeffington Lordship, with
no one in the same field with him but the late Mr. William
Scott, the vehemence of whose language was in exact proportion
to the strength of the beverage which had constituted
his own night-cap.
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CHAPTER II||<s>“MR. JOB SLOPER”</s>
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<sc>The</sc> ancient Persians, who seem also to have been wonderful
fellows to ride, had a pleasing system of deliberation,
which has somewhat fallen into disuse in our modern Parliaments.
According to the old historians, it was their
practice to discuss all graver matters of policy when in a
state of inebriety, giving their debate the advantage of being
resumed and repeated next morning; also, should they inadvertently
convene a meeting when sober, to reverse the
process, and ascertain whether on getting drunk over it they
arrived at the same result. The system was not without
its merits, no doubt, one of the most prominent of which
seems to have been that it entailed a double allowance of
liquor. Mr. Sawyer was sufficiently a Persian to reconsider
his decision of the previous night, when he woke next
morning with a trifling head-ache, and a tongue more like
that of a reindeer, as preserved by Fortnum and Mason,
than the organ of speech and deglutition peculiar to the
human subject.
.pi
He was a hard fellow enough; but no man can smoke
cigars and drink hot-stopping the last thing at night, and
get up in the morning without remembering that he has
done so.

A plunge into his cold bath, however, a cup of warm
tea, with a rasher of bacon frizzling from the fire, and well
peppered, soon restored the brightness to our friend’s eye
and the colour to his cheek. When he lit his cigar on his
own well-cleaned door-step, and turned his face to the balmy
breath of “jocund day,” under a soft November sky, dappled,
.bn 019.png
.pn +1
and mellowed, and tinged here and there with gold by the
winter sun, he felt, as he expressed it, “fit as a fiddle, and
hotter upon Market Harborough than ever.”

He was a man of few words though, when he meant business,
and only pausing for a moment at the Stable, and
feeling the grey’s legs, which somehow always <i>did</i> fill after
a day’s hunting, he took no living mortal into his confidence,
not even the taciturn Isaac (of whom more hereafter); but
started for a five-mile walk, to inspect the stables of a
certain horse-coping worthy, with whom he had long been
too well acquainted, and who generally had a good bit of
stuff somewhere about the premises, provided only you could
get hold of the right one.

Mr. Sawyer was not a man to order a horse out of the
stable in the hunting season for any but the legitimate
purpose of the chase. “Walking,” he said, “kept him in
wind;” and off he started down a narrow lane that in
summer was thick with blackberries and blooming with dog
roses, and over a stile and across a fallow, and through a
wood, at an honest five-mile-an-hour, heel-and-toe; every
turn in the path reminding him, as he stepped along, of
some feat of horsemanship or skilful shot, or other pleasing
association connected with his country home. And this is
one of the greatest advantages of hunting <i>from</i> home.
After all, notwithstanding her irresistible attractions, we
cannot follow Diana every day of our lives, and surely it is
wiser and pleasanter to take her as we want her amongst
our own woods and glades, and breezy uplands, and pleasant
shady nooks, than to go all the way to Ephesus on purpose
to worship with the crowd. Mixed motives, however, seem
to be the springs that set in motion our human frames; and if
Care sits behind the horseman on the cantle of his saddle,
Ambition may also be detected clinging somewhere about
his spurs.

In little more than an hour Mr. Sawyer found himself
entering a dilapidated farmyard, of which three sides consisted
of tumble-down sheds and out-houses; while the
fourth, in somewhat better repair, denoted by its ventilating
windows, latched doors, and occasional stable-buckets, that
its inmates were of the equine race. Stamping up a bricked
passage, on either side of which sundry plants were dying
.bn 020.png
.pn +1
in about three inches of mould, our friend wisely entered
the open door of the kitchen, preferring that easy ingress to
the adjacent portal, of which a low scraper and rusty
knocker seemed to point out that it was chiefly intended for
visits of ceremony. Here he encountered nothing more
formidable than a white cat sleeping by the fire, and a
Dutch clock, with an enormous countenance, ticking
drowsily in the warmest corner of the apartment.

Coughing loudly, and shuffling his feet against the sanded
floor, he soon succeeded in summoning a bare-armed maid-of-all-work,
with a dirty face and flaunting ribbons in her
cap, who, to his inquiries whether “Mr. Sloper was at home,”
answered, as maids-of-all-work invariably do, that “Master
had just stepped out for a minute, but left word he would
be back directly: would you please to take a seat?”

This interval, our friend, who, as he often remarked,
“wasn’t born yesterday,” determined to spend in a private
visit to the stables, and left the kitchen accordingly for that
purpose. It is needless to observe that he had barely
coasted a third of the ocean of muck which constituted the
centre of the yard, ere he encountered the proprietor himself
coming leisurely to greet him, with a welcome on his
ruddy face and a straw in his mouth.

Mr. Sloper was a hale hearty man of some three-score
years or so, who must have been very good-looking in his
prime; but whose countenance, from the combined effects
of good-living and hard weather, had acquired that mottled
crimson tinge which, according to Dickens, is seldom observed
except in underdone boiled beef and the faces of
old mail coachmen and guards. It would have puzzled a
physiognomist to say whether good-humour or cunning prevailed
in the twinkle of his bright little blue eye; but the
way in which he wore his shaved hat and stuck his hands
into the pockets of his wide-skirted grey riding-coat, would
have warned any observer of human nature that he was
skilled in horseflesh and versed in all the secrets that lend
their interest to that fascinating animal. Somehow Honesty
seems to go faster on horseback than afoot.

Not that a man of Mr. Sloper’s years and weight ever got
upon the backs of his purchases, save perhaps in very extreme
cases, and where “the lie with circumstances” was
.bn 021.png
.pn +1
as indispensable as “the lie direct.” No, he confined himself
to dealing for them over dark-coloured glasses of brandy-and-water,
puffing them unconscionably in the stable, and
pretending to ignore them completely when he met his own
property out-of-doors. “His eyesight,” he said, “was
failing him; positively he didn’t know his own nags now,
when he met them in his neighbour’s field!”

Tradition asserted, however, that Job Sloper, when a
younger man, had been one of the best and boldest riders in
the Old Country. The limp which affected his walk had
been earned in a rattling fall over a turnpike-gate for a
wager of a new hat, and Fiction herself panted in detailing
his many exploits by flood and field when he first went into
the trade. These had lost nothing by time and repetition,
but even now, in those exceptional cases where he condescended
to get into the saddle, there was no question that
the old man could put them along still; for, as lusty and
heavy as he’d grown, “I’m a sad cripple now, sir,” he’d say,
in a mild reflective voice; “and they wants to be very quiet
and gentle to me. I never had not what I call good nerve in
the best of times, though I liked to see the hounds run a
bit too. I was always fond of the sport, you see; and even
now it does me good to watch a gent like yourself in the
saddle. What I calls a <i>reel</i> ’orseman—as can give-an’-take,
and bend his back like Old Sir ’Arry: him as kept our
hounds for so long. If it ain’t taking too great a liberty,
perhaps you’re related to Sir ’Arry: you puts me in mind
of him so much, the way you carries your ’ands!”

The old hypocrite! Ingenuous youth was pretty sure to
“stop and have a bit of lunch” after that, and after lunch
was it not human nature that it should buy?
.bn 022.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-03
CHAPTER III||<s>“YOUR HANDWRITING, SIR”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>Mornin</sc>’, sir,” says Mr. Sloper, scenting a customer as
he accosts his guest. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Mr. Sawyer?
Won’t ye step in and sit down after your walk? Take a
glass of mild ale and a crust of bread-and-cheese, or a
drop of sherry or anythink?”
.pi
“No hunting to-day, Job,” answers the visitor, declining
the refreshment; “so I just toddled over to see how you’re
getting on, and have a look round the stables; no harm in
looking, you know.”

Mr. Sloper’s face assumes an expression of profound
mystery. “I’m glad you come over to-day, sir,” he says,
in a tone of confidential frankness, “of all days in the year.
I’ve a ’orse here, as I should like to ast your opinion about—a
gent like <i>you</i> as knows what a ’unter really is. And
so you should, Mr. Sawyer, for there’s no man alive takes
greater liberties with ’em when they <i>can</i> go and do it.
And I’ve got one in that box, as <i>I</i> think, just <i>is</i> more
than curious.”

“Would he carry <i>me</i>?” asks Mr. Sawyer, with well-affected
indifference, as if he had not come over expressly
to find one that would. “Not that I <i>want</i> a horse, you
know; but if I saw one I liked very much, and you didn’t
price him too high, why I <i>might</i> be induced to buy against
next season, perhaps.”

Job took his hands out of his coat-pockets, and spread
them abroad, as it were to dry. The action denoted extreme
purity and candour.

“No; I don’t think as he ought to carry <i>you</i>, sir,” was
.bn 023.png
.pn +1
the unexpected reply. “Now, I ain’t a-going to tell you a
lie, Mr. Sawyer. This horse didn’t <i>ought</i> to be ridden, not
the way <i>you</i> take and ride them, Mr. Sawyer; leastways
not over such a blind heart-breaking country as this here.
He’s too good, <i>he</i> is, for that kind of work; he ought to be
in Leicestershire, <i>he</i> ought; the Harborough country, that’s
the country for him. He’s too fast for <i>us</i>, and that’s the
truth. Only, to be sure, we have a vast of plough hereabout,
and <i>I</i> never see such a sticker through dirt. It
makes no odds to him, pasture <i>or</i> plough, and the sweetest
hack ever I clapped eyes on besides. However, you shall
judge for yourself, Mr. Sawyer. I won’t ask you to believe
<i>me</i>. You’ve a quicker eye to a horse than I have, by a long
chalk, and I’d sooner have your opinion than my own. I
<i>would</i> now, and that’s the truth!”

Our purchaser began to think he might possibly have
hit upon <i>the</i> animal at last. Often as he had been at the
game, and often as he had been disappointed, he was still
sanguine enough to believe he might draw the prize-ticket
in the lottery at any time. As I imagine every man who
pulls on his boots to go out hunting has a sort of vague
hope that to-day may be his day of triumph with the hounds,
so the oldest and wariest of us cannot go into a dealer’s
yard without a sort of half-conscious idea that there <i>must</i>
be a trump card somewhere in the pack, and it <i>may</i> be our
luck to hold it as well as another’s.

But Sloper, like the rest of his trade, was not going to
show his game first. It seems to be a maxim with all
salesmen to prove their customers with inferior articles
before they come to the real thing. Mr. Sawyer had to
walk through a four-stall stable, and inspect, preparatory to
declining, a mealy bay cob, a lame grey, a broken-winded
chestnut, and an enormous brown animal, very tall, very
narrow, very ugly, with extremely upright forelegs and
shoulders to match. The latter his owner affirmed to be
“<i>an extraordinary shaped un</i>” as no doubt he was. A
little playful <i>badinage</i> on the merits of this last enlivened
the visit.

“What will you take for the brown, Sloper, if I buy him
at so much the foot?” said the customer, as they emerged
into the fresh air.
.bn 024.png
.pn +1

“Say ten pound a foot, sir!” answered Job, with the
utmost gravity, “and ten over, because <i>he always has a
foot to spare</i>. Come now, Mr. Sawyer, I can afford to let a
good customer like you have that horse for <i>fefty</i>. <i>Fefty</i>
guineas, or even <i>pounds</i>, sir, to <i>you</i>. I got him in a bad
debt, you see, sir;—it’s Bible truth I’m telling ye;—and
he only stood <i>me</i> in forty-seven pounds ten, <i>and</i> a sov. I
gave the man as brought him over. He’s not everybody’s
horse, Mr. Sawyer, that isn’t; but I think he’ll carry <i>you</i>
remarkably well.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever give him a chance,” was the
rejoinder. “Come, Job, we’re burning daylight; let’s go
and have a look at the crack.”

One individual had been listening to the above conversation
with thrilling interest. This was no less a personage
than Barney, Mr. Sloper’s head groom, general factotum,
and rough-rider in ordinary—an official whose business it
was to ride anything <i>at</i> anything, for anybody who asked
him. He was a little old man, with one eye, a red handkerchief,
and the general appearance of a post-boy on half-pay;
a sober fellow, too, and as brave as King Richard;
yet had he expressed himself strongly about this said brown
horse, the previous evening, to the maid-of-all-work.
“He’s the wussest we’ve had yet,” was his fiat. “It’s
nateral for ’em to fall; but when <i>he</i> falls, he’s all over a
chap till he’s crumpled him.” So his heroic heart beat
more freely when they adjourned to the neighbouring box.

.if h
.il fn=i_025.jpg w=600px
.ca
<s>The Roan.</s>
.ca-
.if-

.if t
.sp 2
.in 8
.ti -4
[Illustration: The Roan.]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-

Mr. Sloper threw the door open with an air. It must
be confessed he seldom had one that would bear, without
preparation, a minute inspection from the eye of a sportsman;
but he knew <i>this</i> was a sound one, and made the
most of it. Clothed and hooded, littered to the hocks, and
sheeted to the tail, there was yet something about his
general appearance that fascinated Mr. Sawyer at once.
Job saw the spell was working, and abstained from disturbing
it. As far as could be seen, the animal was a long,
low, well-bred-looking roan, with short flat legs, large clean
hocks, and swelling muscular thighs. His supple skin
threw off a bloom, as if he was in first-rate condition; and
when, laying his ears back and biting the manger, he lifted
a foreleg, as it were, to expostulate with his visitors, the
.bn 025.png
.pn +1
.bn 026.png
.pn +1
.bn 027.png
.pn +1
hoof was round, open, and well-developed, as blue, and to
all appearance as hard as a flint.

“Has he <i>fashion</i> enough, think ye, sir?” asked Job, at
length, breaking the silence. “Strip him, Barney,” he
added, taking the straw from his mouth.

The roan winced, and stamped, and whisked his tail, and
set his back up during the process; but when it was concluded,
Mr. Sawyer could not but confess to himself, that
if he was only as good as he <i>looked</i>, he would <i>do</i>.

“Feel his legs, Mr. Sawyer!” observed the dealer, turning
away to conceal the triumph that <i>would</i> ooze out.
“There’s some legs—there’s some hocks and thighs!
Talk of loins, and look where his tail’s set on. Carries his
<i>own</i> head, too; and <i>if</i> you could see his manners! I
never saw such manners in the hunting-field. Six-year-old—not
a speck or blemish; bold as a bull, and gentle as a
lady; he can go as fast as you can clap your hands, and
stay till the middle of the week after next—jump a town,
too, and never turn his head from the place you put him at.
As handy as a fiddle, as neat as a pink, and worth all the
money to carry in your eye when you go out to buy hunters.
But what’s the use of talking about it to a judge like you?
Lay your leg over him—only just lay your leg over him,
Mr. Sawyer. I don’t want you to buy him! but get on
him and feel his action, just as a favour to <i>me</i>.”

Our friend had made up his mind he would do so from
the first. There was no mistaking the appearance of the
animal; so good was it, that he had but two misgivings—some
rank unsoundness, to account for its being there, or
so high a price as to be beyond his means; for Mr. Sawyer
was too fond of the sport to give a sum that he could not
replace for so perishable an article as a hunter.

He was no mean equestrian, our friend, and quite at
home on a strange horse. As he drew the curb-rein gently
through his fingers, the roan dropped his long lean head,
and champed the bit playfully, tossing a speck of froth back
on his rider’s boots.

“You’ve got a mouth, at any rate,” quoth Mr. Sawyer,
and trotted him gently down the hard road, the animal
stepping freely and gaily under him, full of life and spirits.
The customer liked his mount, and couldn’t help showing
.bn 028.png
.pn +1
it. “May I lark him?” said he, pulling up after a short
canter to and fro on the turf by the wayside; during which
Job Sloper had been exercising his mental arithmetic in
what we may term a sum of problematical addition.

“Take him into the close, sir,” was the generous reply;
“put him at anything you like. If you can get him into
one of these fences, I’ll <i>give</i> him to you!”

So Mr. Sawyer sat down to jump a low hedge and ditch,
then stood up, and caught hold of the roan’s head, and sent
him a cracker through the adjoining plough, and across a
larger fence into a pasture, and back again over a fair flight
of rails and lost his flat shooting-hat, and rucked his plaid
trousers up to his knees; and Sloper marked his kindling
eye and glowing cheek, and knew that he had <i>landed</i> him.

“Walk him about for ten minutes before you do him
over,” said that worthy to Barney, as Mr. Sawyer dismounted,
and the latter brought him his hat. “And now,
sir,” added the hospitable dealer, “you can’t go away
without tasting my cheese—the same you liked last time,
you know. Walk in, sir; this way, and mind the step, if
<i>you</i> please.” So speaking, Mr. Sloper ushered his guest
into a neat little parlour with a strong odour of preserved
tobacco-smoke, where a clean cloth set off a nice luncheon
of bread and cheese, flanked by a foaming jug of strong ale
and a decanter of oily-brown sherry.

And herein the dealer showed his knowledge of human
nature, and his discrimination in the different characteristics
of the species. Had his guest been some generous scion of
the aristocracy, with more money than nerves, he would
have <i>primed</i> him first, and put him up to ride afterwards.
But he knew his man. He was well aware that Mr. Sawyer
required no stimulant to make him jump, but a strong one
to induce him to part with his money; so he proposed the
luncheon after he was satisfied that his customer was
pleased with his mount.

Neither of them touched on business during the meal,
the conversation consisting chiefly of the runs that had
lately taken place in the Old Country, with many an inferred
compliment to the good riding of the possible purchaser.

Then Mr. Sawyer produced the Laranagas and offered
one to Job, who bit it, and wet it, and smoked it, as men do
.bn 029.png
.pn +1
who are more used to clay pipes, and then they went back
to the stable to see the roan done up.

The gallop and the ale were working in Mr. Sawyer’s
brain, but he didn’t see his way into the roan at a hundred;
so he obstinately held his tongue. The dealer was obliged
to break the ice.

“I’d take it very friendly of you, sir, if you’d give me
your honest opinion of that horse,” said he, waving the Laranaga
towards the animal. “I fancy he’s too good for our
country; and I’ve a brother-in-law down in Rutland as
wants to have him very bad. He’s just the cut, so he says,
for these Melton gents; and he’s a good judge, is my brother-in-law,
and a pretty rider to boot. He’d give me my
price, too; but then, you know, sir, askin’ your pardon, it
isn’t always ready money between relations; and that cuts
the other way again, as a man may say. What do <i>you</i>
think, Mr. Sawyer?”

“I’ll find out what he wants for him, at any rate,”
thought the customer. “What’s his figure?” was the
abrupt rejoinder.

Mr. Sloper hesitated. “A hundred and—” <i>eighty</i>, he
was going to say; but seeing his customer’s eye resting on
the roan’s back-ribs—a point in which the horse was somewhat
deficient—he dropped at once to seventy, and regretted
it the next moment when he caught the expression of the
listener’s face.

“It isn’t <i>even</i> money,” answered Mr. Sawyer, without,
however, making the same sort of face he had done several
times before, when he had refused to give double the sum at
which he had eventually purchased. “I should say you
might get a hundred and twenty for him down there, if
you’d luck. But it’s a great risk—a great risk—and a long
distance; and perhaps have him sent back to you in the
spring. If I wanted a horse, <i>I’d</i> give you a hundred for
him, though he isn’t exactly my sort. A hundred!—I’ll tell
you what, Sloper, I’ll be hanged if I won’t <i>chance</i> it—I’ll
<i>give</i> you a hundred—<i>guineas</i>—come! Money down, and
no questions asked.”

“I can warrant him sound,” answered Mr. Sloper; “and
I’d rather <i>you</i> had him than anybody. But it’s childish
talking of a hundred guineas and that horse on the same
.bn 030.png
.pn +1
afternoon. However, I thank you kindly all the same,
Mr. Sawyer. Barney! shut the box up. Come in, sir, and
have <i>one</i> glass of sherry before you start. The evenings
get chill at this time of year, and that’s old sherry, and
won’t hurt you no more than milk. He <i>is</i> a nice horse, Mr.
Sawyer, I think—a <i>very</i> nice horse, and I’m glad you’re
pleased with him.”

So they returned into the little parlour, and stirred up
the fire, and finished the bottle of old sherry: nor is it
necessary to remark that, with the concluding glass of
that generous fluid the roan became the property of John
Standish Sawyer, under the following somewhat complicated
agreement:—That he was to give an immediate cheque for
a hundred and forty pounds, and ten pounds more at the
end of the season; which latter donation was to be increased
to twenty if he should sell him for anything over two hundred—a
contingency which the dealer was pleased to observe
amounted to what he called “a moral.”

The new owner went to look at him once more in the
stable, and thought him the nicest horse he ever saw in his
life. The walk home, too, was delightful, till the sherry
had evaporated, when it became rather tedious; and at
dinner-time Mr. Sawyer was naturally less hungry than
thirsty. All the evening, however, he congratulated himself
on having done a good day’s work. All night, too, he
dreamed of the roan; and on waking resolved to call him
“Hotspur.”

When the horse came home next day, he certainly looked
rather smaller than his new owner had fancied. Old Isaac
too, growled out his untoward opinion that he “looked a
sort as would work very <i>light</i>.” But then Isaac always
grumbled—it was the old groom’s way of enjoying himself.
.bn 031.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-04
CHAPTER IV||<s>MARCHING ORDERS</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>Isaac</sc> was a character in his way—quite an institution at
The Grange, where, by dint of indomitable tenacity of
opinion, and a singular talent for silence, he had contrived
to extend his influence over a good many matters not in the
least connected with his department. For instance, not a
sheep could be killed without consulting Isaac. His word
on the subject of pigs was law; and it needed but a wave
of his hand to substitute for the useless, hideous, gigantic
Cochin-Chinas of the poultry-yard, a certain breed of plump
Dorkings, that laid diurnal eggs in their lifetime, and, after
death, made almost as handsome an appearance as Norfolk
turkeys on the dining-table.
.pi
Perhaps the old groom was less omnipotent in the stable
than elsewhere. Mr. Sawyer, like many other proprietors
of small studs, chose to have his own way with his horses,
and would no more have omitted to visit them after breakfast
than he would have neglected to smoke his cigar. It is
only the tip-top swells, with whom our friend had not yet
scraped acquaintance, who “suppose their <i>fellow</i> will have
‘<i>two</i> or <i>three</i>’ at the place of meeting.” But although it
is doubtless a great luxury to own plenty of hunters, this
very plurality often prevents a man from finding out which
is his best horse. There are not a great many <i>good</i> runs
over any country in one season. It is a long time before
you have treated each one of your dozen to a clipper; and,
till then, you only know you have a good <i>hunter</i>, but cannot
tell you have got a good <i>horse</i>.

Mr. Sawyer, however, knew the merits and the failings of
.bn 032.png
.pn +1
his own two or three nags but too well. He was pretty
often on their backs, and, when off them, constantly in and
out of the stable. Isaac would no more have dared to give
one of them a gallop, or a dose of physic, than to have
inflicted the same discipline on his master. Nevertheless
he grumbled always and continuously. As I have said
before, it was the one relaxation he permitted himself.
Perhaps he never had a better opportunity than on the
morning after the new horse came home, when Mr. Sawyer,
according to custom, but with a trifle more eagerness than
usual, visited his favourites in their comfortable quarters.
According to custom, too, he felt their legs all round;
expressed his satisfaction that the grey’s had got “quite
fine again,” and passed over a certain thick-set underbred
bay horse without a remark. Indeed, it would have been
difficult to say anything complimentary of this animal; and
his remaining so long in Mr. Sawyer’s stable was less the
consequence of his merits than that strangers seemed to
have the same opinion of him as was entertained by his own
master. It <i>is</i> somewhat galling, when we cannot get rid of
a bad one, to reflect that it should be so difficult to find a
bigger fool than ourselves. The bay, who rejoiced in the
classical appellation of <i>Marathon</i>, was a slow horse, a sulky
horse, and by no means a safe fencer—about as unpleasant
a hunter as a man would wish to get upon, but rather a
favourite with Isaac notwithstanding, as he was sound, and
a voracious feeder. These three, the roan, the grey (who
had no name), and the bay, with a little three-cornered
jumping hack called Jack-a-Dandy, now constituted Mr.
Sawyer’s stud; and, as he contemplated them all hard at
work with their eleven o’clock feed, he felt that spark of
ambition glowing in his bosom which has lured so many
great men to their destruction.

“He <i>looks</i> a clipper! don’t he, Isaac?” observed the
master, nodding towards the roan’s long shapely quarters
and square tail. “The rarest shaped one we’ve had in <i>this</i>
stable for many a day,” he added, seeing his servant’s
features screwed into the well-known twist that denoted
disapprobation.

“Looks!” grunted Isaac, who never called his master
“sir.” “Looks! Ah! he’d be a nice thing enough to
.bn 033.png
.pn +1
knock a light trap about, or do you a day now and then
when the country gets dry. He’ll never be fit for our
ploughs—you see if he will! They’ll pull him to pieces in
a fortnight—you see if they won’t!”

“I don’t <i>want</i> him for our ploughs,” answered Mr.
Sawyer, waxing somewhat impatient. “I don’t think I
shall have another day in the Old Country this year. Look
ye here, Isaac. I’m going to move the horses. I’ve three
now, let alone ‘Jack’” (this was an abbreviation for the
hack who seldom enjoyed his fall name, being generally
designated as above, or as “The Dandy”)—“three right
good ones. I can easily pick up another, when I’m settled.
I’m going down to the grass.”

“Grass!” grunted the listener. “Where be that?”

“Well, I’m going to see what sport they have in the
Shires,” answered his master, warming up with the subject—“going
to have a look at Mr. Tailby and the Earl of
Stamford and Warrington, and try if I can’t make a fight
good enough to see those Pytchley bitches run into their
fox. I’m going to Market Harborough, Isaac. Such
horses as mine are wasted in this out-of-the-way country.
Why, the grey’s the best I’ve ever had; and the roan ought
to be faster than he; and even the bay would carry me
better, I think, in that country than he does here.”

A gleam as of pity softened old Isaac’s hard blue eyes,
as it rested on Marathon tucking in his feed, and he
pictured that devoted animal rolling and lurching, disconsolate,
over the ridge-and-furrow of a fifty-acre grass-field.
But he only observed sardonically,

“Markit Harboro’, is it? To stand at the sign of the
‘Hand-in-Pocket,’ I suppose?”

“Never mind what you suppose!” answered Mr. Sawyer,
now positively angry. “You do what I bid you. Move the
horses down to-morrow by the rail. Take The Boy with
you; and mind you keep him out of mischief. I’ve written
to a friend of mine to engage stables. Next week we’ll
begin work in right earnest. Come into the house, with
your book, after your dinner; and hold your tongue!”

Old Isaac knew better than to pursue the subject any
further; and, truth to tell, the old fellow had a spark of his
youth’s adventurous spirit lingering about him still, which
.bn 034.png
.pn +1
made him not averse to a change, although he thought the
scheme wasteful, imprudent, and extravagant. He looked
after his master, strolling leisurely towards the house, and
observed very slowly to himself and the stable-cat:

“Market ’Arborow! Market ’Arborow! Five days a
week, bullock-fences, and a wet country! Thorns, stubs,
cracked heels, and hawful wear-an’-tear of horses! No—I
couldn’t have believed it of him!”

Eight-and-forty hours more saw old Isaac stamping
drearily about on the wet pavement of that excellent sporting
locality. Market Harborough, though perhaps the best
head-quarters in the world for fox-hunting, can scarcely be
termed a gay or very beautiful town. On a wet, drizzling
afternoon in early winter, when twilight begins somewhere
about 2.45, with no movable object visible save a deserted
carrier’s cart, and a small rain falling, which dulls the red-brick
houses while it polishes the paved and slippery streets,
it is, doubtless, a city suggestive of repose, not to say stagnation.
Isaac’s was a temperament sufficiently susceptible
of all unpleasant influences; and he began to wish heartily
he hadn’t come. A variety of disadvantages had occurred
to him since his arrival. The price of forage and stabling
he considered enormous. The conveniences for hot water
were not what he was accustomed to at home. Hotspur
did by no means feed well in a strange box: the horse had
begun to look poorer day by day since he left the dealer’s.
And last night The Boy, who had never been from home
before, certainly smelt of gin when he came to bed.

This youth—who, if he once had a name, must have long
forgotten it, since he was never called anything but “The
Boy”—was a continual thorn in the head groom’s side. He
had originally been taken solely on Isaac’s recommendation,
and had caused that worthy more trouble than all the rest
of the establishment put together, horses, pigs, and the
Cochin-Chinas to boot. He was a light, lathy lad, with a
pretty face; a good horseman, considering his strength, or
rather weakness; and had a knack of keeping his hands
down: but he owned the usual faults of boyhood—carelessness,
forgetfulness, “<i>imperence</i>” (as Isaac called it), a great
love of procrastination, and general insensibility to the
beauty of truth.
.bn 035.png
.pn +1

“If he takes to drinking, the young warmint!” thought
Isaac, “I’ll larrup the skin off him!” And thus consoling
himself, the old man turned his cheek once more to the
chill, misty heavens, and shook his head. His horses were
done up; the door locked, and the key in his pocket; The
Boy also secured by the same means in the loft. Master
could not arrive till eight or nine o’clock. It was the hour
when, at The Grange, he was accustomed to see the pigs
feed and the chickens to roost. He wished he was back in
the Old Country: the time hung heavily on the old
groom’s hands.

“Nothing to do, and lots of time to do it in! that seems
to be about the size of it—eh, governor?” said a voice at
his elbow; and, turning round, Isaac confronted a short
and dapper personage, whom, by a sort of freemasonry,
he had no difficulty in recognising as one of his own profession.

At any other time he would have treated this worthy’s
advances to acquaintance with sovereign contempt; but his
spirits were depressed and his heart solitary, so he vented
a grunt of acquiescence, which, for him, was wonderfully
polite.

“I think I see you arrive yesterday, with two or three
nags,” continued this affable functionary, “when I was out
a hairin’ some o’ mine; and you’re puttin’ up close by my
place. Come in, governor, and take something hot, to keep
the cold off till we become better acquainted.”

With this hospitable offer, Isaac found himself following
his new friend into a cosy little tap-room, with red curtains
and a sanded floor, which apartment they had all to themselves;
and whilst “something hot”—a delicious compound
of yolk of egg, brown sugar, warm beer, and cordial gin—was
being got ready, he had time to study the exterior of
his new acquaintance.

Probably the utmost ingenuity of the tailor’s art must
have been exhausted in constructing trousers so tight as
the pair which clung to that person’s legs. Not a crease
had they, nor a fold anywhere; and, unless the man slept
in them, it was difficult to conceive how they could conveniently
be used as articles of daily apparel. The person’s
boots, too, were neat, round-toed Wellingtons; his waistcoat
.bn 036.png
.pn +1
descended far below his hips; and the waist-buttons of
his grey-mixture coat were unusually low and wide apart.
A cream-coloured silk neckcloth, secured by a horse-shoe
pin, set off a pale, sharp-looking countenance, speaking of
hot stables and dissipation, while the closest possible crop
of hair and whiskers did justice to a shaved hat with an
exceedingly flat brim. A few splashes of mud on the boots
and trousers showed he had been lately on horseback; and
he held up one of his thin little legs as he took his seat, and
contemplated the stains with a grin of morbid satisfaction.

“Blessed if ever I see this country so deep!” he remarked,
after a pull at the flip. “How <i>my</i> horses will stand it, I
know no more than the dead, the way the governor rides.
We’ve <i>only</i> nine this year; and he’s an awful hard man upon
a horse.”

“Nine!” exclaimed old Isaac, smacking his lips after the
draught, which warmed the very cockles of his heart; and
being a man of few words, only added, “Well, now, to <i>be</i>
sure!”

“He <i>is</i> awful hard upon ’em—that’s the truth,” continued
the narrator. “It was only last week he says to me,
‘Tiptop,’ says he—<i>my</i> name’s Tiptop—‘what made Boadicea’
(that’s our bay mare by Bellerophon out of Blue Light)—‘what
made Boadicea stop with me under Carlton Clump
to-day? Either she wasn’t fit,’ says he, ‘or she isn’t worth
five shillings.’ ‘Well, sir,’ says I, ‘the mare’s a gross
feeder,’ says I, ‘and you ride with <i>rayther</i> a slack rein.’
‘slack rein be hanged!’ says he. ‘If ever such a thing
happens again, you’ll get the sack,’ says he. So I up and
told him I was ready to go whenever he could replace me;
and the upshot of it was as he apologised quite like a gentleman;
for, indeed, he wouldn’t know whatever to do without
me. He’s a good man—my governor—enough; but he’s
hasty—very hasty. Why, to see him coming over a gate
into the turnpike-road, as I did t’other day, on Catamount—that’s
our chestnut, as ran fourth for the Liverpool—you’d
say he’d no discretion whatever; but they’ve all got their
faults—all on ’em. What’s yours? Can he ride?”

Discreet Isaac answered with a counter-question.
“What’s your governor’s name?” said he, peeping once
more into the waning pewter measure.
.bn 037.png
.pn +1

“The Honourable Crasher,” replied Mr. Tiptop, not
without an air of exultation. “A brother he is to the
Hearl of Heligoland. Now I’ve told <i>you</i> all about it, old
bloke. There—you ease your mind in return, and give us
<i>your</i> name.”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve seen the register,” answered
Isaac. “But it’s a long way to the parish as owes me a
settlement; and I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, Mr. Tiptop,
till I can communicate with you by post.” Saying which
Isaac finished the flip at a gulp, and walked off to seven-o’clock
stables without uttering another word.
.bn 038.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-05
CHAPTER V||<s>“BOOTS AND SADDLES”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>London</sc> is in the way to everywhere. I have an old friend,—an
honest Lincolnshire squire,—who, paying his sister a
visit in Norfolk, always goes and returns by London. I do
not think it is necessary to traverse Oxford Street in order
to proceed from the Old Country to Market Harborough;
and yet on the day that witnessed his faithful groom’s introduction
to Mr. Tiptop, John Standish Sawyer might
have been, and indeed <i>was</i>, seen crossing that crowded
thoroughfare, with hasty steps and air of considerable preoccupation.
.pi
The fact is, Mr. Sawyer was full of business. In the
first place, it is needless to observe, he had been to have his
hair cut—a rite seldom neglected by the true Englishman
when entering upon a new phase in his career. Also he had
to purchase many articles of wearing apparel, such as are
only to be procured in the Metropolis. Since his rejection
by Miss Mexico (for previous to that casualty he had been
rather a gaudy dresser than otherwise), our friend, although
preserving an equestrian exterior, had suffered his wardrobe
to run considerably to seed. In truth, there was little
temptation to extravagance on that score at The Grange.
But now that he was about to take his place, as he observed,
amongst the sporting aristocracy of Great Britain, it would
be necessary to call in the aid of such artists as consider
themselves the especial providers of boots, breeches, &c., for
the first flight.

When I met him he was hurrying towards the well-known
emporium of Messrs. Putty & Co., now universally acknowledged
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
to be the only firm in London at which a truly workmanlike
top-boot—combining, as their advertisement expresses
it, “comfort to the wearer, with satisfaction to the
looker-on”—is to be obtained. I could not resist my
friend’s imploring request to accompany him into the shop,
and favour him with my experience on a subject which
cannot be mastered without considerable observation and
reflection.

Like most people from the country, Mr. Sawyer feels
somewhat shy in the presence of a fashionable London
tradesman. When he entered the warehouse, a languid
gentleman, with one shoeless foot placed on a square of
brown paper, was drawling out his directions to Messrs.
Putty’s foreman, an exceedingly smart and voluble disciple
of St. Crispin.

“Not too thick,” said the languid man, in a tone of utter
physical exhaustion. “Man can’t ride nicely, if he don’t
feel his stirrup through his boot;” and Sawyer nudged my
elbow with a delighted wink, that seemed to say—“This
swell, too, is a votary of Diana!”

The languid man’s silk-stockinged foot having been re-shod,
he rose with great difficulty, and moved feebly in the
direction of his brougham, from the window of which he
adjured the shopman, in a faint voice, to forward “the tops
when finished to my address at Market Harborough,” and
sank back amongst the cushions, completely overcome.

The talismanic syllables raised the curiosity of my friend.
“Who is it?” he whispered eagerly to the returning shopman;
and that worthy, placing a chair and a fresh square
of brown paper for his new customer, replied somewhat
condescendingly—“<i>That</i>, sir? That’s the Honourable
Crasher, sir; hunting gentleman, and <i>very</i> particular about
his tops. What can I do for <i>you</i>, sir?”

I had now an opportunity of observing the great warmth
and thickness of the worsted stockings in which my friend
kept his legs encased; also the stout proportions of those
useful limbs, more adapted perhaps for the Highland kilt,
than any other costume. Mr. Putty’s foreman saw at a
glance the difficulties he would have to contend with, and
prepared to subdue them.

“Very muscular gentleman!” said he; passing his tape
.bn 040.png
.pn +1
round my friend’s calf. “Great pedestrian powers, I should
say. Inconvenient in the saddle; but will endeavour to
rectify that. Excuse me, sir: take the liberty of asking
whereabouts you generally hunt.”

“Hunt?” repeated the customer. “Oh! Leicestershire—Northamptonshire—all
about there—in the neighbourhood
of Market Harborough.” Mr. Sawyer spoke in a
vague general sort of way, as if he was in the habit of pervading
the whole of the grazing districts.

A cloud gathered on the foreman’s brow.

“The Shires!” he rejoined, with a perplexed air; “that
increases our difficulties very much indeed. I could have
made you, now, a particular neat <i>provincial</i> boot; but with
this pattern it’s exceedingly difficult to attain the correct
appearance for flying countries. I’ll show you a pair here,
sir, that the Honourable Crasher sent back this very morning,
because they fell away the eighth-of-an-inch at the setting-on
of the leg, and the Honourable’s girth is at least two-and-a-half
less than yours. You wouldn’t like a pair of Napoleons,
I presume? Very fashionable just now, sir. All the gentlemen
wear them in the Vale of Aylesbury.”

I confess I rather expected an outburst at this suggestion:
my friend sharing with me a strong prejudice against what
have been termed “Butcher-boots;” but
.pm verse-start
“Prolonged endurance tames the bold,”
.pm verse-end
.ni
and Sawyer submitted with considerable patience to the foreman’s
promise, that they would do all in their power to make him two
pair of top-boots, only inferior to those of the Honourable
Crasher, and send them down to him in a little over a fortnight;
or, “<i>not</i> to disappoint him, say <i>punctually</i> that day
three weeks.”
.pi
A thorough revisal of gloves, neckcloths, &c., is soon
made; and after a hearty luncheon at the railway station,
I put my friend into a first-class carriage attached to the
fast train, and wished him “Good sport,” and “Good-bye,”
with a feeling somewhat akin to envy, as I remained in
smoky London, and he was whirled away into the soft
fragrant country saturated with rain, and smiling itself to
sleep in the calm grey light of a mild winter’s afternoon.
.bn 041.png
.pn +1
He had but one fellow-passenger, of whom more
anon.
.pi
I wonder whether the reflections of other men in a railway-carriage,
bowling through the midland counties at the
rate of forty miles an hour, on such a day as I have described,
are like my own. I honestly confess that a very few ideas,
if they are favourite ones, are sufficient to fill my brain. As
I speed along the level embankments, which give one such a
commanding view of the surrounding country, I cannot help
imagining myself on the back of a good horse, sailing away
from field to field after a pack of hounds. How well I can
see my way!—how easy the fences look!—how readily I
distinguish the place I should make him take off at, and the
exact spot on which he would land, choosing unhesitatingly
the soundest ridge, on which I should increase my pace so
confidently down to that glassy brook, that looks as if you
could hop over it from here, but which memory tells me is
at least fifteen feet of water! How easy to get a start from
that spinny, shaped liked a cocked-hat, of which the three
corners have puzzled me so often, never hitting the one the
hounds came out at, though I have tried them all in turn!
How contemptible the size of this woodland, in which I
have yet known a fox hang for hours together! What a
run I have in imagination! and how well I see it! Alas!
like everything else coloured through that deceitful medium,
how different from the “cold reality”!

Nevertheless, much as I sympathise in his bride’s consternation,
I cannot deny a fellow-feeling with that bridegroom
of whom it is related that, on a wedding-trip of many
hours by the side of his late-won treasure, during which he
ceased not to scan the adjacent fences with a practical eye,
he uttered never a word during the entire journey, save this
one remarkable sentence, “There’s my place! Where
would <i>you</i> have it?”

Some such ruminations as the above probably engrossed
the whole of my friend’s intellects, till the courteous offer
of <i>Punch</i>—containing, as usual, one of Leech’s inimitable
hunting sketches—drew his attention to his fellow-traveller,
under whose multiplicity of wrappers he had no
difficulty in recognising the placid features of the gentleman
he had that morning noticed in the boot-shop. It was,
.bn 042.png
.pn +1
indeed, none other than the Honourable Crasher; by this
time completely worn out, and who, to do him justice, was a
gentlemanlike, well-featured fellow enough, if he had not
always looked so dreadfully tired.

The reply to such a courtesy, where there were no ladies
in the carriage, could only be, “Have you any objection to
smoking?” And as nobody ever <i>does</i> object nowadays to
that soothing practice, and the “forty-shilling penalty” is,
I trust, simply a dead-letter and a fallacy, the Laranagas
were produced, and a couple of them soon got very freely
under way.

No introduction from a mutual friend is equal to that of
a cigar. Any two votaries of the “pleasant vice,” at least
during the time they are engaged in its practice, are sure to
fraternise, and in five minutes Mr. Sawyer and the Honourable
Crasher were hard at it, I need scarcely observe, on the
subject of fox-hunting; the former resolving, as far as
possible, to pick the brains of his new acquaintance (if he
could find them) on that exhaustless topic; the latter positively
warming into a languid enthusiasm on the only
subject to which he could direct his whole attention for ten
consecutive minutes.

Racing men are bad enough. Politicians are sufficiently
long-winded. A couple of agriculturists will keep the ball
rolling pretty perseveringly on the congenial themes of
“cake,” mangold wurzel, short-horns, reaping-machines,
and guano; but I have heard ladies, who are perhaps the
best judges of volubility, affirm that, for energy, duration,
and the faculty of saying the same thing over and over
again, a dialogue between a couple of fox-hunters beats
every other kind of discussion completely out of the field.

Mr. Sawyer took the initiative by pointing to the fox’s
tusk which fastened the string in his new friend’s hat.

“Done anything this last week?” said he, with that
mysterious air specially affected by all individuals who are
connected, however remotely, with horseflesh, and which,
I believe, has much to answer for, in the impression of
consummate roguery which it conveys to the uninitiated.
“It’s been good scenting weather in my part of the world.
Hounds must have run hard on the grass.”

The Honourable Crasher emitted a large volume of smoke,
.bn 043.png
.pn +1
ere he roused himself for the effort, and replied: “Good
thing, last Friday, with the Pytchley, from Fox Hall. Do
you know that country?” he added, thinking, if his
listener did <i>not</i>, he might save himself the trouble of
detailing it.

“I am on my way down to hunt there now,” rejoined
our friend, “so I take an interest, naturally, in your sport.
Last Friday, you say? Ah! that was the day we had such
a fine run over <i>our</i> country. Two hours and forty-seven
minutes, and killed our fox—<i>and killed our fox</i>,” he repeated,
as if such a climax was sufficiently rare to merit more
than common attention.

Nothing but the spirit of emulation between different
packs could have embarked the Honourable Crasher on a
long story; but he woke up from his lethargy at this
juncture, and observed,

“Two hours and forty-seven minutes? Indeed! It must
have been a fine run; but slow, I conclude—slow. I never
care much for anything over an hour. It’s labour and
sorrow, <i>walking</i> after hounds, to <i>my</i> mind.”

“Slow!” retorted Mr. Sawyer indignantly. “Not at
all; I was riding the best horse in my stable, and he had
to do all he knew to live with them. Fine country, too—wild
fox-hunting country—not a soul in the fields; very deep,
and a good deal of fencing. I don’t know that I was ever
better carried,” he added meditatively, hoping to bring the
conversation round to the merits of the grey.

But the Honourable Crasher had his story to tell too, and
broke in with unusual vehemence:

“<i>Ours</i> was about the quickest thing I ever rode to.
Found in Faxton Corner; fox never hung a second, and the
hounds ran him over those large grass-fields as if they were
tied to him, all down by——Dear me, I forget the names
of the places, and I never <i>can</i> describe a run; but if you
don’t know the country, it don’t signify. In short, they
ran him all about, you know, over a capital line, and turned
him up in the open, at the end of seven-and-twenty minutes,
without a check, and very straight, you know, and all that;
satisfactory to everybody, and not at all bad fun, and so
on.” The Honourable C. was rapidly collapsing, running
down like the last notes of a musical box. Ere he arrived
.bn 044.png
.pn +1
at this very explicit conclusion, he had become perfectly
torpid again.

Finding his neighbour would not listen to <i>his</i> story, Mr.
Sawyer thought he might as well get what he could in the
way of information, and began accordingly to propound a
series of questions, only interrupted by the occasional
apparition, at the window, of a broad chest and ruddy
bearded face belonging to the guard, who, seeing the gentlemen
still smoking, vanished again incontinently. The
examination proceeded much as follows, the catechumen,
though waking up at intervals, becoming more and more
comatose.

Mr. Sawyer: “It is very stiff, isn’t it, that Pytchley
country? Large fences that won’t bear liberties being
taken with them?”

The Honourable Crasher: “Yeas, I should say, it wanted
a hunter to get over it.”

Mr. S.: “Do you consider it as difficult to cross as the
Quorn?”

The Hon. C.: “Yeas—no—that’s to say, I ride the
same horses in both; I don’t know that there’s much
difference.”

“Whom do your consider your best men now, in your
field?”

“Oh! there are lots of fellows who can ride, <i>if they get a
start</i>. It’s impossible to say; there’s a good deal in luck,
and a good deal in horses.” [N.B. This is hardly a
sincere speech of the Hon. C.’s. He does <i>not</i> think either
luck or horseflesh constitutes a <i>customer</i>, and has not the
slightest doubt in his own mind as to whom he considers
about the best performer in that or any other country; only
modesty forbids him to name the individual.]

Mr. S., a little dissatisfied: “I suppose the Leicestershire
men are splendidly mounted?”

Hon. C.: “No; I should say not. I never remember
seeing so few good horses. I shouldn’t know where to get
a hunter if I wanted one!”

Mr. Sawyer thought of the roan, and ran his eye over his
friend’s slim figure and horsemanhorseman-like shape. “He’d carry
him like a bird,” thought the owner, “and I shouldn’t
mind letting him have him for two hundred, or say, if I
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
dropped into a good thing with him, two hundred and
<i>fifty</i>;” but he only observed, “I suppose you are <i>very</i> well
mounted yourself?”

“So-so,” was the reply. “I’m rather short just now;
only ten. Good useful brutes some of them; but I shouldn’t
say <i>my</i> lot was quite first-class, by any means!”

Again Mr. Sawyer found subject for rumination. Ten!
Only ten! and not first-class ones neither, though it was
probable that a man who had ten hunters in his stable
would not find it worth while to keep a bad one; and then
he thought of his own three, and the severe infliction it
would be to have to ride Marathon over the fences, which,
as he looked from the window, loomed larger and larger in
the twilight, as they approached the grazing districts. No
secret, it has been said, is so close as that between a horse
and his rider; and Mr. Sawyer hardly liked to confess, even
to himself, the very inferior brute he had got in the bay.
Somehow all the difficulties into which he had put him
seemed to rise in his mind’s eye, like an accumulation of
photographs, as he sat back amongst the cushions, and,
withdrawing his gaze from the outward world, fixed it on
the lately-lit lamp above his head.

He remembered, not without a shudder, what a cropper
the brute gave him at that stile in the potato-garden, which
at least he might have scrambled over, if he had only risen
six inches. He recalled the famous run he lost from the
Forty-acres, because no persuasion would induce Marathon
to face the bullfinch enclosing that meritorious fox-covert,
and which a donkey could get through, if he would only
look at it. He reflected how the animal perversely
.pm verse-start
“Struck all his timber, fathomed all his ditches;”
.pm verse-end
.ni
how he had never cleared a brook with him, or gone a run
to his master’s satisfaction; and how even old Isaac allowed
his favourite “wur a better nag in the stable nor he wur in
the field;” and so musing, he shuddered to think of their
joint endeavours to get out of a fifty-acre pasture, with an
ox-fence all round it, and the gate locked!
.pi
To avoid such horrible visions, he would have plunged
once more into conversation, but looking at his neighbour,
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
observed he was now deep in “The Idylls of the King,”—an
epic which served at least to keep the Honourable
Crasher awake, thereby substantiating a theory I have
heard broached by certain philosophers, and which I am not
entirely prepared to dispute, viz. that there is something of
poetry in every man who rides hard across a country.

Certainly not a Knight of the Table Round could have
been more daring in the saddle than the Honourable Crasher,
for all his dissipated looks and languid manners; nor could
he have been so engrossed in the fate of “The Lily Maid
of Astolat,” nor so lost in the description of the black barge
floating dreamily down with its snowy burden (perhaps the
most beautiful piece of word-painting in the language), had
he not acknowledged in some corner of his much-neglected
intellect that <i>divinæ particula auræ</i>, which may often be
found, like a sweet wayside flower, blooming in the most
unexpected and uncultivated localities.

Though Mr. Sawyer was himself innocent of all such
weaknesses, he had the grace not to interrupt his fellow-traveller,
and consequently not a word more was spoken till
they exchanged a courteous “Good-evening,” as they glided
into the Market Harborough station, and the new arrival
wondered in his own mind how it was possible for any one
man to require such a quantity of clothing as must be contained
in the numerous portmanteaus which the guard’s van
produced, and which were claimed by the Honourable
Crasher as his own.

“He can’t have been a week in town,” thought our
honest friend, “for he was hunting here only last Friday,
and he’s taken more clothes with him than I’ve got for my
whole kit in the world!”

He had, however, his own affairs to attend to—himself
and his modest luggage to stow away in a damp fly, with a
broken-winded horse; his dinner to order at the principal
hotel, where he meant to reside—at least, till he found out
if he liked his quarters. For so old a traveller, he committed
in this matter a somewhat unaccountable mistake.
Dazzled by the magnificence of his manners, and the sumptuous
verbal bill of fare which the waiter stated to be available,
he left the details of his meal to that functionary—an
oversight which produced a somewhat untoward result,
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
inasmuch as that, after a visit to his stables, a minute
inspection of his horses, and a long consultation with Isaac,
concerning which of them he should ride on the morrow,
interspersed with many complaints and prognostications of
evil from the latter, when he returned to his apartment
very hungry and in want of comfort, he found the following
banquet prepared for his delectation: A slice of soft cod,
one raw mutton-chop relieved by an underdone ditto, two
sorts of pickles, and some exceedingly strong cheese.
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-06
CHAPTER VI||<s>HAZY WEATHER</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>When</sc> Mr. Sawyer awoke in the morning, his first impression
was, that he had never left The Grange, but that the
pattern of his bedroom paper was strangely altered, and the
situation of his couch had been mysteriously changed in the
night.
.pi
It was not till he had turned over, and yawned twice or
thrice, that he comprehended the actual position in which
he was placed. Then, for the first time, the magnitude of
the undertaking on which he had embarked presented itself
to his mind; and then did he realise the deficiencies of his
stud, the difficulties he was about to encounter, the rashness
and perplexity of the whole proceeding. A feeling of loneliness
stole over him; and he even experienced a want of
confidence in himself. For an instant, he almost wished
he was back at home, and the dastardly possibility of returning
there flashed across his mind. All these unworthy
thoughts, however, were dissipated by the entrance of Isaac,
with a pair of boots in one hand, and a glimmering bedroom
candle in the other, as the mists of morning are dispelled by
the rising sun; and, even as the shrinking combatant gathers
confidence from the flash of his drawn sword, so, at the first
glimpse of those long-rowelled spurs of which Marathon
knew too well the persuasive powers, John Standish Sawyer
was himself again.

“Half after eight, sir,” said Isaac, setting down the
candle, and proceeding to pour cold water into the tub—a
process that by no means tempted his master to rise on the
instant. “Half after eight, sir; and the grey’s got a bit of
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
a cough. It’s that strange stable as done it. And you
was to let me know in the morning which of them I was to
take on.”

“What sort of a day is it?” asked our friend, in a sleepy
voice, turning, like Dr. Watts’s sluggard, into a more comfortable
position. At that moment, it would not have
broken his heart to be told that it was too hard to
hunt.

“Can’t see your hand,” was the encouraging reply: “it’s
one of these regular Leicester-sheer fogs, as the grooms
tells me, as is wery prevalent hereabouts. The lamps is lit
now in the streets; but it’ll be wusser up on the high
ground. They’ll hunt, though, just the same, says they.
Weather never stops them here, unless it be the sewerest
of frost and snow, as I understand. Shall I open the shutters,
sir?”

Isaac threw them back as he spoke, and drew up the
blind, disclosing to Mr. Sawyer’s view about eighteen feet
of tiles, a weathercock pointing east-south-east, and a chimney
adorned with what is called an “old woman”—an ingenious
contrivance to prevent it from smoking, but in this
instance, to judge by the smell of soot which pervaded the
apartment, by no means a successful piece of mechanism—the
whole wrapped in a mantle of the densest and <i>wettest</i>
fog he ever remembered to have seen.

“Sure to be late such a morning as this,” thought Mr.
Sawyer, preparing for another comfortable half-hour in bed;
but then he reflected that he must send Isaac forward with
a horse, also that he should have to find his own way to
Tilton Wood, on his hack—a sufficiently intricate proceeding
as studied overnight by a map, but which might become
excessively puzzling when reduced to practice, through
large pastures and unknown bridle-gates, on such a morning
as the present.

“Take on the grey!” said he, peremptorily, ignoring
the cough; “and order breakfast for me in three-quarters
of an hour.”

The fact is, Mr. Sawyer had but the grey to ride. He
did not quite fancy giving the roan his earliest trial in what
he understood to be a hilly country; and as for making his
first appearance in High Leicestershire on Marathon—really,
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
though both were pretty strong, neither his nerves
nor his self-conceit would have stood such a test.

Somehow, everything went wrong, as is apt to be the
case in a strange place, and when we are particularly
anxious for the reverse. He cut himself shaving. His
leathers were damp, and badly cleaned; looser, too, at the
knees, and tighter in the thighs, than he liked. Also, he
couldn’t find his button-hook; and any one who has put on
boots and breeches without the aid of that implement, will
sympathise with his distress. Isaac knew where it was,
doubtless; but, ere his master arrived at the stage of toilet
at which it was required, Isaac and the grey had made their
<i>first</i> wrong turn in the fog, about a mile from the town, on
their way to Tilton Wood.

Altogether, by the time The Boy, with rather heavy eyes
and an unwashed face, had brought round Jack-a-Dandy,
our friend was in that mood which is best described as
having “got out of bed with the wrong foot foremost.”

Once in the saddle, however, things mended rapidly. No
<i>horseman</i> could get upon Jack-a-Dandy without feeling what
a good little animal it was; and, indeed, Jack’s career had
been a somewhat adventurous one. Thorough-bred, but too
small to be put in training, he had fallen into the hands of
a steeple-chasing horsedealer, who sank his pedigree, and
put him in one or two good handicaps as “his daughter’s
pony.” Master Jack could jump like a deer, and, with nine
stone seven on his back, was quite able to make hunters of
considerable pretensions look extremely foolish. This could
not go on for ever, and the dealer broke, after which, Jack
carried the drunken whip of a pack of Irish fox-hounds for
two seasons, and, when that establishment “busted up,”
found his way once more into his native country, as leader
in a young gentleman’s tandem, who tried to graduate at
Oxford. Pending the failure of that acolyte, he had a good
deal of fun at Bullingdon, winning cleverly whenever he
had a chance, and only left the University because his master
did, and took him to London, and, despite certain
eccentricities, rode him in the Park. When that youth was
compelled to obtain his passports for the Continent, Jack,
in company with several other valuables, was seized by the
creditors; and I fancy he had a very bad time of it for two
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
or three years, till he turned up at Smithfield, nothing but
skin, bone, and blemishes, with a pair of raw shoulders that
would have made you sick. Here Mr. Sawyer, struck with
his “make-and-shape,” bought him, after a good deal of
haggling, for thirteen pounds ten shillings, throwing in half-a-crown
for luck, and standing two pots of beer and a glass
of brandy-and-water, besides the man’s expenses who
brought him to the West-end. Altogether, he cost him less
than fourteen sovereigns; and he justly considered him very
cheap at the money. Though his knees were broke, and he
was fired all round, he never stumbled or was lame; and if
you didn’t mind a succession of kicks for the first half-mile
and a mouth which bad usage had rendered perfectly callous,
he was as pleasant a hack as you could wish to get upon.
Jack never wanted to pull, if the rein was laid on his neck;
but the moment it was caught hold of, his old associations
took it as a signal to <i>go</i>, and go he <i>would</i>, accordingly.
With regard to his appellation—the last among many
<i>aliases</i>—when his master called him “Jack,” old Isaac
called him “The Dandy,” and <i>vice versâ</i>.

There are a good many ways from Market Harborough
to Tilton Wood. Of course, the morning being very thick,
and Mr. Sawyer a perfect stranger to the country, he chose
the most intricate, hoping to pass between the Langtons—of
which, for the more complete bewilderment of strangers,
there are five or six—and so to reach Stanton Wyville,
whence he meant boldly to leave the lanes, and strike out
into a line of bridle-gates, by the corner of Stanton Wood,
which might or might not eventually land him somewhere
about Skeffington.

Deluded man! Ere he reached the grass-track he meant
to follow, the fog was denser than ever. He managed to
get through one bridle-gate, after catching his horse’s rein
on the post—an insult which The Dandy resented by putting
his head down, and racing wilfully and aimlessly into the
surrounding obscurity—and then found himself riding round
and round the same field, with extraordinary perseverance,
and not the remotest chance of escape.

He would have liked, now, to get back again into the
lanes; but he could not even hit the gate at which he
entered, and had embarked upon the tedious process of
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
coasting the field methodically, for that purpose, and giving
up all idea of hunting for the day, when, much to his relief,
he spied a gigantic object looming through the fog, which,
on a nearer approach, proved to be nothing larger than a
horseman, cantering confidently towards him.

On inspection, this timely arrival turned out to be the
Honourable Crasher, with an enormous cigar in his mouth,
looking more tired than ever, and, apparently, quite unconscious
of the fog and everything else. With an effort, however,
he recognised his fellow-traveller of the day before,
and courteously offered to guide him—a proposal which the
latter accepted with great readiness.

“I had <i>almost</i> lost myself,” said he, “what with this
thick fog, and not knowing the country.”

To which the Honourable Crasher replied, “<i>Y-e-e-es</i>—it
makes one cough, but it’s all plain sailing now,” and broke
into a gallop.

Poor Mr. Sawyer! If he had only known it! His guide
was one of the many gentlemen who could hunt twenty
years from the same place, and never know their shortest
way from one point to another.
.bn 053.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-07
CHAPTER VII||<s>A LEICESTERSHIRE LARK</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>By</sc> good luck our pair of lost sheep soon hit the bridle-gate
Mr. Sawyer had been seeking in vain.
.pi
“I suppose it’s all right,” said the Honourable Crasher,
putting his horse into a canter, with the loose rein and easy
off-hand seat peculiar to a gentleman riding to covert.

Mr. Sawyer, following close in his wake, devoutly hoped
it was so; but had little leisure for considering the subject,
inasmuch as his energies were completely engrossed by the
delicate task of gammoning The Dandy that he didn’t want
to pull at him. He knew too well, by the way his little
horse’s ears were laid back, that he was fully prepared, and
only sought an excuse, to come with a rush at the shortest
possible notice.

They went on pleasantly enough for a mile or so, the
Honourable leading, and commencing a variety of courteous
remarks to his follower, which invariably broke off in the
middle. At last, the former pulled up with an air of uncertainty.

“Very odd,” he said; “often as I’ve come this way
before, I never remember the gate locked.” He had put
his whip confidently under the latch, and his horse’s chest
against the top, without the slightest effect. “’Pon my
soul, it seems rather absurd, but I do believe <i>we’ve</i> lost our
way.”

“<i>We</i>,” thought Mr. Sawyer; “and this fiend in top-boots
laughs as if it were a joke!” but he only said aloud,
“I shall get down and take it off its hinges.”

The Honourable’s reply was simple and conclusive. He
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
pointed to the upper hinge, craftily turned downwards, so as
effectually to prevent all tampering with it, and observed in
a tone of melancholy apology, “The fence seems <i>rather</i> a
bad one” (it was an “oxer,” about seven feet high, and
impervious to a bird!). “Do you think your horse could
get over the gate after mine? This is only a five-year-old,
and very likely to break it,” he added, with the manner of
a nurse tempting a child to take its dose.

I have said Mr. Sawyer was a brave man, and so he was;
but I am bound to confess the proposition startled him not
a little. Put yourself in his place, courteous reader, and
say whether a foggy morning, an uninhabited country, and
the necessity of riding a horse barely fourteen-two over a
gate more than four feet high, after a languid desperado in
pursuit of an uncertainty, was not a somewhat alarming
contingency. Nevertheless, there was nothing else for it.
The Honourable turned his horse round, took him in a
grasp of iron, and put him rather slowly at the gate, which
the animal, a well-bred, raking-looking chestnut, with a
long bang-tail, got over exceedingly badly, striking the top
bar with fore and hind legs; but neither disturbing the
Honourable Crasher’s seat nor the imperturbability of his
demeanour in the slightest degree. He looked back, however,
to see his companion come, and even condescended to
express a feeble approval of his performance, without
removing the cigar from his mouth.

It is but justice to The Dandy to observe, that he no
sooner obtained “the office” from his rider, and saw what
was expected of him, than he cocked his ears, took the bit
in his teeth, and bounded over the gate like a buck, indemnifying
himself for the effort, by breaking clean away
with his rider as soon as he landed, and going by the Honourable
Crasher and his chestnut like a flash of lightning.

I have often observed that the blood of a languid person,
if once he or she gets it “up,” boils more fervidly than
that of less peaceful temperaments; perhaps it is altogether
a thicker fluid, and consequently more retentive of caloric.
Be this as it may, no sooner did the Honourable Crasher
behold Mr. Sawyer speeding by him like an express train,
than, roused by the example, and further stimulated by the
insubordination of the chestnut, he sat well down in the
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
saddle; and, taking his horse by the head, soon caught up
and passed the astonished Sawyer, merely remarking,
“We’ve got a <i>little</i> out of the line; you seem to be riding
a good fencer, and had better follow me!” and then proceeded
to lead his victim perfectly <i>straight</i> across country, in
the direction of Tilton Wood; the fog, too, was by this
time clearing off considerably, or it might be they had
emerged from the region of its influence, and the stranger
had not even the advantage of its friendly veil to hide from
him the dangers by which he was encompassed.

To this day Mr. Sawyer has not left off talking about
this his first ride over High Leicestershire. After a bottle
of port, he even becomes heterodox for so good a sportsman,
and vows he would rather gallop to covert over those
grass-fields, than see a run in any other country in the
world. I have my doubts, however, whether he enjoyed it
so very much at the time. Jack put him down twice; first
at an ox-fence, of which the rail was from him, and which,
although his leader hit it very hard, deluded the unsuspecting
Dandy; and secondly, by landing on a covered
drain, which gave way with him, and superinduced one of
those falls that are generally designated “collar-boners.”
On this occasion the Honourable Crasher brought him back
his horse, with quite a radiant expression of countenance.

“What a good little animal it is!” said he, throwing
the reins back over its neck. “I’m trying to ‘crop’ this
beggar of mine, and I very soon <i>should</i>, if I had to follow
<i>you</i>.”

In effect, the chestnut’s head and bridle-band were
plastered over with mud, although his rider’s coat was as
yet unstained.

At Skeffington, they relapsed into a quiet trot, and rode
on together, feeling as if they could hardly realise the fact,
that twenty-four hours ago they were utter strangers to
each other.

It is odd how people cast up at a meet of fox-hounds,
from all sorts of different directions, even on the most unpromising
mornings. Though the fog was as thick as ever
at the top of the hill, and Tilton Wood, at no time the best
of places to “get away from,” was perfectly invisible at two
hundred yards’ distance, there was already a good sprinkling
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
of sportsmen assembled at the fixture. Two or three
“swells” from Melton, very much the pattern of the Honourable
Crasher, had arrived on their smoking hacks, and were
greeted by him with considerable cordiality. Truth to tell,
the Honourable dearly loved what he called “a customer,”
meaning simply an individual who was fool enough to rate
his neck at the value he did his own; and, indeed, he never
would have taken so affably to Mr. Sawyer, on such short
notice, had the latter not been fortunate enough to possess
an excellent hack hunter in Jack-a-Dandy, and bold enough
to make very free use of that jumping little animal; the
hounds, too, had already arrived, and in the glimpse which
Mr. Sawyer caught of them as he rode up, he was sportsman
enough to remark that they looked speedy, stout, level,
and uncommonly fit to go. Such a pack, he thought, would
not even have disgraced the Old Country! the huntsman
also seemed to afford the happy combination of a <i>riding</i> as
well as a hunting one; and the other servants were remarkably
well mounted, and looked like business. Mr.
Sawyer began to feel quite keen, and to look about for Isaac
and the grey, who had not made their appearance; the
other Harborough hunters, however, had not yet come up;
their grooms had, probably, taken the chance of a late meet
to refresh in a body somewhere on the road; there was
nothing for it but to light a cigar, and wait patiently for
more daylight.

Two or three clever-looking horses with side-saddles,
denoted that if the weather had been more propitious, the
same number of fair equestrians would have graced the
field. Mr. Sawyer particularly remarked a very neat chestnut,
apparently, like the groom who led it, exceedingly
loath to be ordered home. A peremptory gentleman, in
particularly good boots and breeches, with a clerical white
neckcloth, and black coat, who had just arrived on wheels,
seemed to be the proprietor of this shapely animal. Mr.
Sawyer caught himself vaguely wondering whether it belonged
to his wife or daughter, and laughed at his own
preoccupation as he thought, “What <i>could</i> it signify to
him?”

It is very tiresome work, that waiting for a fog to clear
off before hounds are put into covert. In all other anti-hunting
.bn 057.png
.pn +1
weather, you know, to a certain extent, what you
are about; the frost, that sent you to look at the thermometer
last night before you went to bed, is either all gone
by twelve o’clock, or the matter is set at rest the other way,
and you make up your mind not to hunt again till the moon
changes. It is the same thing with snow; and, moreover,
if you <i>can</i> hunt on the surface of mother earth when wrapped
in her spotless shroud, she rewards you by carrying a
capital scent. But in a fog everything is uncertain and obscure;
it may clear off in ten minutes, or it may not be so
dense elsewhere. It seems a pity to go home, when the
very signal for a return may herald a change of weather;
and yet it is a melancholy amusement to walk hounds and
horses round a wet field till far on in the afternoon.
Everybody is of a different opinion too, usually regulated by
personal convenience; those who live a long way off are all
for having a try, whilst the man who has ridden his hunter
a mile or two to the place of meeting, and can keep him
fresh for next day, opines that “It is madness—folly—you’ll
disturb your country—you’ll lose your hounds—you might
as well go out hunting in the middle of the night,” &c.

On the present occasion it was obvious that the day was
getting worse. Sheets of mist came driving up the valleys,
and wreathing round the crests of the wooded hills; the
slight breeze seemed but to bring up fresh relays of vapour,
and every visible object, trees, hedges, gates—nay, the very
ears of the horses, and whiskers of their riders, were dripping
and saturated with moisture. The Master of the
Hounds, a thorough sportsman, never to be beaten by a
difficulty, announced his intention of waiting whilst any one
else remained; but it soon appeared that ere long he would
have the field to himself. The Melton gentlemen lost no
time in galloping home on their hacks, to while away the
hours till dinner-time with a “smoking rubber.” Half-a-dozen
yeomen adjourned to a neighbouring farm-house to
have what they called “a snack” and drink a goodly allowance
of port and sherry in the middle of the day. Even the
clerical gentleman, owner of the chestnut ladies’-horse,
thought it wouldn’t do; and just as Isaac on the grey turned
up at the head of a strong detachment from Harborough,
with whom he had fortunately fallen in, after losing his way
.bn 058.png
.pn +1
twice, it was finally decided that the hounds should go
home, and the day’s hunting be given up.

Warmed by his ride to covert, and hopeless of finding his
way back, except in the same company, Mr. Sawyer lost no
time in exchanging The Dandy for the grey. “If we are
to lark home,” he thought, “I may as well ride a nag I can
trust; but if ever I pin my faith upon one of these thin-booted
gentlemen to show me the way again, why, I shall
deserve the worst that can happen to me—that’s all!”

Now, although the appearance of a stranger does not
create such a sensation in Leicestershire as in more remote
countries, yet the Honourable Crasher was so well known,
that it was natural some inquiries should be made as to his
companion; for the Honourable C., who was thoroughly
good-natured, had no sooner fraternised with our friend than
he began to consider him in some sort, and in his own off-hand
way, as under his especial charge. Mr. Sawyer’s
exterior, too, although not extraordinarily prepossessing,
was undoubtedly workmanlike. As he settled himself in
the grey’s saddle, and altered the stirrups which Isaac
could never be persuaded to pull to the same length, the
clerical gentleman ranging alongside of the Honourable
whispered to the latter:

“Who’s that fellow? Is he staying with you at Harborough?”

The Honourable laughed feebly.

“Don’t know him from Adam,” he replied, as if there
could be any connection between the two. “He don’t
seem half a bad fellow, though,” he added, “and I shouldn’t
wonder if he could ride.”

Now, the clerical gentleman, who was, indeed, no other
than the well-known Parson Dove, had struck up a firm
alliance with the Honourable Crasher, cemented on both
sides by a keen love for fox-hunting, or perhaps I should
rather say, for galloping and jumping over a country—the
Parson, be it observed, being the best <i>sportsman</i> of the two.
On an occasion like the present, he hoped to secure his
friend’s company at luncheon, by which stroke of policy he
should please Mrs. Dove, who was not unprepared, and also
show him a certain four-year-old, by which the Reverend
set great store. Nay, it was by no means impossible that
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
the Honourable, who never missed a chance of placing his
neck in jeopardy, or the stranger who looked <i>hard</i>, might
be induced to buy the animal for purposes of tuition. So
he ignored all about Adam, and simply said, “It’s not a
quarter of a mile out of your way to stop at the Rectory;
indeed, you go by my stableyard. Won’t you and your
friend come in and have a glass of sherry and a biscuit?”

Mr. Sawyer was a man who had no objection to a glass
of sherry and a biscuit at any time, let alone such a cheerless
day as this. The hospitable offer, too, was made in
so loud a voice that he could not but accept it as addressed
to himself; so he drew his horse back to the speaker, and
thanked him for the offer, which he expressed his willingness
to accept. The Honourable Crasher perceiving that
he had been led into the virtual introduction of a man
whose name he didn’t know, put a bold face on the matter,
devoutly hoping the patronymic might never be asked, and
the three turned in at a hand-gate, and jogged on amicably
through the fog, in the direction of the Rectory.

As Mr. Sawyer ran his eye over the person and appointments
of his future host, he could not but acknowledge to
himself that never, no, <i>never</i> in his life had he seen such a
thoroughly <i>workmanlike</i> exterior: from the clean-shaved
ruddy face, with its bright-blue eye and close-cropped grey
hair, down to the long heavy hunting-spurs, the man was
faultless all over. Nobody’s leathers were so well made,
so well cleaned, so well put on as Parson Dove’s; and,
though he affected brown tops, it is well known that they
were such unequalled specimens as to have caused one of
his intimate friends who particularly piqued himself on
“boots,” to give up all hope, even of imitation, and relapse
into “Napoleons” in disgust. Why, the very way he
folded his neckcloth was suggestive of Newmarket, and no
scarlet coat that was ever turned out by Poole looked so
like hunting as that well-cut unassuming black. His open-flapped
saddle, his shining stirrup-irons, his heavy double-bridle,
were all in keeping with the man himself, and it is
needless to state that he was riding a thorough-bred bay,
with a pair of fired forelegs, and about the best shoulders
you ever saw on a hunter.

