Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “Beautiful! beautiful!” ejaculates Hazey, adding, “I hope Mr Romford saw that.”

  Then they all fell into place, Hazey leading (so long as there is no leaping), Facey and Lucy a little to his right, with the boy Bill on the eighty-guinea grey behind them. Bill has handled the horse so neatly and well, that Heslop is half inclined to bid sixty for him. And now they are all at it as before, jumping and spurting and shirking; red coats and green coats and black coats; white boots, hot boots, brown boots, and black boots. The line is more favourable to the grand horse Everlasting, being slightly on the slope, and Facey puts him along without fear of a failure. It was only up the steep that he showed his infirmity, and degenerated into a shut-up. But Facey did not keep horses to look at; and if they could not go with the hounds, they could go back to the place from whence they came. So he just stuck his spurs into Neverlasting, as he called the horse, and sent him along in the independent sort of way of a huntsman who is not hunting the hounds — acting the gentleman, as poor Sir Richard Sutton used to say on those occasions. Meanwhile Jawkins, who is greatly pleased with his own performances, cheers and hurries on his hounds, hoping the lady will tip him a sovereign if he gets her the brush. “Dash it! what a grand thing it would be if she gave him a sovereign,” thought he, holloaing the hounds on. He would buy Mrs J. a twelve-and-ninepenny bonnet that should quite cut out Mrs Silkey’s. For-rard on! for-rard on! hounds,” cries he to the racing pack. “What business had Mrs Silkey to give herself the hairs she did? A huntsman’s wife was far afore a grum’s in point o’ greatness. Hark to Columbine! hark! that’s the way on ’im!” shouted he, as Mercury now pushed to the front. “A grum was a mere under-strapper to a huntsman, — had to bring him his ‘oss, and take away his ‘oss, and clean him his ‘oss, and clip him his ‘oss, if he required to have him clipped. Silkey be singed! Mrs S. too — Hupstart ‘ussy!”

  And now, what with pressing and cheering, and thinking of the bonnet, aided by stain of a flock of sheep on a piece of very water-logged land, Jawkins managed to get his hounds right beyond the scent, and the flush of the former successful cast onwards being still full upon him, he holds them on till they are quite clear of the line. The fox has turned short to the left to avoid a conference with the driver of a coming coal-cart. “On, on, on!” however, cheered Jawkins, waving them forward with his arm, still thinking of the bonnet, the hairs, and the consequence. “Who the deuce was a grum’s wife?” muttered he.

  “Hold hard!” now cries Mr Hazey, holding up his hand, seeing the fast-expiring energies of the pack. “Hold hard!” repeats he, fearing for the finish.

  “‘Old hard!” shouts Bill, who has been nursing the grey along very judicially. And hold hard it is generally.

  Meanwhile Mr Romford, who is very long-sighted, has viewed the fox stealing quietly along among the straggling gorse bushes on the rising ground some distance to the left; but it being no part of his duty to assist the operations of a rival pack, nor yet to test the enduring qualities of the grand horse Everlasting, he keeps his own counsel, and lets Jawkins persist in his mistaken cast forward, which ends, as Facey foresaw, in hopeless and unbroken silence. Jawkins then gives them a wide swing to the right, and ultimately by a back cast crosses the line of the fox at the base of the bill along which Mr Facey had viewed him. Then great was the applause of the admiring field at the skill of the huntsman, and the stanchness of the pack. “Best hounds in England,” they said. And they all got their horses by the head in anticipation of a stinger. But the goddess Diana said “no.” Moreover she whispered to Hazey, “You call the four miles you have come, seven, and let Mr Romford and his sister depart in peace. They’ll run you down, whatever you do, so you may just as well close as you are.” And in pursuance of that decree, the scent became weaker and more languid. Indeed, only two or three of the old stagers could hold it at all, the rest of the pack being obliged to take it on trust. And though Jawkins cheered them, as if his noise would assist their endeavours, yet it was obvious to everyone that unless the fox despised them sufficiently to await their coming up, they would never overtake him. Mr Romford and sister Somerville, therefore, dropped their reins on their horses’ necks preparatory to a stop. Our Master had taken his bearings from “Ten-and-a-half,” and found he was going from home instead of towards it. Had the fox been travelling “t’other way,” there is no saying but Facey might have holloaed them on to him, even though they were driving him into his country, where he might find him another day. Here, however, there was no inducement to stay, Facey having, as he said, appraised the establishment to ninepence, and wouldn’t know them better if he stayed there a mouth

