as the song says; and the loss of Billy’s horse now obtruded on his mind.
“How the deuce it had happened he couldn’t imagine; his man, Wetun,—and there was no better judge—said he seemed perfectly well, and a better stable couldn’t be than the one he was in; indeed he was standing alongside of his own favourite mare, Whimpering Kate,—‘faith, he wished he had told them to take her out, in case it was anything infectious,—only it looked more like internal disease than anything else.—Wished he mightn’t be rotten. The Major was an excellent man,—cute,——” and here he checked himself, recollecting that Billy was going back there on the morrow. “A young man,” continued he, “should be careful who he dealt with, for many what were called highly honourable men were very unscrupulous about horses;” and a sudden thought struck Sir Moses, which, with the aid of another bottle, he thought he might try to carry out. So apportioning the remains of the jug equitably between Billy and himself, he drew the bell, and desired the ticket-of-leave butler to bring in another bottle and a devilled biscuit.
“That wine won’t hurt you,” continued he, addressing our friend, “that wine won’t hurt you, it’s not the nasty loaded stuff they manufacture for the English market, but pure, unadulterated juice of the grape, without a headache in a gallon of it so saying, Sir Moses quaffed off his glass and set it down with evident satisfaction, feeling almost a match for the owner of Tippy Tom. He then moved his chair a little on one side, and resumed his contemplation of the fire,—the blue lights rising among the red,—the gas escaping from the coal,—the clear flame flickering with the draught. He thought he saw his way,—yes, he thought he saw his way, and forthwith prevented any one pirating his ideas, by stirring the fire. Mr. Bankhead then entered with the bottle and the biscuit, and, placing them on the table, withdrew.
“Come, Pringle!” cried Sir Moses cheerfully, seizing the massive cut-glass decanter, “let’s drink the healths of the young ladies at——, you know where,” looking knowingly at our friend, who blushed. “We’ll have a bumper to that,” continued he, pouring himself out one, and passing the bottle to Billy.
“The young ladies at Yammerton Grange!” continued Sir Moses, holding the glass to the now sparkling fire before he transferred its bright ruby-coloured contents to his thick lips. He then quaffed it off with a smack.
“The young ladies at Yammerton Grange!” faltered Billy, after filling himself a bumper.
“Nice girls those, dom’d if they’re not,” observed the Baronet, now breaking the devilled biscuit. “You must take care what you’re about there, though, for the old lady doesn’t stand any nonsense; the Major neither.”
Billy said he wasn’t going to try any on——.
“No—but they’ll try it on with you,” retorted Sir Moses; “mark my words if they don’t.”
“O, but I’m only there for hunting,” observed Billy, timidly.
“I dare say,” replied Sir Moses, with a jerk of his head, “I dare say,—but it’s very agreeable to talk to a pretty girl when you come in, and those are devilish pretty girls, let me tell you,—dom’d if they’re not,—only one talk leads to another talk, and ultimately Mamma talks about a small gold ring.”
Billy was frightened, for he felt the truth of what Sir Moses said. They then sat for some minutes in silence, ruminating on their own affairs,—Billy thinking he would be careful of the girls, and wondering how he could escape Sir Moses’s offer of a bump on the morrow,—Sir Moses thinking he would advance that performance a step. He now led the way.
“You’ll be wanting a horse to go with the Major’s harriers,” observed he; “and I’ve got the very animal for that sort of work; that grey horse of mine, the Lord Mayor, in the five-stalled stable on the right; the safest, steadiest animal ever man got on to; and I’ll make you a present of him, dom’d if I won’t; for I’m more hurt at the loss of yours than words can express; wouldn’t have had such a thing happen at my house on any account; so that’s a bargain, and will make all square; for the grey’s an undeniable good ‘un—worth half-a-dozen of the Major’s—and will do you some credit, for a young man on his preferment should always study appearances, and ride handsome horses; and the grey is one of the handsomest I ever saw. Lord Tootleton, up in Neck-and-crop-shire, who I got him of, gave three ‘under’d for him at the hammer, solely, I believe, on account of his looks, for he had never seen him out except in the ring, which is all my eye, for telling you whether a horse is a hunter or not; but, however, he is a hunter, and no mistake, and you are most heartily welcome to him, dom’d if you’re not; and I’m deuced glad that it occurred to me to give him you, for I shall now sleep quite comfortable; so help yourself, and we’ll drink Foxhunting,” saying which, Sir Moses, who had had about enough wine, filled on a liberal heel-tap, and again passed the bottle to his guest.
Now Billy, who had conned over the matter in his bedroom before dinner, had come to the conclusion that he had had about hunting enough, and that the loss of Napoleon the Great afforded a favourable opportunity for retiring from the chase; indeed, he had got rid of the overpowering Mr. Gaiters on that plan, and he was not disposed to be cajoled into a continuance of the penance by the gift of a horse; so as soon as he could get a word in sideways, he began hammering away at an excuse, thanking Sir Moses most energetically for his liberality, but expressing his inability to accept such a magnificent offer.
Sir Moses, however, who did not believe in any one refusing a gift, adhered pertinaciously to his promise,—“Oh, indeed, he should have him, he wouldn’t be easy if he didn’t take him,” and ringing the bell he desired the footman to tell Wetun to see if Mr. Pringle’s saddle would fit the Lord Mayor, and if it didn’t, to let our friend have one of his in the morning, and “here!” added he, as the man was retiring, “bring in tea.”—And Sir Moses being peremptory in his presents, Billy was compelled to remain under pressure of the horse.—So after a copious libation of tea the couple hugged and separated for the night, Sir Moses exclaiming “Breakfast at nine, mind!” as Billy sauntered up stairs, while the Baronet ran off to his study to calculate what Henerey Brown & Co. had done him out of.