All this Mr. Sawyer had time to observe ere they rode
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
into a neatly-bricked stableyard, where they gave their
horses to a couple of smart grooms, and followed the owner
through the back door, past the cleanest of kitchens and
tidiest of sculleries, into the more aristocratic part of the
mansion.
.bn 061.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-08
CHAPTER VIII||<s>A DOVE OF THE SAME</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>I think</sc> it is the observant author of “Soapy Sponge,”
who makes that sporting tourist declare that “women
never look so well as when you come home from hunting.”
Certainly the contrast between a cold cheerless day out-of-doors
and the luxurious atmosphere of a well-warmed, well-ventilated
house, inclines a man to view everything through
a complimentary medium, even without taking into consideration
the delightful exchange of a hard slippery saddle
for the cushions of a comfortable arm-chair, or the warmth
of a blazing fire. The inside of the Rectory was as pretty
and as snug as it was possible for any house to be. Parson
Dove was one of those men in whom the bump of <i>comfort</i>
is strongly developed, and whether he bought a warming-pan
or a wine-cooler, he was sure to get the best, and the
best-looking, article that was to be had for money.
.pi
As the three sportsmen clanked along the carpeted passage
to the drawing-room, they heard the notes of a pianoforte
sounding from that apartment, and Mr. Sawyer had
barely time to summon all his fortitude, for the subversion
of his constitutional shyness, ere he found himself ushered
into that sanctuary, in the wake of the Honourable Crasher,
whom, truth to tell, just at that moment, he felt he would
have followed with less apprehension over another locked
gate, or treacherous “oxer.” It was not so formidable
an undertaking, after all. There were but two ladies, and
both seemed delighted at the acquisition of visitors on so
dull a morning. The introductions were got over, none the
worse that nobody knew the stranger’s name; and both
.bn 062.png
.pn +1
Mrs. Dove, an ample lady, with the remains of considerable
beauty, and “My daughter Cecilia,” of whom more anon,
seemed resolved to make themselves agreeable to their
guests—Mamma rather inclining to the Honourable Crasher,
who was an old friend, and had often dropped in to luncheon
before; whilst the siren Cecilia, fresh from the execution of
that “sweet thing” they had heard on the pianoforte,
seemed willing to devote herself to the amusement and
possible subjugation of the stranger.

There are some men on whom young ladies feel instinctively
they are but wasting their time, and it is curious how
seldom their perceptions deceive them on this point. Of
such was the Honourable C. Good-looking, amiable, to all
appearance well-off, and not over-burdened with brains, he
possessed all the attributes of an “eligible <i>parti</i>” and yet
somehow the most match-making of mothers, and the most
enterprising of daughters, always gave him up as a bad job,
after the first ten minutes. There was something about
him that betrayed to female shrewdness he was not “a
marrying man,” and as they judiciously abstain from playing
a game in which the loss is not exclusively on the side of
the adversary, they let him alone accordingly.

Now, it was otherwise with Mr. Sawyer. Although you
and I would have voted him a confirmed bachelor, might
even have judged him uncharitably as somewhat rough and
unpolished and unrefined, might have scouted the idea of
his being in any respect “a ladies’ man,” and laughed outright
at his competing with such a double-distilled dandy as
the Honourable C., we should thus have only exposed our
ignorance of the secret springs and impulses that move that
mysterious piece of mechanism—the female mind. Miss
Dove, in the absence of any other and nobler game, had not
the slightest objection to exercise the different weapons in
her armoury on her Mamma’s friend’s friend.

These were of a sufficiently deadly character. Miss
Cecilia—or “Cissy,” as they called her at home—without
being strictly pretty, was a very attractive young lady. She
had a pair of wicked black eyes, with rather thick eyebrows;
a high colour; white teeth, which she did not scruple to
display on all available occasions; and a laugh so clear and
ringing and inspiriting, that it put a man in good-humour
.bn 063.png
.pn +1
in spite of himself. Even in the bitterest of frosts, Papa
could not be cross for five minutes together, when “Cissy”
set to work to tease him into affability. Also, Miss Dove’s
figure was exceedingly round and symmetrical; not an angle
nor a corner in those graceful, flowing lines. Her foot and
ankle were undeniable, and her hands white and well-shaped.
Altogether, she would have passed muster as good-looking
in London: it is needless, therefore, to say that she ought
to have been placarded “dangerous” in Leicestershire.
Nor had this young woman neglected such opportunities of
improving her natural advantages as had come in her way.
She could play and sing with much taste and tolerable skill;
she could waltz down a strong man in pretty good training,
without drawing her breath quicker for the exertion; she
could ride with a degree of nerve and judgment seldom
enjoyed by the softer sex; and, finally, she had a way of
looking down, to show her long eyelashes, which in many
instances had been productive of much loss and confusion
to the adversary.

It was, you see, scarcely a fair match to pit all these
qualities against honest John Standish Sawyer, with his
coarse hands and feet, his short, square-tailed coat, ill-made
boots and breeches, red whiskers, and general diffidence.

As he sat before her, with his cap between his feet (I
need hardly observe that, like the other ornaments of the
Old Country, he wore a velvet hunting-cap), and the horn
handle of his whip in his mouth, she took the lead in the
conversation; indeed, I am prepared to lay my reader considerable
odds, that, whenever he meets a lady and gentleman
together, the former is talking, and the latter listening.

Miss Dove began at him without delay:

“You’ve only just arrived, I hear; and, indeed, what
unpromising weather you find us with! I told Papa, this
morning, I was sure we shouldn’t be able to hunt; and I
went and took my habit off directly after breakfast. If
there’s one thing I abominate more than another, it’s a fog;
and at Tilton Wood, too, of all places in the world! I’ve
no idea of leaving a good fire, to go and sit there with the
others, like a lot of crows in a mist; and this weather
always lasts three days; and to-morrow they meet at the
best place they have; and I hope you like our country?”
.bn 064.png
.pn +1

Mr. Sawyer could not conscientiously affirm that he had
yet <i>seen</i> it; so he mumbled out an unintelligible answer,
and the young lady went off again at score:

“Harborough’s getting quite a gay place, I declare. So
many gentlemen come there now, to hunt; and it’s so convenient
for the railroad; and I dare say you know Mr.
Savage, and Captain Struggles, and Major Brush; and <i>are</i>
you going to give us a Harborough ball?”

Mr. Sawyer was sufficiently experienced to take heart of
grace at this juncture, and reply, “Oh, certainly—certainly!
I’m sure it will be a capital ball. May we hope, Miss Dove,
that you will come to it?”

The eyelashes went down immediately; and Miss D. was,
no doubt, on the eve of making an appropriate reply, when
the announcement of luncheon, and the simultaneous return
of <i>Paterfamilias</i>, broke up the pair of <i>tête-à-têtes</i>, and the
party adjourned to the dining-room, all, apparently, on
pretty good terms with themselves—Mr. Sawyer inwardly
proud of having got so well out of the ball difficulty;
“Cissy” a little elevated with the conviction that she had
made a fresh conquest (not that it was any novelty, but the
feeling is always more or less agreeable); Papa ready for
luncheon, and sanguine about the four-year-old; Mamma
enchanted to have caught a good listener; and the Honourable
Crasher in his usual state of easy and affable <i>nonchalance</i>.

It is only right to observe that the Rev. had exchanged
his hunting costume for a suit of more clerical attire, yet,
somehow, had failed to put off with his leathers an atom of
his equestrian air. Even in the fullest canonicals, you never
could have taken Mr. Dove for anything but a sportsman.

Why are people always so much pleasanter at luncheon
than at dinner? Notwithstanding John Bull’s predilection
for the latter meal, as a mode of testifying his regard, his
civility, and his own respectability, I cannot help thinking
that foreigners are right to ignore that heavy system of
dinner-giving which we islanders regard as the very framework
of our social system. There is always more or less of
pomposity, and consequent restraint, attendant upon a
regular set dinner in the country. A few thorough people
of the world, “worldly,” know how to ask exactly the right
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
three couple or so, and put them down to a hot dinner at a
round table, such as is the very acme of all festive boards;
but this is a rare quality in host and hostess. Usually, you
are placed next to a guest you don’t know, and opposite to
one you don’t like. Your soup is cold, your venison underdone;
and the eyes of three or four servants intently watching
every mouthful you swallow is destruction to a delicate
appetite. In some old-fashioned houses, you may even
recognise the burly coachman assisting his fellow-domestics
to wait upon the company; and although, for my own part,
I confess to a liking for “the smell of the stables,” I cannot
but admit that the flavour is somewhat spoilt by being
mixed with that of a “<i>salmi de gibier</i>,” or a sweetbread
plastered round with spinach.

But luncheon, on the contrary, is a light, exhilarating,
free-and-easy meal. Even Mr. Sawyer, as he finished his
leg of pheasant and glass of brown sherry, felt wonderfully
restored by his repast. “Cissy” was a good “doer”
(ladies generally are, about two o’clock), and, till she had
disposed of her meal, gave her neighbour a little breathing-time,
and leisure to look about him.

I have often thought, although I am by no means the
first person who has made the observation, both in and out
of print, how true it is that it may be a huge disadvantage
to a girl to be seen in company with her mother. It is
sometimes discouraging enough to reflect that the coveted
treasure must eventually expand into a facsimile of the
dragon on guard. Fancy, if the fruit in the Gardens of the
Hesperides had been eggs instead of apples, each golden
shell enclosing the germ of just such a monster as was
grinning at the gate! To be sure, the resemblance may
cut the other way as well. I <i>have</i> seen mammas whom the
fairest of Eve’s daughters might be proud to resemble; but
it is sometimes hard upon the young Phœbe to have perpetually
at her side the shapeless Mother Bunch, into the
facsimile of which she must eventually grow. Mr. Sawyer,
gazing intently on his hostess discussing her cutlet and
glass of port-wine with considerable relish, <i>acknowledged</i>,
though he would not <i>accept</i>, the warning.

Miss Dove took after Mamma rather than Papa. The
matron’s red face was a brilliant colour in the girl; and the
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
exuberant proportions of the one, suggestive of good-humour,
good-living, and motherly content, were but the full, flowing
outlines of perfect symmetry in the other.

However, they all got on remarkably well. Even the
Honourable Crasher made a feeble joke, of which the point
somehow escaped his listeners—without, however, destroying
his own enjoyment in its delivery. By the time Papa
proposed an adjournment to the stables, to inspect the four-year-old—“Cissy”
pleading for two minutes’ law, to put
her hat on—they were all in high good-humour. If “one
spur in the head” be “worth two in the heel,” I think it
is equally true that a slight stimulant about 1.30 is twice
as effectual as a feast at 7.45.

The four-year-old was a fine, lengthy, <i>lashing</i>-looking
young horse, to use a graphic expression, more akin to the
kennel than the stable. He had all that thickness of outline
and <i>coarseness</i> of particular points which sportsmen so
like to see, when pedigrees are unimpeachable, and which
are sure to grow out into eventual strength and symmetry.
Mr. Sawyer would perhaps have admired him more, had his
attention not been distracted by the apparition in the
young one’s box of the following choice assortment: viz.
one pair of Balmoral-boots (arched instep and pointed heels,
after Leech); one scarlet <i>jupe</i>, short and full; one morning-gown,
very rich and voluminous, tucked and girt up all
about ditto; one pair of neat little gloved hands, with tight-fitting
bust and arms to match; and one rosy, smiling,
happy face; the whole crowned by <i>such</i> a hat and feather
as said “<i>Suivez moi!</i>” far more peremptorily than ever did
Henri Quatre’s great white <i>panache</i>. After that, he looked
very little at the four-year-old.

Poor Mr. Sawyer! When his horse was led out, to take
him back to Harborough, she patted its grey nose, and
called it “<i>a darling</i>.” “A darling!” and the ungrateful
brute snorted all over her pretty face and hands! Well, he
patted its neck himself, as he rode out of the yard.

The day seemed to have improved somehow, though the
fog was equally dense, and twilight—or rather no-light—had
set in. That cigar, too, which the Honourable gave
him just under Langton, he thought, was the best he had
ever smoked in his life.
.bn 067.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-09
CHAPTER IX||<s>FOUR O’CLOCK, STABLES</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>I should</sc> be sorry for my reader to suppose that John
Standish Sawyer was what is termed “a susceptible man.”
On the contrary, since his well-remembered rejection by Miss
Mexico, an event of which it is unnecessary to specify the
date, he had steeled himself resolutely against the fair, and
devoted his energies, if possible, more exclusively than ever
to the worship of Diana. Cold as she is at times, and
rigorous as are her icy frowns, corrugating that beaming face
into unpropitious wrinkles, at least she is a mistress who
never deceives. The thermometer at your dressing-room
window tells you exactly the humour in which you will find
her, and we do not hear the old, whose season of enjoyment
has passed away, regretting the hours and days they have
spent in her service. “If I had my time to come over
again,” I heard a hale octogenarian declare not long ago,
“I should make <i>one</i> alteration. I should flirt a little
<i>less</i> and hunt a great deal <i>more</i>.” He had been a
four-days-a-week man all his life, and in his youth a fierce
admirer of the ladies. The foregoing, nevertheless, was the
result of his experience.
.pi
Mr. Sawyer, like any other male biped, was not above
being flattered and pleased by the notice of such a girl as
Miss Dove. It smoothed his feathers, so to speak, and encouraged
him to think better of himself. The Honourable
Crasher, too, who had quite taken a fancy to his new friend,
asked him to a <i>tête-à-tête</i> dinner at his lodgings on the night
after the Tilton Wood meet; and as the wine was remarkably
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
good, and the host, in his sleepy, quiet way, rather
pleasant company, he spent an agreeable evening enough.

For the next two or three days there was a catching kind
of frost, of the most provoking description, just hard enough
to stop hunting, yet with a deceitful appearance of “going”
which prevented sportsmen from leaving their quarters for
London. During this interregnum Mr. Sawyer had leisure
to unpack his things, arrange his books—consisting of
“Colonel White’s Observations on Fox-hunting,” “Ask
Mamma” (illustrated with coloured prints), and a few back
numbers of the <i>Sporting Magazine</i>,—inspect his stables,
watch the roan putting on flesh, and the departure of the
grey’s cough, besides making acquaintance with the persons
and studs of Mr. Savage, Captain Struggles, and Major
Brush—gentlemen possessing, one and all, an inexhaustible
fund of spirits, an untiring delight in horseflesh, numerous
suits of wearing apparel, such as nearly approached the
character of fancy dresses, and, to all appearance, a lack of
nothing in the world except ready money. They fraternised
willingly enough with our friend, smoked cigars with him
at his hotel in the morning, took him over their stables at
dusk, did <i>not</i> try to sell him any of their horses, which
would indeed have been a hopeless enterprise, and generally
made the world as pleasant for him as was in their power.
Mr. Sawyer began to think he had landed in Utopia at last—that
he had reached the Happy Land, where, metaphorically
speaking, it was to be “beer and skittles” all
day long. The only drawback to his felicity was the sustained
discontent of old Isaac, and an increasing tendency
to inebriety on the part of The Boy.

Perhaps my reader will best understand his situation
from a description of a visit paid, according to custom, by
the whole gang to the stables of the Honourable Crasher.
Time 4.30, on a dark afternoon, with every appearance of a
thaw.

Boadicea, by Bellerophon out of Blue Light, is being
stripped for Mr. Sawyer’s inspection. As a compliment to
the stranger, he is further invited to “walk up to the mare,
and feel how fit she is!” at the risk of having his brains
dashed out; Boadicea, by Bellerophon out of Blue Light,
resenting such liberties with the ferocity of her British
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
namesake, and kicking with considerable energy when her
ribs are tickled. Mr. Tiptop, by far too great a man to
touch a rug or hood, gives his directions from the offing,
with his hat very much over his eyes, removing it only when
addressed by his master, his legs very wide apart, and his
hands thrust deep into the pockets of his tight trousers.

Captain Struggles, a heavy gentleman, who rides light-weight
horses, and wears a shooting suit of the broadest
check fabricated, takes a straw out of his mouth, and
observes, “That’s about the sort, I think, when you want
to do the trick over <i>this</i> country. Ain’t it, Tiptop?”

Mr. Tiptop is always mysterious and oracular concerning
the Honourable’s stud. Somebody, he thinks, ought to
preserve the secrets of the stable, and Crasher himself is
the most indiscreet of mortals on such subjects. So the
groom raises his hat with both hands, puts it on again, and
replies, “We like to get all of <i>ours</i> as nearly as possible
about that mould. There’s a young horse as is quite one
of <i>your</i> sort, Captain, in the next box.” Whereupon Mr.
Sawyer, who had no patience with Tiptop, winks at Major
Brush, and the latter bursts out laughing.

The conversation now becomes general, and not altogether
devoid of personality.

“<i>Your sort</i> are rather of the weedy order, Struggles,”
observes the Major. “Too light for <i>this</i> country, as you’ll
find out before you’re many days older, now that we’ve got
the ground to ride as it should do, up to our girths. Besides,
those thorough-bred rips never have courage to face
large fences. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Sawyer?”

The Major has not yet forgiven Struggles for stopping
him on the last day they were out, at the only practicable
place in a bullfinch, on which the heavy weight and a very
little chestnut stallion were see-sawing backwards and forwards,
like some exquisitely-balanced piece of machinery.
Mr. Sawyer, thus appealed to, gives his opinion, thinking
of the roan the while: “They <i>must</i> have power, I fancy,
for these flying countries, but they must have blood <i>too</i>. I
should like to show you a horse I’ve just bought, that I
mean to hunt to-morrow if the frost goes. My stables are
‘close at hand.’”

It is resolved that Mr. Sawyer’s shall be the next stud
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
inspected; but such an unheard-of breach of etiquette as
leaving their present haunt until every individual horse has
been stripped, cannot be entertained for a moment; so Mr.
Savage, in his turn, enlivens the process by attacking poor
Struggles: “You never got to the end that Keythorpe day,
after all,” says he. “What’s the use of these long pedigrees
of yours, if they can’t stay? I have always understood
their only merit as hunters is, that you can’t <i>tire</i> the thoro’-bred
ones. But confess now, Struggles, you stopped before
the hounds ran through the Coplow!”

“No distance at all!” chimes in Brush.

“And the ground must have been quite light before the
rain,” adds Mr. Sawyer, who thinks he <i>must</i> say something,
and who has not been permitted to remain in ignorance of
this Keythorpe day, now more than a fortnight old.

Struggles turned from one to the other of his tormentors,
with a grin on his jolly face. “Little Benjamin couldn’t
have been so beat, when I caught your horse for you,” said
he to Brush; “or when I went by <i>you</i>, Savage, in the lane,
and that was after five-and-twenty minutes, with fifteen
stone on his back, amongst those hills. No, no, my boys!
Fair play’s a jewel, and neither of you were there to see
whether I’d had my gruel or not. <i>Stop</i> indeed! I’d lay
odds none of old Catamaran’s stock would cut up soft, if
you rode them till the day after to-morrow. Stop! I’ll be
hanged if I didn’t <i>trot</i> when I got on the high-road coming
home.”

“Never mind! we know,” interposed Mr. Savage—a tall
pale man, with a hawk’s eye that nothing escaped. “Why,
you were <i>seen</i>, my good fellow!—<i>seen</i> with your own back
against your horse’s, shoving him through a fence. They
said if you hadn’t been the heaviest of the two, you’d have
been there now.”

Like almost all stout men, Struggles was the essence of
good-humour. He burst into a hearty laugh, but persevered
in his denial. “<i>Who</i> saw me?” said he; “who saw me?
He must have been in a right good place, though I say it.”

“Parson Dove saw you,” rejoined his accuser. Whereat
Mr. Sawyer felt his heart give a thump. “Parson Dove
made a capital story about it. He said he never saw a
horse so <i>badly in</i> with so heavy a backer. I shouldn’t
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
wonder if he put it in his sermon on Sunday. However,
he’ll be out to-morrow—he and Miss Cissy, and the lot of
’em. I’ll appeal to him if what I say isn’t true.”

Mr. Sawyer listened attentively. Then he should see
Miss Dove again on the following day, and in the enjoyment
of what she had confided to him was a favourite pastime.
Involuntarily he found himself thinking of the black
eyes, with their long eyelashes, and wondering whether she
would look well in a riding-habit.

Meantime the Honourable Crasher, in the last stage of
exhaustion, was endeavouring to discover which of his horses
Tiptop would let him ride on the morrow. The fixture was
at a capital place, with the Pytchley, and promised a large
field. Notwithstanding his <i>insouciance</i>, the Honourable C.
could not but feel that he should like something both safe
and fast, if, as was more than possible, he would have to
ride for his life during the first few minutes.

“Tiptop,” said his master, raising himself from his seat
on the corn-bin, and taking the cigar from his lips, “Tiptop,
as they’re all pretty fit, you may send on Catamount and
Confidence to-morrow.”

“Catamount’s hardly got over his physic yet, and I’m
keeping Confidence for you on Thursday,” replied the
master of the horse.

“Well, then, the mare and old Plantagenet?” urged the
Honourable. “I can ride Plantagenet first, and send him
home by two o’clock.”

“The mare’s had a gallop this morning, and we wants
Plantagenet second ’oss for Friday,” objected Mr. Tiptop.

“Well, then, Life Boat,” pleaded the proprietor. “I
haven’t had a ride on Life Boat this season. And, let me
see, the Banker would do very well for second.”

“I thought of Topsy-Turvy and Chance,” enunciated Mr.
Tiptop, somewhat imperiously; and the Honourable’s face
lengthened considerably at the announcement. To do him
justice, he was one of those sportsmen so well described in
the old Cheshire hunting-song—
.pm verse-start
                  “To whom nought comes amiss—
One horse or another, that country or this;
Who through falls and bad starts undauntedly still
Ride up to the motto—<i>Be with them I will!</i>”
.pm verse-end
.bn 072.png
.pn +1

But Bellerophon himself was mortal, and Topsy-Turvy
was a <i>very</i> awkward mare to ride in a crowd. With great
pace and jumping powers she had all the irritability of her
high-born race, and more than all the jealousy of her
sex. Horses in her rear annoyed her—alongside, or in
front, they drove her mad: so she was never thoroughly
comfortable, unless sailing away by herself with the hounds—a
place, it is only fair to add, that she was quite capable
of keeping. Chance, by Gamester out of Happy-go-lucky,
was no safer a mount. Just out of training, she went nevertheless
at her fences with considerable audacity; but was
prone to over-jump herself when she didn’t run through
them. As Struggles observed of her, “It was a safe bet to
lay five to two on the Caster.”

However, the Honourable never dreamed for an instant
of disputing Mr. Tiptop’s <i>fiat</i>; so he consoled himself by
thinking what a start he <i>would</i> get! and how he hoped the
hounds would keep out of his way. By the time Topsy-Turvy’s
clothes had been replaced, and a handsome pony
examined and approved of, the party, much to old Isaac’s
disgust, adjourned to Mr. Sawyer’s stables, where they were
good enough to express their approval of the roan and his
companions in that conventional tone which is so much less
flattering than one of sincere abuse. These gentlemen
hardly knew Mr. Sawyer well enough yet to give their
honest opinion; and perhaps it was fortunate for the sake
of Isaac’s peace of mind that they did not.

“<i>Useful</i> horses, Sawyer!” observed Mr. Savage, considerately
sparing the groom the labour of stripping them.

“<i>Useful</i> horses,” repeated Captain Struggles and Major
Brush in a breath; the latter adding, “and seem pretty fit
to go.” While the Honourable Crasher, who had not ventured
further than the door, remarked that he “thought
Jack-a-Dandy the best shaped one of the lot;” but conceded,
in a faint whisper, that the rest of them looked
“very like hunters: remarkably <i>useful</i> horses indeed!”

Our friend was not deficient in penetration, and by no
means a person to have been nearly a week in The Shires
without finding out what this epithet means. “When a
man tells me he has got a <i>useful</i> horse,” Mr. Sawyer was
once heard to observe, “I interpret it that he is the owner
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
of a <i>useless brute</i>, which he wishes to sell <i>me</i>!” And Mr.
Sawyer was not deceived by the politeness of his companions.
He held his tongue, however; but more than once he
caught himself brooding over the offensive adjective during
the evening.

“If the roan is only half as good as I take him to be,
and I can but get a start to-morrow,” thought our friend,
“I’ll show them what my <i>useful</i> horse can do! Miss Dove
will be out, too, and that cursed fellow of Putty’s hasn’t
sent down my new boots! Never mind—I’ve got the right
spurs at any rate, and it won’t be my fault to-morrow if I
don’t ‘go for the gloves,’ as we used to say in the Old
Country.”

He dined at home, and reduced the allowance of sherry
considerably; also consumed but one of the Laranagas before
going to roost at the sober hour of 10.30. Mr. Sawyer
seldom took his nervous system into consideration; but on
this occasion, with all his self-confidence (and he had as
much as his neighbours), he was indeed resolved not to
throw a chance away.
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-10
CHAPTER X||<s>“HAIL! SMILING MORN!”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>When</sc> we read in <i>Bell’s Life</i>, the <i>Morning Post</i>, or the
Northampton paper, that the Pytchley hounds will meet on
Wednesday at Crick, we confess to the same sensation
which the old coachman is said to experience at the crack
of the whip. We call up a picture tinged with the colours
of a memory that Time has no power to fade. It seems
again to be a soft-eyed morning in the mild winter or the
early spring, and the sky is dappled with serene and
motionless clouds; whilst here below, a faint breeze from
the south whispers of promised fragrance, only biding its
time to exude from Earth’s teeming bosom—she sleeps, the
mighty mother; but even in repose she is clad in majestic
beauty, and instinct with vitality and hope. On such a
morning the blood dances through their veins, and her
children would fain leap and shout aloud for joy. What
freshness in the smell of the saturated pastures! What
beauty in the softened tints and shadows of the landscape—leafless
though it be! How those bare hedges seem
ready to burst forth in the bloom of spring, and the distant
woods on the horizon melt into the sky as softly as in the
hot haze of a July noon. The <i>thud</i> of our horses’ hoofs
strikes pleasantly on the ear, as we canter over the undulating
pastures, swinging back the hand-gates with a dexterity
only to be acquired by constant practice, and on which we
plume ourselves not a little. He is the sweetest hack in
England, and shakes his head and rolls his shoulders gaily,
as we restrain the canter from becoming a gallop. Were
he <i>not</i> the <i>sweetest</i>, &c., he would begin to plunge from
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
sheer exuberance of spirits; we could almost find it in our
heart to indulge him. The scared sheep scour off for a few
paces, shaking their woolly coats, and then turn round to
gaze at us as we fleet from field to field. A couple of
magpies, after a succession of jerks and bows, while they
make up their minds, dive rapidly away over the hedge to
our <i>right</i>; a direction (for we confess the superstition)
ominous of sport. A scarlet coat glances along the lane in
front; and, as this is our last bit of grass, and moreover the
furrows lie the right way, we catch hold of <i>the sweetest’s</i> head,
and treat ourselves to a gallop. Soon we emerge on the
high-road, and relapse into a ten-mile-an-hour trot; the
<i>sweetest</i>, who thinks nothing of twelve, going well on his
haunches, and quite within himself. All the best fellows in
England seem to have congregated in this highway. Some
in dog-carts, some in phaetons, half-a-dozen on a four-horse
drag, and others on horseback, like ourselves. With the
latter we speedily join company. Yesterday’s gallop—the
Ministerial Crisis—the Rifle Volunteers—all the topics that
interest us for the time, are touched on, and we learn the
latest news of each. By a quarter before eleven we have
had pleasure enough for the whole twenty-four hours, and
yet our day is only just beginning. Now the plot thickens
rapidly. Grooms with led horses are overtaken by their
masters, and we recognise many a well-known flyer and
honest servant’s face.
.pi
“How fresh the old horse looks, John: none the worse
for the Lilbourne day, when he carried your master so
well!”

“Never was better, sir,” answers gratified John, with a
touch of his hat; partly out of compliment to ourselves,
partly out of respect for the good horse. Now we observe
a scarlet group collected in a knot, where the hounds meet
in the centre of the village, and the church clock points to
five minutes before eleven, as we bid the cheery huntsman
“Good-morning,” and exchange our hack for our hunter.

Mr. Sawyer probably felt very much the sort of sensations
I have endeavoured to describe, as he dashed along on the
free-going Dandy, in company with some of his new companions.
If so, he kept them to himself. Our friend was a
man of few words at the best of times; and when, as in the
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
present instance, “big with high resolve,” taciturnity personified.
Also, notwithstanding the want of the new boots,
he had “got himself up” to-day with peculiar care. The
result, I am bound to admit, was not entirely satisfactory;
and, when that is the case, a man’s loquacity is apt to decrease
in proportion. However, the roan, or “Hotspur,”
as we must now call him, made a pretty good figure, as far as
appearance went, even amongst a bevy of celebrated hunters,
and his master felt a considerable accession of confidence
when he found himself fairly mounted and ready for the
fray. Miss Dove, too, had arrived in company with her
papa. There was no doubt about it: she <i>did</i> look remarkably
well in her riding-habit.

Mr. Sawyer, a little nervous and rather ashamed of it,
doffed the velvet hunting-cap, and rode up to accost her. I
need scarcely observe that the young lady’s greeting was of
the coldest and most reserved. The last time she had been
all smiles and sunshine: so, on the principle of rotation,
to-day must be one of frigidity and decorum. It’s a way
they have, you see; and one that seldom fails to put the
inexperienced to utter confusion. A man cannot be said to
know what the ague really is till he has suffered from the
fits—both hot and cold. Take warning, John Standish
Sawyer! you who have once before burnt your fingers, and
had cause to dread the fire. Miss Mexico, with her quadroon
stain and her thirty thousand pounds, was a queerish one
to manage; but she was a fool to Miss Dove.

“Confound the girl! what does she mean by it?” said
the humiliated swain to himself, as the hounds moved off
towards the gorse. He felt a little disgusted, and <i>not</i> a
little irritated: just in the humour that makes a man ready
for a bit of excitement rather keener than ordinary. He
thought he had never felt <i>so like riding</i> in his life before!
With the natural instinct of one who knew himself capable
of going in the first flight, the observant Sawyer proceeded
to scan narrowly such of the surrounding sportsmen as
looked to him like “meaning mischief.” Out of a hundred
riders it was not so difficult as might be supposed to pick a
proportion of flyers, and the proportion, as my hunting
readers will not dispute, was little over ten per cent. Shall
I name them? Shall I add ninety enterprising and energetic
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
gentlemen to the list of my mortal enemies? Heaven
forbid that I should do anything so invidious and ill-advised!
Mr. Sawyer did not know them, and why should I? Each
of the hundred, doubtless, believed himself one of the chosen
ten. I fancy that every man who goes out hunting thinks
he only wants an opportunity to show his back to the rest
of the field. I fancy that when the opportunity <i>does</i> come,
he lets it slip in hopes of a better, and that no one attributes
to want of nerve, horsemanship, or common sense, that
failure, on which it would be no bad investment to offer
each equestrian nine to one! Well, everybody has an equal
chance on a fine scenting day, when the fox has slipped
quietly away, by good fortune only seen by a countryman,
with a quinsy, who couldn’t halloo to save his life. When
the two or three couple of leading hounds have flashed a
hundred yards or so over his line, thus enabling the body
of the pack to join them, and stoop all together to the
scent, when after a cheery twang, the huntsman returns his
horn to its case, and the master, relieved, for an instant,
from the weight of care, which none but an M.F.H. knows,
takes his place alongside of his favourites, and observes
mentally, though he wouldn’t say it aloud for a thousand,
“Now, my fine fellows, ride on their backs if you <i>can</i>!”
In short, at that delicious moment when the wise bethink
them of a fox’s point, and a convenient lane, and the enthusiasts
glance exultingly at each other, and say, “All
right, old fellow! I <i>think</i> we’re landed!” then hath each a
fair field and no favour; and if a man’s hardihood, or his
vanity, or his ambition, prompt him to assume a place in
the front rank, he has nothing to do but go and try.

As Mr. Sawyer rode down to the gorse, he was pleased
to feel Hotspur step so lightly and vigorously under him.
The horse shook his bit, and cocked his ears, and reached
at his bridle to get near the hounds. He <i>felt</i> like a good
one, and we all know what confidence that sensation imparts
to the rider. Mr. Sawyer forgot all about Miss Dove, and
the unprovoked manner in which she had snubbed him. It
was cheerful to hear one or two complimentary remarks
exchanged between the passing sportsmen.

“That’s a clever horse,” said a tall heavy man, himself
admirably mounted, indicating the roan with a nod, and
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
addressing a supercilious-looking person in a black coat,
whose attention was much taken up with the appearance of
his own legs and feet, which he was looking at alternately
<i>en profile</i>.

“Rather,” answered the supercilious person, glancing up
for an instant from his occupation—“Who’s the man?
Never saw such a man; never saw such boots; never saw
a fellow so badly got-up altogether.”

At this juncture the Honourable Crasher, cantering by
on Topsy-Turvy, accosted our friend with good-humoured
familiarity, and the supercilious man, changing his mind all
in a moment, about Mr. Sawyer and his boots, resolved to
take the first opportunity of making the stranger’s acquaintance.
In effect he followed the last comer to prosecute this
intention. The Honourable C. disappearing through a
bullfinch, on Topsy-Turvy, whom he thus hoped to put in
good-humour, was ere this in a field alongside of the hounds,
which he was likely to have all to himself.

Soon a hand-gate stems the increasing cavalcade, and the
stoppage becoming more obstinate, owing to Mr. Sawyer’s
abortive attempts to open the same, a good deal of conversation,
rhetorical rather than complimentary, is the result.

“Put your whip <i>under</i> the latch,” says one.

“Got the wrong hand to it,” sneers another.

“What a tarnation muff!” vociferates a third.

“Ware heels!” exclaims a fourth, as a wicked little bay
mare, in the thick of them, lets out with unerring precision;
and one man says, “What a shame it is to bring such a
devil as that into a crowd!” and another opines that “The
kick will be out of her before two o’clock!” and the owner,
profuse in apologies, is only thinking of slipping through
the gate, and going on to get a start.

Meanwhile Hotspur makes himself profoundly ridiculous,
pushing the gate when the latch is down, and wincing from
it when he ought to shove; also finding himself totally
unassisted by the crook of his master’s whip, which keeps
slipping on the wet green wood, waxes irritable, rears up,
and threatens to vary the entertainment, by performing a
somersault into the next field.

“Let me do it for you, sir,” says a good-natured young
farmer; and Mr. Sawyer wisely abandons his office of doorkeeper,
.bn 079.png
.pn +1
and after about forty people have hustled by him,
manages at last to edge his way through.

By this time the hounds have been put into the gorse.
Nineteen couple are they of <i>ladies</i>, with the cleanest of heads
and necks, straight and fair on their legs and feet as so
many ballet-dancers, and owning that keen wistful look,
which is so peculiar to the countenance of the fox-hound.
They dash into the covert as if sure of finding, and Parson
Dove, standing erect in his stirrups, watches them with a
glow of pleasure lighting up his clean-shaved face. “There’s
a fox, Charles, I’ll lay a bishopric!” says he, and a whimper
from Truelove confirms the parson’s opinion on the spot.

“Not a doubt on it! sir, not a doubt on it! one if not a
brace!” replies that functionary, with immense rapidity.
He loses very little time indeed, at his phrases, or his fences,
or anything else. In another moment he is up to his girths
in the gorse, cheering on the beauties, who are working up
the scent with a vast deal of musical energy. The master
casts an uneasy glance at the crowd; countless anxieties
and apprehensions cross his mind. One way the fox will
be headed, another the hounds will be cut off, a third leads
up to the village, and we all know how fatal are houses and
pigsties at the commencement of a run. But the fourth
side is clear; happily the hounds are even now bustling
eagerly towards it.

Diverse occupations engross the attention of the field;
few of them seem to be much taken up with the business
in hand. Here a gentleman is giving a farmer’s horse a
gallop, preparatory, as it would appear, to a purchase.
There another is detailing the last news from Warwickshire,
to an applauding audience. Struggles, on his feet, is
adjusting a snaffle-bridle more comfortably on the head of
a game little thorough-bred. Savage is discussing the
merits of a new novel with a literary friend. Major Brush
is taking up a link in Miss Dove’s curb-chain; that damsel,
very killing indeed, in a little hat and feathers, is surrounded
by admirers, and yet, <i>lassata, nondum satiata</i>, is inwardly
regretting that she had snubbed poor Mr. Sawyer so
gratuitously at the meet. You see, however low one may
rate the value of his vassalage, still a victim always counts
<i>for one</i>; and it is a pity needlessly to throw away the
.bn 080.png
.pn +1
veriest weed that helps to make up one’s chaplet. Truth
to tell, Mr. Sawyer was not thinking about her. He had
crept on, as he thought, unobserved, to a place from which
he could command the proceedings, and try to get a good
start. Nevertheless, a watchful eye was on his movements.
The master was even then deliberating whether he should
holloa to him to “Come back, sir,” and was hoping in his
own mind, “that chap in a cap wouldn’t go on, and head
the fox!”

The Honourable Crasher and Topsy-Turvy had already
fallen out, as to a cigar, which the former wanted to light.
No! the mare would <i>not</i> stand still, and an impatient jerk
at the curb-rein had not tended to adjust this difference.
So she was backing and sidling and shaking her head, and
making herself intensely disagreeable, whilst the Honourable,
who soon recovered his equanimity, scanned a certain
stile just in front of her with a critical eye and employed
himself by vaguely calculating how many yards before she
came to it she was likely, in her present humour, to “take
off;” also whereabouts he should land if they <i>did</i> make a
mess of it, and whether <i>more</i> than two or three fellows
would be on his back at once.

He has by no means solved the problem, when a violent
rush is made towards the lane. Somebody has seen somebody
else gallop, who has seen a sheep-dog run; this is a
sufficient reason for some eighty or ninety horsemen to
charge furiously in the same direction; their leaders finding
no hounds, then pull up, and the crowd proceed leisurely
back again. But this false alarm has been in favour of the
fox, who perceiving a clear space before him, and having
obtained, by a dexterous turn round the covert, a little law
of his pursuers, takes advantage of the lull, to slip away
unobserved by any one but the first whip, and that officer
is far too discreet to make a noise. He telegraphs mutely
to the huntsman, who has <i>the ladies</i> out of covert, and
dashing to the front, with three blasts of his horn. Ere the
Honourable Crasher has had time to indulge Topsy-Turvy
with a fling at the stile, which she jumps as if there was a
ten-foot drain on each side, the pack are settled to the
scent, and racing away a clear field ahead of every one but
the huntsman and whip. The Honourable Crasher, however,
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
is coming up hand-over-hand, Topsy-Turvy laying
herself out in rattling form. The master, with a backward
glance at the crowd, is alongside of him, and Mr. Sawyer,
sailing over the first fence, in such good company, with a
tight hold of his horse’s head, and an undeniable start,
thinks he is “really in for it at last!”
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-11
CHAPTER XI||<s>“A MERRY GO-ROUNDER”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>A mile-and-a-half</sc> of grass, some six or eight fences, and
the sustained brilliancy of the pace, have had their usual
effect on the moving panorama. A turn in his favour, of
which his old experience has prompted him to take every
advantage, enables Mr. Sawyer to pull Hotspur back to a
trot, and look about him. He is in a capital place, and
has every reason to believe the new horse is “a flyer.”
Hitherto, he has only asked him to gallop, best pace, over
sound turf, and take a succession of fair hunting fences in
his stride. Hotspur seems to know his business thoroughly,
and though a little eager, he allows his rider to draw him
together for his leaps, and the way in which he cocks his
ears when within distance denotes a hunter. Mr. Sawyer
is full of confidence. He has been riding fence for fence
with the Honourable Crasher, whose pale face wears a smile
of quiet satisfaction. The latter has indulged Topsy-Turvy
with two awkward bits of timber, and an unnecessary gate;
the mare is consequently tolerably amiable, and, though she
throws her head wildly about if any other horse comes near
her, may be considered in an unusually composed frame of
mind. The huntsman has been riding close to his hounds,
in that state of eager anxiety which the philosopher would
hardly consider enjoyment, and yet which is nevertheless
not without its charms; all his feelings are reflected, in a
modified form, in the breast of the master. The latter,
riding his own line, as near the pack as his conscience will
permit him, is divided between intense enjoyment of the
gallop and a host of vague apprehensions lest anything
.bn 083.png
.pn +1
should turn up to mar the continuance of the run. He has
already imbibed a qualified aversion for Mr. Sawyer, whom
the instinct peculiar to his office prompts him to suspect as
“a likely fellow to press them at a check;” while he
knows his friend Crasher so well, as to feel there is but one
chance with that mild enthusiast, viz. that Topsy-Turvy
should come to a difficulty before the hounds do. Besides
these four, Captain Struggles and Major Brush are very
handy, whilst Mr. Savage heads another detachment in the
next field, of which Miss Dove, riding with considerable
grace, is at once the ornament and the admiration. Her
father has lost his place from a fall, but is coming up with
steady skill and energy, going as straight as if he were close
to the hounds, and ready to take every advantage. At the
first turn in his favour he will be with them as if nothing
had happened. In addition to these, many score of sportsmen
are scattered over the neighbouring district, and a serried
mass of scarlet, which may be termed not inaptly, “the
heavy brigade,” is moving in close column down a distant
lane.
.pi
All this our friend observes at a glance, but his attention
is soon arrested by the business in his front.

The hounds, having over-run the scent a trifle, swing to
the line again with dashing confidence, and take it up once
more with an energy that seems but increased by their
momentary hesitation.

They might have been covered by a sheet hitherto: now
they lengthen out into a string, and the leaders scour along,
with their noses in the air and their sterns lowered. Every
yard increases their distance from the pursuing horsemen.

They are pointing to a dead flat surface of old yellow
grass, with patches of rushes and ant-hills interspersed.
There would appear to be a mile or more of plain without
a fence; but Mr. Sawyer spies a tell-tale willow here and
there, and he wishes in his heart that he was quite sure
Hotspur could jump water!

Presently the hounds disappear, and emerge again, throwing
their tongues as they take to running, and looking
darker and less distinct than before.

“Is there a ford, Charles?” halloos Major Brush, who
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
has shaken to the front, and would fain continue there
without a wetting.

“Never a one for miles,” answers Charles with inconceivable
rapidity, catching his horse by the head, and performing
a running accompaniment with his spurs.

In a few seconds, he is over with a considerable effort, a
certain scramble and flourish when they land, showing there
are very few inches to spare.

The ill-fated Major has no idea of refusing. His horse
however, thinks differently; so they compromise the matter
by sliding in together, and climbing out separately, draggled,
disgusted, and bemired.

“There is no mistake about it,” thinks Mr. Sawyer; “I
must jump or else go home!” He may take a liberty, he
hopes, with a friend; so he puts the roan’s head close
behind the Honourable Crasher, and devoutly trusting that
gentleman will get over, drives Hotspur resolutely at the
brook.

Topsy-Turvy, wild with excitement, throws her head in
the air, and takes off a stride too soon. Consequently she
drops her hind legs, and rolls into the opposite field. The
roan, who jumps as far as ever he can, lands on Crasher’s
reins, of which the latter never lets go, and drives them
into the turf.

“Line, sir! line!” expostulates the Honourable, not
knowing who it is. “Oh! it’s you, is it?” he adds, picking
himself up, and re-mounting. “All right! Go along,
old fellow! The hounds are running like smoke!”

Mr. Sawyer apologises freely as they gallop on. In his
heart he thinks Crasher the best fellow he ever met, and
contrasts his behaviour with that of Sir Samuel Stuffy in
the Old Country, on whom he once played the same trick,
and whose language in return was more Pagan than Parliamentary.

The master and Struggles get over also, the latter not
without a scramble. Those who are not in the first flight
wisely diverge towards a bridge. For five minutes and
more there are but half-a-dozen men with the hounds.
These run harder than ever for another mile, then throw
their heads up, and come to an untoward check.

“What a pity!” exclaims Mr. Sawyer. Not that he
.bn 085.png
.pn +1
thinks so exactly, for Hotspur wants a puff of wind
sadly.

“Turned by them sheep!” says Charles, and casts his
hounds rapidly forward and down wind. No; he has not
been turned by the sheep: he has been coursed by a dog.
Charles wishes every dog in the country was with Cerberus,
except the nineteen couple now at fault.

“Pliant has it,” observes the master, as Pliant, feathering
down the side of a hedge, makes sure she is right, and
then flings a note or two off her silvery tongue, to apprise
her gossips of the fact. They corroborate her forthwith,
and the chorus of female voices could scarce be outdone at
a christening. Nevertheless, they are brought to hunting
now, and must feel for it every yard they go.

But this interval has allowed some twenty equestrians,
amongst whom a graceful form in a habit is not the least
conspicuous, to form the chase once more. Great is the
talking and self-gratulations. Watches are even pulled
out, and perspiring arrivals announce the result of their
observations, each man timing the burst to the moment at
which he himself came up.

“How well your horse carried you!” said a soft voice at
Mr. Sawyer’s elbow; “didn’t he, Papa?” added the siren,
appealing to the Reverend Dove, who was eagerly watching
the hounds. “We all agreed that the velvet cap had the
best of it.”

She wanted to make amends to him for her rudeness in
the morning, and this was the opportunity to choose. The
hardest male heart is sufficiently malleable under the
combined influence of heat, haste, and excitement,
though how this girl should have made the discovery it
is beyond my ingenuity to guess. How do they discover
a thousand things, of which we believe them to be
ignorant?

Mr. Sawyer smiled his gratitude, as he opened a gate
for the lady, and very nearly let it swing back against her
knees. He had not acquired sufficient practice yet at his
gates, that’s the truth; and perhaps there were other portals
wherein his inexperience had better have forbidden him to
venture. Miss Dove was fast luring him into a country
which, to use a hunting metaphor, was very cramped and
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
blind, full of “doubles,” “squire-traps,” and other pit-falls
for the unwary.

Hounds are apt to be a little unsettled after so rapid a
burst as I have attempted to describe, and it takes a
few fields of persevering attention to steady them again.
After this, however, I think we may have remarked they
made but few mistakes, and a fox well rattled, up to the
first check, huntsmen tell us, is as good as half killed.

The description of a run is tedious to all but the narrator.
What good wine a man should give his guests, who indulges
in minute details of every event that happened!—how they
entered this spinny, and skirted that wood, and crossed the
common, and finally killed or lost, or ran to ground, or
otherwise put an end to the proceedings of which the reality
is so engrossing and the account so tedious. I have seen
young men, longing to join the ladies, or pining for their
cigars, forced to sit smothering their yawns as they pretended
to take an interest in the hounds and the huntsman, and
the country, and their host’s own doings, and that eternal
black mare. I can stand it well enough myself, with a fair
allowance of ’41 or ’44, by abstracting my attention completely
from the narrative, and wandering in the realms of
fancy, cheered by the blushing fluid. But every one may
not enjoy this faculty, and you cannot, in common decency,
go fast asleep in your Amphitryon’s face. Again, I say,
nothing but good wine will wash the infliction down. Let
him, then, whose port is new, or whose claret unsound,
beware how he thus trespasses on the forbearance of his
guests.

Of course they killed their fox. After the first check
they gradually took to hunting, and so to running once
more, Mr. Sawyer distinguishing himself by describing a
very perfect semicircle with Hotspur, over some rails near
Stanford Hall. The roan was tired, and his rider ambitious,
so a downfall was the inevitable result. Nevertheless, he
fell honourably enough, and hoped no one but himself knew
how completely the accident was occasioned by utter exhaustion
on the part of his steed.

There is no secret so close as that between a horse and
his rider. Up to the first check, Hotspur had realised his
owner’s fondest anticipations. “He’s fit for a king!”
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
ejaculated the delighted Sawyer, when they flew so gallantly
over the brook. Even after the hounds had run steadily on
for the best part of an hour, the animal’s character had
only sunk to “not thoroughly fit to go;” but when they
arrived at the Hemplow Hills, and the pack, still holding a
fair hunting pace, breasted that choking ascent, he could
not disguise from himself that the roan was about “told
out.” They are indeed no joke, those well-known Hemplow
Hills, when they present themselves to astonished steeds
and ardent riders after fifty minutes over the strongest part
of Northamptonshire. A sufficiently picturesque object to
the admirer of nature, they prove an unwelcome obstacle to
the follower of the chase, and it was no disgrace to poor
Hotspur that, although he struggled gamely to the top, he
was reduced to a very feeble and abortive attempt at a trot
when he reached the flat ground on the summit. Ere long
this degenerated to a walk; and I leave it to my reader, if
a sportsman, to imagine with what feelings of relief Mr.
Sawyer observed the now distant pack turning short back.
The fox was evidently hard pressed, and dodging for his
life.

The Rev. Dove, with an exceedingly red face, a broken
stirrup-leather, and a dirty coat, viewed him crawling slowly
down the side of a hedgerow. In an instant his hat was
in the air, and Charles, surrounded by his hounds, was
galloping to the point indicated. Two sharp turns with the
fox in sight—a great enthusiasm and hurry amongst those
sportsmen who were fortunate enough to be present, and
who <i>rode</i>, one and all, considerably faster than their horses
could go—a confused mass of hounds rolling over each
other in the corner of a field—Charles off his horse, and
amongst them, with a loud “Who-whoop”—and the run
is concluded, to the satisfaction of all lookers-on, and the
irremediable disgust of the many equestrians who started
“burning with high hope,” and are now struggling and
stopping over the adjoining parish, in different stages of
exhaustion. The Honourable Crasher congratulates Mr.
Sawyer on his success; also takes this opportunity of introducing
his friend to the M.F.H. A few courteous sentences
are interchanged; Messrs. Savage, Struggles, and Brush
propose a return to Harborough; cigars are offered and lit;
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
everybody seems pleased and excited. John Standish
Sawyer has attained the object for which he left home—he
has seen a good run, made a number of pleasant acquaintances,
launched once more into that gay world, which
he now thinks he abandoned too soon. He <i>ought</i> to be
delighted with his success: but, alas for human triumphs!
.pm verse-start
“Ay! even in the fount of joy,
Some bitter drops the draught alloy,”
.pm verse-end
.ni
and our friend, with many feigned excuses, and a dejected
expression of countenance, lingers behind his companions,
and plods his way homewards alone.
.pi
.bn 089.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-12
CHAPTER XII||<s>“DEAD FOR A DUCAT”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>It</sc> is needless for me to observe that Mr. Sawyer was one of
those individuals who are described in common parlance as
not having been “born yesterday.” He had lived long
enough in this superficial world of ours to recognise the
prudence of “keeping his own counsel,” just as he kept the
key of his own cellar at The Grange; and he would no
more have thought of entrusting his dearest friend with the
one than the other.
.pi
Accordingly, when he felt certain ominous thumps against
the calves of his legs, which denoted that “Hotspur was
suffering from palpitation of the heart,” he resolved to conceal
if possible from every eye that untoward failing of so
good an animal. And, with considerable judgment, he
waited till his friends were out of sight ere he dismounted,
and led his jaded steed into a barn, which he espied at hand,
there to recover himself a little under shelter, and then, if
possible, to make his way home in the dark, and trust to
chance for some excuse to account for his delay, when he
met them again at the dinner-table.

Perhaps the reason is, that in these fast times condition
is so much better understood—for we cannot admit the
uncomplimentary excuse that hounds do not run now as
formerly—why horses <i>stop</i> so much less often in the
hunting-field than they did in the palmy days of Musters and
Assheton Smith, and “the d—d Quornites,” who were
always either “showing” or “being shown the <i>trick</i>” some
fifty years ago. <i>Then</i> a hunter’s reputation was as fragile
as a sultana’s, and was guarded as jealously. Not only
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
must he be “<i>sans peur</i>,” but also “<i>sans reproche</i>.” And
the efforts of these lords to preserve the character of their
treasures were as ingenious as they were ludicrous. One
facetious nobleman actually got a tired favourite home next
day right through the streets of Melton, disguised as the
middle horse of a cart-team; nor did all the lynx-eyes, ready
to watch for the “casualties” consequent on a clipper,
discover the identity of one of the best nags in Leicestershire,
under the weather-beaten winkers and shabby harness of a
four-horse waggon. Mr. Sawyer trusted to the cloud of
night for the same immunity.

He had just stabled his steed in the warmest corner of
the shed, and, having taken off his own coat to fling over
the animal’s heaving quarters, was beginning to speculate
on the probable rheumatism that would succeed this imprudence,
when, to his astonishment and disgust, the door
was darkened by another figure, and his solitude disturbed
by the entrance of a man and horse, in all probability seeking
the same shelter for the same cause.

The new-comer was a remarkably good-looking person,
extremely well got-up, particularly as regarded his nether
extremities, and our friend at once recognised him as having
been very forward with the hounds at different stages of the
run. His horse, a well-bred bay, was “done to a turn.”
When Sawyer looked at its drooping head and heaving
flanks, it seemed to put him quite in conceit with the roan.
For a moment neither spoke a word—then the absurdity of
the situation seemed to strike them simultaneously, and
they both burst out laughing.

“What? They’ve cooked <i>your</i> goose as well as mine!”
said the stranger, in off-hand tones, producing at the same
time a silver cigar-case, on which our friend could not help
fancying he descried a coronet, and proceeding to light a
most tempting-looking weed.

“A very likely day to do it, too,” he added, glancing, as
Sawyer thought, somewhat contemptuously at himself and
steed. “The pace for the first twenty minutes was <i>alarming</i>,
and the country awfully deep. I should say you’ll
hardly get that horse home to-night.”

The suggestion was neither flattering nor consolatory.
Mr. Sawyer felt half inclined to be offended; but he thought
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
of the silver cigar-case, and swallowed the retort uncourteous
that rose to his lips. He was a true Briton, and not above
a weakness for the peerage. “This good-looking man,”
he argued, “notwithstanding his black coat, must be a
Viscount at least!”

“I’m going as far as Market Harborough,” he observed
meekly. “It cannot be more than seven or eight miles.
I shall hope to accomplish that.”

“Lucky for <i>you</i>!” replied the other. “I want to get to
Melton, if I can. I’ve a hack here at Welford, if this beggar
can take me there. He’s short of work, poor devil! and
could hardly wag coming up the hill. I should say <i>your</i>
horse would die.”

This was an unpleasant and rather startling way of putting
the matter. Mr. Sawyer had not indeed considered it
from that point of view. Though a man of energy, he felt
somewhat helpless; as who would not in a similar position?
Eight miles from home, in a strange country, encumbered
with a dying horse!

“What had I better do?” inquired he, rather plaintively,
of the unknown.

Nobleman though he were, the latter seemed to be an
energetic personage enough, and pretty familiar with the
usages of the stable. Between them they made poor Hotspur
as comfortable as circumstances would admit, the unknown
conversing with great condescension and volubility
the whole time.

“What you want for this country,” said he, rubbing away
the while at Hotspur’s ears and forehead, “is a strong stud.
If you’ve sport hereabouts, it pulls the horses so to pieces.
Now this is a nice little well-bred horse enough, but he
hasn’t <i>size</i>, you see, and scope; there’s nothing of him;
consequently, when you drop into a run, he goes as long as
he <i>can</i>, and it’s all U P! <i>Mine</i>, now, would have gone on
for ever, if he’d had <i>condition</i>; but I only bought him ten
days ago, and he’s never had a gallop. Nothing like <i>good</i>
ones—<i>big</i> ones—and plenty of ’em! Look at him now;
he’s getting better every moment.”

Without subscribing entirely to this statement, Mr. Sawyer
humbly asked his new friend if he himself was very
strong in horses?
.bn 092.png
.pn +1

“Not <i>very</i>,” was the reply. “I’ve got eleven, however,
at my place, which I shall be very happy to show you whenever
you like to come over. Every one of them up to more
than your weight,” he added, casting his eye over Mr. Sawyer’s
much-bemired figure. “I shall be happy to give you
a mount on any one of them you fancy; and you will know
them better than I can tell you.”

Our friend was penetrated with gratitude. Visions stole
over him of an eligible acquaintance, that would soon ripen
into friendship, with this most affable of peers; of a charming
country-house, agreeable women, billiards, music, dry
champagne, and flirtation—himself an honoured guest; of
an introduction, perhaps, through his noble ally, into the
best London society and everything that he had always
thought most desirable, but hitherto considered beyond his
reach. “Doubtless,” reasoned Mr. Sawyer, “he has remarked
<i>my riding</i>, and taken a fancy to me. On further
observation, he finds my manners are those of a perfect
gentleman; and he is determined we shall become friends.
How lucky Hotspur was so beat that I came in here!”

Accordingly, he thanked his new acquaintance with considerable
<i>empressement</i>, and assured him that “he should
take the first opportunity of taxing his hospitality.”

The unknown looked a little astonished. “Well,” he
replied, “if you don’t mind roughing it a bit, I dare say I
can find room for you, even in <i>my</i> little crib; but you can
see the horses out hunting, and ride them too, just the
same.”

“How considerate these noblemen are!” thought Mr.
Sawyer, “and how playful! I dare say his ‘little crib,’ as
he calls it, is three times the size of The Grange. But he
insists on mounting me, all the same.” So he thanked
him once more, and proposed that, as it was dark, and the
horses were somewhat recovered, they should endeavour to
make their way home.

“When will you come?” asked the unknown, as they
emerged into the open air—both horses coughing, one lame
before, and the other all round. “I’ve a bay that would
carry you admirably, and a brown, and indeed, a chestnut
that you would like. I’d take five hundred for the three;
and they’re so perfect, a child might ride them.”
.bn 093.png
.pn +1

“What a cordial, good fellow!” thought Mr. Sawyer
again. “He wishes me to enjoy my visit, and ride his
horses with thorough confidence; so he tells me of their
great value and perfect tuition. I have indeed ‘lit upon
my legs,’ as the saying is.” “Thank you,” he replied aloud.
“My time is my own; and I will pay you a visit whenever
it is perfectly convenient to you to receive me. My name
is Sawyer; and I am staying at Harborough. Perhaps you
will kindly write and let me know.”

“Very well, sir,” answered the other, muttering something
about “business,” but touching his hat, as Mr. Sawyer
thought, with all the politeness of the old school, as their
ways diverged; and he jogged off to get his hack, leaving our
friend to plod on afoot by the exhausted Hotspur, in the
darkening twilight, cheered but by one solitary star, which
threatened to be soon eclipsed by the clouds that were
rising fast in the sighing night-wind.

It was no such enviable position, after all. Seven miles
at least had Mr. Sawyer to go; and he must walk, or ride
at a foot’s pace, every yard of the way. The sky was
ominous of rain; the Laranagas were all smoked out; and
poor Hotspur was unquestionably “done to a turn.”

These are the moments which the most thoughtless of
men cannot but devote to reflection. There is nothing like
pace to drive away unpleasant considerations; but when
two miles an hour is the best rate we can command, black
Care is pretty sure to abandon his seat on the cantle of the
saddle, and, springing nimbly to the front, grins at us in
the face. I remember well how a fast-going youth—a friend
of my boyhood, now, alas! gone to Jericho <i>viâ</i> Short Street,
and with whom I have spent many a pleasant hour that
might have been better employed—used to read with great
energy whilst he was <i>dressing</i>. It was the only time, he
said, that his conscience could get the better of him, and
during which he had leisure to think of his sins and his
debts. He smothered the accusing voice and its painful
accessories by a course of severe study, and so got the anodyne
and the information at once.

Mr. Sawyer’s reflections were cheering enough till he
began to get tired. He liked the idea of visiting the
hospitable nobleman with whom he had lately parted, and
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
pictured to himself the very pleasant visit he hoped to pay
him, and the accession of importance with which such an
acquaintance would doubtless invest him amongst his Harborough
friends. He only wished he had inquired his
name; but then, he was evidently a personage whom everybody
knew, and it was better not to betray his ignorance.
Also, when the written invitation arrived—as unquestionably
it would—with its armorial bearings, and signature in
full, he would know all about it. Before he had tramped
through the mud for a mile, he began to think he had rather
“got into a good thing.”

Ere long, it began to rain—first of all, an ominous drizzle,
that seemed like continuing; then a decided pour, such as
runs into the nape of a man’s neck and the tops of his boots,
and wets him through in about a quarter of an hour. It
was not much fun, churning the fluid in his soles; so he
climbed stiffly into the saddle, and was disagreeably aware
that Hotspur, besides being thoroughly tired, was also undoubtedly
<i>lame</i>.

By degrees, his spirits fell considerably. He began to
think of the Honourable Crasher, with his off-hand manner
and his nine hunters. He remembered a certain fable of
the earthenware vessel that sailed down-stream amongst the
iron pots. How was he to hold his own in the fast-going
set which he had entered? He had better, perhaps, have
contented himself with the Old Country, and stayed quietly
at home. The comforts of The Grange presented themselves
in painful contrast to the muddy road along which he
was plodding—even to the smoky bedroom and dingy
parlour which would receive him at Harborough. Though
the rain had moderated, he jogged along the dark highway,
now squelching into puddles at the side, now cursing the
stones lately laid down in the middle—in either case, to the
equal discomfiture of poor Hotspur—and felt himself more
unhappy and out of humour every yard he went.

Presently, the horse quickened his pace of his own accord;
and the sound of hoofs behind him produced its usual inspiriting
effect on the rider.

“Company, at all events,” observed Mr. Sawyer, aloud.
“Hold up, you brute!” he added, as Hotspur made an
egregious “bite,” that nearly landed him on his nose.
.bn 095.png
.pn +1

Ere long, the new arrivals ranged alongside of him. They
were a lady and gentleman, on exceedingly tired horses.
What a piece of luck! They were no other than the
Reverend and Miss Dove!

“She knew me at once, though it’s so dark,” thought
our friend, with considerable gratification, as the damsel,
adapting her own pace to that of the jaded Hotspur without
difficulty, accosted him by name.

“How lucky, too!” said she, in her joyous tones. “We
shall keep each other company all the way to Harborough.
Papa and I were just saying how lonely the road was, after
dark; and our poor horses are so tired, they can hardly
walk.”

“Lucky indeed, for <i>me</i>,” replied Mr. Sawyer, gallantly,
adding with considerable <i>empressement</i>—for it was dark
enough to give a shy man confidence—“Do you know, I
was just thinking of you?”

The Reverend had dropped behind to light a cigar. Miss
Dove seemed to have no objection to receive this statement:
of the truth of which I have myself, however, strong doubts.
She edged her horse a little nearer her companion, and
answered laughingly,

“Indeed! A penny for your thoughts, then. I should
like to know what you <i>could</i> have been thinking about <i>me</i>
in the dark, after a day’s hunting.”

“I was thinking how well you rode,” answered Mr.
Sawyer, who, not much versed in the ways of womankind,
saw he might have said something more flattering, but like
a frightened bather, put one foot in, and then withdrew it.
It was not <i>his line</i>, you see, as he said himself; and consequently
he felt a little awkward at first with the ladies.

The latter, however, are in all cases strenuous advocates
for the “sliding scale” rather than the “fixed duty.” I
think I have observed that they are usually as ready to
bring a shy man “on” as they are to keep a forward one
back. There is a certain temperature at which they consider
you malleable; so they heat you up, or cool you down
to it, with no small chemical skill. Sometimes, but rarely,
they burn their own fingers in the process.

“I was wondering how <i>you</i> would get home,” said the
young lady very innocently after a pause. “Your poor
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
horse looked so very tired; but, then, he carried you
famously. Papa and I knew you by your cap—didn’t we,
Papa?”

Papa, who had now come up, corroborated his daughter;
but the Reverend was somewhat abstracted and unobservant.
He was not quite satisfied with the way his horse had
carried him. He doubted whether the animal had pace.
He doubted whether he had blood. He doubted whether
he had courage. In truth, he was thinking just then
whether he hadn’t better sell him to Mr. Sawyer.

That worthy was recovering his lost ground, by expressing
many tender hopes that Miss Dove was not very tired.
“She had had such a long day; and it was so wet for a
lady to be out; and how would she ever get home all that
way into Leicestershire?”

“Oh, we have a carriage at Harborough,” answered the
fair object of all these anxieties; “and I don’t mind being
late half so much as Papa does. I do so like being out at
night. Do you know, though I am so fond of riding, I am
rather <i>romantic</i>, Mr. Sawyer?”

“Oh, indeed! Yes, of course,” rejoined our friend,
seeing another opening, but not getting at it quite so readily
as if it had been in a bullfinch. “It’s very pleasant sometimes,
particularly in the summer; and horses always go
best at night. But, there’s no moon now,” he added, looking
wistfully first at the heavens, and then, as far as the
darkness would permit, in his companion’s face.

“I’m certain you’re a great quiz,” answered Miss Dove
to this harmless observation. “I told Mamma I was quite
afraid of you, the day you came to luncheon at the Rectory.
I dare say you think us all wild savages here, compared
with what people are in your own country. By the bye,
your country place is somewhere near London, I think you
said?”

Mr. Sawyer did not remember saying anything of the
kind, but he looked insinuating, which he need not have
done, as it was so dark, and replied,

“Forty minutes by rail. I can run up, and do my shopping,
and back again, between luncheon and dinner. I’m
only half-a-mile from a station.”

Then he had a country place. So far, so good. In discussing
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
him with Mamma, the latter had inclined to think
<i>not</i>, but Miss Dove held strongly to her own opinion. She
knew the country gentleman’s cut, she said; and in this
instance she was right.

“Do you farm much?” was her next inquiry, putting
the unconscious Sawyer through his facings, as only a
woman can.

“Not much,” replied our friend. “I let most of my
land; but I keep enough in my own hands to supply the
house. One must have a few cows, you know, for milk and
fresh butter.”

It was evidently all right. A man who had land to let
and land to keep, and a place of his own, was clearly none
of your penniless interlopers such as visit the grass at intervals,
like the locust, and eat it bare, and fly off and are
seen no more. Here was a bee worth catching; with a
hive, and honey, and flowers of its own—a good, honest
humble-bee, with plenty of buzz, and no sting.

By this time the lights of Harborough were twinkling in
the distance, and the Rev. Dove, whose horse had coughed
more than once, thought it advisable to trot forward and get
the carriage ready; whilst his daughter and Mr. Sawyer
came on at a foot’s pace, the latter gallantly affirming that
he would take the greatest possible care of his charge, and
wishing, as soon as they were alone, either that somebody
else would overtake them, and so break the <i>tête-à-tête</i>, or
else that he could find something to say, else she must
think him so confoundedly stupid. It was agreeable, too,
when he got a little more used to it. The girl talked on in
her gentle, pleasant voice, of the hounds, and the people,
and the country. Her tones had caught the languor of
slight fatigue, and were very soft and silvery to the ear.
More than once he wished it was not too dark to see the
long eyelashes resting on her cheek, those silky excrescences
having made no slight impression on Mr. Sawyer. He felt
quite sorry when the turnpike denoted their approach to the
confines of the town at which their ride must cease. He
could not conceive now how he could have been so out of
spirits not an hour ago.

“When shall I see you again?” he ventured to ask as
their horses’ hoofs clattered on the stony pavement, and he
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
saw the lamps of the Reverend’s carriage glowing like the
eyes of some monster ready to carry off his Andromeda.
As he spoke he even ventured to place his hand on her
horse’s neck; and this was a great stretch of gallantry for
Mr. Sawyer.

“Oh, you’ll be at the ball,” answered Miss Dove, without
withdrawing her steed from the range of her companion’s
caresses. “You’ll be at the ball, of course, even if we don’t
meet out hunting before that.”

“Ball!” repeated our friend in amazement. “What
ball do you mean?”

“Why, the Harborough Ball,” answered the young lady.
“Everybody will be there; Captain Struggles, Major Brush—even
Mr. Crasher, though he won’t do much in the way
of dancing. Why, it is held at your hotel. The music will
keep you awake all night, so you may as well go.”

“I will, if you’ll dance with me,” rejoined Mr. Sawyer,
with the air of a man who is “in for a penny, in for a
pound.”

And he felt queerer than he had ever done about Miss
Mexico when she murmured a gentle affirmative. Nay,
when he had put her carefully into papa’s carriage, and
tucked her up as assiduously as if she was going to the
North Pole, he whispered, “You won’t forget your promise?”
while he shook hands, and wished her “Good-bye.” Nor
did the scarce perceptible pressure with which that promise
was ratified tend to restore our friend’s equanimity in the
least.

He was not a ball-going man: far from it. Also, I
question whether it is not a breach of privilege that your
rest at an hotel should be broken for a whole night by the
thumping of feet, the squeaking of fiddles, the Scotch
Quadrilles, and the monotonous “Tempête;” whilst your
dinner and general comfort for two days previous to, and
two days after the solemnity, is reduced to positive misery.
Nevertheless, Mr. Sawyer caught himself repeating more
than once during the evening—which, by the way, he spent
in an atmosphere of smoke, with Struggles, Brush, Savage,
and the Honourable Crasher—“Ball! ball!—was ever
anything so lucky? Go!—of course I’ll go! In fact, I
promised: and perhaps she’ll dance with me <i>twice</i>!”
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-13
CHAPTER XIII||<s>“AFTER DARK”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>I never</sc> can understand upon what principle the rate of a
groom’s wages is always inversely proportioned to the work
he performs. For instance, Major Brush’s excellent domestic—a
bât-man, of lengthy proportions and military exterior—brushed
his master’s clothes, prepared his master’s breakfast,
took the first horse to covert, and rode the second on
occasion, cleaning either or both, if necessary, when they
came in, upon a stipend which would barely have kept Mr.
Tiptop in Cavendish and blacking.
.pi
The latter worthy, with a whole troop of helpers under
his command, never seemed to have a moment to spare for
anything but the routine duties of his station. As for riding
a second horse, or remaining out on a wet day, beyond his
accustomed dinner-hour, his master would as soon have
thought of bidding him dig potatoes! No: if Mr. Tiptop
went out hunting at all, it was generally on a <i>third</i> horse
in excellent condition, that wanted a couple of hours’ preparation
for the day after to-morrow, when the rider, in a
long-backed coat, a shaved hat, and the best boots and
breeches the art of man can compass, might be seen at
intervals, during a run with the first fox, now opening a
hand-gate, now creeping cautiously through a gap, and anon
cantering, with a Newmarket seat, and his hands down, up
some grassy slope, in front of soldiers, statesmen, hereditary
legislators, and justices of the peace, as if not only the field,
but the country, was his own.

Old Isaac, on the contrary, though subject to occasional
“rustiness,” and imbued with a strong aversion to what he
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
called being “put upon,” was ready and willing to turn his
hand to anything, if he thought such versatility would <i>really</i>
conduce to Mr. Sawyer’s advantage. With the assistance
of The Boy—who, indeed, since his arrival at Harborough,
had been constantly inebriated—the old man looked after
the three hunters, the hack, and his master, with considerable
satisfaction. He had even spare time on his hands,
now that he was removed from the responsibility of the pigs,
the poultry, and potatoes at The Grange.

It was in one of these moments of leisure that the bold
idea of getting the better of Mr. Tiptop entered the old
groom’s mind. I need not, therefore, specify that, under
his calm demeanour, Isaac concealed a disposition of considerable
enterprise and audacity.

Now the manner in which he proposed to take advantage
of the acquaintance he had lately struck up with Mr. Tiptop
was as follows:—By dint of his own sagacity and diplomatic
reticence, he resolved that he would prevail on that
gentleman to persuade his master that the redoubtable bay
horse Marathon should be transferred to his own stables;
and, to explain Isaac’s anxiety for this consummation, I
must be permitted to describe the appearance and general
capabilities of that peculiar animal.

Marathon, then, was a long bay horse, about fifteen-two,
with short legs, a round barrel, well ribbed up, and an enormous
swish-tail, of which he made considerable use. He
was one of those doubtfully-shaped animals which are condemned
alike by the eye of the totally inexperienced and
the consummate judges of horseflesh, but which are much
coveted by that large class of purchasers with whom “a
little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

And here I must remark how correct is usually our first
impression of a horse; and how seldom ladies—who judge
of these, as of all other articles, at a glance—are mistaken
in their opinion of the noble animal, if indeed they condescend
to turn their attention to his “make-and-shape.”

The worst point about Marathon was his head, which was
coarse, and denoted a sulky temper; but he carried a beautiful
coat; could stride away for a mile or so, on light
ground, with his hind legs under him, in the form of a racehorse;
and in short was never so graphically described as
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
by Mr. Job Sloper, when he sold him for sixty guineas and
a set of phaeton harness to his present owner: “If that
there horse aint worth five hundred, why, he aint worth
fifteen sovereigns—that’s all.”

And Mr. Sawyer has since confessed to himself, on more
than one occasion, that Job Sloper was right.

Mr. Tiptop liked Isaac, because he thought him an
original; and the swell groom, who was as epicurean in
his tastes as if he had been a Peer, took the pleasure of his
friend’s society over a can of egg-flip and a pipe of Cavendish
daily, after evening stables; during which convivialities,
the hard-headedness peculiar to the aborigines of the Old
Country was of infinite service to the latter, who wormed
out all the secrets of the Honourable Crasher’s stable, without
betraying his own.

“And there <i>is</i> some talk of a steeple-chase amongst these
nobs, is there?” said Isaac, ordering at the same time a
third call of “the flip,” and knocking the ashes from his
pipe with an exceedingly horny finger.

