Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  In this interesting pursuit he was ably assisted by his huntsman, Dicky Thorndyke. Dicky had been with him all his life, and thoroughly identified himself with his master. Indeed he always spoke in the plural number. If any one asked how his lordship was, Dicky would reply, with a purse of his mouth, and a pleasant smile, “Well, sir, I really think we are very well; indeed I think we are better than we have been for some time.” Though his lordship Dicky’d and Dicky Dyke’d him, it was a freedom our huntsman allowed to none below the rank of a baronet. Our friend, the prosy knight, tried it on one day, when Dicky replied, “M-o-y name, sir, is Thorndyke,” making a mighty mouthful of the thorn.

  Better huntsmen there might be than Dicky, but none so eminently qualified for the double pursuit of the fox and the fair. Indeed as regards the fox, having a capital pack of hounds, he early came to the conclusion that if they couldn’t smell which way the fox was gone, he couldn’t, and he never interfered with them as long as they would stoop. The consequence of his non-intervention was that he nailed up a considerable number of noses. He looked like a nobleman’s servant. In addition to a comely well-conditioned person, he had a mild placid expression of countenance, well befitting his delicate duties. He had a great deal of tact and manner, too. He didn’t come blurting, open-mouthed, with an “I’ve seen a devilish fine gal, my lord,” or “Mrs Yarker’s husband’s been whopping her again,” but as he trotted from cover to cover he would direct his lordship’s attention to some hound or some horse, or some object that would enable him to draw up to his point.

  “Old Conqueror’s gettin’ slow, my lord,” he would say, pointing to an old hound trotting along less stoutly than the rest.

  “The more’s the pity,” replies his lordship, throwing the old favourite a bit of biscuit.

  “Been a good ‘un,” observes Dicky, regarding him affectionately, adding, “We’ve had more good hounds from Cloverly Banks than any walk we have.”

  “What, he was from Cloverly, was he?” asked his lordship, remembering what he saw the last time he was there.

  “Yes,” replied Dicky; “we always have good ‘uns from there. They take so much care of them — never clog them or tie them up. The gals are so good to them, too. Cardinal’s killed all their turkeys this year, and they never so much as said a word.”

  “Ah! I must ride over and see them, and make them a present,” replies his lordship.

  And so, on the last day of cub-hunting, before the season upon which we are now entering began, Dicky pointed out a horse, with a “That’s the horse, my lord, I was a-telling you about last Tuesday that I was looking at for us. I thought he would do to carry Will or Sam. I didn’t buy him on ‘count of the splents,” pointing to a booted foreleg.

  “Who’s got him?” asked his lordship, who knew how to cap Dicky on the scent.

  “A townsman — the man they call the Emperor of Morocco.” Then, sinking his voice, he added, in an undertone, as he drew his horse nearer his lordship’s, “They say the emperor and her majesty have had another breeze.”

  “What, another?” exclaimed his lordship, who knew what the first one was about.

  “Yes, another,” replied Dicky. “Last Sunday. But p’r’aps you’ll have the kindness not to mention it, as I had it in confidence from their coachman.”

  And his lordship stored Dicky’s hint up in his mind for future use. Indeed, for so great a man, it was wonderful what a quantity of gossip and scandal he collected.

  Hunting a country undoubtedly gives gay old gentlemen great opportunities, for the meet brings forth all the youth and loveliness of a place; while, under pretence of looking for his fox, a master of hounds may rummage anywhere from the cellar to the garret. And so people found, for what with setting out covers, looking at puppies, paying for poultry damage, complimenting preservers of foxes, and so on, there was no such thing as keeping Lord Heartycheer out of their houses.

  And great grumbling his visits frequently occasioned, for he had a knack of making them on market-days, board of guardian days, petty-sessions days — days when the lords of the creation are necessarily absent, who ill-liked to see the imprints of his horse’s hoofs stirring up their gravelled rings. But to the chase.

  Our friend Colonel Blunt has already intimated that his lordship opened each season with a magnificent spread at Heartycheer Castle, where year after year he received, with almost regal grandeur, the homage and adulation of the country. A truce seemed to be declared over all his little “piccadillies,” as Dicky Dyke called them, and people who had been loudest in proclaiming them, now cried “Shame!” and said they didn’t believe there was a word of truth in any of them.