MR. Gallon’s liberality after the race with Mr. Flintoff was so great that Monsieur Rougier was quite overcome with his kindness and had to be put to bed at the last public-house they stopped at, viz.—the sign of the Nightingale on the Ashworth road. Independently of the brandy not being particularly good, Jack took so much of it that he slept the clock round, and it was past nine the next morning ere he awoke. It then took him good twenty minutes to make out where he was; he first of all thought he was at Boulogne, then in Paris, next at the Lord Warden Hotel at Dover, and lastly at the Coal-hole in the Strand.
Presently the recollection of the race began to dawn upon him—the red jacket—the grey horse, Cuddy in distress, and gradually he recalled the general outline of the performance, but he could not fill it up so as to make a connected whole, or to say where he was.
He then looked at his watch, and finding it was half-past four, he concluded it had stopped,—an opinion that was confirmed on holding it to his ear; so without more ado, he bounded out of bed in a way that nearly sent him through the gaping boards of the dry-rotting floor of the little attic in which they had laid him. He then made his way to the roof-raised window to see what was outside. A fine wet muddy road shone below him, along which a straw-cart was rolling; beyond the road was a pasture, then a turnip field; after which came a succession of green, brown, and drab fields, alternating and undulating away to the horizon, varied with here and there a belt or tuft of wood. Jack was no wiser than he was, but hearing sounds below, he made for the door, and opening the little flimsy barrier stood listening like a terrier with its ear at a rat-hole. These were female voices, and he thus addressed them—“I say, who’s there? Theodosia, my dear,” continued he, speaking down stairs, “vot’s de time o’ day, my sweet?”
The lady thus addressed as Theodosia was Mrs. Windybank, a very forbidding tiger-faced looking woman, desperately pitted with the small-pox, who was not in the best of humours in consequence of the cat having got to the cream-bowl; so all the answer she made to Jack’s polite enquiry was, “Most ten.”
“Most ten!” repeated Jack, “most ten! how the doose can that be?”
“It is hooiver,” replied she, adding, “you may look if you like.”
“No, my dear, I’ll take your word for it,” replied Jack; “but tell me, Susannah,” continued he, “whose house is this I’m at?”
“Whose house is’t?” replied the voice; “whose house is’t? why, Jonathan Windybank’s—you knar that as well as I do.”
“De lady’s not pleasant,” muttered Jack to himself; so returning into the room, he began to array himself in his yesterday’s garments, Mr. Gallon’s boots and leathers, his own coat with Finlater’s cap, in which he presently came creaking down stairs and confronted the beauty with whom he had had the flying colloquy. The interview not being at all to her advantage, and as she totally denied all knowledge of Pangburn Park, and “de great Baronet vot kept the spotted dogs,” Monsieur set off on foot to seek it; and after divers askings, mistakings, and deviations, he at length arrived on Rossington hill just as the servants’ hall dinner-bell was ringing, the walk being much to the detriment of Mr. Gallon’s boots.
In consequence of Monsieur’s laches, as the lawyers would say, Mr. Pringle was thrown on the resources of the house the next morning; but Sir Moses being determined to carry out his intention with regard to the horse, sent the footman to remind Billy that he was going to hunt, and to get him his things if required. So our friend was obliged to adorn for the chase instead of retiring from further exertion in that line as he intended; and with the aid of the footman he made a very satisfactory toilette,—his smart scarlet, a buff vest, a green cravat, correct shirt-collar, with unimpeachable leathers and boots.
Though this was the make-believe day of the week, Sir Moses was all hurry and bustle as usual, and greeted our hero as he came down stairs with the greatest enthusiasm, promising, of all things in the world! to show him a run.
“Now bring breakfast! bring breakfast!” continued he, as if they had got twenty miles to go to cover; and in came urn and eggs, and ham, and cakes, and tongue, and toast, and buns, all the concomitants of the meal.—At it Sir Moses went as if he had only ten minutes to eat it in, inviting his guest to fall-to also.
Just as they were in the midst of the meal a horse was heard to snort outside, and on looking up the great Lord Mayor was seen passing up the Park.
“Ah, there’s your horse!” exclaimed Sir Moses, “there’s your horse! been down to the shop to get his shoes looked to,” though in reality Sir Moses had told the groom to do just what he was doing, viz.—to pass him before the house at breakfast-time without his clothing.
The Lord Mayor was indeed a sort of horse that a youngster might well be taken in with, grey, with a beautiful head and neck, and an elegantly set-on tail. He stepped out freely and gaily, and looked as lively as a lark.
He was, however, as great an impostor as Napoleon the Great; for, independently of being troubled with the Megrims, he was a shocking bad hack, and a very few fields shut him up as a hunter.
“Well now,” said Sir Moses, pausing in his meal, with the uplifted knife and fork of admiration, “that, to my mind, is the handsomest horse in the country,—I don’t care where the next handsomest is.—Just look at his figure, just look at his action.—Did you ever see anything so elegant? To my mind he’s as near perfection as possible, and what’s more, he’s as good as he looks, and all I’ve got to say is, that you are most heartily welcome to him.”
“O, thank’e,” replied Billy, “thank’e, but I couldn’t think of accepting him,—I couldn’t think of accepting him indeed.”
“O, but you shall,” said Sir Moses, resuming his eating, “O but you shall, so there’s an end of the matter.—And now have some more tea,” whereupon he proceeded to charge Billy’s cup in the awkward sort of way men generally do when they meddle with the tea-pot.
Sir Moses, having now devoured his own meal, ran off to his study, telling Billy he would call him when it was time to go, and our friend proceeded to dandle and saunter, and think what he would do with his gift horse. He was certainly a handsome one—handsomer than Napoleon, and grey was a smarter colour than bay—might not be quite so convenient for riding across country on, seeing the color was conspicuous, but for a hot day in the Park nothing could be more cool or delightful. And he thought it was extremely handsome of Sir Moses giving it to him, more, he felt, than nine-tenths of the people in the world would have done.