“<i>Talk</i> of it! indeed there is,” answered Mr. Tiptop,
whose face was beginning to redden with his potations.
“And a precious exhibition it will be, too. Ride! There
isn’t one of ’em as don’t believe he’s down to every move in
the game; and I’d take that boy of yours—though he <i>is</i>
but a boy, and not the best of hands, neither—and teach
him to outride every man of ’em in a fortnight! Such a
mess as they made of it last year! Blessed if I wasn’t
quite ashamed of the Honourable, to see him rollin’ about
in a striped jacket, like a zebra in convulsions! What’s
the use getting a horse fit, when the <i>man’s</i> blown in three
fields? But I don’t mind telling <i>you</i>, now,” added he, confidentially,
and fixing his eyes on the tallow candle that
stood between them—“I don’t mind telling <i>you</i>; for there’s
money to be made of it. He’ll win it this year, if he’ll only
sit <i>still</i>!”

“Win it, will he?” rejoined Isaac. “Well, I shouldn’t
wonder, so as he comes in first. But it takes a smartish
nag, Mr. Tiptop, to win a steeple-chase. Have you <i>tried</i>
yours to beat everything in the town?”

“Well, I think I’ve the length of most on ’em,” answered
Mr. Tiptop, smiling at the candle with a most reflective
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
expression of countenance. “You’ve got a bay as might
run up, if he was lucky. Why don’t you make <i>your</i> master
put him in?”

“He’s as deep as a well, is <i>my</i> master,” answered old
Isaac. “Nobody never knows what <i>he’s</i> up to. Bless you!
I can’t help thinking as he must have bought the bay
a-purpose for this here race: but <i>I</i> don’t know, no more
than the dead; and I dursn’t ask him, neither.”

Mr. Tiptop reflected profoundly for several minutes,
during which period Isaac’s countenance would have been a
study for an artist who wished to represent a face totally
devoid of thought. Then he asked—

“Have <i>you</i> ever tried the bay?”

“<i>Never</i>,” answered the senior, who piqued himself on his
veracity. “Master brought him back from Stockbridge,
last spring, pretty nigh done; and when I asked him what
he’d been up to, he bid me mind my own business. The
poor critter! he’d had a benefit, <i>sure-lie</i>!”

This was undoubtedly true, Marathon having turned
restive at a cross-road on the occasion in question, and,
after a quarter of an hour’s fight, given in, completely
exhausted.

“If he can beat our mare a mile, at even weights, he’ll
win it, as safe as safe!” observed Mr. Tiptop, now speaking
very thick, and with a good deal of gravity.

“I dursn’t give him a <i>mile</i>,” answered Isaac, with an
emphasis on the substantive which argued that he was open
to persuasion for a shorter distance.

Mr. Tiptop regarded him attentively for several seconds,
during which time he thought him first a flat, then the
sharpest customer he had ever come across, and lastly an
ignorant yokel and greenhorn once more.

“If <i>you’ll</i> chance it,” said he, “I’ll chance <i>our</i> mare.
We might try them early to-morrow morning.”

Old Isaac pretended not to understand. Mr. Tiptop,
with many flourishes, rose to explain.

“You go to exercise,” said he, “a little before it’s light,
in the big close just outside the town. Put a fourteen-pound
saddle on your nag; and don’t say nothing to nobody.
I’ll be there in good time, just to give our mare a
turn up the close. Nobody needn’t be a ha’porth the wiser.
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
Once we know the rights of it exactly, we can do what we
like. You’re game to the back-bone, old cock, <i>I</i> know!
<i>You</i> won’t split!”

“But master’s going to hunt the bay horse to-morrow,”
interposed Isaac, preserving his appearance of puzzled integrity
with admirable composure.

“Never mind,” answered Mr. Tiptop: “you come all the
same.” And, leering grimly at the tallow candle, Mr. Tiptop
made his exit, and betook himself heavily to bed.

In the meantime, the hunting gentlemen, at their hotel,
had been talking over the probabilities of getting up a
steeple-chase, and the chances of the different horses and
riders, whose merits they discussed with considerable freedom,
and no small amount of that playful <i>badinage</i> which
moderns term “chaff.”

Struggles, who rode over sixteen stone, was repeatedly
entreated to enter, and cordially assured that he would
carry all the money of the party; but Struggles, besides
his enormous weight, was too good a sportsman to take
pleasure in such a mongrel affair as a horse-race across a
country.

“I’d sooner go to a badger-bait,” said he, “or a cockfight.
I’d sooner hunt a cat in a kitchen, or a rat in a
sewer. It’s neither one thing nor the other; and I’ll have
nothing to do with it!” an announcement which was received
with derisive cheers by his companions, amongst
which Struggles calmly lit a fresh cigar, and filled his
tumbler once more with brandy-and-soda.

The Committee, as they called themselves, had met, according
to custom, for their nightly <i>weed</i>. They were indulging
freely in the use of narcotics and stimulants, to the
detriment of their digestions, and the destruction of their
nerves. They lived by rule, these choice spirits, and restricting
themselves, as they believed, with considerable
self-denial, to about a bottle-and-a-half of wine apiece at
dinner, considered that such abstinence entitled them to
smoke any quantity of cigars, and drink any amount of pale
brandy, choice Hollands, and such alcoholic fluids diluted
with soda-water, out of glasses the size of stable-buckets.

Men who spend their evenings after this fashion, are apt
to be surprised that they cannot cross a country with the
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
coolness and judgment of their earlier years. They wonder
why they are beat by Farmer Styles, who rides a raw four-year-old,
but who gets up with the sun, and has his beer
with his dinner at one o’clock. They envy my Lord’s iron
nerves and fresh-coloured face, notwithstanding his grizzled
hair, and do not consider that the peer has gone to bed with
a clear head and a good conscience every night for the last
forty years. Some days they get their courage up, and go
as well as ever; but these inspiriting occasions become
fewer and fewer, and at last they either give up their
favourite amusement altogether, or, worse still, spend a
large proportion of their time and income in a pursuit from
which they have long ceased to derive either pleasure or
profit.

The Honourable Crasher, though he smoked a great
deal, had neither spirits nor inclination to drink much; consequently,
notwithstanding his languor and apparent debility,
he had preserved the integrity of his nervous system. Mr.
Sawyer too, with a vigorous constitution, unimpaired by
previous excesses, was not materially affected by these
orgies, although his mouth was very dry in the mornings.
All the rest, for the first ten minutes, rode more or less in
a funk.

Nevertheless, volumes of smoke curled around the Committee,
and the thirst for brandy-and-soda seemed unquenched,
unquenchable.

They had discussed the usual topics which enliven the
dullness of a bachelor party. They had gone through the
different subjects which arise in inevitable rotation. From
the merits of horses and the shortcomings of riders, they had
proceeded to the fascinations of the other sex, and from that
again had, of course, returned to the inexhaustible theme,
the merits of horses, once more.

Major Brush, slightly excited, was the first to cross-question
Mr. Sawyer about his stud. Hitherto they had
treated our friend with the deference due to a stranger; but
he was now to be considered one of themselves, and bantered
or otherwise accordingly.

“You never ride that bay horse of yours, Sawyer,” said
the Major, in an off-hand, free-and-easy sort of way. “I
like him in the stable, better than anything you’ve got.”
.bn 105.png
.pn +1

“Good horse,” replied Mr. Sawyer laconically. “Goes
as fast as you can clap your hands.”

Now considerable anxiety had already been excited
amongst the grooms of Harborough concerning the powers
of the said bay horse. Old Isaac, by an affectation of extreme
secrecy, had led one and all to believe there was what
they termed “something up” about Marathon; and it was
but that morning the Major’s faithful bât-man had thought
it right to give his master a hint that “Muster Sawyer had
one as they were keepin’ <i>dark</i>,” so that the subject created
immediate interest amongst the party. Mr. Savage put
down the evening paper, behind which he had been observing
his friends, with a certain satirical amusement;
Struggles paused in the act of raising his tumbler to his
lips; and even the Honourable Crasher roused himself
sufficiently to turn in his rocking-chair, and gaze with an
expression of sleepy curiosity at the owner of the mysterious
bay horse. Major Brush pursued his inquiries:

“Have you ever hunted him?” said he, “or do you keep
him to look at?”

Dark and grim on Mr. Sawyer’s mind rose many a vision
of disappointment and discomfiture, and sporting casualties,
such as come under the generic term “grief,” originating
in Marathon’s incapacity; but he only replied—

“I’ve too few to keep any for show. I leave that to you
swells with your large studs. All mine are forced to come
out in their turn.”

The careful ambiguity of our friend’s answer put the
whole company on the <i>qui vive</i>. There was evidently
something about this nag that was to be <i>kept dark</i>. Even
Struggles, the simplest and frankest of men, began to think
Mr. Sawyer was what he called “a deep ’un.” The astute
Savage now stepped in for cross-examination.

“Shall you enter one for our steeple-chase, Sawyer?”
said he, with an off-hand air. “Anything that can <i>really</i>
gallop would be sure to win; and as it is to be entirely
amongst ourselves, and we shall all ride, it will be rather
good fun.”

“When is it?” asked Mr. Sawyer, with admirable
simplicity, as if this very steeple-chase, and a certain ball
which he had made up his mind to attend, were not
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
the two topics by which he had of late been chiefly engrossed.

Everybody now spoke at once. “Time not fixed,” said
one. “Directly the weights are out,” said another.
“Whenever we can find a handicapper to give <i>universal</i>
satisfaction,” sneered a third; whilst the Honourable
Crasher, turning once more in the rocking-chair, and losing
a slipper in the effort, quietly remarked, he “would take
ten to one even then that he named the winner.”

“Take him, Sawyer!” exclaimed Major Brush. “Take
him at once! and enter the bay horse. Owners to ride, of
course. He’s got nothing but Chance, now that Catamount’s
lame,” added the gallant officer, in a stage whisper,
and with a degree of friendly <i>empressement</i> born of rosy
wine.

The Honourable smiled feebly, but vouchsafed no reply.
It was indeed too true, and as he had rather set his heart
on winning this steeple-chase, the truth was unacceptable,
as usual. Mr. Sawyer seemed to ponder deeply on what
he had heard.

“I should lose so much hunting,” said he, after a pause,
during which he had smoked with considerable perseverance
and an aspect of profound reflection. “Why, a horse
would not have the ghost of a chance, would he, unless he
was put to training?”

Doctors differ upon most subjects. “No training like
regular hunting,” said Struggles, who meant to have nothing
to do with it. “Take him out often, and send him home
early,” advised Major Brush, who was generally of opinion
that nothing more would be done after 1 <sc>P.M.</sc> “The half-bred
ones seldom stand regular preparation,” opined Mr.
Savage, “I should keep him here under my own eye;”
while the Honourable Crasher murmured something about
“Newmarket being the only place to get a donkey fit.”

Mr. Sawyer turned from one to the other, as if weighing
carefully what each had said; then he flung his cigar-end
into the grate, finished his liquor at a gulp, and observing,
“Well, I must think about it; in the meantime I’m going
to hunt him to-morrow,” wished his friends “Good-night,”
and departed for what he was pleased to term his “downy.”

As Struggles and Brush, who occupied adjoining bedrooms,
.bn 107.png
.pn +1
shouldered each other up the narrow passage that
led to their apartments, the former declared with a stupendous
yawn, “He didn’t quite know what to make of their
new friend, but fancied, whether the bay was a <i>dark</i> one or
not, his owner was well able to take care of himself.” To
which the Major, whose eyes seemed much dazzled by the
candle in his hand, of which he was spilling the wax with
considerable liberality over the passage-carpet, replied,
“We shall find out all about him to-morrow, old boy, if we
keep our eyes open—that’s all: if we only keep our eyes
open!” And for the better furtherance of this wide-awake
scheme, the Major, whose eyes were already nearly closed,
proceeded to turn in, after an attempt to undress, in which
he only partially succeeded.

Mr. Sawyer, winding up his watch and depositing it carefully
on his toilet-table, observed a face of considerable
wisdom in his looking-glass, as he reflected on the interest
which seemed to have been created about Marathon. He
balanced the pros and cons: he enumerated, not without
disgust, the numerous failings of the horse; then he shook
his head twice or thrice, gravely, as was his habit, when,
to use his own expression, “he thought he saw his way.”
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-14
CHAPTER XIV||<s>“BEFORE THE DAWN”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>An</sc> unshaved face, blotched and parti-coloured from waning
inebriety, upturned and open-mouthed in all the imbecility
of profound sleep; a recumbent form snoring loudly under
a patchwork quilt, and supported by a rickety bedstead, on
an uncarpeted floor, in a room with a sloping roof, of which
the only furniture seemed to be a box, originally intended
for horse-clothing; a five-pound saddle, a pair of spurs, and
a black bottle containing a tallow candle that had guttered
itself out some two hours previously—all this does not
sound like a cheerful and inspiriting scene about five o’clock
on a winter’s morning. Nevertheless, such did not fail to
call a grim smile into Isaac’s harsh countenance, as he
contemplated it, on this, his first visit to Mr. Tiptop’s
apartment. Isaac had been revolving the swell stud-groom’s
proposal of the evening before, and had come to a decision
in his own mind ere he went to sleep, the result of which
was his matutinal appearance in the chamber I have endeavoured
to describe. He was not a man to waste much
time in the contemplation even of a more agreeable sight
than that which now met his eyes. He shook Mr. Tiptop
roughly by the shoulder till that worthy sat up in bed, and
blinked at his visitor’s candle with a ludicrous expression
of astonishment and dismay.
.pi
“What’s up?” he exclaimed at last, as he began to be
sensible of the old man’s identity. “Blessed if I didn’t
think the stables was a-fire, and all our horses grilling, till
I see it was you. Will you take any refreshment?” added
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
Mr. Tiptop jocosely, pointing to an earthenware ewer containing
cold water—and not much of that; “or is there
anything I can do for you besides telling you what o’clock
it is?” he added, yawning, and betraying strong symptoms
of a desire to go to sleep again.

Old Isaac laid his finger to his nose.

“Get up,” said he in a cautious whisper. “It <i>is</i> just to
know <i>what’s o’clock</i> as I’ve come here. You lay your hand
on a fourteen-pound saddle, and there need be no mistake
about the weights. My nag’s ready, and turned round.
You go and get yourn. There’s a bit o’ moon left: not
quite burned down yet. We can get it over and done with,
and the horses back in the stable afore the others is up.”

Mr. Tiptop was a man of considerable energy when anything
like a robbery was on the cards: he was, however,
hardly prepared for such a display of alacrity on the part of
his companion. He put one skinny leg out of bed, and then
paused, staring vaguely at his visitor.

“Come, look alive!” said old Isaac, fishing a pair of
breeches from the floor; “there ain’t a minute to lose.
Where’s the key o’ <i>your</i> stable?”

The weaker nature obeyed instinctively: Tiptop put on
his breeches, and produced the key,

“Not a word to living mortal!” urged the old man impressively.
“It’s as much as my place is worth. I’ve left
The Boy safe locked up. You go and get <i>your</i> horse, and
meet me in the close. There’s just light enough to gallop
’em. Look alive, man! Whatever should I do if master
was to get wind of this here?”

Isaac seemed unusually perturbed as he preceded Mr.
Tiptop down the creaking stairs, and wended his way to his
own stable, leaving the latter—still rather confused—to
saddle and bring out the redoubtable Chance.

The Honourable Crasher’s groom felt for the first time in
his life somewhat puzzled, and taken aback. He had not
calculated on such promptitude and decision from a “yokel.”
Also, his intellects had hardly recovered the potency of the
flip, a beverage of which it requires several hours’ sleep to
obviate the effects. Altogether he was sensible of less than
his usual self-confidence. In his hurry, too, and by the
imperfect light of a stable-lantern, he put the wrong saddle
.bn 110.png
.pn +1
on Chance, who, by the way, was not a very pleasant animal
to caparison, save by her own accustomed attendant—a
grey-haired, withered old helper, then probably dreaming of
the better days most of these ancient stablemen have seen.
The snaffle, too, that he wanted was not in its accustomed
place. Altogether, it took him some considerable time
before he could lead the horse out into the wan light of a
morning moon. This interval, however, had enabled him
to recover the good opinion he generally entertained of Mr.
Tiptop. As he got upon Chance’s back, and felt the animal
step lightly and jauntily under him, the conviction came
strong upon his mind that in some way or other he was sure
to get the better of the yokel.

As the conscience-stricken Marmion riding his red-roan
by night into the enchanted ground was aware of a phantom
cavalier looming dimly in the distance in guise of his deadliest
enemy, so Mr. Tiptop, opening the gate of the close
which he had appointed for a trysting-place, distinguished
the outline of the man and horse with whom he was about
to try the speed of his thorough-bred. As he neared his
antagonist, he observed that the animal he bestrode was
sheeted and hooded, and otherwise so swaddled up in
clothing, that there was nothing visible of it, save its legs;
and in the uncertain twilight the general effect of the pair
much resembled that of those hobby-horses which so delighted
our ancestors in their Christmas revels.

“Look alive!” exclaimed Mr. Tiptop, somewhat angrily,
as a black cloud swept across the moon, and a raw morning
breeze dashed a score of sharp rain-drops into his feverish
face. “It will be light in half an hour, though it’s as dark
as pitch now. Ain’t you going to strip him?”

“Strip him!” repeated Isaac, keeping off at a respectful
distance the while. “Not I; he always runs kindest in
his clothes. Don’t ye come anigh!” he added, as Mr.
Tiptop ranged alongside. “He’s werry handy with his
heels when he’s at exercise. Are you ready?”

Now the close, as such open spaces are termed only in
the midland counties, was a field of sound old grass, comprising
little less than a hundred acres, and was much
affected as an exercising ground by the grooms of such
sportsmen as had chosen Market Harborough for their head-quarters.
.bn 111.png
.pn +1
This was sufficiently attested by the trodden
state of its hedges, betraying the hoofs-marks of many a
good nag, whose speed had been tried here far oftener than
was dreamt of by his master. Do you think we know the
merits of our steeds one-half as well as do their own immediate
attendants? Why are the hacks always in such good
condition, and constantly falling lame so unaccountably?
Is it that on their homeward way they are matched continually
against each other, and against Father Time, whereby
many pots of beer and goes of brandy are lost and won
on the result? To a man who <i>really</i> cares for his horses,
a groom he can depend upon is worth his weight in gold.

Both Isaac and Mr. Tiptop knew perfectly well that a
straight run-in, the long way of the furrows, up to a certain
white gate which they would pass on their right hand, was
as near half-a-mile as possible. The latter, keeping out of
reach of his opponent’s heels, proposed a longer distance;
but Isaac, declaring it was simply a question of speed, as
they both knew their horses’ performances in the hunting-field,
overruled his friend on this point.

“When you’re ready,” said the old sinner, who could
hardly see his listener in the increasing darkness, “we’ll
start, and run it from end to end. Mind, Mr. Tiptop, I
trust to your h’onour!”

“In course!” replied Mr. Tiptop, who was considering
whether he could make a better thing of it by acting, as he
himself would have said, entirely on “the square,” or otherwise.

Accordingly they took up their positions some ten yards
apart, but strictly on the same level, and went off with a
rush, amicably and honourably, when they were both ready.

It would be doing injustice to Mr. Tiptop to say that,
when he really chose, he was not a consummate horseman,
either across a country or over the flat. On the present
occasion he was resolved to do all he knew, and he sat down
upon Chance, and got at her in the most masterly manner.
The mare, however, like many that have been in training,
was a lurching, shifty goer, taking several strides before she
got fairly into her speed. Mr. Tiptop, notwithstanding his
proficiency, saw the dark figure of his opponent a dozen
lengths ahead of him, and could not overhaul him do what
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
he would. His finish, no doubt, was inimitable, but it
failed to land him first past the goal. Old Isaac, there was
no disputing it, won cleverly by a couple of lengths.

Mr. Tiptop couldn’t make it out. “They’ve got a flyer,”
said he to himself; “and they <i>know it</i>!”

He would fain have talked it over with Isaac then and
there; but the veteran, simply remarking that “he was
quite satisfied, and it would be daylight in ten minutes,”
passed through the white gate already mentioned, and trotted
back to the town at a pace which Mr. Tiptop’s regard for
Chance’s legs forbade him to imitate.

Both horses were safe home in their stables before the
helpers were up.
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-15
CHAPTER XV||<s>TAKING A HINT</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>No</sc> man alive subscribed more heartily than did the Honourable
Crasher to Mr. Sheridan’s aphorism, that “If the
early bird catches the worm, what a fool must the worm be
to get up earlier than the bird!” It was always a matter
of great difficulty to get the Honourable out of bed, and not
to be managed without considerable diplomacy. The stud-groom
and valet laid their heads together for this purpose
with laudable ingenuity, the former entertaining a professional
regard for the hack’s legs, the latter being much
averse to the idea of a hurried toilet. He liked to turn the
Honourable out as a gentleman should be dressed, resplendent
in scarlet, and with faultless boots and breeches. In
his own opinion, proper justice could not be done to the
garments he had prepared, under an hour and a quarter;
and when the place of meeting was a dozen miles off, and
the church clock chiming half-past nine found his master
still in bed, the valet might be seen pervading the passages
with tears in his eyes. The <i>ruse</i> he found most efficacious
was to tap at the door soon after eight, and say it was near
ten. The Honourable’s watch was pretty sure to have been
left downstairs, or, if in his bedroom, to have stopped,
unwound; and often as the trick had succeeded, Crasher
never seemed yet to have found it out. Even if he rose in
time, however, he was a sad dawdle. There were letters to
be read, and sometimes answered. He would breakfast in
a gorgeous dressing-gown, and smoke a cigar over a French
novel afterwards, never dreaming of getting into his hunting
things till he ought to have been more than halfway to
.bn 114.png
.pn +1
covert. Sometimes, and this was the sorest grievance of all,
he would take a fancy not to hunt, and then changing his
mind at the last moment, order round one of the unfortunate
hacks, and go off like a flash of lightning.
.pi
On the morning to which I have already alluded, Mr. Tiptop,
cleaned, breakfasted, and considerably freshened up,
having completely recovered the effects of his early gallop,
seen everything set straight about the stable, and dispatched
two of his master’s horses to Shearsby Inn, was vainly waiting
for an audience at the Honourable’s bedroom door about
ten <sc>A.M.</sc>

The valet, a staid elderly man, who, as Mr. Tiptop would
have said, made a point of “standing in” with all the
upper servants, treated the stud-groom with considerable
deference. They had exhausted their usual topic of the
weather, the probability of sport, and their master’s propensities
for repose, and were now beguiling the time by
listening at his chamber door alternately, till the welcome
sound of much splashing and hard breathing announced
that the Honourable had tumbled out of bed into his tub.

After awhile the valet gave a low tap at the door, accompanied
by a cough.

“Who’s there?” said the inmate of the chamber, sedulously
drying his elegant proportions before an enormous
fire.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” answered the well-drilled servant.
“Mr. Tiptop, sir, wishes to speak to you, sir.”

“Tell him to go to the devil,” rejoined the Honourable,
struggling leisurely into a clean shirt.

There was no occasion for the polite valet to repeat this
message, inasmuch as Mr. Tiptop was there to hear it for
himself. The servants looked at each other, and laughed
in their sleeve.

Presently, the valet, who knew to a second how long each
stage of the toilet ought to last, knocked again.

“What is it?” murmured the Honourable very indistinctly,
for the sufficient reason that he was sedulously
brushing his teeth.

“Mr. Tiptop, sir, wishes to know if he can see you before
you go down to breakfast.”

The stud-groom was well aware that no confidential communication
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
could take place during that meal, disturbed as
it usually was by the arrival of other late starters, dropping
in, to hurry their friend.

“Come in,” gurgled the Honourable: and his stud-groom
made his appearance, smoothing his shiny head as all
grooms do.

“What’s the matter, Tiptop?” inquired his master,
poising the tooth-brush between finger and thumb. “Are
all the horses lame?”

“Not so bad as that, sir,” answered Tiptop, respectfully,
revolving in his mind how he should begin what he had to
say. For all his languor, there was something about
Crasher that made people very loath to take a liberty. “I
only wanted to tell you, sir, of a horse I’ve seen as you
ought to buy. I thought I’d make bold to tell you before
any of the other gentlemen got word of him. He’s a flyer,
sir—that’s what he is!”

Now, in all matters relating to the stable, Mr. Tiptop
ruled paramount, the Honourable’s system being to make
his groom look out for horses, and if he liked their appearance
himself, to buy them at once. With regard to riding,
I have already said, he could make them all go, if they had
any pretensions to hunters about them.

“Whose is he?” was the next question asked; for the
Honourable was now finishing his toilet in such a hurry as
would have made you suppose he never was late in his life.

“Mr. Sawyer’s, sir,” answered Tiptop. “It’s the bay.
He’ll be on him to-day at Barkby Holt.”

“Very well,” answered the Honourable, buttoning on a
watch-chain, with half-a-dozen lockets attached, as he
emerged from his room. “Tell Smiles to get breakfast
<i>directly</i>, and send the hack round in ten minutes!”

Mr. Tiptop looked after him admiringly, as he clanked
downstairs. “He means <i>business</i> this morning,” thought
the groom, “and I’ll lay a new hat he buys the bay
horse!”

Now if Mr. Tiptop had felt he had the best of the morning
trial, it had been his intention to pull his horse back,
and gammon his friend Isaac that he was beat, with the
laudable determination to get the better of that worthy, as
well as of the general public, by making good use of his
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
knowledge previous to the race. When, however, he found
that her antagonist had the heels of Chance, whom he had
already tried with the other grooms to be quite the best in
the town, he altered his tactics altogether. Obviously they
ought to have both the flyers in the same stable; and it
would be wiser to stand in with Isaac, and make the old
groom a sharer in the profits, as he was already in the information
which their early rising had enabled them to obtain.
Mr. Tiptop forgot that it is as dark before dawn as it is
after nightfall. He might, perhaps, have been farther enlightened,
had he, instead of waiting at his master’s door
till the Honourable’s teeth had been polished to the required
degree of whiteness, been able to assist at an interview
which took place at the same hour between Isaac and
his master, in a room where the latter had just finished
breakfast.

The old groom made no apology for entering; as was his
custom, he plunged at once <i>in medias res</i>.

“I’ve sent <i>two</i> out for you to-day,” said he, marching
up to Mr. Sawyer’s chair, and confronting him with a grin,
such as might be cut out of mahogany.

“And left <i>one</i> in the stable! you old idiot!” exclaimed
the indignant Mr. Sawyer. “What the deuce have you
done that for?”

“You’ll want a second horse to-day,” answered the
groom. “You’ll have a bid for Marathon before you’ve been
on him half an hour. Leastways, if you’ve the discretion
not to go a-showing of him up.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Sawyer, with a
dawning of intelligence overspreading his countenance, for
he knew his servant’s diplomatic talents of old.

“Only that they’re all of ’em wanting a nag to win
this here donkey-race, as I call it; for none but a donkey
would be concerned in such a tomfoolery; and Mr. Crasher,
he’s satisfied by this time that Marathon’s the one as just
<i>can</i>. You sit still upon him to-day, and keep jogging of
him about, to <i>qualify</i> like, till the hounds find, and then
open your mouth, and take what they offer you.”

Mr. Sawyer had implicit confidence in his old servant;
still he could not help wishing to be further enlightened.

“You must have told some precious yarns,” said he, “to
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
make people believe Marathon could <i>run up</i> with a man in
mud-boots!”

“I never said a word!” answered Isaac; “people may
believe their own eyes. Mr. Tiptop and I, we tried ’un
this very morning again Chance; and though she’s the
best in the town, we beat her by more than a length.”

“Marathon beat that mare!” exclaimed Mr. Sawyer,
now completely taken aback. “What <i>do</i> you mean?”

Old Isaac’s features were distorted once more into the
mahogany grin.

“Well, if Marathon didn’t, Jack did,” said he quietly.
“You couldn’t tell one from the other in their clothing
when it’s dark, and the Dandy would win the Derby if it
wasn’t over half-a-mile.”

It was too true: though the smart little nag never could
stay a mile at a racing pace in his best days, he was as
quick on his legs as a rabbit, and nothing could touch him,
for five furlongs. Swaddled up in his clothes under the
dubious twilight of a winter’s morning, Mr. Tiptop never
suspected him, and went home with the conviction that
Marathon, and none other, was the horse that had beaten
his favourite.

Mr. Sawyer laughed to himself as he rode Jack very gingerly
on to Barkby.
.bn 118.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-16
CHAPTER XVI||<s>RIDING TO SELL</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>If</sc> Mr. Sawyer had kept a hunting journal (which he didn’t)
he would have noted down the meet at Barkby, as one of
those gorgeous spectacles, which makes an ineffaceable
impression on the eye of the unpractised beholder. There
appeared to be more hounds, more horses, more servants,
more carriages, and altogether a larger staff and retinue
attached to the establishment, than he had ever hitherto
seen paraded for the purpose of killing a fox. Nevertheless,
with all this show, there was no mistake about the workmanlike
tendency of the turn-out. If the pack was numerous,
it was also exceedingly level and in faultless condition;
the huntsman and whips looked as if they must have been
born and bred for the especial offices they respectively
filled, and the second-horse men, notwithstanding their
number, appeared to be all cut from the same pattern. As
for the hunters, Mr. Sawyer would have wished no better
luck than to ride the worst of them at a hundred and fifty
guineas. One magnificent bay with a side-saddle, destined,
no doubt, to carry a beautiful and precious burden, quite
put him out of conceit with Hotspur and the grey. As
for Marathon! why he would never have got on him, in
such company, had not the pleasing reflection crossed his
mind, that perhaps to-day he should get rid of the brute
altogether.
.pi
He had ridden The Dandy very leisurely to covert, in
consideration of the animal’s services before dawn, and had
sent on the grey with an occasional helper from the inn,
under the superintendence of The Boy, who was perched
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
on Marathon: old Isaac, who wanted to buy some hay
cheap, having given himself leave of absence for the day.
The helper, with many injunctions to go steadily, was entrusted
with the homeward-bound hack; and The Boy
shifted to the second horse, whilst Mr. Sawyer himself bestrode
the redoubtable bay. All these arrangements, with
the accompanying pulling up of curb-chains and letting
down of stirrup-leathers, took some little time. Before our
friend was fairly mounted and under way, the hounds had
gone on to draw, and he found himself nearly the last of
the lengthening cavalcade. Under existing circumstances
this was no great disadvantage, and the quieter he kept the
bay, he thought, the better was his chance of selling him;
yet he could not help wishing old Isaac had left the whole
business alone. He might then have been forward with
the hounds, looking out for a start on whichever horse
he liked best, uninfluenced—as a man always should be,
really to enjoy fox-hunting—by the sordid considerations
of <i>£.</i> <i>s.</i> <i>d.</i>

Marathon was very fresh, and set his back up, squeaking
in a most undignified manner, and swishing his heavy tail,
till it reached his rider’s hat.

A horse galloping up from behind set him plunging with
a violence that was scarcely pleasant, even to so practised a
rider as our friend. He returned the greeting of the new
comer—no less a personage than the Honourable Crasher,
late as usual, and cantering to the front on Boadicea
by Bellerophon out of Blue Light—with a preoccupied
air of a man who expects every moment to be on his
back.

The Honourable, slightly amused, pulled up alongside.
“Halloa, Sawyer,” said he, “you’ll be hard to beat to-day:
the steeple-chaser seems uncommon full of running.”

“It’s only his play,” answered Mr. Sawyer, modestly;
indulging Marathon, who was preparing for another kick,
with a vicious jerk of the curb. “I can’t get my old groom
to give him work enough, and he’s sent me a second horse
out to-day.”

This was meant to imply that the kicker was too valuable
an animal for a mere hunter, and the Honourable interpreted
it accordingly. As he rode alongside, he scanned
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
the bay’s points with the critical eye of a purchaser. A
horse never looks so well as when he is trotting beside you
on a strip of grass, excited by the presence of hounds. If
backed by a good horseman, the veriest brute, under these
circumstances, makes the most of his own appearance.
Marathon going within himself, playing lightly with his bit,
and bringing his hind legs under his girths at every step,
was a very different horse from the same Marathon extended
and labouring, in a sticky ploughed field. I have already
said he possessed many qualities sufficiently taking to the
eye. As the Honourable examined him from his muzzle to
his hocks, he could not but acknowledge that the horse
looked uncommonly like a galloper. “If he can only
jump,” thought Crasher, “and get pretty quick over his
fences, he ought to be a <i>rattler</i>. I suppose I shall have to
buy him.”

Meanwhile Mr. Sawyer, who, as he remarked of himself,
“was not such a fool as he looked,” but on the contrary
resembled those “still waters” which the German proverb
says “run so deep,” conversed affably with his friend on a
number of topics totally unconnected with horseflesh, or the
pleasures of the hunting-field. For once in his life, he did
not want to get a start, that’s the truth; and as his companion
was one of those indolent, easy-going people whose
fancy can be led astray without difficulty in any given direction,
they were soon deep in a variety of subjects, originating
no doubt with Mr. Sawyer, but to which, I am bound to
say, he had never devoted much of his time or attention.
They touched upon the last misadventure brought under the
notice of Sir Cresswell Cresswell—discussed the agricultural
prospects of the season, and on this theme it would be difficult
to say which was most incapable of giving an opinion—argued
on the importance of a movement for taking the
duty off cigars, and lastly got involved in the interminable
question of what use the Volunteers would be, in the event
of an invasion, and whether or not they would be killed to
a man, when their conversation was cut short by an obvious
bustle and confusion about a mile ahead of them, denoting
that a fox had not only been found, but gone away.

“Done to a turn!” exclaimed the Honourable, interrupting
his own explanation of how he should handle skirmishers
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
if he was a general officer, which, by the way, it was fortunate
for the skirmishers he was <i>not</i>. “What a bore! We
sha’n’t catch them in a week!” he added, turning Boadicea’s
head at the fence, and starting her at score through a deep
ploughed field. In a few strides he had forgotten skirmishers,
and Marathon, and Mr. Sawyer, and everything in
the world except that he had lost his start.

The latter, watching the line “fine by degrees and beautifully
less” on the horizon, rather congratulated himself,
that his chance was completely out, and that there was now
no temptation for him either to exert his own energies, or
draw upon the failing powers of Marathon in the pursuit of
that which he felt could scarcely be called <i>pleasure</i>. He
jogged along the lane accordingly, content enough, thinking
what fun he would have on the grey, in the afternoon,
with a second fox!

But a few of us can have hunted much without remarking
a peculiarity connected with the chase, that occasions constant
irritation and annoyance to its votaries. Have you
never observed, that if you lose your chance of getting away
with hounds, whether from procrastination, inattention, or
the laudable objection entertained by a rational man to ride
at a large fence, do what you will, you only succeed in
increasing the distance between yourself and the object you
wish to reach? In vain you “nick,” and “skirt,” and ride to
points that you think likely to be affected by a fox running
for his life; in vain you “harden your heart,” and sail
away boldly over the line of gaps already established by
your predecessors; you are only tiring your horse, and risking
your neck in a wild-goose chase. You diverge to a distant
halloo, and find it raised by a boy scaring crows. You
succeed by extraordinary exertions in reaching the group of
scarlet coats and bobbing hats you have been following so
long, and learn that they have been “thrown out” like
yourself, and the further you go, the further you are left
behind; till you hate yourself, as much as your horse hates
you for not having judiciously joined the band of second-horse
riders, and so jogged contentedly along in ease and
safety, sure to come up with the first flight at last.

On the other hand, we will suppose that you have tired
your best hunter early in the day, or he had fallen lame on
.bn 122.png
.pn +1
that weak point where everybody said he <i>would</i> be lame
when you bought him, or you have a hundred and fifty other
reasons for wishing to sneak quietly home, out of the observation
of your friends. Those plaguy hounds seem to follow
you as if you were the Wild Huntsman himself, and you
begin to appreciate the severity of the punishment inflicted
on that wicked German Baron. They draw coverts that lie
on your homeward way. They find, and hunt with provoking
persistency alongside the very lane up which you would
fain jog in solitude, crossing it more than once under your
nose. There is sure to be a fair holding scent, not good
enough to enable them to run clear out of your neighbourhood
and have done with it, yet sufficient to afford plenty
of enjoyment to such as are with them; these have, nevertheless,
leisure to observe your movements, and to wonder
why you are not amongst them. They are all your own
particular friends, and you know you will be called upon,
next hunting morning, to answer the difficult question—“What
became of <i>you</i>, after we left you in the road at So-and-so?”
Diana seems to delight in the rule of contrary.
Like the rest of her sex, she takes you up and persecutes
you, when you don’t want her; and when you are most
ardent and zealous in her pursuit, she rebuffs you and puts
you down.

Nothing could be further from Mr. Sawyer’s wishes than
to find himself, on the present occasion, in a conspicuous
position with the Quorn hounds. Had he wanted to be
singled out in front of all that talent and beauty, Marathon
was certainly the last animal he would have chosen on which
to make an appearance in such choice company; nevertheless,
the force of circumstances is beyond the control even
of men like Mr. Sawyer, and however averse he might be to
“achieve greatness,” he found, most unwillingly, “greatness
thrust upon him.” For awhile he had lost sight of
everybody, and was in the act of pulling out his cigar-case
to enjoy one of his Laranagas in solitude and repose, proposing
to hang on the line, keeping a little down wind, and
as soon as he should spy the second-horses, mount the grey,
and send Marathon straight home. Crasher, he thought,
would buy the horse without asking any more questions.

Scarcely, however, had he got his weed fairly <i>under weigh</i>,
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
than the music of a pack of hounds broke suddenly on his
ear from behind a high impervious bullfinch that sheltered
one side of the grass-lane along which he was proceeding so
leisurely. “Confound the brutes!” said Sawyer to himself,
“here they are again!” As he opened the gate through
which the track led into a sixty-acre pasture, the whole
pack swept under his horse’s nose, running with sufficient
energy to denote what sportsmen call a holding scent; they
carried a capital head, and were forcing their fox at a pace
which kept him going, but was not good enough to come up
with him.

It was just the sort of gallop that enables people who ride
to hounds to look about them, and enjoy not only the sport,
but the accompanying humours of the scene.

In these days, a <i>real</i> quick thing is such an affair of hurry,
that the lucky few who are in it cannot spare a moment’s
attention from anything but their horses’ ears.

Had he been riding a donkey, it was not in Mr. Sawyer’s
nature to abstain from turning the animal’s head towards
the hounds under such temptation; moreover, he distinguished
amongst the first flight his Harborough companions,
including the pale face of the Honourable Crasher, who by
“bucketing” Boadicea most unmercifully, had got there
somehow, and appeared quite satisfied with his situation.
What could our friend do, but cut in, and go to work at once?

Marathon, excited by the turmoil, was fain to set his back
up once more. He found, however, that the kicking was
now all the other way. Taking him in a grasp that would
have lifted a ton, Mr. Sawyer drove his spurs into the half-bred
brute, and set him going close to the hounds at the
best pace he could command. For a short distance, and
when held well together, Marathon could stride away in a
very imposing form. The sensation of having a lead is, in
itself, provocative of emulation; behind our friend were four
or five intimate companions, who were not likely to let him
hear the last of any instance of “shirking” that should
come under their notice. Close on their track were the
flower of Leicestershire; and these again were succeeded,
so to speak, by a whole army of camp-followers, “maddening
in the rear.”  Had the Styx been in front of him, he
must have charged it “in or over.”
.bn 124.png
.pn +1

Instead of the waters of Acheron, however, there was
nothing more formidable in his line than a straggling, overgrown
bullfinch at the far end of the field; just such a fence,
indeed, as Marathon was in the habit of declining, but yet
which he hoped the turmoil behind, the general excitement,
and the persuasive powers of his own spurs, would enable
him to induce his horse to face. He had plenty of time to
scan it as he approached. Half-a-mile or so of ridge-and-furrow,
even at a hunter’s best pace, gives leisure for consideration.
Ere the hounds had strung through it in single
file, he was aware of a wide ditch <i>to</i> him; on the farther
side was obviously a grass-field, <i>and</i> an uncertainty!

Marking with his eye the weakest place, through which,
nevertheless, he could not see daylight, Mr. Sawyer, crammed
his hat on his head, and set his horse resolutely at the
fence; Marathon, according to custom, when he expected
anything out of the common, <i>shutting up</i> every stride he
went. Had it not been rather downhill, even his master’s
consummate horsemanship would have failed to bring him
close to it. The fall of the ground, however, and the pace
he was going, forbade the bay to stop. <i>Crash!</i> he plunged
into the very middle of the fence—broke through it from
sheer velocity, to jerk both knees against a strong oak rail
beyond—blundered on to his nose over <i>that</i>—slid half-a-dozen
yards on his head—nearly recovered himself—stumbled
once more, and finally got up again, with his curb-rein
turned over his ears; the rider’s feet out of both stirrups,
hat off, a contusion on his left eyebrow, and the horse’s
nostrils fall of mud, but <i>no fall</i>!

“By the powers, that’s a <i>rum one</i>!” said Mr. Sawyer,
as he cantered slowly up the opposite slope, repairing
damages the while, and turned round to see the first flight
charge the obstacle, which had so nearly disposed of his
own chance.

.if h
.il fn=i_126.jpg w=595px
.ca
<s>“Four loose horses galloping wildly away.”</s>
.ca-
.if-

.if t
.sp 2
.in 8
.ti -4
[Illustration: “Four loose horses galloping wildly away.”]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-

Lusty as eagles, ravenous as wolves, jealous as girls,
down came the four <i>gluttons</i> at the fence, each man having
chosen his own place, and scorning to deviate one hair’s
breadth from his line. None, however, had made so judicious
a selection as Mr. Sawyer. The rail, which had so
nearly discomfited the latter, would neither bend nor break,
but he had the luck of getting it where it was lowest and
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
nearest to the fence; everywhere else it was not only high,
but stood out a horse’s length into the field, just the place
which must catch the cleverest hunter in the world, if ridden
to do it all in its stride.

The scene that met Mr. Sawyer’s eyes was amusing,
though alarming. Four <i>imperial crowners</i> at one and the
same instant—four loose horses galloping wildly away—four
red-coats rising simultaneously from Mother Earth—eight
top-booted legs shuffling in ludicrous haste after the
departing steeds. Had our friend been Briareus himself,
he could not have caught <i>all</i> their horses. He was a man,
however, who seldom lost an opportunity, and was not likely
to miss such a chance as the present. Selecting Boadicea,
he galloped after her, and succeeded in pinning her against
a pound: notwithstanding that the mare lashed out at him
more than once, he brought her back in triumph to her
panting owner.

Meanwhile, the four dismounted sportsmen condoled
breathlessly with each other, as they laboured up the grassy
slope.

“I’m but a poor hand at <i>this</i> game,” observed Struggles,
who did not fancy carrying his own weight across country.

“I wish I’d gone faster at it,” said Savage, who had
been grinding his teeth and hardening his heart the whole
way up the field.

“My chestnut mare would have jumped it!” exclaimed
Major Brush, inwardly registering a vow to abstain from
“oxers” for the future; whilst the Honourable, though he
held his tongue, was thinking what a capital horse that was
of Sawyer’s, and dismally reflecting that if Boadicea hadn’t
kicked at him when he was down, he never would have been
such a tailor as to let her go.

“Catch hold!” said Mr. Sawyer, throwing the mare’s
reins to her owner, whose gratitude he thereby earned for
the rest of his life. “There’s no hurry,” he added, as the
Honourable, in a coat plastered with mud and a hat stove
in, dived wildly at his stirrup; “they’ve over-run it a mile
back, and checked in the next field.”

The latter part of the sentence was true enough. His
quick eye had shown him the pack at fault, as he secured
Boadicea in the corner where the pound stood; the former
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
was a bit of what theatrical people call “gag.” It was as
much as to say, “Whilst you fellows are hustling and
spurting, and tumbling about, I am so well mounted that
I can observe matters as coolly as if I was hunting in a
balloon.”

It was not without its effect on his listener. As they
rode through the hand-gate together into the enclosure
where the hounds were at fault, the Honourable Crasher no
longer scanned Marathon with the eye of a purchaser. He
looked on the horse now as his own property. He was
determined to have him.

By some mysterious law of nature, whenever one individual
succeeds either in what is termed <i>pounding</i> a field,
or in getting such a start of them that nobody shall have a
chance of catching him whilst the pace holds—and this, be
it observed, is no everyday occurrence in countries where
the best riders in England congregate for the express purpose
of riding as well as they can—it invariably happens
that the immediate failure of scent, or some such untoward
contingency, robs the lucky one of his anticipated triumph.
On the present occasion, much to Mr. Sawyer’s delight,
they never hit off their fox again. By degrees, the tail of
the field straggled up, having found their way by every
available gate and gap; then came the second-horses,
carefully ridden, cool, and comparatively clean, not having
turned a hair; lastly, arrived a man in a gig, by a convenient
bridle-road, hotter than any one present, wiping his
face on a coloured handkerchief, which he afterwards put
in the crown of his hat.

Whilst sandwiches were being munched, and silver horns
drained of their contents, ginger-cordial, orange-brandy, V.O.P.,[#]
and other enticing fluids, Mr. Sawyer was giving
The Boy stringent orders about taking Marathon home.
He could not feel thoroughly comfortable till that impostor
was fairly out of sight, and he should find himself established
on the unassuming little grey.
.pm fn-start
Very Old Pale—a tempting label attached to certain black bottles
containing the best French brandy; an excellent liquor,
doubtless, and wholesome, <i>provided</i> you don’t drink too
much of it. Opinions vary, however, as to what is <i>too
much</i>. The modest quencher of 9 <sc>P.M.</sc> growing to a
superfluous stimulant at the same hour the following morning.
.pm fn-end
.bn 129.png
.pn +1

When he had made up his mind, the Honourable Crasher
was a man of few words. Refreshed by a mouthful of
sherry, not unacceptable after a rattling fall, and comfortably
perched on the back of Confidence, a delightful animal
that a child could ride, and perhaps the best and safest
hunter in his stable, he ranged alongside of our friend, and
plunged at once <i>in medias res</i>.

“So you want to sell the bay horse you have just sent
home?” said he, with none of the hesitation and beating
about the bush to which Mr. Sawyer had hitherto been
accustomed in his horse-dealing operations. “If you do,
and will name the price you ask for him, I should like to
buy him.”

The owner could not resist the impulse of enhancing the
value of his horse, by affecting unwillingness to sell him
and, in so doing, nearly lost the chance of disposing of him,
altogether.

“I don’t think I ought to part with him,” said he reflectively;
“it strikes me he’s about the best in my stable.”

Crasher fell back apparently satisfied. It was evident he
did not attach so much importance to the act of “exchange
or barter” as did our friend. Mr. Sawyer picked himself
up without loss of time. “I shouldn’t like to sell him to
<i>everybody</i>,” said he affectionately, “but if you fancy him
very much, I wouldn’t mind letting you have him,” he
added, after a pause, and in the tone of a man who makes
a painful sacrifice in the cause of friendship.

“I’ll give you two hundred and fifty for him,” drawled
out the Honourable, with apparently about as much interest
as he would have felt in paying three-and-sixpence for a
pair of gloves.

“Guineas!” stipulated Mr. Sawyer; “Guineas,” was
the answer; and in this simple manner the deal was
concluded.

My readers will agree with Isaac and his master, in
thinking that Marathon was not the only one of the party
who was pretty well sold. The old groom laughed in his
sleeve a week afterwards, when he heard that on giving him
“a spin” with Chance, just to keep his pipes clear, the
mare went away from him as if he was standing still.

Mr. Tiptop couldn’t make it out at all.
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-17
CHAPTER XVII||<s>“TEMPTED TO BUY”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>And</sc> now for the well-pleased John Standish Sawyer, came
in what may be called the “sweet of the day.” His horse
disposed of, two hundred and sixty-two pounds ten shillings
in his pocket (for the Honourable Crasher’s word was as
good as a bank-bill), and the wiry little grey under him, an
animal for which he had not given a fourth of the above
sum, and yet in whose pace and fencing he had the utmost
confidence, with the additional delight of a certain find for
the second fox—all these influences combined, were enough
to put a man in thorough good-humour with himself. To
do our friend justice, he was not of a mercenary disposition;
but having been kept exceedingly short of funds during his
youth, and in those hard times hunted under considerable
pecuniary difficulties, he had insensibly imbibed a horror of
what he called “riding upon too much money.” “A man
must have good nerve,” he used to say, “who is not
afraid to risk a couple of hundred every time he jumps a
fence;” and I really believe he would shove a forty-pound
screw along with greater satisfaction than the winner of the
Liverpool. The grey was a right good little nag, easy to
turn, quick at his fences, and thoroughly accustomed to his
master’s hand. It is wonderful what a deal of time is saved
by a horse that is pleasant to ride, and how rapidly a
moderate galloper, with a fine mouth, and quick upon his
legs, can slip over a country compared with an animal that
may have the pace of a racehorse, but requires a segundo
bridle, and a hundred-acre field to turn him in. Mr. Sawyer
drew the curb-rein gently through his fingers, struck his
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
heels down, and mingled in the crowd upon the best
possible terms with himself.
.pi
As the smoking, laughing, chattering cavalcade trotted
merrily along, he had an opportunity of scanning many
well-known individuals whom his business avocations of the
morning had prevented his hitherto recognising. “The
talent,” as it is called, was present, from Melton,—Melton,
once the very metropolis of the hunting world, now, thanks
to railroads, rivalled, if not surpassed, by Leicester and
Market Harborough; and yet, what a nice place it is!
Who that has ever spent a season in the cosy, cheerful,
joyous little town, but would wish to turn the stream of
time, and live those golden days and pleasant nights over
again?—would wish to be galloping his covert-hack once
more through the fragrant air and under the dappled sky of
a February morning, with a good horse to ride from Ranksborough
Gorse or Barkby Holt, as his day’s amusement,
and a choice of at least a couple of invitations, offering him
the pleasantest society <i>and</i> the best dinner in England, for
his evening’s gratification?

It is not more than thirty years since Nimrod wrote his
celebrated “Quarterly Review Run”—the best description
of <i>fashionable hunting</i> that has ever yet been printed, though
many a hand, as light upon the bridle as the pen, has
portrayed the same subject since then—not more than thirty
years, certainly, and the ways of Melton are but little
changed, only, of the <i>dramatis personæ</i> there are not many
left. Of those who charged the flooded Whissendine so
boldly, the majority have already crossed the Styx. Nevertheless,
a few of the old lot may still be seen ready, when
the hounds run, to face “wood and water,” as of yore.

Mr. Sawyer, for an unimaginative man, was the least
thing in the world of a hero-worshipper. As he rode along,
contemplating from behind them the fine powerful frame
and the slim and graceful figure of two Meltonians, who for
many years have shone, a couple of <i>lucida sidera</i>, in the
front rank, and of whom, indeed, so fast have they always
gone, it may almost be said that
.pm verse-start
“Panting Time toils after them in vain,”
.pm verse-end
.ni
he was accosted by the pleasant, gentlemanlike personage
.bn 132.png
.pn +1
with whom he had spent an agreeable quarter of an hour in
the hovel, on that memorable day when his ambition had
so completely “cooked the goose” of Hotspur with the
Pytchley.
.pi
“Good-morning, sir,” said this affable individual, bringing
his horse alongside of our friend, with a bow such as
nobody in the Old Country could ever have perpetrated.
“I thought you’d be out to-day, so I’ve a couple here for
you to look at.”

When a nobleman not only touches his hat, but takes it
off to you, at the same time offering you “a couple of horses
to look at,” as if he were about to make you a present of
them, such politeness, thought Mr. Sawyer, is rather overwhelming
than reassuring. He returned the greeting, however,
with his best air, and took off his hat in return,
somewhat disconcerted, however, by the rude behaviour of
Struggles and Brush, who were riding beside him, and who
both burst out laughing.

The illustrious stranger, too—who, by the way, though
still in a black coat, was “got-up” with the utmost splendour
of which a hunting costume admits—looked rather surprised,
and winked at the two irreverent laughers as they are
certainly <i>not</i> in the habit of winking in the House of Peers.

“Is that a favourite one you are riding?” inquired Mr.
Sawyer, who fancied he must say something, and could
think, at the moment, of no more apposite remark.

“I don’t know much of him,” was the reply. “He’s
only a five-year-old; and I haven’t had him a fortnight. A
thundering well-bred one, though, and can jump like a deer!
I gave a hat-full of money for him, without getting on his
back; but we’ll see what he’s made of this afternoon, I
hope. I should say, now, that he’d carry <i>you</i> alarming!”

Mr. Sawyer, whose conversational powers were soon exhausted,
made no reply, but, more out of civility than
curiosity, contented himself with scanning the five-year-old
from his ears to his tail.

The illustrious unknown seemed to have no dislike to
inspection: on the contrary, he courted further companionship,
by producing the gorgeous cigar-case, and offering Mr.
Sawyer a weed.

“You will find them pretty good,” said he, striking a
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
light from a little <i>bijou</i> of a <i>briquet</i> that hung to
his watch-chain. “I import them myself: it’s the only way to
ensure getting them first-rate, and it certainly is the cheapest
in the long-run.”

The cigar was indeed excellent. Mr. Sawyer thought
this would be a good opportunity to draw his noble friend
for a box. He might perhaps make him a present of a
couple of pounds or so. At all events (as he said, it was
the cheapest plan) there was no harm in risking the chance
of having to pay for them. He asked him, accordingly,
with some little hesitation, if he could do him the favour of
procuring him a few?

“Certainly, certainly,” replied the other, in the most off-hand,
good-humoured way possible. “You shall have them
from my man. I’ll write to him to-night. How much shall
I order? You can’t get anything like them at the money:
they only stand us in <i>five guineas a pound</i>!”

Mr. Sawyer modestly opined “one pound would be quite
sufficient for the present;” but he felt as if he had just lost
a large double tooth. Without being stingy, it was not the
custom in the Old Country thus to throw money away. He
fell back upon Brush, sucking at the costly tobacco with
considerable vehemence.

“Who is he?” said he, nodding towards the rider of the
five-year-old, then cantering on ahead, and sitting well down
in the saddle, as he prepared to “lark” over a large fence,
to the admiration of the field, instead of defiling through
the hand-gate.

“Why, you seem to know him very well,” rejoined Major
Brush, smiling (as well he might) at the query: “I thought
you seemed very thick, and were going to give him your
custom.”

Mr. Sawyer had not the heart to repudiate the soft impeachment.
He liked to be “very thick” with a peer, and
to have the credit of “giving him his custom” as a visitor
and intimate.

“Yes,” he said, “I am; but, somehow, I cannot, for
the life of me, remember his title. I’ve no ‘Debrett’ at
Harborough; and I’ve such a bad memory for names.
Lord—Lord—what the deuce is it? Some Irish peerage,
if I remember right?”
.bn 134.png
.pn +1

Major Brush fairly burst out laughing. “No more a
lord than <i>you</i> are, Sawyer,” said he, “though, I grant you,
he <i>ought</i> to be a Duke. I thought everybody knew Mr.
Varnish, the horsedealer!” And the Major went off at
score again, thinking what a capital story he had got against
Sawyer for that day at dinner, and a good many days after.
A joke, you see, lasts a long time in the hunting season,
when the supply is by no means equal to the demand.

And Mr. Sawyer turned his horse’s head out of the crowd,
feeling a little humiliated, and not a little disgusted. The
five guineas for the cigars stuck horribly in his throat.
However, he and Mr. Varnish, as will presently be shown,
had by no means closed accounts yet.

But where are the low spirits, blue devils, or uncomfortable
reflections that can hold their own for an instant against
the cheering sound of “Gone away!”? Three notes on the
huntsman’s horn, five or six couple of hounds streaming
noiselessly across a field, the rest more clamorous, leaping
and dashing through the gorse, a rush of horsemen towards
the point at which the fox has broken; and the man who is
really fond of hunting has not the vestige of an idea to
spare for anything else in the world.

John Standish Sawyer could ride “above a bit.” Even
in a strange country, and with hounds running “like smoke,”
he was not a man to shrink from taking his own line; and
scarcely valuing the grey, perhaps, according to its deserts,
he had no scruple in risking that good little animal at whatever
came in his way.

A quick turn to the five couple of leading hounds, that he
spied racing down the side of a hedgerow, and the happy
negotiation of a very nasty place, with a stake in it that
would certainly have impaled a more costly nag, placed our
friend on terms with the pack. A fine grass country lay
spread out before him. The fox, evidently a good one, bore
straight across the middle of the fields. The hounds, without
forcing any extraordinary pace, appeared well settled to
the scent, and not inclined to flash over it a yard. A large
fence and a little brook had combined to afford them more
room than usual. Everything seemed to look uncommonly
like a run; and the Honourable Crasher, shooting by our
friend, on Confidence, whom he rode with a shamefully
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
loose rein, observed that “It was all right; and he shouldn’t
wonder if they were going to have a gallop.”

Mr. Sawyer laid hold of the grey, and determined to
assume a place in the front rank—of which the occupants
would have been equally at home in the rows of stalls
nearest the orchestra at the Opera. There was more than
one lady riding as he never saw lady ride before—perfectly
straight; turning aside from no obstacle; jumping a gate
with extreme cordiality, if it should be locked; and taking
it all in the earnest, yet off-hand, graceful manner, with
which a woman sets about doing what she likes best. The
Meltonians, stride for stride, and fence for fence, were
sailing away with perfect ease, looking as if they were
scarcely out of a canter; yet, do what he would—and it
must be owned he was <i>very</i> hard upon the grey—Mr. Sawyer
could not, for the life of him, decrease the distance between
himself and these leading horsemen.

The Honourable Crasher, having got Confidence amongst
some very intricate fences on the right, though a little wider
than he liked of the hounds, was disporting himself therein
with considerable gratification. Struggles and the Reverend
Dove (to-day without the daughter) were forward with the
flyers, though the former was already beginning to calculate
on a check.

The double posts and rails about Norton-by-Galby were
already visible: but the fox had evidently no intention of
entering the gorse. Albeit much against the grain, and
what he was totally unaccustomed to in the Old Country,
when hounds were running, Mr. Sawyer found himself
obliged to ride to a leader. That chestnut five-year-old was
for ever in front of him, now doing an “in-and-out” cleverly,
now topping a flight of rails gallantly, then creeping under
a tree, with a discretion beyond his years, and anon facing
and rasping through a bullfinch, in the successful temerity
of youth, Mr. Varnish sitting very far back the while, with
the graceful ease of a man who is playing a favourite instrument
in an arm-chair.

Presently the hounds checked, under Houghton-on-the-Hill;
and Mr. Varnish, turning round to our friend, and
casting his eye pitifully on the grey’s sobbing sides, consigned
them to reprobation for so doing, “just as the crowd
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
was shook off, and the horses getting settled to their
work!”

Mr. Sawyer’s <i>dander</i> was up. It had been rising for the
last two or three fences. He vowed, in his wicked heart,
that chestnut should be his own before nightfall; and the
way in which the young one jumped out of the Billesdon
Road, when they got to work again, only confirmed him in
his determination.

Long before the crowd could come clattering up the high-road,
the pack and the first flight had put a couple of grassy
slopes once more between themselves and their pursuers.
Considerable grief and discomfiture took place amongst the
sportsmen, as must always be the case when hounds run
straight, over Leicestershire. The holding pace at which
they kept on, and the straight running of the fox, forbade
the slightest chance of any but such as had got a good
start at first, and stuck to them through thick and thin.
Even these, well mounted and skilful as they were, had
enough to do. The fox never turned but once, under the
Coplow; and five minutes afterwards he was in hand, held
high above the huntsman’s head, with the pack baying
round him in expectation of their reward.

Those who were there to see, it would be invidious to
name. Sufficient for me to say that Mr. Sawyer was <i>not</i>,
though he came up whilst Warrior and Woldsman were
disputing the last bit of a hind-leg.

Despite his judicious riding and undeniable nerve, he
had not the material under him that was quite adapted for
so severe a country. The grey had neither pace for the
extensive fields, nor scope for the large fences, each of
which, though he did them so gallantly, entailed too great
an exertion to bear frequent repetition. Notwithstanding
two falls, however, he struggled gamely to the end; and it
speaks well both for man and horse, that they should have
got there at all.

Mr. Sawyer, however, was now thoroughly bitten. He
had never felt so keen in his life. He would never hunt
anywhere else. He could ride with any of them, he
thought: he was determined to be as well mounted. Mr.
Varnish and he discussed the subject in all its bearings, as
they rode home; and the result of their conversation was—the
.bn 137.png
.pn +1
arrival of the chestnut five-year-old and a good-looking
brown at Mr. Sawyer’s stables, and the transference to Mr.
Varnish, in lieu thereof, of the Honourable Crasher’s cheque,
and another signed in full with the perfectly solvent name
of John Standish Sawyer.
.bn 138.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-18
CHAPTER XVIII||<s>THE DOVE-COTE</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>Let</sc> us take a peep into Dove-cote Rectory, smiling in the
wintry sun, as it lies snugly sheltered from the north winds
by a thick plantation, and rejoicing in that most desirable
advantage in our climate—a southern aspect. This house
is one that would make any sportsman oblivious of the
tenth commandment. Who could refrain from coveting
possession of those cheerful rooms; that fine extensive
view; above all, the excellent and commodious stables
within reach of three packs of hounds, and situated in the
best grass country in England?
.pi
It is however with the <i>inside</i> of the mansion that we
have now to do, and with those gentle beings who constitute
a home, without whom a palace is little better than
a dungeon.

Breakfast has been over at the Dove-cote for an hour or
so. Cissy and her mamma have established themselves in
what they call “the little drawing-room”—a snug apartment
of small dimensions, with windows opening to the
ground, and “giving,” as the French say, on a neatly laid-out
garden, in spring and summer the peculiar care of the
daughter of the house. To-day, however, flowers and blossoms
are replaced by a million sparkling gems, formed by
last night’s white frost, which is melting rapidly under the
noon-day sun. Inside, the furniture is of a rich and somewhat
gaudy pattern, assorting well with the rose-tinted
muslin curtains and multiplicity of looking-glasses, which
are so characteristic of a lady’s bower; whilst a thousand
pretty knick-knacks, and a graceful litter of books, music,
.bn 139.png
.pn +1
work, paper-lights, stray gloves, and gossamer handkerchiefs
betray at once the sex of the occupants. A little statuette
of a Cupid in tears, with nothing on but a quiver, occupies
a niche between the windows, under a portrait of Miss Dove,
depicted by the artist in a graceful attitude on the chestnut
horse, attired in a blue riding-habit, with her hat off, and
her hair falling about her shoulders, as, it is only right to
observe, she is <i>not</i> in the habit of wearing it when taking
equestrian exercise. Altogether the painter’s idea seems
to have been borrowed from a French print entitled “The
Rendezvous,” representing a disconsolate damsel waiting
for a gentleman in a wood—not in the best of humours,
as is natural under the circumstances,—and sitting her
white horse in a listless, woe-begone attitude, unworthy of
an Amazon. The laggard, however, is perceptible in the
far distance, making up for lost time on an exceedingly bad
goer, whose “form” must at once absolve him of intentional
unpunctuality in the eyes of his ladye-love. As a
<i>pendant</i> to this work of art, hangs a portrait in <i>crayons</i> of
Mrs. Dove, done some years ago, when people wore bunches
of ringlets and a high comb at the back of the head—a
fashion by no means unbecoming to the original, who must
have been a sufficiently handsome young woman when she
sat for this likeness. Indeed, the Reverend, no mean judge
of “make-and-shape,” always declared (at least in his wife’s
presence) that Cissy could not hold a candle to what her
mother had been in her best days.

That matron, though somewhat voluminous in person and
too highly coloured, is by no means bad-looking even now.
As she sits at the window, shaping a little child’s shirt for
a poor parishioner (Mrs. Dove is a managing, bustling
person—prejudiced, it may be, and deaf to argument, as
what woman is not? but overflowing with the milk of
human kindness), a judicious artist might tone her down
into a very picturesque study of “A lady in the prime of life.”

She looks up from her work, and casts her eye across the
trim garden over many a mile of undulating prairie, to
where a dim smoke in the far distance denotes the locality
of Harborough.

“Cissy,” observes the matron, “wasn’t that Papa going
round to the stables?”
.bn 140.png
.pn +1

Cissy raises those killing eyelashes from her crochet, and
dutifully replies—“Yes, Mamma. He’s only going to
smoke his cigar as usual. I’m glad it’s not a hunting-day:
we shall have him all to ourselves till luncheon.”

Miss Dove pets her papa immensely; and it is needless
to remark that, although on occasion he runs rusty with his
wife, his daughter can wind him round her little finger at
will.

“That reminds me,” continues Mrs. D., in the inconsequent
manner in which ladies follow out the thread of their
reflections—“that reminds me we haven’t had any visitors
lately from over there,” nodding with her head in the direction
of Market Harborough.

Cissy looks very innocent in reply, and observes that
“Gentlemen seem to make hunting the one great business
of life.”

Mamma, whose rest for the last five-and-twenty years has
been broken every winter whenever the nights have been
symptomatic of frost, and who can scarcely be expected to
share the anxiety which drives the Reverend at short intervals
from the connubial couch to open the window and look
out, is unable to controvert so self-evident a proposition;
so she tries back on their Harborough friends.

“Mr. Crasher <i>never</i> comes except on Sundays, or when
there is a hard frost; and the rest of the gang I would just
as soon be without, for they <i>will</i> light their cigars in the
hall—a thing I’ve quite broke your papa of doing, till the
whole place smells like a public-house. But I do think
that Mr. Sawbridge, or whatever his name is, might have
called in common civility, if it was only to ask how you
were after your long day.”

Cissy was of the same opinion; but she adhered steadily
to the crochet, and said nothing: perhaps she thought the
more. She had confided to her mamma certain passages
of the nocturnal ride into Market Harborough, and Mr.
Sawyer’s categorical answers to her very pertinent queries.
I do not think, however, she had quite made what is called
“a clean breast of it.”

The mother, as is often the case in these days of improvement,
had scarcely so much force of character as the
daughter. She never dared cross-question “Cissy” beyond
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
a certain point. Not that the girl was rebellious, but she
had a quiet way of setting her mamma down, which was as
uncomfortable as it was irresistible.

Mrs. Dove, however, was not without her share of
matronly cunning. She had been young herself, and had
not forgotten it; nay, she felt quite young again sometimes,
even now. It does not follow that because a lady
increases in bulk she should decrease in susceptibility.
Look at a German baroness—fifteen stone good, in her ball
dress, and <i>æsthetic</i> to the tips of her plump fingers.
Mamma got up to fetch her scissors; cut the little boy’s
shirt to the true <i>Corazza</i> pattern, and, holding up that
ridiculous little garment as if to dry, went on with her
argument.

“I don’t think much of that Mr. Sawbridge after all, if
you ask <i>me</i>,” said she, looking over the collar full in her
daughter’s face. “He seems very shy, by no means good-looking,
and I should say has not seen much of the world!
Steadier perhaps than Brush, and not so stout as Struggles,
but yet he don’t give me the idea of a very gentlemanlike
person—like Mr. Crasher, for instance.”

The Honourable was one of the good lady’s great
favourites. She admired hugely, as country dames will,
his languor, his <i>insouciance</i>, his recklessness and dandyism—above
all, his tendency to become torpid at a moment’s
notice, which latter faculty frequently provoked the strong-minded
“Cissy” beyond endurance.

The girl’s colour, always high, rose perceptibly. Like a
true woman, she stood up for her new friend.

“Indeed, Mamma,” said she, “Mr. Sawyer is quite as
gentlemanlike as anybody we meet anywhere, and as for
being shy, I confess I like people all the better for not
being forward, like that rude Mr. Savage, who told me I
should look hideous with my hair <i>à l’Impératrice</i>. Now,
Mr. Sawyer at least <i>tries</i> to make himself agreeable.”

“And seems to succeed, Cissy,” rejoined Mamma, with
an arch smile that deepened the young lady’s colour still
more, and consequently heightened her resemblance to her
buxom parent. “Well, dear, I must remind Papa about
asking some of them to dinner. Shall I tell him to send
Mr. Sawbridge an invitation?”
.bn 142.png
.pn +1

“Really, I don’t the least care,” answered Miss Dove,
with a toss of her shining black hair. “I suppose you
can’t well leave him out. But, Mamma, I wish you would
call the man by his right name. It isn’t Sawbridge, but
Sawyer.”

“I’ll try and remember, Cissy,” answered her mother,
with another of those provoking smiles, which might have
been too much for the young lady’s equanimity, had not the
entrance of the Reverend, bringing with him a strong perfume
of tobacco, stables, and James’s horse-blister, put an
end to the <i>tête-à-tête</i>, and diverted Mrs. Dove’s attack to
her natural prey.

The Reverend was not in the best of humours. He had
been feeling a horse’s legs—the swelling of which no stimulant,
however strong, seemed to be able to reduce. It <i>was</i>
aggravating to make his hands smell like a chemist’s shop,
and at the same time to be aware that his favourite’s legs
were getting rounder and rounder under the application.
It was <i>not</i> consolatory to be told by the groom that “the
old ’oss was about wore out.” Nor was it reassuring to
reflect that he wanted for half-a-dozen other purposes the
couple of hundred it would take to replace him. These,
however, are the annoyances to which hunting men are
subject; the metaphorical thorns that bristle round our
rose, and make her all the dearer and the sweeter for their
sharpness. As he returned to the house <i>viâ</i> the pigsties,
he could scarcely raise sufficient interest to examine the
lately-arrived litter of nine. Spotted black and white, they
reminded him of fox-hound puppies; and to the Reverend,
short of horses as he was, the association was but suggestive
of annoyance.

When he entered the little drawing-room, Mrs. Dove
knew by his face that the moment was an unpropitious one
at which to hazard a request for anything she wanted to
obtain; but having managed him for a quarter of a century,
it would have been odd if she had not known exactly how
to get her own way with him now.

“My dear,” she said, “I’ve a letter from that man at
Brighton about the house we had last year. He wants to
know if we would like to engage it for a couple of months
in the spring. It would be a good opportunity to give
Cissy a little sea-bathing, you know.”
.bn 143.png
.pn +1

Now, the Reverend had the same horror of that, as of
other watering-places, which is usually entertained by
middle-aged gentlemen of settled habits, who do not choose
to accept second-rate dissipation and salt-water as equivalents
for the comforts of a home. He had indeed, during
the previous summer, been seduced into spending two
months at Brighton, under the erroneous impression that
on those Sussex downs the harriers hunted all the year
round; but, having found out his mistake, had inwardly
registered a vow never to be “let in” for such a benefit
again. It was no wonder that he rose freely at the suggestion.

“Gracious Heavens! Mrs. Dove!” exclaimed the Reverend,
plumping down into an arm-chair, and raising both
hands in irritable deprecation, “knowing what you do, how
can you ask such a question? Of course, if this house is
too uncomfortable to live in, and it don’t matter about the
parish going to the d— to the dogs, and the Bishop is to
be a nonentity, and <i>my</i> duties a farce, you are perfectly
right to go gadding about from here to Brighton, and from
Brighton to London, and from London to Halifax, if you
like, and I shall be happy to indulge you. I only wish you
would tell me where the money is to come from—where the
money is to come from, Mrs. Dove—that’s all!” And,
having thus spoken, the Reverend took up the <i>Leicester
Journal</i>, and looked over the top of it at his wife, as if he
had indeed propounded <i>a poser</i>.

This was exactly what that dear artful woman wanted.
She knew that when he had blown off his steam, her husband
would settle down into his usual easy temper, and
become perfectly malleable in about five minutes. So she
folded the poor parishioner’s little shirt with the nicest
accuracy, and replied in the most perfect good-humour—

“Well, dear, I’m sure I don’t want to move from here
till we go to London. You know I’m so fond of my garden
in the spring, and I like you to get your hunting as long as
you can: it does you so much good. My idea is, London
about the time of the Derby; then Ascot for a week; and
home again by the beginning of July. After all, we are
wonderfully well situated here for the country as regards
society, and Harborough never was so full as it seems this
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
season. What should we do in this part of the world if it
wasn’t for hunting?”

Precious, in proportion to their rarity, opinions so orthodox
sank like music in the Reverend’s ear. Five-and-twenty
years’ experience had failed to teach him, that such congenial
sentiments must as necessarily be followed by a request,
as a soft southerly wind is succeeded by rain. And
this is the strangest feature in our subservience to the
other sex. Though they deceive us ninety-nine times, we
believe them the hundredth, and, more foolish than the
feathered biped, though its meshes be spread in our very sight,
rush open-eyed, neck-and-heels into the net of the fowler.

The Reverend glanced at the wife of his bosom, and
thought her wonderfully like that picture done a score of
years ago. He said as much: but the compliment by no
means diverted Mrs. Dove from the object she had in view.
“Cissy and I were just talking,” said she simply, “of your
friend Mr. Crasher, and the rest of them. By the bye, you
really ought to ask some of them to dinner. There’s a
barrel of oysters come by rail last night, and our turkeys
this year are finer than usual. Better say Tuesday, don’t
you think, Papa?” added she coaxingly.