  Time would seem to run the reverse way with his lordship, for the older and greyer he got, the younger and more captivating the ladies declared him. Anxious mammas, who had reproved their ardent daughters for thinking of old men of five-and-thirty, openly encouraged his lordship’s advances, assuring the dear girls that a man is never too old to marry.

  He was a tall, slim, fresh-complexioned, handsome-featured man, blending the stately grandeur of the old school with a slight flourish of the French. His snow-white hair seemed almost out of keeping with his light youthful figure and the beaming radiance of his eagle eye. Having begun hunting during the last advent of mahogany tops, he had never wholly adopted the white ones, and was now neither in the fashion nor out with rose-coloured ones. Neither had he ever abandoned the white cords, for whose milky purity he was always remarkable. His new scarlet coat was of the single-breasted, slightly sloped-away order, with a step-collared toilonette vest, a starched striped cravat, with a small plaited frill to his shirt.

  And thus the reader will have the kindness to consider our great lady-killing master of hounds attired for the reception of company on this his — we know not what number — opening day. His lordship, having breakfasted in his sanctum, and passed his silk-stockinged, state-liveried establishment in review, now proceeded to take his usual post of reception, before the blazing entrance-hall fire — a splendid hall beaming with ancestral honours and trophies of the chase.

  And here we should observe that the morality of the country divided itself into three classes. First, the desperately improper ones, who didn’t care what people said, and who boldly entered the castle, partaking of the sumptuous fare, and calmly surveying the statues and voluptuous paintings with which the beautiful rooms and corridors were studded; secondly, the more prudish ones, such as old Miss Fozington, who would not even enter the park, and merely took a drive “that way” to take the chance of seeing the hounds, with which, somehow or another, they generally fell in.

  First among the forward ones on this occasion was our superb friend the Empress of Morocco, who, despite a tiff with the tanner about coming, drove up in her well-built but badly-appointed barouche, gorgeous in purple, ermine, and lace, with the slightest possible touch of rouge on her plump beautiful cheeks. Often as Lord Hearty-cheer had greeted her, he thought he never saw her look so bewitching, and he inwardly cursed the grinding of wheels that preceded the announcement of Mrs and Miss Marplotte. How low and courteous was the bow that received them! How different to the seizure of both hands and earnest empressement that marked his addresses to the beaming gazelle-like eyes of the empress! The Marplottes soon obeyed the obsequious flourish of the well-drilled groom of the chamber, and passed onward to the banqueting-room. They were quickly followed by Mrs and the Miss Hoeys; then came Captain and Mrs Horridbore; after them the Beddingfields, then the Mountfields, then the Honeyballs; after which there was a pause, and then a rush of hungry fox-hunters, ready for anything.

  In less than twenty minutes from the first sitting down, the splendid dining-room rang with the popping of champagne-corks, the clatter of plates, and the joyous hilarity of unrestrained freedom. All went merry as a marriage-bell, till Captain Horridbore, who was to the Whig party what Sir Thomas Thimbleton was to the Tory, rose to propose the health of their noble host. Being one of those hungry hard-b
itten radicals who come out great at elections and then merge into nothingness, he had the gift of the gab, and strung words together with amazing volubility. On this occasion he was so laudatory that one might almost have thought he was laughing at his lordship. The applause that followed the announcement of the name was the usual signal for his lordship to leave the post of reception before the entrance-hall fire and repair to acknowledge the compliment; but it so happened that the Empress of Morocco, who, we forgot to say, had brought her little boy Freddy to see the “fine house,” having made the tour of the reception-rooms, by the “greatest chance in the world” forced herself in the entrance-hall by the reverse door at which she had left it, and the coast being clear, all except a few footmen, who of course nobody cares about, his lordship waylaid her, to renew the attentions the Marplotte arrival interrupted. Having sent Freddy to look at the pretty pictures at the far end of the hall, she placed her beautiful foot on the broad fender, and slightly raising her velvet dress, as if to give her foot the benefit of the warmth, she was very soon whispering her domestic grievances into the ear of this fine old fox-hunting father confessor. There, as he stood looking into her eyes and imbibing her every word, listening to the Turkish despotism of the tyrannical tanner, and thinking how best to avenge her cause, the loud cheers of the health-drinkers burst unheeded on the scene, and it was not until Mr Snuffertray — the pompous butler — twice intimated the honour that had been done him, that his lordship awoke to the necessity of the occasion.

