by R S Surtees
“Now, Tomkins!”
“Now, Jenkins!”
“Now, Jones!” So they go at it, each man according to his own fashion; some straight, some sideways, some rushing, some creeping, some blundering clumsily. Now comes Lob, closely followed by little Arthur Honeybrook; and Lob, running his pony well at the place, comes over with a bucking bound that looks as if he was clearing a hedge instead of a ditch. Lily of the Talley then creeps down the ditch and up again; and Lob, seeing Arthur well landed, swerves to the left, and giving his pony its head up the grass, spurts past all the old drab-coated farmers and people, closely followed by the white. So they get to the gate at the tail of the red-coats. Grass succeeds grass, and a small transparent hedge dividing the next enclosures, the sportsmen spread in the independent sort of way peculiar to safety, each man taking the young fence in his line, and Lob flying over it like the rest of the field.
“Well done, young un!” cries Mr. Jovey Jessop, snatching a hasty backward glimpse from his now racing hounds. “Well done, young un!” repeats he, as Albert Arthur, with a less leap than Lob’s, lands on the right side of the hedge too. “Where’s Mr. Boyston?” cries Mr. Jessop, looking further back for the “magister curser” of his hunt.
“Where’s Mr. Boyston?” And echo answers, where? A similar return is made to an enquiry after the boy with the bun.
Our friends are now on Cherrytree Hill, with the hounds sweeping round its base, and a shepherd holding up his hat in the distance to denote the line of the fox. The field are inside the semicircle, with a full view of the contesting energies of the pack; the rich-coloured Hotspur now leading, now Famous, now Firebrand, now Pillager, the pace being too great for much music. So they sweep over the perennially green meadows up to the point indicated by the countryman. He has not headed him. On the contrary, being what they call a “alee chap,” he dropped down into the ditch, when by the running of the sheep he saw the fox was coming, and had an uncommonly good stare as he assed through a meuse a little below where he was hid. He is a’most sure he’s the varra fox that stole their turkeys i’ the spring.
Countrymen always declare that a fox is dead beat, but upon the present occasion the shepherd was not far wrong in his assertion, for the fox having eat a very liberal late supper, is in no condition to compete with Mr Jovey Jessop’s fleet stout-running hounds. The scent too is better than is convenient under the circumstances, and altogether, what with surprise at being whipped so unceremoniously out of his ivy-mantled tower, confusion at being stared full in the face by Mr. Jessop and driven from his point, together with not being able to make up his mind whether to shape his course for Chippendale woods or the craigs at Haven’s Hill, he doesn’t exactly know what to do. The cry of the hounds, and the cheer of the hunters, however, keep him going, for he feels it would never do to let them come up with him. So he travels on, trusting to beating them again as he has beat them twice before. Third time, however, they say, is catching time, and it is destined to be so on the present occasion. Steering an intermediate course between the craigs and the woods, he gets into a more populous neighbourhood — a country dotted with hamlets and small farm houses, with their concomitant curs and other incumbrances. The further he advances the more he gets holloaed and viewed, until the whole country seems raised against him. The roads, too, run conveniently, and the clatter of the horses and the noise of the macadamites makes confusion worse confounded.
The Jug and Billy Rough’un are both in a high state of excitement, the Jug at having laid out of his ground by riding for Chippendale Woods, Billy Rough’un at being kept on the hard road when he wants to be racing in the fields alongside the musical hounds. The Jug has reduced the number of his small friends and increased that of his large ones; Bowderoukin’s pony having peremptorily refused to risk its shins by passing over a tumble-down wall, while Lishman and Brisket of Pittville have turned up from nobody knows where — the “George and Dragon” at Crossfield, perhaps — and are long trotting in the loose stick-out-leg sort of way peculiar to butchers and drovers.
The Jug is red-hot; his face is as red as his coat. Billy Rough’un has bumped and shook him till he feels like a great dish of calves’ feet jelly. What with the excitement of riding the wrong way, and then making up his lost ground, the excitement of being bullied for doing so, the excitement of looking after the youngsters, and the excitement of keeping Billy Rough’un in something like moderate subjection, the poor Jug is nearly overpowered. Added to this, he doesn’t know but that young Lob and Arthur may have come to grief, for which he will be sure to get the blame. Pretty Mrs. Lob will never forgive him. Great is the relief to his mind as, on rising Dickering Hill, he sees the two boys careering away, near enough to the hounds, but yet clear of the crowd. The fox begins to run short, but the hounds turn as short as he does, and the Jug knows by experience that there will soon be an end of the same. So seeing a promising course of gates with a double fence in the distance, he boldly forsakes the road, resolved to be up at the end. His gallant tail follow suit, and there is presently a reunion of the field.
“Hillo, Green!”
“Holloa, Brown!”
“What, Smith, are you there?” proceed from the fieldites, who look at the roadsters much in the manner of hounds when a straggler comes up.
Mr. Bunting, who has been most comfortably carried by the Bold Pioneer, asks Mr. Boyston where he has been?