Our friend’s reverie was presently interrupted by Sir Moses darting back, pen and paper in hand, exclaiming, “I’ll tell ye what, my dear Pringle! I’ll tell ye what! there shall be no obligation, and you shall give me fifty puns for the grey and pay for him when you please. But mark me!” added he, holding up his forefinger and looking most scrutinisingly at our friend, “Only on one condition, mind! only on one condition, mind! that you give me the refusal of him if ever you want to part with him;” and without waiting for an answer, he placed the paper before our friend, and handing him the pen, said, “There, then, sign that I. O. U.” And Billy having signed it, Sir Moses snatched it up and disappeared, leaving our friend to a renewal of his cogitations.
Sir Moses having accomplished the grand “do,” next thought he would back out of the loan of the dog-cart. For this purpose he again came hurrying back, pen in hand, exclaiming, “Oh dear, he was so sorry, but it had just occurred to him that he wanted the mare to go to Lord Lundyfoote’s; however, I’ll make it all square, I’ll make it all square,” continued he; “I’ll tell Jenkins, the postman, to send a fly as soon as he gets to Hinton, which, I make no doubt, will be here by the time we come in from hunting, and it will take you and your traps all snug and comfortable; for a dog-cart, after all, is but a chilly concern at this time of year, and I shouldn’t like you to catch cold going from my house;” and without waiting for an answer, he pulled-to the door and hurried back to his den. Billy shook his head, for he didn’t like being put off that way, and muttered to himself, “I wonder who’ll pay for it though.” However, on reflection, he thought perhaps he would be as comfortable in a fly as finding his way across country on horseback; and as he had now ascertained that Monsieur could ride, whether or not he could drive, he settled that he might just as well take the grey to Yammerton Grange as not. This then threw him back on his position with regard to the horse, which was not so favourable as it at first appeared; indeed, he questioned whether he had done wisely in signing the paper, his Mamma having always cautioned him to be careful how he put his name to anything. Still, he felt he couldn’t have got off without offending Sir Moses; and after all, it was more like a loan than a sale, seeing that he had not paid for him, and Sir Moses would take him back if he liked. Altogether he thought he might be worse off, and, considering that Lord Tootleton had given three hundred for the horse, he certainly must be worth fifty. There is nothing so deceiving as price. Only tell a youngster that a horse has cost a large sum, and he immediately looks at him, while he would pass him by if he stood at a low figure. Having belonged to a lord, too, made him so much more acceptable to Billy.
A loud crack of a whip, accompanied by a “Now, Pringle!” presently resounded through the house, and our friend again found himself called upon to engage in an act of horsemanship.
“Coming!” cried he, starting from the little mirror above the scanty grey marble mantel-piece, in which he was contemplating his moustachios; “Coming!” and away he strode, with the desperate energy of a man bent on braving the worst. His cap, whip, gloves, and mits, were all laid ready for him on the entrance hall-table; and seizing them in a cluster, he proceeded to decorate himself as he followed Sir Moses along the intricate passages leading to the stable-yard.
SATURDAY is a very different day in the country to what it is in London. In London it is the lazy day of the week, whereas it is the busy one in the country. It is marked in London by the coming of the clean-linen carts, and the hurrying about of Hansoms with gentlemen with umbrellas and small carpet-bags, going to the steamers and stations for pleasure; whereas in the country everybody is off to the parliament of his local capital on business. All the markets in Hit-im and Hold-im shire were held on a Saturday, and several in Featherbedfordshire; and as everybody who has nothing to do is always extremely busy, great gatherings were the result. This circumstance made Sir Moses hit upon Saturday for his fourth, or make-believe day with the hounds, inasmuch as few people would be likely to come, and if they did, he knew how to get rid of them. The consequence was, that the court-yard at Pangburn Park exhibited a very different appearance, on this occasion, to what it would have done had the hounds met there on any other day of the week. Two red coats only, and those very shabby ones, with very shady horses under them—viz., young Mr. Billikins of Red Hill Lodge, and his cousin Captain Luff of the navy (the latter out for the first time in his life), were all that greeted our sportsmen; the rest of the field being attired in shooting-jackets, tweeds, antigropolos and other anti-fox-hunting looking things.
“Good morning, gentlemen! good morning!” cried Sir Moses, waving his hand from the steps at the promiscuous throng; and without condescending to particularise any one, he hurried across for his horse, followed by our friend. Sir Moses was going to ride Old Jack, one of the horses he had spoken of for Billy, a venerable brown, of whose age no one’s memory about the place supplied any information—though when he first came all the then wiseacres prophesied a speedy decline. Still Old Jack had gone on from season to season, never apparently getting older, and now looking as likely to go on as ever. The old fellow having come pottering out of the stable and couched to his load, the great Lord Mayor came darting forward as if anxious for the fray. “It’s your saddle, sir,” said Wetun, touching his forehead with his finger, as he held on by the stirrup for Billy to mount. Up then went our friend into the old seat of suffering. “There!” exclaimed Sir Moses, as he got his feet settled in the stirrups; “there, you do look well! If Miss ‘um’ sees you,” continued he, with a knowing wink, “it’ll be all over with you;” so saying, Sir Moses touched Old Jack gently with the spur, and proceeded to the slope of the park, where Findlater and the whips now had the hounds.
Tom Findlater, as we said before, was an excellent huntsman, but he had his peculiarities, and in addition to that of getting drunk, he sometimes required to be managed by the rule of contrary, and made to believe that Sir Moses wanted him to do the very reverse of what he really did. Having been refused leave to go to Cleaver the butcher’s christening-supper at the sign of the Shoulder of Mutton, at Kimberley, Sir Moses anticipated that this would be one of his perverse days, and so he began taking measures accordingly.
“Good morning, Tom,” said he, as huntsman and whips now sky-scraped to his advance—“morning all of you,” added he, waving a general salute to the hound-encircling group.
“Now, Tom,” said he, pulling up and fumbling at his horn, “I’ve been telling Mr. Pringle that we’ll get him a gallop so as to enable him to arrive at Yammerton Grange before dark.”
“Yes, Sir Moses,” replied Tom, with a rap of his cap-peak, thinking he would take very good care that he didn’t.
“Now whether will Briarey Banks or the Reddish Warren be the likeliest place for a find?”