But the Reverend was not so hospitably inclined as he
would have been had the old horse been sound. “They
can have plenty of oysters at Harborough,” said he. “They
won’t care to drive all that way in the dark. Bad roads,
wet nights, perhaps, and nobody to meet them. Better put
it off, I think, Dottie, till the days get a little longer.”

You or I would hardly have thought of calling so ample
a lady as Mrs. Dove, whose baptismal name indeed was
Dorothy, by the above diminutive. Nevertheless, when in
his best humour, it was the Reverend’s habit to address her
by the old pet name, and she returned to the charge accordingly.

“Better do it at once, dear,” she replied. “The end of
the season comes upon us before we know where we are.
And if frost should arrive, or anything, they are all off to
London by the express train. As for not liking to come,
they’ll <i>jump</i> at it. Mr. Crasher says yours is the best
claret within three counties, and I’m sure you all sit long
enough at it to appreciate its merits. How you <i>will</i> talk
.bn 145.png
.pn +1
about hunting: won’t they, Cissy? Well, we can’t wonder
at it—gentlemen are so enthusiastic. Why, if I was a man,
with such wine as <i>that</i>, I’d sell ’em every horse in my stable
before coffee came in.”

The Reverend burst out laughing. The last argument
was irresistible. “Have it your own way, Dottie,” said he;
“I must be off to write my sermon.” And he betook himself
to his study accordingly, leaving his wife and daughter
to issue the invitations.

Of these it is unnecessary for us to trace the delivery of
more than one. Mr. Sawyer, eating devilled kidneys the
following morning for breakfast, felt his heart leap into his
mouth at the reception of a primrose-coloured, highly-scented
billet, in a long narrow envelope, bearing on the
reverse what is called a “monogram”—a thing not unlike
the puzzle-wit lock on a gate—consisting of the letter D
and others twisted into every variety of shape. Though his
experience in ladies’ letters was limited, being indeed confined
to one from Miss Mexico at the conclusion of their
intercourse, in which she “wished to have no further communication
with him, but hoped always to remain <i>friends</i>,”
something told him that the delicate, neatly-written superscription
must have been indited by a fair hand. For an
instant, the delightful suggestion flashed across him, that
Miss Dove, forgetting maidenly reserve in the ardour of
her affection, had plunged into a correspondence with himself,
and he turned hot and cold by turns. Opening the
missive with a trembling hand, it proved to be, if not from
the young lady, at least from her mamma, and as it lay open
all that day on his table, it is no breach of confidence on
my part to publish its contents for the reader’s benefit.
Thus it ran:—

.pm letter-start
“<sc>Dear Mr. Sawyer</sc>,

“Can you give us the pleasure of your company at dinner on
Tuesday next, at half-past seven o’clock? Mr. Dove desires me to say
that as you will probably drive, you had better not attempt the short
way, but come by the high-road. My daughter unites with me in
hoping that your poor horse has recovered the hard day in which he
carried you so well, and I remain,
.ti 5
“Dear Mr. Sawyer,
.ti 10
“Yours sincerely,
.ti 15
“<sc>Dorothy Dove</sc>.

“Dove-cote Rectory, Friday.”
.pm letter-end
.bn 146.png
.pn +1

There is nothing ambiguous in the above. It seems a
simple invitation to dinner enough; you or I can gather its
drift at a glance. Why the man should have read it over
at least half-a-dozen times is more than I can divine.
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-19
CHAPTER XIX||<s>“THE BOOT ON THE OTHER LEG”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>Meanwhile</sc> in the stable of the Honourable Crasher is
considerable consternation and bewilderment. The helpers
look wise, and wink at each other, as they pass from stall
to stall, in the execution of their duties. Mr. Tiptop is
completely at his wits’ end. Can he, the knowing Tiptop,
looked up to as the great unerring authority on training,
pace, weight for age, and other racing mysteries—Newmarket
all over—can he have made a mistake? He begins
to think, not only that he <i>can</i>, but that he <i>has</i>.
.pi
First of all they gave the hapless Marathon a spin with
Chance, as a mere breather, and I have already said with
what result.

Mr. Tiptop being determined to get at “the rights of it,”
then tried the horses a mile at even weights; the consequences
admitted of less doubt than ever. Marathon’s
“form” was so obviously bad, that the groom concluded
he must be amiss.

“Why, he can’t go no faster than our mare can trot,”
soliloquised Mr. Tiptop, as he contemplated the bay grinding
away at his afternoon’s feed (to do Marathon justice,
he was always good at this part of his day’s work), and
thought that the animal did by no means show to advantage
amongst his stable companions. “Can he be one of those
extraordinary horses as I’ve hear’d of, wot can scarcely wag
without they’re trained a’most to fiddle-strings, but as
nothing mortal can touch if once you gets them fit?”
He almost persuaded himself that the new purchase must
indeed be such a phenomenon, and resolved on putting him
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
through a severe course of physic, and into strong training
forthwith. Before, however, resorting to such ulterior
measures, he had the wisdom to think of applying to old
Isaac for a solution of the mystery.

He found the senior busy in his little saddle-room, engaged
in no less important an occupation than the improvement
of The Boy’s morals and general deportment, for which I
grieve to observe, since his arrival at Harborough, there
was sufficient room. The youth, though he worked hard,
was seldom sober now, and never told the truth but by
accident. Isaac’s method of imparting ethical instruction
was uncompromising, if not agreeable. With the lad’s
collar in one hand, and a spare stirrup-leather in the other,
he insisted forcibly on those maxims which he considered
most salutary to the tender mind, accompanying each with
a stinging illustration from the strap; the dialogue between
the sage and his disciple being conducted much in this
wise:—

Isaac: “I’ve told you over and over again, ye young
warmint, and I’ll tell it ye every day I live, if I larrup the
skin off ye.” (Whack.)

The Boy: “Oh, please!”

Isaac: “You’ll never rise in life, nor be fit to be called
a stableman, without you can work them qualities which
have made <i>me</i> what I am; that’s what I am a teaching of
ye.” (Whack.)

The Boy: “Oh, please!”

Isaac: “First and foremost, sobriety.”—(Whack, and
“Oh, please!”) “Secondly, honesty, coupled with early
rising.”—(Whack again, and a howling “Oh, please!”
from the pupil.) “Thirdly and lastly, sobriety.”—(Whack.)
“I’ll go over ’em again; them’s the three cardinal virtues.
You mind what I’m a tellin’ ye—Sobriety, honesty, coupled
with early rising, and sobriety.” (Whack, whack, whack;
and “Oh, please! oh, please! oh, please!”)

At this juncture, Mr. Tiptop entered. Casting an approving
glance at the mode of treatment adopted, he seated
himself on an inverted stable-bucket, and professed his
readiness to await old Isaac’s leisure ere he asked to have
“a word with him.” The other let go of The Boy’s collar—who
darted from the place like a weasel—and put on his
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
own coat and hat. Thus armed, he waited to hear what
his guest had to say. Mr. Tiptop broached the subject at
once.

“Rum go, this here!” said he, hoisting his hat on to
his eyebrows. “Uncommon queer start it is, about your
bay horse. Can’t get him <i>out</i>, I can’t, do what I will with
him; the beggar seems well, too, and pretty fit, as far as I
see, and I’ve trained a few of them! If I didn’t <i>know</i> he
was a smartish nag now, I should say he was as slow as an
eight-day clock when it runs down. What am I to think
of it?”

Isaac’s little blue eyes twinkled for an instant, but turned
to stone once more, as he replied slowly, “Think of it?
Well, it seems to <i>me</i>, now, that he won’t be much use to
your governor if he can’t win.”

“Not he!” answered Mr. Tiptop, contemptuously. “I
could have told <i>you</i> that. What I want to know is, why
the beggar was so much better in your stable than in ours?
Come, old chap! you and me has always been good friends,
give us an <i>item</i> now; what would you do with him, if you
was me?”

Isaac’s face altered not a muscle, nor did the eyes twinkle
now, while he replied gravely, “If I was in your shoes, Mr.
Tiptop, <i>this</i> is what I’d do—I’d put him into this here race
sure-lie, and <i>lay agin him for the very shirt on my back</i>!”

And like the Pythian of old, Isaac having thus delivered
himself, could by no means be brought back to the subject.
If Mr. Tiptop had looked puzzled when he entered the
veteran’s saddle-room, the expression of his countenance,
as he emerged from it, was that of a man whom mystery
has so completely enfolded in her web, that he has no energy
left to make an effort for escape. That he was so utterly
bamboozled as to have recourse to his own master, thus
risking his authority over the Honourable for ever after,
may be gathered from the conversation held between the
latter and Mr. Sawyer over their last cigar, before separating
for the night, about two <sc>P.M.</sc> The Honourable, with
an air of cordial approval, as that of a man who is paying
another a well-merited compliment, drawls out—

“That’s an awful brute you sold me, Sawyer,—that bay
of yours. You were quite right to part with him. My
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
fellow tells me he can’t go a yard: wants me to ride him
myself; told him I’d rather not, if I can <i>walk</i> as fast. Do
you think there’s anything wrong with him, or used he
<i>always</i> to gallop as if his legs were tied?”

This is not a very easy question for the former owner to
answer, asked, as it is, in the Honourable’s off-hand careless
manner. Mr. Sawyer thinks of trying the “virtuous
indignation” tack; reflects that under the circumstances
it would only make him ridiculous, and that thoroughly to
carry it out, he ought to be prepared to take back the horse,
a measure that in his wildest moments he has never contemplated,
and finally subsides into a good-humoured smile,
and affirms—

“We thought him a fair horse enough in the Old Country.
Perhaps he don’t shine so bright amongst your clippers.
He’s a sound, good-constitutioned beast, too, and <i>never</i> off
his feed; that I can answer for, and you’ve seen him jump.
I am sorry you don’t like him; but if you wanted a racehorse,
you know, that sort of thing is quite out of my line.”

The Honourable, who is good-nature itself, laughs heartily.
“I don’t hate him as much as Tiptop does; and if worst
comes to worst, he’s good-looking enough for harness. By
the bye, old fellow, do you dine over at Dove-cote to-morrow?”

“Well, I’ve been <i>asked</i>” replied our friend, as if he
hadn’t set his heart upon going, and been thinking of it
ever since. “Why?” he adds, smothering a blush, as he
thinks his companion may have found out his secret, and
is laughing in his sleeve.

“Only that we’re all going,” rejoins the Honourable;
“I’m glad to hear you are not to be left in the lurch. It’s
a fearful road, and an infernal long way; but Dove gives
you such ’41 as is not to be got anywhere else, and a
skinful of it, my boy, not forgetting to drink his own share.
I like the mother Dove, too, and pretty Miss ‘Cissy’ is
always good fun!”

Sawyer felt the blood tingling in his ears. Amongst the
many annoyances that gird as with briars the man who is
sufficiently ill-advised to take an interest in any one but
himself, not the least is that ridiculous sensitiveness to remarks,
hazarded by the most careless of bystanders on the
.bn 151.png
.pn +1
“object” or its belongings. If it is praised, we are jealous;
if censured, we are angry; and if not mentioned at all,
we are disappointed. That Mr. Sawyer, who had no more
“vested interest” in her than the Lord Chancellor, should
feel annoyed at Miss Cissy being spoken of as “good fun,”
by so amiable a critic as the Honourable Crasher, only
shows the absurd organisation of the human mind, and how
careful we should be never to put off that armour of selfishness
and self-conceit, with which nature has provided us for
our self-defence.

Mr. Sawyer made a move toward his bed-candle.

“Good-night, old fellow,” said the Honourable. “By
Jove! we’ll go together to-morrow to the Dove-cote. I’ll
drive you there in my phaeton; and, by Jove! we’ll put
that bay horse of yours in, and see how it goes with a trap
behind him—so we will.”

The Honourable appeared so delighted with his own
suggestion, that it was impossible to controvert it;
but as Mr. Sawyer wound up his watch and deposited
it on his dressing-table, it certainly occurred to him that
there was such a thing as retribution even at Market
Harborough.
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-20
CHAPTER XX||<s>DEEPER AND DEEPER</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>To</sc> walk a horse twice round a grass-field, in a set of light
harness, allowing him afterwards to stand for half an hour
in the stables without taking it off, can scarcely be called
a thorough breaking-in of the animal to the duties of a
coach-horse. Such, nevertheless, was all the tuition vouchsafed
by the Honourable Crasher to Marathon’s inexperience,
ere the bay found himself placed alongside of another, in that
gentleman’s phaeton, for the purpose of taking his former
and present owner out to dinner.
.pi
His companion—no other than the redoubtable chestnut
which Crasher had been riding to covert on his first introduction
to our friend—would have been rated as an experienced
break-horse by few persons less reckless than his
master. He was what is called “a bad starter,” but made
up for that deficiency by being as difficult to stop, when
once off, as he was at first to set in motion. He had a
way, too, of hugging the pole when out of humour, most
subversive of his companion’s equanimity. Such tricks
were, doubtless, against the progress of Marathon’s education.
Altogether a more unpleasant pair, for locomotive
purposes, have seldom been “lapped in leather.”

There is no proverb more true than that “Where there is
no fear, there is no danger.” The Honourable Crasher’s
nerves seemed not only totally unsusceptible to the unworthy
sensation
.pm verse-start
“Which schoolboys denominate ‘funk,’”
.pm verse-end
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
.ni
but he appeared utterly to ignore the possibility of anything
like a casualty wherever horseflesh was concerned.
The consequence was that, both in the saddle and on the
coach-box, he came scathless out of scrapes that must have
been fatal to a man of a more nervous temperament.
.pi
I will not dwell on the drive from Market Harborough to
the Dove-cote—on the tension of Mr. Sawyer’s nerves, and
corresponding rigidity of his muscles, whenever the wheel
grazed a heap of stones or an ominous bang against the
splash-board reminded him that Marathon had not forgotten
how to kick. The Boy, indeed—selected for the office as
being of light weight—spent most of the journey on the
hind-step, prepared for the worst, but was not obliged to
get down and run to their heads more than a dozen times
in the course of as many minutes, after which they settled
to their work and pulled like griffins. It is sufficient
to say that, when they arrived at the Rectory door, close
on the tracks of the ignominious fly that had preceded
them at least half an hour, Mr. Sawyer’s white tie was
uncrumpled, and the Honourable’s whiskers still in tolerable
curl.

There was but one stranger present. The Reverend
knew how to give a dinner, or if <i>he</i> didn’t his wife did, and
had too much consideration for his Harborough friends to
inundate them with a host of country neighbours with whom
they were not acquainted. This exception was a widowed
cousin of Mrs. Dove’s—a voluble lady, not so young as she
had been, wearing her shoulders very bare, her dress very
full, and her fair hair puffed out with considerable ingenuity.
She was a little rouged, a little made-up, but very good-looking
notwithstanding, in a <i>blonde</i>, full-blown, boisterous
style. A better foil for “Cissy” could scarcely be imagined.
This buxom beauty answered to the name of Merrywether,
and, to all appearance, would have had no objection to
change it.

I pass over the drawing-room ceremonials, generally
somewhat dreary before dinner, and only enlivened, in the
present instance, by the personal daring of Major Brush,
whose idiosyncrasy compelled him at once to constitute
himself Mrs. Merrywether’s devoted admirer, and will ask
my reader to imagine the company fairly settled at table
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
(circular, with a quantity of light, and flowers), the soup
sipped, the first glass of sherry swallowed, turbot and
lobster sauce travelling leisurely round—in short, to use a
hunting metaphor, which most of the guests would understand,
their fox found and run into, and broken up with much
<i>gusto</i> and satisfaction. “Whoop! Worry! worry! worry!
Tear him and eat him!”

Mr. Sawyer has got a good start and a good place. He
did not succeed in taking the daughter of the house in to
dinner; for Struggles’s stout figure was in the way, and he
could not get by till that jolly personage had unwittingly
offered his arm. He secured the chair however on the
other side, and thought he spied the least shade of disappointment,
succeeded by one of the brightest looks, as he
did so. He was consoled accordingly, and, after the sherry,
not so shy as usual.

Crasher, of course, in virtue of his rank, took in their
hostess, who was supported on her other hand by Savage.
Mrs. Merrywether sat between the Reverend and Brush.
Everybody talked at once; and the champagne was beyond
praise.

Miss Dove was very agreeable, sharing her attentions
with great impartiality between Struggles and the agitated
Sawyer; only, when she addressed the latter, she used a
somewhat lower tone than to any one else. The dodge has
a prodigious effect on a man who is not up to it; and our
friend was honest and inexperienced enough, where women
were concerned. He felt in the seventh heaven, and more
inclined for drinking than eating; always a bad sign.
What is left to fall back upon, when the stomach is affected
by the maladies of the heart?

Not so Struggles. When she had seen the latter wholly
engrossed in the merits of a “<i>vol-au-vent</i>” Miss Dove
turned her pretty face and dangerous attention to her other
cavalier.

“You’ve never asked me how I got home that dark
night,” said she. “A long drive in the wet is no joke
after such a hard day. I dare say you’ve forgotten all
about it, Mr. Sawyer.” And the eyelashes went down till
they swept the delicate peach-like cheek.

Our friend <i>looked</i> unutterable things. He could think of
.bn 155.png
.pn +1
nothing more appropriate to say, however, than that “He—he
hoped she hadn’t caught cold.”

Cissy laughed outright as she replied, “You wrapped me
up too well for any fear of that. Do I <i>look</i> as if I had?”
she added, lifting the eyelashes, and fixing our friend with
one of her killing looks, as you run a great cockchafer right
through the body with a pin.

You see, Mr. Sawyer wanted a good deal of bringing on;
and the little witch encouraged him accordingly.

“You look remarkably well,” said he, mustering courage,
and proceeding desperately, as, when once a shy man begins,
he is always the boldest. “I never saw anything so becoming
as that dress. The effect is perfectly lovely.”

“Hush!” replied Cissy; “you mustn’t say <i>that</i>.
<i>There’s</i> our beauty. If you talk of loveliness, I am sure
you must be perfectly smitten with <i>that</i>,” nodding towards
Mrs. Merrywether as she spoke, and drawing his attention
to the charms of that lady, who was <i>fair</i>, whereas Cissy
herself was more of a brunette, and thus smoothing the
way for another compliment.

“I don’t admire such light hair,” replied the gentleman,
whose own <i>chevelure</i> was of the sandiest; “and she wants
expression; and her eyes are too far apart; and people’s
skins should be even whiter than hers to admit of such <i>very</i>
low dresses.”

Why are ladies always pleased when <i>other</i> ladies’ dresses
are thought too low? Cissy was not above the prejudices
of her sex. She gave him a bewitching smile, and called
him “a ridiculous creature.”

Even Mr. Sawyer could not misinterpret such signs of
favour. Whatever Miss Mexico may have <i>thought</i>, she had
never called him “a ridiculous creature” in her life.

“What I admire,” he proceeded, stealing a look at Miss
Cissy as he enumerated her personal advantages, “is more
colouring, darker hair, and arched eyebrows, and deeper
eyes, long eyelashes, and altogether a fresher and brighter
style of beauty; in short, I don’t think she would look at
all well in a white dress with cherry-coloured trimmings.”

It was the very dress she wore herself. There was no
mistake, thought the fair angler: she had <i>hooked</i> him. So
she gave him another of the captivating glances, and
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
changed the conversation by drawing his attention to her
fan, of which the fragrant sandal-wood only added fuel to
his flame, while she turned to Struggles, who, having made
an excellent dinner, was vainly endeavouring to talk to her
about the coming ball.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Merrywether, whose most prejudiced
detractor could not have accused her, at this juncture, of
wanting <i>expression</i>, was forcing the running with the agreeable
Brush. She was shaking her head, and making eyes,
and showing her teeth, and flourishing her shoulders at him,
with a degree of energy that must have been fatal to a less
experienced campaigner. The Major, however, was proof
against all the usual weapons of the female armoury. A
confirmed flirt, it was his habit just to stop short of love-making
with every woman he sat next to; but, if truth
must be told, he never yet had seen one whose attractions
he could place in comparison with his cutlet, his champagne,
his claret, and his after-dinner cigar. A good-humoured,
brainless, easy-going <i>bon-vivant</i>, it was the Major’s eventual
destiny to marry a learned lady, with blue spectacles, under
whose dynasty he faded away, and was lost to the world
altogether. But with this, at present, we have nothing
to do.

Mrs. Merrywether was quite willing to take him as he
was. Before the cheese was off the table, he had settled an
expedition to the Crystal Palace with her, the first time
they were both in London, and secured a flower from her
bouquet, which he placed, with much mock-devotion, in a
glass of sherry and water. Also, on the departure of the
ladies, he dived for, and brought to the surface, the following
articles, the property of the efflorescent widow: One
French fan—epoch, Louis-Quatorze; one pair of white
gloves, bound with ribbon, and numbered six and three-quarters;
one gold vinaigrette, with tiny chain complete;
and one lace-edged handkerchief, with a square inch of
cambric in the middle—it is presumed, in case of necessity,
to dry the fair mourner’s tears.

After this crowning feat, he threw himself back in his
chair, and settled to his host’s claret, like a man who is
thoroughly well satisfied with himself.

Never was a dinner that went off better. Mrs. Dove had
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
Savage to listen to, who was well-informed, and Crasher to
look at, who was well dressed. Struggles and Dove were
congenial souls, and, if once they could get together uninterrupted,
would talk about hunting by the hour. Mrs.
Merrywether was pleased with her dinner; pleased with her
neighbour; also—for she knew, even before she went to the
glass in the drawing-room, that she was looking her best—pleased
with herself. Cissy was satisfied; Sawyer enchanted;
and Crasher, looking forward with lazy gratification
to a dangerous drive in the dark, was in higher spirits
than usual.

We will leave the ladies to their tea and coffee, undisturbed.
The gentlemen close up round their host. A dry
biscuit and a magnum of the undeniable make their appearance.
The parson fills out a bumper of the rosy fluid, and
proposes his first and only toast—“Fox-hunting!”

Each man drinks it with thirsty satisfaction.
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-21
CHAPTER XXI||<s>THE MAGNUM BONUM</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>When</sc> the Reverend’s butler came in the first time with a
fresh supply of claret, he found the assembled guests making
themselves happy each in his own way. His master and
Struggles were crossing the Skeffington Lordship with great
enthusiasm, in an imaginary run with Mr. Tailby’s hounds.
Brush was expatiating on the merits of the vintage to the
Honourable Crasher, who, saying but little in reply, was
smiling faintly, and denoting his approval by the regularity
with which he charged and emptied his glass. Savage, who
dabbled in science, was explaining to Sawyer with considerable
perspicuity, a new discovery termed phonography, by
which sounds or vibrations of air are to be taken down as
they arise, upon the principle of the photograph, and which,
when thoroughly perfected and carried out, will make it no
longer an impertinence to request a bystander “not to look
at you in that tone of voice,” and flattered himself that so
good a listener must be imbibing stores of valuable information
from his remarks; Mr. Sawyer, however, was lost in
delicious dreams, tinged, as the decanter waned, with rosier
and rosier hues. He was, for the moment, unconscious of
Savage, of Brush, of Crasher, and only recognised the Reverend
as the purveyor of the best claret he had ever drunk,
and the father of such an angel as all England could not
match.
.pi
The second time the white-waistcoated functionary arrived
with “another of the same,” things wore a far different
aspect. Everybody was talking at once on the same subject.
Like a bag-fox before an unruly pack of hounds, the
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
topic of steeple-chasing had been started for the general
confusion, and each ran his own line and threw his tongue
for his own especial encouragement; there seemed no doubt
about the long-talked-of race coming off. Preliminaries
were adjusted, weights discussed, and a country suggested.
Even Struggles seemed to have got over his aversion to the
mongrel sport. But on the stout Ganymede’s third and
last appearance with “the landlord’s bottle,” the storm was
at its loudest, Mr. Sawyer laying down the law with the
best. Betting-books were out: even the Reverend had produced
what he called “some memorandums;” and the only
intelligible sounds, amidst the clamour, were the ominous
words “five-to-two”—current odds which everybody seemed
to lay, and nobody to take. The discreet servant then
whispered to his master that a second edition of coffee was
ready to go into the drawing-room, and ere long a glass of
brown sherry all round screwed our friends’ courage up to
face the ladies once more.

Each man accordingly composed his features into a vacant
simper, pulled his neckcloth up, and his wristbands down,
and straddled into the presence of those indulgent beings,
with an abortive attempt to look as if he, individually, had
been drinking little or no wine.

Cissy was at the pianoforte. If Mr. Sawyer had thought
her charming before, what must have been his opinion of
that sparkling young lady now, seen through the medium
of a fair share of champagne at dinner, and the best part of
two bottles of claret afterwards? Lights, dress, and a
general atmosphere of luxury and refinement, have a
wonderful effect in enhancing the attractions of the fair.
Alas, that we should have lived to admit it! Though the
poet may opine that “beauty unadorned is adorned the
most,” our hackneyed taste cannot but confess that it prefers
the French maid’s <i>coiffure</i> to the dishevelled tresses;
the trim silk stocking, and neat satin shoe, to the slippers
down at heel; and the shapely <i>corsage</i>, with its abundant
<i>crinoline</i>, to the limp and unassuming dressing-gown. Mr.
Sawyer was quite satisfied with Cissy as she was.

The musician was playing “The Swallows,” or “The
Humming Bird,” or “The Spring Geese;” Sawyer had no
ear for music, and neither knew nor cared which. She just
.bn 160.png
.pn +1
glanced at him as he entered the room, but the encouragement
was sufficient to lead him to the instrument.

“How <i>long</i> you have been!” said Miss Cissy in a low
voice, without looking up, rattling away at the keys in the
loudest of <i>finales</i>, with a vehemence that drowned her observations
to all ears but her admirer’s. Then she closed the
instrument, whispered papa to order the whist-table, and
went and sat on the sofa by Mrs. Merrywether in such a
position that Mr. Sawyer couldn’t possibly get at her.

They do not read Izaak Walton, these young women, and
yet how well they know how to play their fish! Is it constant
reflection and mutual discussion, I wonder, that makes
the least experienced of them such skilful anglers? or is it
not rather an intuitive sagacity, akin to that with which the
kitten teases her ball of cotton as dexterously as the cat
does a full-grown mouse? They suck it in, the science of
man-taming, I am inclined to believe, with their mothers’
milk. Mamma was just the same, doubtless; and grandmamma
too, whom she can just remember, with a cough and
crutches, and so on, up to Eve.

With the good-humoured Struggles for a partner and so
much of his brains as the claret had left untouched, filled
with the image of a dark-eyed young person in white muslin,
it was Mr. Sawyer’s lot to do battle at the noble game of
whist, against two no less formidable antagonists than
Savage and Parson Dove, both first-rate performers even
after dinner.

To be successful at this pastime, a man’s whole intellects
should be engrossed by the cards, and this was by no means
the case with our friend. In spite of his partner’s good-humoured
entreaties to “pay attention,” he could not prevent
his thoughts, and sometimes his eyes, from wandering
to the sofa near the fire-place. He had never liked Brush
quite as well as the rest of his companions, but on the
present occasion he could not refrain from wishing him
even in a hotter place than that which he had selected.
The Major with devoted gallantry, having placed his back
to a fire that would have roasted an ox, was holding forth
in his most agreeable manner to Mrs. Merrywether and
the laughing Cissy. Crasher, in the easiest of arm-chairs,
was helping Mrs. Dove to make paper lights, and revolving
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
in his own mind, while he listened amiably to the continuous
discourse of his hostess, whether he wouldn’t pole
up Marathon a little shorter going home, and try the more
direct road against which the Reverend was in the habit of
warning his guests. They would save a mile, in distance,
he thought, and there was sure to be more light on their
return. The Honourable had a sort of vague idea, that
there was always a moon about one or two o’clock.

Suddenly an explosion of laughter from the window,
under cover of which the unconscious Sawyer revoked,
and was immediately found out, startled the whole
assembly. “How absurd you are!” exclaimed that
noisy dame, in answer to some proposition of the
Major’s which appeared highly amusing to the ladies
on the sofa. “Now I appeal to ‘Cissy’ whether she
agrees with you. Girls are the best judges. Cissy! <i>do</i>
you think the Major as invincible as he says he is?”

Mr. Sawyer, on thorns to hear the answer, trumped his
partner’s best with considerable emphasis, and lost <i>another</i>
trick.

“It’s not fair to ask <i>me</i>,” answered Miss Dove, laughing
heartily. “He knows I admire him <i>immensely</i>; I’ve always
told him so!” and the three went on with their conversation,
which, I am bound to say, was great nonsense, but
amused them considerably all the same.

After this, Struggles thought the sooner they left off
whist the better. There is scarcely a mistake, of which
that intricate game admits, into which Mr. Sawyer did not
rush, so to speak, as if with a suicidal purpose. “Hang
the fellow!” thought Struggles, eyeing his partner with a
kind of good-humoured astonishment: “if he was drunk,
one could understand it; never saw such a thing! never
saw such cards so thrown away! and yet the man’s no fool.
Oh! he <i>must</i> be drunk! <i>must</i> be! but carries his liquor
with discretion!” and thereupon Struggles found himself
looking upon his partner’s features with a more indulgent
eye, and contemplating his own losses with the resignation
of a man who suffers in a good cause.

Three rubbers! one of them a bumper! How many
points, for the sake of my hero, I am ashamed to confess.
It was indeed, as Struggles pathetically remarked,
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
“about the worst night he’d ever had, since he left Westminster.”

Yet there was balm in Gilead, after all. The Honourable,
resisting all entreaties to stay and have some supper,
rang to order his phaeton round, and went fast asleep in his
arm-chair after the exertion. Their host, exhilarated by his
winnings, and in high good-humour, began about the
steeple-chase; and the ladies, who, I am convinced, patronise
these exhibitions chiefly on account of the silk jackets,
and connect them remotely in their own minds with a fancy
dress ball, began to betray great curiosity on the subject
of the “colours of the riders,” “<i>gorge de pigeon</i>,” the
Major’s selected hue, having decidedly the call. During
the discussion which so favourite a topic was sure to
engender, it came out, somehow, that Mr. Sawyer was
going to take part in the hazardous amusement—an
announcement which he made darkly, and with a sidelong
glance at Cissy, that seemed to say he would rather break
his neck than not. The young lady having teased him
enough, was quite ready to meet him halfway. “Isn’t it
very dangerous?” said she, with clasped hands and a look
of affectionate interest. “Are you <i>really</i> going to ride,
Mr. Sawyer? Oh! how I <i>hope</i> you’ll win!” And down
went the eyelashes once more.

After that, what cared Mr. Sawyer for rubbers, bumpers,
points and losses? Everything was <i>couleur de rose</i> again.
Whilst the others gathered round the wine-and-water tray,
he sank down on the sofa by her side, and for a delicious
five minutes had his enslaver all to himself. In that brief
period, he managed to find out her favourite colour, and
promised to adopt it in the coming steeple-chase. A few
stars were twinkling dimly through the cloudy atmosphere
when he lit his cigar and got into the phaeton by the
Honourable’s side. Why couldn’t Mr. Sawyer look at
them without thinking of Cissy Dove?
.bn 163.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-22
CHAPTER XXII||<s>A WET NIGHT</s>
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>Sit</sc> tight,” exclaimed the Honourable, as the phaeton
bumped forcibly against the stone post of the Rectory
entrance, and proceeded into the road with what sailors call
“a considerable slue to port,” consequent on that brute
Marathon hugging the pole and setting his mouth with pig-headed
obstinacy. “I <i>must</i> pitch into you!” added the
driver, suiting the action to the word, and administering
heavy punishment to the transgressing animal—a discipline
which Marathon resented by kicking hard against the splash-board;
whilst the chestnut, a sensitive, high-couraged five-year-old,
was driven almost mad by the sounds of repeated
flagellation. “Are you nervous on wheels?” added the
charioteer quietly, as he felt his companion’s leg stiffen
against his own with the instinctive rigidity of apprehension.
“Nervous!” forsooth! Ask Launcelot fresh from the presence
of Guenevere, or Charles Brandon tilting before the
young Dauphiness of France, or Bothwell with his armour
buckled on by Mary Stuart, if those doughty champions
were afraid; but forbear to put so ridiculous a question at
a moment like the present to John Standish Sawyer.
“<i>Nervous</i>, indeed!” Our friend pressed his hat firmly on
his head, folded his arms across his chest, and laughed
grimly in his questioner’s face. “All right, old fellow!”
said he; “drive on, if you like, to the devil!”
.pi
“He’s a rare plucked one,” thought the Honourable to
himself, as he started the horses in a gallop, apparently with
no other view than that of arriving at the destination proposed.
The night was dark, and threatening rain as it
.bn 164.png
.pn +1
clouded over rapidly; the way intricate, full of turns and
difficulties; and The Boy, is it needless to observe, helplessly
drunk in the rumble. He would have been a venturous
speculator who had taken five to one that they arrived
safe at Market Harborough.

The wheels flew round with frightful velocity, scattering
the mud profusely over the occupants of the carriage. The
horses with lowered heads laid themselves down to their
work, pulling wildly. The Honourable’s arms were extended,
and his feet thrust forward. He would not have admitted
it, but it looked very much as if they were running away
with him.

“An’t they getting a little out of your hand?” asked Mr.
Sawyer, hazarding the question in its mildest form, as he
recognised Marathon’s well-known manner of putting down
his head when he meant mischief; and calculated if anything
<i>should</i> give way, whereabouts his own body would
shoot to, at that pace.

“Only going free,” answered Crasher with the utmost
composure, though his cigar was burnt all the way down
one side to his lips by the current of air created in the
rapidity of their transit. “Remarkably free—but I like
phaeton horses to run up to their bits.”

“<i>Do you?</i>” thought Mr. Sawyer; but, despite the
enthusiasm and the claret, and the romance of the whole
evening, he wished himself anywhere else. Independent
of the ignominious ending of being dashed to pieces out of
a phaeton, it <i>would</i> be hard lines never to see Cissy Dove
again. However, there was nothing for it but to sit still
and trust to Crasher’s coachmanship. Anything like expostulation
with that gentleman he felt would be worse than
useless.

I recollect to have seen or heard somewhere an anecdote
of the celebrated “Hell-fire Dick,” which exhibits such
<i>sang-froid</i> in a dangerous predicament as to be worth repeating.
Dick, then, who had attained his flaming <i>sobriquet</i>
by the dashing pace and general recklessness with which he
drove, was not only one of the most skilful of the old-fashioned
Long coachmen, but was equally noted for the
cool imperturbability of his demeanour and the suavity of
his replies. One very dark night, whilst proceeding at his
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
usual pace, he was so unfortunate as to get off the road on
a common where several gravel-pits yawning on each side
for his reception, made the mistake as dangerous as it was
disagreeable. With a tremendous lurch the coach swung
over one of these ready-made graves, and there was just
light enough to perceive the fifteen feet or so of sheer descent
yawning for its victims. “Where have you got to now,
Dick?” exclaimed the box-passenger, in accents of pardonable
irritation and alarm. “Can’t say, sir,” replied Dick,
with the utmost politeness, while they were all turning
over together—“Can’t say, I’m sure—<i>never was here
before</i>!”

Now, if the Honourable Crasher had been going to be
shot the next minute, it is my firm conviction that impending
destruction would not have ruffled his plumes, nor
agitated the languor of his accustomed manner in the
slightest degree. Whether such a temperament is entirely
natural, or is not rather to a certain extent the result of
education, enhanced by what we must call the affectation
peculiar to a class, it is not our business to inquire: but
we may fairly acknowledge to a respectful commiseration for
a quiet respectable country gentleman who finds his neck
committed to the keeping of one of these imperturbable,
placid, yet utterly reckless adventurers.

The wind was getting up, and a heavy shower of mingled
sleet and rain dashing in their faces, added considerably to
the discomfort of the whole process.

“This can’t last long,” murmured Mr. Sawyer below his
breath, and holding on vigorously to the side of the carriage
the while, as they whirled fiercely through the obscurity,
the rush of their career varied only by frequent jumps and
bumps that threatened to jerk him clean out over the splash-board.
He was not very far wrong in his calculations.

Their course lay along one of those field-roads so common
in Leicestershire, where the track on a dark night is not
easily distinguished from the adjacent ridge-and-furrow, and
which, delightful to the equestrian for that very reason, as
no jealous fence prevents him diverging for a canter on to
the springy pasture, are less convenient for carriages owing
to the number of gates that delay the passage of the
vehicle. They were now approaching the first of these
.bn 166.png
.pn +1
obstacles to their course, and Crasher had not yet got a pull
at his horses.

“It’s open, I think,” remarked the Honourable, peering
into the darkness ahead, and endeavouring to moderate the
pace without effect.

“I think <i>not</i>!” replied Mr. Sawyer, setting his teeth for
a catastrophe.

Right again! Three more strides and they were
into it!

A crackling smashing noise of broken wood-work—one or
two violent bangs against the splash-board—a faint expostulation
of “<i>Gently</i>, my lads!” from the Honourable—a
tremendous jolt against the post, which was torn up by the
roots—and Mr. Sawyer found himself on his face and hands
in an exceedingly wet furrow; a little stunned, a good deal
confused, and feeling very much as if somebody had
knocked him down, and he did not know whom to be angry
with.

As he rose and shook himself to ascertain that no bones
were broken, much struggling and groaning as of an animal
in distress, mingled with weeping and lamentation from a
human voice, smote on his ear. The former arose from
Marathon, who couldn’t get up, with the other horse and
the pole and part of the carriage atop of him: the latter
from The Boy, who, frightened for the moment into a
spurious sobriety, thus gave vent to his feelings of utter
despondency and desolation.

“I thought the brute <i>could</i> jump timber,” said a calm
voice in the surrounding darkness. “Let us see: <i>here’s</i>
the carriage—<i>there</i> are the horses—and <i>that</i> must be The
Boy. Where are <i>you</i>, Sawyer?”

“Here!” answered our friend, coming forward, rubbing
his elbows and knees, to discover if he was hurt; the
Honourable, who had never abandoned his cigar, endeavouring
to extricate the horses—a measure only to be
accomplished by dint of cutting the harness—and to
estimate the amount of damage, and the impossibility of
putting in to refit.

Our friend set to work with a will. By their joint
endeavours they succeeded at last in getting the hapless
Marathon and his companion clear of the wreck. Both
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
were obviously lamed and injured; the carriage, as far as
could be made out in the darkness, broken all to pieces.

The Boy, after flickering up for a few minutes, had
become again unconscious. As the old watchman used to
sing out, it was “Past one o’clock and a stormy morning!”

“Whereabouts are we?” asked Mr. Sawyer in dolorous
accents, as he tried to persuade himself he ought to be
thankful it was no worse. “Whereabouts are we, and what
had we better do?”

“Over a hundred miles from London,” answered the
Honourable, “that’s all I know about it. Holloaing, I
suppose, would be no use—there can’t be a house within
hearing, and the fly has gone the other road. Have a
cigar, old fellow! and, just to keep the fun going, perhaps
you wouldn’t mind singing us a song?”

It was only under a calamity like the present that the
Honourable condescended to be facetious.

Mr. Sawyer was on the verge of making an angry reply,
when the sound of a horse’s hoofs advancing with considerable
rapidity changed it into a vigorous call for assistance.

“Hilli-ho! ho!” shouted Mr. Sawyer. “Hilli-ho!
ho!” answered a jolly voice, as the hoofs ceased, and came
clattering on again, denoting that the rider had pulled up
to listen and was coming speedily to help. “What’s up
now?” asked the jolly voice, in somewhat convivial accents,
as an equestrian mass of drab and leggings, which was all
that could be made out through the darkness, loomed indistinctly
into the foreground. “What’s up now, mates?
got the wrong end uppermost this turn, sure-lie.”

“Come to grief at the gate,” explained the Honourable.
“Didn’t go <i>quite</i> fast enough at it, Sawyer,” he added, half
reflectively, half apologetically, to his friend.

“Why, it’s Muster Crasher!” exclaimed the jolly voice,
in delighted tones. “Well, <i>to be</i> sure! Not the <i>first</i> gate,
neither, by a many—only to think of it, well, well! But
come, let’s see what’s the damage done—dear! dear! you’ll
never get home to-night. You must come up to my place,
’tain’t above a mile through the fields—we’ll get you put
up, nags and all, and send down for the trap first thing i’
the morning. How lucky I was passing this way! Coming
back from market, ye see, I’d just stopped to smoke a pipe
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
with neighbour Mark down at The Holt, and was maken’
for home in a hurry, ’cause it’s rather past my time, you
know, when I hear this gentleman a hollerin’ murder! Up
I comes and finds the ship overboard with a vengeance.
What a start it is, sure-lie!”

Thus moralising, and never leaving off talking for an
instant, the jolly yeoman jumped off his horse, and lent his
powerful assistance to clear away the wreck; shaking The
Boy into life again with considerable energy. In a few
minutes the four men, leading the two damaged carriage-horses,
were stumbling and groping their way across the
fields towards the new arrival’s farm.

Ere they reached their destination, the owner, with considerable
politeness, introduced himself to our friend. “No
offence, sir,” said he, “my name’s Trotter—Trotter of
Trotter’s Lodge, and that’s my place where you see the
lights a shinin’—Mr. Crasher, he knows me <i>well</i>—think
I’ve met <i>you</i> out a huntin’ more than once this season—allow
me, sir, we’ll have the missus up in no time, and a
hearty welcome to you both.”

As Mr. Trotter thus hospitably concluded, he ushered
his guests into a comfortable kitchen, where a tallow candle
was still glimmering in its accustomed place. The master
was obviously in the habit of coming home late; but that
the practice was contrary to the rules of domestic discipline
Mr. Sawyer gathered from the accents of a shrill voice
raised in tones of reproach from an upstairs dormitory.

“Trotter! Trotter!” exclaimed the voice, unconscious
of visitors, and proceeding apparently from beneath a considerable
weight of bed-clothes, “is that you at last? It’s
too bad! It’s nigh upon two o’clock. Mind you rake
out the fire, and don’t go spilling the candle-grease all
about as you come upstairs!”

Mr. Trotter, still perceptibly elevated, winked facetiously
at his guests. “Get up, Margery!” he called out; “get
up, I tell ye! make haste and come down. Never mind
your night-cap. Here’s two gentlemen come to see ye!”
And with many apologies and repeated allusions to the substantive
“keys,” Mr. Trotter stirred up the fire, lit another
candle, and proceeded upstairs to rouse his better-half.

In less time than you or I as a bachelor could believe it
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
possible, a smiling dame made her appearance from above-stairs,
with a neat morning cap over her comely head, and
a bright rosy face, very different from the sallow hues of
many a fine lady when first she wakes, blushing beneath it.
That her petticoat was put on in a hurry, and her gown
unfastened behind, was only what might be expected in
such a rapid turn-out. These trifling drawbacks detracted
not the least from the bustling hospitality with which she
received her guests. It was only by the most pathetic
entreaties that the Honourable dissuaded her from having
a fire lighted in the best parlour, and extorted her permission
for them to sit in the kitchen.

Dry slippers were soon provided for the guests. The
horses, inspected by the stable lantern, were discovered not
to be irremediably injured, though Marathon’s chance was
out for the steeple-chase, “if indeed,” as his former and
present owners remarked in a breath, though with different
emphasis, “he ever had one.” The Boy was put to bed,
where he might be heard snoring all over the house. What
Mr. Trotter called a “snack” was set on the table, consisting
of a round of beef, a ham, some cold pork-pie, an
Eddish cheese, and a few other trifles of a like nature,
adapted for a late meal as being light and easy of digestion.
Port and sherry were produced and declined in favour of
huge steaming beakers of hot brandy-and-water. Arrangements
were entered into for forwarding the two gentlemen
to Harborough in the farmer’s gig “first thing to-morrow
morning.” Mr. Trotter produced a box of cigars and
announced his intention of “making a night of it!”

A faint scream from his wife promised to a certain extent
to modify the conviviality of the meeting. “She couldn’t
abear the sight of blood,” she said, with many excuses for
her feminine susceptibility, and drew the company’s attention
to the personal appearance of Mr. Sawyer, which everybody
had hitherto been too busy to observe, and which indeed
presented a sufficiently ghastly aspect to excuse the good
dame’s reiterated assurances that it “had give her quite
a turn.”

A severe contusion on the eyebrow, accompanied by a
cut extending to the cheek-bone, and which had covered
one side of his face with dried blood, made him look much
.bn 170.png
.pn +1
more damaged than he really was, and though kindly Mrs.
Trotter quickly recovered her equanimity and brought him
warm water and vinegar and balsam, and eventually plastered
him up with about half a sheet of diachylon, she could
not help shuddering during the operation, and seemed glad
when it was over. Our farmers’ wives of the present day
are not quite so much accustomed to broken heads as bonny
“Ailie,” the helpmate of immortal Dandie Dinmont.

The borderer, however, could not have been more hospitably
inclined than was the jovial Leicestershire farmer.
Setting aside the difference of time and locality, they had
indeed many qualities in common. The same love of hunting,
the same daring in the saddle, the same open-hearted
hospitality and tendency to push good-fellowship a little
over the bounds of sobriety. The only difference perhaps
was this that Dandie Dinmont would have been getting up
before Mr. Trotter was thinking of going to bed.

I am not going to recapitulate the sayings and doings of
those jovial small hours after Mrs. Trotter had betaken
herself once more hopelessly to her couch. The Honourable
Crasher, always a gentleman, though rather a torpid
one, was equally at home with a duke and a drayman,
perhaps more in his element with a hunting friend like
Trotter than either. The good runs they recapitulated, the
horses they remembered, the grey that was bought by Mr.
G——, and the chestnut that had carried Lord W—— so
well for years, the fences they had negotiated—nay, the
very toasts they proposed and did justice to, would fill a
chapter. It is sufficient to say that when Mr. Sawyer
awoke in the best bedroom about sunrise the following
morning, he had a racking head-ache, his mouth felt like
the back of a Latin grammar, and the only distinct recollection
with which he could charge his memory of the
previous night’s conversation was his host’s recipe for
making a young horse a safe fencer, which he certainly did
not then feel in a condition to adopt.

“If you’ve got a green horse as you’re not very confident
on at strong timber,” said Mr. Trotter, about the fourth
glass of brandy-and-water, “you tackle him <i>my</i> way. You
take him out o’ Sundays or any afternoon as you’ve nothing
particular to do, and pick him out some real <i>stiff</i> ones.
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
Give him two or three <i>good heavy falls</i>, and I’ll warrant
you’ll have very little trouble afterwards. That’s the way
to make ’em <i>rise</i>!—ain’t it, Mr. Crasher?”

After such a night’s amusement as I have described,
gentlemen are apt to be later in the morning than they
originally proposed.

Our belated travellers had intended getting back to their
quarters at Harborough by eight or nine o’clock, there to
make their toilets, discuss their breakfasts, and so proceed
to covert methodically as usual, in time to meet Mr. Tailby’s
clipping pack at Carlton Clump. It was nine, however,
before either of them was stirring, and then the hospitable
Trotter, who was himself going to hunt, and who came in
from shepherding as rosy and fresh as if he had never seen
brandy-and-water in his life, would not hear of their going
away without breakfast. Altogether they did not get clear
of Trotter’s Lodge much before ten o’clock, and as they
drove out of the farmyard they had the mortification of
seeing their entertainer mounted on his four-year-old
(“Fancy riding a four-year-old after such a night!” thought
Mr. Sawyer) on his way to the meet. “And we’ve got to
go home and dress, and then come all this way back again,”
moralised the Honourable. “I say, Sawyer, I wish I could
make this beggar go as fast as we did last night,” and
Crasher smiled at the recollection, as a man smiles who
recalls some peaceful scene of his youth, or some good
action which he will never find cause to repent.

<i>This beggar</i>, however, though a good farmer’s nag enough,
knew quite well that it wasn’t his day for Market Harborough,
and displayed great unwillingness to improve
upon seven miles an hour in that direction. The chance of
being in time faded away momently. Already they had
overtaken several grooms with hunters; worse still, one or
two early men on their hacks had overtaken <i>them</i>, and they
had not yet struck into the high-road. At last the sound
of wheels behind them caused the old horse to quicken his
pace—not sufficiently so, however, to prevent the pursuing
carriage from gaining on them rapidly. Mr. Sawyer looked
back. Oh for a gig umbrella! It was none other than
Parson Dove driving his daughter to the meet, that young
lady’s very becoming costume denoting that it was her intention
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
to join in the pleasures of the chase. Here was a
predicament! To be detected by the queen of his affections,
with whom he had parted at midnight, in all the correct decorum
of evening costume, still in the same dress, so inappropriate
at 10.30 <sc>A.M.</sc>, bearing obvious tokens of having
been out all night, and worse than all, with an inflamed
countenance, blood-shot eyes, and a face half-eclipsed in
plaister! Perdition! It was not to be thought of!

With the energy of despair he snatched the whip from
the Honourable’s astonished grasp, and applied it with such
good will to the old horse’s ribs, that the animal broke incontinently
into a gallop, and turned into the high-road
some fifty yards ahead of its pursuers, who would cross that
thoroughfare directly, whereas Mr. Sawyer and its driver
would follow its broad track to Harborough. “Cover me
up!” exclaimed our friend to his laughing companion, as he
crouched in the bottom of the carriage, under the scanty
gig-apron, and devoutly hoped he had escaped recognition—“cover
me up! I wouldn’t be seen in this plight by any of
<i>that</i> family for a hundred pounds!” Nevertheless, he resolved,
so to speak, to substantiate his <i>alibi</i> by swearing the
Honourable to secrecy, and abstaining altogether for that
day from the chase.
.bn 173.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-23
CHAPTER XXIII||<s>DOUGHTY DEEDS</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>About</sc> this period there might have been—and indeed, by
his intimates, there <i>was</i>—remarked an obvious change in
the appearance, habits, and general demeanour of our friend.
No longer dressed in the rough-and-ready style which had
heretofore been at once his glory and his peculiarity, Mr.
Sawyer now began to affect a strange refinement of costume,
bordering on effeminacy. His boots were thinner and much
tighter than of old; he turned his collars over his neckcloth,
after the prevailing fashion, thereby imparting to his physiognomy
an expression of romantic vacuity; anointed his
head till it shone again; affected gloves on all occasions,
and set up a ring. Altogether, his exterior was as symptomatic
of his disorder as that of Benedict. Also he purchased,
at a printseller’s over the way, a representation
of a young person washing her feet in a stream, and purporting
to be a “Highland Lassie,” but of a meretricious
aspect which, it is only fair to state, is rarely to be observed
amongst the Scottish mountaineers. It was one of
those startling accidental likenesses to the lady of his affections,
which a man must be as hard hit as Mr. Sawyer
to detect. In the hunting-field, too, he adopted an ambitious
style of riding, totally at variance with his previous
quiet, straightforward form; and a considerable interval of
bad-scenting weather enabled him to distinguish himself to
his heart’s content. When hounds run best pace, horses
have not wind for extraordinary exertions in the matter of
fencing; and, moreover, such saltatory exploits as are out
of the common way can be witnessed but by few, and those
are completely engrossed in their own doings; but when
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
the pack checks in every field, a man who chooses to single
himself out by charging the ugliest bullfinches and the
stiffest rails, either because he wants to attract attention or
to sell his horse, has every opportunity of showing up the
latter and calling down upon himself the animadversions of
all true sportsmen. Our friend, with the two horses he
bought from Mr. Varnish—both capital leapers—in addition
to Hotspur and the grey, had no lack of material on which
to flourish away in too close proximity to the chase. Charles
Payne, though with a strong fellow-feeling for “keenness,”
began to hate the sight of him, Mr. Tailby to dread his appearance
as he would that of a black frost, and Lord Stamford
to find that even <i>his</i> imperturbable good-humour might
be exhausted at last.
.pi
What is to be expected, however, of a gentleman who has
taken to repeating Montrose’s well-known lines—
.pm verse-start
“If doughty deeds my lady please,
  Right soon I’ll mount my steed;
And keen his lance, and strong his arm,
  That bears from me the meed;”
.pm verse-end
.ni
varied by the resolute sentiment—
.pm verse-start
“He either fears his fate too much,
  Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
  To win or lose it all!”
.pm verse-end
.pi
One or other of these romantic stanzas was continually
on Mr. Sawyer’s lips. After their enunciation, he was used
to sigh deeply, shake his head, and light a cigar, which he
would smoke vehemently for a quarter of an hour or so, in
a brown study.

Our friend’s reflections, however, were not wholly dipped
in the roseate hues of hope. Stern misgivings would come
across him, as to the imprudence of the career on which he
had embarked. He was spending a deal of money, that was
the fact; and he had always, hitherto, been of a saving disposition,
rather than otherwise. In the prosecution of his
schemes against Miss Mexico, his outlay, indeed, had been
principally in cheap jewellery and lavender-water—articles
of fascination for the purchase of which he would have been
handsomely reimbursed by that lady’s thirty thousand
.bn 175.png
.pn +1
pounds, <i>if he had got it</i>. But in the present case, not only
was his extravagance much greater, but it is mere justice to
state, that he had never weighed Miss Dove’s fortune or the
want of it in the balance with her attractions. The former
flame had half a plum; the present might not have half-a-crown.
Bah! what of that? Those eyelashes alone were
worth all the money!

Nevertheless, a stud of horses, though consisting only of
the modest number of four hunters and a hack, are not to
be kept for nothing, more particularly when away from
home. Independent of stable-rent, forage, subscriptions to
hounds, and necessary <i>douceurs</i> to different individuals, any
man who has ever paid a groom’s book will bear witness to
the extraordinary rapidity with which its different items accumulate.
<i>Naphtha</i> alone is as dear as claret, and consumed
with equal liberality; sponges, rubbers, currycombs, and
dandy-brushes require to be replaced with astonishing frequency;
and, what with shoeing and removing, the blacksmith’s
bill is as long as his stalwart arm. When you add
to all this an everyday dinner of the best, with champagne
and claret <i>à discrétion</i>—if such a quality, indeed, can be said
to exist in a bachelor party—you will not share Mr. Sawyer’s
surprise at discovering that his present expenditure far exceeded
his calculations. The four hundred he had paid to
Mr. Varnish for two horses completed a good round sum;
and, for a minute or two, he thought he had better have
remained at The Grange.

This last item, however, in his outlay, suggested to him
a method by which he might combine fame with money-making,
and, if Fortune stood his friend, have his season
almost for nothing. The chestnut five-year-old, whom, out
of compliment to Miss Dove, he had resolved to call “Wood-Pigeon,”
was really a good nag. He was a quick and fine
fencer, could gallop fast, and <i>go on</i>. Altogether, Mr. Varnish
was not beyond the mark when he described him to
the purchaser as adapted for “safety, punctuality, and
dispatch.” Why not put him into this steeple-chase they
made such a fuss about, win a hatful of money in stakes,
bets, &c., to say nothing of the “honour and glory,” and
then sell the whole stud, and retire upon his laurels? Should
Fortune smile, and land him first past the post, it would be
.bn 176.png
.pn +1
the proudest day of his life; and even in the event of failure,
why, “If doughty deeds my lady please,” &c.; and Miss
Dove could not but look upon him with a more favourable
eye, when he had worn her colours in the race.

Old Isaac must be taken into consultation. For the first
time, his master rather shunned the glance of that keen,
hard eye. He walked into the stable one evening, after
hunting, and began to sound his servant on the important
position.

“By the by, Isaac,” said he, in an off-hand tone, “they’re
talking of a steeple-chase here. Only amongst the gentlemen,
you know; we sha’n’t want much training. I think I
should have a fair chance with Wood-Pigeon?”

Isaac shook his head. “Well, sir,” said he, “<i>you</i> know
best. Who’s to ride?”

“Oh, I should ride him myself, of course,” replied his
master, with a toss of the head that as much as said, “With
such a jockey, he’s sure to win.” “Ride him myself, and do
all I <i>know</i>, you may depend,” he added facetiously.

Old Isaac reflected. “Have you ever ridden a steeple-chase?”
he asked, after a moment’s consideration.

Mr. Sawyer was obliged to admit that he never had.

“Well, then, <i>I have</i>,” said the groom. “You don’t
know what it is. Such a blazin’ pace through the fields!
and such an owdacious scuffle at the fences! Nothin’ but
a professional can keep his head at that work; and <i>he</i> often
gets it broke. Better not try it, master: better let it alone.
They’ll only make a fool of ye.”

Mr. Sawyer waxed indignant. “That’s my business,”
said he; “yours is to get the horse fit. I tell you I’ve
entered him—Wood-Pigeon by Wapiti. He’ll be first
favourite the day of the race. Do you hear? I depend
upon you to get him thoroughly fit.”

Isaac scratched his head. “Fit!” he repeated. “Yes—I’ll
get the <i>horse</i> fit: you get the <i>rider</i>. If you <i>must</i>
have a turn at it, take my advice, master. You get yourself
in good wind; keep your head clear; jump off at the
moment the flag drops; never let his head go; and, above
all, <i>sit still</i>.”

After this, Isaac could never again be brought to open
his mouth on the subject.
.bn 177.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-24
CHAPTER XXIV||<s>THE BALL</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>When</sc> a man has not been provided by Nature with more
than an average share of personal advantages, that same
process of dressing for a ball <i>after</i> a bachelor’s dinner-party
is an affair of considerable trouble and dissatisfaction.
To devote those minutes, that are wont to pass so pleasantly
in the enjoyment of conviviality or repose, to the cares of the
toilet, is in itself a sufficient infliction; but the contrast is
rendered all the more aggravating by abortive efforts to
eradicate the effluvia of tobacco-smoke, to disguise the
appearance of satiety, not to say repletion, attendant on four
courses and a dessert, with champagne and claret at discretion,
and to achieve that general aspect of light and airy
gaiety which even middle-aged gentlemen of spherical proportions
consider most captivating in the eyes of the fair.
.pi
All these difficulties had Mr. Sawyer to encounter on the
night of the Harborough Ball.

Yes, the important event had arrived at last, after much
discussion by stewards and lady patronesses, and general
differences of opinion amongst all concerned. After protestations
from some that they could by no means fill their
houses, and assurances from others that nothing would
induce them to travel such distances by night in bad
weather, and declarations from all that, for their own part,
they voted the whole thing a bore, the day was at length
fixed, the musicians engaged, the supper ordered, and the
room prepared.

“It was to be a capital ball,” said one, “comprising
the <i>élite</i> of three counties, and at least as many beautiful
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
<i>débutantes</i>.” “There would be nobody there,” vowed
another, “but the M.F.H., and the M.P., and old Mrs. Halfcaste,
with a bevy of the townspeople.” The room would
be cold, prophesied the malcontents; the supper scanty, the
roads slippery, and the moon obscured. Miss Cecilia Dove,
in talking the matter over with her mamma, inclined first
to one, and then the other of these opinions; supporting
each in turn with vigour and tenacity. Under any circumstances,
however, she had determined to go.

Behold Mr. Sawyer then, in his little smoky bedroom,
struggling into a white neckcloth, about ten <sc>P.M.</sc>, and contemplating
a pale face and heavy eyes; the unattractive
appearance of which he could not wholly attribute to the
bad glass which adorned his dressing-table. He was
nervous, too, was our friend John Standish Sawyer; unquestionably
nervous. Of all nights in his life this was the
one when he would fain have borrowed, if he could, the
exterior of another hunting-man, a very different-looking
person, whom painters strive to represent as worthy to be
the Queen of Beauty’s choice, in their embodiment of the
hapless loves of Venus and Adonis. Alas! Mr. S. could
not conceal from himself that he was anything but a good-looking
fellow.

Nevertheless, a plain exterior, like a bad farm, must
equally be cultivated at the proper season. Dress works
wonders, and the tailor, if you employ Poole, doubtless
helps to make the man. Like Brummel, our friend spoilt a
good many white neckcloths before he effected <i>the</i> desired
tie. At last, however, he got it to his liking, swung himself
into a roomy dress-coat—scarlet, with silk lining—and
proceeded, not without trepidation, to the scene of action.

Is there any penalty or disgrace attached to the solecism
of being earlier than one’s neighbours at ball, concert or
other public occasion of festivity? It is wonderful what
pains people will take to avoid this appearance of over-punctuality.
I cannot call to mind any occasion on which
I have thus had the room <i>entirely</i> to myself; nor did I ever
meet any one who would confess that he had enjoyed this
monopoly of vacuity. And yet somebody must arrive first!
I wonder how that desolate one employs the long leaden
moments. Does he wander about with his hands in his
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
pockets, trying to look as if he expected something, and
scanning the decorations with critical <i>sang froid</i>! Does he
fraternise with the musicians, who, drawn up in a row, must
present, indeed, a formidable array of eyes to a person of
moderate apprehensions, and win their eternal goodwill by
performing a <i>pas seul</i> to their voluntary strains? or does
he give way to a cowardly despair, and, retreating in disorder,
retire incontinently to bed? Probably not the latter, or
the ball would never begin.

Mr. Sawyer had none of this to confront single-handed.
Loitering about the cloak-room door, he came upon Struggles,
Brush, Savage, and Co.; all equally averse with himself
to plunge prematurely into the festive scene, and was
greeted by the conclave, from whom he had parted about an
hour previously, with a boisterous cordiality born of their
potations.

“He’s <i>meant</i>!” said one, talking of our friend as if he
were a racehorse in strong training, whom each had backed
heavily to win. “Got-up to the nines!” exclaimed another,
scanning him from top to toe, as an adjutant scans a
recruit. “Hang it! Sawyer, you’ve done it to-night!”
laughed a third; “they won’t let <i>you</i> out of this alive!”
And Mr. S., who rather flattered himself the general effect
was favourable, did not quite know whether to be pleased
with their approbation or to take huff at their familiarity.
Meanwhile carriages were setting down with increasing
frequency. The clatter was quite alarming in the paved
streets of the little country town; the steam of horses almost
obscured the carriage-lamps, and sweet little satin-slippered
feet stepped daintily from inside, over an interregnum of
wet straw, on to a soppy foot-cloth. When ankles are
neatly turned, but not otherwise, it is surprising what a
deal of holding-up is required by the compressible and
expansive <i>crinoline</i>. Warm greetings and affectionate
pressures of the hand were exchanged between such swains
as were lucky enough to intercept them and their own
peculiar damsels in the passage to the cloak-room, whither
the ladies betook themselves forthwith, there to leave their
becoming and coquettish little <i>burnouses</i> ere they shook out
their canvas and got under sail in all the splendour of fall
dress.
.bn 180.png
.pn +1

Mammas looked approvingly at their bridling daughters,
as the latter tripped into the ball-room before them;
mammas, the very counterpart of those blooming beauties,
had you rolled up two or three into one, but fair-shouldered,
brown-haired, and comely yet, as English matrons are, up
to a very uncertain period. Papas, with white gloves and
red faces, slapped each others’ backs, and talked about
yesterday’s gallop. The musicians struck up the prettiest
waltz of the last season but one; Major Brush, with unexampled
temerity, dashed into the enchanted ring with
Lady Barbara Blazer in his arms; Bob Blazer followed suit
with flirting Miss Tiptoes. A whirling maze of tulle, and
wreaths, and sparkling gems, and perfumed floating tresses
pervaded the magic circle; louder pealed the cornet-à-piston,
brighter glanced the eyes, faster flew the dancers, the top
of the room began to fill, and the ball might now be said to
have fairly begun.

It is only your habitual ball-goer, however, who can thus,
like some consummate swimmer, dash in with a header and
strike out at once into the flood. Less experienced performers
may be excused for shivering awhile on the brink.
Shy gentlemen congregating round the doorway fitted their
gloves on with tedious accuracy, looking over their collars
meanwhile at their future partners, with an air of melancholy
defiance; the weaker-minded ones informing each other
confidentially that it was “going to be a capital ball!”
The ranks of these waverers thinned perceptibly though, as
the dance wore on, and Mr. Sawyer, who did not waltz,
found himself ere long stranded high and dry at the top of
the room amongst the grandees; a little bewildered, truly,
and lost in such a crowd of strangers, but greatly sustained,
nevertheless, by Hope and Bordeaux.

These stimulants, as might be expected, waned simultaneously.
Fresh arrivals blocked the doorway; and still
she didn’t come! Not she, indeed! Catch Miss Cissy doing
anything half so green as arriving early or staying late.
No, no; if you want to be sought after, ladies, you must be
sparing of your presence and economical of your smiles.
There is no dog so obedient as the one you keep sitting up
on his hind legs, to beg for a crumb of biscuit at a time.

Mr. Sawyer was in despair. As a stranger, however, he
.bn 181.png
.pn +1
was presented to the grandees, and found himself, he scarcely
knew how, engaged to dance “The Lancers” with Lady
Barbara Blazer, a formidable beauty, of dashing, not to say,
overwhelming manners, and who attributed to extraordinary
forwardness, for which she rather liked him, our friend’s
confused and half-unconscious request that she would favour
him with her hand.

Now dancing was not Mr. Sawyer’s <i>forte</i>, and he had
never before attempted “The Lancers.” It is no wonder,
then, that the intricacies of that measure should have utterly
bamboozled him, or that he should have set to the wrong
people, got in everybody’s way, and made himself supremely
ridiculous. Add to this, that in the midst of the most
difficult manœuvre, when, hunting over the set for his own
partner in vain, he caught Cissy Dove’s eyes fixed upon him
with an expression of malicious amusement; and it is needless
to specify that his discomfiture was complete: Cissy
Dove looking radiant as a Peri. Oh, after that, it was all
magic and moonshine. Lady Barbara never alluded to him
subsequently as anything but “the poor queer man I met
at Harborough;” and that magnificent dame’s opinion of
his intellectual attainments I had rather not be compelled
to declare.

Mr. Sawyer was no sooner released from his self-imposed
penance than he flew to the side of his charmer, whom he
found, as might be expected, hemmed in by Mamma and
Papa, surrounded by a bevy of female acquaintances, and
receiving the homage of one or two elaborate dandies of considerable
calibre and pretension.

She shook hands with him, however, across young Vainhopes;
after which he was forced to fall back upon Parson
Dove, whom he accosted with great cordiality and affection.

A man never shows to such advantage as in the presence
of his ladye-love. How many a Hercules have we not
seen holding her silks for Omphale; his lion-front looking
sheepish—not to say asinine; his strength degenerated to
clumsiness; his whole exterior denoting helpless subjection
and dismay! Mr. Sawyer was no exception to the general
rule. He pulled at his neckcloth; twitched his gloves on
and off; looked at his boots! listened to the Parson’s
platitudes, without hearing a word; finally, made a desperate
.bn 182.png
.pn +1
plunge, and entreated Miss Dove to dance the next
quadrille with him.

Miss Dove was engaged.

“Well, the one after that.”

Miss Dove glanced at a tiny list of running horses, so to
speak, that she held in her hand.

“Dear me; she was engaged for that too!”

Our friend was disgusted beyond measure: he fell back
with a mortified bow, and resolved he would not speak to
her for the rest of the night. It would be a poor pastime
to watch the dancers from a remote corner without participating
in their amusements; nevertheless he entered at once
on the self-inflicted penance. The ball, however, went on
none the less gaily for his abstinence. Lady Barbara
nearly swept him off his legs in a whirlwind of crinoline as
she waltzed by him at the rate of forty miles an hour. The
Tiptoes and the Vainhopes and the rest seemed as unconscious
of his presence as if he had never left The Grange,
and Cissy Dove, herself dancing with a succession of dandies,
each more resplendent and more taken up with himself than
another, never glanced but once in the direction of her disappointed
swain. That single look, however, had in it
something of a pleading expression, that found its way
through the embroidered plaits of Mr. Sawyer’s best shirt-front,
and mollified the stern heart beneath. It brought
him out of his corner; it induced him to think more favourably
of life in general, and of the Scotch quadrilles, now
striking up merrily, in particular; it even prompted him to
select the youngest Miss Hare, a blushing virgin making
her first appearance in public, as his partner; and, lastly,
tempted him to request Miss Dove and her cavalier, no less
a swell than Bob Blazer, to be their <i>vis-à-vis</i>.

Cissy watched him pretty narrowly during the dance.
Ladies, as we all know, have the abnormal faculty of seeing
without looking. I am bound to confess that his dialogue
with little Polly Hare was of so harmless a nature as could
not have excited the ghost of an apprehension in the most
jealous disposition. It proceeded something in this wise.

Mr. Sawyer, with his whole attention absorbed in the
lady opposite: “Are you fond of dancing?”

The youngest Miss Hare: “Oh! very.”
.bn 183.png
.pn +1

Mr. S.: “What a pretty room this is!”

Miss H.: “Yes, very.”

Mr. S.: “The music is remarkably good for a country
band.”

Miss H.: “Oh! very.”

[Grand Round strikes up, much to their joint relief, and
promises to put a speedy termination to the solemnity.]

But in the revolutions of this highly-exciting pastime
there is one figure which admits of the gentleman and lady
opposite saying nearly three words to each other; and it is
needless to insist on the necessity of condensing as much
meaning as possible into so short a sentence.

“Why so cross?” said Miss Cissy, as she approached
her adorer at this propitious moment; and, although Mr.
Sawyer had neither presence of mind nor opportunity to
make an appropriate reply, he looked like a different individual
henceforth, and almost forgot to return his little
partner, none the worse for her excursion, to the maternal
wing.

Little did Mr. Sawyer dream, as she thanked him with
her demure curtsey, how that sly puss, who had been indeed
the life and soul of the school-room she had just left, would
act the whole scene over again that night in her dormitory
for the edification of three elder sisters and a Swiss maid;
how she would mimic to the life his stiff shy manner and
preoccupied demeanour; nay, make her very draperies stick
out like the square tails of his coat. In virtue of her sex,
the little minx detected his secret, and saw through him at
a glance, though she was but sixteen. He thought it was
very good of him to dance with her, and she was making a
study and a character of him the whole time. Dear, dear!
how little we know of them! Happy the man who wraps
himself in a waterproof garment of vanity; who is determined
to ignore the reflection, that the smile he resolves to
accept as approval may be nothing better than derision
after all; who leaves them to their own devices, and thanks
his stars that he has served his apprenticeship and is “out
of his time!”

A quadrille with Miss Dove put everything to rights.
She seemed resolved to make amends, and she did it so
prettily. She gave him her fan to hold, and her bouquet
.bn 184.png
.pn +1
to smell, and asked his opinion of the different beauties,
and smiled upon him and petted him, till her dancing-bear
was in thorough subjection once more. He almost made
up his mind he would propose to her in the tea-room. An
eligible spot for the purpose, as it was likely to contain
about fifty couples wedged together in the closest possible
proximity. He could hardly be mistaken, he thought, this
time; yet a cold shudder crept over him as he recollected
Miss Mexico. If this business should have the same
termination, he felt he had lived long enough. He would
go and drown himself in the Whissendine, or retire to the
mountain fastnesses of Wales, there to hunt with the
Plinlimmon harriers and that united pack, the glory of
three districts, whereof no mortal tongue can pronounce
the names.

He drew her nervously with him towards the tea-room.
Ere they reached its entrance they were intercepted by
young Vainhopes—all gloves and studs and curls and chains
and smiles.

“<i>Our</i> waltz at last, Miss Dove,” said he, with a captivating
grin; “thought you’d forgotten me; quite in despair;
waited all the evening.” And he carried her off, amidst a
running fire of such complimentary phrases as constituted
his usual conversations with the fair, and which they were
quite willing to accept at their real value.

It needs little knowledge of chemistry to be aware that
cold water poured on hot iron generates steam. I think
Mr. Sawyer showed his sense in retiring to blow his off,
with one or two convivial spirits, who finished the evening
in the Honourable Crasher’s rooms on cigars and brandy-and-water;
the latter gentleman, who had asked Lady
Barbara to dance, and then forgotten all about it, having
made an early retreat to those comfortable quarters.

Here we may leave these choice spirits to their potations.
Mr. Sawyer, as his friends remarked, was noisier that usual,
and mixed his glass remarkably strong. He did not feel
inclined to go to bed, but was quite determined not to
return to the ball. Perhaps, without knowing it, he could
not have adopted a more judicious resolution.

Cissy looked for him everywhere. She even excused
herself from dancing, more than once, in expectation of his
.bn 185.png
.pn +1
return—meaning, however, to pay him off to some purpose
when he <i>did</i> come back. But even at the cloak-room door
there was no Mr. Sawyer. Bob Blazer got her shawl and
Savage called the carriage, and Vainhopes put her into it.
Yet Cissy felt out of spirits and out of humour. Though
she declared she had never enjoyed a ball so much, her
mamma thought she was very silent all the way home; and
she took her bedroom candle and retired upstairs the very
moment they arrived at the Rectory.

It was a “new sensation” to Miss Dove not to have
everything entirely her own way.
.bn 186.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-25
CHAPTER XXV||<s>THE RACE</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>With</sc> many men, and those not the least dashing and
brilliant horsemen, courage is apt to be very much a
question of caloric: their pluck rises and falls with the
thermometer. When the mercury stands at 45 or 50 deg.
they negotiate with pleasure the largest and most dangerous
of fences; at a few degrees above freezing they are content
to seek humbly for the gaps or weak places, and a gate,
instead of being jumped, is lifted off its hinges; whilst at
32 deg. the turnpike-road has invincible attractions, and is
not to be deserted under any provocation.
.pi
Granting such meteorological affinities, it is needless to
observe that a steeple-chase is usually contested in the
bitterest possible weather, with a cutting east wind.