  Offering the lovely empress his arm, he halloaed, “Here, e-lope! young ‘un, e-lope! “as if speaking to a hound, and, followed by Freddy, they entered the banqueting-room in state.

  What a commotion their appearance created.

  “Brazen woman!” ejaculated Mrs Sowerby, half-choking herself with a chicken-bone.

  “Would not have come if I’d known,” muttered Mrs Mealymouth.

  His lordship, of course, was quite taken by surprise at the unexpected compliment, and after expressing the embarrassment he felt, and the inadequacy of language to convey the sentiments of his heart, he branched off upon the subject of hunting, expatiating upon its advantages in a social point of view, its life-lengthening, healthgiving properties, and its beneficial influence in promoting our breed of horses, which, however, he took the opportunity of observing were not so good as they used to be; adding that if he continued to have a difficulty in mounting himself, he should have to set to and breed a few — a declaration that was thought very plucky for a gay old gentleman turned of seventy.

  And now, whilst his lordship is plying the empress with noyeau jelly, and Freddy with fruit, the slight crack of a whip, followed by a musical rate, is heard, and Dicky Thorndyke is seen in his new cap and coat, rising corkily in his stirrups, piloting the glad pack round the castle corner, followed by the whips, similarly attired.

  “How are you, Dicky?”

  “How are you, Thorndyke?”

  “How are you, Dicky?” bursts from the now crowded ring before the castle, as Dicky guides the pack on to the grass-plot, a salutation that Dicky acknowledges just as he thinks the speaker’s intimacy with his lordship entitles him to Dicky or Thorndyke him.

  Similar inquiries are now made of the whips, after which the gentlemen begin identifying the horses, and the ladies to lisp their admiration of the hounds. “Such pretty creatures!”

  “How many were there?”

  “All so much alike — wondered they could tell the difference!” And so on.

  A diversion having been caused in the banqueting-room by the passing of the hounds, his lordship availed himself of the opportunity to withdraw with the Empress of Morocco, and having presently wrapped her up in her splendid Armenian cloak, and handed her to her carriage, he proceeded to mount a magnificent anything-you-like-to-call-it-worth white horse, to take his place in the centre of the hunting tableau before the castle. The hounds raised a glad cry, and dashed forward to meet him, while the men made aerial sweeps with their caps instead of reproving the ardour of the pack. His lordship bowed low and condescendingly to the second-class morality-mongers, whose sense of propriety would only allow of their partaking of refreshments at the door. The sherry and Maraschino, the Crème de Vanille and Parfait Amour, seemed to have exercised a mollifying influence on their prudery, and instead of the “Horrid bad mans!”

  “Shocking old dogs!” that generally accompanied his name, there were skilfully directed murmurs of “How well he looks!”

  “What a handsome man!”

  “Younger than ever!” with a great disposition to catch his eye.

  The day was bright and fair. A glittering flag floated proudly from the topmost tower; while the expanding river, refreshened with November rains, swept impetuously through the park, a slight sprinkling of snow capped the summits of the far-off hills. Here, as his lordship sat at the receipt of custom, the compliments flying about him like bouquets round a favourite actress at a theatre, the notes of a comet-a-piston suddenly sounded through the air, causing the steady pack to cock their ears, and all eyes to turn in the direction of, the sound. Presently a heavily-laden coach emerged from behind a long screen of evergreens upon the open carriage-way through the park, exposing the weak leg-weary state of the horses, who with difficulty were kept at a trot, with the “Jip, jip, jippings,”

  “Jag, jag, jaggings,”

  “Crop, crop, croppings,” and double thongings of the driver.

  “Who have we here?” asked his astonished lordship of Dicky Thorndyke.

