Читать книгу Market Harborough, and Inside the Bar - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 10

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By good luck our pair of lost sheep soon hit the bridle-gate Mr. Sawyer had been seeking in vain.

“I suppose it’s all right,” said the Honourable Crasher, putting his horse into a canter, with the loose rein and easy off-hand seat peculiar to a gentleman riding to covert.

Mr. Sawyer, following close in his wake, devoutly hoped it was so; but had little leisure for considering the subject, inasmuch as his energies were completely engrossed by the delicate task of gammoning The Dandy that he didn’t want to pull at him. He knew too well, by the way his little horse’s ears were laid back, that he was fully prepared, and only sought an excuse, to come with a rush at the shortest possible notice.

They went on pleasantly enough for a mile or so, the Honourable leading, and commencing a variety of courteous remarks to his follower, which invariably broke off in the middle. At last, the former pulled up with an air of uncertainty.

“Very odd,” he said; “often as I’ve come this way before, I never remember the gate locked.” He had put his whip confidently under the latch, and his horse’s chest against the top, without the slightest effect. “ ’Pon my soul, it seems rather absurd, but I do believe we’ve lost our way.”

“We,” thought Mr. Sawyer; “and this fiend in top-boots laughs as if it were a joke!” but he only said aloud, “I shall get down and take it off its hinges.”

The Honourable’s reply was simple and conclusive. He pointed to the upper hinge, craftily turned downwards, so as effectually to prevent all tampering with it, and observed in a tone of melancholy apology, “The fence seems rather a bad one” (it was an “oxer,” about seven feet high, and impervious to a bird!). “Do you think your horse could get over the gate after mine? This is only a five-year-old, and very likely to break it,” he added, with the manner of a nurse tempting a child to take its dose.

I have said Mr. Sawyer was a brave man, and so he was; but I am bound to confess the proposition startled him not a little. Put yourself in his place, courteous reader, and say whether a foggy morning, an uninhabited country, and the necessity of riding a horse barely fourteen-two over a gate more than four feet high, after a languid desperado in pursuit of an uncertainty, was not a somewhat alarming contingency. Nevertheless, there was nothing else for it. The Honourable turned his horse round, took him in a grasp of iron, and put him rather slowly at the gate, which the animal, a well-bred, raking-looking chestnut, with a long bang-tail, got over exceedingly badly, striking the top bar with fore and hind legs; but neither disturbing the Honourable Crasher’s seat nor the imperturbability of his demeanour in the slightest degree. He looked back, however, to see his companion come, and even condescended to express a feeble approval of his performance, without removing the cigar from his mouth.

It is but justice to The Dandy to observe, that he no sooner obtained “the office” from his rider, and saw what was expected of him, than he cocked his ears, took the bit in his teeth, and bounded over the gate like a buck, indemnifying himself for the effort, by breaking clean away with his rider as soon as he landed, and going by the Honourable Crasher and his chestnut like a flash of lightning.

I have often observed that the blood of a languid person, if once he or she gets it “up,” boils more fervidly than that of less peaceful temperaments; perhaps it is altogether a thicker fluid, and consequently more retentive of caloric. Be this as it may, no sooner did the Honourable Crasher behold Mr. Sawyer speeding by him like an express train, than, roused by the example, and further stimulated by the insubordination of the chestnut, he sat well down in the saddle; and, taking his horse by the head, soon caught up and passed the astonished Sawyer, merely remarking, “We’ve got a little out of the line; you seem to be riding a good fencer, and had better follow me!” and then proceeded to lead his victim perfectly straight across country, in the direction of Tilton Wood; the fog, too, was by this time clearing off considerably, or it might be they had emerged from the region of its influence, and the stranger had not even the advantage of its friendly veil to hide from him the dangers by which he was encompassed.

To this day Mr. Sawyer has not left off talking about this his first ride over High Leicestershire. After a bottle of port, he even becomes heterodox for so good a sportsman, and vows he would rather gallop to covert over those grass-fields, than see a run in any other country in the world. I have my doubts, however, whether he enjoyed it so very much at the time. Jack put him down twice; first at an ox-fence, of which the rail was from him, and which, although his leader hit it very hard, deluded the unsuspecting Dandy; and secondly, by landing on a covered drain, which gave way with him, and superinduced one of those falls that are generally designated “collar-boners.” On this occasion the Honourable Crasher brought him back his horse, with quite a radiant expression of countenance.