  So Lucy and he quietly withdrew to the rear of the field, and as Hazey now pressed on to contribute his quota of science to the huntsman, telling him which way he thought the fox was gone, they availed themselves of an intervening plantation to retire altogether, mutually agreeing they had had enough of old Hazey and the Hard and Sharp hounds.

  They then struck across country in search of their way home.

  XLII. THE FAT BOY OF PICKERING NOOK

  THE NEWS OF MR ROMFORD’S expedition to Tarring Neville soon reached Dalberry Lees, and caused a profound sensation in that quarter. Both Mrs Watkins and Miss looked upon it with grave suspicion, for though they did not admit Miss Hazey’s beauty — indeed, thought at times she was rather plain — yet they both confessed her dangerous powers of coquetry, and dreaded lest she might have ensnared the innocent Mr Romford in her wiles. If Mrs Watkins had only known he had been going, she would have given him a hint as to Miss Anna Maria’s propensities — she was a regular flirt, and nothing else.

  Now the only thing they could do was to endeavour to eradicate the mischief. Doubtless Mr Hazey’s hounds had been a source of great attraction; but, then, they could not hope to get Mr Watkins to set up a pack to counteract the impression they might have made. It was a pity that fox-hunters hung so together. And then the recollection of the non-arrival of the bag-fox occurred, and Mrs Watkins wished that might not have something to do with it, — if so, Mr Carstangs had a great deal to answer for. However, the Watkinses had the advantage of propinquity; and, rich as Mr Romford was, he might not he insensible to the advantages of an heiress — one, too, without any brothers, who were always great bores. And Mrs Watkins considered long and anxiously how to reinstate themselves in the sporting graces of the great master of Beldon Hall. At length she hit upon an idea, which, if not quite orthodox, was, at all events, well calculated to mislead a lady. And, for the purpose of fully explaining matters, we must here indulge in a little geography.

  If the reader will take a map of England — a Bradshaw, for instance — and cast his eye up to where Doubleimupshire shoulders Snoremboremshire in friendly familiarity, he will perceive a confluence of railways converging upon a dot denoting the once elegant and retired little town of Pickering Nook.

  Before the introduction of steam, Pickering Nook was one of the quietest little places in the kingdom: one doctor, no lawyer, two milliners, and an occasional pedler with the latest London fashions. The inhabitants were chiefly elderly ladies and people who loved retirement and the musical note of the nightingale. Now it is hiss, screech, whistle — hiss, screech, whistle — morning, noon, and night. Five railways run right into the very heart of the little town, severing it like a starfish. It has become a perfect ant-hill of industrious locomotion. People seem to go to Pickering Nook in order to pass to every other place.

  Nook! Nook! Nook! Who doesn’t know the familiar cry? Pickering Nook is only its name upon paper. It is never called anything but Nook by the porters.

  When the first bisecting line cut right through the town, severing old Mr Mellowfield’s garden, it was said that the place was ruined for ever: no one could live there after.

  Mr Mellowfield, who had retired from the troubles of fish-curing to enjoy his filberts and Madeira in the evening of life, was so shocked at the invasion of his privacy, that he nearly choked himself with
anger as he waddled about with a plan of the premises, detailing his grievance to everybody that would listen to him: and nothing but a strong application of golden ointment could have got over the difficulty. Ten thousand pounds for two thousand pounds’ worth of property mollified him.