“Neither, Sir Moses, neither,” replied Tom confidently, “Tipthorne’s the place for us.”
This was just what Sir Moses wanted.
“Tipthorne, you think, do you?” replied he, musingly. “Tipthorne, you think—well, and where next?”
“Shillington, Sir Moses, and Halstead Hill, and so on to Hatchington Wood.”
“Good!” replied the Baronet, “Good!” adding, “then let’s be going.”
At a whistle and a waive of his hand the watchful hounds darted up, and Tom taking the lead, the mixed cavalcade swept after them over the now yellow-grassed park in a north-easterly direction, Captain Luff working his screw as if he were bent on treading on the hounds’ stems.
There being no one out to whom Sir Moses felt there would be any profitable investment of attention, he devoted himself to our hero, complimenting him on his appearance, and on the gallant bearing of his steed, declaring that of all the neat horses he had ever set eyes on the Lord Mayor was out-and-out the neatest. So with compliments to Billy, and muttered “cusses” at Luff, they trotted down Oxclose Lane, through the little village of Homerton, past Dewfield Lawn, over Waybridge Common, shirking Upwood toll-bar, and down Cornforth Bank to Burford, when Tipthorne stood before them. It was a round Billesdon Coplow-like hill, covered with stunted oaks, and a nice warm lying gorse sloping away to the south; but Mr. Tadpole’s keeper having the rabbits, he was seldom out of it, and it was of little use looking there for a fox.
That being the case, of course it was more necessary to make a great pretension, so halting noiselessly behind the high red-berried hedge, dividing the pasture from the gorse, Tom despatched his whips to their points, and then touching his cap to Sir Moses, said, “P’raps Mr. Pringle would like to ride in and see him find.”
“Ah, to be sure,” replied Sir Moses, “let’s both go in,” whereupon Tom opened the bridle-gate, and away went the hounds with a dash that as good as said if we don’t get a fox we’ll get a rabbit at all events.
“A fox for a guinea!” cried Findlater, cheering them, and looking at his watch as if he had him up already. “A fox for a guinea!” repeated he, thinking how nicely he was selling his master.
“Keep your eye on this side,” cried Sir Moses to Billy. “he’ll cross directly!” Terrible announcement. How our friend did quake.
“Yap, yap, yap,” now went the shrill note of Tartar, the tarrier, “Yough, yough, yough” followed the deep tone of young Venturesome, close in pursuit of a bunny.
“Crack!” went a heavy whip, echoing through the air and resounding at the back of the hill.
All again was still, and Tom advanced up the cover, standing erect in his stirrups, looking as if half-inclined to believe it was a fox after all.
“Eloo in! Eloo in!” cried he, capping Talisman and Wonderful across. “Yoicks wind ‘im! yoicks push him up!” continued he, thinking what a wonderful performance it would be if they did find.
“Squeak, yap, yell, squeak,” now went the well-known sound of a hound in a trap. It is Labourer, and a whip goes diving into the sea of gorse to the rescue.
“Oh, dom those traps,” cries Sir Moses, as the clamour ceases, adding, “no fox here, I told you so,” adding, “should have gone to the Warren.”
He then took out his box-wood horn and stopped the performance by a most discordant blast. The hounds came slinking out to the summons, some of them licking their lips as if they had not been there altogether for nothing.
“Where to, now, please Sir Moses?” asked Tom, with a touch of his cap, as soon as he had got them all out.
“Tally-ho!” cries Captain Luff, in a most stentorian strain—adding immediately, “Oh no! I’m mistaken, It’s a hare!” as half the hounds break away to his cry.
“Oh, dom you and your noise,” cries Sir Moses, in well-feigned disgust, adding—“Why don’t you put your spectacles on?”
Luff looks foolish, for he doesn’t know what to say, and the excitement dies out in a laugh at the Captain’s expense.
“Where to, now, please, Sir Moses?” again asks Tom, chuckling at his master’s displeasure, and thinking how much better it would have been if he had let him go to the supper.
“Where you please,” growled the Baronet, scowling at Luff’s nasty rusty Napoleons—“where you please, you said Shillington, didn’t you—anywhere, only let us find a fox,” added he, as if he really wanted one.
Tom then got his horse short by the head, and shouldering his whip, trotted off briskly, as if bent on retrieving the day. So he went through the little hamlet of Hawkesworth over Dippingham water meadows, bringing Blobbington mill-race into the line, much to Billy’s discomfiture, and then along the Hinton and London turnpike to the sign of the Plough at the blacksmith’s shop at Shillington.
The gorse was within a stone’s throw of the “Public,” so Luff and some of the thirsty ones pulled up to wet their whistles and light the clay pipes of gentility.
The gorse was very open, and the hounds ran through it almost before the sots had settled what they would have, and there being a bye-road at the far end, leading by a slight détour to Halstead Hill, Sir Moses hurried them out, thinking to shake off some of them by a trot. They therefore slipped away with scarcely a crack of the whip, let alone the twang of a horn.
“Bad work this,” said Sir Moses, spurring and reining up alongside of Billy, “bad work this; that huntsman of mine,” added he, in an under tone, “is the most obstinate fool under the sun, and let me give you a bit of advice,” continued he, laying hold of our friend’s arm, as if to enforce it. “If ever you keep hounds, always give orders and never ask opinions. Now, Mister Findlater!” hallooed he, to the bobbing cap in advance, “Now, Mister Findlater! you’re well called Findlater, by Jove, for I think you’ll never find at all. Halstead Hill, I suppose, next?”
“Yes, Sir Moses,” replied Tom, with a half-touch of his cap, putting on a little faster, to get away, as he thought, from the spray of his master’s wrath. And so with this comfortable game at cross purposes, master and servant passed over what is still called Lingfield common (though it now grows turnips instead of gorse), and leaving Cherry-trees Windmill to the left, sunk the hill at Drovers’ Heath, and crossing the bridge at the Wellingburn, the undulating form of Halstead Hill stood full before them. Tom then pulled up into a walk, and contemplated the rugged intricacies of its craggy bush-dotted face.
