Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  The castle company, however, being chiefly composed of distinguished foreigners and parties who did not know or care much more about the matter than the Duke, the exhibition answered very well, and Jock having made the welkin ring with the roar of the hounds, and satisfied the keenness of the cocktails, by the capture of a “ringer” would trot away to a distant cover, leaving a couple of incorrigibles at this farm-house, and a couple at that, until he got himself suited with a somewhat steady pack for his afternoon fox. He would then exercise his Scotch prowess in catching another, unaided by the Duke’s instructions, and uninterrupted by the notes of his silver horn. But perhaps the reader would like to have a day with his Grace’s hounds, for which purpose we would take a fresh chapter.

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  THE FIRST MONDAY IN NOVEMBER.

  THOUGH THE DUCHESS was extremely popular, In her own estimation at least, she did not care much to cultivate that quality in the country, relying on her London reputation for carrying her through. With a few exceptions, therefore, she used her country acquaintance merely as auxiliary to her London ones, sending for them when it suited her to have them, and snubbing them when it did not. The consequence was, that unless they were sent for, people did not care much to go, though they always cheerfully responded to a castle invitation of any sort — breakfast, dinner, dancing tea, ball, or what not. Her Grace’s impertinence was then placed under the head of “high spirit” — at other times it was censured, and people said they would not go again — nor did they — till the next time.

  There not being any notabilities down at the castle, the flag flew on the tower on the first Monday in November, much as it would on the first Monday in May, indicating that the Duke and Duchess were alive, but did not want to be invaded. Of course the hounds figured in the list of appointments in the papers, and at the wonted hour — a quarter to eleven — Jock and whips were seen wending their way with them across the park to the accustomed eagle-winged cedars on the right of the castle, the orange coats of the men contrasting with the rich green tint of the trees. The landscape was presently further enlivened by the arrival of sundry scarlet and dark-coated equestrians, when the usual greetings and compliments were exchanged, followed by the usual recognition of hounds and identification of horses.

  “What! the old bay still going? Declare I didn’t know the dun mare since she was clipped — good for another season I guess.”

  There was no hospitality used, not even a horn of ale or a bit of bread and cheese, the Duke never doing anything unless he over-did it. When Baron Bumperhausen and suite were at the castle in the spring, there was such indiscriminate profusion that all the grooms and helpers got drunk on hock and sparkling moselle. Mr. Haggish, however, was thankful that it was a banyan day, for, though no teetotaler himself, he had a great abhorrence of drinking, and always got rid of any “crittur” about him that could no keep itself sober. Besides, he thought the Duke’s siller could be a deal better employed than in making all the people about fou.”

  “What the davil’s the use of comin’ out to hunt if you want to drink!” he would exclaim, as he saw a party of sots wheeling off to a public-house. “Drinking and hunting are twar men’s works! Drinking and hunting are twar men’s works!” he would continue, trotting briskly on with the hounds in hopes of finding and getting away with his fox before they came up again.

  And now the green-coated red-vested Mr. Bagwell the pompous keeper, comes swaggering up with his gun on his leather-capped shoulder, in the supercilious sort of way these gentlemen do before hounds, as though they were the real boys for finishing the foxes. No circumlocution about keepers, cock, snap, bang, and he’s over and “under,” perhaps before anybody knows anything about the matter. Bagwell and Jock of course are at variance, Jock thinking, and not unjustly, that the keeper is not altogether fair to the foxes. Their greetings are therefore brief and distant, with the usual amplitude of “Mister” — Mister Bagwell, Mister Haggish, for servants are always very respectful to each other. Mister Bagwell wants to know where Mister Haggish is going to draw, in order that he may look out for cock, to which Mister Haggish replies with a waive of the arm, “A, arl oboot, arl aboot.” This answer not conveying much information, Mr. Bagwell grounds his gun, adjusting his broad gold-laced hat on his carrotty head, sticks out his new leather-gaitered legs and proceeds to criticise the hounds to Mr. Morris the mole-catcher, who happens to be by. “Seen a brighter coated lot, Mr. Morris, you and oi,” observes he, after a searching scrutiny. Mr. Morris says nothing, for he doesn’t want to rile Jock — who is very handy with his fists. He then tries Gripper the horse-breaker, who is introducing a chestnut filly to the hounds, but meets with no better success from him. “Dry meet this, Mr. Stubbings,” continues he, nothing daunted, now addressing the newly arrived half-drunken cow-doctor, whose rubicund nose gives promise of sympathy—” Dry meet,” repeats he, adding, “this usen’t to be the way at the castle.”