The great event at Market Harborough was no exception
to this general rule, and the important day was ushered in
by about as unpleasant a morning as any gentleman could
desire for the purpose of exposing himself in a silk jacket
and racing leathers about the thickness of kid gloves. Frequent
storms swept across the sky, bearing with them heavy
showers of mingled sleet and hail, which stung the unprotected
face like pins and needles. It was a bad day to see;
a bad day to hear; above all, a bad day to ride.

Struggles observed: “It was lucky they were not out
hunting.”

Behold, then, between the storms, under a delusive
gleam of sunshine, about two <sc>P.M.</sc>, half-a-dozen canvas
booths erected in a large, sloppy grass-field, within a few
miles of Market Harborough. Behold, congregated around
.bn 187.png
.pn +1
the same, a motley group of tramps, list-sellers, vagrants
of every description, gipsies, and card-sharpers. Behold
a few jolly yeomen and farmers, pulling their wet collars
over their mouths to concentrate the fumes of that last glass
of brandy, and poking their horses about in the crowd, to
stumble ever and anon over certain mysterious ropes,
placed, for no apparent purpose, in everybody’s way.
Behold two or three carriages of the gentlefolks herding
together, as if rather ashamed of their company, and a
pretty face or two, amongst which you may recognise that
of Miss Dove, a little paler than usual, peeping out from
under a multiplicity of wrappers, with an air of vague
astonishment, the owner having been on the ground for
more than an hour, and nothing done yet. Behold also
Mr. Tiptop, galloping his master’s best hack as fast as the
animal can lay legs to the ground, in the direction of a
dripping marquee, near which there is a little knot of
gentlemen in waterproof clothing, who seem to constitute
an assemblage of their own. Let us lift the dank, heavy
sackcloth, and peep in.

Mr. Sawyer, paper-booted, silk-capped, and clad in a
gorgeous raiment of plum-colour, with face, too, on which
the cares of an empire seem to sit, is “spread-eagled” in
a weighing machine, vainly trying to keep his spurs off the
wet straw, and to nurse on his uncomfortable lap a saddle,
a bridle, a breastplate, a martingale, five pounds of dead
weight, and a whip, of which the top is ornamented with
an elaborate and massive design. He is what he calls
“weighing in”; and the process appears to be troublesome,
not to say painful.

Behind him, and preparing for the same ordeal, is Major
Brush, tucking himself and his under-garment, with considerable
difficulty, into a pair of extremely tight leathers,
he having selected this most inappropriate shelter as his
dressing-room.

The Honourable Crasher, with a large cigar in his mouth,
is watching the proceedings vacantly, having to go through
them in his turn; and a quiet, clean-shaved man, with a
keen eye, who is prepared for the fray, but has wisely
wrapped himself up once more in a long greatcoat, is busy
with his betting-book. This worthy, who answers to the
.bn 188.png
.pn +1
name of Stripes, has come a hundred miles to ride Mr.
Savage’s bay horse Luxury. Judging from the use he
makes of his pencil, he seems to think he has a good chance
of coming in first. Already there has been a wrangle as to
whether he is qualified to ride as a gentleman; but the
only argument against his pretensions to that title being
the superiority of his horsemanship, the objection has been
suffered to fall through.

The stewards will have an easier task than they expected.
The race has not filled well, and will probably not produce
half-a-dozen starters. As the Harborough tradespeople
say, “It’s a poor affair.” Nevertheless, a deal of money
has been wagered on it; and the devoted few are resolved
to do their best.

Under the lee of an outhouse—the only one, by the way,
within a mile—old Isaac is walking Wood-Pigeon carefully
up and down, with his usual imperturbable demeanour. It
is hard to make out what he thinks of the whole affair—whether
he esteems it an unheard-of piece of tomfoolery,
or looks upon it as a means of making an addition to his
yearly wages. Under either contingency, he has done his
duty by Wood-Pigeon. Beneath all that clothing, the
horse is as fine as a star; and even Mr. Varnish could not
find fault with his condition. That worthy, however, is
gone to ride a horse of Napoleon the Third’s, at Chantilly,
and is supposed by his admirers to be staying with the
Emperor at Compiègne, for the event.

Mr. Tiptop and old Isaac are barely on speaking
terms.

Presently, a heavier shower than any of its predecessors
sweeps across the scene; and the only steward who can
be got to attend, not seeing the fun of waiting any longer,
has given the gentlemen-riders a hint that, if they are not
mounted and ready in ten minutes, he will go home to
luncheon. The threat creates considerable confusion and
dismay. “Lend me a fourteen-pound saddle!” exclaims
one; “Where are my girths?” shouts another; “I can’t
ride him without a martingale!” groans a third; “Where’s
my whip? and has any one seen my horse?” asks a
fourth: and, for a time, things look less like a start than
before. Nevertheless, the steward is known to be a man
.bn 189.png
.pn +1
of his word; and his announcement produces the desired
effect at last.

Let us take advantage of Parson Dove’s kind offer, and,
placing ourselves on the box of his carriage, abstract our
attention from his pretty daughter inside, and take a good
view of the proceedings.

A preliminary gallop, in the wind’s eye, with a sharp sleet
driving in their faces, prepares the heroes for their agreeable
task. Flags mark out the extent and the direction of
“danger’s dark career.” Starting in this large grass-field,
they jump a hedge and ditch into yonder less extensive
pasture, fenced by double posts and rails, which, successfully
negotiated, brings them, after a succession of fair
hunting leaps, to The Brook. Fourteen feet of water is
a tolerable effort for a horse, everywhere but in print;
and as the weather will probably have wet the jockeys
through before they arrive at this obstacle, it matters little
whether they go in or over. After that, the fences are
larger and more dangerous, an exceedingly awkward
“double” enclosing the next field but one to the run-in.

The Parson thinks the ground injudiciously selected. As
he had no voice in the matter, it is as well to agree with
him. Mrs. Dove’s attention is a little distracted by the
hamper with the luncheon; and Cissy hopes fervently that
“nobody will be hurt.”

Let us count the starters. One, two, three, four, five, six.
Mr. Crasher’s Chance, blue, and white sleeves (owner);
Major Brush’s Down-upon-’em, “gorge de pigeon,” crimson
cap (owner); Mr. Savage’s Luxury, scarlet, and black cap
(Mr. Stripes); Mr. Brown’s Egg-Flip, white (owner); Mr.
Green’s Comedy, by Comus, black and all black (Mr.
Snooks); and lastly, Mr. Sawyer’s Wood-Pigeon, plum-colour,
and blue cap (owner).

The latter’s appearance excites considerable admiration,
as he takes his breathing canter. Wood-Pigeon is a remarkably
handsome animal; and Mr. Sawyer, at a little
distance, looks more like a jockey than any of them, with
the exception of the redoubtable Stripes.

Old Isaac goes up to his master for a few last words
before the flag drops. “You mind the double comin’ in,”
says the wary old dodger. “Close under the tree’s the best
.bn 190.png
.pn +1
place, ’cause there’s no holes in the bank; and, pray ye
now, <i>do ye sit still</i>!”

A faint exclamation from Miss Dove proclaims they are
off. Out with the double-glasses! From the carriage,
we can see them the whole way round.

One, two, three! They fly the first fence in a string,
Chance leading. The Honourable means to make running
all through. Wood-Pigeon is a little rash; but Mr. Sawyer
handles him to admiration. He goes in and out of the
double posts and rails like a pony.

This difficulty disposes of Mr. Snooks, who lets Comedy
by Comus out of his hand, falls, and never appears again.

The others increase the pace, as the lie of the ground
takes them a little downhill towards the brook. As they
near it, you might cover them with a sheet; but, while the
whole increase their velocity, Chance and Wood-Pigeon, the
latter followed closely by Mr. Stripes on Luxury, single
themselves out from the rest. All three get over in their
stride; and a faint shout rises from the crowd on the
distant hill. Egg-Flip jumps short, and remains on the
further bank with his back broken, the centre of a knot of
foot-people, who congregate round him in a moment, from
no one knows where. Down-upon-’em struggles in and out
again, striding over the adjacent water meadow as if full of
running; but Brush is far more blown than his horse. His
cap is off, his reins are entangled, he has lost a stirrup, and
it is obvious that the Major’s chance is out.

The race now lies between the leading three; and
Crasher, who has great confidence in Chance’s pedigree
and stoutness, forces the running tremendously. He and
Sawyer take their leaps abreast, the latter riding very
quietly and carefully, mindful of old Isaac’s advice, to “sit
still.” Luxury is waiting close upon them.

“That fellow has been at the game before,” remarks
Parson Dove, eyeing Mr. Stripes through his glasses, and
struck with admiration at the artistic manner in which that
gentleman pulls his horse together for the ridge-and-furrow.

The Parson is not far wrong. Few professionals would
care to give Mr. Stripes the usual allowance of five pounds.

.if h
.il fn=i_192.jpg w=600px
.ca
<s>“Wood-Pigeon ... chucks his rider into the\
field before him.”</s>
.ca-
.if-

.if t
.sp 2
.in 8
.ti -4
[Illustration: “Wood-Pigeon ... chucks his rider into the\
field before him.”]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-

Thus they near the “double”—the last obstacle of any
importance. It consists of two ditches, and a strong staked-and-bound
.bn 191.png
.pn +1
.bn 192.png
.pn +1
.bn 193.png
.pn +1
fence on a bank. No horse can fly it all in his
stride, after galloping nearly four miles. Perhaps that is
the reason why Stripes, who knows he is on a <i>quick</i> one as
well as fast one, shoots a little to the front, and comes at
it at such an awful pace, seducing his two adversaries, by
the force of example, into the same indiscretion. Crasher,
who never “loses his stupidity,” as he calls his presence
of mind, diverges for a rail that he spies where the ditch is
narrowest, takes the chance of breaking that or being killed,
and going at it forty-miles-an-hour, smashes it like paper,
and succeeds, as Chance rises not an inch, in covering both
ditches at a fly. He lands almost abreast of Luxury, who
has struck back at the fence with the rapidity and activity
of a cat.

Mr. Sawyer, though remembering the place under the
tree, dare not pull his horse off enough, lest he should lose
too much ground, and Wood-Pigeon, who is a little blown,
attempting to do it all at once, lands with both fore-feet in
the farther ditch, chucks his rider into the field before him,
and then rolls over the plum-coloured jacket in an extremely
uncomfortable form. The horse rises, looking wild and
scared; not so the rider: “He’s down!” exclaim the
crowd; but their attention is so taken up by a slashing
race home between Crasher and Stripes, in which the
former is out-ridden by the latter, and beaten by half-a-length
on the post, that probably no one present but Miss
Dove knew who it was that was down. As the plum-colour
still lay motionless, poor Cissy turned very pale and sick,
and then began to cry.

Our friend was not dead, however, very far from it—only
stunned, and his collar-bone broken. He recovered sufficiently
to be taken past the Doves’ carriage before Cissy
had done drying her eyes; and although he was not able
to join the dinner-party at his hotel, with which the day’s
sports concluded, and at which an unheard-of quantity of
champagne was consumed, I have been credibly informed
that he partook of luncheon within less than a fortnight at
Dove-cote Rectory, and was seen afterwards with his arm in
a sling, taking a <i>tête-à-tête</i> walk to look for violets with the
daughter of the house.
.bn 194.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch01-26
CHAPTER XXVI||<s>THE MATCH</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>Lounging</sc> past Tattersall’s one baking day in June, I had
the good fortune to encounter Mr. Savage, apparently as
busily employed as myself in the agreeable occupation of
doing nothing. If you have ever been addicted to the fascinating
pursuit of fox-hunting, you will understand how,
even in London, the presence of a fellow-enthusiast is as a
draught of water to a pilgrim in the desert sand. Linking
arms, we turned unconsciously down the yard, and were
soon mingling with the motley crowd who fill that locality
on a sale-day.
.pi
“Any horses you know to be sold here?” I asked, as
we stepped into the office for a list.

“None but Sawyer’s,” answered Mr. Savage; “pretty
good nags, too. I shall bid for one of them myself.”

Then we fell to talking of the grass countries and their
delights, of the different rumours afloat as to this master
and that, how one county was to change hands, and another
to be hunted six days a week, how the young Squire was
getting keen, and the old Lord was growing slack, and
how, under all conditions, the foxes were not so stout nor
the sport so brilliant as it used to be. Lastly, we got upon
the doings of our Market Harborough friends. Struggles
was as jolly as ever, nothing changed, putting on weight,
and looking for weight-carriers every day. Brush? Oh,
Brush had lost a “cracker” on the Derby, <i>would</i> back
“Skittle-Sharper,” though Savage warned him not, and had
been obliged to go on fall pay. What of the Honourable
Crasher? He had appeared in London as usual, and was
.bn 195.png
.pn +1
gone for a little change of air to New York! I pictured to
myself how enchanted the “Broadway Swells” would be
with Crasher’s superfine languor and general debility; how
they would worship him as the “real article” in dandyism;
how they would quote his sayings and imitate his nonchalance,
and how favourable a contrast such an imitation would
offer to their moral state of hurry and confusion, particularly
about dinner-time. But I wondered what could have
taken Crasher there, of all places in the world. Then I
mentioned that I had seen nothing of my old friend Sawyer
for a considerable period, and indeed had received no intelligence
of his doings since the steeple-chase, in which
he got so bad a fall.

“Haven’t you heard?” exclaimed Savage. “Why Sawyer’s
married, poor fellow! Married pretty Cissy Dove,
that flirting girl, who used to look so well on a chestnut
horse. You must remember Cissy Dove. Why, there’s
the very horse going up to the hammer with Sawyer’s lot.
I suppose she’s given up riding now—got something else
to do.”

Sure enough there was the late Miss Dove’s exceedingly
clever palfrey, looking fat and in good case, as horses
always do when they are “to be sold without reserve.”
There was Wood-Pigeon, twice his hunting size. There
was the brown and the grey, and one I didn’t know, and Jack-a-Dandy
himself, submitting, not very patiently, to the
attentions of a villainous-looking man in dirty-white cords,
who was coughing him and punching him, and feeling his legs,
and narrowly escaped having his brains knocked out for his
pains.

I turned to moralise with Savage, but he was gone. You
never can speak to anybody in London for more than five
minutes together, and I walked out of the yard musing
upon man’s weakness and woman’s power, on the uncertain
tenure by which a bachelor holds his freedom, on the
common lot, and how nobody is safe. “I never would
have believed it of Sawyer,” methought, as I turned
meditatively into Piccadilly; but then I did not know he
had been out gathering violets in seductive company, with
his arm in a sling.

Turning into Sam’s Library, with intent to secure a stall
.bn 196.png
.pn +1
at the French play for my niece, I politely awaited the
leisure of a very smartly-dressed lady examining the plan of
the Opera House, and bending studiously over the same at
the counter. Her cavalier, a thick-set man, attired with
considerable splendour, was engrossed in a volume which he
had taken up, as it would appear, to wile away a long and
tedious interval of consultation between his companion and
the shopman. The lady looked up first, and under her little
white bonnet with its innocent bride-like lilies-of-the-valley,
I discovered a pretty dark-eyed face, such as ere this has
tempted many a son of Adam, forgetful of his progenitor’s
mishaps, into the commission of matrimony.

“An’t you ready yet?” she inquired, addressing her cavalier
with just the slightest possible turn of asperity, to give
piquancy, as it were, to the dregs of honey still remaining
from the moon. “An’t you ready?” she repeated in a
sharper key, perceiving the student so engrossed as to be
unconscious of her observation. This time there was more
of the vinegar and less of the honey, and he started to
“attention” forthwith.

“Quite ready, dearest,” was the reply in the most submissive
of tones, as he laid his book down upon the counter
and disclosed to my astonished view the features of my old
friend John Standish Sawyer.

Our greeting was of the most cordial. I was presented
in due form to the bride, who vouchsafed me so sweet a
smile as made me wonder less than ever at Mr. Sawyer’s
subjugation. After putting her into the hired brougham
that was in waiting for them, he lingered for a moment to
tell me of his late-won happiness. “The horses go up to-day,”
said he, “and I cannot affirm that I am sorry for it.
With such an attraction at home, a man don’t want to go
out hunting. I don’t think somehow I shall ever care to
ride to hounds again!”

As I turned back into the shop, the book my friend had
been studying so assiduously lay upon the counter. I took
it up with a pardonable curiosity. It was the “Life of
Thomas Assheton Smith, Esq.”

I shall expect to hear of Sawyer’s buying two or three
hunters yet, before November.
.bn 197.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.pb
.sp 4
.nf c
<xl><i>INSIDE THE BAR</i></xl>
.nf-
.sp 4
.bn 198.png
.pn +1
.bn 199.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 2
.nf c
<xl>INSIDE THE BAR</xl>
.nf-
.hr 10%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-01
CHAPTER I||<s>“THE GENIUS LOCI”</s>
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>I hope</sc> you feel your arm a little easier, sir, this evening?”
says Miss Lushington, reappearing in her own
peculiar department, fresh and blooming from the revision
of her toilet, which usually takes place about seven <sc>P.M.</sc>
Miss Lushington’s habits are peculiarly regular and methodical;
her attractions of a dazzling, not to say gaudy,
description; she is a thorough woman of business, if indeed
such a designation be not a contradiction in terms; but
when she <i>does</i> take a day’s pleasure, there are few ladies
who can produce a more satisfactory effect than Miss L.
.pi
I raise my eyes to reply with becoming gratitude. The
object on which they rest is no everyday sight—a full-bodied,
fresh-coloured, buxom damsel, with shining hair
dark and lustrous as ebony, suggestive of no small expenditure
in pomatum; a pair of light-grey eyes, restless and
vivacious, called black by courtesy, because fringed with
lashes of jet, and surmounted by arching eyebrows of the
same colour, swarthy and strong of growth: a straight well-cut
nose; a wide mouth, with red lips and white teeth,
large, regular, and wholesome; not forgetting those captivating
manners which spring from habitual good-humour
and perfect self-possession in mixed society, backed by a
pair of ear-rings that would have looked <i>rich</i> even on the
.bn 200.png
.pn +1
Queen of Sheba. All this I take in at a glance for the
twentieth time, and catch myself confessing, also for the
twentieth time, that the barmaid of the Haycock Hotel
and Posting-house, Soakington, is the most fascinating, as
doubtless she is the most fastidious of her sex.

Miss Lushington, I need hardly observe, is no longer
young. Barmaids of tender years, albeit extremely attractive
to the usual frequenters of the snug locality over
which they preside, cannot be expected to possess the
<i>aplomb</i> with which mature experience and the rejection of
many offers invest the lady of more autumnal charms. They
are apt to be a little flurried by the attentions of the military,
and somewhat over-excited by their anxiety for the commercial
interest; also prone, if good-looking, to fly away
and <i>better</i> themselves matrimonially and otherwise. But
Miss L. is far above all such weaknesses as these. Not a
red-coat in the whole British army could raise a corresponding
hue in her cheek by the most ardent avowal of devotion;
nay, even a cornet of Hussars (and I take an officer of that
rank and service to be more at his ease in female society
than other children of men) has been known to retire
abashed and worsted from a little match at quiet <i>persiflage</i>
with Miss Lushington. As for the commercial gents! why,
though they worship the very keys she jingles, and the
lemons in the nets above her head, they would no more
think of proposing to her than to the mother of the Gracchi.
I have often wondered what Miss Lushington’s early history
can have been. Was she ever a little girl with long tails
and frills above her ankles, swinging a slate to a day-school?
Had she a mother, who washed her face, and scolded her,
and taught her to sew, and eventually launched her on the
boards of a minor theatre; for surely those majestic manners
must have been acquired before the foot-lights? Was there
ever a time that she came home wearied and saddened,
pressing some girlish treasure to her heart, with a thrill,
half joy, half pain, and looking along an endless vista in
the future, containing a house, a garden, a pig, some rosy
children, a couple of bee-hives, and a fresh-coloured young
man at his tea. Was she ever young? or did she descend
from her attic some fine summer’s day, this perfect and
finished creature of for—well! of <i>between</i> thirty and forty,
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
just as Minerva sprang ready-armed from the brain of Jove,
or Venus wet and glowing, with nothing on but her shells,
emerged from the blushing sea? I incline to the latter
supposition. I believe that Caroline Lushington (of course,
with that colour on her cheek, her name is sure to be Caroline;
besides, I saw it on her workbox)—I say I believe
that Caroline Lushington never was the least different from
what she is now, and that I should always have been as
much afraid of her as I am at this present moment. I am
a shy man—not too shy to confess it. I blush to the lobes
of my ears, in replying to her kind inquiries; but Miss L.
does not laugh at me; for, woman-like, she has a prejudice
in favour of shy men, and she pities my infirmities, and my
arm in a black leather sling.

“Your tea will have drawn in five minutes, sir, and your
toast is down at the fire now,” says she, patting and
smoothing the cushions of her own particular arm-chair in
her own particular corner, that I may sit at ease despite
my injuries. How kind, how thoughtful she is! And
heavens! what a <i>torso</i> the woman has! Though her dressmaker
lives over the saddler’s, in the High Street, at Waterborough,
that black satin fits as if it came direct from Paris.
Even now, mixing a glass of brandy-and-water for a customer,
the turn of her waist and the cling of her corset
would drive an artist into ecstasies. I am no artist, yet I
cannot but think of Alfred de Musset’s song about his
Andalusian Marquesa, of which, as the language and the
sentiments are both French, I need not write them down
here.

Whilst the customer drinks and pays for his glass of
brandy-and-water, it is high time that I should explain how
I came to be domiciled in the bar of the Haycock Hotel
and Posting-house, Soakington, with a contused shoulder,
a broken collar-bone, and a black eye.

Since my earliest boyhood I have been enthusiastically
fond of hunting. I am not a skilful horseman; I never
was what is called a <i>fine</i> rider, perhaps not a forward one,
though I have tried hard to think so; nor am I one of those
who <i>know about hunting</i> (by the way, I have often wondered
what it is they <i>do</i> know), but in ardent affection for the
pursuit I yield to none. My godfather, one of the old
.bn 202.png
.pn +1
Holderness lot, and not the worst of those hard-riding
East-Riding <i>undeniables</i>, used to say of me, “The lad has
a loose seat, and heavy hands, and not an over-quick eye,
but his heart is in it. That’s what gives me hopes of him—<i>his
heart is in it</i>!” And my godfather was right; my
heart <i>was</i> in it. As a boy at school, I kept a few beagles,
and ran with them on foot, imitating, as far as a biped can,
the actions and motions of a horse. At Oxford, I was a
regular attendant on the far-famed drag, and to this day
can remember vividly the merits of a certain game little
chestnut called Jumping Jemmy, whom I used to ride unmercifully
at a pecuniary consideration which must have
cost me less than a shilling a leap. J. J. could jump like a
cat, and had carried too many of us ever to allow an undergraduate
to throw him down. That I never took my degree
is the less to be wondered at, when I remember my favourite
course of literature, in which, unfortunately, the examiner
never thought of gauging my proficiency. I could have
taken a “double-first” in all poor Nimrod’s works, and
could have repeated a page or two right on end from any
part of the famous run in the “Quarterly,” knowing the
exact places in which Lord Gardner said, “A fig for the
Whissendine!” and Lord Brudenel heard a cracking of rails
behind him, and could not identify the man in the ditch
because “the pace was too good to inquire!”

So they plucked me; but I persevered in my course of
study notwithstanding. Do I not know and love Jorrocks?
If I could find out Soapy Sponge in the flesh, would I not
ask him to come and stay with me, and feed him and mount
him, and let him smoke as much as he liked in his bedroom?
Nay, I think I would even have bought the piebald pony of
him as a cover hack; for to ride either Sir ’Ercles or Multum-in-Parvo
would have been beyond my highest aspirations.
Nay, with all his absurdities and affectations, I
have a sneaking kindness for the dismounted sportsman in
“Ask Mamma” who hung his wet towel out at window on
doubtful nights, though he had not a horse to his name, and
was no more likely to go out hunting than if he had been
bed-ridden. Yes, I like the whole thing—the hounds, the
horses, the servants, the second-horse men, the splashes on
my top-boots, the golden drops on the gorse covert, and
.bn 203.png
.pn +1
the wreath of cigar-smoke curling upward into the mild
soft air.

People talk about hunting going out; being on its last
legs; civilised away before the advance of railroads, the
march of intellect, &c. All this is sheer nonsense. There
are more men hunt to-day than hunted twenty years ago,
twice as many as hunted thirty, and probably ten times as
many as hunted fifty years ago. Hounds run harder than
they did in the time of our fathers; horses are better bred,
better kept, better bridled, and better ridden. The country
is also more enclosed, and there is consequently a deal
more jumping, and more occasion for skill and quickness,
than when High Leicestershire was an open upland, and
Naseby field an unfenced marsh. The best of the old ones
could not have gone “a cracker” in higher form than the
dozen or so of men who may be seen any morning in the
week with any of our crack packs of hounds in a quick
thing; and in the “days of Old Meynell” there was a
good deal more room for those who liked to try. It really
is by no means an easy matter to thread a crowd of a hundred
horsemen in a narrow lane, all going racing pace, and
then to jockey the best ten or a dozen of these for the
easiest place in the first fence. The actual feat of keeping
near hounds when they run hard requires skill and quickness;
but the difficulty is much enhanced when it has to be
performed by a score of men where there is only comfortable
space for five. It is a pleasant sensation, too, when
the first impediment has been disposed of, and a man feels
what the fast ones of the present day call “landed,” to sail
away with the hounds, always supposing he is riding a
hunter, and to feel that he will not now be interfered with
till they check, but can do his own places at his own pace,
without pulling his horse out of his stride, and gain all the
advantages of seeing the hounds turn, while he has all the
pleasure of watching them as they shoot across the fields,
in swift, streaming line.

Great artists, indeed, boast that under such favourable
circumstances, they can distinguish and criticise the performances
of each individual of the pack: but for myself I
confess that I never had either coolness or leisure for such
details. By the time I have marked the best place in the
.bn 204.png
.pn +1
next fence, chosen the soundest ridge, or the wettest furrow,
by which to get there, given my hat a firm push down on
my head, and arranged my four reins, which are apt to get
confused together and entangled with the thong of my hunting-whip,
in the manner I am accustomed to hold them, I
have small attention to spare for anything else; and I have
always been of opinion that the cheering to particular
hounds in a rapid burst, from huntsmen and other professionals
striving hopelessly to catch them, is the offspring of
a vivid imagination, and a happy audacity in guess-work.

This forward riding, however, to a man who means to
ride at all, is decidedly the best method of crossing a country,
both on the considerations of pleasure and profit.
Horses take their leaps in a more collected form when they
see none of their own species in front of them; the hounds
create quite excitement enough in a hunter to make him do
his utmost; while the emulation he conceives of his own
kind is apt to degenerate into a jealousy, that makes him
foolhardy and careless. Also a great amount of unnecessary
exertion is entailed upon him, by being pulled off and
set going again, which must be done repeatedly in a run by
a man who follows another, however straight and well his
leader may ride. Also, the sportsman’s nerves are spared
much needless anxiety and misgiving. Can anything be
more distressing than to see our front-rank man fall, in the
<i>uncertainty</i> he has attained on the further side of a thick
fence, or cover it with an obvious effort and struggle?
Caution whispers, we had better decline. Shame urges
that “what one horse can do another can.” Self-esteem
implores us not to fall back into “the ruck” behind. So
we first of all check our horse from hesitation, and then
hurry him from nervousness. The probable result is a
“cropper,” with the additional disgrace of having been
incurred at a place which the pioneer cleared easily, and an
assumption, as unjust as it is unwelcome, that our horse is
not so good as his. Now, in riding <i>for himself</i> a man preserves
his confidence till he is <i>in the air</i>. Should he be
luckless enough to light in a chasm, he has at least the
advantage of not being frightened to death in advance; and
I am convinced that all the extraordinary leaps on record
have thus been made by these forward horsemen, who, trusting
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
dame Fortune implicitly, find that she nearly always
pulls them through. With regard to the distance a horse
can cover when going a fair pace and leaping from sound
ground, even with thirteen or fourteen stone on his back, it
is scarcely credible to those who have not witnessed it.
Two- and three-and-thirty feet from footmark to footmark
and on a dead level have often been measured off. There
are few fences in any country that would let us in, if we
could trust to such a bound as this; and the activity displayed
by a good horse, when he finds the ditch on the
landing side wider than he calculated, is perhaps the noblest
effort of the bodily powers of the animal.[#]
.pm fn-start
In the Black Forest in Germany there are two stones standing to
this day, <i>sixty feet</i> apart, to commemorate the leap made
across a chasm by a hunted deer, attested by several sportsmen
who were eye-witnesses of the wonderful and desperate effort.
.pm fn-end
Of course, we must fall sometimes. Of course, without
that little spice of what we can hardly call <i>danger</i>, but which
produces what we may safely call <i>funk</i>, it wouldn’t be half
the fan it is. Going down, indeed! Look at the column
of advertisements, weather permitting, in the <i>Times</i>; look
at the price of hay and corn; look at the collector’s accounts
of assessed taxes for saddle-horses (if you can get
them); look at Poole’s trade in coats, and Anderson’s in
breeches, and Peel’s (not Sir Robert’s) in boots. Why, the
very shoemakers, though on foot, hunt regularly. So do the
tradesmen and the farmers, and all the liberal professions;
the army, the navy, the House of Commons, the Peers of
the realm, her Majesty’s Ministers, and the principal Commissioner
of the Court of Bankruptcy; nay, the heir to the
crown is an enthusiastic sportsman, and an excellent rider;
and so <i>Floreat Diana!</i> and God save the Queen!

Talking of falls brings me back to my broken collar-bone,
and the bar of the Haycock. I must explain, then, how
I came to be established as the habitual inhabitant of that
snuggery.

After so wet a summer as that of 1860, I confess I was
sanguine as to an open winter: I have always supported the
doctrine of compensation. If we don’t get it in one way, we
do in another. A deal of warmth was doubtless due on the
year, and what was more natural than to anticipate an open
.bn 206.png
.pn +1
season, and plenty of sport? With this conviction, I kept
my eyes open all the summer, and raising my modest stud
from the complement of three to five, was fortunate enough
to purchase at Tattersall’s two raw-boned, Roman-nosed
animals, called respectively “Apple-Jack” and “Tipple Cider,”
who turned out to be sound, useful, and well-trained
hunters. Lest I should delude the unwary into
thinking it a good plan thus to put one’s hand into “the
Lucky-bag,” let me observe, that I paid the full value for
them, and esteem myself unusually fortunate not to have
been “stuck,” or, in plain English, cheated out of good
money for a bad horse.

I then sent my stud down to the stables I had taken for
them at Soakington, under the care of a steady old groom,
who is as sagacious as he is obstinate, and engaging for myself
the large parlour and the little blue bedroom at the
Haycock, prepared for a comfortable five months’ spell at
hunting and nothing else. No society to distract me; no
books that I couldn’t go to sleep over, if I was tired; above
all, no female influence to make one late in the mornings,
restless in the day-time, and sleepless at night—an effect I
have remarked as the usual consequence of a quiet bachelor
suffering himself to be deluded into the company of that insidious
creature, woman.
.pm verse-start
                        “Beautiful she is,
The serpent’s voice less subtle than her kiss,
The snake but vanquished dust; and she will draw
Another host from heaven, to break heaven’s law.”
.pm verse-end

I did not then know of Miss Lushington’s presidency at
the board of control. I had not even pictured to myself the
possibility of such a Siren in such a collection of satins,
more innocent than Ulysses—who, I am convinced, was a
finished profligate from the first, and only went to Troy to
get away from Penelope—I did not even mistrust the cup
of Circe. Ah! she made a pig of her admirer, that ancient
enchantress; and in Miss Lushington’s presence the admirer
makes an ass of himself: that is all the difference.
But I anticipate.

Soakington is a delightful situation for hunting; though
perhaps for other purposes the extremely wet nature of the
.bn 207.png
.pn +1
soil and dampness of the atmosphere might make it a less
desirable locality. The village consists of a few buildings,
of which the Haycock with its stables and out-houses forms
far the largest part: there are half-a-dozen straggling cottages,
a dilapidated barn, always open and always empty; a
pair of stocks with no foot-hold, and a pound; the church is
three-quarters-of-a-mile off, and it always rains on a Sunday,
except when it snows.

But the surrounding district for many miles would gladden
a sportsman’s heart. There are large wild pastures, all
overgrown with rushes, and not half-drained, that cannot
fail to carry a scent; the arable land is badly cultivated,
and badly cared for; boys never combine the scaring of
crows and heading of foxes in this favoured region, and
when you do see a plough, it is generally lying stranded in
an unfinished furrow, deserted by man and horse. Large
woods, with deep clay ridings, holding no end of foxes, lie
at intervening distances from each other, to afford a succession
of famous gallops, and a certainty of hounds being left
to work for themselves. Ay, and in the month of May,
when the primroses are out, and the violets scenting the
air, and other hounds have left off for the season, you may
still follow up the chase, in these deep dark glades, with an
ardour proportioned to the heat of the sun over your head.
Large straggling ill-conditioned fences are the obstacles
with which the hunter has to contend; and nothing but
a good horse, with discretion as well as courage, is likely to
see a run in safety; whilst for the latter quality there is no
lack of occasion, inasmuch as the Sludge, a deep, wide, and
treacherous brook, winds and doubles through the whole
country, where it is least expected, and obtrudes itself in
the most unwelcome manner, as one of the principal features,
in every run that takes place. I have said enough to
show that Soakington is no bad billet for a man who means
to devote himself to the sport; and when I add that the
field is usually small in number, consisting principally of
hard-riding farmers, and the lords of the soil, whilst the
hounds themselves are of the best blood in England, and
established in the same kennels for half a century, it is no
wonder that I looked forward to my season’s amusement
with considerable anticipations of delight.
.bn 208.png
.pn +1

I pass over my first fortnight’s doings. It takes at least
that period at the beginning of the season for a man to renew
his familiarity with his old horses, and make acquaintance
with his new ones. I have always envied the nerve
and address of those who can jump on a strange hunter’s
back at a moment’s notice, twist and turn him at will in
any direction, and lark him over every description of fence,
with a confidence as surprising as it is usually successful.
This is a gift, however, that I do not myself enjoy. It
takes me a week at least to feel really at home in boots
and breeches; nor, until I have ridden each of my horses
<i>twice</i> in his turn, do I consider that <i>he</i> is fit to go, or that
<i>I</i> have acquired thorough confidence in his abilities. By
the third week in November, when the ditches are beginning
to get clear of tangled grass, and it is possible to see
<i>through</i> a fence, that you cannot see <i>over</i>, I consider myself
fairly embarked on the sport.

There were but three days without rain, to the best of my
recollection, during the whole of the above-named month, in
the year of grace 1860. Behold me, then, congratulating
myself on the prospect of at last reaching the covert-side
without being wet through, as I mounted my horse at the
door of the Haycock, and caught a glimpse of Miss Lushington’s
black head above the window-blinds, not wholly uninterested
in my departure. The fixture was at Claybridge,
less than three miles from Soakington; and as the famous
pack to which I almost exclusively confine my attentions
meets at half-past ten, I had ample time to breakfast comfortably,
and ride my hunter on.

Although not sufficiently Spartan in my habits to do
without a covert-hack for long distances, I have found out,
in common with most men, I believe, that one’s horse never
carries one so pleasantly as when one has ridden him to
covert oneself. Apple-Jack is a calm and deliberate animal
enough, with none of the crotchets and fancies peculiar to so
many superior hunters; and yet even he seems always a little
less staid and careful than usual when he has carried my
groom a dozen miles or so along the road. Few sensations
are more enjoyable than to jog quietly to the meet, after a
leisurely breakfast, with a good cigar in one’s mouth, a horse
that feels like a hunter under one, and the satisfactory conviction
that one is in plenty of time.
.bn 209.png
.pn +1

It is not my province nor my intention to describe minutely
the Castle-Cropper hounds. All the world knows
that the Earl of Castle-Cropper is a thorough sportsman;
that you might hunt with him from year’s end to year’s
end, and, except to beg you civilly to “hold hard,” never
hear him open his lips; and that he is supposed to be as
facetious and agreeable in private life as he is reserved and
silent in his public capacity. The same world knows, too,
that Will Hawk, who was with his father, the old Earl, in
the famous days of Musters and Tom Smith, a sort of heroic
period “<i>ante Agamemnona</i>” is the prince of huntsmen, and
the flower of veterans; that the horses are undeniable, the
servants respectable, well dressed, and trustworthy, though
scarcely so quick as they might be; the whole thing goes
like clockwork, and the hounds are beyond all praise. Well
they may be; they have had that advantage which is so indispensable
to the perfection of a pack, and, in these days
of change, so often denied it, viz., time. In the best part of
a century, a uniform height, an equal excellence, and a
family likeness are to be attained, with constant perseverance
and unlimited expense. From generation to generation
the Earls of Castle-Cropper have devoted their leisure, their
money, and their attention, to this favourite hobby. The
present successor may well be satisfied with the result.

They are rather large, solemn-looking hounds, extremely
rich in colour; the dark and tan, both in dogs and bitches,
predominating. They have a strong family likeness in the
depth of their girth, the width of their loins, and the quality
of the timber on which they stand. You might seek
through the kennels at the Castle for a summer’s day without
finding a pair of legs that were not as straight and
square as a dray-horse’s, with feet as round as a cat’s. In
hunting they run well together, without flashing to the
front; and although other hounds may seem to make their
way quicker across a field, the Castle-Croppers keep continuously
on, over a country, seldom <i>hovering</i>, as it is called,
for a moment, and carrying the scent with them, as it were,
in defiance of all obstacles. Old Hawk assists them but
little, and holloas to them not at all. These hounds are
never seen with ears erect and heads up, waiting for information.
If they want to know where their fox is gone, they
.bn 210.png
.pn +1
put their noses down, and find out for themselves. Also,
they come home with their sterns waving over their backs;
and finally, I cannot describe their uniformity of appearance
and general strength and efficiency better than by saying,
that the bitches are so like the dogs, you can hardly tell
the one pack from the other, but by the shriller music of
its tones.

A dozen sportsmen, including the master, constituted our
field at Claybridge. There were half-a-dozen red-coats, one
belonging to an undergraduate, on for the first time; two
or three farmers; a horse-breaker, who kept at a most respectful
distance from the pack, and a nondescript. The
latter might have been anything you please. I believe he
<i>was</i> a grocer. He wore a pair of low shoes, a grey frieze
shooting-jacket, a black satin waistcoat, and a hunting-cap!
His horse, a mealy bay, had a long coat, a long tail, a long
pedigree, and long legs. The man rode with one spur, an
ash stick, and a snaffle bridle. Nevertheless, I saw him
jump a locked gate just after they found, with considerable
address and determination.

Although I arrived at half-past ten to a minute, ere I
could look about me, a nod from the silent Earl motioned
Will Hawk to begin. Eagerly, yet under perfect control,
twenty couple of dog-hounds dashed into a wood of some
seventy or eighty acres, the noble master and his huntsman
accompanying them down a ride, that seemed to take them
up to their girths at every stride. The first whip galloped
off in another direction without a word; and the second,
before plunging into the obscurity of the forest, posted the
small and obedient field in a corner by a hand-gate, from
which we were forbidden to stir upon any provocation whatsoever.

Though you often wait several anxious minutes by the
side of a patch of gorse the size of a flower-garden, in these
large woods, you almost always find instantaneously; and we
had not occupied our station for many seconds ere the note
of a hound brought our hearts into our mouths. Another
and another certified the truth of the declaration, and presently
a grand crash and peal of deep-mouthed music proclaimed
that there was a capital scent. Twice they forced
their fox to the very gate at which we were standing.
.bn 211.png
.pn +1
Twice huntsmen and master came splashing and floundering
up the deep ride, to go away with them; but the third time
the fox made his point good, as these game woodland gentlemen
will, and whisking his brush gallantly, put his head
straight for the open within twenty yards of us.

I had just turned to holloa; nay, was opening my mouth
for the purpose, when a low, quiet voice in my ear whispered,
“Don’t make a noise;” and the Earl was close to me. How
he got there I never knew; but he seemed to have an instinctive
perception of my intention, and a morbid fear lest
I should “get their heads up.”

In another moment the music, increasing in volume,
reached the edge of the wood, and then the whole pack (not
one missing, for I heard the Earl say so to the second whip)
came pouring out over the fence, and proceeded to run in a
steady, business-like stream over the adjacent field.

“Give them a moment!” said the master; and away he
went alongside of them—best pace.

There was none of the usual hurry and confusion that
may be witnessed in most fields, when a fox goes away.
The red-coats dropped at once into their places, the undergraduate
taking the lead gallantly, in a line of his own.
The farmers caught hold of their horses, and proceeded as
if they meant business. The nondescript charged the gate
I have mentioned, in preference to a straggling hedge with
an awkward bank, and seemed determined to see all the
fun while he could; and I followed his Lordship hoping to
take advantage of his experience, although contrary to my
usual principle. It was only the third time I had ridden
Apple-Jack, and I had not yet acquired thorough confidence
in my horse. Alas! my amusement was doomed to meet
with an early termination. The first fence I negotiated
most successfully; the second I avoided by making use of
a friendly gate; the third landed me in a rushy pasture,
over which the hounds were streaming, and whence I obtained
an extensive view of the surrounding country, and
the line we were likely to run. A black belt of wood
crowned the horizon, and towards it the fox was obviously
pointing. In the interval lay a fair, flat country—green and
pastoral; but a foot-bridge, a quarter of a mile to the right,
and a stunted willow or two in the next field, denoted the
.bn 212.png
.pn +1
vicinity of the omnipresent Sludge. I dreaded it even
then. But I might have spared myself my apprehensions.
Before I arrived at it, a low hedge and ditch were to be
crossed, which I saw his Lordship accomplish with ease,
and rode at myself in perfect confidence. Apple-Jack did
it beautifully. Alas! he landed in a covered drain (I believe
the only one in the country), and I remember nothing
more, except a confused sensation of jolting in a post-chaise,
till I felt the doctor’s finger on my pulse, as I lay on my
back in my own bed at the Haycock.
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-02
CHAPTER II||<s>TIPS, THE HORSE-BREAKER</s>
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>It’s</sc> a long business, a broken collar-bone,” I observed
to Miss Lushington, as I sipped my tea comfortably in the
arm-chair she had vacated for my use. “I am only thankful
to be in such good quarters, and—and—in such pleasant
company,” I added, with a little hesitation.
.pi
Miss Lushington smiled, showing all her white teeth, and
shooting glances of consolation out of her bright eyes.
“You must keep up your spirits, sir,” said she (she pronounced
it <i>sperits</i>). “Patience and water-gruel is a cure
for most diseases, and a broken collar-bone is less painful
than a broken heart, and easier cured than a broken
neck!”

An observation like the above, involving the two fertile
topics of physical and mental suffering, was an opening to
further confidences, of which I should, doubtless, have
availed myself, had our <i>tête-à-tête</i> not been interrupted at
this interesting juncture by the arrival of two fresh customers,
one of whom walked into the bar with the air of an
<i>habitué</i> of the place, whilst his companion, evidently about
to be treated to “something to drink,” followed in a more
diffident manner, and entered the snuggery, as it were,
under protest.

“What shall it be, Tips?” said a cheery voice, in the loud,
frank tones of a man who “stands treat,” but of which I
could not see the owner, on account of a wooden screen interposing
between his person and the corner where I sat.
“What shall it be? Glass of sherry and bitters? Warm
ale, with a stick in it? Brandy-and-water hot? Name
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
the article, and Miss L. will measure it off for you, without
a moment’s delay.”

“I’ll take a little gin-and-water, Mr. Naggett,” replied
Tips, in a low hoarse voice. “Cold, if you please, Miss,”
he added, with the utmost deference, as he drew the back
of his hand across his mouth, in anticipation of his favourite
beverage; to my mind the most comfortless of all
potations.

Whilst Miss Lushington, like a Hebe in maturity, was
supplying the nectar, I had an opportunity of studying the
exterior of Mr. Tips, the horse-breaker, a public functionary
of whom I could not have been long in the neighbourhood
without hearing, but whom I had as yet had no opportunity
of meeting, so to speak, in private life.

Crippled as I was, I may here remark, once for all, that I
was solely dependent for amusement on the perusal of such
characters as I met in the bar at the Haycock. Deprived
of my hunting, not overfond of reading, here was a book
laid open, so to speak, before me, of which I had not even
the trouble to turn the page, whilst the peculiarities of
these different visitors furnished an inexhaustible fund of
amusement; their rapid succession preserved me from the
dangers of prolonged <i>têtes-à-têtes</i> with Miss Lushington—interviews
that could but have resulted in my total subjection
by that seductive being, herself cold and unimpressionable
as marble, experienced in the falsehood of our sex, and
superior to the weaknesses of her own.

Off his horse, Tips was, to say the least, a very singular-looking
person. He was a low, strong, broad-shouldered
man, a perfect Hercules down to his waist, and with a
length of arm and depth of chest that would have made him
an ugly customer in the ring, an appellation to which his
physiognomy also fully entitled him. Not that he had what
is termed a “fighting nob;”—far from it. High features,
bushy eyebrows, an aquiline nose, and a long, prominent
chin gave him a sort of resemblance to a dilapidated Henri
Quatre; but the nose had been smashed and thickened by
a fall, the chin knocked on one side by the kick of a horse,
and one of the eyes, rent and lacerated by a thorn, was disfigured
by a ghastly droop of the lid, and a perpetual crimson
in what ought to have been the white of the eye; very
.bn 215.png
.pn +1
large, thick whiskers, of a rusty brown, framed this singular
face, and a knowing, wide-awake leer in the undamaged eye,
would have told an observer, without the aid of the blue-spotted
neckerchief, that its proprietor was a “party concerned
about horses.” Nevertheless, the man had a game,
bold look about him, all the same,—that latent energy in
his glance, which denotes physical courage, and without
which a good judge of his species does not care to select one
of the half-score he requires for the manning of a life-boat,
the capturing of a gun, or the performance of any other
dare-devil feat, that demands more boldness than brains.
Had Tips been moulded in fair proportions, he would have
been a heavy-weight; but below the waist, I must acknowledge,
his limbs were more like those of a monkey than a
man. His stomach seemed all to have gone up into his
chest; and although his thighs were long, his thin shrivelled
legs were absurdly short and small below the knee. He
was made for a horseman and nothing else; nor, when you
saw him at daybreak, exercising some lawless three-year-old,
with its mouth full of “keys” and its dogged, sullen eye,
prepared to take the slightest advantage of its rider, either
to jump, kick, rear, or go backwards, could you help acknowledging
that here, at least, was the <i>right</i> man in the
<i>right</i> place. Of his early history I gathered some particulars
from himself. I give them as an additional proof, if indeed
any such were wanting, that in every grade and situation,
.pm verse-start
“There’s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,
  To take care of the life of poor Jack.”
.pm verse-end

Tips, then, began his career as a chimney-sweeper’s boy,
and to this appointment in tender years, may perhaps be
attributed the physical development of his upper man, and
the malformation of his lower limbs. His promotion, or
rather I should perhaps say, his <i>descent</i> into the saddle,
originated in a manner as alarming as it was unexpected.
The master chimney-sweeper’s wife was attacked with that
malady which peoples this world and the next. The doctor
lived three miles off, in the nearest market town. The pony
that carried the soot was dead. Under such a concatenation
of unfavourable circumstances, it is needless to observe
that the master-sweep had taken refuge in inebriety. Beyond
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
blessing the unborn, and cursing everything else above
an inch high, he was incapable of any decided effort, and
little Tips was started off in a hurry, on the back of a well-bred
chestnut filly of the baker’s, to go for the doctor. The
boy was fall of pluck, but deficient in practice. The filly
full of corn, and quite well aware of the five stone of inexperience
she carried on her back. It was not unnatural
that her shambling trot should soon become a canter, which
a desperate shy at a drove of pigs converted into a gallop
under the most unfavourable circumstances. Little Tips,
when she swerved, held on manfully by the bridle; the
baker’s tackle was old and frayed; the head-band broke,
and the bit came out of the filly’s mouth; no pleasant predicament
for an urchin of nine years old, careering along a
turnpike-road, on market-day, at top speed. He stuck to
her, however, like a monkey, and devoutly hoped the gate
at the town-end might not be shut.

Now it happened fortunately for Tips, that a certain old
veterinary surgeon, the kindliest and best of sportsmen, was
jogging into this very town on his thorough-bred mare, half
a mile ahead of the runaway. The old man heard the
clattering of hoofs, and looked back to see a child in
imminent danger of its life. Quick-witted, cool, and sagacious,
he bethought him at once of the winding streets, the
slippery pavement, and the crowded vehicles. To enter
the town at that pace would be certain death, and the child
must be stopped somehow at all risks. There was a grass
siding to the high-road, and nearly a mile farther to go.

The old man was not long making up his mind. Putting
his own mare into a gallop, he allowed the filly to come
alongside of him, and encouraged her little rider with voice
and gesture. The child gathered confidence immediately,
and sat cool and collected, as if racing. Edging him by
degrees off the road, the old man at last jostled his companion
into the fence, where the filly attempting to take it
sideways, of course remained, pitching little Tips over her
head into a soft grass-field.

“<i>Be’ant hurt a mossel!</i>” exclaimed the child in high
glee, scrambling once more through the hedge, to assist his
preserver in righting the filly, on whom, after properly
securing the bridle, he again mounted to proceed on his
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
errand, with unshaken nerve. The old man was so pleased
with the coolness of the urchin that he begged him of his
master, and took him into his own service, where Tips
learned all of horses and horsemanship that he ever knew,
and where he might have remained for life but that his
employer died, and he was thrown upon the world once
more, with nothing but his natural abilities to depend upon.

And here let me lift up my voice, to correct a very erroneous
notion, rife amongst the unsporting portion of the
community, to the effect that rough-riders and that class of
persons are men of dissipated habits. Except in some rare
instances, the very contrary is necessarily the case. No
man can preserve that cool, clear-headed daring which we
call nerve, if he addicts himself habitually to the use of
stimulants. The sensitive fibres of the human interior,
which when injured and irritated by alcohol, react upon the
courage, spirits, and temper, exist equally in the rudest day-labourer
as in the most delicate fine lady. When these are
affected, the nerve begins to fail, and no man without that
quality can pretend to tame unbroken, or to ride ungovernable
horses. Practice will do much, and unquestionably
the alarm created in the biped, by the hostility of the
quadruped, is somewhat disproportioned to the real danger
incurred; nevertheless, our own sensations and our daily
observation of others cannot but prove to us, that there
is much truth in the proverb which says, “He who would
venture nothing, must not get on horseback!” However
drunk some of these dare-devil equestrians may be willing
to get on occasion, they are habitually men of temperate
and abstemious habits; almost invariably early risers, and
consequently sound sleepers during the night.

That a hardy, healthy habit of body is indispensable to
such persons is obvious, when we consider the muscular
exertion they have to go through, and the many hard knocks
they are likely to sustain in their daily avocations. We
all know that a prize-fighter, in training, is capable of receiving
an amount of punishment without inconvenience, of
which a tithe would knock the same man “out of time”
were he not toughened and hardened against it by the
severity of his preparation. The cutting blow that would
raise a swelled and angry sore on the face or person of a
.bn 218.png
.pn +1
man who had been indulging in gluttony and idleness, leaves
but a slight red mark on the clear skin of the thoroughly
purified athlete; and the latter rises rather refreshed than
otherwise from a fall “over the ropes,” that would have
stunned and stupefied the former for an hour, and given
him a bilious attack for a fortnight.

Now the same argument holds good with men who are
liable to be thrown and kicked by horses, or exposed to the
disagreeable contingency of being rolled over or laid upon by
their pupils, in that early education at their fences, which
all young hunters must go through. A rider in perfect
training, with his muscles developed into the elasticity and
toughness of <i>gutta-percha</i>, without a pound of superfluous
flesh on his ribs or an ounce of undigested food in his
stomach, not only rides with coolness, quickness, and
confidence—the mental result of this physical condition—but
rises uninjured from the severe falls and violent concussions
to which his daring must occasionally subject him;
and should he even be unfortunate enough in some more
than usually complicated “cropper” to break a bone or
strain a sinew, is cured by dame Nature in so short a space
of time as to astonish the attending doctor, who has
sufficient presence of mind, nevertheless, to take the whole
credit of the recovery on himself. Tips seemed to be made
of iron. According to his own account, he never was hurt
but once, and that was out of a gig. The circumstances
were a little singular, and I had them from his own lips on
the first evening of my convalescence, whilst he sipped his
gin-and-water, by permission of Miss Lushington, inside
the bar.

Mr. Naggett, whom I gathered, from his order of “Port-wine-negus,
with a scrape of nutmeg and a slice of lemon in
it,” to be of the genus “swell,” was summoned away in a
hurry to a “gent who wished to see him on business,” as
the waiter said, before he could put his own lips to the
fragrant mixture or burst on my astonished sight from
behind the wooden screen. Tips, accordingly, with the
utmost diffidence, and at Miss Lushington’s earnest entreaty,
came alongside of my arm-chair, where he remained
standing, with his glass in his hand, shifting from one leg
to the other, and stirring his gin-and-water with an unnecessary
.bn 219.png
.pn +1
tea-spoon the while. He was dressed in wide
cord breeches, leather gaiters, a brown cut-away coat, the
thickest worsted waistcoat I ever saw, and the blue-spotted
neckerchief, in which I believe he was born, and I am quite
sure he will die.

“Sorry to see you laid on the shelf, sir,” observed he,
with a dab at his forehead as if to remove an imaginary
hat, for men of all nations who are much concerned with
horses acquire a sort of knowing politeness.

I answered feebly that “it was a tedious accident, but,
I should think, nothing in <i>his</i> eyes, who had probably
broken every bone in his body.” And Miss Lushington
smoothed the cushions while I spoke, and adjusted my arm
in its sling.

The rough-rider shook his head, took a sip of his gin-and-water,
and looked thoughtfully into his glass.

“Far from it, sir,” said he. “Far from it. Bones isn’t
broke so easy as gentlemen think. Ask your pardon, sir;
now how was it as <i>your</i> accident came about? Collar-bone,
sir, warn’t it? Well, sir, it wasn’t a <i>young</i> horse as let
you down that way, I’ll take upon me to—” swear, he
was going to say, but, looking respectfully at Miss
Lushington, Tips put his broad hand over his mouth, and
rounded off his sentence with the word “suppose.”

I was forced to confess that the culprit Apple-Jack was
by no means a young horse. In fact, he “owned” to
ten; and, like seven-and-twenty in a woman, that is an
age at which a horse remains for an indefinite period.

“That’s where it is, sir,” answered Tips. “Now, a
young one will spoil your face sometimes, and strain you in
the groin, and kick at you when you’re down; and I’ve
even known of ’em breaking of a man’s ribs. But a collar-bone?—no.
If you’ll excuse <i>me</i>, sir, I’ll tell you the
reason why. When a man breaks his collar-bone, ’tis
because him and his horse comes to the ground all of a
heap; and a young one never falls all of a heap without
he’s blown, and then he seldom gets to the far side of his
fence at all.”

“You’ve ridden a good many young ones?” I asked,
not without some little admiration of a man who seemed to
consider an inexperienced horse the <i>safest</i> mount.
.bn 220.png
.pn +1

“Here and there a one, sir,” replied Tips, looking
modestly downwards. “My old master, he bred a good
sort; you don’t see many such nowadays. And I mostly
had the schoolin’ of ’em, both with Sir ’Arry and the Squire.
Bless ye, sir, the young ones isn’t the most troublesome as
we have to do with. A young horse is very <i>teachable</i>, as I
call it; and the sooner you get him, the easier it is to show
him what you mean. A little timorsome perhaps they are
at first, and frightened at what they’re about. I’ve seen
the same with the women-folk.—[Here Miss Lushington
coughed loudly, and frowned.]—But when they <i>do</i> go, they
<i>mean</i> going, and no mistake.—[“Well, I’m sure!” said
Miss L., gathering up her work, and preparing to draw
some beer.]—I’d as leave ride a four-year-old, if he could
have the <i>condition</i> in him, as a fourteen. If things don’t
go cross with him at first, to my thinking, he’s the
pleasanter mount of the two.”

“But you don’t mean to say a young horse can jump
as well as an old one!” I exclaimed, completely aghast at
such an upsetting of all my preconceived notions; and
recollecting, not without a qualm, how my banker’s book
might testify to the value I placed on seasoned and experienced
hunters. “Suppose you come to ‘doubles’!
Suppose you come to timber! Suppose you want to creep
quietly through a gap by a tree!”

Tips indulged in a pitying smile. “Have you never had
a violent <i>old</i> horse, sir?” said he. “How many nags have
you owned that you could trust after half-a-dozen seasons
to do a gate to a certainty, or land clear of the second
ditch, when they knowed nothing beforehand, or to go by a
post in a hurry without jamming of your leg against it?
Now a young one <i>takes notice</i>, as the women say of their
babies.—You’ll excuse <i>me</i>, miss.—A young one is all for
learning, for doing the best he can to please you—for going
your way instead of his own. A young one may put you
down quietly once or twice from ignorance, or because you
won’t let him alone; and he hasn’t learnt yet to disregard
your pulling him about, but he makes it up to you before
the day’s over. And if I was a-going to ride for my life
to-morrow over a country I’d never seen before, I’d ask for
a four-year-old to do it on, if I was quite sure that he was
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
a fast one, a bold one, and with a spice of the devil that he
got from the mare that bred him!”

With this startling exposition of his theory, Tips
swallowed his gin-and-water at a gulp, and then looked
anxiously at the door, seemingly for the reappearance of
Mr. Naggett.

As that worthy, however, did not return, I could but
entreat the rough-rider to allow Miss Lushington to replenish
his glass at my expense; and lighting a cigar
myself, by that lady’s permission, I begged Tips to take
a chair, and proceeded with my inquiries.

“Is there no sort of horse then,” I asked, “that you
consider dangerous? or do you believe that whenever an
accident happens, collar-bones or otherwise, it <i>must</i> be the
fault of the rider?”

“<i>Plenty</i> of dangerous horses about, sir,” answered Tips,
preparing to make himself comfortable—“<i>plenty</i> of ’em,
more’s the pity, even for horse-breakers and such-like, as I
am myself. We never get no credit of them. Even if we
get them pretty handy, and return them as quiet to ride or
drive, why as soon as they’re back in their own stable, they
begin at their old tricks again. There was one as I had
from Mr. Mohair, the draper in Waterborough; a grey he
was, and up to all manner of games. Wouldn’t go by the
milliner’s shop in the High Street, not at no price. Mrs.
Mohair was just mad about it, sir, I can tell you. Well,
they sent him over to me to break; and says the missus to
me, says she, when I took him away, ‘Break the spirit of
him, Mr. Tips,’ says she, ‘if whip and spur will do it. And
don’t let me see of him backing and sidling into the
windows of them bold hussies again,’ says she, ‘not if you
cut him into ribbons for it!’ You see the ladies is mostly
for strong measures,—asking your pardon, Miss,—’specially
where there’s other ladies concerned. Well, I didn’t cut
him into ribbons, I didn’t, because it’s not my way; but I
coaxed and humoured of him, and once or twice when we
<i>did</i> have a tussle, I showed him pretty plainly who was
master: and I rode him backwards and forwards into
Waterborough and what not, and he passed the milliner’s
windows and took no more notice than if there hadn’t been
a pretty girl in the whole shop, front or back. So I takes
.bn 222.png
.pn +1
him to Mr. Mohair, and says I, ‘You may ride him anywheres
now, sir,’ says I, ‘for if you do but shake a whip at
him, he goes as quiet as a lamb.’ And I charged him for
the horse’s keep, and a sovereign besides, and so thought
no more about it.

“Well, sir, in less than a fortnight, I happened to be in
Waterborough on market-day; and as I came out of the
horse-market, I see a crowd of foot-people running towards
the High Street, and I hear a precious stamping and scuffling,
and clattering of horses’ feet just round the corner
where the milliner’s shop stands; so I walk on to see what
the disturbance is. A precious shindy I found too. There
was a donkey-cart drawed on to the pavement, and a hamper
of greens upset on the door-step, and a old apple-woman
cursing awful, and the foot-people flying into the middle of
the street; and in the heart of them all, there was the grey
horse right up against the milliner’s front-door, with his
head going one way and his body another, and his tail
tucked down in his quarters as if he meant mischief enough
for a week; and Mr. Mohair (he’s a timid gentleman, Mr.
Mohair), sitting on his back as white as a sheet, pulling
of him by the bridle, and kicking of him in the ribs, afraid
to quilt him as he should have done by rights; afraid to
stick to him handsome, and yet more afraid still to get off
his back, for there stood Mrs. Mohair in her best black
satin gown, with a shawl pulled over her head, a rowing of
him tremendous, and all the pretty girls in the milliner’s
windows laughing fit to break their hearts. Well, I caught
hold, and led him back to his own stable for pity’s sake;
and Mr. Mohair behaved quite like a gentleman; but he
sold him to run in the ’bus, and never got on his back
again.”

“Very awkward for all parties,” observed Miss Lushington,
probably following out a train of ideas of her own.

Tips stared at her for a considerable period, winked
solemnly with his damaged eye, and then subsided once
more into his gin-and-water.

“Do you think these vicious horses, then,” said I, “the
most dangerous customers you have to deal with?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” was the reply; “vice in a horse is
the most troublesome fault of all to cure, because it’s
.bn 223.png
.pn +1
always breaking out again, and because a vicious beast
is sure to be a sensible beast too. The horse-riders, you
know, sir—them as teaches horses to fire pistols, and make
tea, and dance on the tight-rope, and what not—they
always give the preference to what they call a <i>restive</i> one,
because you see it’s the beast’s sagacity that makes him
so difficult to break, if so be the breaker has begun with
him the wrong way. It’s all <i>humbug</i>, sir, is horsemanship,
that’s what it is; and the easier a horse is humbugged,
the pleasanter he is to ride and drive. Now a real knowing
’un won’t be humbugged at no price, and so we come to
forcing of him, which is always a difficult business, and
then it’s ‘pull devil, pull baker,’ and if the baker pulls
hardest, why we call him vicious. But he’s always got
his wits about him, he has. He may be aggravating, <i>very</i>:
but you can’t call him <i>dangerous</i>. He won’t put <i>himself</i>
into a mess, not if he knows it, and so he’s bound to take
care of <i>you</i>, so long as you don’t part company. I recollect
of a nag, a very neat one, as belonged to a friend of mine,
who says to me one evening, ‘Tips,’ says he, ‘I’ll sell
you my bay Galloway,’ says he, ‘for seventeen sovereigns,
there, and a glass of gin-hot, for I dursn’t ride him, and
that’s the truth.’ ‘I’ll give you three five-pun’ notes and
a bottle of French brandy,’ says I, ‘if it’s all on the
square.’ ‘Done!’ says he. ‘Done!’ says I; ‘and now
what’s his little game?’ says I, when I’d ordered the
brandy. ‘Well,’ says my friend, ‘whenever I ride down
wharf-side to my business, he makes a dash for the canal,
and tries to plunge over head in the deep water.’ ‘Has
he ever been <i>in</i> with you?’ says I. ‘Never!’ said he,
‘and I’ll take care he never <i>shall</i>. I’m a family man, Mr.
Tips, and plagued with the rheumatics besides.’”

“So I brought the little nag home: and next day I took
a sharp pair of spurs, and an ash-plant, and rode him down
wharf-side quite easy and confidential. Sure enough he
takes the bit in his mouth, and away he goes best pace for
the canal. We came at it so fast I thought we must both
have been in; and he stopped so short on the edge, if I
hadn’t been ready for him, I must have gone clean over his
head. Well, he fought and fought, but I couldn’t force
him into it, till at last I got his hind legs close to the brink,
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
and I slipped off his back, and with a jerk of the bridle,
tipped him over as neat as wax. He had to swim for a
hundred yards and more alongside the towing-path afore he
could get out, and he never tried on <i>that</i> game agin, you
may take your oath. He was a sweet cob as ever you see
to carry fourteen stone, and I sold him to an old gentleman
at Croydon for five-and-forty sovereigns, money down. But
he didn’t want to go into the canal, bless ye; though once
he <i>was</i> in, he swam like an otter.”

“I have always heard a frightened horse is worse than a
vicious one,” I observed, hazarding the remark with a certain
hesitation in presence of so high an authority.

“That’s <i>right</i>, sir,” answered Tips with a smile, born
of gin-and-water and approval. “It’s a frightened horse
that will face anything and go anywheres. He’s a <i>mad</i>
horse for the time, that’s what <i>he</i> is. So long as you see
your horse’s eye standing out wild and red, you know that
he’s half out of his senses with excitement and likely to
astonish you above a bit; but still he keeps the other half
pretty cleverly, and though he <i>might</i> jump a brick wall,
he <i>won’t</i> run his head against it. But when you see his
eye <i>turn blue</i>, then look out! Nothing will stop him now,
and he’ll go overhead into the deep sea as soon as look at
it. You saw that gentleman as came in just now, and went
out again, sudden—Mr. Naggett? A very nice gentleman
he is, and quite the sportsman: dogs, greyhounds, fancy
rabbits, and game-fowl, Mr. Naggett he likes to have a turn
at them all, and a kind friend he’s been to me besides—we’ll
drink his health, sir, if you please. Well, sir, Mr.
Naggett owned a well-bred, raking-looking sort of mare
about two years ago, that he was uncommon sweet upon,
but somehow he never could do much good with her.
Tried her hunting, but she was a sight too rash and violent
for that; then he thought he’d make a hack of her; beautiful
action she had, stepped away like a cat on hot bricks;
but she was so unaccountable nervous, he couldn’t get her
along the roads at all, if there was much traffic, on market-days
and such-like. At last he comes to me in this very
shop where we’re sitting now. ‘Tips,’ says he, ‘what’ll
you have to drink? I have been thinking about Fancy-Girl,’
says he. You see we called her Fancy-Girl on
.bn 225.png
.pn +1
account of her skittish ways. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to put
her in harness.’ ‘Better not, master,’ says I: ‘them
Fancy-Girls is bad enough without putting them in traces,
a-purpose to kick over.’ ‘You’re a old woman,’ says he;
‘you send for her first thing to-morrow morning, and break
her nicely for me, single and double harness, teach her to
be generally useful, make tea, and wait at table if required.’
I didn’t like the job, but trade’s trade, and if your own
brother’s a undertaker, why he can’t refuse to measure you
for a coffin; so the mare came home, and we had her in
the break alongside of a steady one afore the week was
out.

“Well, sir, I took uncommon pains with ‘The Girl’ as
we called her, uncommon to be sure! I drove her in double
harness, and I drove her in single, and I was as gentle as
a lady with her, and as quiet as a mouse. Somehow I
knew she’d play me a trick afore we’d done, and I never
let any one touch her but myself.

“One afternoon Mr. Naggett he comes up to my place
and wants to see the Girl in harness, and to drive her himself.
I told him it wouldn’t be safe, not yet, at no price;
but Mr. Naggett he’d been a-drinking, for things had gone
cross at home, and he wouldn’t be satisfied without a
drive. Well, I got him set down to take a bit of dinner
with me at my place (it’s a poor place, sir, for gentlemen
like you, but you’re heartily welcome when you are passing
that way), and he sent out for some brandy, and made himself
quite comfortable. After he’d smoked a pipe or two, I
tried to persuade him to go home. ‘Home!’ says he, ‘I
ain’t going home for a fortnight! while Mrs. Naggett’s
blowing off <i>her</i> steam, I’m a-getting <i>mine</i> up,’ says he;
‘and if I don’t have a jolly good spree this week and the
next, I’m a Scotchman!’ says he, ‘and that’s all about
it!’

“So we went into the stables, and had the Girl stripped;
and at last, if it was only to content him, I was forced to
put her into the trap, and take him out for a drive; but I
got him to promise he wouldn’t lay a finger on the reins,
‘for,’ says I, ‘if anything <i>should</i> happen,’ says I, ‘without
doubt Mrs. N. will cast it up to you, as you should
have taken her advice and stayed at home.’ He’s not an
.bn 226.png
.pn +1
obstinate gentleman, Mr. Naggett, and this convinced him
at once.

“The Girl went kindly enough for the first half-mile,
and I wanted to turn back and go home afore worse came
of it; but Mr. Naggett says, ‘We’ll just go down to the
Silver Bells at Willow-tree, take a pint of purl, and come
back to tea; so, as it’s a good wide road and not much
frequented, I put the whip in the bucket, and drove steadily
on.

“Well, sir, as luck would have it, we hadn’t gone a mile,
before we came to some chaps at the road-side, cutting down
a tree. There isn’t many trees along that line, and I
wished there was none, or else they’d leave them all standing.
Them countrymen isn’t over cute, and though I got
by as quick as ever I could, the tree fell with a crash close
behind us. The Girl gave a jump, that I thought would
have taken her clean out of her harness, and away she
bolted like a frightened stag. Bless ye! I’d no more
power over her than a baby. There was a hill to go down
a few rods ahead. I says to Mr. Naggett, says I, ‘Hold
on, master; when we get to the old Barn, the trap’ll run
on to the Girl, and we’ll be kicked out, so look for a soft
place!’ Mr. Naggett didn’t seem to care about arguing
the point, but he swore awful.

“It soon came off, sir. The Girl wasn’t going to keep
us waiting. A shy at a heap of stones took us off the
road, and the next stride brought us into the fence. At
the pace we were going, Mr. Naggett shot clean over my
head into a wheat-field, and got up quite sober and none
the worse, but he had to destroy the Girl; and as for me,
why the trap, you see, unfortunately turned on to me, and
I broke three ribs and my collar-bone, put out my wrist,
lost two-and-seven-pence out of my breeches-pocket, and
had a concussion of the brain. But it might have been
worse! Here’s Mr. Naggett coming back to speak for
himself, and I wish you good-evening, sir.”
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-03
CHAPTER III||<s>MR. NAGGETT</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>As</sc> Tips took his departure, with a respectful inclination
to myself, and a most polite bow to Miss Lushington, I
observed that lady to adjust her shining locks, as it were
mechanically, in obvious expectation of accustomed homage;
and indeed ere I had sufficiently admired the attitude in
which she performed this graceful movement, a fresh arrival
swaggered into the bar, in as different a manner as possible
from the modest entrance of his predecessor, Mr. Tips.
.pi
This gentleman, or perhaps the abbreviation <i>gent</i> would
convey more distinctly the exterior of the individual thus
designated—this <i>gent</i>, then, was a personage of dashing
appearance, dressed in the style which the present age
denominates “loud,” and which presents, as far as the
wearer’s ingenuity will admit, a combination of extreme
splendour, with a decided tendency to the sports of the field.
I have remarked such a peculiarity of costume in several
individuals, less distinguished for their general good sense
and respectability than for a strong and somewhat perverted
inclination in favour of dog-fighting, pigeon-shooting, excessive
trotting against time, the pitting of game-fowl in
deadly conflict armed with artificial spurs, and even the
patronage of those human combats in which such profound
secrecy is always preserved, and to witness which it is
indispensable to be possessed of that mysterious passport
termed by <i>Bell’s Life</i> “the office.”

Mr. Naggett, then, the well-known sporting butcher of
the adjacent town of Waterborough, was turned out from
top to toe exactly as a well-known sporting butcher ought
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
to be. When he removed his low-crowned, close-shaved
hat, and disclosed his abundance of crisp, short-curling
flaxen hair, surmounting an extremely ruddy face with
bright-blue eyes, good features, and the whitest of teeth, I
could easily imagine that the respectful admiration of so
well-looking an individual was an acceptable compliment
even to Miss L. His fawn-coloured whiskers, of which he
possessed a great abundance, were trained carefully to the
very corners of his mouth, from which they descended in
those seductive semicircles that are seen to their highest
advantage in the commercial-room. Scorning the delusion
of moustaches, Mr. Naggett rested a stronger claim to
admiration on the brilliancy of his blue-satin neckcloth
which, worn without shirt-collar, and ornamented by an
enormous pin modelled to represent the head of the
Champion of England in massive mosaic gold, irresistibly
attracted the eye of the beholder, while it dazzled alike his
fancy and his judgment. From the buttons of his waistcoat,
scarlet cloth with a binding of gold thread, not unlike
those of Lord M——’s footmen, or indeed of the gallant
officers on the staff of the British army, depended a massive
watch-chain in the form of a curb, life-size, if I may use
the expression, and hung with many ornaments, of which a
death’s head as big as a walnut, and a strike-a-light box,
were perhaps the smallest and least conspicuous. Mr.
Naggett’s coat was light-blue, very much off his person,
and very short in the tails; his trousers were of drab, considerably
tighter than is customary in these days of easy
fitting; and his Wellington boots were thick, clumsy, and
badly cleaned. He wore rings, but no gloves, and his
hands were hardly so well washed as might have been
desired.