“If there’s a fox in the country one would think he’d be here,” observed he, in a general sort of way, well knowing that Mr. Testyfield’s keeper took better care of them than that. “Gently hurrying!” hallooed he, now cracking his whip as the hounds pricked their ears, and seemed inclined to break away to an outburst of children from the village school below.
Tom then took the hounds to the east end of the hill, where the lying began, and drew them along the face of it with the usual result, “Nil.” Not even a rabbit.
“Well, that’s queer,” said he, with well feigned chagrin, as Pillager, Petulant, and Ravager appeared on the bare ground to the west, leading out the rest of the pack on their lines. They were all presently clustering in view again. A slight twang of the horn brought them pouring down to the hill to our obstinate huntsman just as Captain Luff and Co. hove in sight on the Wellingburn Bridge, riding as boldly as refreshed gentlemen generally do.
There was nothing for it then but Hatchington Wood, with its deep holding rides and interminable extent.
There is a Hatchington Wood in every hunt, wild inhospitable looking thickets, that seem as if they never knew an owner’s care, where men light their cigars and gather in groups, well knowing that whatever sport the hounds may have, theirs is over for the day. Places in which a man may gallop his horse’s tail off, and not hear or see half as much as those do who sit still.
Into it Tom now cheered his hounds, again thinking how much better it would have been if Sir Moses had let him go to the supper. “Cover hoick! Cover hoick!” cheered he to his hounds, as they came to the rickety old gate. “I wouldn’t ha’ got drunk,” added he to himself. “Yoi, wind him! Yoi, rouse him, my boys! what ‘arm could it do him, my going, I wonders?” continued he to himself. “Yoi, try for him, Desp’rate, good lass! Desp’rate bad job my not gettin’, I know,” added he, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand; and so with cheers to his hounds and commentaries on Sir Moses’s mean conduct, the huntsman proceeded from ride to road and from road to ride, varied with occasional dives into the fern and the rough, to exhort and encourage his hounds to rout out a fox; not that he cared much now whether he found one or not, for the cover had long existed on the reputation of a run that took place twelve years before, and it was not likely that a place so circumstanced would depart from its usual course on that day.
There is nothing certain, however, about a fox-hunt, but uncertainty; the worst-favoured days sometimes proving the best, and the best-favoured ones sometimes proving the worst. We dare say, if our sporting readers would ransack their memories, they will find that most of their best days have been on unpromising ones. So it was on the present occasion, only no one saw the run but Tom and the first whip. Coming suddenly upon a fine travelling fox, at the far corner of the cover, they slipped away with him down wind, and had a bona fide five and thirty minutes, with a kill, in Lord Ladythorne’s country, within two fields of his famous gorse cover, at Cockmere.
“Ord! rot ye, but ye should ha’ seen that, if you’d let me go to the supper,” cried Tom, as he threw himself off his lathered tail-quivering horse to pick up his fox, adding, “I knows when to blow the horn and when not.”
Meanwhile Sir Moses, having got into a wrangle with Jacky Phillips about the price of a pig, sate on his accustomed place on the rising ground by the old tumble-down farm-buildings, wrangling, and haggling, and declaring it was a “do.” In the midst of his vehemence, Robin Snowball’s camp of roystering, tinkering besom-makers came hattering past; and Robin, having a contract with Sir Moses for dog horses, gave his ass a forwarding bang, and ran up to inform his patron that “the hunds had gone away through Piercefield plantins iver see lang since:”—a fact that Robin was well aware of, having been stealing besom-shanks in them at the time.
“Oh, the devil!” shrieked Sir Moses, as if he was shot. “Oh, the devil!” continued he, wringing his hands, thinking how Tom would be bucketing Crusader now that he was out of sight; and catching up his horse, he stuck spurs in his sides, and went clattering up the stony cross-road to the west, as hard as ever the old Jack could lay legs to the ground, thinking what a wigging he would give Tom if he caught him.
“Hark!” continued he, pulling short up across the road, and nearly shooting Billy into his pocket with the jerk of his suddenly stopped horse, “Hark!” repeated he, holding up his hand, “Isn’t that the horn?”
“Oh, dom it! it’s Parker, the postman,” added he,—“what business has the beggar to make such a row!” for, like all noisy people, Sir Moses had no idea of anybody making a noise but himself. He then set his horse agoing again, and was presently standing in his stirrups, tearing up the wretched, starvation, weed-grown ground outside the cover.
Having gained a sufficient elevation, he again pulled up, and turning short round, began surveying the country. All was quiet and tranquil. The cattle had their heads to the ground, the sheep were scattered freely over the fields, and the teams were going lazily over the clover-lays, leaving shiny furrows behind them.
“Well, that’s a sell, at all events!” said he, dropping his reins. “Be b’und to say they are right into the heart of Featherbedfordshire by this time,—most likely at Upton Moss in Woodberry Yale,—as fine a country as ever man crossed,—and to think that that wretched deluded man has it all to himself!—I’d draw and quarter him if I had him, dom’d if I wouldn’t,” added Sir Moses, cutting frantically at the air with his thong-gathered whip.
Our friend Billy, on the other hand, was all ease and composure. He had escaped the greatest punishment that could befall him, and was so clean and comfortable, that he resolved to surprise his fair friends at Yammerton Grange in his pink, instead of changing as he intended.
Sir Moses, having strained his eye-balls about the country in vain, at length dropped down in his saddle, and addressing the few darkly-clad horsemen around him with, “Well, gentlemen, I’m afraid it’s all over for the day,” adding, “Come, Pringle, let us be going,” he poked his way past them, and was presently retracing his steps through the wood, picking up a lost hound or two as he went. And still he was so loth to give it up, that he took Forester Hill in his way, to try if he could see anything of them; but it was all calm and blank as before; and at length he reached Pangburn Park in a very discontented mood.