“What a good little animal it is!” said he, throwing the reins back over its neck. “I’m trying to ‘crop’ this beggar of mine, and I very soon should, if I had to follow you.”

In effect, the chestnut’s head and bridle-band were plastered over with mud, although his rider’s coat was as yet unstained.

At Skeffington, they relapsed into a quiet trot, and rode on together, feeling as if they could hardly realise the fact, that twenty-four hours ago they were utter strangers to each other.

It is odd how people cast up at a meet of fox-hounds, from all sorts of different directions, even on the most unpromising mornings. Though the fog was as thick as ever at the top of the hill, and Tilton Wood, at no time the best of places to “get away from,” was perfectly invisible at two hundred yards’ distance, there was already a good sprinkling of sportsmen assembled at the fixture. Two or three “swells” from Melton, very much the pattern of the Honourable Crasher, had arrived on their smoking hacks, and were greeted by him with considerable cordiality. Truth to tell, the Honourable dearly loved what he called “a customer,” meaning simply an individual who was fool enough to rate his neck at the value he did his own; and, indeed, he never would have taken so affably to Mr. Sawyer, on such short notice, had the latter not been fortunate enough to possess an excellent hack hunter in Jack-a-Dandy, and bold enough to make very free use of that jumping little animal; the hounds, too, had already arrived, and in the glimpse which Mr. Sawyer caught of them as he rode up, he was sportsman enough to remark that they looked speedy, stout, level, and uncommonly fit to go. Such a pack, he thought, would not even have disgraced the Old Country! the huntsman also seemed to afford the happy combination of a riding as well as a hunting one; and the other servants were remarkably well mounted, and looked like business. Mr. Sawyer began to feel quite keen, and to look about for Isaac and the grey, who had not made their appearance; the other Harborough hunters, however, had not yet come up; their grooms had, probably, taken the chance of a late meet to refresh in a body somewhere on the road; there was nothing for it but to light a cigar, and wait patiently for more daylight.

Two or three clever-looking horses with side-saddles, denoted that if the weather had been more propitious, the same number of fair equestrians would have graced the field. Mr. Sawyer particularly remarked a very neat chestnut, apparently, like the groom who led it, exceedingly loath to be ordered home. A peremptory gentleman, in particularly good boots and breeches, with a clerical white neckcloth, and black coat, who had just arrived on wheels, seemed to be the proprietor of this shapely animal. Mr. Sawyer caught himself vaguely wondering whether it belonged to his wife or daughter, and laughed at his own preoccupation as he thought, “What could it signify to him?”

It is very tiresome work, that waiting for a fog to clear off before hounds are put into covert. In all other anti-hunting weather, you know, to a certain extent, what you are about; the frost, that sent you to look at the thermometer last night before you went to bed, is either all gone by twelve o’clock, or the matter is set at rest the other way, and you make up your mind not to hunt again till the moon changes. It is the same thing with snow; and, moreover, if you can hunt on the surface of mother earth when wrapped in her spotless shroud, she rewards you by carrying a capital scent. But in a fog everything is uncertain and obscure; it may clear off in ten minutes, or it may not be so dense elsewhere. It seems a pity to go home, when the very signal for a return may herald a change of weather; and yet it is a melancholy amusement to walk hounds and horses round a wet field till far on in the afternoon. Everybody is of a different opinion too, usually regulated by personal convenience; those who live a long way off are all for having a try, whilst the man who has ridden his hunter a mile or two to the place of meeting, and can keep him fresh for next day, opines that “It is madness—folly—you’ll disturb your country—you’ll lose your hounds—you might as well go out hunting in the middle of the night,” &c.

On the present occasion it was obvious that the day was getting worse. Sheets of mist came driving up the valleys, and wreathing round the crests of the wooded hills; the slight breeze seemed but to bring up fresh relays of vapour, and every visible object, trees, hedges, gates—nay, the very ears of the horses, and whiskers of their riders, were dripping and saturated with moisture. The Master of the Hounds, a thorough sportsman, never to be beaten by a difficulty, announced his intention of waiting whilst any one else remained; but it soon appeared that ere long he would have the field to himself. The Melton gentlemen lost no time in galloping home on their hacks, to while away the hours till dinner-time with a “smoking rubber.” Half-a-dozen yeomen adjourned to a neighbouring farm-house to have what they called “a snack” and drink a goodly allowance of port and sherry in the middle of the day. Even the clerical gentleman, owner of the chestnut ladies’-horse, thought it wouldn’t do; and just as Isaac on the grey turned up at the head of a strong detachment from Harborough, with whom he had fortunately fallen in, after losing his way twice, it was finally decided that the hounds should go home, and the day’s hunting be given up.