Such was the man who now swaggered, with a good deal
of noisy assumption, into the bar. Removing his hat with
easy familiarity to Miss Lushington, he nodded a patronising
“Servant, sir,” to myself, and then producing what he was
pleased to call “a weed” from a leathern case the size of
a portmanteau, proceeded to smoke, and drink the port-wine
negus that had been kept hot for him, with a great appearance
of comfort and gratification. The man had an air of
rude health and bodily vigour about him, that was especially
.bn 229.png
.pn +1
provoking to a cripple like myself. Though short and fleshy,
his figure was round-made and strong, whilst the clearness
of his eye and the colour in his cheek denoted an unimpaired
digestion, and a circulation, to which languor, blue devils,
and dyspepsia were unknown. There are some people in
whose constitutions brandy-and-water and cigars seem to
assimilate with the vital functions, and turn to health and
strength. “They go all at once,” says the valetudinarian,
and this may be true enough; nevertheless, I have seen
many of these enviable <i>bons-vivants</i> go for a very long
time.

Notwithstanding the freedom of his manners, his brilliant
attire and sporting exterior, I did not much admire Mr.
Naggett. These instincts, prejudices—call them what you
will—of likes and dislikes are oftener right than we suppose;
and when I came to learn the antecedents of the
sporting butcher, as in such a gossiping place as Soakington
I was not long in doing, I was even less prepossessed in
his favour than at first.

Mr. Naggett had begun life as the only son of a respectable
tenant-farmer in the neighbourhood of Soakington. As
a boy at a forty-pound school, he had distinguished himself
less in mathematics, classics, and the use of the globes,
than in such games of skill or chance as enabled him to get
the better of his companions, to the increasing of his own
stores in marbles, pocket-money, and what not. He smoked
a short pipe in the playground, ate lollypops during school-hours,
and smuggled shrub into the dormitory. When the
master had him up for any of these offences, he was
notorious for arguing the point, and comported himself on
all disputed questions of discipline, like that troublesome
mutineer who is called in the army and navy “a lawyer.”
Unlike this individual, however, he took his punishment
without wincing, and this Spartan quality made amends in
the opinion of his schoolfellows for a good many shady
tricks and unenviable qualities. The lad could use his fists
too, an accomplishment he had learnt from an old poaching
labourer who worked on his father’s farm; and although
he took care never to match himself with any boy whom he
could not conquer pretty easily, his prowess in this line
gained him immunity for a good many little peccadilloes
.bn 230.png
.pn +1
and infringements of the schoolboy’s code of honour, which
is exceedingly stringent as far as it goes.

When young Naggett’s education was supposed to be
completed, and he came home to live with his father as a
lad of sixteen, there was not probably a more finished young
blackguard to be found within a circle of fifty miles. The
old man tried hard to make him work, but it was hopeless;
whilst at races, fairs, village feasts, anything in the shape
of a junketing, he was safe to attend and safe to get into
mischief. Then he always kept two or three greyhounds,
much to the disgust of the Earl of Castle-Cropper, his
father’s landlord; and though he generally had a pretty
good nag of the old man’s to ride when he chose, he never
won the Earl’s respect by any display of daring in the field.
Young Naggett’s heart was not in the right place to ride
well over a country, and although he liked the excitement
and display of hunting, it was not for the sake of the sport
that he attended at the covert-side.

His father died the year his son came of age, and the
just old Earl, though much against the grain, on his usual
principle let the latter continue the farm. Then began a
career of extravagance that necessarily ran itself out in a
brief space of time. Late breakfasts, silver forks, six-o’clock
dinners, port, sherry, and punch till all the hours of
the night, with three or four riding-horses in the stable,
and a box of cigars always open in the hall, made Apple-tree
Farm the most popular resort in the neighbourhood
for every “good-for-nothing” in the country-side. This
style of living went on for eighteen months. Then came a
bad harvest, the failure of a county bank, and a sale at the
farm, with Richard Naggett’s name amongst the list of
bankrupts, and a loss to the Earl of Castle-Cropper of more
than he cared to think about. Nevertheless, his old landlord
never quite turned his back on his tenant, and therefore
we may fairly suppose that, beyond reckless imprudence,
there was nothing tangible against the latter, and that in
the main, and when confronted with a Waterborough lawyer,
he acted what is called “on the square.”

After this crisis, young Naggett was not much heard of,
for some time. There <i>was</i> indeed an ugly poaching story
in which the Earl was supposed to have dealt very leniently
.bn 231.png
.pn +1
with the offender in consideration of certain old associations,
and which, if possible, increased that nobleman’s popularity,
to the detriment of the culprit he had screened; and there
was likewise a very disagreeable show-up on Waterborough
race-course in regard to a horse called Cat’s Cradle, who
was entered, weighted, and described wrong for the Tally-ho
Stakes, and then most indubitably pulled by young Naggett,
riding as a tenant-farmer, without occupying one foot of
land. There is a horse-pond at the end of the course, and
it was only the good-nature of some of the townspeople, and
the excitement created at the same moment by the detection
of a <i>maladroit</i> pickpocket, that saved the adventurous jockey
from involuntary immersion therein.

The next that was heard of our friend was his occupation
of a stool as a copying clerk in an attorney’s office, and
from that stool he dated his subsequent rise in life. At
first it was a gloomy change for the young farmer and sportsman,
to sit at a desk copying law parchments, accustomed
as he had hitherto been to the free open air and out-of-door
pursuits, which, notwithstanding his occasional dissipations,
had constituted his everyday life. Old Nobbler, too,
was a pretty tight hand, and although he hugely respected
the astute qualities of his pupil, that very good opinion
made him look pretty sharply after him, and keep him very
close to his work. Nevertheless Old Nobbler was not a bad
fellow on the whole; and as he generally had a good horse
in his stable, and was getting too short-winded to ride much
himself, he would occasionally give his new pupil a mount
with the hounds, enjoining him, somewhat unnecessarily,
not to rush into needless danger, and if he <i>should</i> see any
gentleman rather <i>sweet</i> upon the nag, why not to disappoint
him, if he could help it.

Few men were better qualified to ride a horse <i>to sell</i> than
Dick Naggett. He had good hands, great caution, and an
instinctive knowledge of a customer. His excessive regard
for his own neck ensured him from getting into needless
difficulties; and as he was never forward in a run, but
always conspicuous at a check, his horse obtained a reputation
for stoutness and safety, which he had not earned by
going fairly over a country in the line of hounds. There is
a great art in riding hunters for sale, quite different from
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
the straightforward science. It is not the boldest and most
conspicuous horsemen who can obtain the longest prices for
the animals that carry him so brilliantly; the world is very
suspicious. Men have an unaccountable objection to buying
a horse they know anything about. Besides which, the
hunter that has been ridden fairly, however good he may
be, <i>must</i> occasionally have been seen in difficulties. It is
impossible to cross a severe line of fences, at a good pace,
and in the front rank, without an occasional mishap. A
second Lottery may find an unexpected trap on the further
side of a fence, which no exertion can clear, and another
Eclipse might be blown in deep ground, if rattled along
close to a pack of high-bred fox-hounds on a good scenting
morning; then, when it comes to a question of buying, the
purchaser is good-naturedly warned by half-a-dozen officious
friends, each of whom has probably something of his own
in the stall that he wants to get rid of, and that he thinks
would suit him better. One considers the intended purchase
very much over-rated; another saw him refuse some
rails in a corner; a third heard he was down at the thick
fence coming out of the wood; and a fourth has been informed
that he was in <i>difficulties</i> when they killed their
fox, and could not have gone on another half-mile. Like
Cæsar’s wife, a hunter must be above suspicion; so the
alarmed purchaser goes and buys a soft bay horse from a
dealer, of which mediocre animal nobody knows either good
or evil—a beast that nobody has ever yet liked well enough
either to “show him up,” or to give him a chance of
putting his rider down. But a wary salesman knows better
than to keep a good place when he has got it. Whilst his
horse is fresh he flourishes away over a few fences, the
larger the better, for all England to look on and admire,
knowing quite well that, in the hurry and confusion of a
run, he can decline when he pleases, and turn up again at
the first check in a conspicuous position, as if he had been
in front the whole time. The very few that could tell anything
about it have probably been so much occupied, and
so full of their own performances, that they do not know
whether he was in their neighbourhood or not; whilst the
general public in the hunting-field, like the general public
everywhere else, are quite satisfied, if he is only loud enough
.bn 233.png
.pn +1
and positive enough, to take a man’s assurances about
himself on trust.

Now, Dick Naggett could do the selling business, especially
the <i>talking</i> part of it, to admiration. Turning out in
extremely neat attire, and with some article of dress, either
coat, neckcloth, or hat, peculiarly conspicuous, he could not
be overlooked, and whilst careful never to ask his horse to
do more than the animal could handsomely accomplish, he
at the same time gave a customer such glowing descriptions
of its prowess, that he sold more than one very moderate
hunter of Old Nobbler’s for about twice its value, and three
times what the lawyer had given for it.

On these emergencies, too, Dick thought proper to affect
the townsman, and sink the agriculturist altogether—a propensity
which elicited on one occasion from Lord Castle-Cropper
the only joke that reserved nobleman was ever
known to perpetrate. Dick was holding forth, as usual at
the covert-side, on the merits of the horse he was riding,
and the silent Earl emerging from the recesses of Deepdale
Wood, which had just been drawn blank, and followed by
old Potiphar, a solemn badger-pied hound, not entirely unlike
his Lordship in the face, paused to listen to the conversation.

“I’m only asking a hundred and seventy for him,” said
Dick; “he’s the cheapest horse out to-day. I’ll appeal to
my Lord if he isn’t.”

Lord Castle-Cropper ran his eye over the animal. “I
could have bought him this time last year for that money
exactly,” replied he, “barring the hundred.”

“Oh! but all stock has risen since then,” retorted
Dick, loud and unabashed, “cent. per cent. I should say—sheep,
cows, poultry, guinea-pigs, and fancy rabbits!”

The silent Earl was one of those provoking people who,
always sticking to facts, always seem to have them, so to
speak, at their fingers’ ends.

“I can only tell you, Mr. Naggett,” said his Lordship,
“that I am glad to take now two-thirds of the price I paid
six months back for all kinds of stock. I am a farmer
myself, as perhaps you know.”

Dick was impudence personified. “Then you use us
townspeople precious hard, my Lord,” said he. “A nice
price you farmers make us pay for our mutton.”
.bn 234.png
.pn +1

“I think you lawyers make us pay a good deal dearer
<i>for the skins</i>,” retorted his Lordship; and although he
never moved a muscle of his own countenance, the bystanders
raised such a shout of laughter as made old
Potiphar erect his ears and bristles, thinking a fox must
have been viewed away, and as shut up Dick Naggett for
the next ten minutes at least, after which he recovered completely,
and sold his horse for a trifle less than he asked,
before the day was out.

Now, Old Nobbler had a daughter, like Shylock, and
Jephthah, and Virginius, and many other doting old gentlemen.
Of course he was very fond of the girl, and she did
with him pretty much as she liked. Well, “’tis an old tale
and often told;” it was not likely that Barbara Nobbler,
in all the flush of eighteen summers, could abide constantly
under the same roof with Dick Naggett, and remain insensible
to his attractions. The lady was a swarthy bouncing
<i>brunette</i>, cherry-lipped, bright-eyed, heavy-handed, and with
a foot and ankle of the mill-post order, such as seldom
belong to a good mover. Nevertheless, she was a healthy,
vigorous girl, with a quick temper, and a good heart. It
was natural that she should plunge at once chin-deep in
love with rosy, trim, curly-headed, flaxen-haired Dick Naggett.
Old Nobbler would not <i>hear</i> of the match, shut
Barbara up in her room, and turned Dick off the stool in
the office, and worse than that, out of the pig-skin in the
saddle-room. There was a dreadful blow-up in the house.
The father had a fit of the gout; the daughter was seen
dissolved in tears; and the lover, looking trimmer, rosier,
and saucier than ever, was observed to take tea, two days
running, with Mrs. Furbelow, the dressmaker, a widow of
a certain calibre, over the way.

Flirtations, however, in all classes of life, may have been
carried on so far that it is better for all parties that they
should not be interrupted. Old Nobbler, a man not without
legal experience, was prevailed on to listen to reason,
and an early wedding was the result, which placed Mr.
Naggett’s head once more above water, and indeed put him
in immediate possession of a little capital, with the prospective
reversion of a little more.

It was in consequence of this windfall that Mr. Naggett
.bn 235.png
.pn +1
embarked on the very flourishing business that he had conducted
for some years, at the period when I made his
acquaintance,—a business that, somehow or another, led
him into all sorts of places where you would have supposed
there was neither time nor opportunity for the purchase
and sale of meat. It conducted him to Epsom annually,
at the Metropolitan Spring Meeting, and required his punctual
return, for the Derby and Oaks. It released him from
Ascot, probably in consequence of the hot weather, and
swarms of flies prevalent in the month of June, but imperatively
demanded his attendance in Yorkshire, and twice
or thrice within a reasonable distance of Cambridge during
the autumn months. In its prosecution he was compelled,
at great personal risk and inconvenience, to take an expensive
ticket by the very identical train that bore the invincible
Tom Sayers down the line to battle with his gallant
antagonist; and in order to do it thorough justice, he has
often been detained from his own home till the small hours
of the morning, and compelled to return fragrant with the
combined odours of alcohol and tobacco; nor does it appear
that this mysterious business can remain established on a
secure basis, apart from the assistance of those agreeable
stimulants.

Why it should necessitate, as it seems to do, the proprietorship
of a half-bred stallion, three pointers, an Angola
cat, the smallest terrier, and the largest mastiff I ever saw,
one cockatoo, and a dozen Cochin-China fowls is more than
I can take upon me to expound. Probably Mrs. Naggett
knows; for she has repeatedly demanded, not without high
words, an explanation of its mysterious intricacies.

I should not say, from all I have heard, that Mr. Naggett
is a domestic man. The habitual wearing of top-boots,
combined with fancy waistcoats, I believe to be inimical to
the fireside qualities. Although there are two or three
Naggetts, with dark eyes like their mother, and flaxen
curls like their father, to be seen playing at hide-and-seek
amongst the grove of dead pigs and sheep that pervade the
premises, and Mr. N. seems to notice and be fond of the
urchins, yet loud altercations are often to be heard in his
private residence behind the slaughter-house, and Mrs.
N.’s dark eyes are not always undimmed by tears. Fame,
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
however, whose hundred tongues are no less ubiquitous at
Waterborough than elsewhere, does not scruple to intimate
that the butcher’s lady is quite able to “hold her own;”
and the gossips have been heard to affirm, with dark and
threatening glances at their own liege lords the while, that
“though she has been so put upon, poor dear, she can give
him as good as he brings, and quite right too.” The
inference is obvious, the moral doubtless not without its
effect.

It was not in my nature to fraternise very cordially
with a gentleman of Mr. Naggett’s superior qualities. I
am bound, nevertheless, to admit, that his advances towards
myself were cordial, not to say familiar in the extreme.
The undisguised admiration, however, with which Miss
Lushington regarded his every movement, and the terms of
intimacy on which he obviously stood with that decorous
lady, may have prejudiced me somewhat against him.
There is a class of men, however, I have often observed, and
I say it in justice to Miss Lushington, with whom the
genus Barmaid seems to possess some mysterious affinity.
As Eastern poets feign that there is a certain bird to which
the tree involuntarily bends its branches, and the flower
opens its petals, so I am convinced there is a description of
individual who is looked on with peculiar favour by actresses,
barmaids, hostesses, and other ladies whose avocations
bring them much into the presence of a discerning public.
These favourites of her sex are generally remarkable for
exuberance of spirits, command of language, a vivid freshness
of complexion, and general freedom of manner. They
are loud in assumption, and great on all topics of political
or public interest; also prone to plunge into quarrels, from
which they invariably extricate themselves without recourse
to ulterior measures. His female admirers, in describing
such a one, generally sum up their catalogue of his merits
by vowing that he is “very free in company, and <i>quite the
gentleman</i>.”

Mr. Naggett, stirring the fire with his boot, and winking
facetiously on Miss Lushington, as he drank her health in
his hot negus, and asked her whether she had ordered her
wedding-bonnet yet, obligingly remarked, that “it was a
cold night, and he was sorry to see my arm in a sling;” also
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
“that he had heard of my accident, and hoped it wouldn’t
be long before I <i>over-got</i> it,” with which friendly wish, expressed
in a compound verb, he finished his negus, and
ordered some more, calling Miss L. “my dear,” unblushingly,
to my excessive disgust. He then drew his chair to
the fire, expressed his astonishment that Tips had gone to
“perch,” as he called it, and proceeded to make himself
agreeable.

“A nasty fall, sir, yours must have been, as I understand,”
said he, “and it’s well as it wasn’t worse. You’ve
a nice-ish team standing here, but you’ll excuse <i>me</i>, sir,
they’re not exactly the <i>class</i> of horse for a gentleman like
you to ride. I’ve been fond of horses all my life, from a
boy, I may say, and I’m forty years of age now: forty years
of age, though perhaps you wouldn’t think it, and in that
time I’ve learned to keep my eyes open. Now, sir, you
don’t ride so very light, I’ll be bound to say.”

I am a little touchy about my weight, I confess. I believe
most men are, the heavy ones liking to be thought lighter
and the light ones heavier than they really are. “I ride
thirteen stone,” I replied. “Thirteen stone, to a pound; I
weigh every day of my life, and I haven’t varied since I was
five-and-twenty.”

“Thirteen stone! indeed, sir!” replied Mr. Naggett, running
his eye, as I thought, in a very free-and-easy manner
over my proportions. “Well, I shouldn’t have thought it.
But you’re thick, sir; thick and a <i>little</i> fleshy. Now, your
nags is hardly thirteen-stoners, sir—not in a country like
this; I’m sure you must agree with me?”

Speechless with indignation, I seized the poker and split—not
Mr. Naggett’s head, but a burning coal in the very
centre of the grate, without farther reply. This coolest of
butchers proceeded unhesitatingly:—

“It’s a pity to see a gentleman undermounted, specially
in a country like this: so dangerous too! Why, sir, all the
worst falls as I’ve known take place down here in our Soakington
district, have been entirely owing to gentlemen riding
horses below their weight. There was Squire Overend, only
last season, got a little thorough-bred weed he called Happy
Joe, as he swore nothing could touch. No more they
couldn’t when the ground was light; but look what happened.
.bn 238.png
.pn +1
There came a splash of wet, and the ground up to
our girths, just as we’ve got it now, and likely to have it for
the next six months; and Happy Joe, he turns a complete
somersault over a stile the Squire puts him at, and falls on
to his rider with a squelch, breaking the cantle of his own
saddle into shivers, and inflicting such severe internal injuries
on Squire Overend, that he has never been out hunting
since, and all from obstinacy—sheer obstinacy, I call
it; for I told the Squire myself how it would be, from the
first.”

Somewhat discouraged, I admit, by the ghastly catastrophe
of Mr. Overend, I began to think it was just possible
that Apple-Jack might not be so good as he looked, and
that perhaps it might be wise to purchase a horse or two
more accustomed to the country, and with a little more
power.

Mr. Naggett, who never took his clear blue eyes off my
face, seemed to read my thoughts intuitively, and proceeded
with more than usual volubility:—

“There’s a friend of mine, sir, got a horse, that I should
say was just about your mark, and would carry you as I can
see you <i>like</i> to be carried. I had him in price all last season
myself, but money couldn’t buy him then; for my friend he
was an out-and-out sporting chap, and could <i>ride</i> too! But
he’s been and got married since, and gone to live in Drury
Lane for good and all; so he’s no more use for a hunter
now, than a cow has for a side-pocket, or a pig for a frilled-shirt.
What a horse he is, to be sure!—dark-brown, tan
muzzle, not a speck of white about him; up to fourteen
stone; by Ratcatcher, out of Sly Puss by Mousetrap, and
Mousetrap, you remember, was by Grimalkin, and the sire
of Whittington, Cat’s-cradle and a many good ones. I
know all about him, and have done since he was a foal.
My friend he bought him off of the farmer that bred him.”

“Why, Ratcatcher has been covering at the Castle for
years,” I replied, rather congratulating myself upon having
Mr. Naggett “out;” “and Sly Puss never belonged to anybody
but the Earl!”

“Well, sir,” retorted he, “and that’s exactly the farmer
I mean. A very respectable farmer I call him too, and one
that farms <i>his own land</i>, which is more than can be said
.bn 239.png
.pn +1
for a good many of them. Talk of jumping, I wish you
could only see this nag jump!”

There is something about the discussion of horseflesh in
front of a big fire, with a cigar in his mouth, that disposes
a man unaccountably to <i>buy</i>. Knowing I couldn’t hunt
for six weeks, what did I want with another horse?

“Why should I not?” I rashly inquired. “I might look
at him, at any rate. Where is he to be seen?”

“Well, sir, he’s at my place now,” replied Mr. Naggett,
adding, with an air of charming frankness. “The fact is, I’ve
got him to keep for my friend, who is a cousin of my wife’s,
and I’ve got the riding of him for his corn. If it wasn’t
that my business won’t allow me to hunt as much as I
should like, I’d buy him myself, particularly considering
the price.”

“What does he ask?” I inquired, walking as it were
open-eyed into the pitfall prepared for me.

Mr. Naggett looked me over from top to toe, as if I had
been a prize ox. Probably he was making a mental computation
of my soft-headedness. I am afraid I looked very
much like a fool, for he replied boldly—

“One hundred and twenty sovereigns; take him as he
stands; no questions asked; and dirt-cheap at the money.”

“How old is he?” was naturally my next inquiry. “Is
he quiet to ride?” I added; “and thoroughly temperate
with hounds? Also, is he fit to go at present? and does
your wife’s cousin warrant him sound?”

“Come up and see him, sir! Come up and see him!”
was the only reply Mr. Naggett could be brought to give.
“My business will take me away all to-morrow and the next
day; but say Saturday, sir. You know my little place.
Any time on Saturday I shall be at your service, and the
horse too. Ride him, lark him, have him galloped, see him
jump! If you can get him into a difficulty, I’ll <i>give</i> him to
you—at least my wife’s cousin will. You may take my
word for it, that if once you lay your leg over him, he’ll
never go out of your stable again!”

And Mr. Naggett, suddenly remembering a very particular
engagement, vanished incontinently, after wishing
me an exceedingly civil “good-night.”
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-04
CHAPTER IV||<s>TOM TURNBULL</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>The</sc> hasty departure of Mr. Naggett seemed to produce
a corresponding effect of drowsiness on Miss Lushington—an
unusual weakness, to which I am bound to admit she
was by no means subject. Like the Roman vestals, she
never seemed tempted to quit her post, nor desirous of
flinching from the duty of keeping alive the sacred fire,
represented in her sanctuary by a blazing heap of coals
through the day, and a jet of gas continually flaring from
a pipe above the tap during the small hours towards morning.
Now, however, she yawned most unreservedly, and
hinted freely on the propriety of “shutting up for the
night.” Perhaps, after the departure of the flash butcher,
everything seemed by comparison tame and insipid. As I
shall not have occasion to refer to Mr. Naggett again, I may
here mention that as soon as I was able to move about, I
<i>did</i> go to inspect the famous horse by Ratcatcher, out of
Sly Puss by Mousetrap, and found him a good-looking
animal enough,—large, strong, well-bred, and a fine goer,
with many hunting-like qualities about him; but, on the
other hand, by no means likely to emerge blameless from
the ordeal of a veterinary surgeon’s examination, being indeed
a little suspicious in one eye, very queer about the hocks,
and with a curious catch in his windpipe, which Mr. Naggett
triumphantly quoted as a proof of the excellence of his
lungs, but which to my fancy seemed uncommonly like the
respiration of a prospective whistler.
.pi
I need hardly observe that I declined the proprietorship
of this high-bred animal upon any terms whatever, although
.bn 241.png
.pn +1
I was offered him as a <i>swap</i>, as a contingent reversion, and
as a temporary investment: nay, so anxious was Mr. Naggett
to accommodate me, and so liberal in his professions,
that I was compelled to decline very strenuously the purchase
of him at a considerable reduction on his original
price, with half the money down, and my bill at three
months for the remainder.

Though I have often seen Mr. Naggett in the hunting-field,
and have partaken of many excellent joints, both prime
beef and Southdown mutton, of his purveying, this was the
conclusion of my dealings with him in horseflesh, and the
termination of our somewhat unexpected intimacy.

“Drat it!” exclaimed Miss Lushington, as I lit a bedroom
candle, and she herself prepared to collect her
different effects, such as keys, scissors, workbox, and
thimble, preparatory to retiring for the night, “it’s
never over here, it isn’t! One down, t’other come on!
I did think I’d have had my hair in curl-papers to-night
before one o’clock,” she added coquettishly, smoothing
down the glossy bands that encircled her fair forehead;
“but goodness gracious me! Old friends is welcome
in season and out of season! If it isn’t Mr. Turnbull!”

So warm a greeting, from a lady of Miss Lushington’s
self-control, impelled me to put down my chamber-candlestick
and study with some curiosity the manners and appearance
of the new arrival. On his first entrance he was so
completely enshrouded and enveloped in a top-coat, a
shawl-handkerchief, and a round low-crowned hat, that I could
perceive nothing of him but his boots. These, however,
were sufficiently characteristic. Strong, round-toed, and
with deep mahogany tops, fastened up round the knee with
the old-fashioned string, they harmonised well with the
double-Bedford-cord breeches, of which they formed the
appropriate termination. As their owner, unwinding himself
gradually from the coils of his shawl, and emerging from
his drab top-coat, stood at last conspicuous in the full
glare of the gas-light, I could not help thinking that a
man might travel through a long summer’s day, without
meeting so fine a specimen of the real British yeoman as
Mr. Turnbull.
.bn 242.png
.pn +1

I like the round-cropped bullet-head that you never see
out of our own little island. I like the fresh healthy colour,
that deepens, instead of fading, with age, and the burly
thick-set form, square and substantial as a tower, deriving
its solid proportions from a good English ancestry, “men
of mould,” since the days of Robin Hood, and its vigour
from good English beef and floods of nut-brown ale. These
are the sort of men that kept the green wood in merry
Nottinghamshire, and bore back the chivalry of Europe at
Agincourt, Crecy, and Poitiers. These are the sort of men
that would turn the tide of an invasion to-day, shoulder to
shoulder in their dim grey ranks, handling the rifle as deftly
as their fathers did the bow, yet impatient somewhat of
long-bowls at five or six hundred yards, and longing withal
to get to close quarters and try conclusions with the bayonet.
When it comes to clash of steel, depend upon it “the
weakest will go to the wall.”

Five foot ten in his stockings; fourteen stone, without an
ounce of superfluous flesh upon his ribs; built in the
mould of a Hercules, with a ruddy-brown complexion and
dark crisp hair, short, close curling and grizzled about the
temples, for our friend is nearer fifty than forty, Tom
Turnbull, as he is called at every fair, market, and cattle-show
in three counties, nods good-humouredly to Miss
Lushington, and gives a backward scrape of his foot in
deference to myself.

“Glass of strong ale, if you please, Miss,” says he, in
cordial cheery tones, and holding it up to the light, tosses
off the clear sparkling beverage, with a sigh of intense
satisfaction. No wonder. Since a market dinner at one
o’clock, Tom Turnbull has ridden the best part of thirty
miles. He has nine more to go before he reaches Apple-tree
Farm, where he has succeeded Mr. Naggett (what a
contrast!), and he will be out to-morrow morning at daybreak,
looking after the ploughs, and taking perhaps a
vigorous spell between the stilts himself. There is a good
animal, however, waiting for him at the door, submitting
impatiently to the caresses of the admiring ostler, and
having had her own suck of gruel, looking wistfully round
for her master, who she knows is never very long having a
suck of <i>his</i>.
.bn 243.png
.pn +1

If you want to be thoroughly acquainted with your horse
to inspire him with that unreserved confidence which the
animal is certainly capable of feeling in his master, ride
him at night. An hour in the dark draws the bond of
partnership tighter than a day in the sunshine. When
you have made a journey or two together over bad roads,
without a moon, you learn to depend upon each other
thoroughly, and the animal will answer your hand and bend
to your caresses with a willing promptitude he would never
acquire by daylight. Tom Turnbull spends many an hour
of darkness in the saddle, and except on one occasion when
he took a short cut over some low fences, and tumbled
neck-and-crop into an open culvert, breaking his own head
and his horse’s neck, has never met with what he calls an
accident.

I fancy the old-fashioned highwaymen knew more about
the sagacity and powers of their horses than any more respectable
sportsmen of the modern times. They rode, as
their business obliged them, continually by night; and the
distances they accomplished were so marvellous as to be
incredible, had they not been attested by the most unimpeachable
of evidence in the witness-box. Horses can see
wonderfully well in the dark, and no doubt a man who was
riding against time for an <i>alibi</i>, with so heavy a stake as
his own life depending on his success, would be tolerably
venturesome in his efforts to “get forward;” but yet,
under the most favourable circumstances, it cannot but
have proved haphazard work, jumping fences by moonlight;
and what a good mare must poor Black Bess have been,
when she started fresh on the North road for her journey
to York!

In this one respect Tom Turnbull resembles Dick
Turpin; the former, too, has a mare he rides long journeys
by night, and for whose merits and reputation he entertains
the profoundest respect. She is a lengthy, low, wiry,
bay mare, with short flat legs, clean and hard as iron.
She rejoices in a lean, game head, with a curl not unlike a
sneer above her nostrils, and a wild eye; also, the long,
fine, and rather lop ears, which belong to her high-born
family. In the breeding of all stock Mr. Turnbull knows
what he is about. If he wants a promising foal that shall
.bn 244.png
.pn +1
grow into a couple of hundred pounds at five years old, he
does not put an old worn-out mare, whose constitution and
physical qualities are exhausted by hard work, to a fashionable
stallion, and calmly expect the produce to excel the
united excellencies of sire and dam in the best days of
both. On the contrary, he begins, as we humbly opine, at
the right end. He gets a foal or two out of the young
fresh mare before she commences work, instead of after she
is incapable of it. The dam’s functions are then in their
highest state of vigour and redundance; nor is it possible
but that this must materially enhance the value of her offspring.
The infant is all the better, and the mother none
the worse.

The Arabs, who are by no means behindhand in their
knowledge of horses, and whose everyday wants necessitate
their bringing the animal to its highest state of perfection,
at least as regards their own purposes, have established, as
an incontestable maxim, that while the colt inherits “make
and shape” from his sire, his inner qualities—if we may so
call them—his mettle, speed, temper, and powers of endurance
come from his dam. None of us who have taken
an interest in the rearing of young horses can have failed
to observe the strong outward resemblance they usually
bear to their sires. “How like the old horse!” is a
remark one hears every day when looking at some dark-brown
flyer by The Dutchman, or some commanding animal
with extraordinary power and substance by Cotherstone;
but we seldom see any striking resemblance to the dam,
although, when some veteran sportsman is relating the
feats of the “best he ever had in his life,” whether hunter,
hack, or trotter, he generally winds up with the observation,
“He was as good as the old mare!” Now, the
Arab ought to be a capital judge, and though by no means
despising speed, endurance is the quality which he most
values in his horse, and puts most frequently to the test.
It is no unusual feat for an Arab to ride a hundred miles a
day for four days together, through the desert, carrying
with him (no trifling addition to his own weight) the water
that is to last him throughout his journeys, also the forage that
must supply his steed, and the handful or two of
pressed dates that shall serve to keep the rider alive till he
.bn 245.png
.pn +1
reaches his destination. Now we have nothing of this sort
in England, and, since the introduction of railroads, have
indeed small occasion to prove the lasting qualities of our
horses. The covert-hack of the present day is the animal
that is required to prove his superiority to his stable companions,
for he <i>may</i> be asked, by a master who likes to get
his beauty-sleep after eight A.M., to do his fifteen miles,
with as many stone on his back, in five minutes over the
hour; and this is exceedingly good going. Still, a
summer’s day’s journey of eighty or ninety miles, with
only one stoppage to bait for an hour or two, such as used
to be frequently accomplished by jockeys and other locomotive
individuals on the old-fashioned hackney of the last
century, was a very different matter, and required in the
performer not only perfect soundness of limbs and constitution,
but a very true and even style of going, that gave
every point and articulation fair play, and no excess of
work above its due share. Such a fault in a horse as
<i>hitting his legs</i> of course would have rendered him utterly
useless before two-thirds of his task was accomplished.

It is feared that we shall lose altogether the breed of
animal that is capable of such performances. For many
years we have been studying to acquire increased <i>power</i>,
and consequently <i>pace</i>, to the disregard of <i>stamina</i>. It
stands to reason that the <i>larger</i> a horse is, <i>cæteris paribus</i>,
the <i>faster</i> he can go; but it does not the least follow that
his size should enable him to <i>go on</i>. Doubtless the object
for which we get into the saddle is <i>dispatch</i>, and “the
slows” is the worst disease our horse can be troubled with;
nevertheless, there is a good old rule in mechanics which
affirms “<i>nil violentum est perpetuum</i>;” and if your engine
is to go with the weight and <i>momentum</i> of an express train,
you must calculate on a considerable expenditure of fuel,
and great wear and tear on the nuts, screws, and fittings of
the whole. Now, Nature, although the neatest and most
finished of workers, will not submit herself to the laws of
commensuration. She will not make you a model in
<i>inches</i>, and supply you with a work on a corresponding
scale in <i>feet</i>. It would seem as if she only issued a certain
amount of stores in the aggregate, and if you are to get
more iron, she gives you less steel; you shall have plenty
.bn 246.png
.pn +1
of coke, but in return she stints you in oil. So, if the
living creature she turns out for you on your estimate is to
be very magnificent in its proportions, the chances are
that it will either fail in activity, or be deficient in
endurance.

We have now established half-mile races for our two-year-olds,
as, with some few exceptions, the most important
events of our English turf—our very Derbys and St. Legers—are
but a scramble of a dozen furlongs, with little more
than the weight of a child on a <i>very</i> young horse’s back.
With all the forcing by which art strives to expel nature, it
returns, in this instance, as Horace says, literally with a
stablefork,[#] we cannot get an animal to its prime at three
years old, who ought not to arrive at maturity till twice
that age. Still we continue to breed more and more for a
“turn of speed,” utterly regardless of endurance, till our
famous English racehorses have degenerated into such
galloping “weeds,” that I myself heard an excellent sportsman
and high authority on such matters affirm, in discussing
the hounds-and-horses match, which was to have come
off last October, that “he did not believe there was a horse
at Newmarket that could get four miles <i>at all</i>; no, not if
you trotted him every yard of the way!”
.pm fn-start
“Naturam expellas <i>furcâ</i>, tamen usque recurret.”
.pm fn-end

This, of course, was a jest; but, like many a random
shaft pointed with a sarcasm and winged with a laugh, it
struck not very far off the centre of the target. Even our
hunters, too (and surely, if you want endurance in any
animal alive, it is in a hunter), we are <i>improving</i>, year by
year, into a sort of jumping camelopard. Where are the
strong, deep-girthed horses on short legs of thirty years
ago? horses that stood just under sixteen hands, and
could carry sixteen stone. Look at what people call a
first-class hunter now! (and it must be admitted that, for
the high price he commands in the market, he ought to be
as near perfection as possible.) Look at him, as you may
see him in fifty different specimens with the Pytchley or
Quorn hounds, any hunting-day throughout the winter!
He is a bay or a brown—if the latter, more of a chocolate
than a mottled, with white about his legs and nose. He
stands sixteen two at least, with much daylight underneath
.bn 247.png
.pn +1
him. He has either a very long weak neck, with a neat
head; or more often a good deal of front and throat, with
a general bull-headed appearance, that conveys the idea of
what sailors term “by the bows,” and argues a tendency
to hard pulling, which, to do him justice, he generally
possesses. He has fine sloping shoulders, and can stride
away in excellent form over a grass-field, reaching out
famously with his fore legs, which, though long, are flat,
clean, and good. Somehow you are rather disappointed
with him when you get on his back. With no positive
fault to find, you have yet an uncomfortable conviction that
he does <i>not feel like it</i>; and, for all his commanding height,
you are subjected to no irresistible temptation to “lark”
him. When Mr. Coper asks you three hundred and takes
“two fifty,” as he calls it, alleging the scarcity of horses,
the excellence of this particular specimen, his own unbounded
liberality, intense respect for yourself, and every
other inducement that can mitigate the painful process of
affixing your name to a cheque, you seem to give him your
money without exactly knowing why; but when the new
purchase <i>stops</i> with you in deep ground the first good
scenting day, after you have bustled him along honestly
for two-and-twenty minutes, you think you <i>do</i> know why
exactly; and, although you may be, and probably <i>are</i> disgusted,
you cannot conscientiously admit that you are
surprised.

I have not seen these sort of nags, though, in the Soakington
country; I presume they all go to “The Shires;”
and this brings me back, after a long digression, to Tom
Turnbull and Apple-tree Farm.

There never was such a farm for coziness and comfort
as that. Surrounded by an ugly though sporting-looking
country, it possesses the only undulating fields for many
miles round, and consequently boasts a view from a certain
eminence called Ripley Rise, that commands half-a-dozen
of the Earl’s best fox-coverts, the distant towers of Castle-Cropper
itself, and no less than seventeen church-steeples.
There are stately old elms close to the dwelling-house, and
a rich and plentiful orchard, from which it takes its name,
adjoins a snug little walled garden, celebrated for the
earliest summer fruit, and the best plums in the district—thanks
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
to the late Mr. Naggett, a far-seeing, shrewd old
agriculturist. Apple-tree Farm is a good deal better
drained than most of the adjoining lands; consequently
its acres of arable return a heavier produce, and its upland
fields are more calculated for rearing young horses than
any in the country.

Nothing gives a colt such a chance as a fine high and
dry pasture, on a slope, where he can exercise himself in
the practice of going up and downhill, unconsciously
strengthening his hocks and acquiring liberty in his
shoulders whilst he is at play.

Horses bred on uplands, too, have a far harder and
sounder description of hoof than those that have been
accustomed in youth to splash about in rank, marshy
meadows; and, strange to say, their very coats are finer,
and their whole appearance denotes higher blood than can
be boasted by their own brothers, reared on lower grounds.
Those who profess to be acquainted with the physiology of
the horse, affirm that the produce of Arab stallions and
mares, if suffered to breed in the rich wet marshes of
Flanders, would, in half-a-dozen generations, without any
sort of cross, and from the sheer influence of keep and
climate, lose every trace of their noble origin. The Prophet
himself would not recognise the dull-eyed, coarse-shaped,
heavy-actioned progeny, for the lithe and fiery children of
the Desert.

Here, then, Tom Turnbull breeds and rears many a good
nag, taking care never to have above one or two at a time,
so that sufficient attention may be devoted to the yearling,
and, above all, that it may have plenty of keep.

The Arabs, to go eastward once more for our proverbs on
this subject, have a saying, that “the goodness of a horse
goes in at his mouth,” and it is incredible by those who
have not watched the result, what improvement may be
made in the animal by the very simple recipe of old oats and
exercise, plenty of both; indeed, of the latter, in contradistinction
to <i>work</i>, a young horse can hardly have too
much. It is exercise that forms his shape, strengthens his
joints, hardens his limbs, produces action, and clears his
wind. All the time a young one is out, he is acquiring
something—either how to use his legs, or to obey his bit,
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
or to conform his inclinations to those of his master; whilst,
even should he be standing still and unemployed, he is at
least learning to see and hear, accustoming himself to
sights and sounds with which it is of the greatest advantage
both to himself and his rider that he should be familiar. Also,
it is far better for him to be breathing the cold outward air
than the more luxurious atmosphere of his stable; and it is
not too much to say, that a horse of three or four years old
cannot be brought out too often, so long as you take care
that he shall never go home the least bit fatigued.

Tom Turnbull begins handling the foals as soon as they
are born. By the time they are weaned, he has accustomed
them thoroughly to the halter; and although he never
backs them till three years old, they have been bridled and
saddled long before that period, and are so accustomed to
the human form and face, and so confident no evil is
intended them, that you may do almost anything you please
with such willing and good-tempered pupils.

Consequently, there is none of that rearing, and plunging,
and buck-jumping, which usually make the mounting of an
unbroken colt such an affair of discomfort, not to say danger,
to the two parties immediately concerned. By the time
Tom Turnbull has hoisted his fourteen stone of manhood on
to his colt’s back, the pupil is quite satisfied of the <i>bonâ fide</i>
nature of the whole performance, and walks away with him
as quietly as any elderly gentleman’s cob who comes round
to the door regularly every afternoon, for the sober and
digestive exercise which elderly gentlemen are apt to affect.

Tom Turnbull, though he puts a strong bridle in his
mouth, then takes his young friend lightly by the head, and
proceeds to ride him leisurely about, as he overlooks his
farm. There are, of course, many gates to open, and the
horse in learning this very essential accomplishment, receives
at the same time a valuable lesson in the <i>moral</i> virtues of
patience and obedience. If he see anything to alarm him,
a scarecrow, an old man pulling turnips, or a sheep-trough
on its beam ends (the latter, like all inverted objects, being
much dreaded by the animal), he is not whipped, and
spurred, and hurried by it in a matter that agitates his
nerves for the rest of the day, but is coaxed and reassured,
and persuaded gently and by degrees to examine it for himself,
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
and so discover its innocuous nature. The next time
he observes the same bugbear, he probably shies for fun,
but that is a very different thing from shying for fear; and
the same practice repeated will make him pass it the third
or fourth time with no more notice than he would take of
his own currycomb. He is by this time getting accustomed
to his rider’s hand, has learned to put his head down, and
toss the bit about his mouth, and is beginning to feel some
confidence in his own activity, and a certain pleasure in
doing what he is bid.

There are short cuts on Apple-tree Farm, like every other,
which lead from field to field without going round by the
gate. These entail the necessity of crossing certain gaps,
which are periodically made up, and gradually destroyed
again as the year goes round. Here the colt takes his first
lesson in fencing. He is permitted to do the job exactly in
his own way, without interference from his rider, except so
far as a continual pressure of his legs warns the young one
that it must be done somehow. Generally, after poking his
nose all over it, and smelling every twig of the adjoining
hedge, he walks solemnly into the very bottom of the ditch,
and emerges somewhat precipitately on the farther side;
then his rider pats and makes much of him, as if he had
done his work in the most scientific form possible. Thus
encouraged, he tried next time to improve for himself, and
soon jumps it standing, without an effort. Ere he has been
ridden half-a-dozen times he will trot up to any ditch about
the farm, and, breaking into a canter the last stride, bound
over it like a deer, perhaps giving his head a shake and his
hind-quarters a hoist on landing, in sheer exuberance of
spirits at the fun. In this manner he soon learns to do the
fences equally well; Tom Trumbull’s plan being, in his own
words, as follows:—“First, little places at a walk, then at
a trot, then at a canter, and then bustling of them off their
legs to make them <i>quick</i>. After that, fair hunting fences the
same way. To my mind, a hunter ought to jump upright
places, such as walls and timber, at a slow trot; but he
ought to be <i>able</i> to do them if required, at speed, not that I,
for one, would ask him for that, except as a lesson. All fair
fences he should do with a loose rein, at an easy canter.”

But he is no theorist, my friend Mr. Turnbull. It is a
.bn 251.png
.pn +1
treat to see him get away with the Castle-Cropper hounds
on a good scenting day and in a stiff country, say for
instance the Soakington Lordship. Though there is hard
upon fifteen stone on his back, his horse seems to make no
extra exertion, and though the rider keeps very close to the
hounds, and follows no man, not even the Earl himself, he
never appears to be out of a canter. How well he brings
his horse (probably a five-year-old, who has done very little
hunting, but has had plenty of practice, “shepherding,”
and consequently jumping over the farm) up to his leaps!
How he screws him through the thick place under the tree,
and hands him in and out of the blind double, as you would
hand a lady into an outside car! When you come to the
rails in the corner, which he trotted up to so quietly, and
seemed to rise at with such deliberate ease, you are surprised
to find a dip in front of them, a bad take-off, a ditch beyond,
and a general uncompromising appearance about the timber,
that makes you wish that you were halfway across the next
field, and “all were well.”

If you mean to see the run to your own satisfaction, and
belong to that numerous and respectable class of sportsmen
who are unable to ride for themselves, you cannot do better
than follow Tom Turnbull; and should you cross the Sludge,
which in that district you will probably do more than once,
you will acknowledge that it is a treat to see him get
triumphantly over that obstacle where its sluggish waters
are deepest, and its banks most treacherous and rotten.

But it is not for a man with a broken collar-bone and his
arm in a sling, to call up such dreams of enjoyment as a
quick thing across the Vale with the Castle-Cropper hounds;
so I took my chamber-candlestick once more, and wishing
Miss Lushington a courteous “good-night,” which she returned
with a gracious politeness, that would drive sleep for
many an hour from the pillow of a younger and more inflammable
swain, I shook Mr. Turnbull by the hand, and
paused on my way to my dormitory to see him get into the
saddle for his homeward ride.

“It’s a very dark night,” I remarked, as I watched him
stuffing a well-filled note-case, the produce of his sale at
to-day’s market, into his breast-pocket. “I wonder you like
to travel these bye-roads with all that money about you,
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
and such a lot of ‘roughs’ hereabouts, always on the
tramp.”

Turnbull grinned, and taking me by the sound arm,
pointed to the mare’s head—“They’ve tried that on, once
before, sir,” said he; “and within half-a-mile of the Haycock.
Look ye here, sir! that’s the way I done ’em that
time: that’s the way I’ll do ’em again.”

Following the direction of his glance, I saw that he had
run his bridle (a single snaffle) through his throat-lash, so
that no part of it when he mounted would hang below the
mare’s neck.

“There, sir,” said he; “that’s the way to keep ’em at
out-fighting. When they tried it on, last winter, there was
a pair on ’em. One chap he run out o’ the hedge on the
near side, and makes a grab at the reins. He didn’t catch
’em though, but he caught something else, I expect, as he
wasn’t looking for, right across his wrist, fit to break his
arm. He sung out, I can tell you, and bolted right off
without waiting for his mate. T’other had gripped my
right ankle at the same time, to give me a hoist out of the
saddle; but you see, sir, I knowed the trick of it, and just
let my leg double up at the knee quite easy, and came down
upon his head with a back-hander, from a bit of stick I had
in my fist, that felled him like a bullock in the road. So I
took him easy, and by that means we got the other one in
a day or two, and they were both transported. So that’s
the reason, whenever I travel this way, I always run my
reins through my throat-lash. I wish you good-night, sir,
and pleasant dreams, if so be as your arm will let you
sleep!”

With these words Mr. Turnbull trotted off, and I betook
myself leisurely to the privacy of my own room, and the
tedium of a somewhat restless couch.
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-05
CHAPTER V||<s>OLD IKE, THE EARTH-STOPPER</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>In</sc> a day or two, with the constant attendance of my medical
man, himself rather a character in his way, and the considerate
cares of Miss Lushington, I was sufficiently
recovered from the effects of my accident to crawl to the
stable and visit those now useless animals which I had
reviewed with such pride and pleasure on the first Sunday
afternoon that I had taken up my quarters at Soakington.
In my opinion, there are few more unsatisfactory performances
than these inspections of a stud thus thrown out of
work. The horses all look so blooming in their coats, so
high in their condition, and altogether so fit to go, that it
seems a pity that they should be disappointed of <i>their</i>
hunting, and compelled to limit their energies to that
exploit which is called “eating their heads off”—a feat
never performed with such an appetite as during a course
of enforced idleness either from frost or any other cause
that stops the fascinating pursuit for which they have been
bought, and summered, and got into condition. Also, on
these occasions, partly from their actual fulness and vigour
consequent upon losing a turn, partly from that peculiarity
in the human mind which enhances the value of everything
out of reach, we cannot help fancying the nags a good deal
better than they are, and ourselves much more enthusiastic
and skilful than we know ourselves to be, in our cooler
moments, say, for instance, when mounted and at the
covert-side, a fine country before us, every probability of
a run, a north-east wind rather keener than agreeable,
.bn 254.png
.pn +1
bathing our uncovered face like cold water, and a chill misgiving
that last week’s frost is not thoroughly out of the
ground, particularly just under the fences, and that the
thaw which rejoiced us so exceedingly after dinner, has only
succeeded in making the surface greasy, and not in rendering
it soft. Ah! if we could always feel as we do for that
glorious hour from about seven to eight <sc>P.M.</sc>, when we
stretch our napkin-covered legs towards the cheerful fire,
blazing and crackling, and sparkling into rubies, as it
reflects itself in our brimming glass of Bordeaux, what good
fellows we should all be! how generous, how open-hearted,
and how successful in our avocations and pursuits! The
process of digestion, that highly important function, when
properly performed, seems to endow us with all the most
admirable qualities of manhood. We become conscious
that we are possessed of sagacity, courage, humour, and
general benevolence. We could lend a friend a hundred
pounds willingly, <i>if we had it</i>. We could go the best run
that ever was seen, on the very backs of the hounds, if that
was only an actual existing country, which we trace in the
glowing embers, instead of a dream of fairyland, the offspring
of Newcastle coal and Château Lafitte. Then how
we can converse on the inexhaustible topic, of “The Horse
and how to ride him!” We are never tired of laying down
the law “what to jump, creep, and avoid.” We do not
believe we are deceiving ourselves, or our listeners, when
we profess our partiality for high timber, or our proficiency
and personal experience in water-jumping. We combine,
in our heated imaginations, the “science of Meynell,” with
the courage and dexterity of the late Mr. Assheton Smith.
We believe, for the nonce, in many fallacies that our better
judgment has so often proved to be such by the testimony
of sad experience; to wit, that “if a horse can only gallop,
he is sure to jump;” that, “what one hunter can clear,
another can;” that, “if a man’s heart is in the right place,
his horse is sure to carry him well with hounds:” and that,
“large fences are the safest to ride at”—established positions
which nobody thinks it worth while to dispute, laid
down as they are by retired sportsmen, confirmed valetudinarians,
and other non-hunting members of the community,
but which to-morrow morning too clearly demonstrates to
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
be mere after-dinner sentiments, unsafe to act upon, and in
practice but a delusion and a snare.
.pi
If we were to pin our faith on what we hear, and what we
read, concerning the engrossing theme of horsemanship, we
should ere long be led to believe that nothing was so easy
as to keep alongside of a clipping pack of fox-hounds running
hard over a grass country intersected with those formidable
impediments which defend such verdant districts.
Poor Nimrod tells us how to get our horses into condition;
Beckford, Cooke, Delmé Radcliffe, Grantley Berkeley,
Smith (not Assheton), and a host of others, instruct us
patiently and at considerable length, in the scientific details
of our favourite amusements. The author of “Soapy
Sponge” presents to our delighted view the humours and
ridiculous side of the question, conveying, by means of Mr.
Jorrock’s inimitable vein of absurdity, many home-truths
and incontrovertible reflections; whilst last of all comes
Sir Francis Head, with the brilliancy of his reputation, and
the weight of his personal experience, to give the finishing
touches to our education. He tells us in the simplest
language, and as if it were the easiest thing in the world to
do it as well as himself, how we are to saddle our horse and
bridle our horse, how to dress and how to feed, how to go
out in the morning and how to come at night, how to transform
our hack into a hunter, and, when so metamorphosed,
how to ride the astonished animal over the highest gates
and the widest brooks that can be found in the midland
counties of merry England; the whole performance to be
achieved in a jovial off-hand style, as if it were the simplest
and safest thing in the world. Now this is all very well in
theory, but becomes a more complicated question when
reduced to a matter of practice. It seems to me that to
achieve excellence in riding to hounds, something more is
required than a hard heart and a light pair of hands; that
with all the advantages of courage, strength, and activity,
being good horsemen, and with excellent hunters to ride,
many men go out day after day, and season after season,
without ever seeing a run to their own satisfaction; nay,
with a certainty, unless they are piloted by some more
gifted sportsman, of losing the hounds in the first three
fields. A man may be as bold as Alexander, and as well
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
mounted too, never giving less than “three figures” for his
Bucephalus, and yet unless he be possessed of a peculiar
knack of finding his way over a country which it is almost
impossible to explain, he will invariably be left behind in a
quick thing.

This knack is a sort of instinct rather than an acquirement,
an intuitive sagacity, akin to that faculty by which
the Red Indian, in common with other savages, takes the
right direction through the pathless woods, and over the
monotonous prairies of the West. We will suppose a man
to be riding his own line, fairly with a pack of fox-hounds,
in a country he has never seen before, with a good scent,
and a fox’s head set up-wind. He jumps into a field from
which there are but two possible egresses, a quarter of a
mile apart, the one to the right, the other to the left; he
goes unhesitatingly to the former, and the hounds bend
towards him almost as soon as he is clear of the obstacle
which has obliged him to diverge from his line. He could
not, probably, explain why he thus acted; yet he <i>did</i> it,
and he was right. All through a run you will see some
men gaining every turn upon the hounds, just as others lose
them. This happy facility is but a modification of that
which makes the difference between a bad huntsman and a
good one. The latter seems to possess an intuitive knowledge
of the run of a fox, independent of all extraneous
accidents, such as wind, sheep, dogs, people ready to head
him at every turn, and the thousand obstacles that are
always present to destroy the chance of a good run—nay,
even of country, for such men exhibit it in districts with
which they have no acquaintance. I begin to think people
are <i>born</i> sportsmen, just as they are born poets, painters,
and peers of the realm. We see them in every class of
life; and there is many an honest fellow who loses half a
day’s work, and wears out his shoe-leather, to make the
best he can of his fox-hunting on foot, who, in a higher
position, would have achieved a brilliant reputation in the
eyes of the sporting world.

What leads me to this reflection is the glimpse I had of
Miss Lushington, at the window of her sanctuary commanding
the stableyard, pouring out a wineglassful of a
fluid that <i>looked</i> like water, but <i>smelt</i> like gin, and handing
.bn 257.png
.pn +1
the same to one of the most dilapidated individuals it has
ever been my fortune to encounter.

As I entered the back-door of the “Haycock,” he touched
an extremely damaged hunting-cap, and greeted me with
much cordiality. I then recognised a character with whom
I could not fail to have made acquaintance, even during my
short stay in the Soakington country, and whom I never
heard called by any other name than “Old Ike, the Earth-stopper.”
As an example of what I have above alluded to—the
creature in whom the sporting instinct seems fully
developed, the man who must obviously have been intended
by Nature for a sportsman—Old Ike deserves to have his
portrait taken, more especially as the office he fills so well
is the only one in which he could have found his appropriate
place in the world.

He is a tough, spare old man, very lean and very wrinkled,
who looks as if all the juices had been exuded from his
body by severe and unremitting exercise, till nothing has
been left but sinew, gristle, and a pair of keen, dark eyes,
like those of a hawk. It is as if the original Isaac had
been boiled down to what chemists call a <i>residuum</i>, and
“Ike” was the result. He must have been a tall fellow
in his youth, although he is now so bent, and twisted, and
knotted, that he carries his head at a much lower elevation
than was intended by Nature, and his light, wiry form still
denotes the possession of considerable strength. To look
at him, you could swear he was the sort of fellow who was
the best runner, leaper, cricketer, and fisherman of his
parish; who could throw a stone further, and consequently
hit harder, than any of his brother-yokels, and who was
sure to be at the core of all the merry-making, and half the
mischief that angered the squire and made the parson
grieve. There is always one such scapegrace in every
hamlet. As a boy at the village school, he climbs the
tallest elms, takes the earliest birds’ nests, and is constantly
prowling about the belfry, to curry favour with the
ringers, and interfere, with unspeakable interest, when anything
is done to the church clock. As a lad, he turns out
a swift bowler, a dead hand at skittles, and a very useful
fellow at all odd jobs; yet somehow, continually out of
work. By degrees, he becomes an irregular attendant at
.bn 258.png
.pn +1
church, and is always hankering about the stream, partly
to make love to the miller’s daughter, and partly (as the
squire’s keeper—a wary old bird, who began in exactly the
same way himself—has found out) to set night-lines,
trimmers, and such abominations, thereby entering unfailingly
on the downward career of the poacher, to which
“the contemplative man’s recreation” is apt to be the first
step. After that, he gets thoroughly inoculated with the
fatal passion. Then come the “shiny nights,” the
slaughtered pheasants, and the netted hares; the sleep
by day; the pot-house rendezvous; the covered cart driven
to a poulterer’s, who ought to know better, in the neighbouring
market-town; the general laxity of principle, and
utter demoralisation consequent on a life of habitual
crime—perhaps the irresistible temptation of too heavy a
sweep, the conflict with the keepers, fought out fiercely and
unsparingly on both sides, to result in a verdict of manslaughter,
and transportation for life.

Old Ike’s beginning, however, although sufficiently unpromising
as regarded steadiness of habits, or the prospect
of ever doing well in some settled trade or profession, was
not destined to end in so fatal a catastrophe. Moreover,
his was one of those characters so often met with, of which
it is difficult to reconcile the apparent contradictions. With
a tendency amounting to a passion for every pastime that
could possibly come under the category of the term “sport,”
he was yet the gentlest and most amiable of created beings,
where his fellow-man was concerned. Although as a boy
he would risk his neck with the greatest delight to get a
bird’s nest, and when obtained seemed utterly pitiless of
the poor parents’ anxiety for their offspring, the same reckless
lad would sit still for hours to rock the cradle of a
suffering child, or run any number of miles in the wet and
the dark to bring home the medicine for itself or its mother.

Though he could handle a game-fowl with remarkable
coolness in the pit, and, what is a far more brutal and
debasing amusement, look on with excited interest whilst
two faithful and high-couraged dogs tore and worried each
other for a five-shilling stake, he could not bear to see a
fellow-creature in pain, and would soothe any of the village
urchins, with whom he was a prime favourite, under the
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
infliction of a bruised knee and cut finger, as gently and
tenderly as a woman. “Ike” was made up of contradictions,
both within and without, nor was his moral being
less twisted, and toughened, and knotted, than his frame.

Like a good many other persons in a higher sphere,
“Ike” was ruined by the agreeable process of having a
small fortune left him. This legacy acting on a temperament
in which the love of approbation largely predominated,
made him for a time an exceedingly conspicuous
and remarkably popular individual in his own humble circle.
He was not an idle man—far from it; but his habits were
desultory—a much more dangerous characteristic. In fact,
an idle man seldom does himself great positive harm. Like
a vegetable, he may run to seed, or he may be trampled
down; but he will not seek misfortune, and that unwelcome
visitor is often a long time before she finds a tranquil person
out.

Now Isaac must always be doing something; only, unluckily,
it was the profitable work that ever seemed to him
the most laborious. To set-to with a will, and earn a
shilling by six hours’ labour, would have been the most
unwelcome proposal you could have made him; yet he
would readily have paid you the same money, if he had it,
to carry a game-bag for fourteen or fifteen hours, over the
roughest country you could choose. You see the game-bag
was <i>unproductive</i>, and therefore attracted him
irresistibly.

Ike’s fortune was not a large one. It consisted of two
hundred pounds, and this he spent in about fourteen months,
during which period he constantly treated some of the worst
characters in the parish, and lived almost entirely in the
open air, undergoing great hardship, both of work and
weather, in the pursuit of that sport which to him was certainly
synonymous with pleasure.

Just as he arrived at the last five-pound note of his two
hundred, an Irish gentleman who was staying at Castle-Cropper,
and delighted the whole neighbourhood with the
breadth of his brogue, the daring of his horsemanship, and
the vivacity of his manners, took a great fancy to Ike, from
the masterly way in which he saw the latter fishing a pool
below the Mill, and easily persuaded him to accompany him
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
back to Ireland, as a sort of humble sporting companion.
There being no profit and nothing definite to do, the
situation was exactly suited to our friend; and as he could
neither read nor write, it is needless to state that his patron
called him his private secretary forthwith.

Most men have some period in their lives—not always
the happiest while it was actually present—on which they
are continually looking back, and to which they lose no
opportunity of reverting, as a sort of Utopian existence,
rendering everything else tame and desolate by comparison.
Such, it would appear, was Ike’s residence in the county
Galway. Whenever the old man’s heart was warmed and
his nose reddened by his usual potation, “a little gin-and-cloves,”
he would enlarge upon his favourite theme. He
was never tired of detailing the glories of Bally-Blazer, the
improvidence of the housekeeping, the liberality and general
recklessness of “The Master.” The latter, by Ike’s account
(although the narrator, it must be admitted, varied a little
in his statistics), seems to have kept more young horses and
old servants, drank more claret, and betted more freely on
the Curragh, than any other gentleman in the West of
Ireland. Here Ike acquired his principal knowledge of
hunting, and a taste, which rapidly grew into a passion, for
that amusement. Mounted by The Master upon what he
was pleased to call “the pick of the stable,” Ike, by his own
account, distinguished himself for his daring feats of horsemanship
as well as by his scientific knowledge of the chase.

It is difficult to make out whether the aborigines of the
country believed him to be an English relative of The
Master’s, or a foreigner of distinction on a special mission
from his Holiness the Pope. Isaac rather leads us to infer
that the latter supposition was the favourite theory in and
about the demesne. Be this as it may, under the auspices
of his patron he soon became, in every sense of the word,
a leading characteristic with “The Flamers,” that celebrated
hunt, which has so often been immortalised in song
and story. “Mr. Isaacs,” as he vows he was always called,
drank, talked, and rode with the boldest, the loudest, and
the thirstiest of them. He seems to have ridden in and
out of the celebrated Pound at Ballinasloe, on an average,
once every half-hour, during the two days and nights that
.bn 261.png
.pn +1
well-known horse-fair is supposed to last; and it was here
that Ike distinguished himself by the great and crowning
exploit of his life.

It was in the old fighting, roistering days. Captain
Bounceable quarrelled with Major O’Toole, upon the merits
of a “harse,” as each of the belligerents was pleased to term
the noble animal that originated their differences. The lie
which had been <i>told</i> pretty frequently during the dispute,
was at length <i>given</i> with offensive directness; and nothing
but “thunder an’ turf:” pistols and coffee, could be the
result. The time was hard upon midnight; the next morning
was Sunday; the principals, men of the strictest
orthodoxy and the soundest Protestantism. The quarrel
could not possibly keep till Monday morning. Major
O’Toole was impatient for action: Captain Bounceable
thirsted for blood. They must have it out then and there,
in the inn-garden, without waiting for daylight.

Except at the two ends of a handkerchief, however, even
Irishmen cannot conveniently fight a duel in the dark. It
was proposed, therefore, and agreed to with considerable
cordiality, that each combatant should hold a lighted torch
in his left hand, to direct his adversary’s fire; a loaded
pistol in his right, to return it. But here arose an unexpected
difficulty. Major O’Toole had but one arm; and,
although Captain Bounceable had but one eye, the advantage
was obviously on the side of the latter, in a case of
steady pistol practice.

The duel might now have been postponed—perhaps even
prevented altogether—had it not been for the self-devotion
of Mr. Isaacs.

“The gentlemen shall not be disappointed,” said Ike—“<i>I’ll</i>
see fair, and hold the candle for both of ’em.”

“Where will you stand?” asked Major O’Toole.

“Halfway between ye,” replied the daring Englishman,
“and take the chance of both of ye missing me. Give us
a lantern, though,” he added; “for the wind’s rising from
the south-west.”

“Faith, if it’s a bull’s-eye,” quoth Bounceable, “I’ll be
safe to snuff it out; and we’ll be worse in the dark than
ever, for a second shot.”

So Mr. Isaacs placed himself in a cross-fire, at five paces’
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
distance from the muzzle of each pistol; and it is not surprising
that one bullet should have gone through the tail of
his coat, and the other grazed his elbow, so as to incapacitate
him for ever for that hard work to which he had always
shown such a profound disinclination.

After this truly Hibernian satisfaction had been given
and received, the party all sat down again, and drank claret
till church-time.

But these days could not last for ever. One rainy morning,
Ike’s good-humoured patron sent for his old nurse, his
huntsman, his trainer, and the parish priest, bid the three
first an affectionate farewell, and took his own departure
very peaceably under the offices of the last. He left a handsome
amount of debt, accumulated during many years, but
no ready money, except a crooked sixpence on his watch-chain.
Mr. Isaacs, returning to England without a shilling,
became plain “Ike” once more.

He tried life in towns, under many different characters.
As a billiard-marker, a light porter, an assistant-ostler, and
a penny-postman; but the temptation to the copses and
hedgerows was too strong for him, and the receipt of regular
wages so unnatural as to be almost unpleasant. Even the
tinker’s nomadic profession, which he adopted for a time,
was of too settled and business-like a nature; and he gave
it up ere long, in a fit of impatience and disgust.

This wandering trade, however, brought him one winter
into the neighbourhood of Soakington; and a day with the
Castle-Cropper hounds, beginning on the old pony that
drew his cart, and ended on his own active and enduring
feet, revived all his smouldering passion for the chase.

From that time, he took up his residence in one of the
tumble-down cottages near The Haycock, of which he rented
a little apartment like a dog-kennel. Hence he hunted as
regularly as any other sportsman with half-a-dozen horses
and a covert-hack. No distance was too great for him in
the morning; indeed he generally travelled to the meet
with the hounds, stayed out all day, and came home in the
same good company. Whatever might be the pace he contrived
to live with them, even before he became thoroughly
familiar with the country, and would face the large Soakington
fences—ay, and clear them, too—in his stride, as
.bn 263.png
.pn +1
gallantly as a thorough-bred horse sixteen hands high, and
up to fourteen stone.

“Old Ike,” as he began in the lapse of time to be called
throughout the Hunt, must have made a good thing of it
during the winter season, in the many half-crowns and
shillings with which he was presented by his riding friends,
to whom he was often useful, in the way of pulling up
girths, tightening curb-chains, and catching loose horses.
Nay, on one occasion he is reported to have ridden a young
one over the Sludge, on behalf of a cautious sportsman
following his property on foot, but who, not calculating on
the difficulty of clearing some fourteen feet in boots and
breeches, <i>landed</i> (if we may use the expression) up to his
chin in water, and was extricated, at great personal inconvenience,
by the daring pedestrian to whom he had entrusted
his horse. Old red-coats, too, were amongst the
perquisites freely bestowed on Ike. At one time, I have
been informed, he had no less than forty of these cast-off
garments in his wardrobe—the origin of many jests and
much amusement, at the expense of their previous
wearers.

It may be supposed that Ike’s Irish experience had not
failed to sharpen his powers of repartee; and many anecdotes
were current anent the “retorts courteous” with
which, on several occasions, he had turned the laugh against
those who thought either to brow-beat or what is vulgarly
termed “chaff” him.

One frosty morning, at the covert-side, bidding a cordial
“Good-morrow” to a certain patron not distinguished for
sweetness of temper, the gentleman, who seemed to have
forgotten the universal courtesy which alone gives a man a
title to the name, replied by telling him to “go to ——” a
place not mentioned in good company.

“Faith,” says Ike, “it’s warmer there than here, at
any rate; for I’m just come from it.”

Struck by so strange an answer, the mounted sportsman
asked the one on foot “How things were going on in those
lower regions?”

“Much as usual,” replied Ike, with a sly twinkle in his
eye, and a glance at his interrogator, who had lately inherited
a large fortune—“much as usual, and terribly
.bn 264.png
.pn +1
crowded about the doorway. The poor all coming out, and
<i>the rich all going in</i>!”

The wealthy man struck spurs into his horse, and forbore
to ask Ike any farther questions.

But Time, which, as the poet tells us, will “rust the
keenest blade,” did not fail to leave the marks of his progress
upon old Ike. Hard work, hard fare, and the lapse
of years eventually disqualified him for such severe exertion
as that of following fox-hounds on foot; and the Earl of
Castle-Cropper, with that consideration which, under his
calm exterior, has always attested the warmth of his heart,
gave him the appointment of earth-stopper in his establishment—an
office which the old man fills thoroughly <i>con
amore</i>, and for which his exceedingly active habits, his
utter disregard of all conventional hours or customs, and his
extraordinary familiarity with the habits of wild animals,
render him peculiarly fitted.

It is not often he indulges, as I saw him at the bar-window,
in the use of stimulants; but when he does “take
a drop of anything, it is always a glass of gin-and-cloves.”
In this fragrant compound he invariably drinks the same
toast—an old-world sentiment almost forgotten—
.pm verse-start
“Horses stout, and hounds healthy;
Earths well stopped, and foxes plenty!”
.pm verse-end
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-06
CHAPTER VI||<s>MISS MERLIN</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>I always</sc> think convalescence is a more tedious process than
actual illness. A man of active habits, who has lived a
great deal out-of-doors, pines to be at work in the open air
again; and although intellectual pleasures are doubtless
very delightful, there is something in the sense of rapid
motion, and strong physical exertion, which “leavens the
blood” far more effectually than the richest mental food
the Bodleian itself can afford. Before I had been confined
to the inside of The Haycock for a week, or had digested a
tenth of the contents of such new books as I had brought
down with me in anticipation of occasional frosts, I had
begun to loathe the very sight of the dust-coloured curtains
in my bedroom, the staring paper in my sitting apartment,
the smell of coffee that pervades the passages of an inn at
all hours of the day and night—none the less because that
beverage is seldom consumed within its precincts—and the
general features of the prison I had chosen of my own
accord. Nay, I almost caught myself, on more than one
occasion, doubtful of my loyalty to Miss Lushington herself,
censorious as to her appearance, sceptical on her excellence,
and even insensible to her charms.
.pi
In this frame of mind I descended the stairs about ten
days after my accident, with a strong feeling in favour of
any novelty that might accidentally turn up, to divert the
current of my thoughts.

During my late and protracted toilette, no whit accelerated
by the difficulty of shaving in my crippled state (for I
am no Volunteer, beared like the pard, and hold that a
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
smooth chin denotes a respectable man), I had been disturbed
and a little irritated by sundry bumpings and thumpings
on the stairs and passages, which I attributed on
reflection to the awkwardness of a new chambermaid.
Expecting to meet, in my descent, nothing more formidable
than this red-armed personage, I was surprised, not to say
startled, to encounter on the landing one of the smartest
ladies’-maids I have ever seen, who started—as ladies’-maids
always do, at the unprecedented apparition of a
stranger in the principal thoroughfare of an edifice erected
for the accommodation of travellers—screamed faintly,
placed her hand on her side, and turned away in an attitude
of graceful and elaborate confusion.

Such a functionary, with the trimmest of figures, the
most voluminous of crinolines, the neatest of boots, and a
silver-spangled net gathering “the wandering tresses of her
sun-bright hair,” was sufficiently in character with a couple
of wide imperials, an enormous wicker basket covered with
black oilcloth, looking like a trunk of considerable weight
and substance, but which, instead of containing family
jewels, plate, and valuables to a high amount, enclosed
huge volumes of some cloudlike fabric, and when lifted,
proved as light as a feather; two or more cap-boxes, a
writing-case, a dressing-ditto, a leather bag, a square
portfolio, several wraps, rugs, and shawls fastened together
by a strap, and a bundle of parasols, <i>en-tout-cas</i>, and attenuated
umbrellas, from the midst of which peeped an unaccountable
but suggestive apparition in the shape of the
sweetest little apology for a hunting-whip I have ever set
eyes upon.

I am not a curious man—far from it; but it was to be
expected that I should be at least <i>interested</i> in so extraordinary
an arrival at a place like The Haycock: nor was
it entirely unnatural that I should come to a halt on the
landing with such a strategical disposition as brought me
face to face with the well-dressed attendant, and satisfied
me that the countenance over against mine own was an exceedingly
pretty one. Ere I had half scanned it, however,
a voice from an adjacent bedroom calling “Justine!
Justine!” prompted me to identify its owner at once as a
foreigner; but the accent in which Justine replied, “Coming
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
in a minute, ma’am!” was so undoubtedly English,
that my speculations were again completely at a loss;
neither was the maid inclined to hurry herself, till she had
given me an opportunity of perusing an extremely pretty
face, with sparkling black eyes and an expression of determined
coquetry, scarcely modified by dark hair dressed “<i>à
l’Impératrice</i>,” and two little curls, something like those in
a mallard’s tail, plastered down to her cheek-bones in a
mode that I am given to understand is termed the “<i>accroche
cœur</i>,” or “heart-hooker,”—not at all an inappropriate
title.

“Justine! Justine!” repeated the same lady-like and
pleasing voice, this time in accents of command rather than
entreaty; and Justine, after thanking me with great sweetness
for stopping up the way, was compelled to obey the
summons of her invisible lady.