In the court-yard stood the green fly that had to convey our friend back to fairy-land, away from the red coats, silk jackets and other the persecutions of pleasure, to the peaceful repose of the Major and his “haryers.” Sir Moses looked at it with satisfaction, for he had had as much of our friend’s society as he required, and did not know that he could “do” him much more if he had him a month; so if he could now only get clear of Monsieur without paying him, that was all he required.
Jack, however, was on the alert, and appeared on the back-steps as Sir Moses dismounted; nor did his rapid dive into the stable avail him, for Jack headed him as he emerged at the other end, with a hoist of his hat, and a “Bon jour, Sare Moses, Baronet!”
“Ah, Monsieur, comment vous portez-vous?” replied the Baronet, shying off, with a keep-your-distance sort of waive of the hand.
Jack, however, was not to be put off that way, and following briskly up, he refreshed Sir Moses’s memory with, “Pund, I beat Cuddy, old cock, to de clomp; ten franc—ten shillin’—I get over de brook; thirty shillin’ in all, Sare Moses, Baronet,” holding out his hand for the money.
“Oh, ah, true,” replied Sir Moses, pretending to recollect the bets, adding, “If you can give me change of a fifty-pun note, I can pay ye,” producing a nice clean one from his pocket-book that he always kept ready for cases of emergency like the present.
“Fifty-pun note, Sare Moses!” replied Jack, eyeing it. “Fifty-pun note! I ‘ave not got such an astonishin’ som about me at present,” feeling his pockets as he spoke; “bot I vill seek change, if you please.”
“Why, no,” replied Sir Moses, thinking he had better not part with the decoy-duck. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, though,” continued he, restoring it to its case; “I’ll send you a post-office order for the amount, or pay it to your friend, Mr. Gallon, whichever you prefer.”
“Vell, Sir Moses, Baronet,” replied Jack, considering, “I think de leetle post-office order vill be de most digestible vay of squarin’ matters.”
“Va-a-ry good,” cried Sir Moses, “Va-a-ry good. I’ll send you one, then,” and darting at a door in the wall, he slipped through it, and shot the bolt between Jack and himself.
And our hero, having recruited nature with lunch, and arranged with Jack for riding his horse, presently took leave of his most hospitable host, and entered the fly that was to convey him back to Yammerton Grange. And having cast himself into its ill-stuffed hold he rumbled and jolted across country in the careless, independent sort of way that a man does who has only a temporary interest in the vehicle, easy whether he was upset or not. Let us now anticipate his arrival by transferring our imaginations to Yammerton Grange.
IT is all very well for people to affect the magnificent, to give general invitations, and say “Come whenever it suits you; we shall always be happy to see you,” and so on; but somehow it is seldom safe to take them at their word. How many houses has the reader to which he can ride or drive up with the certainty of not putting people “out,” as the saying is. If there is a running account of company going on, it is all very well; another man more or less is neither here nor there; but if it should happen to be one of those solemn lulls that intervene between one set of guests going and another coming, denoted by the wide-apart napkins seen by a side glance as he passes the dining-room window, then it is not a safe speculation. At all events, a little notice is better, save, perhaps, among fox-hunters, who care less for appearances than other people.
It was Saturday, as we said before, and our friend the Major had finished his week’s work:—paid his labourers, handled the heifers that had left him so in the lurch, counted the sheep, given out the corn, ordered the carriage for church in case it kept dry, and as day closed had come into the house, and exchanged his thick shoes for old worsted worked slippers, and cast himself into a semicircular chair in the druggeted drawing-room to wile away one of those long winter evenings that seem so impossible in the enduring length of a summer day, with that best of all papers, the “Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald.” The local paper is the paper for the country gentleman, just as the “Times” is the paper for the Londoner. The “Times” may span the globe, tell what is doing at Delhi and New York, France, Utah, Prussia, Spain, Ireland, and the Mauritius; but the paper that tells the squire of the flocks and herds, the hills and dales, the births and disasters of his native district, is the paper for his money. So it was with our friend the Major. He enjoyed tearing the half-printed halfwritten envelope off his “Herald,” and holding its damp sides to the cheerful fire until he got it as crisp as a Bank of England note, and then, sousing down in his easy chair to enjoy its contents, conscious that no one had anticipated them. How he revelled in the advertisements, and accompanied each announcement with a mental commentary of his own.
We like to see country gentlemen enjoying their local papers.
Ashover farm to let, conjured up recollections of young Mr.
Gosling spurting past in white cords, and his own confident prediction that the thing wouldn’t last.
Burlinson the auctioneer’s assignment for the benefit of his creditors, reminded him of his dogs, and his gun, and his manor, and his airified looks, and drew forth anathemas on Burlinson in particular, and on pretenders in general.
Then Mr. Napier’s announcement that Mr. Draggleton of Rushworth had applied for a loan of four thousand pounds from the Lands Improvement Company for draining, sounded almost like a triumph of the Major’s own principles, Draggleton having long derided the idea of water getting into a two-inch pipe at a depth of four feet, or of draining doing any good.
And the Major chuckled with delight at the thought of seeing the long pent-up water flow in pure continuous streams off the saturated soil, and of the clear, wholesome complexion the land would presently assume. Then the editorial leader on the state of the declining corn markets, and of field operations (cribbed of course from the London papers) drew forth an inward opinion that the best thing for the land-owners would be for corn to keep low and cattle to keep high for the next dozen years or more, and so get the farmers’ minds turned from the precarious culture of corn to the land-improving practice of grazing and cattle-feeding.
And thus the Major sat, deeply immersed in the contents of each page; but as he gradually mastered the cream of their contents, he began to turn to and fro more rapidly; and as the rustling increased, Mrs. Yammerton, who was dying for a sight of the paper, at length ventured to ask if there was anything about the Hunt ball in it.
“Hunt ball!” growled the Major, who was then in the hay and straw market, wondering whether, out of the twenty-seven carts of hay reported to have been at Hinton Market on the previous Saturday, there were any of his tenants there on the sly; “Hunt ball!” repeated he, running the candle up and down the page; “No, there’s nothin’ about it here,” replied he, resuming his reading.