  The next line of railway had fewer opponents; the third one, less; and so on in a diminishing ratio. But the extraordinary part of the thing was, that what at first was looked upon as an intolerable nuisance by the natives, was presently regarded as an absolute advantage by a stranger, an affluent young gentleman, much troubled with obesity, which none of the ordinary remedies could reduce. In vain he tried walking, and riding, and rowing, and swimming, and cricketing, and Turkish bathing, — he never could get himself below eighteen stone and a-half. Fox-hunting he didn’t like, because of the wait and uncertainty; hare-hunting had the same objection — he got chilled between the heats, and, moreover, disliked the monotony of road riding. Starving was very much at variance with his inclination, and even by living upon fish, or biscuits and grapes, he seldom got more than half a stone off his weight — nothing to a man who had turned twenty. He didn’t like it: he was afraid he should get too fat. Not that he was too fat, then; but be was afraid of becoming so. It is a comfortable circumstance that people never do fancy themselves too fat: they are sometimes afraid of becoming too fat, but they are never too fat at the time — just the right size, in fact; only hope they will be able to keep as they are.

  This stranger was young Mr Stotfold, of — we don’t exactly know where — a gentleman who was commonly called Squeakey Stotfold, from his having a most disproportionate voice to his body. It was more like the shrill note of our friend Punch, when plying for patronage, than the natural voice of a human being; and the sound of it always made people start and turn round, short round, to see what was coming. Well, young Stotfold being very fond of his food, was afraid that he might ultimately get too fat; and at length his medical adviser, Mr Slopperton, hit upon a plan that should procure him the exercise of hunting without its drawbacks and disadvantages. He proposed that his patient should set up a pack of stag-hounds, and hunt from railway stations: nothing to do but load and enlarge his stag wherever he liked. No asking leave, no paying damage, no propitiating farmers, no preparation — no nothing, but just do what he liked. If one place got too hot to hold him, ho had nothing to do but pack up his traps and away to another. And, glancing at the map — as we requested the reader to do — the convergence of lines upon Pickering Nook pointed it out us one of the most eligible spots for that sort of pursuit in the kingdom. From it Mr Stotfold could shoot out north, south, east, and west — up into Snoremboremshire, down into Doubleimupshire, out on either side, with plenty of stations, and a great variety of country. Nothing to do but look at his Bradshaw. Hunt at any hour of the day: express train, mixed train, slow train, goods train — they were going at all times of the day. And old Mr Mellowfield’s house, close to the station, being vacant, Mr Stotfold installed himself in it, with a most miscellaneous kennel of hounds, and some of the strongest, roughest-going horses in the kingdom. There was nothing too rough-actioned for Stotfold to ride: the more he bumped, the more exercise he got, the more he could eat — and eating was the object, not hunting; he hunted to eat, in fact.

  Many travellers, we dare say, have seen our friend lounging about the station at Pickering Nook, or smoking his cigar on the triumphal arch that connects the up lines with the down, looking as though he were lord of all he surveyed, and as if everybody who saw him must admire him. He dressed in the brightest, gaudiest colours: pea-green coat, with canary-coloured vest, sensation ties, Garibaldi shirts, leathers and tops. He was always attracting attention by ventriloquising the guards and railway-porters, as it were, with his extraordinary voice. All his non-hunting days were spent at the station, in chaffing the attendants, and flirting with the pretty girls in the refreshment rooms.

  At the time of our story he was just turned five-and-twenty, though he did not look so much, having a fine light, cauliflower-like head of hair, shading a plump, blue-eyed, pink-and-white, round face, that would have looked more at home under a bonnet than a hat. Whiskers he had none, and very apocryphal moustache, with which, however, he took considerable pains, — frequently feeling if it was all there, and trying to coax it into a ram’s-horn-like curl at the corners.

  He had been at the “Nook” since the beginning of the season, hunting and trespassing wherever he liked — procuring himself a certain amount of ill-will from the farmers and people, more on account of the unmannerly conduct of some of his stags, than the mere hunting proceeding. One stag in particular, called the Benicia Boy, had been very unruly, having upset a clothes-basketful of children out airing in Reislip Green Road, knocked an old milkman over with his cans, and starred the lofty mirror in Mrs Sarcenet’s millinery shop in Shelvington with his great unprincipled head. Still, a stag-hunt being a novelty, many people asked the fat boy to their places; while the fact of his being a bachelor did not lessen his attractions.