“Busy with the youngsters, busy with the youngsters,” replies the Jog, leading his little troop outside the now halting horseman. The fox is now running so short, and the enclosures are so queer and cramped, that with a failing scent, it requires all Mr. Jovey Jessop’s skill — science the fine writers call it — to keep the hounds on the line of the scent. The fox has evidently no idea which way he is going, running up Tommy Hoggin’s potatoe field, down Mrs. Mason’s pasture, and back over through farmer Fothergill’s turnips. He has now lain down among the turnips, but mistrusting their flaccid security, he incautiously jumps up just as the hounds enter the field, when a shrill holloa gets them a view, and away they race, Pillager and the fox at length rolling over together down the slope of the adjoining pasture. Firebrand, Absolute, and General, complete the worry; and in an instant the rest of the pack are rumblety, tumblety, head-over-heels, with the fox in the middle!
Mr. Jessop jumping off his horse is presently in the midst of them, and stooping and extricating the fox from their fangs, holds up as fine an old dog one as ever was seen. Then the frantic pack jump and bay at our master, Victory, with a surprising spring, seizing the fox by the brush, and hanging on despite Mr. Jessop’s efforts to disengage him. Horneyman, who is close at hand, gives his horse to a hind, and dashing up on foot, clears a ring round his master, who dropping the fox on the green sward, Victory lets go his hold, and slinks away to his companions around. Then, after a brief inspection and guess at the fox’s age, out comes the old buck-handled knife, with which Horneyman performs the last obsequies of the chase, whipping off his fine head, which he lays on the ground, and handing the brush and pads as he kneels to our master.
The mutilated remains Horneyman then holds up on high, when the wrath of the pack being excited by the hoops and holloas of the horsemen, the carcase is thrown in mid air, and descending is caught by a myriad of mouths.
Worry, worry, worry, rush, crush, growl, snarl, scramble, is then the order of the day.
“Keep away your horses!” then cries Mr. Jessop, fearing for his hounds, when Resolute and Dexterous giving a unanimous pull, the carcase rolls down hill, and the danger is over.
“Now, where are the youngsters?” exclaims Mr. Jessop, advancing with his whip under his arm, and the proud trophies in his hand— “Where’s Lob?” cries he, looking about for the rider of the skewbald.
“Here!” cries the Jug, who has now got his little party marshalled around him.
“Well, now Lob, here’s the brush for you, my fine lad,” says Mr. Jessop, advancing towards him; “but stop,” added he
, “we must blood you first.” So saying, Mr. Jessop made Lob a very fine moustache and imperial with the blood of the fox.
“Now then,” said he, fastening the brush into Lob’s bridle, “you tell your Mamma that you rode like a man.” Then advancing to little Honeybrook, he smeared his face too, and giving him a pad, says he may tell his Mamma the same; after which Mr. Jovey Jessop handed the rest of the pads to his Jug to distribute as he chose.
The hounds meanwhile having finished their wrangling repast, and the whip fastened the fox’s head into the couples, people begin to look at their watches, those who have had enough enquiring their ways home, others asking Mr. Jessop what he will draw next. Chippendale Woods being the never-failing resort, the word is given for them, which causes a still further dispersion of the field, one man dropping off at one lane end, another at another, till the Jug, our hero, and our master are the only red coats that remain. The deep-holding rides — enough to pull a horse’s legs off — are too good a chance for Mr. Boyston to lose for taming Billy Rough’un, otherwise he would have preferred drawing Mr. Walker’s or Mr. Eglantine’s on his way home for a luncheon. As it is he lays the foundation for a future visit by sending his compliments, and desiring the boys to tell their Mammas that he will look in upon them the first time he is passing. He then, consigning them to the servants, takes a good holding grip of Billy Rough’un, as much as to say, now that we are clear of all care, I’ll see whether you or I shall be master. And what with a slack rein, and an occasional touch of the spur, at the end of twenty minutes after they found, he certainly was a very different Billy Rough’un to what he was during the first run, and the Jug had the satisfaction of bringing him home very tame. He then added 120l to his price, 140l being what he considered him worth to any one who could ride him. And not being disposed to keep more hones than he wanted, he rocked himself asleep at night thinking whom he would suit
CHAPTER LXXXV.
MR. ABCHEY ELLENGER’S DINNER.
OUB HERO, MR. Bunting, did not prosecute the chose in Chippendale Woods. True, he went there, but it was only for the purpose of slipping away without the disagreeable leave-taking that we all dislike so. Greetings are pleasant, but adieus are melancholy. So when Mr. Jovey Jessop began yoicking and cheering his hounds on the high side of the extensive wood, Mr. Bunting struck up the middle ride, and, by aid of certain land-marks he had previously established, succeeded in «finding his way into the Rookery lane, from whence he presently diverged upon the Buckworth and Badger field road. He then, by dint of copious inquiries and sundry deviations that he would have avoided if piloted by the Jug, came upon the more familiar landscape surrounding Appleton Hall. The house gained, he surrendered his horse, and committed himself to the care of the St. Leger pill-box on his return to Lord Cornwallis. The day was Saturday, and he was engaged to dine with Mr. Archey Ellenger on the following one.