“It’ll be on the front page, my dear,” observed Mrs. Yammerton, “if there is anything.”
“Well, I’ll give it you presently,” replied the Major, resuming his reading; and so he wens on into the wool markets, thence to the potato and hide departments, until at length he found himself floundering among the Holloway Pills, Revalenta Food, and “Sincere act of gratitude,” &c., advertisements; when, turning the paper over with a wisk, and an inward “What do they put such stuff as that in for?” he handed it to his wife: while, John Bull like, he now stood up, airing himself comfortably before the fire.
No sooner was the paper fairly in Mamma’s hands, than there was a general rush of the young ladies to the spot, and four pairs of eyes were eagerly glancing up and down the columns of the front page, all in search of the magical letter “B” for Ball. Education—Fall in Night Lights—Increased Rate of Interest—Money without Sureties—Iron and Brass Bedsteads—Glenfield Starch—Deafness Cured—German Yeast—Insolvent Debtor—Elkington’s Spoons—Boots and Shoes,—but, alas! no Ball.
“Yes, there it is! No it isn’t,” now cried Miss Laura, as her blue eye caught at the heading of Mrs. Bobbinette the milliner’s advertisement, in the low corner of the page, Mrs. Bobbinette, like some of her customers, perhaps, not being a capital payer, and so getting a bad place. Thus it ran—
—Mrs. Bobbinette begs to announce to the ladies her return from Paris, with every novelty in millinery, mantles, embroideries, wreaths, fans, gloves, &c.
“Mrs. Bobbinette be hanged,” growled the Major, who winced under the very name of milliner; “just as much goes to Paris as I do. Last time she was there I know she was never out of Hinton, for Paul Straddler watched her.”
“Well, but she gets very pretty things at all events,” replied Mrs. Yammerton, thinking she would pay her a visit.
“Aye, and a pretty bill she’ll send in for them,” replied the Major.
“Well, my dear, but you must pay for fashion, you know,” rejoined Mamma.
“Pay for fashion! pay for haystacks!” growled the Major; “never saw such balloons as the women make of themselves. S’pose we shall have them as flat as doors next. One extreme always leads to another.”
This discussion was here suddenly interrupted by a hurried “hush!” from Miss Clara, followed by a “hish!” from Miss Flora; and silence being immediately accorded, all ears recognised a rumbling sound outside the house that might have been mistaken for wind, had it not suddenly ceased before the door.
The whole party was paralysed: each drawing breath, reflecting on his or her peculiar position:—Mamma thinking of her drawing-room—Miss, of her hair—Flora, of her sleeves—Harriet, of her shabby shoes—the Major, of his dinner.
The agony of suspense was speedily relieved by the grating of an iron step and a violent pull at the door-bell, producing ejaculations of, “It is, however!”
“Him, to a certainty!” with, “I told you so,—nothing but liver and bacon for dinner,” from the Major; while Mrs. Yammerton, more composed, swept three pair of his grey worsted stockings into the well of the ottoman, and covered the old hearth-rug with a fine new one from the corner, with a noble antlered stag in the centre. The young ladies hurried out of the room, each to make a quick revise of her costume.
The shock to the nervous sensibilities of the household was scarcely less severe than that experienced by the inmates of the parlour; and the driver of the fly was just going to give the bell a second pull, when our friend of the brown coat came, settling himself into his garment, wondering who could be coming at that most extraordinary hour.
“Major at home?” asked our hero, swinging himself out of the vehicle into the passage, and without waiting for an answer, he began divesting himself of his muffin-cap, cashmere shawl, and other wraps.
He was then ready for presentation. Open went the door. “Mr. Pringle!” announced the still-astonished footman, and host and hostess advanced in the friendly emulation of cordiality. They were overjoyed to see him,—as pleased as if they had received a consignment of turtle and there was a haunch of venison roasting before the fire. The young ladies presently came dropping in one by one, each “so astonished to find Mr. Pringle there!” Clara thinking the ring was from Mr. Jinglington, the pianoforte-tuner; Flora, that it was Mr. Tightlace’s curate; while Harriet did not venture upon a white lie at all.
Salutations and expressions of surprise being at length over, the ladies presently turned the weather-conversation upon Pangburn Park, and inquired after the sport with Sir Moses, Billy being in the full glory of his pink and slightly soiled leathers and boots, from which they soon diverged to the Hunt ball, about which they could not have applied to any better authority than our friend. He knew all about it, and poured forth the volume of his information most freely.
Though the Major talked about there being nothing but liver and bacon for dinner, he knew very well that the very fact of there being liver and bacon bespoke that there was plenty of something else in the larder. In fact he had killed a south-down,—not one of your modern muttony-lambs, but an honest, home-fed, four-year-old, with its fine dark meat and rich gravy; in addition to which, there had been some minor murders of ugly Cochin-China fowls,—to say nothing of a hunted hare, hanging by the heels, and several snipes and partridges, suspended by the neck.
It is true, there was no fish, for, despite the railroad, Hit-im and Hold-im shire generally was still badly supplied with fish, but there was the useful substitute of cod-sounds, and some excellent mutton-broth; which latter is often better than half the soups one gets. Altogether there was no cause for despondency; but the Major, having been outvoted on the question of requiring notice of our friend’s return, of course now felt bound to make the worst of the case—especially as the necessary arrangements would considerably retard his dinner, for which he was quite ready. He had, therefore, to smile at his guest, and snarl at his family, at one and the same time.—Delighted to see Mr. Pringle back.—Disgusted at his coming on a Saturday.—Hoped our hero was hungry.—Could answer for it, he was himself,—with a look at Madam, as much as to say, “Come, you go and see about things and don’t stand simpering there.”
But Billy, who had eaten a pretty hearty lunch at Pangburn Park, had not got jolted back into an appetite by his transit through the country, and did not enter into the feelings of his half-famished host. A man who has had half his dinner in the shape of a lunch, is far more than a match for one who has fasted since breakfast, and our friend chatted first with one young lady, and then with another, with an occasional word at Mamma, delighted to get vent for his long pent-up flummery. He was indeed most agreeable.