  With a lady like Mrs Watkins, who knew no better than proclaim that her husband only hunted for conformity, and who thought to ingratiate herself with such a sportsman as our hero by sending for a bag-fox from town, it may readily be supposed that the fat-boy’s establishment would be very deceptive; and it now occurred to her anxious mind, that if she could get Mr Stotfold to come to Dalberry Lees with his stag-hounds, they would not only retrieve the former disappointment, but also ingratiate themselves very considerably with Mr Romford. She thought a stag-hunt would be the very thing to tempt him with; make such a nice change from the fox-hounds; and the more she thought of it, the better she liked it. And, without consulting friend Willy, she determined to carry out the idea.

  Migratory masters not being very ceremonious, though none of them had even seen the fat boy, yet Cassandra Cleopatra “Dear Sir’d” him on behalf of her father, inviting him to dine and stay all night at Dalberry Lees, and turn his stag out on the lawn the next day.

  The invitation came opportunely, for somehow Squeakey, who was not often asked twice to the same place, was beginning to feel the want of society other than the Nook afforded, and he gladly instructed Tomkins, the station master — to whom (not being a good speller himself) he gave £5 for conducting his correspondence — to accept the invitation on behalf of himself, his stag, and his hounds.

  And, having thus laid the foundation of another “uproar,” Miss Cassandra was presently at her desk again, on behalf of mamma, inviting her “Dear Mr Romford” to come to meet a brother master of hounds; saying it wasn’t Mr Hazey, but not telling him who it was. And Romford, albeit very wary, and not at all anxious to meet any of the masters of hounds whose kennels he had laid under contribution for hounds, considered, on reflection, that none of them would be likely to visit such a muff as old Willy; and Anna Maria’s charms having now somewhat paled before the effulgent light of Cassandra Cleopatra’s ducats, he, too, accepted the invitation, and so made the Dalberry Lees ladies supremely happy.

  XLIII. MR STOTFOLD’S ESTABLISHMENT

  TAKING IT IN A GALLOPING point of view, there is no doubt that the stag-hunter has a decided advantage over his brethren of the chase, whether fox-hunters or thistle-whippers, in always being sure of his game. He is like a man with his dinner in his pocket, sure of a feed wherever he is. Whether the stag-hunter’s game will run or not, is another question; but the same may be said of the fox and the hare. Still, the stag-hunter never has a blank day; he is sure of seeing the animal descend, at all events, and if he won’t condescend to run, the true sportsman has the same privilege that the costermonger had with his donkey “vot vouldn’t go” — namely, the right of “larruping him.” To the fair sex the stag is truly invaluable; and we should think the ladies would poll twenty to one in favour of the stag over the fox. They see the actual animal that has to be hunted, instead of having to draw upon their imaginations for the idea. Then, look at the independence of the thing. While the
fox-hunter’s anxieties continue all the year round, aggravated by perfidious keepers, faithless friends, and are never more acute than on the particular morning of the meet, the stag-hunter turns about in his bed with the easy indifference of the sluggard, conscious that he, at all events, will be all right, and can lay his hand on his game on the instant. No trappers, no shooters, no unpunctual earth-stoppers, disturb the calm serenity of his repose. He is not afraid of the foot people molesting the cover, or of lazy sportsmen stopping short by its side. The hare-hunter may go flop, flop, flopping about the country, peering into all the bushes and tufts he comes near, without finding what he wants; but the stag-hunter has his proud beast under lock and key, and has only to shoot the bolt, give him a kick, and set him a-going.

  Then there is something fine, wild, and romantic in the idea of stag-hunting, heightened by the pictures one sees of the performance, — the forest glade, the boundless moor, the impassable-looking ravines, the glassy lake, the horns, the hounds, the hubbub. It is the happy confusion of fiction with fact, the blending of the glories of the past with the tameness of the present, that tends to keep the flag of stag-hunting flying in the ascendant. Still, as with Stotfold, so with other masters, many people did not care to see the stag-hounds a second time. They like to say they have seen a stag-hunt, and having seen one are satisfied, and don’t let out that things were not quite what they expected. And now for our friend Mr Stotfold.