Completely mystified, I descended to the bar, there to
find Miss Lushington for the first time in the worst of
humours, or what that lady herself was pleased to call “<i>uncommonly
put about</i>.” She ordered the waiter to and fro
like a drill-sergeant, rang the ostler’s bell with vindictive
vehemence, and mixed a glass of brandy-and-water for a
customer that must have knocked his head off. Also she
tossed her curls so haughtily, and carried herself so uprightly,
as to denote she was prepared at any moment, if
I may use the expression, to run her guns out and clear
for action.

Without being a deep student in natural history, I have
not failed to observe, that when a cow begins to put her
muzzle to the ground, and throw the earth about with her
feet, she is prepared to toss and gore. Also, that when a
woman cocks her nose in the air, giving at the same time
an occasional sniff through that elevated organ, while a perceptible
rise and fall heaves the snowy cambric that veils
her bosom, it is the forerunner of a breeze. In either case
it is advisable to change the locality as rapidly as is practicable,
and without reference to the ordinary forms of
politeness.

Under these circumstances, I made my way forthwith
into the stableyard, and had scarcely weathered the pump
which commands its entrance, ere I came face to face with
.bn 268.png
.pn +1
a very important-looking personage, whom I could not call
to mind as having ever before seen within the precincts of
The Haycock. There was no mistaking his profession,
which was that of stud-groom. Not one of your working
servants, who strips to his shirt on occasion, and straps
like a helper; but a real swell groom, always in review
order, just as I saw him now, and rejoicing in the only
costume of the present century which has not varied the
least in my recollection. These men have all the same
figure—plump, dapper, and short-legged: clad in the same
attire, to wit—a straight-brimmed hat, rather high in the
crown; a pepper-and-salt cut-away coat, single-breasted,
and of a length in the back only equalled by the shortness
of its skirts; a blue-spotted neckcloth, with a horse-shoe
pin; a waistcoat of the most extensive dimensions; drab
breeches, with gaiters to match; and the old-fashioned
watch-ribbon with a key at the end. Like the Phœnix, the
race is immortal and unchangeable. It possesses its own
language, its own customs, its own traditions. As Napoleon
the First said of the Bourbons, it learns nothing, and
forgets nothing. It is reflective, sagacious, sober, and methodical;
but on the other hand, it is opiniate, obstinate,
wilful, and deaf to the voice of reason. You may leave one
of the order, with perfect confidence, in charge of twenty
horses, and be sure that everything will go on like clockwork,
and that you will not be robbed of a shilling more
than what he considers the due perquisites of his office; but
if you want to arrange about your nags for yourself, to move
them here and there, to enjoy for a day the pleasure of
doing what you like with your own, be sure that you will
reap only vexation and disappointment, confessing at length,
in the bitterness of your heart, that the most accomplished
of servants is but one degree removed from the most tyrannical
of masters.

The man touched his hat to me with respectful politeness.
Vanity whispered: “He acknowledges you at once
for a gentleman, and perhaps you even look <i>a little Crimean</i>
with your arm in that sling.” I replied to his salutation
by a remark on the weather and the sport; and having informed
him I was staying at the hotel, and detailed to him
somewhat circumstantially the particulars of my accident
.bn 269.png
.pn +1
and progress of my recovery, to all of which he listened
with grave courtesy, I asked him, “Whose horses occupied
that range of stabling?” which I now perceived by the
straw around the door-sills, and hermetically sealed appearance
of the windows, were inhabited by some valuable stud.

“They’re <i>ours</i>, sir;” answered the man, as if I must
necessarily know who “<i>we</i>” were. “I shall be happy to
show them to you before they are shut up;” and producing
the ring-key from his pocket, he called a very neat light-weight
pad-groom to his assistance, and ushered me, without
further parley, into the <i>sanctum</i> of his stud.

Four better-looking animals, even as they showed then
and there, with their clothes on, and littered up to their
hocks in straw, it has seldom been my lot to set eyes on.
They were much of the same pattern and calibre: small
heads, large bodies, short flat legs, great power behind the
saddle, and the best shoulders I ever saw. Two of them
had been just run over with the irons, but not sufficiently
to create an eyesore; the others had not a speck or blemish
about them. What struck me most was, that while their
appearance denoted they must be quite thorough-bred, they
had none of the wincing, swishing, lifting ways that usually
distinguish these high-born creatures when you approach
them in the stable. On the contrary, they seemed as tame
and docile as so many pet-lambs.

The first that was stripped, a flea-bitten grey, of extraordinary
beauty and symmetry, may serve as a specimen of
the rest. His head, when turned round in the stall, showed
like that of an Arab, so square was it in the forehead, and
so tapering at the delicate velvet-like muzzle. The small
silken ears, too, might have listened for the bells of the
caravan in the glowing Syrian air, so pointed and symmetrical
was their form, so restlessly they quivered at the slightest
noise; and the mild black eye, with its latent fire, might
have belonged equally to a gazelle in the rose groves of El-Gulbaz,
or an Arab maid at the door of her father’s tent in
the heart of the Buyuk-Sahar.

I have often thought that in the eye of no other animal
is there so <i>reflective</i> an expression, as in that of a horse.
There is a depth of honesty and <i>goodness</i> in that full shining
glance, that vouches for the intrinsic worth of his character—that
.bn 270.png
.pn +1
seems to denote courage, generosity, gratitude,
all the nobler qualities which man would fain arrogate to
himself, and a sensitive disposition, which is hurt, rather
than angered, by an injury. When irritated, nay even maddened,
by ill-usage, how soon he is soothed and appeased
by a little judicious kindness! How he appreciates approbation!
How willing he is to expend his force, his energies,
his very life, for the sake of a kind word, or a well-timed
caress from the hand he is so proud to obey! It seems to
me that his is the brute nature which most resembles that
of the best and bravest of the human race—true, loving, and
courageous; writhing under injury, but giving all, freely
and generously still; springing to the kind word or gesture,
and always ready at the call of the voice he loves; game to
the back-bone, and staunch to the last drop of his blood.
This may seem a far-fetched parallel, and my reader may
smile at me for a hot-brained enthusiast; but I love a good
horse from my heart, and that’s the truth!

Nevertheless, although the grey’s head and neck may
have seemed to argue an Eastern origin, the size and power
of his lengthy frame were as far removed as possible from
the attenuated proportions, the spare lean quarters of the
indigenous Arab. He looked like getting through deep
ground, and <i>shooting</i> well into the next field, whatever might
be the size or nature of the fence that opposed his progress.
I thought, on <i>such</i> a horse as that, there was no obstacle
should stop me in the Soakington country; and I felt a
momentary disgust while I compared his noble beauty with
the more plebeian appearance of Tipple Cider and Apple-Jack.

“He looks a right good one,” said I, “and as fit to go as
a man can get him. What is his name?”

“We call him the ‘King of Diamonds,’” replied the groom,
modestly accepting, and passing over, my compliment to his
own skill, as implied in approval of the horse’s condition.
“Next to him is ‘Prince Charming;’ and the chestnut
mare’s name is ‘Beller Donner;’ and the bay in the far
stall, he’s ‘Lady-Killer;’ that’s all our stud, sir,” he added,
touching his hat. “We don’t keep any hack; they’re no
use to <i>us</i>, hacks ain’t.”

“I suppose the grey’s the best of them,” I observed, reverting
.bn 271.png
.pn +1
to the beautiful animal who was now being covered
up once more.

“Neatest fencer of the lot,” answered the man, “and
they can all go middling straight for that matter; but the
Prince, he pounded of ’em all that heavy day last week in
the Vale; and Beller Donner, she was the only one as got
over the Bumperley Brook, down by Heel Tappington, last
Thursday was a fortnight. Ah! we beat ’em all that day,
we did. If it hadn’t been for a man hoeing turnips, we
have had to take the fox from the hounds ourselves. We
did go owdacious, to be sure! ‘The Beller,’ as I calls her,
had had pretty nigh enough, I can tell you, sir. But when
we <i>do</i> get a start, of a fine scenting morning, I’ll tell you
what it is, sir—we takes no denial, and we stands for no
repairs!”

Amused with the manner in which my new friend seemed
to identify himself with his proprietor, I proceeded to question
him further about the horses, eliciting from him their
various qualifications and merits, to which he was obviously
willing to do ample justice.

“You see, sir,” said he, “we rides ’em all alike; that’s
where it is. We doesn’t go picking a horse for this here
country, and a horse for that there; but we brings ’em out
each in their turn, as regular as clockwork. Wery particular,
we are; and when they are out, go they must, or
we’ll know the reason why. We haven’t had Prince Charming,
now, so long as the others; and the first day we rode
him he seemed unaccountably shifty at large places; uneasy
like, and prevaricating, and wanting to go anywhere
but where we put him. Now some folks would have said,
‘This horse won’t suit at no price,’ and been <i>dashed</i> a little,
as was natural, and so perhaps sent him back again and
lost of him altogether. But that’s not our way, that isn’t.
We just laid him alongside of the hounds as soon as ever
they began to run, sat down upon him, catched a good hold
of his head, and <i>sailed</i> him at his places so as he might
go in or over, which he pleased; but he <i>must</i> do one or the
t’other. The Prince seemed to take it all at once like.
When we gets off him, we just gives a quiet little smile—we
<i>never</i> laughs; and, says we, ‘I know’d he could gallop
and go on, and now I’ve found out he can jump. I think
.bn 272.png
.pn +1
we’ll keep him, John,’ says we,—My name’s John, sir,”
(with a touch of his hat,)—“‘so put him in along with the
others;’ and up we goes to a cup-o’ tea, and a book till bed-time.”

“That’s the way to make a hunter!” I exclaimed enthusiastically;
for I confess I felt my blood stir at John’s description;
“and to ride in that form, no doubt you require
the very best, such as you seem to have got here.”

“We doesn’t grudge price, you see, sir,” answered John
confidentially. “When we hears of what we think likely
to suit, at Tattersall’s or elsewhere, we comes down with
the money at once: two hundred, three hundred—no matter
what, so long as they are <i>real</i> good ones. Now there’s
Lady-Killer, (Here! Tom, take and strip that bay horse,)
we bought him at The Corner, with never a character, for
two hundred and fifty guineas. Know’d nothing at all about
him, except that we’d seen him out, and seen him gallop.
Well, Mason would have had him if we hadn’t. First day
as we rode him, and first fence as we put him at, blessed if
it wasn’t the park pales, up in Deersley Chase. My Lord’s
hounds, they found their fox like winking, and away right
over the park and amongst the fallow-deer, as if they was
tied to him. What a scent there was, to be sure! Never
checked nor hovered, nor seemed to take no notice of the
riot; but away, with their heads up-wind, as straight and
as even as the crop of my whip. Well, there was an awful
scrimmage, to be sure: such a rush among the fast ones!
and we was a-going slap in front of the whole on ’em, with
our hands down, I can tell you. It is a pleasure to see us,
sir. Three-quarters-of-a-mile of grass had just got the
horses into their swing, when the hounds came to the park
pales, and over, like a stream of water across a mill-dam.
No time to think about it. While two or three of the tail
hounds were falling back from the top, the others were
rising the opposite hill, running <i>alarming</i>. It was a regular
case of ‘jump, or else go home.’ Some of the gentlemen
pulls up, and some goes shying away to look for a gate; and
one—a young gent he was, from college—takes and rides at
it; but his horse turns round and kicks. So there was
plenty of room, you see, for anybody who wanted to go and
try. We catches hold of the bay horse, very steady and determined,
.bn 273.png
.pn +1
and we rides him at it, so that he could not have
refused, if it had been ever so. I don’t think, myself, he
knowed anything about timber, for he just took it with his
knees, and turned completely over on the top of us. ‘Killed!
by jingo!’ says my Lord, turning as white as ashes, for he
had waited to see us have a drive at it afore he galloped
away to the gate. ‘Worth a dozen dead ones yet, my
Lord!’ says we, jumping into the saddle again as light as a
feather, and away after the hounds. So from that time we
called the bay horse ‘Lady-Killer,’ although I never knowed
him touch a rail since, and now he’s as safe a timber-jumper
as we’ve got in the stable!”

“Your master must have extraordinary nerve,” said I,
somewhat aghast, I must confess, at this stirring narrative
of escape and daring. “There are few men who would
care to ride for a certain fall over so dangerous a fence, let
hounds run as hard as they will.”

The man stared. “Men!” he repeated, “Master! I
ain’t got no master: it’s my <i>lady</i> as I’m a talkin’ of—Miss
Merlin: her that came two hours ago in a po’ chay. The
prettiest rider in England, let who will be the other.
Master, indeed! I should like to know the man who can
see the way she goes. There’s a many of ’em that’s tried
it; but bless you, she takes no more notice, but just cuts
’em down, and hangs ’em up to dry.”

It was now my turn to be surprised. I confess I had
never contemplated such a possibility as this; and now it
flashed upon me all at once, as these things generally do.
The owner of such high-bred cattle, the reckless equestrian,
to whom wood and water formed but the mere items of a
pleasurable excitement, was doubtless also the mistress of
the fascinating Justine. I could picture to myself the sort
of person likely to combine those dashing possessions. I
imagined a lady of gaudy exterior, such as I remember to
have met formerly out hunting in the vicinity of London,
and masculine, not to say free-and-easy manners, with a
bold eye, a dab of rouge, false plaits skilfully disposed, and
a loud voice, enforcing a corresponding style of language,
garnished with strong expressions. I could conceive that
such a dame would never be content to sit down to dinner
alone at the Haycock, after the excitement of a day’s hunting,
.bn 274.png
.pn +1
particularly as she seemed to render that amusement
as thrilling a one as possible, but that she would naturally
make acquaintance with its sole inmate, bid him join her
quiet little repast, a pint of sherry, and a bottle of champagne
between the two, and what would become of me then?
Perhaps, ere twelve hours had elapsed, we might be drinking
the palest brandy-and-water together, while I smoked
my virgin weed, and she indulged in a coquettish little
cigarette. Of course she smoked. It is the fast thing for
a woman to do in these days, and most of us know what a
pace they <i>can</i> go when they like. I saw it all, in my mind’s
eye—the little shyness at first, the gradual warming from
acquaintance into friendship, and from friendship to intimacy;
my own misgivings, struggles, subjugation, and
eventual discomfiture.

I am not ashamed to confess my weakness. Any woman,
who thinks it worth her while, can put her foot upon my
neck. It is for this reason that I fight shy of the sex, that
I am considered a bear and a bore by the majority of my
female acquaintances, and that my pretty cousins call me
The Woman-hater. There are certain allurements I cannot
resist, certain encroachments I cannot withstand. I see
the net, and walk into it open-eyed. Other men can emerge
scathless from the ordeal of Christmas games and Twelfth-night
festivities; can play at blind-man’s-buff without
finding their mental vision dazzled and darkened by the
game; can hunt the slipper or the ring, round and round
the charmed circle, nor find the charm too potent for their
peace of mind; nay, can even take a base advantage of the
pendent mistletoe, with a forehead of brass, a check of
marble, and a lip of stone. I envy them their insensibility,
their moral courage, and their physical daring; but for my
own part I think it wiser to leave these “little games”
alone. Need I say I am a bachelor? Need I say I came
to the Haycock in order to enjoy my favourite pastime,
unmolested by the presence of the dominant sex? Even
Miss Lushington I had considered an unnecessary addition
to the establishment, a snare to be avoided and an enemy
to be defied: but I had been somewhat reassured by the
mild and motherly interest that lady took in my welfare,
and the impartiality with which she shed her attractions
.bn 275.png
.pn +1
on all alike. But now, if I was to be exposed to the
insidious attacks of this mounted Delilah, beset by Miss
Merlin, not only in the free intercourse of the hunting-field,
but also when “taking mine ease in mine inn,” why I had
better retire in disorder at once, and obviate the possibility
of battle and defeat alike, by a tumultuous flight.

Revolving these weighty matters in my mind, I retraced
my steps into the Haycock, and ordered a glass of sherry
and a biscuit in the bar.

Miss Lushington filled out my liquor to the brim without
a word, slamming down before me at the same time that
biscuit, peculiar to the British hostelry, of which, to judge
by its flavour, the ingredients are soda and sawdust, with a
dash of gravel. I munched in silence for awhile, observing
cautiously the clouds that gathered on the barmaid’s brow.
At last I ventured an observation.

“A fresh arrival, I understand, Miss Lushington. The
Haycock will be getting quite gay now, I presume.”

Miss Lushington’s only reply was a toss of her black
head. “Do you expect any more visitors?” I proceeded,
like a timid bather trying his depth. “This will be somewhat
lonely for a lady all by herself, when she isn’t out
hunting, I should say.”

Miss Lushington’s bright eyes flashed. “Ladies are
very different in their tastes,” said she, laying a withering
stress of sarcasm on this general and incontestable position.
“Some women, Mr. Softly” (I have omitted to mention
that my address is Cyrus Softly, Esq., Hat and Umbrella
Club, London)—“some women seem to me more like men
than women. In course every one to her liking. For my
part, I say nothing; but this I <i>will</i> say: for a lady to come
down to a out-o’-the-way corner like this—no friends, no
followers; nothing but that highty-tighty maid (and if ever
I catch her put her saucy face inside my bar, I’ll give her
a piece of my mind, see if I don’t,) and hunt, hunt, hunt, day
after day, and when it’s a frost or what not, read, read,
read, from morning till night, and never out of a riding-habit,
or else a plain dark gownd with no more trimming than on
the back of my ’and” (Miss Lushington, when excited, had
a habit of catching her breath, and in so doing let go a
certain number of aspirates, and added a few elegant superfluities
.bn 276.png
.pn +1
of language). “Why, I say it isn’t natural, and if
it isn’t natural, there must be something in it, don’t you
think so, Mr. Softly? And to see a maid dressed out like
that flaunting miss, in flounces and fal-lals, with a velvet
net to her ’air, and hear-rings like any lady of the land!
In course it ain’t my place to make remarks, Mr. Softly;
but you can’t prevent my thinking it a pity and a shame,
not if you was to hang me alive for it the very next minute,
there!”

Foreseeing no advantageous result from a continuance of
the discussion with Miss Lushington, and surmising also
that the strong opinion she had formed of the new arrivals
was partly owing to Justine’s attractions, I left the barmaid
in her own department, placing her hand to her side for
“occasional spasms,” and catching her breath loudly at
intervals, as is the habit of the sex when stimulated by any
unusual excitement, and proceeded up the staircase and
along the dark passage that led to my dormitory, pondering
deeply on all that I had heard and seen.

My curiosity—more, my interest, was strongly aroused.
Miss Merlin was evidently no common character. Brave,
reserved, studious, and simple in her attire, she must be a
<i>lusus naturæ</i>, a flower like the aloe, blooming but once in
a century; and here she was at Soakington;—how to obtain
an introduction was the difficulty. Had I been sound again,
nothing, I thought, could be easier: a large fence out
hunting; an appropriate compliment to her horse, and
implied flattering of herself; a gate opened at the right
moment, and then a bow out-of-doors, which could not but
ripen to a familiar greeting within. After that, it would
be all plain-sailing. When I got thus far, I was perfectly
astonished at myself. “Softly,” said I, “is it possible—you,
who have been a shy man and a diffident all your life;
who have never been willing to burn your fingers at the
shrine of Cupid, much less scorch yourself up, body and
bones and all; you, who have had warnings innumerable
among your friends, and beacons untold in your own family—can
<i>you</i> be such an ass? Did not your cousin Harry,
helping a comparative stranger to put on her goloshes at a
picnic, become involved in a series of dilemmas which came
eventually under the notice of Sir Cresswell Cresswell, in
.bn 277.png
.pn +1
reviewing whose decision a weekly paper was good enough
to remark that the co-respondent, meaning Cousin Harry,
had behaved with the blackest villainy throughout? Was
not your brother John, accidentally offering an unknown
damsel his umbrella in the street, compelled by an
Amazonian mother to marry her within six weeks? Has
not the Amazonion taken up her abode with him for life,
and has not Mrs. John Softly borne twins to her lord on
two successive occasions? Are these hideous examples
insufficient, and must you in your own person furnish
another deplorable instance of the inevitable result when—
.pm verse-start
“‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread’?”
.pm verse-end

“Let it alone,” cried Caution. “But may I not at least
take a look at my danger?” whispered Curiosity. “Better
bandage your eyes,” answered Caution. “Perhaps she is
not good-looking after all,” urged Curiosity. “Don’t go
near her for your life!” threatened Cau. “I’ll be d—d if
I don’t!” thundered Q.

This was the end of the argument, and I arrived at it
precisely as I reached a turn of the staircase that led to my
bedroom. Justine was at this instant coming down with a
basket in her arms far too wide for the narrow landing:
the corner was exceedingly dark and inconvenient. In
common humanity I could not but stop to assist her. Not
very self-possessed at the best of times, I am afraid my
efforts were of the clumsiest. Between us, we got the
basket in the angle of the two walls. I was inside of it,
and could not possibly get out: Justine could not very well
leave me imprisoned. She laughed a good deal, and blushed
and pulled as hard as she could. I, too, pushed vigorously,
but it struck me Justine was remarkably pretty, and that
of all places in the world this was the most whimsical for a
conversation with a strange young woman of lively manners
and prepossessing exterior.
.bn 278.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-07
CHAPTER VII||<s>MISS MERLIN</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>At</sc> length, by our joint efforts, the basket was extricated
and placed upon its—what shall I say?—on its right end,
in the landing. The pretty maid smoothed her hair and
adjusted her collar, somewhat creased by her exertions. I
made an effort to recover the usual dignity of my demeanour,
conscious that I was, to a certain extent, in a false
position, yet resolved to make the best of it.
.pi
“Thank you,” said I, somewhat bashfully, as well as
breathlessly.

“Thank <i>you</i>, sir,” said Justine; laughing, I thought,
rather roguishly.

“Dear! how you’ve rumpled your collar,” I observed,
with perfect innocence. Justine glanced reproachfully in
my face, as she smoothed the collar down with a remarkably
pretty hand, and, tilting the offending basket on the bannisters,
paused for a space, as if to “get her wind” before
proceeding any further. In a few minutes the process
would be accomplished, and Justine would take wing and
fly away. I should never have such an opportunity again—at
least not for a considerable period. The basket, in all
probability, contained articles of wearing apparel, either
going to or coming from the wash. Without being a family
man, I was aware such an occurrence did not usually take
place more than once a week. I should have another seven
days to wait before so favourable an opportunity would arise
again. Stimulated by this reflection I accosted Justine
with considerable energy. I am not sure that I did not
take her by the hand.
.bn 279.png
.pn +1

“Can I speak a word with you, mademoiselle?” said I,
in trembling tones. I do not know why I called her Mademoiselle,
except that I was flurried and eager, and inclined
to be supremely polite.

“Not now, sir,” replied Justine, sinking her voice, to my
great alarm, incontinently to a whisper. “Some other time,
Mr. Softly” (she had got my name already): “not now, sir,
<i>pray</i>. I hear somebody coming!”

“It’s only a question or two I want to ask,” I urged, as
soothingly and reassuringly as I could; for, in truth, had
there been fifty “somebodies coming,” there was nothing
to be alarmed at. “Something you can tell me about—about
your mistress.” I bounced it out, thinking it better
we should understand each other at once.

“Oh!” replied Justine, this time in a perfectly audible
voice. “And what may you please to want to know, Mr.
Softly, about <i>my</i> lady?”

“I want to know <i>everything</i> about her,” said I; slipping,
at the same time, a little profile of her Majesty, raised in
gold, into Justine’s hand, which delicate compliment was
acknowledged by the least perceptible squeeze. “When
did she arrive? When is she going away again? Where
did she come from? Where does she live when she is at
home? Is she young or middle-aged? Of course she’s
very beautiful, or she couldn’t afford to take about with her
such a pretty maid as <i>you</i>!”

The latter clause of my sentence I considered, not without
reason, a master-stroke of diplomacy, and I strove to
enhance its effect by again possessing myself of Justine’s
hand; a manœuvre she neutralised by placing both her own
in her apron-pockets, leaving the basket to take care of
itself.

“Why, ain’t you a hunting gentleman?” asked she, in
her turn, somewhat inconsequently, as I thought. “I made
sure you was a hunting gentleman, by your broken bones;
and I thought every hunting gentleman knew my lady.
She’s just come from the Castle—my lady. She’ll stay
here exactly as long as suits her fancy, and not a moment
longer. Bless you, Mr. Softly, we might never stir a foot
from here this side of Easter; and we <i>might</i> be off, bag and
baggage, first thing to-morrow morning. She’s a quiet
.bn 280.png
.pn +1
lady, mine: a quieter lady than Miss Merlin I never wish
to dress and do for; but when she says a thing, she <i>means</i>
it, Mr. Softly, and horses couldn’t draw her the way she
hasn’t a mind to go.”

“And is she so very beautiful?” I inquired, determined
to know the worst of this Amazon at once. Justine looked
up from under her long eyelashes (she was a very pretty
girl—this Justine), and shook her head, and smiled.

“That depends upon taste, Mr. Softly,” replied she,
shooting such a glance at me the while, as I have no doubt
had often done irreparable injury amongst her adorers.

“Some gentlemen doesn’t admire such a pale grave lady
with dark eyes and hair. She’s a slight figure, too, has Miss
Merlin; and, for as tall as she is, her waist is as small as
mine. For goodness’ sake, Mr. Softly, here’s the waiter
coming along the passage!” and without giving me any
more information as to the size of Miss Merlin’s waist, or
further opportunity of measuring her own, Justine darted
up the staircase, and was soon lost in the sacred retreat of
her mistress’s apartment.

I am no busy-body, I humbly trust and believe. It is
not my way ever to inquire into the affairs of other people;
and when any obliging friend wishes to make me the depository
of some secret which is growing too heavy for his
own shoulders, I invariably beg that he will keep it to himself.
There is no such false position, as to be told an
awful mystery under oath of inviolable silence, which you
feel sure has been administered with the same injunctions
to some half-dozen others besides yourself. One of these
lets it out; perhaps all six of them make it their everyday
conversation; and you, the only trustworthy person
of the lot, sustain all the blame of having divulged a circumstance
which you have kept silent as the grave, or even
forgotten altogether. I need not, therefore, say that it is
not my custom to waylay waiting-maids, nor to set every
engine in my power in motion to discover the antecedents
of such ladies as may happen to occupy the same hostelry
with myself. But there was something about this new
arrival that interested and excited me in spite of my better
judgment. It was like being in the same house with a
ghost. A man may not like ghosts, or he may disbelieve
.bn 281.png
.pn +1
in them, or, worse still, he may have an invincible terror of
these apparitions; and although he laughs and jeers at
such matters by a crowded fireside on a Christmas eve, he
may quail and shudder in his cold sheets at the dead of
night, when he lies awake, thinking of all the horrors he
has ever heard and read; fancying, as people <i>will</i> fancy in
the dark, that he hears sighs at the door, footsteps in the
passage, and something moving softly and stealthily about
the room. But whether he be a courageous infidel, or a
superstitious believer in the possibility of apparitions, only
tell him there is a phantom belonging to the establishment,
and the man becomes restless and uncomfortable forthwith.
You will find him poking about the attics and offices by
day and night. When you are snoring healthily in your
first sleep, he will be shivering in his dressing-gown, to
discover the spirit or the impostor; and it is probable that
in his character of detective he will alarm more of the
inhabitants of the mansion in a week than the old
established and considerate ghost itself has done in a
century.

Well, Miss Merlin was rapidly becoming <i>my</i> ghost. I felt
a morbid desire to find out all about her. I could not rest in
ignorance of the appearance, the character, and the antecedents
of a lady who in her own person involved such interesting
contradictions as this mysterious dame—tall, pale,
and slight; with a waist as small as Justine’s, and that was
certainly an extremely taper one; with a will of iron (not
that there was anything unusual in <sc>THAT</sc>), and four such
horses as I never saw together in one stable before. Then
she was a devoted student; for had not Miss Lushington
taxed her with read, read, reading all day long? Probably
she was <i>blue</i>; possibly she might be an authoress, and I
adore intellectual women! I can never see why ignorance is
supposed by some men to be such an attraction in the other
sex. The Tree of Knowledge is not necessarily the Tree of
Evil; and, for my part, I think the more they know the
better. What can be more graceful than a woman’s way of
imparting her information?—the deprecating air with which
she produces it, as it were, under protest, and the charming
humility with which she accepts her victory when she has
beaten you in argument, and swamped you with rhetoric?
.bn 282.png
.pn +1
Oh! if Miss Merlin should turn out <i>literary</i>, it would be all
over with me! In the meantime, how was I to find out
something definite about her, before I committed myself in
a personal interview?

As I revolved this question in my mind, I bethought me
of a club acquaintance of mine—indeed I think I may
almost call him a friend—whose speciality it is to know all
about everybody who floats on the surface of society, not
only in London, where he resides, but also in the different
counties of England, and most of the fashionable watering-places
abroad. Where and how he acquires his information
is to me a matter of the darkest mystery, inasmuch as I
never entered “The Hat and Umbrella” in my life, without
finding him making use of that commodious club; and I
have been informed by other members, that with the exception
of Christmas-Day—a festival which, in his dislike of
congratulations, I am giving to understand he always spends
in bed—he may be seen seven times a week in his accustomed
arm-chair during the afternoon, and at his accustomed
table when the dining-hour arrives. However, he is a man
of universal information, a walking edition of “Who’s
Who?” in any year of the century. And to Quizby
accordingly I resolved to write, begging him at his earliest
convenience to give me all the particulars he could about
Miss Merlin, stating also that we were occupying the same
hotel, but wording by communication with the delicacy
imperatively demanded by such topics. I hope none of my
friends may ever have cause to say, but that “Softly is a
confoundedly <i>guarded</i> fellow about women, you know!”

Pending my friend’s reply, it may easily be believed that
I waited with no small anxiety and impatience, none the
less that the fact of my being under the same roof with Miss
Merlin gave me no more access to her society, no more
information regarding her movements, than if we had been
on different continents. The very first morning after her
arrival she was off to hunt before I was out of bed, and
returned so quietly as to frustrate my insidious intentions of
waylaying her in the passage. Justine too, either taken to
task by her mistress, or on some definite calculations of her
own, avoided my presence altogether, and never gave me an
opportunity of exchanging a syllable with her. Miss Lushington,
.bn 283.png
.pn +1
whom I boldly confronted in her own dominions, was
obviously on her high horse, and ill at ease. There could
be no question but that, notwithstanding her simple and
retiring habits, in accordance with the strict seclusion in
which she lived, Miss Merlin’s arrival had completely altered
the tone and destroyed the cordiality of the whole establishment.

True to his post, my letter must have found Quizby at
the “Hat and Umbrella,” for within eight-and-forty hours of
its dispatch, I received his answer; written of course on
Club paper, and sealed with our handsome Club seal—a
beautiful device formed of the domestic <i>insignia</i> from which
we take our name. I opened it eagerly, and after a few
commonplace lines of inquiry and gossip, I arrived, so to
speak, at the marrow of its contents.

“You could not have applied, my dear Softly,” said my
correspondent, “to any man in London better qualified to
give you the information you require. Not only have I
known Miss Merlin almost from childhood, but it was my
lot in early life, when the heart is fresh and the feelings
susceptible, to be by no means insensible to her charms.
You ask me whether she is good-looking; and this, did I
not know your extreme diffidence and scrupulous delicacy
of feeling, would seem a strange question from one who is
under the same roof with its object. Beauty is a matter of
opinion. I need scarcely say that many years ago I thought
her ‘beautiful exceedingly.’ She was then a tall pale girl,
with the most thorough-bred head and neck you ever saw,
with the grace and elasticity of a nymph, combined with the
dignity of an empress. So haughty a young woman it has
never been my fate to come across. She had full dark eyes,
and very silky dark hair; regular features of the severe
classical type, and the sad mournful expression, that had a
great effect on me at that period. I need not be ashamed
to confess it, whilst I remained an eleven-stone man I was
romantic; but, like many others, increasing weight has
brought with it, I trust, increasing wisdom, and I have not
the slightest doubt myself that adipose matter conduces
vastly to a proper equilibrium of the mind. I thought otherwise
once, and Miss Merlin’s dark eyes would have led me
to follow her to the end of the world—nay, even over those
.bn 284.png
.pn +1
ghastly fences, which then, as now, it seemed to be her
greatest delight to ‘negotiate,’ as I think you hunting men
call it in your extraordinary vernacular. She had a wonderfully
graceful figure too, as a young thing, and the narrowest,
most flexible hands and feet you ever beheld. I have
waltzed with her many a time—<i>moi qui vous parle</i>; and to
think of the delicious swing with which she went down a
room to the strains of Jullien and Kœnig, the musical
wonders of <i>our</i> day, almost makes me feel as if I could
waltz again. When she bridled her taper neck, and put
one little foot forward from beneath her draperies, she looked
like a filly just going to start for the Oaks.

“I have been thus particular in describing her, because
they tell me she is very much aged and altered now; so
that, whenever you do see her, you can judge for yourself
of the difference between the Miss Merlin of to-day, and
the damsel of a good many years ago, who made such an
example of your old friend.

“But I never had a chance with her—never! She was
a singular girl, not the least like most of her own age and
sex. Her mother was dead; and she lived and kept house
for her father, an old clergyman of eccentric habits and
extraordinary learning. Being an only child, she was
accustomed to have her own way from the first; and as her
father never interfered in the household arrangements, and
indeed seldom came out of his study upon any provocation,
she had the whole management of the establishment, and
conducted it with the decision and prudence of a woman of
forty. To this I partly attribute her extraordinary self-reliance
and self-control. She was attached to her father,
and studied with him several hours a day. At the period
when we used to dance together, I think Miss Merlin was
as thorough a Greek scholar as any University don I know.
She was a proficient in several modern languages, and my
own impression is that mathematics and algebra were as
completely at her fingers’-ends, as worsted-work and crochet-knitting
are to the generality of her sex. Studying hard at
the Parsonage, her only relaxation was to hunt. I have
already said she did exactly what she pleased; and her
father, though a clergyman, was a rich man, and though a
rich man a liberal one. Consequently Miss Fanny, as she
.bn 285.png
.pn +1
was called then, was allowed to keep a couple of horses for
her own use, and very good ones she took care they should
be. At eighteen there was not a sportsman with the X.Y.Z.
that cared to follow Fanny Merlin in a quick thing over
the Vale, where the fences were largest, and the Swimley
twisted and twined about, like the silver lace on a green
volunteer uniform, never less than eighteen feet from bank
to bank. I always hated hunting, I honestly acknowledge
it; but oh! the duckings I have had in that accursed
Swimley, following the flutter of her riding-habit, that I
<i>would</i> have followed, if necessary, across the Styx. The
girl never looked back either, which was sufficiently provoking.
No; she rode on, always in the same calm business-like
manner, perfectly quiet, and perfectly straight.
She cured me of following her, though, after a time; for I
found it safer and easier to skirt a little, with the generality
of the other sportsmen, so as to come in somewhere at the
finish, and take my chance of riding with her part of the
way home.

“It was hard that such devotion as mine should not
have met with better success. You, my dear Softly, who
are fond of that uncomfortable diversion which men call
hunting, can scarcely appreciate what I had to undergo;
but when I tell you that in addition to unintermitting
agitation of mind, I suffered from constant abrasion of
body, you will pity, though you cannot sympathise with,
my distress. Apprehension, amounting to actual <i>funk</i>, is a
disagreeable sensation enough; but to be partially flayed
alive, and that on portions of the person called into daily
use by a man of sedentary habits, amounts to a cruel and
unbearable infliction. I wonder whether she ever pitied
me! I am inclined to think she scarcely thought about
me at all.

“At one time, however, our acquaintance seemed likely
to ripen into intimacy; and it happened that at the same
period a detachment from a regiment of Hussars was
quartered in our neighbourhood. The Captain hunted of
course, so did the Lieutenant; and two harder riders never
dirtied their coats with the X.Y.Z., nor washed them, when
dirty, in the Swimley brook. Also they danced, dined,
drank, and flirted, as is the custom of their kind. But the
.bn 286.png
.pn +1
Cornet was an exception to the rule. Strange anomaly! a
Cornet of Hussars, who seldom, when off duty, got upon a
horse; who did not waltz or give conundrums, or squeeze
young ladies’ hands; who retired from mess early, not to
smoke nor play whist, nor get into scrapes, but to practise
on the pianoforte; whose general appearance was sedate
and steady, though, to do him justice, he was a good-looking
fellow enough, in a manly Anglo-Saxon style, and,
in short, whose whole character and habits appeared more
those of a travelling tutor than a dissipated young officer of
Dragoons.

“And yet Miss Merlin fell in love with Cornet Brown.
Where they met, has always been to me a mystery; and
when they did meet, I cannot conceive what they found to
talk about, for they had not two ideas in common. He did
not even read; for, with all his quiet habits, the Cornet
was as ignorant upon most topics of general information,
as if he had been the fastest and idlest of his kind. His
sole passion was music, and Miss Merlin did not know a
note. Nevertheless, she fell in love with him—over head—such
a fall as she never had in her life before, even in
the Vale. She gave up hunting; she parted with her
horses; she altered her whole habits and disposition and
appearance, as a woman will, to identify herself the more
with the man she loves. A good many of us in that part
of the country had entered for the race; but we saw it was
all up now—Brown in a canter, and the rest nowhere.

“The Cornet, too, seemed fond of her, in his own
undemonstrative way. When not practising the pianoforte
in his barrack-room, he was generally to be found at the
Rectory; and as he never interfered with old Merlin, who
indeed hardly knew him by sight, he would have suited
him as well for a son-in-law as anybody else. The thing
seemed to go on swimmingly, his brother-officers laughed
at him, and we all thought the Cornet and Fanny Merlin
were engaged.

“But this deserving young officer had an elder brother,
whose views in some peculiar points it did by no means
suit that his junior should commit matrimony, and the
elder Brown appeared ere long upon the scene of action.
He came down to stay at the barracks, where he made
.bn 287.png
.pn +1
himself so agreeable to the Hussars, that they seriously
proposed to him that he should make interest at the Horse
Guards for the transfer of his brother’s commission to himself.
He didn’t know a note of music—the elder Brown;
but he talked, and he drank, and he smoked, and he rode,
and, in short, was as jolly a fellow as ever kept a mess-table
in a roar. Also, he made a slight acquaintance with
Miss Merlin—not, I am bound to state, with any ulterior
views; for he had a wife and promising little family of his
own. He was a man of energy, you see—this gentleman—and
when he meant a thing, why he went and did it
without delay.

“There are secrets, I am told, in all families—a fact
that makes me additionally grateful that I have got none:
I mean, neither family nor secrets. What arguments were
used by the elder Brown in his conferences with the
younger, whether he urged him by threats or plied him with
entreaties, we shall never know. It is sufficient to state
that he gained his point, as such men usually do, and prevailed
upon the less energetic Cornet to give up Miss
Merlin. Men vary much in the force of character, and I
hope I know what is the wisest and the most discreet
course to take in most affairs of life; but when I was his
age, before I would have given up such a girl as Fanny
Merlin, in consideration of any amount of threatening,
reasoning, or expediency, I would have seen fifty elder
brothers consigned to that place where they would have
had an opportunity of comparing notes with Dives on their
terrestrial prosperity.

“The Cornet, however, gave way, and wrote a most affecting
letter to his ladye-love, in which he assured her of his
eternal attachment and regard, vowing that ‘imperious
necessity would alone have induced him to forego her affection,
and that although, at his brother’s injunctions, he
must leave that part of the country, and they would probably
not meet again, yet he could never forget her, and
should always look back on their acquaintance as the
happiest period of his life. In conclusion, he implored her
to send him some keepsake, however trifling, that he might
take with him into his banishment—anything that was <i>her</i>
gift would be prized and valued till death,’ etc. etc.
.bn 288.png
.pn +1

“Miss Merlin was not a young lady to make parade of
a sorrow, however engrossing. She said nothing, and the
most curious observer could not have discovered from her
impassive face that she had sustained so cruel a wound, for
she loved the Cornet very dearly, as the sequel proved; but
she complied with her weak-minded swain’s request, and
sent him by return of post the most appropriate present
she could think of—namely, ‘a pair of leading-strings and
a child’s go-cart’! Brown the elder positively roared with
delight when he heard of this quiet and bitter sarcasm.
But the Cornet took it very much to heart; I do not think
he had seen his own conduct in its true light before.

“Soon after this, old Merlin died, and there was a lawsuit
instituted by his next of kin to deprive his daughter of her
inheritance. The general report in the country went that
Fanny Merlin was ruined, and would have to go for a governess.
The Cornet was not a bad fellow after all. In
defiance of his brother, he came back forthwith from the
North of England, and endeavoured to renew his proposals.
Of course, with such a girl as Miss Merlin, this was a forlorn
hope, and equally of course the young officer became
more attached to her than ever, and would have broken the
leading-strings and dashed the go-cart all to pieces this
time; but he never once set eyes on her whilst he remained
in the neighbourhood, and retired at last in a perfect fever
of fury and disappointment. Whether this <i>contre-temps</i>,
or the accumulating pressure of many unpaid bills, chiefly
for grand pianofortes, and other musical instruments, was
the cause, I know not; but the following year Cornet
Brown exchanged into a regiment serving in India, and the
same paper which furnished the gazette of his appointment,
also announced the judicial decision that restored Miss
Merlin to affluence and prosperity.

“She gave up her hunting, though, for a time, and practised
music incessantly. I have heard that in a wonderfully
short period she attained a proficiency in that science,
which is not usually acquired under a lifetime.

“Meanwhile the Cornet, alternating his military duties
in India with a great many <i>tiffins</i> and a vast quantity of
brandy <i>pawnee</i>, was invalided home in a very dangerous
state of illness. The sea-voyage failed in his case to produce
.bn 289.png
.pn +1
its usual good effect, and he arrived at Marseilles a
dying man. How she heard of it, I have not the slightest
idea; but Miss Merlin never was like other girls; she
possessed an energy and force of will extremely rare in her
sex, fortunately for ours. She started off, at a moment’s
notice, without taking even a maid, and crossed France in
the utmost haste, to reach her old lover, and bring him
home. She had forgiven him his weakness and vacillation,
had forgotten all about the leading-strings and the go-cart,
now that she heard he was dying.

“I am not a sentimental man, as you know, and have
little sympathy to spare for those afflictions of the heart,
which, in my opinion, sink into insignificance when compared
with a derangement of the stomach; but it has always
struck me that Miss Merlin’s was a melancholy story.
When she arrived at Marseilles the Cornet had been buried
eight-and-forty hours. She stood by his grave on the hill
above the town, with the blue southern sky overhead, and
the blue Mediterranean at her feet. I think, strong and
self-reliant as she was, she had as much sorrow then for her
portion as she could bear.

“She remained abroad a twelvemonth, I know, for I
made it my business at the time to ascertain; but what
she did with herself, during that period, I have never been
able to find out. Some said she had gone on into Syria,
others that she was in Egypt. Archer thought he saw a
person very like her eating sandwiches at Jerusalem.
Aimwell is almost sure he recognised her in male attire at
the First Cataract; there was a very general report prevalent
that she had gone into a convent for a year on trial;
but didn’t like it, which I can easily imagine, and so came
away again. Be this as it may, she turned up again after
a time in the X. Y. Z. country, hunting more furiously
than before, riding harder, speaking less, and looking
graver than she had ever done; but as the Rectory was
now inhabited by a fresh incumbent, and she had no settled
place of residence, she did not remain very long in the
neighbourhood of her youthful home.

“Since then, and it is a long time ago, she has travelled
about the country, far more independently than most
bachelors. In the summer she retires to some obscure
.bn 290.png
.pn +1
town, either in the Highlands of Scotland, or on the sea-side,
where she takes a quiet lodging, and devotes the time
to study. In the winter she moves her horses about, to
hunt with different packs of hounds, giving the Soakington
country the preference, partly on account of the strong
friendship which has sprung up between herself and the
Earl. In fact, a room is always kept ready for her at
Castle-Cropper, and she has arranged the library for the
proprietor, and re-hung all the pictures in more favourable
lights. So independent is she, however, in her habits, that
she often prefers to remain at the Haycock, where, <i>if you
are not afraid</i>, you may, perhaps, have an opportunity of
becoming acquainted with her. I have now told you all I
can about your mysterious visitor, and consign you, not
without a shudder, to your fate. If she only retains half
the attractions she had at eighteen, you’re a gone ’coon,
Softly; and mind this—it’s a game like the pitch-and-toss
we used to play at school, ‘Heads she <i>wins</i>, tails <i>you</i>
lose!’ I have warned you. Adieu! <i>Liberavi animam
meam.</i>

“P.S.—A pianoforte is no use. She has never played
a note since the Cornet died.”

I appeal to any impartial man, whether such a communication
as the above was not adding fuel to fire. I read and
re-read it with an interest that increased on each fresh
perusal. I resolved that, come what might, it should not
be my fault if another sun went down without my obtaining
at least <i>a sight</i> of the fair subject of Quizby’s memoir. I
called up, in my mind’s eye, my correspondent himself.
His jolly fat face, with the little eye, that twinkled pleasantly
over a ready joke as over a slice from the haunch or a
bubbling bumper of Bordeaux. I reflected on his imperturbable
character, his consistent philosophy, cynical, perhaps,
in language, but jovial, and thoroughly epicurean in
practice; and the more I thought, the more I wondered,
the more I longed to witness with my own eyes the peerless
attractions that could have knocked my steady friend, so to
speak, off his equilibrium. To-morrow morning then, I
resolved, I would see Miss Merlin, or die in the attempt.

Eagerly I scanned the hunting-card for the week. To-morrow
the hounds were to meet at the kennels. Castle
.bn 291.png
.pn +1
Cropper was but ten miles from Soakington. She could
not possibly start before nine. I desired my servant to
call me at eight, and retired to rest, in that frame of mind
which prompts a man to shave over-night, that he may be
in time, and makes him wake every half-hour lest he should
over-sleep himself after all at the last.
.bn 292.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-08
CHAPTER VIII||<s>YOUNG PLUMTREE</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>I suppose</sc> no man sleeps the sounder for a broken collar-bone,
even when it is getting well. Determined to be up
in time, even if I lay awake for the purpose, I spent what
invalids call a <i>bad</i> night. I heard more than one of the
small hours strike from a certain loud-ticking clock in the
kitchen, that, strangely enough, was never audible in the
day. At last, however, I fell into a deep sleep, from which
I woke with a start, to hear my servant arranging my
dressing-things and pouring cold water into my tub. The
morning was as dark as only a hunting morning can be, and
a drizzling rain, glazing the chimney-pots and tiles, of
which I had a commanding view from my bedroom window,
by no means enhanced the temptation of leaving a warm
bed. I jumped out, nevertheless, with an effort, shaved,
washed, and dressed with considerable energy and rapidity,
writhing into my coat in my crippled state, by a series
of gymnastics similar to those with which a “navvie”
struggles into his fustian jacket. The clock struck nine as
I completed my preparations. I had already heard the
wheels of a carriage grinding round from the stableyard to
the front-door of the inn, whilst a certain bustle in the
passages, with much opening and banging of doors, denoted
an arrival or a departure. There was no time to lose, if I
would waylay Miss Merlin as she went downstairs. I
brushed up my whiskers for the last time, and emerged
from my bedroom. As I put my foot in the passage, a rush
of cold air from below, apprised me that the hall-door must
.bn 293.png
.pn +1
be standing wide-open, and I ran down in a tumult of hurry
and agitation, lest I should be too late after all.
.pi
As I reached the lobby, there was a fly standing at the
inn-door. An incoherent waiter, with a dirty napkin under
his arm, and flourishing a Japan tea-tray wildly in his
hands, was gazing vacantly at space; Miss Lushington’s
head peered darkly out from amidst her lemon-nets; an
ostler, with one eye, held the carriage-door; and into that
carriage, with her back to me, was entering the graceful
figure of a lady in a riding-habit; a taper little foot, in the
neatest of boots and—what shall I call them?—leg-sleeves?
receding from the top-step, being the only feature, if I may
be allowed the expression, distinguishable amongst that
dark mass of folds and draperies.

There was a fatality about it! The thing was obviously
in the hands of Destiny. The door shut-to with a bang.
A pretty little gloved hand drew up the window, and the fly
drove off with Miss Merlin inside, on the road to Castle
Cropper.

Some men are the favourites of Fortune! others, the butts
and targets of Fate. I endeavour at all times to bear
my reverses with a sulky equanimity. I retired accordingly,
to derive what consolation I could from an elaborate and
protracted breakfast by a good fire, and then proceeded into
the bar to smoke.

In these ingenious days one cannot but be struck with
the many devices that exist for the discovery of character.
One man finds you out by your handwriting; another by
the tone of your voice; a third judges exclusively from the
shape of your hat; and I have met an extremely far-seeing
foreigner who professed to learn, not your fortune, as the
gipsies do, but your tastes and disposition, from the lines on
the palm of your hand. I think I should myself be inclined
to judge of a man’s style by the sort of carriage he drives.
This tendency—superstition—call it what you will, prompts
me to take rather a careful survey of such vehicles as I come
across, and therefore it was that, observing a strange
dog-cart in the inn-yard as I traversed its stones, with an
unlighted cigar in my mouth, I paused to examine more
minutely the unfamiliar equipage.

So slang a turn-out it has not been my fortune to meet
.bn 294.png
.pn +1
with, before or since. Imagine a very high box, narrowing
considerably towards the top, on which, judging by the
cushions and hand-rail, it is fair to conclude the driver is
supposed to sit, perched on a pair of extremely tall wheels,
painted red, and picked out with a staring yellow. Imagine
the shafts of this contrivance, perfectly straight, and of great
strength and substance, nearly on a level with the withers
of the unfortunate animal that has to draw it. Imagine
the old machine, wickered, and lacquered, and glazed, and
polished to the most dazzling pitch of brilliancy, attached
to the person of a well-bred, crop-eared, vicious-looking bay
mare, herself wearing as little harness as is compatible with
the fact of her being fastened to anything at all, and that
little of the colour and appearance of untanned leather.
Add to these, a tall whip with a yellow crop, long enough
to drive four-in-hand, a pair of enormous lamps, and a white
bull-terrier coiled on the foot-rug, licking his lips, with a
bloodthirsty expression of countenance, and winking
hideously with his ominous and ill-looking eyes.

The proprietor of such “a trap,” as he would probably
call it, could not fail to be a study in himself. Loud accents
from within smote on my ear as I approached the bar.
The shrill tones of Miss Lushington’s voice predominated,
and I gathered from this that she had recovered her good-humour,
which for the last few days had been most indubitably
on the wane. Entering the <i>sanctum</i>, I stood for a few
seconds behind the wooden screen—which I have already
mentioned, and which admits of a new-comer, himself unseen,
reconnoitring the occupants of the place—to survey
the visitor whose arrival seemed so acceptable to the presiding
goddess. I had ample time to take a good look at him;
for, whilst he discussed a glass of sherry and a bitter (a
glass of sherry and a bitter—and it was not yet eleven
o’clock!), both talker and listener were so engrossed with
the former’s jokes and conversation that I had entered completely
unobserved. He was a stout young man of some
five-and-twenty summers, with a whiskerless face, and a
ruddy complexion, not yet destroyed, though obviously
impaired, by his habits of life. His cheek, still healthy in
colour, was mottled here and there, as if the vessels near the
surface were kept habitually too full, and he already began
.bn 295.png
.pn +1
to show that slight puffiness under the eyes, as if he had
put his neckcloth on too tight, which is the certain symptom
of a digestion impaired by the too liberal use of stimulants.
Not that <i>his</i> neckcloth was too tight—far from it.
Save a scarlet knot halfway down his throat, secured by a
horse-shoe pin, there was nothing to be seen of the customary
wisp of ribbon which has now replaced that obsolete
article of apparel, so concealed was it by the fall of a turned-down
shirt collar, extremely well starched and of a singularly
varied and gaudy pattern, not unlike the papering of
a room. His hat, which he had not thought it necessary
to lay aside, was of the “pork-pie” order, immortalised by
Leech—a head-dress extremely trying to a countenance
already divested by Nature of any particular expression, and
which, like many other graceful eccentricities, looks as ill
upon a man as it is becoming to a woman. Coat and
waistcoat, I need hardly observe, were of a checked pattern,
to which, for richness of hue and diversity of colours, the
rainbow of heaven is a mere pale and feeble transparency.
Beneath the latter, knickerbockers of course! formed
apparently from some woollen fabric, designed by the inventor
for a horse-cloth, and combining great strength of
wear-and-tear, with an unassuming and neutral tint. Scarlet
hose, imparting fulness to the calf, and general <i>contour</i> to
the leg (in this instance much required, the limbs themselves
being of too massive an order for elegance), sprang
from the voluminous superfluities above, and a pair of
exceedingly stout half-boots, much strapped and pieced,
and, as it were, tattooed like the <i>mocassins</i> of a Red
Indian, completed this choice and becoming costume.
When I add that a double curb-chain of gold, sustaining a
dozen trinkets, ornamented the wearer’s stomach, and a
short pipe, blackened by unintermitting smoking, graced
his mouth, I have done all I can to convey a representation
of the gentleman whom I now found making himself agreeable
to Miss Lushington in the bar, and whom I had no
hesitation in setting down in my own mind as the proprietor
of the dog-cart in the yard.

He was sitting, when I entered, not <i>at</i>, but <i>on</i> the table,
by the side of his sherry and bitters. Volumes of smoke,
<i>latakia</i>, and something stronger, I could swear by the fragrance
.bn 296.png
.pn +1
(and here I may remark, in parenthesis, that if the
London tobacconists kept up the exorbitant price of cigars,
as they have lately done, nobody will smoke anything <i>but</i> a
short pipe very soon), curled upward from his mouth, and I
was just too late for some irresistible witticism which had
convulsed Miss Lushington with laughter. Indeed, that
lady’s fair hand was applied to her lips, as if to conceal or
repress her hilarity, when I entered. An Oriental woman’s
idea of modesty is to cover her mouth; and, indeed, to keep
that organ shut, as much as possible, is no bad custom for
the sex to adopt. But why ladies of Miss Lushington’s
social standing should habitually express intense amusement
by the same gesture, I cannot take upon me to explain.
When the teeth are black and the hands white there may
be reason for it; but Miss Lushington could not fairly be
accused of either of these specialities.

“Softly! How goes it?” exclaimed the new-comer, removing
his pipe from his mouth, and rolling off the table,
and on to his legs, with a coachmanlike action extremely
difficult to acquire. “Give us your flipper, old boy! Ah!
I forgot you’d had your wing broken. Never mind; might
have been worse. Won’t your liquor up? Now, Miss L.,
look alive! those sparklers of yours were made for use as
well as ornament. What’s our friend’s variety? An
invalid ought to be taken care of, you know. Draught
three times a day, and the mixture <i>as</i> before.”

Greeting my voluble acquaintance, whom I now recognised
as young Mr. Plumtree, of The Ashes, but of whom
my previous knowledge did by no means warrant such a
familiarity as he was kind enough to display, with a more
stately and reserved demeanour than usual I lit my cigar,
and proceeded, in self-defence, to envelop my person in its
fumes.

Without being a stickler for the more ceremonious forms
of politeness, or an advocate for the stilted dignity of the
old school, I do not quite relish the tendency of certain
individuals to be so “gallows familiar,” as a poor good-for-nothing
friend of mine used to call it; nor do I see that a
man has a right to call me “Softly,” with no handle
prefixed, the third time he has ever met me in his life,
“Gaudent prænomine molles auriculæ,” quoth Horace;
.bn 297.png
.pn +1
and he understood human nature, if anybody did. Besides,
I knew enough of the gentleman now occupying the bar, to
have no great wish to cultivate his further intimacy.

I had avoided him hitherto as much as possible. It
seemed to be part of the bad luck of the day that I
should be thrown into his society now. To have failed by
thirty seconds in seeing Miss Merlin in the morning, and
find myself the boon companion of young Plumtree at noon,
was surely a combination of untoward circumstances which
that individual himself would have called “hard lines.”

As I smoked my cigar, rather sulkily, and watched my
aversion making the agreeable to Miss Lushington—a process
at which, to do him justice, he appeared singularly
skilful,—I recalled in my mind all I knew of his antecedents,
and could not help congratulating myself, the while, that
he was no son of mine.

Young James Plumtree, then—or “Jovial Jem,” as he
was called by his familiars—was the only son of John
Plumtree, of The Ashes, a most respectable, and, I believe,
unimpeachable country gentleman, living in the vicinity of
Soakington. I have always understood that the father was
a man of grave and particularly gentlemanlike demeanour,
and, although an excellent sportsman, extremely averse to
anything approaching slang. It was, therefore, perfectly
natural that his son should turn out one of the “loudest”
and most uproarious rattles of his day.

The boy had an excellent education, too—at eight, a
private tutor, who could never keep him out of the stable,
and into the pockets of whose sad-coloured garments his
pupil was continually putting white-mice and such abnormal
vermin—nay, on one occasion, this long-suffering Mentor
discovered a ferret in the tail of his coat, and an eel in the
crown of his hat; at twelve, transferred to Eton, where he
was placed as low as he possibly could be, and, notwithstanding
repeated floggings, and constant wiggings from
“my tutor,” persevered in the study of natural history with
an ardour that could by no means be brought to harmonise
with the rules of that elegant college. Corporal punishment
is—or at least, in young Plumtree’s day, used to be—inflicted
for the following misdemeanours, of which he
was habitually found guilty, viz.: Entertaining fighting-dogs,
.bn 298.png
.pn +1
at an outlay of a shilling per week, and making use
of the same in their combative capacity; associating, both
in and out of bounds, with cads and such low persons, with
aggressive views on personal property in the form of hares,
pheasants, etc., at Stoke, Burnham, Thames Ditton, and
elsewhere; keeping singing-birds in a bureau that ought to
have been devoted to school-books, and white-mice in the
lower drawers of the same, along with clean linen; also,
and this partiality for ferrets was one of the boy’s most
remarkable characteristics, taking a female of that species
into three-o’clock school, and producing her, so to speak,
in open court; finally, never, under any circumstances,
knowing one word of his lesson.

When Plumtree left college, the head master, who, like
many other head masters, had rather a weakness for a pickle
in his heart, took him kindly by the hand, and recommended
him, with perfect single-mindedness, to devote his energies
to the habits of beasts and birds, and the study of comparative
anatomy, “the only mental labour, Plumtree,”
added the don, with extreme kindness, “for which you
seem either qualified or inclined.”

A lad of such tastes was pretty sure to be sent to one of
the universities: and after an interval of a delicious twelvewmonth
at home, during which period of relaxation the young
’squire not only destroyed every rat in every barn within a
day’s ride of The Ashes, but also made acquaintance with
every tap of beer, and struck up a friendship with every
blackguard, within the same distance, this promising acolyte
was entered at Brazen-Nose, and went up to keep his terms
at Alma Mater, and acquire whatever knowledge was most
adapted to his intellectual hunger, at that repository of
learning.

Here, it is needless to observe, he rowed a great deal,
smoked a great deal, drank an enormous quantity of beer,
and read not the least in the world. He acquired, however,
considerable proficiency in the difficult art of driving a
tandem, and could conceal boots and breeches under loose
pantaloons, when attending chapel on a hunting morning,
more dexterously than any undergraduate of his year.

He kept the drag, too, for one season, but found his mode
of life too dissipated to admit of the nerve requisite for that
.bn 299.png
.pn +1
amusement. These dare-devil young gentlemen, you see,
go out for the express purpose of breaking each other’s
necks. They ride, of course, directly <i>at</i> the leading hound;
but that quadruped, generally an old stager, and stimulated
by a red-herring steeped in aniseed, gives them plenty to
do before they can catch him. It is a point of honour, I
am given to understand, to turn away from nothing; and
the man who can <i>get through</i> his horse quickest, is esteemed
to have won the laurels of the day. It is scarcely possible
to imagine an education more calculated to make a <i>horseman</i>,
and spoil a <i>sportsman</i>, than the Oxford drag.

When Plumtree renounced the mastership of this dashing
establishment, he devoted himself exclusively to driving,
and became, if possible, more <i>beery</i> than before. For
lectures he cherished an unaccountable aversion, nor was
it likely that the wit and learning of the schools would
prove very tempting to a man whose heart was habitually
in the cellars.

Well, of course, it came to a finish at last; and Jovial
Jem was rusticated; “Rusticated, by the Hookey!” to
use his own remarkable words, “and recommended not to
come up again. Well out of it, too, in my opinion: and
as to another round, why if I do, I <i>do</i>; <i>but</i> if I do, I’m—!”

Old Plumtree was grievously disappointed, of course.
By the way, I know very few cases in which sons do not
disappoint their fathers. I suppose it would be difficult to
persuade the latter that the former are not exclusively in
fault. Old Squaretoes lays down a course of conduct for
his child, totally irrespective of the feelings, inclination,
and disposition of the latter. Then, if young Squaretoes
don’t fit the groove, and slide easily down the metal, he
is undutiful, disobedient, ungrateful, everything that the
Prodigal Son was, before he came to eating husks amongst
the swine. If young S. turn out “slow,” ten to one but
old S., in suicidal folly, wishes he “had a spice more devil
in him.” If he be fast, the governor shakes in his shoes,
foreseeing debts, bills, acceptances, renewals, and eventual
penury. If he make a figure in the world on his own wings,
taking warning by Icarus, and scorning to use the paternal
pinions, his father is often jealous of his success. If, on
the contrary, he remain in secure and humble obscurity,
.bn 300.png
.pn +1
then the cry is, “Why, the lad has no spirit in him!
Look at what I should have done at his age, <i>and with his
advantages</i>!” Good masters make good servants. Unselfish
and considerate fathers, more than people are aware
of, make attached and dutiful sons.

So Jovial Jem came home, and took up his abode at The
Ashes, completely upsetting the regularity of that establishment,
where, in his absence, everything went on like clockwork.
For his own sake, Mr. Plumtree senior gave his
son a couple of rooms, shut off from the rest of the mansion
by double doors of baize, through which the fumes of
latakia could not possibly penetrate, and ordered the
domestics to serve their young master with breakfast and
dinner at his own hours, when required, in his own apartments.
By this arrangement, the heir was wonderfully
little in his father’s way; and unless the pair happened to
meet on a summer’s morning, when the old one was going
to his hay-field, fresh and rosy, and the young one returning
from a junketing, pale and exhausted, father and son often
did not see each other for weeks. Consequently, they got
on admirably. Young Plumtree swore “The Governor
was a dear old bird; crotchety of course, but a regular
brick nevertheless;” and old Plumtree, who always took a
solemn pinch of snuff before he delivered himself of a
remark, was fond of stating, very slowly and distinctly, that
“Young men won’t settle at once. Can’t expect it, sir—can’t
expect it! But the lad’s got something in him.
If we could only get <i>at</i> it, sir! if we could only get
<i>at</i> it!”

“I heard of your downer, old ’un,” this agreeable young
gentleman observed with great cordiality, transferring his
attention from Miss Lushington to myself. “Wasn’t out
myself that day; couldn’t raise a prad, or I’d have seen
you picked up, and dissected, and all that. First day I
can get away from home, says I, I’ll just tool over and visit
the mutilated sportsman. Thought you’d be dull, you
know, with nobody but Miss Lushington, though she’s
pleasant company too when she’s got her stockings on
right-side-in.”

“Come, that’s a good one,” observed the lady alluded
to thus familiarly, with a meaning glance. “As if you
.bn 301.png
.pn +1
didn’t know of our late arrival! Oh, you’re a deep one,
Mr. Plumtree, you are!”

The young gentleman blushed, a real honest shame-faced
blush, such as I did not believe could have been raised,
after six years of Eton and two of Oxford, to save a man’s
life. “Get out!” said he, chivalrously ignoring the cause
of his confusion. “None of your chaff, Miss L. Ain’t I
always ready to help a lame dog over a stile? Wouldn’t I
drive a hundred miles in a butcher’s cart without springs,
to succour a mutilated friend? Ain’t I pitiful, and tender,
and soft-hearted? Come, you know I am.”

“Indeed I know nothing of the kind,” replied the lady,
bridling and tossing her head. It was Miss Lushington’s
plan, you see, always to give her admirer what she called a
“set-down” the moment they passed an imaginary line of
her own demarcation; so she proceeded, speaking very distinctly,
and with her lips set tight—

“If you’ve driven all this way only to talk nonsense to
me, Mr. Plumtree, you’ve wasted your time sadly. But
you’ll never make me believe <i>that</i>. <i>I</i> know what I know;
and others might know it too, if so be as you was to take
and rile me more than I think pleasant. And you’re too late,
after all,” added Miss L. viciously. “She was in the fly
an hour before you drove into the yard: why, bless you!
she’s at the top of the hunt by this time, and no more chance
of coming up with her than if she was the wind.”

Without pausing to consider what peculiar position in the
chase Miss Lushington intended to convey by her expression
of the “top of the hunt,” I shot a glance at Young Plumtree,
who seemed, I thought, to quail considerably under the
volubility he had provoked. Indeed, strange to say, he
appeared completely “shut up,” and at a loss for a reply.
A horrible suspicion darted across me, lighting up, as such
fancies do, the previous darkness with a dazzling and
momentary brilliance. Could this unwelcome and unhappy
young man be under the influence of a hopeless attachment
for Miss Merlin,—one of those unaccountable infatuations
of which we read in novels, but which, fortunately for the
general comfort of society, we so seldom meet with in real
life?

And yet, why not? To be sure, judging from Quizby’s
.bn 302.png
.pn +1
letter and his frank acknowledgment of an attachment to
her in his youth, the lady must have arrived by this time at
middle age, and Plumtree was a mere boy (for, after all, a
man of five-and-twenty is little more than a boy), actually
shaving for whiskers, top-dressing with balm of Columbia,
and raising an abundant crop of pimples as the result. A
woman too, after she arrives at a certain point of maturity,
say five-and-thirty, remains for an incredible period at that
attractive stage of her charms. She has lost indeed the
bright freshness of youth; but if she has been really handsome,
she has gained in exchange a certain depth of colouring
and intensity of expression, which are equally efficient
weapons of offence.

Then, while the passing years blunt her darts scarcely
perceptibly, every day adds to her experience and dexterity
in their use. A <i>coquette</i> of twenty years’ standing is like
an old <i>maître d’armes</i> of the Empire, cool, wary, dauntless,
and skilful; <i>rusé</i> in the art of destruction, and taught by a
hundred combats to take every advantage, and never to
throw a chance away. I have often thought, notwithstanding
the dancing exploit, a man would have been safer with
Herodias’s daughter than with Herodias herself.

Then a young man, if he once suffers himself to be
captivated by a woman considerably his senior, becomes
rather childish, not to say imbecile, in the process. He
goes into leading-strings forthwith, and there is no folly or
extravagance of which he is incapable. Shall I ever forget
what a fool young Larkspur made of himself about old Lady
Foxglove, who might have been his mother, and looked as
if she <i>had</i> been his wet-nurse? Nor can I cease to regret
the fate of my poor friend Capon, who left college to run
away with Mrs. Mallard the actress, at a period when that
lady had become too aged and infirm for genteel comedy
parts at any of the theatres royal, and of whom I last heard
at a French watering-place, living in cheap lodgings at the
head of a grown-up family not his own, nor indeed, unless
scandal be more scandalous than usual, the issue of the
talented Mr. Mallard deceased.

I looked at young Plumtree with a kind of loathing pity.
I thought of what his deplorable state would be, when all
the pleasures of his present existence should have palled
.bn 303.png
.pn +1
upon him in the pursuit of the unattainable; when ’baccy
should have lost its soothing properties, and there should
be no more charm in beer; when dogs might “delight
to bark and bite,” and Plumtree, <i>quantum mutatus</i>, would
care not which half-stifled champion was dragged gurgling
and snarling “across the line;” when the three-pound
terrier, eating its own weight a dozen times over in rats,
would no longer excite his garrulous plaudits as he hung
half muzzy over the pit; and to shoot pigeons for a fat pig,
or see a man trundling a wheelbarrow backwards, and picking
up stones with his mouth, would be equally tasteless
and insipid; nay, when counting out the game-cock himself,
prone on the square-cut turf, but of mettle invincible, from
the top of the clean-cut comb to the points of his steel spurs,
would be considered simply a dull but cruel pastime, and
like Othello’s in his fancied degradation, Plumtree’s “occupation
would be gone.”

All unconscious of my forebodings, their confiding object
pulled a square and heavily-sealed note from what I believe
Mr. Poole terms the “opossum pocket” of his shooting-jacket,
and handed it to me with the mock dignity of an
ambassador presenting his credentials, winking demurely on
Miss Lushington the while.

“Can you read?” inquired the facetious envoy. “If so,
there’s a bit of blotting from the old folks at home. I told
the governor that as you weren’t fit to do much ‘scraping,’
I’d best bring it over, and take back the answer by word of
mouth. But you’ll come, won’t you? It’s a crafty crib
enough, The Ashes, and you’ll get your health there as well
as here for a day or so. I can’t say much for the biting,
but there’s some lining with a green seal to it, that will set
your collar-bone for you, make your hair curl tight up to the
roots, and bring you down to-morrow morning, as fresh as a
bull-calf, and as hearty as a buck.”

There was no resisting such inducements as these, and
indeed the letter of Mr. Plumtree senior, though extremely
pompous and ceremonious, was hospitable, considerate, and
kind. Though almost a stranger, he hoped that I would
excuse our short acquaintance, and dine with him at The
Ashes, adding, that as I ought not to expose myself to cold
from the night-air, he trusted that I would take a bed.
.bn 304.png
.pn +1

Although such a creature of habit that I would far rather
have remained in solitary state at the Haycock, I felt it
would have been more than churlish to refuse so hospitable
an invitation, the only drawback to which was the necessity
I foresaw of driving over in “the trap” with young Plumtree.
I would have given a good deal to be permitted to
order a post-chaise and pair, and go over comfortably, with
all the windows up; but it is of no use to struggle with
destiny; I saw what was before me, and resolved to confront
my fate like a man.
.bn 305.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-09
CHAPTER IX||<s>IN THE TRAP</s>
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>You’ll</sc> go with <i>me</i>, Softly, of course!” observed young
Plumtree, otherwise “Jovial Jem,” just as I expected.
“There’s a Waterborough ’bus runs right by our lodge-gate:
your servant can come over with your traps. Get a
greatcoat on, there’s a good fellow, and we’ll start immediately,
if not before. A short drain of brandy neat, Miss
Lushington, if <i>you</i> please. Look alive, you adorable angel,
ministering spirit, I may say. Time’s short, you know,
roads woolly, and whipcord scarce.”
.pi
“But are you sure you can take me?” I interposed,
with expostulatory eagerness. “Yours is a smallish
carriage, if that was it I saw just now in the yard” (how
devoutedly I wished it was not!). “I fear I shall inconvenience
you; and, by the by, where is your servant to
sit?” I added, grasping vaguely at the last chance of a
reprieve.

“Servant?” said the Jovial, drinking off his brandy at
a gulp, “didn’t bring one; don’t want a ‘shoot’ when I’m
driving Crafty Kate. There’s only one gate to open if we
go the short way, and it opens <i>from</i> us; so I catch it, you
know, on the shaft, and there’s no trouble in getting out.
Once the apron’s buttoned, never move till the end of the
stage, that’s my principle. Wet t’other eye? Thank you,
Miss Lushington. Here’s your health! Now, young man,
tell the ostler to get the trap round to the front-door; when
I drive a gemman, I likes to take him up <i>like</i> a gemman.”

“But if the harness wants altering, or anything?” I
urged feebly. “In my crippled state, you know, I can’t get
.bn 306.png
.pn +1
out. Don’t you think, now?—though, of course, I should
like the drive very much—don’t you really think it would
be better if I were to find my own way over, and you might
take a man from here to open the gates and that, who could
come back in my return chaise?”

“Not a bit of it!” replied the Jovial. “What’s the
use of that? I know the mare, and the mare knows me.
<i>You</i> won’t have to get out, never fear. Come, though
you’ve got a queer wing, there’s nothing amiss with your
pipes. Look here, there’s a yard of tin in that basket.
You’ll play all the way, and I’ll drive. Take her in a hole
shorter, Ben. Here’s a game! hooray!”

By this time “the Jovial’s” high conveyance—well
might he called it a trap—was at the door; Crafty Kate
wincing, and lifting and swishing her tail, as if nothing
would give her greater pleasure than to knock the whole
thing, red wheels, lamps, paint, varnish, and lacquering,
all to pieces forthwith. I could not get out of it now, do
what I would. Recalling in my own mind every frightful
accident I ever remembered to have read, or heard of,
that had occurred on wheels, and no whit reassured by an
appalling fact I had always considered established, viz.
that more long coachmen had been killed out of gigs, than
had died any other death, I went upstairs to give my
servant directions as to the clothes he should pack up, to
wrap myself in a warm greatcoat, and to put another cigar
in my mouth, that haply might conceal the involuntary
trepidation of my nerves.

