by R S Surtees
Jonathan Falconer having expressly stipulated, when he agreed to be huntsman, that he was never to be called upon to leap, and no one seeming inclined to volunteer, our major, though it went sore against the grain, was compelled, in the presence of Tom, to attempt the dread barrier; so, getting his old screw by the head, he ran him at it in an irresolute sort of way, exclaiming, as he brandished his whip, “Yooi, over he goes!”
But it was no such thing. The old horse, running his nose against the gorse, wheeled short round, nearly unshipping Guinea, and the coast being now clear, the lately despised Tapper, cramming his spurs well into his sides, ran his tit at it full tilt, and in an instant Tapper and tit and writ were floundering among the sods.
“That’s your sort!” roared Ribgrass, crushing onward, regardless of Tapper’s danger, and his big horse, setting his great flat foot upon the writ, sent it for ever out of sight, to the temporary advantage of Sloper.
The major followed Ribgrass, loudly denouncing Tapper’s mischief; and the lately pent-up field being now released, pushed on after the streaming pack. Being now on Mr Muttonfield’s farm, with a line of gates full in view, there was a rare display of spurring, and cropping, and kicking, and spread-eagling, as each man pressed on to his utmost. How they hurried and scuttled along!
At the end of seven minutes and a half, which to some seemed an hour, the hounds come to a momentary check, having slightly overrun the scent, and our friend Blue Cap, the tailless cur to whom we owe an apology for our apparent neglect, now leaves Falconer’s horse’s heels, and rushing round the hounds as he would round a flock of sheep, sends them flying to our huntsman’s halloo, who, holding them on towards the gate where “fur cap” has pricked her, they presently strike the scent, and go away like a pocketful of marbles. But who is so fortunate as to see this second burst, almost as terrible as the first? Our memory supplies, and we think we can name them all. If we look at the left, we shall see Major Guinea-fowle’s punt hat and green arms working away like a shuttle-weaver’s, closely followed by Hall, with his brown horse in a white lather; behind whom, and rough-casting the next man with mud as he goes, come Dweller, Elbows, and Drumhead. On the right are Vernal and Hermitage, going at a very “galloping dreary done” sort of pace, while the clatter and pother farther off proceeds from Billy Bedlington pounding up Knockington-lane, followed by Seton, Ribgrass, Bolus, Ribs, and Tommy Coulter’s young man, on a horse fresh out of the harrows. In the distance the game Tapper may be seen persevering on foot, leading his back-sinew-sprung horse, and trying to coax one of Messrs Remnant and Ribbon’s genteel young men, who has slightly deviated from his course with patterns of mourning for Lady Snuffles, out of his hack horse in exchange.
And the mention of mourning reminds us that we ought to be winding up with a kill, “no chase,” as Nimrod truly says, “being complete without one.”
The hare dies within a stone’s-throw of the Barley-Mow beer-shop, on the Gillinghurst-road — a most convenient spot for our sportsman, — the pack pouncing upon her in the middle of a large grass field, where she had “clapped,” as they call it, every hound getting a snatch at her haunch, and some a mouthful of fur. Major Guinea-fowle, jumping and dancing about with her over his head, would be a subject worthy of Leech himself. Falconer’s who-whoop reverberated in the beer-shop, and brought out the landlord, with a lurcher at his heels, and a pipe in his mouth. Every man present is ecstatic with delight. “Give me the scut!” cries one. “Give me a foot!” cries another. At length, all being satisfied in that line, poor puss is disembowelled, and Tapper arrives just in time to have his pasty face besmeared with her blood, to the infinite mirth of the field.
“What superb hounds!” now exclaims Tom Hall, looking them over, quite delighted with his own performance.
“Ar’n’t they?” replied the major, eyeing Falconer as he deposits the hare in the case.
“They talk about my Lord Heartycheer,” continued he, shrugging his shoulders, and tossing a sneer on one side—” they talk about my Lord Heartycheer and the great doings of his pack, but for regular continuous sport I’d back mine against them — and they don’t cost half what his do,” added he in a confidential tone to our Tom.