Sunday was a dies non at Appleton Hall, both in the eating, drinking, and dressing way. There were neither sea-side coats nor tweeds, nor deer-stalker hats, nor turbans with tassels, nor any of the complications of modern ingenuity to be seen; but, on the contrary, very sedate Sunday clothes of the plain orthodox order. The Jug always inaugurated a pair of clean nankins, in which, regardless of the weather, with a large Boyston Park prayer-book, wrapped up in a red cotton kerchief, he stumped perseveringly to church, accompanied by Mr. Jessop, and such of the servants as liked his leading. The clergyman dined at the Hall, and there was a sermon for the establishment and neighbourhood in the evening. So Mr. Jessop commenced the week well, and prospered in the course of it, as he deserved to do. But we must follow our friend Mr. Bunting to his uncomfortable quarters at Burton St. Leger.
“Oh, I shall not dine at home to-day,” exclaimed our hero to Mrs. Muldoon, as she appeared after breakfast at the door of his sitting-room to know what he would like to have for dinner, just as if he could have anything he called for. “I shall not dine at home to-day,” repeated he, wishing to get rid of her, for he had stuck fast in the middle of a sonnet to Miss Rosa’s ringlets, which he now thought he could hit off if she would go away.
“Oh, indeed,” replied Mrs. Muldoon, looking somewhat disconcerted, adding, “I’d got a goose, thinking you might like’ a little change.”
“Had you,” replied Mr. Bunting, “had you; well, it will do for another day — it will do for another day;” adding, “I’m going to dine with Mr. Archey Ellenger to-day.”
“Indeed!” mused Mrs. Muldoon, who, having now mastered the whole Privett Grove mystery, thought he might he going there.
“I shall want a conveyance of some sort!” exclaimed our friend, as she was about to withdraw; “I shall want a conveyance of some sort — I s’pose I can have the thing I had yesterday?”
“Well, sir, I dare say you can,” replied Mrs. Muldoon, who had a convenient arrangement with the owner. “I’ll send along and see.” She then withdrew, and desired sore-eyed Sam to slip up and see if they could have Dr. Catcheyside’s carriage, which, as usual, was much at Mrs. Muldoon’s service.
Our hero, however, being still unable to extricate the muse, after a series of stumbles and flounders, at length shut up his desk, deciding that ringlets did not become Rosa, and presently obeyed the summons of the bells to church. In the afternoon he took a stroll about the place, met pretty Rebecca Mary dressed like a duchess, and sore-eyed Sam in all the glaring impotence of satin. There is nothing like a sloven for getting up smart on a Sunday. Mr. Bunting then had a look at his good-for-nothing horses, and wondered what he should do with them at the end. And, having exhausted the resources of the place, as the shades of evening drew on, he retired to his room where Rebecca Mary, having put off her fine beaded bonnet and laid aside her parasol, was deranging her hoops by making up the white-ash burning fire.
Just as our friend was thinking of retiring to his bed-room to put on a dress-coat and vest and a pair of japanned Wellington boots with red morocco legs, the roll of a carriage was heard driving rapidly up to the inn door, which Mr. Bunting would have thought was coming for him, had not a voice immediately been heard exclaiming, “Is Mr. Bunting gone? Is Mr. Bunting gone?”
“No, sir,” replied sore-eyed Sam, who had been attracted to the archway by the sound of the wheels; “but I expect Dr. Catcheyside’s carriage coming for him every minute.”
“Oh, that’s all right!” exclaimed the voice, cheerfully, “that’s all right!” adding, “then stand by my horse while I slip up stairs;” so saying, the speaker alighted and proceeded to grope his way towards an eight-in-the-pound mould-candle flickering in a glass cracked lantern placed against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.
“Yot name shall I enounce?” asked Monsieur Bonville of the stranger, Monsieur, too, having been attracted to the stairs by the sound of the wheels.
“Mr. Ellenger — Mr. Archibald Ellenger,” replied the arriver, making the most of his name.
“Ellenger, Ellenger, why that’s the man I’m going to dine with,” muttered Mr. Bunting, as the familiar sound came up the little staircase leading to his room.
Mr. Ellenger then ran a dead heat with his name. “Ah, my dear fellow!” exclaimed he, tripping gaily into the apartment, seizing Mr. Bunting’s right hand with both his, and pressing it fervently. “Ah, my dear fellow! I’m so glad I’ve got in time to stop you — I’m so glad I’ve got in time to stop you; I’ve had a desperate misfortune at home — I’ve had a desperate misfortune at home. My cook’s got so scandalously drunk that she is utterly incompetent — put the cod-fish on to the spit, and wanted to boil the goose with lobster sauce!”
“What fun!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting, not sorry to be off the engagement.
“Fun to her, but death to us,” rejoined Mr. Ellenger, releasing Mr. Bunting’s hand. “I’d got the nicest little dinner and the nicest little party that ever were arranged; and then the cruel catamaran goes and spoils all by her confounded intemperance.”
“Well, better luck next time,” replied Mr. Bun
ting, soothingly; “better luck next time.”
“Ah, that’s very kind of you,” rejoined Mr. Ellenger, again seizing Mr. Bunting’s hand and pressing it warmly; “that’s very kind of you, but I assure you I feel the disappointment exceedingly.”