  “Far batter for your halth!” exclaims Jock, now shaking with vexation, “far better for your halth.”

  “Well, but a glass would do one no harm,” replied Stubbings, drily.

  “Yas it would” replied Jock, “Yas it would; one glass begats another, till ye keep glass, glass, glassin all day,” adding with a furious crack of his cords with his fist, “I hate that glassin! Why the davil can’t men stop at home and get their glasses. Halth and contantment say I, before all the glasses i’ the world!”

  The temperance discussion is now interrupted by a cloud of equestrians — red and black coats commingling with habits appearing in the distance, and advancing rapidly towards the hounds. All eyes turn in that direction, and speculation is rife as to who the ladies are.

  One says they are the Miss Beauchamps of Somerville Tower, another the Dingwalls of Buteley, a third the Bedfords of Weston; but none of them guessed that they were the pretty Miss Springfields of Freelands Lawn, accompanied by their plain cousin, Mrs. Sparrow, playing propriety for Captain Ambrose Lightfoot, and young Mr. Netherwood of Viewforth House, who are making up to the ladies. However, on they come, speaking or chattering for themselves, and scarcely have they got the salutations returned, and their horses’ heads loosened, before a further reinforcement takes place, in the persons of the two Mr. Woodrosses of Daneley, Mr. Young of Helmsley, and Mr. Leyland Langford of Lesdale. Then high change commences, the ladies are complimented on their looks, the horses on their condition, and everything promises well for the day. Inquiries are made after the Duke and Duchess, and the usual answer received — their Graces quite well. Then, “are they coming?”

  “Can’t tell, believe the Duke is;” in the course of which inquiry fanner Freeman trots up on his pony, and the Union Doctor stops for a stare. Mr. Haggish moves the hounds to and fro on the circumscribed spot, and the whips make as much noise as they dare with Jock so near.

  But who comes here with her flowing robe almost brushing the dew off the green sward as her light-actioned white pony tit ups gaily along, the rider’s mauve-coloured neck-tie fluttering on the light breeze. “Who can it be?” asks one, “Who have we here!” exclaims another, shading the sun from his eyes with his hand. Gentle reader you know, because you have seen horse and rider before, though under somewhat different circumstances, namely in the clothes basket, going into Mayfield. Yes, it is Miss Rosa; Rosa on the same pretty white pony, now clipped and looking all the better for the operation; Rosa dressed in the neatest of habits, and the prettiest of hats, with a beautiful well tagged fox’s brush curling gracefully round the crown. As she advances, she gradually reins in her steed, and at length approaches the pack at a walk. Hats and caps then rise in her honour, after which the parties compose themselves for a stare.