Amidst most hearty good-byes and adieux, the bulk of the field then sheered off to the beer-shop, and the major and Tom turned their heads towards home, all highly delighted with what they had done.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
LORD HEARTYCHEER GOES A-ROVING.
“WHICH IS MY best way to Fleecyborough?” asked Lord Heartycheer of Dicky Dyke, after the usual kennel spell, the first non-hunting day after the Silverspring Firs one. “Which is my best way to Fleecyborough?”
“That ‘pends upon which end of the town your lordship wants to be at,” replied Dicky, with a purse of his mouth and a knowing twinkle of his little blue eyes. “If you want to be at the corn-market end, your lordship must go by Jerico Green and up Spicer-lane; but if you want to be at the cattle-market—”
“The barrack end,” interrupted his lordship, knowing it was no use humbugging Dicky.
“The barrack end,” replied Dicky, drawing his breath and sucking his lips—” the barrack end,” repeated he, thinking his lordship must steer clear of the Emperor of Morocco’s, in Fish-street, and get there as quietly and unobserved as possible. “Why, I should say,” continued he, lifting his ideas as he would his hounds, “I should say you must strike across Lingey open fields, keeping Thorneyburn to the right, and skirtin’ our cover at Marshlaw; then pass the windmill that stands a little to the left of Mr Draggletaile’s large white house, with a quarry at the back, and that lets you into the high-road, when you’ll have the barracks right afore ye, without ever goin’ into the town or settin’ foot on the pavement.”
“That’ll do,” replied his lordship, adopting the idea, adding, “Then just you see Peter, and tell him the way, so that he may know it in case I forget.”
“By all means,” assented Dicky, with a touch of his hat, as he opened the kennel door for his lordship to depart, adding to himself, as he watched him cantering up the avenue home, “Dash my buttons, but you’re a game ‘un! Seventy years of age! — seventy years of age, ‘cordin’ to the census paper.”
Next day but one, a couple of remarkably neat thoroughbred brown hacks were going the rounds before Hearty-cheer Castle door, in charge of a very diminutive groom, whose youth caused him to be selected for secret service; and as if to keep up the delusion he was attired in an undress livery, dark coat and waistcoat, cream-coloured leathers, and rose-tinted tops, with a belt round his waist, and a cockade in his hat — a dress that even in London any club bow-window lounger could appropriate to the owner at a glance, and people in the country can never mistake for any but his. However, that was what his lordship called going “incog”; and after the horses had made some half-dozen rounds of the spacious gravel ring, a quick clapping of hands, followed by the word “Sharp!” from an uncovered gentleman’s gentleman, who suddenly appeared at the door, caused the tiger to bustle up to the steps with the horses, just as a couple of gigantic footmen threw back the portals, as if Daniel Lambert or the Durham ox were about to emerge instead of his slim antiquated lordship. He was got up with uncommon care — gay and various in his colours. A spic-and-span new black hat crowned his silvery white hair; a wildly tied light-blue gauze Joinville coquetted with his smally pleated shirt-frill, protruding through his canary-coloured vest, which was buttoned with bloodstone buttons, and traversed with chains and watch appendage gewgaws. He wore a light-blue velvet-collared dress-coat, with burnished gold club buttons (an earl’s coronet above a flying fox), and his faultless fawn-coloured leathers fell in creaseless easy lines upon his taper feet. His brown paper measure has long occupied the “H.” post of honour in Anderson’s back-shop. His lordship was of the Anglesey school of dressers, and was quite as great as his great original.
Thus caparisoned, with a light gold-mounted riding-whip in his primrose-kidded right hand, the
gay old gentleman put his patent-leathered toe into the stirrup, and, vaulting into the saddle, ambled away like a lad going to see his first love, followed by the youthful tiger with his tongue in his cheek at the winking and nudging and laughing of the footmen. So his incognito lordship flourished through the country, drawing down the animadversions of some, and the speculations of others, as to “where the ‘shockin’ old rascal’ was going?” But as they neither scowled nor menaced him as he passed, but, on the contrary, smiled as they touched or took off their hats to him, he flattered himself that he was considered a very respectable dignified nobleman. So he tit-upped away as gay as a lark, thinking that no one knew what he was after.