Meanwhile the Major was in and out of the room, growling and getting into everybody’s way, retarding progress by his anxiety to hurry things on.
At length it was announced that Mr. Pringle’s room was ready; and forthwith the Major lit him a candle, and hurried him upstairs, where his uncorded boxes stood ready for the opening keys of ownership.
“Ah, there you are!” cried the Major, flourishing the composite candle about them; “there you are! needn’t mind much dressing—only ourselves—only ourselves. There’s the boot-jack,—here’s some hot water,—and we’ll have dinner as soon as ever you are ready.” So saying, he placed the candle on the much be-muslined toilette-table, and, diving into his pocket for the key of the cellar, hurried off to make the final arrangement of a feast.
Our friend, however, who was always a dawdling leisurely gentleman, took very little heed of his host’s injunctions, and proceeded to unlock and open his boxes as if he was going to dress for a ball instead of a dinner; and the whole party being reassembled, many were the Major’s speculations and enquiries “what could he be about?” “must have gone to bed,” “would go up and see,” ere the glad sound of his opening door announced that he might be expected. And before he descended a single step of the staircase the Major gave the bell such a pull as proclaimed most volubly the intensity of his feelings. The ladies of course were shocked, but a hungry man is bad to hold, and there is no saying but the long-pealing tongue of the bell saved an explosion of the Major’s. At all events when our friend came sauntering into the now illuminated drawing-room, the Major greeted him with, “Heard you coming, rang the bell, knew you’d be hungry, long drive from Sir Moses’s here;” to which Billy drawled a characteristic “Yarse,” as he extinguished his candle and proceeded to ingratiate himself with the now elegantly attired ladies, looking more lovely from his recent restriction to the male sex.
The furious peal of the bell had answered its purpose, for he had scarcely got the beauties looked over, and settled in his own mind that it was difficult to say which was the prettiest, ere the door opened, the long-postponed dinner was announced to be on the table, and the Major, having blown out the composites, gladly followed the ladies to the scene of action.
And his host being too hungry to waste his time in apologies for the absence of this and that, and the footboy having plenty to do without giving the dishes superfluous airings, and the gooseberry champagne being both lively and cool, the dinner passed off as pleasantly as a luncheon, which is generally allowed to be the most agreeable sociable meal of the day, simply because of the absence of all fuss and pretension. And by the time the Major had got to the cheese, he found his temper considerably improved. Indeed, so rapidly did his spirits rise, that before the cloth was withdrawn he had well-nigh silenced all the ladies, with his marvellous haryers,—five and thirty years master of haryers without a subscription,—and as soon as he got the room cleared, he inflicted the whole hunt upon Billy that he had written to him about, an account of which he had in vain tried to get inserted in the Featherbedfordshire Gazette, through the medium of old ‘Wotherspoon, who had copied it out and signed himself “A Delighted Stranger.” Dorsay Davis, however, knew his cramped handwriting, and put his manuscript into the fire, observing in his notice to correspondents that “A Delighted Stranger” had better send his currant jelly contributions to grandmamma, meaning the Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald. So our friend was victimised into a viva voce account of this marvellous chase, beginning at Conksbury corner and the flight up to Foremark Hill and down over the water meadows to Dove-dale Green, &c., interspersed with digressions and explanations of the wonderful performance of the particular members of the pack, until he scarcely knew whether a real run or the recital of one was the most formidable. At length the Major, having talked himself into a state of excitement, without making any apparent impression on his guest’s obdurate understanding, proposed as a toast “The Merry Haryers,” and intimated that tea was ready in the drawing room, thinking he never had so phlegmatic an auditor before. Very different, however, was his conduct amid the general conversation of the ladies, who thought him just as agreeable as the Major thought him the contrary. And they were all quite surprised when the clock struck eleven, and declared they thought it could only be ten, except the Major, who knew the odd hour had been lost in preparing the dinner. So he moved an adjournment, and proclaimed that they would breakfast at nine, which would enable them to get to church in good time. Whereupon mutual good-nights were exchanged, our friend was furnished with a flat candlestick, and the elder sisters retired to talk him over in their own room; for however long ladies may be together during the day, there is always a great balance of conversation to dispose of at last, and so the two chatted and talked until midnight.
Next morning they all appeared in looped-up dresses, showing the party-coloured petticoats of the prevailing fashion, which looked extremely pretty, and were all very well—a great improvement on the draggletails—until they came to get into the coach, when it was found, that large as the vehicle was, it was utterly inadequate for their accommodation. Indeed the door seemed ludicrously insufficient for the ingress, and Miss Clara turned round and round like a peacock contending with the wind, undecided which way to make the attempt. At last she chose a bold sideways dash, and entered with a squeeze of the petticoat, which suddenly expanded into its original size, but when the sisters had followed her example there was no room for the Major, nor would there have been any for our hero had not Mamma been satisfied with her own natural size, and so left space to squeeze him in between herself and the fair Clara. The Major then had to mount the coach box beside old Solomon, and went growling and grumbling along at the extravagances of fashion, and wondering what the deuce those petticoats would cost, he was presently comforted by seeing two similar ones circling over the road in advance, which on overtaking proved to contain the elegant Miss Bushels, daughters of his hind at Bonnyrigs farm, whereupon he made a mental resolution to reduce Bushel’s wages a shilling a week at least.
This speedy influx of fashion and abundance of cheap tawdry finery has well nigh destroyed the primitive simplicity of country churches. The housemaid now dresses better—finer at all events—than her mistress did twenty years ago, and it is almost impossible to recognise working people when in their Sunday dresses. Gauze bonnets, Marabout feathers, lace scarfs, and silk gowns usurp the place of straw and cotton print, while lace-fringed kerchiefs are flourished by those whose parents scarcely knew what a pocket-handkerchief was. There is a medium in all things, but this mania for dress has got far beyond the bounds of either prudence or propriety; and we think the Major’s recipe for reducing it is by no means a bad one.