  A sporting parson once asked his bishop if he thought there “would be any harm in his hunting?” to which his lordship replied, “He did not think there would, provided the parson didn’t tally ho;” and Miss Rosa would seem to have taken somewhat similar counsel, for she occasionally
shows when the meet is near home, without professing to follow the hounds. The gallantry of the gentlemen, however, especially of those who don’t like risking their necks, is so great that she generally gets piloted about through farm onsteads, down bye lanes, along rising ground, in a way that enables her to see quite as much as a good many aspiring youths who aggravate themselves and their horses into a lather. So after Larkspur has been riding at Hopkins, and Buckler or Burstem at Cramner, taking the most improvident places, and thinking to have shaken off all the field, just as those oon-founded cross roads intervene, and Haggish’s hand is high in the air, praying for “silence,” Miss comes spurting down a green siding, having seen all the fun from afar. Then Jack having hit off the scent at a meuse, gives one of his unmistakable yells, and forthwith the scramble is renewed and away they all go as before. It was after one of these circuitous performances, in which she was gallantly led by Lord Lovedale, that the gay brush we now see responding to her movements superseded the rigid pheasant’s wings then in her hat. Still she is not a fox-hunter, only a young lady who occasionally goes to the meet to see the hounds throw off, and such is her errand on the present occasion. The old gentleman in the snuff-coloured coat, with the drab shorts and gaiters, on the high ewe-necked bay mare, is the groom-gardener now in attendance on the beauty. She does not come into the crowd like the Miss Springflelds, who are mounted on full-sized horses, but hovers on the margin as though she may be going on to the Castle, or only taking advantage of a ride in the park on this an open privileged day. Still the Miss Springflelds think it very bold of her coming in that unprotected way without any chaperone, and are glad they have enlisted cousin Sparrow in their service. Miss Bertha is much consoled by Captain Lightfoot declaring that he does not think anything of Rosa. If he does not, however, others do, and she presently becomes what the elegant writers term the cynosure oi all eyes, as she puts her pretty little pony about.

  But come, it is nearly twelve o’clock, and the unpunctual Duke of Tergiversation, having at length got all his letters read and papers skimmed — home news, foreign news, fashionable intelligence — and himself installed in a epic and span new scarlit coat, with orange-coloured collar and cuffs, though Ids last year’s coat was not a quarter worn out, thinks he may as well take a little horse-exercise and show himself to the country, if he does nothing more. So sending his valet to announce to the Earl of Marchhare’s valet that he is ready, he puts on a shiny new hat, and proceeds towards the grand staircase, where he is presently joined by his equally glossy son.

  Though we said that the Duke was still young and curly, we omitted to mention whether his curls were dark or light, or indeed to give any general description of his person; and as this may be as convenient a place for drawing his portrait as any, we will deviate for a brief space to introduce it.

  Lord Marchhare may be considered in a manner as sitting for his likeness too, for he is the exact duplicate of his noble father, with the exception of being dark like the Duchess, instead of fair like the Duke. First, then, for the father. His Grace is of a good person, rather above the middle size, with a handsome, well-whiskered oval face, enlivened with pleasant blue eyes and an engaging smile, well calculated to throw a stranger off his guard. His conversation is agreeable, his manners free and easy, and his flattery delicate and insinuating. In fact, for cozening or moulding men to his mind, the Duke has not his equal anywhere, and is not at all scrupulous what he asks people to do. As we said before, he considers that every one has his price. Take the same sized man, but of course slighter, for the Earl, with dark hair and dark eyes instead of light hair and light eyes, with moustache and imperial instead of imperial only, and a voluble tongue attuned to talk nonsense, and a fair idea may be formed of the two.

  Let us now get them mounted.

  “Well, Marchhare, I suppose we should be going,” said the Duke, drawing on a pair of clean white doe-skin gloves as they met on the landing preparatory to making a descent to their horses. “This is the first day,” added he, “and people will expect us to be punctual.”

  “Which we shall not be,” observed the Earl, producing his watch and showing that it wanted a few minutes to twelve.

  “Ah, well, never mind, first day,” rejoined the Duke, “gives people time to look over the hounds. Dare say Mr. Haggish will manage to amuse them.”

  They then accomplished the descent of the broad staircase, and were met in the inner entrance by an overpowering phalanx of servants — men out of livery, men in livery — men in half-livery, some with their whips, some with their sandwiches, some with their sherry, who escorted them to the great doors, which were thrown open as if Daniel Lambert himself were coming, and disclosed the sheeted horses waiting for their riders. These were presently run up under the vestibule; one man holds a horse’s head, another a stirrup, while a third sweeps the clothing over the tail, and father and son are presently in their saddles, apparently to their mutual satisfaction. Stirrups are felt and approved, reins drawn, and away they go, the Duke on a gray, the Earl on a bay. The doors are then closed, the late obsequious household then run for their hats, liveries are exchanged for mufti; housemaids in hoops expand their parasols, and a pedestrian party presently emerges from the Castle.