  “Don’t know, my lord,” replied Dicky, shading the sun from his eyes, and straining in the direction of the corners. “Player-folks, I should say, by their noise,” added he. “No, my lord; no. I see; it’s the cavalry colonel — it’s the cavalry colonel and his captains.”

  “Do I know them?” asked his lordship, who made it a rule never to speak to any one who was not properly introduced.

  “You’ll know the colonel,” replied Dicky. “Was here some years back,” adding, in an undertone, as he leant forward in his saddle, “The corpulent captain that used to be.”

  “I remember,” replied his lordship, with a significant jerk of his head. “Great, fat, vulgar fellow.”

  “Just so,” said Dicky.

  The corpulent captain had been one of his lordship’s horrors, and the recollection of his impudent brusque gaucheries flashed upon his mind as he watched him “Jip, jip, jipping,” whip, whip, whipping, “Jag, jag, jagging,” and stamping on the splash-board, to get the leg-weary screws to trot becomingly up to the door. By the time he arrived, his lordship had got himself screwed into the imperative mood — very stiff. A dead silence followed the drawing up of the drag, all eyes being on the watch to see how the party was received.

  “How are ye, Heartycheer?” roared the monster, now slackening his reins, and casting a triumphant glance over the scene.

  His lordship made a slight bow..

  “How are ye, Heartycheer?” repeated he, in a still louder key, nothing daunted.

  His lordship now nearly kissed his horse’s ears, so deferential was his bow.

  “Hope we haven’t kept you waiting long,” continued the colonel, putting his clumsy whip into the socket.

  “Precious little fear of that,” thought Dicky Thorndyke, looking at his master with a laughing eye.

  “Couldn’t get our people started,” continued the colonel, standing up and looking over the crowded roof— “take such a deal of combin’ and gettin’ up some of these young fellers — waxin’ their ringlets and corkin’ their snouts; however,” continued he, “let me introduce them to you now that I’ve got them here. This chap on my left,” jerking his fin towards his white-hatted companion on the box, “you know, old Fibby; came out of the ark with Noah — haw — haw — haw; he — he — he; ho — ho — ho! The boy behind me on the roof is young Shuttleton, son of Mr Shuttleton, the great Manchester manufacturer — makes the Coburg cloth that looks so like merino — sixteenpence a yard.
The man next him is Jaycock, a very promising officer, with great expectations from an uncle. This is Mattyfat, and that is Gape. No, not the beetle-browed one,” continued the colonel, seeing his lordship’s eagle eye fixed to bow to the wrong one—” not the beetle-browed one,” repeated he, “the foxy-faced ‘un next him.” And so the gallant officer proceeded amidst much laughter to trot out the young gentlemen in front of the coach, just as the facetious Recorder trots out a newly-elected lord mayor before the barons of the Exchequer. When, however, he turned to deal with those behind, he found that they had taken fright at the examples made of their brethren, and cut off, so sousing himself down on his seat, he crossed his legs and proceeded to take a leisurely survey of the surrounding scene.

  “And how have you been?” roared he, addressing Lord Heartycheer in the most familiar way. “How have you been?” repeated he, in the same tone, not getting an answer to his first inquiry.

  “Pretty well, thank you, colonel,” replied his lordship, with a smile at the unwonted familiarity.

  “And how are you, Billy?” said he, addressing Dicky Thorndyke. “Don’t get any younger,” continued he, returning to his lordship, not getting any answer from Billy.

  “Few people do,” replied his lordship tartly.

  “Ah, but some people wear their years better than others,” roared the colonel in reply. “You show age desperately — your hair’s as white as snow.”

  “Indeed,” replied his lordship, making him a very low bow.

  “However,” continued the colonel, nothing daunted by the frowns of all around, “you are a remarkable man of your years — a very remarkable man — few men of your age can get on to a horse, let alone go a-hunting.” An observation that met with no reply and caused a momentary pause.

  “Have seen your hounds look better, I think,” continued the colonel, returning to the charge.

  “Indeed!” exclaimed his lordship, boiling up. “I was just saying to Mister Thorndyke” — with a strong emphasis on the mister—” I was just saying to Mister Thorndyke that I thought I never saw them looking better.”