The world was well-aired ere the tramp of the noble lord’s horses on the wood pavement at the barrack-gates caused the stalwart sentries to stand and stare, and the shirt-sleeved soldiers to pause in their brushing and pipeclaying operations. Mattyfat and Gape were hanging listlessly out of a window, smoking and basking in the wintry sun preparatory to lady-killing in the town; while Stalker and Pippin, and Whopper and Spill, and others, lolled and strolled about the messroom, talking of their overnight host, his claret, and daughters, in the listless sort of way of idle wine-headachy gentlemen in general.
His lordship, who recollected the “country” as soon as they got within the gates, spurred on at a canter for the colonel’s house in the corner, and reining up his steed, beckoned the lad to dismount and make for the bell on the right of the door. Scarce had the quick-footed youth applied his hand to the brass nob ere Jasper, the gigantic footman, looked down like Jack the Giant-Killer upon him, and at the same instant a rich clear voice broke out in accompaniment of a piano, putting it quite out of Jasper’s power to say that his young mistress wasn’t at home. In truth, she had just decked herself out in a beautiful, almost new, drab and pink shot watered silk dress, with very wide sleeves, and Irish point ones underneath, and a high chemisette of the same material, secured with French diamond studs down the front, to receive young Mr Downeylipe, son of Sir John Downeylipe, Bart., who had just joined the regiment, and on whom she purposed trying the strength of her charms.
Great was her surprise when, as she sat on her music-stool with her dress all becomingly spread out behind her, Jasper creaked up and announced Lord Heartycheer instead of the name of the newly caught comet.
“Oh, my lord!” exclaimed she in a perfect ecstasy of delight, “this is so kind — so unexpected — so—”
And thereupon, fearing she was going too far, she applied her kerchief to her lips, while the gallant old beau pressed his own lips to the other little hand, as, half-kneeling, he humbled himself before her. And Mrs Blunt, who commanded the scene from a convenient crack in the wainscotted partition, wondered how so gallant a beginning would end.
“Won’t your lordship be seated?” asked Angelena, as the spicy old cock still kept his hold of her hand—” won’t you be seated?” repeated she, motioning him towards a cane-bottomed chair, beside which stood another quite convenient.
“How’s my friend the colonel?” asked his lordship, conducting Angelena towards the proffered resting-place.
“Pa’s pretty well, I’m much obliged,” replied she, seating herself. “Very well, I may say,” added she, arranging her dress, and wondering whether her mother was watching.
“And Mrs Blunt?” bowed his lordship, depositing his hat by his own chair.
“Ma’s pretty well, too, I thank you,” replied the fair lady, passing her little beringed hand down her Madonna-dressed brown hair.
“At home?” asked his lordship in a tone of indifference.
“No, they’re out driving, I’m sorry to say,” faltered Angelena, dreading lest the colonel, who was playing skittles behind the riding-school, should make a sudden irruption for some bottled porter.
“Well done you,” smiled mamma, thinking how worthy Angelena was of a chance.
“Indeed,” simpered the old buck, preparing to make play. “Well, and how’s the little mare? None the worse, I hope, for her canter the other day?”
“Oh dear, no,” replied the fair lady; “all the better.”
“And her lovely mistress — I needn’t ask how she is after it,” continued the old peer, grasping Angelena’s arm incontinently as he spoke.
“Oh, her mistress is quite well,” simpered the lady, with a slight flourish of her cambric.
“All the better, too, I hope, for the little gallop,” suggested the gay old gentleman.
“Indeed, I think I am,” replied Angelena gaily, adding, “I always do feel better after a ride.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed the old man, his eagle eye lighting up with youthful enthusiasm. “‘Gad! I think that’s the neatest — the very neatest — cleverest — the very cleverest — handsomest — the very handsomest — little creature I ever set eyes on.’Gad! I’ve thought, I’ve dreamt, I’ve talked of nothing but the beautiful maid and her beautiful mare ever since,” continued his lordship, now feeling her arm a little lower down.
“She’s a sweet little thing,” observed Angelena.
“The maid, I suppose you mean?” observed his lordship gallantly.
“No, the mare,” replied Angelena.