Warmed by his ride to covert, and hopeless of finding his way back, except in the same company, Mr. Sawyer lost no time in exchanging The Dandy for the grey. “If we are to lark home,” he thought, “I may as well ride a nag I can trust; but if ever I pin my faith upon one of these thin-booted gentlemen to show me the way again, why, I shall deserve the worst that can happen to me—that’s all!”

Now, although the appearance of a stranger does not create such a sensation in Leicestershire as in more remote countries, yet the Honourable Crasher was so well known, that it was natural some inquiries should be made as to his companion; for the Honourable C., who was thoroughly good-natured, had no sooner fraternised with our friend than he began to consider him in some sort, and in his own off-hand way, as under his especial charge. Mr. Sawyer’s exterior, too, although not extraordinarily prepossessing, was undoubtedly workmanlike. As he settled himself in the grey’s saddle, and altered the stirrups which Isaac could never be persuaded to pull to the same length, the clerical gentleman ranging alongside of the Honourable whispered to the latter:

“Who’s that fellow? Is he staying with you at Harborough?”

The Honourable laughed feebly.

“Don’t know him from Adam,” he replied, as if there could be any connection between the two. “He don’t seem half a bad fellow, though,” he added, “and I shouldn’t wonder if he could ride.”

Now, the clerical gentleman, who was, indeed, no other than the well-known Parson Dove, had struck up a firm alliance with the Honourable Crasher, cemented on both sides by a keen love for fox-hunting, or perhaps I should rather say, for galloping and jumping over a country—the Parson, be it observed, being the best sportsman of the two. On an occasion like the present, he hoped to secure his friend’s company at luncheon, by which stroke of policy he should please Mrs. Dove, who was not unprepared, and also show him a certain four-year-old, by which the Reverend set great store. Nay, it was by no means impossible that the Honourable, who never missed a chance of placing his neck in jeopardy, or the stranger who looked hard, might be induced to buy the animal for purposes of tuition. So he ignored all about Adam, and simply said, “It’s not a quarter of a mile out of your way to stop at the Rectory; indeed, you go by my stableyard. Won’t you and your friend come in and have a glass of sherry and a biscuit?”

Mr. Sawyer was a man who had no objection to a glass of sherry and a biscuit at any time, let alone such a cheerless day as this. The hospitable offer, too, was made in so loud a voice that he could not but accept it as addressed to himself; so he drew his horse back to the speaker, and thanked him for the offer, which he expressed his willingness to accept. The Honourable Crasher perceiving that he had been led into the virtual introduction of a man whose name he didn’t know, put a bold face on the matter, devoutly hoping the patronymic might never be asked, and the three turned in at a hand-gate, and jogged on amicably through the fog, in the direction of the Rectory.

As Mr. Sawyer ran his eye over the person and appointments of his future host, he could not but acknowledge to himself that never, no, never in his life had he seen such a thoroughly workmanlike exterior: from the clean-shaved ruddy face, with its bright-blue eye and close-cropped grey hair, down to the long heavy hunting-spurs, the man was faultless all over. Nobody’s leathers were so well made, so well cleaned, so well put on as Parson Dove’s; and, though he affected brown tops, it is well known that they were such unequalled specimens as to have caused one of his intimate friends who particularly piqued himself on “boots,” to give up all hope, even of imitation, and relapse into “Napoleons” in disgust. Why, the very way he folded his neckcloth was suggestive of Newmarket, and no scarlet coat that was ever turned out by Poole looked so like hunting as that well-cut unassuming black. His open-flapped saddle, his shining stirrup-irons, his heavy double-bridle, were all in keeping with the man himself, and it is needless to state that he was riding a thorough-bred bay, with a pair of fired forelegs, and about the best shoulders you ever saw on a hunter.

All this Mr. Sawyer had time to observe ere they rode into a neatly-bricked stableyard, where they gave their horses to a couple of smart grooms, and followed the owner through the back door, past the cleanest of kitchens and tidiest of sculleries, into the more aristocratic part of the mansion.