How comfortable my sitting-room looked as I left it! It
was a cold raw day, and the fire burnt up so cheerily; the
easy-chair spread its arms invitingly to receive me in its
familiar embrace; there was the newspaper carefully unfolded
and spread out on the table, with the last <i>Quarterly</i>
uncut, by its side. An amusing novel, of which I had got
halfway into the second volume, seemed to entreat me not
to leave it unfinished, and two or three letters requiring
early answers were lying with their seals opened in mute
appeal. All this comfort I was about to exchange for a muddy
drive, a drizzling rain, the conversation of a man I did not
care about, and worse still, the probable vagaries of Crafty
Kate. I confess I have no great confidence in a thorough-bred
.bn 307.png
.pn +1
mare, that swishes her tail a good deal in harness. I
thought Miss Lushington, even, looked somewhat pitifully
on me, as one about to venture in a dangerous undertaking
unawares. Nevertheless I mounted the trap, not without
difficulty, was carefully buttoned in by the one-eyed ostler,
and felt myself launched forth on stormy seas, with Jovial
Jem for a pilot.

On leaving the door it became painfully apparent that
Crafty Kate was in a condition of excitement, not to say
insubordination, which boded untoward results. Passing
between the lines of dilapidated houses that constitute the
little village of Soakington, she piaffed and curvetted, and
tucked her head in, and hoisted her great angular quarters, in
a manner calculated to excite the admiration of all beholders—limited
in the present instance to a lame duck, and two
boys playing truant from school; but when we emerged on
the smooth expanse of the Waterborough road, stimulated
by the love of approbation, or urged by a morbid anxiety to
get home, the mare took the bit in her teeth, and very
nearly made a bolt of it. I confess I clung to the rail that
ran round the seat, thankful even for that frail support, and
notwithstanding the slight hold it afforded me, narrowly
escaped being dashed out, as we turned with fearful rapidity,
and entirely on one wheel, like a skater doing the outside
edge, up a lane diverging at right angles from the thoroughfare
along which we had been bowling at such a pace.

It was evident, however, by Crafty Kate’s demeanour, that
this was not the way home. She stopped dead short, stuck
her forelegs out, and began nodding her head in that
ominous manner, which denotes a determination to fight to
the last. “Sit tight, Softly!” exclaimed the Jovial, with
a fiendish laugh, as though this had been part of a programme
devised for my special entertainment. “Sit tight!
whilst I give my lady a taste of the silk!” and without
further parley he pulled the whip from its bucket, and
commenced a course of punishment on the mare’s sides,
which produced no further result than that of causing her
to back faster and faster towards the ditch; the tall red
wheels hovered on its very brink, when a bright idea flashed
across the charioteer’s mind. “Give us a blast of the tin,
Softly,” said he, continuing, nevertheless, a vigorous application
.bn 308.png
.pn +1
of the whipcord, “and let us see if <i>your</i> blasting is
not more musical than <i>mine</i>!”

I am no performer, I candidly admit, on a trumpet of
any description; but a desperate crisis demands a desperate
remedy, and seizing the long coach-horn I performed such
a <i>solo</i> upon it as has probably never been heard before, or
since. “The Jovial” left off flagellating, and laughed till
he cried. The mare laid her ears down into her poll,
tucked her tail close to her quarters, and went off at score.
Completely blown by my exertions, we had gone nearly a
mile ere I returned the horn to its case, and found breath
to speak.

“But is this the shortest way to The Ashes?” said I,
striving by the aid of a “Vesuvian” to relight my cigar,
which had gone out in the panic. “I thought we kept
straight along the high-road to the turnpike, and then took
the first turning to the——”

“O, bother The Ashes;” returned my mercurial companion.
“We shall get there quite soon enough. Besides,
the governor never shows till feeding-time; busy about the
farm you know, mud-larking as I call it. No! no! if you
want to see some fun, I’ll show you a game. We’ll just
trot down to Joe Lambswool’s, at the World’s End, about
two miles further on, and if you <i>do</i> care for sport, I can
promise you a real treat. He’s going to pull down the old
barn to-day; hasn’t been touched, I dare say, for two hundred
years. Talk of rats! why, it’s swarming with them,
as big as pole-cats pretty nigh, and twice as savage. He’s
got a <i>dawg</i> as I want to see tried, quite a little ’un, what
you would call a toy-<i>dawg</i>, you know; but they tell me he’ll
tackle to anything alive, and knows how to kill a cat. If I
like him I’ll buy him; and we’ll give old Brimstone a treat
into the bargain,” added my amiable entertainer, looking
back at the bull-terrier, who was toiling behind us, bespattered
with mud, his tail lowered, his tongue out, and a villanous
expression of sullenness and ferocity stamped on his
round massive head.

“I should like it excessively,” I replied, with an inward
shudder, belying, most uncomfortably, my unqualified expressions
of delight, and the Jovial, turning on me a look
of astonished approval, made a queer noise through his
.bn 309.png
.pn +1
teeth, that started Crafty Kate incontinently into a
canter.

“Well! I’m in for it now!” was my mental soliloquy,
as we went whirling past the dripping trees and hedges
with increasing rapidity. “How could I ever be induced to
blunder into such a trap as this? A wet day; a dangerous
drive; a pot-house gathering, and an afternoon spent
in a tumble-down barn, full of draughts I make no doubt,
and by no means water-tight; watching for rats, animals of
which I have the greatest horror, and circumventing the
same by means of ferrets—creatures if possible more disgusting
to me than their prey—all because I hadn’t nerve
to say ‘No.’ And not a chance now of seeing Miss Merlin
when she comes home from hunting! Softly! this is a
day’s penance. You must get through it as you best can!”

A rescue, however, when I least expected it, was proposed
for me by a kind fortune, to snatch me from the <i>ratting</i>
part of my discomforts. The lane down which we were
bowling, though of considerable length, was not that proverbial
one in which there is no turning. On reaching an
angle by a sign-post, the Jovial pulled up, with great animation
displayed on his broad white face.

“I can hear ’em running in Tangler’s Copse, as plain as
can be,” said he, putting up his hand in the air, and cocking
his head on one side to listen. Tangler’s Copse, be it
observed, was a straggling woodland in the Castle-Cropper
country, from which it was always difficult, and generally
impossible, to force a fox into the open. “Listen, Softly!”
he continued, with increasing excitement; “I’m blessed if
that isn’t the horn! See, Kate hears it too.”

I am not gifted with extraordinary fineness of ear, particularly
when well wrapped up on a rainy day; so I turned
down the collar of my greatcoat, and took off my shawl-handkerchief
to listen. There was no doubt we were in the
vicinity of hounds; I could hear them distinctly, running
as it seemed with a good scent, and cheered by occasional
blasts on the horn.

The drizzling rain struck cold on my bare cheek. Kate’s
head was up, her ears erect, her nostrils dilated, and she
trembled in every limb.

“Bother the rats for to-day!” exclaimed my mercurial
.bn 310.png
.pn +1
charioteer. “What say you, Softly? Let’s go hunting
instead. The mare can jump like fun, and the trap can go
anywhere. Open the gate, there’s a good chap! In the
next field but one there’s a bridle-road takes us right away
to Tangler’s Copse.”

I descended from the tall conveyance to do his bidding,
dirtying my gloves, wetting my feet, and daubing my coat
with mud in the process; but there is a condition of the
human mind, at which it ceases to be a free agent, and I
had arrived at that negative state, when we quitted the
turnpike-road. Once more climbing with difficulty to my
seat, I found myself bumping over the ridge-and-furrow of
a large grass-field, and, straining my eyes to find an egress,
became aware that it was the Jovial’s intention to drive
through a sort of gap in the fence, where the ditch had
been partially filled up. It was now time to protest, which
I did loudly and energetically; but my objections were too
late. “Sit tight, Softly! <i>Gently</i>, Kate!” exclaimed Plumtree
in a breath; and with a bump, a jerk, and a most
astounding bang against the splash-board, we were safe over,
and careering along the next field.

I was glad to see a gate led out of this enclosure. I
would have climbed up and down those red wheels, fifty
times, rather than repeat the process we had just now
accomplished.

Crafty Kate, shamelessly belying the first half of her
name, seemed to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the
thing, swinging along at a very respectable pace, with her
ears cocked, her head and tail both up, and an obvious
determination to join the chase with as little delay as possible.
The vehicle sprang and jerked, and swung from side
to side; the wheels bespattered us from head to foot with
mud: the splash-board alone prevented us from shooting
out, over the mare’s back. No one who has ever tried it
will wish to repeat the uncomfortable diversion of galloping
in a gig.

Fortunately the rain began to cease, the clouds cleared
away, and a burst of winter sunshine enabled us to see as
far as the flatness of the country would allow.

The Jovial pulled up short, not without considerable
difficulty. “They’re away, by all that’s lucky,” exclaimed
.bn 311.png
.pn +1
he, shifting his reins into his whip-hand, that he might
give me a congratulatory slap on the back, which knocked
all the breath out of my body. “Never knew a fox to
leave Tangler’s Copse before, and bearing right down upon
us too, or I’m a Scotchman! There’s the fox, by jingo!
Hold your tongue, Softly!”

The injunction was quite unnecessary, for I am not one
of the halloaing tribe. Moreover, my handkerchief was
pulled up to my nose, and I did not myself see the cause of
my companion’s excitement. He was right, however; presently
two or three couple of hounds straggled into the field
adjoining that in which we were stationed, ran to and fro
along the hedge-side, put their noses down, threw their
tongues, and followed by the whole pack, streamed across
the pasture on the line of their prey.

It was great fun, and a new sensation, to watch the progress
of the field, as one sat an unoccupied spectator,
perched in a thing like a tea-tray on a pair of tall red
wheels. I can quite understand the pleasure an old gentleman
has, who rides quietly out on his cob, to see them
“find and go away.”

A couple of simultaneous <i>crashes</i> in the fence announced
the arrival in the same field with the hounds of the Earl
himself, and a hard-riding gentleman with moustaches, a
visitor at the castle. Fifty yards or so to their right again,
and somewhat nearer the pack, a beautiful grey horse, having
been quietly trotted up the hard pathway that led to it,
landed in artistic form over a hog-backed stile with a foot-board,
ridden by an elegant figure in a lady’s habit, of whom
it was impossible at that distance to recognise the face.
Happening, however, to glance at my companion’s countenance
(who caught his breath by the way, during this performance),
and observing it to become a deep crimson, my
surmises that the daring Amazon was none other than
Miss Merlin were to a certain extent corroborated.

Then came a bay, and a brown, and a chestnut, the latter
falling at his fence, but inflicting no damage on his rider,
who never let go the bridle, but was up and at it again
without delay. These were followed by another bay, who
refused to jump, and a dark-coated gentleman on a roan,
whose heart failed him at the last stride, and who faded
.bn 312.png
.pn +1
ignominiously away from that moment. The huntsman
and first whip must have come a different line altogether,
for we saw their velvet caps bobbing up and down in the
distance, but could not otherwise have identified them.

The Jovial, however, was now waxing visibly impatient.
“Dash it!” said he, “we may as well see the finish. I’m
game, Softly, if you are. Come along, Kate!” And without
waiting for the consent, which as a partner in the firm
I think I was entitled to withhold, he laid the rein on the
mare’s back, and we were once more jolting and bumping
across the fields in search of some dubious and unfrequented
bridle-road.

My friend was a good pilot. I must do him the justice
to admit that quality. He seemed to know every gate and
lane in the country, also to possess an intuitive knowledge
of the run of a fox, with a staunch predilection for keeping
down wind. I did not despair of coming up with the chase
once more, and truth to tell I was not without hopes that
to-day my curiosity might be satisfied with a view of Miss
Merlin.

“The Jovial,” on the other hand, had become preoccupied
and restless. No longer dispensing his quaint
sallies and florid parables in my ear, he gave his whole attention
to Crafty Kate, an arrangement to which I should
have been the last person on earth to object; and although
he drove that game and resolute animal with merciless
rapidity, it was in a style considerably less random than
before. Perhaps the influence of the brandy had died out;
perhaps he felt the depression that always succeeds the
excitement of seeing hounds, when it has evaporated. Perhaps
he was thinking of his dinner, perhaps of the rat-catching
he had missed, perhaps of Miss Merlin. We drove
on for at least two miles without speaking.

In justice to my friend’s humanity, I am bound to observe
that we had long ago taken pity on Brimstone, and hoisted
him into the cart, where he lay coiled up under my legs,
sniffing them ominously from time to time, as if only
deterred by considerations of the merest politeness from
taking a bite out of them at the most sensitive place. I
dreaded lest a jolt severer than common should be construed
by this amiable animal into a personal insult to himself.
.bn 313.png
.pn +1

To any one who has ever tried the delusive pastime of
following hounds at a distance, with any expectation of coming
up with them, I may leave the task of imagining our repeated
disappointments and the labour, like that of Sisyphus, undergone
by Crafty Kate. The persevering sportsman will have
no difficulty in understanding how we drove from field-road
to cross-road, and from cross-road to highway; how the little
indistinct figures and black hats, dotting and bobbing behind
the hedges, were now on our right, now on our left, anon
almost within hail, and then hopelessly and provokingly
ahead; how we saw the hounds themselves entering Cropley
Pastures, and, thinking to nick in upon them at Whitethorns,
found they had taken an unexpected turn to Swillingford
mill; in short, how surely, as must always be the
case in a good run, the further we went, the farther we were
left behind, till our hopes, being suddenly raised by a
butcher in a tax-cart, who had met them not half-a-mile
from where we then were, and thought they must have “got
him in a drain,” to be as suddenly dashed into ruins again
by a farmer’s lad at the spot indicated, who vowed they had
been gone twenty minutes, and “were running like fire,”
we gave it up in despair, and turned Crafty Kate’s head,
soberly and sadly, on her homeward way. A mouthful of
gruel at a road-side public-house for the mare, and a small
measure of hot ale, with a glass of gin, a spoonful of brown
sugar, and a dash of spice in it, called by the different titles
of “lambs’ wool,” “dog’s nose,” and “purl,” but of superlative
merit after a three hours’ drive in the wet, restored
us all, except Brimstone, to something of our earlier energy.
I was glad, I confess, to have got through the drive without
an accident, and looked forward to a warm house and a comfortable
dressing-room, where my servant, I hoped, had
already arrived with my things, more cheerfully than I
should have conceived possible in the morning, when I
anticipated my enforced visit to The Ashes with considerable
distaste. The Jovial, too, having apparently drowned his
unpleasant reflections, whatever they might be, in the hot
mixture, came out once more in his normal character,
accepting one of my cigars with facetious condescension, and
sticking it in the extreme corner of his mouth, from which
he never once removed it till he had smoked it down to the
very stump.
.bn 314.png
.pn +1

“Mare’s about told out, Softly,” said he, as we drove
somewhat soberly through the very gate he had spoken of in
the morning, opening it by the dangerous process of running
the shaft against its bars, and fending it off from the wheel
with his left hand. “Hard day for the Crafty: those field-roads
are so blessed deep. Never mind; another half-mile
will see us. I don’t think you know my sisters: remarkable
young women, and accomplished, ’specially Jane. I am
prepared now to back Jane against any other girl in England,
weight for age of course, to do five things—work cross stitch,
whistle jigs, do the outside edge backwards, speak German,
and make a sparrow pudding. My money is ready at The
Ashes, Waterborough, this identical house of call we’re
coming to, that it’s too dark for you to see. Catch hold,
while I jump out and ring the bell.”

The flood of warm light that shone out upon us from the
hall was indeed a pleasant contrast to the dark cold afternoon,
which had already changed again for the worse. As
I divested myself of my wraps, with the assistance of a
staid elderly servant, young Plumtree welcomed me quite
courteously to his father’s house, diverging, however, immediately
afterwards, into the kind of jesting slang which was
most familiar to him.

“You’re wet,” he observed, laying his hand on my coat,
through which the rain had indeed penetrated. “Perhaps
you’d like to go and dress at once. Indeed, we dine in less
than an hour. Shall I show you your room? Will you
have anything before dinner?—glass of sherry?—biscuit?—crust
of bread and a pickle? No? then step this way, if
you please. Here’s your room; things laid out—hot water
laid on. There’s the bell; <i>you</i> ring for what you <i>want</i>, and
the servants will bring you what they <i>have</i>!”

Behold me, then, like a man in a dream, dressing comfortably
for dinner, in a strange house, of which I did not
know the proprietor, nor, indeed, one of the inmates, except
the <i>harum-scarum</i> young gentleman who had introduced me.
In justice to myself, I made an elaborate toilet—white tie,
black suit, thin boots—everything rigorously correct. There
is no costume, in my opinion, which so marks the distinction
of classes, as the plain dinner-dress of an English
gentleman; and, indeed, I once heard that very invidious
.bn 315.png
.pn +1
title defined as “a man who had got evening clothes.”
Passing down to the drawing-room—an apartment I had no
difficulty in finding, for the door was open, and a lamp shone
brilliantly from it into the hall—I had leisure to observe the
articles of furniture in the passages, and to remark on the
idiosyncrasy which prompts all country gentlemen alike to
ornament the insides of their houses with stuffed animals in
glass cases. The Ashes was rich in specimens of this description.
All kinds of birds flourished their beaks at the
visitors on the stairs. A gigantic pike, like a miniature
shark, grinned at him over the chimney-piece, and a hideous
otter snarled at him from under the umbrella-stand in the
hall. A portrait, which I concluded to be that of Mr.
Plumtree senior, also adorned this crowded vestibule. I
studied it by the light of my chamber-candlestick, not entirely,
I fear, without spilling some wax on the floor during
the process, in pardonable curiosity as to the exterior of the
gentleman with whom I was about to dine. The picture was
in all probability more valuable from its resemblance to the
original, than from any intrinsic merit of its own as a work
of art. It represented a florid personage, in the prime of
life, attired in a bright-blue coat, and yellow waistcoat, on
both which articles of apparel the artist had bestowed a
liberal amount of colour, sitting by a pillar of porphyry,
under a crimson curtain, “with a distant view of the changing
sea.” His face, devoid of any outward expression,
denoted that rapt state of thought peculiar, I am informed,
to the highest order of intellects, and he seemed equally
unmoved by the magnificence of the scenery, the gorgeousness
of the curtain which overhung him, or the splendour of
a heavy watch-chain and seals that rested massively against
his nankeen stomach. On a table at his elbow stood a large
book and a snuff-box, whilst his hand rested carelessly on
the head of a black retriever dog. “If old Plumtree is like
that,” was my mental observation, “he must present as
great a contrast to the Jovial as was ever afforded in the
inconvenient relationship of father and son.” I did not speak
aloud, fortunately; for this conclusion brought me into the
drawing-room, which, having dressed early, I expected I
should have had to myself: it was not so, however. On
entering that apartment—a pretty, well-furnished, long, low
.bn 316.png
.pn +1
room, with some excellent prints and a grand pianoforte—I
was somewhat discomfited to find it already occupied by two
young ladies, dressed, as far as my confusion permitted me
to observe, precisely alike, sitting in precisely the same
attitude, and engaged over similar pieces of crochet-work.
I bowed very awkwardly, and walked up to the fire, with the
startling intelligence that it was “a cold evening,” a proposition
neither of the ladies seemed in a position to confute.
This masterly manœuvre, however, gave me an opportunity
of studying both their faces, and I am bound to admit that
the one predominating idea present to my mind, during a
perusal of their features, was, “How shall I ever know one
from the other, when their brother comes down, and formally
introduces us?” Each of them was a rather tall, rather large
young lady, with hands and feet to correspond. Each of
them had a certain regularity of features, totally devoid of
any expression whatsoever, that might have laid claim to
good looks, had it not been nullified by the absence of
colouring and want of tone in their rather large, rather flat
faces. If either of them had unfortunately taken to drinking,
she would have been a bad likeness of her brother the Jovial.
That I longed ardently for the conclusion of that gentleman’s
toilet is no matter of surprise, the conversation between the
Misses Plumtree and myself being driven, so to speak, at a
funereal rate, and in the longest possible stages. I gathered,
however, from a certain decision of tone in their few and
disjointed remarks, that there was no mother Plumtree, and
that the vestals now before me were the presiding goddesses
of the place.

At length, to my great relief, I heard a door open on the
staircase, and a manly step approaching, which I feared,
even while I listened, was too ponderous for that of my
friend. The young ladies made a rustling kind of movement,
as if to bespeak my attention. A deep voice in the hall
was heard to say, “Dinner directly!” and the portly form
of mine host walked into the drawing-room, with outstretched
hand, and that welcome on his lips with which an
Englishman always receives a guest into his castle, whether
that metaphorical building be really a ducal residence, a
squire’s hall, or a day-labourer’s cottage.

Old Mr. Plumtree was a great improvement on his son,
.bn 317.png
.pn +1
as well as his picture. Although of the plainest and most
unsophisticated of squires, he was obviously a high-bred
gentleman; and his old-fashioned attire—for he had not
discarded the blue coat, yellow waistcoat, and white stockings
of his younger days—was perfectly in keeping with his
fresh old face, round and rosy as a winter-apple: his fine
bald head and stately figure, deep of chest, stout of limb,
and somewhat protuberant of stomach.

“I am glad James found ye at home, Mr. Softly,” said
he, “and doubly glad he persuaded ye to come over and
eat your mutton with us here. My daughters, Mr. Softly—Rebecca
and Jane.” Both ladies again got up, and we
bowed and curtsied once more to one another; whilst I still
remained as much in ignorance as ever as to <i>which</i> was
Rebecca and <i>which</i> was Jane. “You got here before six,”
continued my host, evidently bent on making me feel
myself at home. “Our roads are not the best travelling in
the dark, but I conclude you don’t make much account of
roads. Broke your collar-bone at a fence? and a large one
too, I’ll be bound. I was a sportsman myself, Mr. Softly.
I recollect in the year——”

“Dinner is on the table, sir!” announced the respectable-looking
servant, interrupting his master’s reminiscences
at this juncture; and with a nod to me to take Miss
Plumtree, which I acknowledged by diving at the nearest
lady, whom I afterwards found out to be the younger sister,
we filed off in great state for the dining-room, the Jovial
joining the procession in the hall, and whispering in my
ear, as he passed my chair, “Don’t be afraid of the
Madeira, it’s been twice round the Cape; and if he talks
about breeding hounds, mind you say ‘<i>Yes</i>’ to the governor!”

With the <i>carte du pays</i> thus spread before me, I unfolded
my napkin, and went at an excellent clear soup with the
utmost confidence.
.bn 318.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-10
CHAPTER X||<s>THE OLD SQUIRE</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>The</sc> dinner passed off far more pleasantly than I should
have imagined possible. Drawn out by their brother, and
gradually losing their awe of myself as a stranger, both
Rebecca and Jane found something to say, and voices
wherewith to say it. Well-brought-up girls in our English
society are all shy (though not half so reserved as foreign
young ladies of the same age), or at all events, are taught
that it is right to appear so; but we must never forget that
it is as natural for a woman to talk as for a duck to swim.
Let them alone a little: don’t hurry them at first. If your
host gives you good champagne, as in these anti-tariff days
he is very likely to do, press them to have a glass. Turn
the conversation upon some individual, the more notorious
the better, of their own sex; but be careful to state that
you cannot see what there is to admire in her yourself, and
then begin resignedly at your cutlet. Take my word for it,
the talking will be done for you, till gloves and handkerchiefs
have to be recovered, and the ladies spread their
pinions and sail away to the drawing-room.
.pi
The Jovial was also a host in himself. The presence of
his sisters toned down his slang a trifle, while it enhanced
his liveliness. He gave a vivid and laughable description
of our day’s hunting, performed in the gig, but rather
hesitated and showed some little confusion when describing
our first view of the hounds.

“Who was with them?” asked his father; the old man’s
eye kindling, as he filled a glass of ruby port, and offered
me my choice between that and a tempting-looking claret
.bn 319.png
.pn +1
decanter. “Who was going well? The Earl, I’ll pound
it! Castle-Cropper will be with ’em, let it be ever so good
for pace; and Will Hawke, I suppose; and who else?”

“The person that seemed to me to be going best,” I
here interposed, filling my glass, “was a lady on a grey
horse; a Miss Merlin, I believe, who is staying at the inn
at Soakington. A most extraordinary horsewoman!”

The Jovial blushed, though he hid his confusion in a
great gulp of Madeira. Rebecca and Jane interchanged
looks of considerable meaning, and the former (I think) took
up the running.

“How very unfeminine!” said she, turning round to me.
“Don’t you think so, Mr. Softly? I’m sure gentlemen
must wish ladies anywhere else, when they come out
hunting. I think it oughtn’t to be allowed; and this Miss
Merlin, you know, rides just like a man.”

“Don’t believe her!” exclaimed the Jovial, in his turn.
“I’ve seen her out with our hounds many a time, but never
on anything but a side-saddle, in my life.”

Rebecca blushed in her turn. “How <i>can</i> you, James?”
said she. “Of course I didn’t mean <i>that</i>. But you’re so
infatuated about Miss Merlin, you think she can’t do wrong.
And what there is to admire in her, I can’t see, for my part.”

“Why, she <i>does</i> ride beautifully, you know,” put in Jane,
apologetically; at least, I suppose it was Jane, as she
seemed more tolerant of manly exercises than her sister,
and was altogether of a livelier and more attractive style.
I couldn’t help thinking, even then, I would give something
to see her doing the outside edge backwards.

“Well, but that’s a <i>man’s</i> accomplishment,” replied her
sister. “I was speaking more of her good looks. Come,
Mr. Softly; give us your honest opinion. <i>Do</i> you think
her so very wonderfully beautiful?”

This was obviously a back-hander at James, who, having
by this time tackled well to the Madeira, bore it with the
utmost philosophy.

I was obliged to confess that, although living in the same
hotel, I had never seen her, not thinking it necessary to
add my opinion of Justine, nor to dwell on the circumstances
under which I had made that sweet little woman’s acquaintance.
.bn 320.png
.pn +1

“Never seen her!” repeated both ladies in tones of the
utmost surprise; but while Rebecca’s emphasis denoted
simple astonishment, I was concerned to detect in that of
Jane a covert reproach and contempt. What must a young
lady of her gifts and acquirements have thought of so
recreant a knight as myself? They are all alike, you see—these
ladies; repudiating very judiciously, as an established
principle, too great diffidence in our sex, and readier
far to forgive us when erring in the opposite extreme. The
Bissextile, or Leap-year, does not come often enough to
allow their taking the initiative as a regular thing; so a
backward swain is like a jibbing horse—the very worst
description of animal you can drive, either for single or
double harness, light or heavy draught.

“And what do you think of our hounds, Mr. Softly?”
said old Plumtree, now putting in a word, as he sent the
bottles round a second time; a signal for the young ladies
to depart, and for me to open the door to let them out—a
manœuvre I accomplished with the best grace I could
muster, and an uncomfortable conviction that they might,
and probably <i>would</i> talk me over, not without critical disapproval,
immediately they were settled in the drawing-room.

As we took our seats round the fire, which sparkled
pleasantly amongst the glasses and decanters on the little
round table, my host repeated his question, adding, whilst
his son almost imperceptibly elevated his eyebrows, “Don’t
you think now, <i>as</i> a sportsman, that we’re all inclined to
breed hounds a little too fast?”

This was obviously old Plumtree’s crotchet, and I resigned
myself to my fate.

“You must get pretty quick after a fox <i>some</i> part of the
day, if you’ve a mind to kill him,” I replied; because I had
heard a huntsman once say something of the same kind.
And Jem likewise put in his oar with the remark, that
“slow hounds, in these days, would never get from under
the horses’ feet”—an observation received by his father
with that silent contempt which a man would consider
extremely rude to a stranger, but which, nevertheless, he
does not scruple to betray towards those who have the
advantage of belonging to his own family.

“Oh! I grant you that,” said the old gentleman. “A
.bn 321.png
.pn +1
fox is a speedy animal himself, and it stands to reason that
if you are to catch him, you must some time or another go
faster than he does. But haste is not always speed. A
man may be in a devil of a hurry, and yet slip two paces
backwards for every one he advances. The same process
that kills a hare will kill a fox. The keeping constantly
<i>at</i> him, not the bustling him along best pace for ten or
fifteen minutes. Now, your hounds of the present day are
always flashing over the scent into the next field. Either
you waste a deal of valuable time by having to try back;
or if your huntsman is as wild as his hounds, he gallops
forward blowing his horn, makes a wild cast, and loses him
altogether. Either way you destroy your own object, which
I take to be the enjoyment of <i>riding</i> in a gallop with
hounds that are running with their noses down, and the
enjoyment of <i>hunting</i> by seeing the sagacity of a close-working
pack, persevering through difficulties, and rewarded
with a kill.

“I’m an old fogey, I grant you, Mr. Softly. If I do
ever go out to look at the hounds, it’s on a pony; and I
can no more see, the way ‘Jem’ there goes, than I can
fly; but let me tell you, I could have beat his head off, and
given him two stone of weight into the bargain, when I was
his age. It’s not that I want hounds to stay behind with
<i>me</i>, that makes me say they’re bred too fast nowadays:
far from it. I like you young fellows to enjoy yourselves,
and have brushing gallops, and comb your whiskers well out
in the bullfinches, and sew up your horses and come home,
and drink ‘fox-hunting.’ Ring the bell, Jem; we’ll have
another bottle of that claret. I think I know what riding
is, if I haven’t forgotten it. You see that dark-brown horse
over the fire-place? That’s a good likeness, Mr. Softly;
and that was the best horse I ever had in my life.”

Raising my eyes in obedience to my host’s behests, they
rested on a picture enclosed in a most gorgeous frame,
representing a brown horse with rather a long back and
wonderfully short legs; his tail reduced to the smallest
dimensions, and his ears, so to speak, at full cock. This
animal, in the highest possible condition, and with every
muscle standing out from its body to a rigid degree of
tension, was depicted in the centre of a flowery mead, over-shadowed
.bn 322.png
.pn +1
by large trees in their densest summer foliage,
gazing fixedly at a red-brick mansion, on the further side
of a sheet of water which had by no means found its own
level, but was represented in the abnormal condition of
covering the side of a slope. I gazed with admiration not
unmixed with astonishment. Delighted with the obvious
impression, my host went on:—

“I don’t think I ever had one that could go on like
‘Supple-Jack.’ I called him Supple-Jack, Mr. Softly, on
account of his breed. He was by Bamboo, that horse,—was
out of a mare they called Twisting Jane; and no pace
was too good, no day too long for him. We didn’t think
so much of jumping in my day as they do now; at least,
we didn’t <i>talk</i> about it so large; but you might lay the rein
on Supple-Jack’s neck, and trot him up to any gate in this
country, and he’d take you safely over it. Why, Jem there
will tell you, when he was a boy, he’s seen the old horse,
when he was past twenty, jump the gate backwards and
forwards, into the paddock by the little orchard, only to
come and be fed. Jump, indeed! they couldn’t go far without
knowing how to jump, in <i>my</i> day.

“Well, sir, you talk of runs; why, I rode that horse the
famous Topley day, with these very hounds, when we found
in Topley Banks, immediately after the long frost, and
killed our fox on the lawn at Mount Pleasant, eight miles
as the crow flies, in thirty-four minutes. Talk of pace, sir!
you can’t beat that in these flying days. I never got a pull
at my horse from first to last; and, barring a bit of a
scramble at the Sludge, where the banks were rotten from
the sudden thaw, he never put a foot wrong. Zounds, sir!
I don’t believe he ever changed his leg. The late Earl and
myself got away together from the Banks, close to the
hounds. He was a good man across country, but he couldn’t
ride like his son. There were a dozen more close behind
us, but they never got near enough to speak; and the Earl
and I went sailing on, side by side, over the Sloppington
Lordship, and all along by Soakington Pastures, not far from
where you’re staying now, Mr. Softly, till we got within
sight of Tangler’s Copse, where you were to-day. That and
the prospect of a nasty overgrown bullfinch, with only one
place in it, made up uncommon strong, tempted the Earl a
.bn 323.png
.pn +1
little out of his line, and I never saw <i>him</i> again. Supple-Jack
and I had it all to ourselves after that, and he carried
me over the ha-ha, on to the lawn at Mount Pleasant, just
as the hounds rolled their fox over, under the drawing-room
window. There was a large party staying in the house
(your poor mother was one of them, Jem), and they all
thought the frost was not sufficiently out of the ground to
hunt, and so had remained at home.

“‘Where do you hail from?’ said old Squire Gayman,
the proprietor, who had served under Nelson.

“‘From Topley Banks!’ I answered, taking the fox from
the hounds, and putting him across the branch of a tree in
the shrubbery, whilst I kept a sharp look-out for the Earl
and the huntsman, and the whips and the rest of the field.

“‘Why, it’s scarcely gone eleven?’ said the Squire,
looking at his watch; ‘you haven’t wasted much time this
morning. When did they put the hounds in?’

“‘At half-past ten to a minute,’ I replied, ‘and we found
and came away directly. But I haven’t kept much of a
dead reckoning since, and they never checked nor hovered
once to give me a chance of looking at my watch.’

“‘And how did the ground ride?’ said two or three in a
breath.

“‘Faith! you must ask Supple-Jack that question,’ was
my answer; ‘for indeed I hadn’t much time to inquire.’

“Now, the flashiest hounds alive couldn’t have done such
a distance as that, in a shorter time. And mark you, Mr.
Softly, we had no tearing along, heads up and sterns down,
and hounds tailing for a mile because they were all racing
with each other. Far from it; they kept well together,
and threw their tongues merrily enough every now and then,
when they were ‘smeusing’ through a fence, or shaking
themselves dry after a plunge into the Sludge; but they
kept always driving on. That was what did it. No hesitation,
no uncertainty, no getting their heads up, and looking
about for assistance. There was nobody to interfere with
them if they had wanted it, for the huntsman was a mile
behind, and dropping further and further astern every yard
they went, and the Earl had left his horn at home, and had
little breath to spare besides.

“They ran their fox unassisted, and they killed him unassisted;
.bn 324.png
.pn +1
but then, you observe, these hounds had been
trained for many a long season to put down their noses and
<i>hunt</i>; and it’s my opinion that they used to run so fast for
the very reason that they were what superficial people call
slow.”

The old gentleman here filled his glass, and took a good
solemn gulp at the dry port, before proceeding to the
demonstration of the proposition he had laid down. “Jovial
Jem” and myself followed his example, the latter giving
me to understand, by the expression of his countenance,
that the governor was now mounted on his hobby, and had
better not be interrupted in the process of riding it to a
standstill.

“It’s all nonsense about hounds carrying such a head,”
said the Squire. “It may look very fine to see them charging
in line, like a squadron of dragoons, or a flock of sheep
when they’ve been turned by a dog; but what’s the consequence?
If they once get ten yards over the scent, it’s all
up. Jealous and flashy, each tries to get ahead of his comrade;
and the further they go the further they get from
their fox, till they’re forced to stop and stare about them
like a pack of fools, and have recourse to their huntsman
after all. Then, what a pretty business they make of it!
To my thinking, it’s enough to disgust any man with hunting,
to see hounds cast, except of course under very peculiar
circumstances—such as ground stained with stock, sudden
storm coming on when a fox is sinking, or what not. It’s
no pleasure to me, nor to you either, I should suppose, to
see them tearing along at the heels of their huntsman’s
horse, neither knowing nor caring apparently where they go,
so long as they can keep out of reach of the whipper-in,
who is flogging and shouting behind them. Then they
don’t half run, after all, even if they <i>should</i> be so lucky as
to get on the line of their fox again. He is <i>mobbed</i> to death,
in all probability, rather than fairly killed; and half the
hounds don’t seem to care about eating him when they’ve
got him, instead of raging and tearing like so many wolves,
as they do when they know they’ve caught him for themselves.
No, sir; give me a good <i>line-hunting</i> pack that
stick close to their work, though perhaps they <i>do</i> make a
little noise over it. If the leaders should chance to over-run
.bn 325.png
.pn +1
the scent a bit, why the others take it up, and there is
no perceptible delay. I have seen these Castle-Cropper
hounds hunt through sheep or oxen, just as steadily, though
not quite so fast, perhaps, as if they were running in a
good scenting woodland. The present Earl, though, is
breeding them too fast. I always tell him so. He’s breeding
them too fast. And I think Will Hawke is of the same
opinion as myself.”

“You consider Will an excellent huntsman, do you
not?” I hazarded as a safe remark.

“He ought to be,” replied my host, filling himself another
bumper of port. “He was regularly bred for it, and entered
to it, if ever man was. When he was a little chap, not
three feet high, he used to help his father, who was feeder
at the kennels. And I remember well the dowager Countess
telling me that he knew the name of every hound in the
pack long before he could answer one of the questions at
her Sunday school. He used to ride the horses, too, at
exercise; and being a smart little fellow, soon picked up all
that was to be learned in the stable and elsewhere. One
day, when he was quite a lad, and the hounds met at the
kennel, as they often did, the first-whip was suddenly taken
ill, and unable to get upon his horse; the other man was
forty miles away, getting back some young hounds from
walk. Will petitioned sorely to be put on a steady nag,
and allowed to take the invalid’s place; and, as he was the
only person who knew the hounds by name, he was permitted
to do so. We were all amused at the excitement and ambitious
airs of the young neophyte, who bustled about the
rides of the covert, and “sang out” to any transgressing
hound in most approved form. Old Craner, who was huntsman
then, was perfectly delighted with the quickness and
sagacity of the young one. At last we crossed the Swimley
with a cold scent, and the hounds took to running on
the opposite side of the river. Craner, who was an old man,
besides having an excellent situation, and not caring to risk
it, voted this all wrong, and expressed a wish to stop them.
Young Hawke had swum his horse halfway across before
the words were out of his senior’s mouth; and although he
did not stop them, the young rascal!—for the scent improved
immensely, and they took to running forthwith,—he
.bn 326.png
.pn +1
elected himself into the post of huntsman for the occasion,
and killed his fox in masterly style after a good hunting
run. He was made second whip at the first opportunity,
and has been in the establishment ever since. It’s a good
many years ago that I’m speaking of, Mr. Softly; and the
present Earl thinks he’s getting slow; but I’ll back old
Will to find his fox, and hunt his fox, and kill his fox, as
handsomely as any of the young ones still.”

“They all say he overdoes the letting-alone system,” observed
the Jovial, with a sly glance at me. “I’ve seen him
lose more than one fox on a bad-scenting day, because he
wouldn’t go to a holloa, not even if it was given by Tom
Crow himself, whom he ought to be able to depend upon.”

“And how many have you known him <i>kill</i> by that same
letting-alone system, Master Flash?” exclaimed old Plumtree
with the usual impatience manifested by the senior
when a son is so injudicious as to differ from his father.
“That’s the way with you young chaps, that think you know
all about it, and the whole time you haven’t even the wisdom
to <i>know</i> that you <i>don’t know</i>! Will Hawke’s hounds will
stoop to a colder scent than any hounds in England, simply
<i>because</i> he lets ’em alone; and they take no more notice of
a holloa than if it were a boy scaring crows. As for Tom,
the first-whip, he’s a conceited, ignorant chap, to my thinking;
always ‘clapping forward,’ as he calls it, and dodging
about, instead of minding his business. If I had my way
with Tom, I’d sew his mouth up, take his whip from him,
and put him on a horse with three legs. He’d be a precious
sight more useful than he is now. At any rate, he couldn’t
do so much mischief. I never thought much of Tom; never
liked his voice—never liked his riding—never liked his boots
and breeches.”

“He’s a neat fellow enough, too,” I interfered, rather inclined
to take up the cudgels for my friend Tom, who had
opened sundry gates for me, and shown other signs of civility
on my behalf, the first day I was out.

“Newmarket, sir; Newmarket!” said the old squire.
“Bad school, bad scholars. You can see it in the way he
sits upon his horse; though he’s got good hands, I’ll allow,
and can gallop them fairly enough. The present Earl picked
him out of a trainer’s stable, to ride second-horse, and he
.bn 327.png
.pn +1
did it so <i>badly</i>, always larking over the fences in front, instead
of trotting on soberly behind, that he got him out of
that at any price; and, it’s my belief, only made him first-whip
because he’d nowhere else to put him, and didn’t like
to turn him adrift, being a sober respectable man enough.

“But he’s not my idea of a whipper-in, though I may be
wrong. Everything is so changed since <i>my</i> day, and every
man who wears a red coat now seems to think he knows as
much as King Solomon (with a withering glance at Jem,
who was buzzing the bottle of Madeira). This Tom Crow
is always going on to get a view, and putting his ugly face
everywhere it ought <i>not</i> to be, under the idea that he is
helping to kill the fox. That is all he has a notion of—to
<i>kill</i> the fox. Now old Hawke, though he’s as fond of blood
as any huntsman alive, and far too much given to <i>digging</i>,
in my opinion, is all for catching him fairly, or else not
catching him at all.

“What’s the use of a view? If a man believes his hounds
(and if he don’t, he’d better hang ’em and retire himself into
private life as a market-gardener), he knows their game is
before them, when he hears them throw their tongues, just
as certainly as if he’d viewed it fifty times. And, ten to
one, long before you see the fox, the fox sees you, and he’s
headed back again. I wish I’d a pound for every good run
I’ve seen spoilt in that way. No, no! I never want to clap
eyes on him till I’ve got him in my hand. I know all about
him, then; and so do the hounds. Will you have any more
wine, Softly? or shall we join the ladies?”

Half a glass of rich brown sherry, than which nothing
sobers a man more rapidly, or settles his stomach more comfortably
after an over-dose of claret: a stretch of the legs,
an arrangement of the neckcloth, and I felt myself ready to
confront Jane and Rebecca once more, perhaps with a somewhat
keener sense of their merits than I had entertained
before dinner. On entering the drawing-room, a dead
silence prevailed between the two; I concluded therefore
that the topic which they seemed thus suddenly to have
dropped must have been one that would not bear <i>ventilation</i>
(to use the Parliamentary slang of the present day) before
the gentlemen. Perhaps, indeed, it may have referred to
the general character of their visitor. I would have given
.bn 328.png
.pn +1
something to know whether they thought me most knave or
fool.

A well-timed observation from their father put me at last
<i>au fait</i> as to the identity of each lady; and when papa said,
“Rebecca, won’t you give us some music?” and the one
next whom I did not chance to have taken my seat replied,
“Very well, papa. What will you have?” it became evident
to me that, having devoted myself before, and at dinner, to
the elder lady, it was now the younger sister’s turn to have
her share of my attentions.

Rebecca played skilfully, and accompanied herself, in a
small voice, with a tolerably correct attention to time;
chiefly delighting, I observed, in simple ballads of a touching
and pathetic tendency, such as “Annie,” “Willie, we
have missed you,” and a very tearful song about a person
of the name of “Margaret.”

Pending these melodies, Jane, whom I now discovered to
be a lady of a certain force of character and an inquiring
turn of mind, “put me through my facings,” if I may use
the expression, on a variety of subjects, concerning most of
which it has since occurred to me I must have betrayed remarkable
ignorance. When you have been out in the cold
all day, then enjoyed a good dinner, and a good deal of it,
washed down by copious libations of excellent wine, in a
warm room, I believe, if you are blessed with a healthy
constitution, drowsiness is the inevitable result. Then,
suppose yourself placed in a very comfortable arm-chair,
opposite a blazing fire, with the hum of quiet voices and the
tones of a pianoforte falling soothingly on your ear, and you
can exactly imagine my position.

I am aware of having confessed truthfully enough to my
fair inquisitor, that I could neither play cricket, billiards,
nor rackets; that I did not care a great deal for shooting:
should be likely to upset if I ventured to drive four horses;
and had never had a pair of skates on in my life. I feel
sure, at the same time, that I sustained the contempt she
could not but entertain for me with wonderful equanimity,
and that I further sank my intellectual powers to a level
with my physical incapacity, by an avowal of my inability to
read a word of German. But Jane was not to be thus
choked off: she was one of those energetic young ladies
.bn 329.png
.pn +1
who, in their zeal to be doing, must needs have as many
strings to their bow as Phœbus could count upon his lyre.
She collected autographs, she discovered character from
handwriting, she pestered all her friends for their old postage-stamps;
though what she did with them, or what anybody
does with them, even when the amount rises to a
million, is to me a profound mystery. Amongst other
inquisitorial objects, she possessed a wonderful book, in
which the sufferer was requested to place on record his
opinions on sundry matters to which in all probability he
had never before given a thought;—such as his favourite
authors in prose and verse, the characters he most admired
in modern and ancient history, his pet preacher, and the
names he should prefer to give his sons and daughters, if he
had any: all topics on which it is obvious none but a man
of profound forethought and reflection can be expected to
have made up his mind. I have a distinct recollection of
skipping all these questions till I came to the important one
that required to know my favourite food, and falling asleep
then and there in an abortive attempt to write the word
“plum-pudding.”

Jem’s mellow voice, joining his sister’s in one of the
Negro melodies, awoke me in a state of great penitence and
confusion. I was pleased to observe, however, that I was
not the only culprit, for old Plumtree, with his head sunk
into his voluminous white waistcoat, was accompanying his
children with a grand chorus of snores. But the vacant
chair next my own inflicted a tacit reproach that spoke
whole pages of sarcasm; and I felt it an inexpressible relief
when, voting it too late for whist, hand-candles were rung
for, and the ladies betook themselves to bed, followed, after
a brief interval, by the three gentlemen.

The Jovial, of course, went to smoke. Nobody now-a-days
seems able to go to bed without that narcotic; but
I declined his invitation to accompany him, and laid
my weary head as soon as I possibly could upon my
pillow.

Determined to have nothing more to do with Crafty Kate,
I had taken the precaution of telling my servant to order a
chaise to be ready for me at an early hour the following
morning; and when I discovered that it had been freezing
.bn 330.png
.pn +1
hard in the night, and the ground was one sheet of ice, I
felt I had no reason to repent of my precaution.

We assembled at breakfast at the early hour of nine; the
Jovial coming down in a shooting suit of marvellous fabrication
and device, avowing his intention of going out “to
look for ducks,” a pastime in which I cannot but think I
was wise to decline joining him. The squire was off to his
farm the instant he had swallowed his breakfast, not, however,
without giving me a pressing and hospitable invitation
to remain with him another day. This I felt compelled to
refuse. I longed to be back at my quiet lodging once more;
and, like all men who have not room for a great many ideas
at a time, felt that I had now got hold of one which took
entire possession of me. This was neither more nor less
than a morbid desire to see Miss Merlin.

I do not think either Rebecca or Jane regretted my departure.
I am not a ladies’ man—I know it; nor can I
bring myself greatly to regret that failure in my character.
But they took leave of me with cordiality and politeness,
Jane even offering to lend me a book, of which we had been
talking, to read in the post-chaise.

As I drew up the windows and drove away from the door,
I could not sufficiently congratulate myself that I was not
in that tall dog-cart, at the mercy of “Jovial Jem” and
“Crafty Kate.”

On my arrival at the Haycock, my first inquiry was for
Miss Merlin. “She was gone to Castle-Cropper,” the
waiter said. “Maid and things followed her yesterday.
Gone to stay, sir? Yes, sir. Didn’t know for how long;
but the groom rather thought as she wouldn’t be back
under a fortnight.”
.bn 331.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02-11
CHAPTER XI||<s>THE SOAKINGTON FIELD-DAY</s>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>A fortnight’s</sc> frost tempted me to leave my comfortable
quarters at the Haycock, and the delights of Miss Lushington’s
society, for the metropolis. Somehow hunting
men never <i>do</i> keep away from London in the frost, and I
had an excellent excuse in wanting the best advice about
my arm. “The fracture had united very satisfactorily.”
said the great authority before whom I stripped, paying me
at the same time an agreeable compliment on my vigorous
state of health, and the development of my muscular system.
By the time I had visited the different theatres, and read all
the back numbers of my favourite magazines, at “The Hat
and Umbrella,” I was as sound again as ever I had been
in my life. Nor did I forget, when once more frequenting
my comfortable club, to cross-examine Quizby at
great length on the subject which was still uppermost in
my thoughts. His answers only made me the more anxious
to see Miss Merlin: and I never greeted a thaw with
greater delight than that which set in, just as I was beginning
to get tired of London, and summoned me back
to Soakington once more. At the railway station it was
obvious that the hunting community, like those migratory
birds which periodically leave the frozen regions of the
north for warmer climes, was on the wing. Umbrellas
and sticks, strapped together in bundles, discovered the
white crook of the hunting-whip between their handles;
there was a great demand at the bookstall for the <i>Sporting
Magazine</i> and the <i>Field</i> newspaper; whilst half the
hats hung up in the first-class carriage betrayed, by a
.bn 332.png
.pn +1
little ring of wire just under the brim, that it was their
natural destiny to be crushed in bullfinches, knocked off
by branches, possibly flattened and crumpled up by the
projection of their enthusiastic wearers head-foremost to
the earth.
.pi
Arrived at Soakington, the first person I met was Miss
Merlin’s dapper groom. These domestics come out in a
thaw, as we see flies begin to swarm the first sunny day
in spring. “The country,” he said, in answer to my inquiries,
“would ride perfectly well by to-morrow. Indeed,
the frost was pretty nigh out of the ground now. His
lady? Oh she was quite well, he believed; leastways he
might say as he knowed she was, for he’d been over for
orders to-day—hadn’t been back an hour. Where? Oh!
at the Castle, to be sure, where she’d a-been stopping
now a goodish spell. Would she be out to-morrow?
Why, in course she would, if she were alive. Did I know
that the hounds were to meet at the Haycock? A-purpose
to draw Soakington Gorse—that’s the new gorse as
my lord made down by Willow Waterless. <i>Sure</i> of a run
to-morrow, if you could be sure of anything on this mortal
earth!”

Vindicating his character as a philosopher, by this profound
reflection, my friend withdrew into the privacy of his
own stable, and I betook myself to mine; there, having
expressed a qualified approval of my stud’s general appearance,
I decided to ride “Tipple Cider,” as being the best of
them, and then retired to my apartments, to order dinner
and prepare for the morrow.

I was a little disappointed, I confess, to discover that the
bird was flown. I fully expected Miss Merlin would ere
this have returned to her quarters at the Haycock. Also, I
was a little tired with my journey and the late racketing in
London. I am a quiet man, and I call supper after the
play the height of dissipation. So I went early to bed,
looking forward with keen excitement to the morrow.

The morning broke delightfully, promising one of those
soft, fragrant days of which I have never seen the counterpart
in any climate but our own, and which, alas! are rare
even here. A calm, grey winter’s day in England, with a
faint southern breeze, and occasional gleams of sunshine
.bn 333.png
.pn +1
descending on the distance, in perpendicular floods of gold,
has always seemed to me the very perfection of weather.

The hounds were to meet at half-past ten. I was dressed
and at breakfast a full hour before. To me, as to all
bachelors, this is a very important meal. I like to enjoy it
comfortably, in my dressing-gown and slippers, before
placing myself in the confinement of boots and breeches.
I like to prop up the <i>Morning Post</i>, or the last <i>Quarterly</i>,
or one of the magazines, against my coffee-pot, and feed
my mind alternately with my body. Now a mouthful of
ham, then a prophecy of Argus (pretty sure to be right) on
the next great race; or a bite of toast, and a sentence on
the Cotton question; or chip my egg and break the ice of
a new story in <i>Fraser</i>, at one and the same time, washing
the whole thing down with a draught of such coffee as no
servant but my own, I verily believe, is capable of concocting.

I have seen some men breakfast, and that in apparent
resignation, with a button-hook in one hand and a fork in
the other, a wife calling to them in the passage, children
running in and out of the room, the gardener waiting for
orders at the door, and their hack snorting and pawing on
the gravel in front. I suppose “the back,” as the adage
says, “is made for the burden.” I am not ungrateful,
when I reflect on sundry burdens that have not been made
for my back.

At length, dressed, booted, and spurred, I made my way
downstairs into the bar, where I found Miss Lushington, in
a costume of surprising magnificence far surpassing any of
her previous dresses, in a high flow of spirits, and up to her
very ear-rings in the business of her office. Notwithstanding
all she had on hand, however, she did not fail to
greet me with cordial politeness; and here I must do Miss
Lushington the justice to observe, that whatever might be
the calls on her attention, and however numerous the circle
of her admirers, offering the accustomed incense of flattery
not unmixed with chaff, she had always a word and a smile
to spare for the humblest and most bashful individual who
entered the magic ring. “Dear heart! Mr. Softly,” said
she, “it does me good to see you in your red coat again.
But you’ll surely remember what an escape you’ve had.
.bn 334.png
.pn +1
You’ll take warning, and not be so venturesome for the
future.”

I was not above feeling a sense of gratification at this
allusion to my supposed recklessness, though I detected
something like a smile on Mr. Naggett’s rosy face, whilst
it was uttered.

Yes, there was Mr. Naggett, in full bloom, armed and
accoutred for the chase; sipping a fragrant concoction of
gin-and-cloves moreover, as a further preparation. His
horse, a large mealy chestnut, was being led up and down
the yard. I saw it through the bar-window, and thought
I never liked the look of an animal much less. All that
art could accomplish had, however, been done, to set off its
natural unsightliness. It was decorated with a new saddle
and bridle, breast-plate, nose-band, and martingale complete.
It was accoutred, moreover, with a gaudy saddle-cloth,
rather too large, and a boot on every leg but one.

The owner, too, was got-up in an alarming manner, and
as he would have said himself, “regardless of expense.”
Mr. Naggett’s coat was blue, with the brightest of buttons,
bearing some raised device, in which a crown-imperial predominated.
Mr. Naggett’s waistcoat was scarlet, bound
with yellow braid: and his cream-coloured neckcloth was
secured by a red cornelian pin. A low-crowned hat, white
cloth breeches, and high Napoleon boots, faultless in polish,
but spoiled by a pair of thin racing spurs, very badly put
on, completed Mr. Naggett’s resplendent costume. The
man himself seemed in the highest possible spirits; but I
thought I could detect a slight tremor of the hand, despite
his morning stimulant—that tremor which a horse is so
apt in discovering, particularly when he is ridden at
water.

“Nice morning, sir,” said Mr. Naggett. He pronounced
it <i>marning</i>; but this peculiarity I have observed amongst
<i>ultra</i> sporting characters. “Hope I see you all right again,
sir. You’ll want both hands to-day—heels too, or I’m
mistaken. Looks like a hunting <i>marning</i>, don’t it, sir?
And there’s a fox lies here in Soakington Gorse, as will
give us a ‘buster,’ I know. Got your ‘riding boots’ on
to-day, sir, I dare say.”

I was somewhat nettled at his tone, three parts jesting,
.bn 335.png
.pn +1
and not above a quarter respectful; and I replied, wishing
to return sarcasm with sarcasm—

“I shall follow you, Mr. Naggett, if I want to be well
with them.”

Such delicate thrusts were completely thrown away upon
my friend’s proof-armour of self-conceit.

“You might do worse, sir,” said he, in perfect good
faith. “I’m riding a real good one to-day. Go as fast as
he likes, he can; and jump! He’d jump a town, if you’d
put him at it! I know whose fault it will be if we get
thrown out to-day. Your health, Miss Lushington. What,
Ike! be the hounds come already?”

The latter question was addressed to my old acquaintance,
the earth-stopper, who with many a low <i>salaam</i>, and
a gentlemanlike air of excusing himself, which he had
acquired in his palmy days with “The Flamers,” and
never completely shaken off, now sidled into the Bar.

“They’re not half-a-mile behind,” said the old man;
and then turned to me, with a “Beg your pardon, sir,” as
if to apologise that he had addressed the other first. I
accepted the implied compliment; and could do no less in
return than ask the veteran “What would he have to
drink?”

“A little gin, if you please, sir,” replied old Ike, passing
the back of his hand across his mouth. And I saw his
wasted features glow and his eyes brighten, as the liquid
fire descended to those regions which people who are no
anatomists call the “cockles of the heart.” He was still
a wonderfully tough old specimen, this earth-stopper.
Last night he had been his rounds on a shaggy white pony
that looked like the ghost of a horse in the dim moonlight;
and to-day, having already walked half-a-dozen miles or so
before breakfast, he would follow the hounds for several
hours on foot, and be ready again for his work by nightfall.

I saw the old man’s face brighten once more, as the door
opened, and Tom Turnbull walked into the bar—not to
drink anything, as I soon ascertained, but to inquire if a
parcel had been left for his “Missis.” By the way, I
should much like to have my curiosity satisfied as to what
these parcels for farmer’s wives contain, that are continually
left at houses of call. They are invariably small, limp,
.bn 336.png
.pn +1
and a good deal crushed, wrapped in the softest of paper,
and tied with the most tangled of string.

Mr. Turnbull looked the picture of a sportsman—low-crowned
hat, pepper-and-salt coat, Bedford cord breeches,
and brown-topped boots, thick leather gloves, and a blue
bird’s-eye neckcloth. “How goes it, Tom?” exclaimed a
voice I recognised. “Fine dry morning, this. Won’t you
liquor up?”

“Never take anything before I go hunting, thank ye,
sir,” replied Tom, turning round his rosy healthy face and
clear eye, presenting a marked contrast to the dissipated
looks of “Jovial Jem,” for it was none other who now
addressed him. The Jovial had been in London, too, during
the frost, and, judging by his appearance, had been
engaged in a process which he termed “keeping the game
alive,” but which was likely to be rapid destruction to the
sportsman. He looked as if he had been partially drunk
for a fortnight and was hardly sober now, as indeed probably
was the case. He was attired, nevertheless, in the most
fashionable hunting costume—long scarlet coat with large
sleeves, white waistcoat with an infinity of pockets, blue-satin
neckcloth and turned-down collar, well-cleaned leathers
and top-boots, heavy workmanlike spurs as bright as silver,
and a velvet hunting-cap. A cigar in his mouth of course,
and, despite a certain nervous anxiety of manner, a merry
leer in his eye, or it would not have been “The Jovial.”
He had driven Crafty Kate over from The Ashes, and was
about to ride a steady seasoned hunter that his father had
given him on Christmas-day. “Look alive!” observed
this well-dressed sportsman when he had greeted me, as he
considered, with sufficient politeness, by slapping me on the
back, and calling me “old one.” “The Earl leaves the
Green to a minute, and it’s ten-thirty now”—words which
caused an immediate bustle in the bar and emptying thereof,
nobody but Mr. Naggett having the politeness to wish
Miss Lushington “Good-bye.”

Soakington-Green, as it was called—an open space of
verdure, generally too wet for cricket, and seldom boasting
anything more lively than a worn-out pair of stocks and a
few lean geese—was all alive when we mounted our horses
and rode across its level surface. True to his character for
.bn 337.png
.pn +1
punctuality, the Earl was already moving off, and I did but
catch a glimpse of his long back and tall aristocratic figure
as he jogged along amongst his hounds, in earnest conclave
with Will Hawke. The pack were gathered round their
huntsman’s horse, looking, as they always did, bright as
pictures. Glossy in their coats, full of muscle, ribs just
visible, and plenty of covering upon their backs, they stepped
daintily along, with their sterns well up, and that sagacious
quick-witted ready-for-anything expression which is characteristic
of the fox-hound. A party of gentlemanlike-looking
men from the Castle, admirably mounted, followed close
upon the hounds; but my eye sought in vain amongst the
troop for the well-known form in its close-fitting riding-habit,
which was beginning to take up far too much of my
attention. The tinge of disappointment I experienced was,
however, rapidly cured by a conversation I happened to
overhear between young Plumtree and a double-distilled
dandy from the Castle, riding a conspicuous white horse.

The “Jovial,” whose shattered nerves could not brook
suspense as well as mine, addressing the elaborate exquisite
by the familiar abbreviation of “Pop” (his real name was
Popham Algernon Adolphus Evergreen, so it <i>did</i> come
shorter to call him “Pop”), asked him point-blank,
“What they had done with the rest of the party?” to
which “Pop” after a vague stare, and an effort to remember
where he was, replied, “Party?—Oh!—Aw!—Yes.
Some of the fellows were late, and went on at once to the
Gorse. Emperor won’t like it (meaning the Earl); but
daren’t blow up, because The Slasher’s gone on with ’em.”

“The Slasher?” exclaimed Plumtree, turning very red
and forgetting in his indignation to be either slang or cool,
“Who the devil do you call The Slasher?”

“Pop” gathered his wits together once more, and replied
imperturbably, “Oh, The Slasher, you know—that Miss
Merlin, you know. It’s a name Bight gave her, you know.
I’m sure I don’t know why; but he’s a devilish clever
fellow, Bight, so they say. It wouldn’t be a bad name for
a horse, would it?”

“Pop” relapsing into a brown study at this juncture, it
was impossible to get anything more satisfactory out of that
priceless piece of porcelain-ware; and the “Jovial,” blowing
.bn 338.png
.pn +1
off his indignation in clouds of cigar-smoke, trotted on to
have a look at the hounds, young Evergreen running his eye
over myself and horse with a supercilious stare that, in my
opinion, did no credit to his good manners. A leading
duchess, however, in London, had stated her opinion that
“Lady Evergreen’s boy was the best-dressed and the most
impudent young one of his year;” so “Pop” was very
much the fashion in consequence.

A little wide of the hounds, in order to do no mischief,
and a little clear of the horses, lest the four-year-old should
prove too handy with his heels, I observe my former
acquaintance Tips, the rough-rider, in the full glory of his
profession. He had so completely singled himself out from
the crowd, that he could not but attract attention. Rather
neater in his dress than when I had seen him last, and with
a clean white neckcloth of clerical proportions, Mr. Tips sat
down in the saddle as no man but a professional horse-breaker
ever <i>does</i> sit—an attitude only to be acquired by
the habit of keeping constantly on his guard against the
agreeable varieties of rearing, kicking, plunging, turning
round, and lying down, adopted by a thoroughly refractory
pupil when his “dander” is up. Tips, prepared for any
or all of these vagaries at a moment’s notice, kept his knees
well forward, his feet home in the stirrups, his hands apart,
holding the reins rather long, for he likes, he says, “to
give them plenty of rope” when they begin throwing their
heads about, and his short sturdy cutting whip ready in his
right.

To-day, however, these precautionary measures seemed
merely to arise from the force of habit, as the animal he
was riding—a lengthy good-looking brown, on short legs,
with long low shoulders, a long coat, a long head, and a
long tail—looked as docile and good-tempered a four-year-old
as ever was crossed, and played with its rusty bit,
attached, as a horse-breaker’s bit always is, to the most
insecure-looking and weather-beaten of bridles, with a good-humoured
cheerfulness calculated to inspire the utmost
confidence in its rider.

“You’ve got a pleasanter mount than usual to-day, Mr.
Tips,” I remarked, coming alongside of him; whereat the
four-year-old tucked its long tail in, and gave a playful
.bn 339.png
.pn +1
kick or two, snorting the while in pure gaiety of heart.
“Are you going to make a hunter of him, or have you only
brought him out for exercise?”

Mr. Tips dived towards his fully-occupied hands with his
head, as the nearest approach he could afford towards touching
his hat.

“Never seen hounds till to-day, sir,” he replied. “Sweet
young horse he is, sir, as ever looked through a bridle; a
kind animal, too, both in the stable and out; as mild as a
milch cow, and as handy as a ladies’-maid.”

Just then the object of our joint praises, startled, pardonably
enough, by a tinker’s caravan that had taken up a conspicuous
position on the Green, shied violently away from
the alarming object, and did not recover its equanimity
without a succession of bounds and plunges, such as would
have unseated most men ignominiously, but which produced
no perceptible effect on the demeanour of the experienced
Tips, his affability only becoming, if possible, more conspicuous
than before.

Lost in admiration of my companion’s skill—for I confess
to a great weakness for real finished horsemanship such
as in my own person I have never yet been able to acquire—and
taken up with the movements of the young horse and
the conversation of its rider, I had not remarked that we
had let the hounds slip on so far ahead as to find ourselves
a long way behind the whole moving cavalcade, proceeding
leisurely towards the gorse. An exclamation from Mr. Tips
roused me to the true state of affairs.

“Best shog on a little, sir,” said he, with a sparkle of
excitement in his eye. “Blessed if they haven’t reached
the covert already! and are putting in. There’s a short
cut; this way, Mr. Softly, if you’ll be so good as follow
me.”

With these words, Tips thrust open an awkward hand-gate,
the young one pushing it with his chest, as I felt convinced
at the time, far more handily than Tipple Cider would
have done, and entered a low swampy pasture patched with
rushes, and stretching right away to the further end of the
gorse from that where the hounds were put in. Shutting
my eyes to the great probability there was of our heading
the fox, and resolving to shut my ears to the expostulations
.bn 340.png
.pn +1
that would too surely accompany such a catastrophe, I followed
my leader along the pasture, rather in a state of nervous
trepidation, in no measure soothed by the view I now
obtained of the assembled field, amongst whom I had no
difficulty in recognising the well-known riding-habit.

Tips sitting down in the saddle, put the four-year-old
into a lurching awkward kind of gallop, and I followed him
at a venture, Tipple Cider raking and snatching at his bridle
in disagreeable exuberance of spirits, as if he were rather
short of work.

There was a low rail at the extremity of the pasture, fortifying
what had once been a gap into the covert itself, a
shelter I was most anxious to reach before the eagle-eye of
the Earl could spy me out in so untoward a position. I
had already made up my mind for a considerable <i>détour</i>
which would bring me to a friendly hand-gate (I hate the
foolish practice of jumping when hounds are not running),
when I saw Tips charge this said rail with the utmost coolness;
the four-year-old resenting such an unnecessary
demonstration, by turning short round, and kicking out
violently at the offending timber.

“Give us a lead, Mr. Softly, if it isn’t taking too great a
liberty,” said Tips, as quietly as if this cool request were
the most natural thing in the world; adding, as a clinching
argument, “<i>You’ve</i> on a hunter, <i>I know</i>.”

The rail, though not high, was strong and ugly. There
was a nasty deep blind ditch on the taking-off side, and
nothing but gorse-bushes to land in. I did not seem to care
much about entering the covert at this point; but whilst I
was deliberating the matter in my own mind, and Tipple
Cider was doing all he could to get at the rail, tail first or
anyhow, a horn resounded from the opposite side of the
covert; the music of the hounds running, which had greeted
us ever since we got within ear-shot, suddenly ceased:
though I could see nothing of them, I could distinctly hear
the rush of horses galloping up the adjacent pasture. It
was evident they had gone away; and equally incontestable
that we had lost our start. Tips blazed up into excitement
at once; he made no more ado, but caught the four-year-old
short by the head, rammed both spurs in, and, notwithstanding
an abortive kick or two, forced him over the rail, striking
.bn 341.png
.pn +1
it hard with fore and hind legs. Tipple Cider, fired
with emulation, took the bit in his teeth, and had me over
it, clear and clean, before I was aware. The next instant,
leaping and plunging through the gorse-bushes, I was following
Tips at the best pace I could muster, to get after
the hounds.

My blood rose with the motion, my horse dropped to his
bit, my pilot chose an easy, though devious path; if everything
had gone right, I think at that moment I could have
ridden fairly and boldly enough.

As we rounded the slight acclivity on which the gorse was
planted, a beautiful panorama was spread out before us.
Already two fields ahead, the hounds were running hard,
evidently with a capital scent, followed at different intervals
by the scattering field, all fresh as fire, and every man taking
the place to which he felt his skill and daring entitled him.
Nearest ourselves I recognised Mr. Naggett, striding away
on the mealy chestnut with a great display of enthusiasm
and hard riding, his feet stuck out, his elbows up to his
ears, and his blue coat-tails flying in the wind. He was
diverging, nevertheless, slightly from the line of chase, and
making vigorously for the gate, which old Ike, whose active
feet had already taken him there, was hurriedly unfastening.
Two or three dark coats and the second whip seemed also
inclined to avail themselves of this convenient egress; the
body of the field, however, were charging the fence boldly
(a fair hedge and ditch), making for the places that had been
leaped by their leaders in the first flight. I saw Plumtree
jump it on his steady hunter; but I observed by the way in
which he pulled the old horse out of his stride, upsetting the
equanimity even of that experienced animal, that his nerves
were by no means up to the mark. The Earl and Will
Hawke, a hundred yards or so ahead of these, were close to
the hounds. “Pop,” too, on the white horse, had got a
capital start, and was blazing away as if he had a second
horse in every field, and a spare neck in his pocket. Rather
in front of him, and alongside the hounds, rode the dauntless
Miss Merlin, sailing away on “Lady-Killer.” I recognised
his long swish-tail even at that distance; taking everything
as it came in his stride, and diverging neither to right nor
left.
.bn 342.png
.pn +1

Even at the pace I was going, my heart beat faster at the
sight. If such were wanting, this was indeed an additional
inducement to catch them at any price. I caught hold of
Tipple Cider’s head, and for a few resolute minutes I do
believe the deluded animal thought he had got a regular
“out-and-outer” on his back.

The hounds bent somewhat to the right. Tips, who had
an eye like a hawk, perceived it in a moment; and turning
round on the saddle, good-naturedly motioned me to follow
him. By diverging a little, we got upon a succession of
sound headlands, with fair easy fences; the hounds kept
turning towards us, and we began to overhaul them rapidly.
Excited as I was, I could not but admire the masterly
manner in which the rough-rider handled the young one at
his leaps. We were getting on gloriously. The first flight,
including Miss Merlin, although a couple of fields distant,
were scarcely nearer the hounds than ourselves. I rejoiced
to think that I should drop amongst them, as it were, from
the clouds, and assume my place in the front rank.

A momentary hesitation, another down-wind turn of the
hounds, and there was but one fence between ourselves and
the pack. My leader charged it resolutely; I prepared to
follow him. It was an ugly place—a downhill gallop at it,
a high straggling fence, sedgy banks, and something that
was more of a watercourse than a ditch running on the far
side. Tips was as eager as a glutton, but the young one’s
heart failed him the last stride; and, although his rider had
him in such a grasp that he could not refuse, the powder
was out of him, and he jumped short, dropping his hind legs,
and rolling into the next field. Tips was hardly clear of his
horse before he was on him again; and I do not believe he
lost half-a-dozen strides by the fall. Why did I not follow?
My heart failed me. I thought it would be rash to go where
another horse had fallen, though I had seen exactly how it
happened; and Tipple Cider was shaking his head, as much
as to say, “Why won’t you let me have a drive?” So <i>I
went to look for another place</i>.

That sentence explains everything. Need I say how,
the further I rode along the fence, the deeper and wider it
became? Need I confess that I was eventually compelled
to creep ignominiously through a gap in a green lane, the
.bn 343.png
.pn +1
disappointed Tipple Cider grinding my leg against a tree and
crushing my hat amongst its branches, in his disgust; or
that I proceeded along this convenient alley as far as it
lasted with renewed hopes, dashed by a bitter sense of
vexation and shame? A stern chase is a long chase, by
land as well as by sea; and there is no process, in my
opinion, so utterly disheartening as that of trying to catch
hounds in a run.

Sometimes I heard their notes, borne by the westerly
breeze in tantalising harmony on my longing ears. Sometimes
I caught sight of a few scattered riders in the distance,
a lot of cattle herded together in a corner, or a flock of sheep
formed up in military line, and not yet recovered from their
panic. I rode on like a man in a dream; minutes seemed
to lengthen themselves into hours, and I was surprised to
find my horse so fresh after such prolonged exertions. At
last, rounding the corner of the well-known Tangler’s Copse,
and speculating vaguely how I should ever cross the Sludge,
supposing the chase to be still forward in the same direction,
I caught a view of the whole assemblage, not a quarter of a
mile off, on the opposite side of the brook. It was obvious
they had killed their fox, after a capital run. Horses were
being led about, men on foot were standing in groups, some
were in the act of remounting—it was probable that the run
had been over some little time. Distinct against the sky
stood out Miss Merlin’s graceful figure, leaning forward to
caress the redoubtable Lady-Killer, who had carried her so
well. In close attendance, I made out the white hunter of
the exquisite “Pop.” I should think that poor beast must
have had enough of it.

I was deliberating in my own mind whether I should not
be fool enough to ride at the Sludge in cold blood, when my
motions were decided for me by a general break-up of the
distant party; Miss Merlin and her attendant cavaliers
taking the direct road for the castle. It was evident she did
not at present mean to return to the Haycock. Moodily and
dejectedly, I too took my homeward way. I was disgusted
with myself—disgusted with hunting—disgusted with life.
I should have liked to know what the hounds had done, too;
but I felt I could not have brooked the good-humoured
curiosity of Mr. Tips, nor the self-sufficient pity of Mr.
.bn 344.png
.pn +1
Naggett, who would be sure to swear he had gone better
than he really did.

Espying these two sportsmen at a turn in the road
gradually overtaking me, I set spurs to Tipple Cider, and
rattled back to the Haycock as fast as I could trot. Arrived
there, I found the dapper groom in marching order, getting
out his horses for a journey. He had received orders that
morning to move them on to Melton; and I have never set
eyes on Miss Merlin from that day to this.
.sp 4
.nf c
<s>UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.</s>
.nf-
.sp 4
.pb
\_
.sp 2
.dv class=tnbox
.ul
.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a\
predominant form was found in this book.
.if t
.it Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
.if-
.ul-
.ul-
.dv-