“Both!” exclaimed his lordship—” both!’Gad! I was telling Mr Thorndyke I’d give him a carte blanche to buy me such a one.”
“Indeed,” mused Angelena, thinking her papa would accommodate him. Then she recollected he had sold the mare to Tom Hall. By a curious coincidence, his lordship’s rapid thoughts now wandered to that gentleman; and as Angelena was thinking whether she could not get off the Hall bargain, he exclaimed —
“And how’s your young friend, Mister — Mister — Mister — the plump brawny youth, as Somerville would say, who came out hunting with you, you know?”
“Oh, Mister Hall — Tom Hall — my father’s friend. Upon my word, to tell you the truth,” said she, raising her eyebrows, and speaking in a confidential energetic tone—” to tell you the truth, I’ve never seen him from that day to this.”
“Indeed!” replied his lordship, raising his white ones in return, with an accompaniment of the shoulders—” indeed! I thought he’d been your intended.”
“Intended!” shrieked Angelena—” intended! — Oh, heavens, no! He’s just as much my intended as you are.”
“Humph!” smiled his lordship, wondering whether that was artlessness or design.
“Well, but he’s a useful young man — a useful young man, and should be encouraged — should be encouraged,” observed his lordship. “These young men are very convenient at times — very convenient at times,” added he with a knowing leer.
“I do make a convenience of him,” replied Angelena, sotto voce; “he’s a good-natured goose.”
“He seems so,” said his lordship—” he seems so; not much of a horseman — I should say, not much of a horseman.”
“Horseman!” exclaimed Angelena. “I shouldn’t like to be his horse, I know.”
“Nor I,” replied his lordship—” nor I; he fell off, absolutely fell off — made a regular voluntary,” added he, with a slap of his fawn-coloured knee, as if such a thing as falling off was perfectly unheard of.
“Just the sort of man to do it,” laughed Angelena.
“Just,” assented his lordship gaily—” just,” repeated he. He then sat silent for a second or two, eyeing Angelena intently — her hair, her eyes, her teeth, her nose, her complexion, her hand, her foot, her figure. “That’s a lovely dress!” exclaimed he, taking hold of the stiff shot silk; “very lovely dress.”
“Glad you like it,” smiled Angelena.
“Charmed with it — perfectly charmed with it!” reiterated his lordship, adding, in an undertone, “either with it or the wearer.”
“Oh, you flatter, my lord,” simpered the fair flirt.
“Not a bit of it! Last man in the world to do anything of the sort!” exclaimed his lordship, throwing out his hands; “but I’ve an eye for beauty n
otwithstanding, and yours, I must say, is of the transcendent order. But let me see,” continued he—” let me see,” repeated he, pinching and eyeing the dress more intently; “it’s two colours — two colours, I declare; ‘gad it’s two colours if not three,’ added he, now turning it to the light.
“It’s what they call a shot silk,” observed Angelena.
“Shot silk, is it?” repeated his lordship—” shot silk; well, I must say, it’s very pretty — very pretty, indeed; but your elegant, sylph-like figure would set off anything,” added he, relinquishing his hold, as he recollected that he ought to be getting to his point.
“Well, now, my darling, when will you come out with us again?” asked his lordship hurriedly, as a stentorian voice halloaed out, after a heavy thump at the back door, “PORTER — Two BOTTLES!” which his lordship knew could proceed from none but the ex-corpulent captain, now our corpulent colonel.
“Out again?” shuddered Angelena, biting her lips, dreading lest her parent should come in and spoil the finest chance she ever had in her life. “Out again?” repeated she, as the flurry of petticoats from the other side of the wainscotted partition was followed by a gentle but protracted “H-u-s-sh!” from the top of the stairs.
She now pictured to herself her mamma with her finger on her lip, and her astonished papa beating a hasty retreat.
“Yes — out with us again?” repeated his lordship, pretending not to notice the interruption.
“Oh, I should so like it!” sighed Angelena, clasping her hands, and turning her bright eyes up to the ceiling.
“Well, then, say the word,” replied his lordship hastily, dreading an interruption to their tête-a-tête.
“I fear — I’m afraid — I” faltered Angelena.