  And now, as the great men approach the pack, respectful demeanour begins to simmer and gradually boils up into a general irruption of politeness — hats and caps go off simultaneously, Mr. Bagwell’s gold laced hat making as fine an aerial sweep as any of them.

  I thought your Grace was no coomin,” observed Jock, replacing his black cap on the straggling gray locks of his big bald head. “I was just agoing to throw off without ye,” added he.

  Oh, come, I was sure to come,” replied the Duke; never miss a day if I can possibly help it — only affairs of State must be attended to,” his Grace looking round on his satellites as he spoke to see whom he should recognise specifically. Good morning, Young!” — How are you, Mr. Field?” Hope you are well, Mr. Langdale?” fine hunting day, Mr. Netherwood,” honouring him with a shake of the hand and an inquiry after his parents. Meanwhile Lord Marchhare takes a survey of the fair, shakes hands with the Miss Springfields, and hopes Mrs. Sparrow is well and all the little Sparrows, whose name is “legion.” And here we may mention that Lord Marchhare’s other foible, besides breaking his neck, was breaking his heart. He was constantly falling in love with some adorable creature, from whose delicious poison there was no cure, save getting him another charmer. If he had been of age he would have had to stand a dozen breaches of promise actions, or compromise them on the usual uncomfortable principle of being the offender. The law does not consider that the lady can make the advances, though perhaps a jury of matrons might find the reverse. Be that, however, as it may, lady had succeeded lady very rapidly, and these belonging more to the aristocracy of usefulness than the aristocracy of birth; and as no woman, however humble, who has seen the popular pantomime of Cinderella, but thinks she herself might be manufactured into a duchess, so our noble friend, if he will allow us to call him so, had caused ideal coronets to spring up very promiscuously. His Lordships present liaison was Miss Wrigglesworth the milliner, of Tillingford, a lady of great personal attractions, though somewhat his senior, an advantage that she knew how to turn to account. She was a dark haired, dark eyed, spacious, well hooped woman, a great contrast to little Clara Brown the baker’s daughter, of Maplehurst, whom she had supplanted. But mark the fickleness of man! No sooner had Miss Rosa disclosed her pearly teeth with a smile, in return for his Lordship’s upraised hat, than away went Wriggles worth, hoops and all.

  A clever woman knows when she has hit her man, just as well as Bagwell knows when he has hit his bird; and as his lordship turned his horse inside her pony to accompany her in the now onward movements of the hounds, she felt a sort of thrill of “Marchhareishness” come over her, and the glittering flag, and the sun-bright panes of the lofty castle, seemed to beckon her to its towers; she shook out her habit and re-adjusted her seat wi
th delight. His lordship who had a voluble well-hung tongue, opened out with great vehemence and glee; praised her hat and her habit and her pony and her appearance generally. Indeed, the Duke who saw what was going on, rather wished that he had kept to Miss Wriggles worth, who he would be less likely to marry than a girl like Miss Rosa.

  However, like a sensible man he kept that to himself, knowing that opposition sometimes promotes what is meant to prevent. His Grace of course, wished to see his son marry a lady who would bring something more into the family than her petticoats and her pedigree as his Duchess had done, and had submitted many great heiresses to his son’s notice, who however had all been declined on the score of want of looks — good looks were a sine qud non with the Earl. However, the Duke hopes for the best, and trots on between the Miss Springfields as if there was nothing whatever disturbing his mind. Thus they pass through the home farm-yard, under the right wing of the castle, and are presently at the decoy on the north side, which is always drawn first. What with various supplementary detachments, the field may now number some forty or fifty horsemen of one sort and another.