A fortnight’s frost tempted me to leave my comfortable quarters at the Haycock, and the delights of Miss Lushington’s society, for the metropolis. Somehow hunting men never do keep away from London in the frost, and I had an excellent excuse in wanting the best advice about my arm. “The fracture had united very satisfactorily.” said the great authority before whom I stripped, paying me at the same time an agreeable compliment on my vigorous state of health, and the development of my muscular system. By the time I had visited the different theatres, and read all the back numbers of my favourite magazines, at “The Hat and Umbrella,” I was as sound again as ever I had been in my life. Nor did I forget, when once more frequenting my comfortable club, to cross-examine Quizby at great length on the subject which was still uppermost in my thoughts. His answers only made me the more anxious to see Miss Merlin: and I never greeted a thaw with greater delight than that which set in, just as I was beginning to get tired of London, and summoned me back to Soakington once more. At the railway station it was obvious that the hunting community, like those migratory birds which periodically leave the frozen regions of the north for warmer climes, was on the wing. Umbrellas and sticks, strapped together in bundles, discovered the white crook of the hunting-whip between their handles; there was a great demand at the bookstall for the Sporting Magazine and the Field newspaper; whilst half the hats hung up in the first-class carriage betrayed, by a little ring of wire just under the brim, that it was their natural destiny to be crushed in bullfinches, knocked off by branches, possibly flattened and crumpled up by the projection of their enthusiastic wearers head-foremost to the earth.
Arrived at Soakington, the first person I met was Miss Merlin’s dapper groom. These domestics come out in a thaw, as we see flies begin to swarm the first sunny day in spring. “The country,” he said, in answer to my inquiries, “would ride perfectly well by to-morrow. Indeed, the frost was pretty nigh out of the ground now. His lady? Oh she was quite well, he believed; leastways he might say as he knowed she was, for he’d been over for orders to-day—hadn’t been back an hour. Where? Oh! at the Castle, to be sure, where she’d a-been stopping now a goodish spell. Would she be out to-morrow? Why, in course she would, if she were alive. Did I know that the hounds were to meet at the Haycock? A-purpose to draw Soakington Gorse—that’s the new gorse as my lord made down by Willow Waterless. Sure of a run to-morrow, if you could be sure of anything on this mortal earth!”
Vindicating his character as a philosopher, by this profound reflection, my friend withdrew into the privacy of his own stable, and I betook myself to mine; there, having expressed a qualified approval of my stud’s general appearance, I decided to ride “Tipple Cider,” as being the best of them, and then retired to my apartments, to order dinner and prepare for the morrow.
I was a little disappointed, I confess, to discover that the bird was flown. I fully expected Miss Merlin would ere this have returned to her quarters at the Haycock. Also, I was a little tired with my journey and the late racketing in London. I am a quiet man, and I call supper after the play the height of dissipation. So I went early to bed, looking forward with keen excitement to the morrow.
The morning broke delightfully, promising one of those soft, fragrant days of which I have never seen the counterpart in any climate but our own, and which, alas! are rare even here. A calm, grey winter’s day in England, with a faint southern breeze, and occasional gleams of sunshine descending on the distance, in perpendicular floods of gold, has always seemed to me the very perfection of weather.
The hounds were to meet at half-past ten. I was dressed and at breakfast a full hour before. To me, as to all bachelors, this is a very important meal. I like to enjoy it comfortably, in my dressing-gown and slippers, before placing myself in the confinement of boots and breeches. I like to prop up the Morning Post, or the last Quarterly, or one of the magazines, against my coffee-pot, and feed my mind alternately with my body. Now a mouthful of ham, then a prophecy of Argus (pretty sure to be right) on the next great race; or a bite of toast, and a sentence on the Cotton question; or chip my egg and break the ice of a new story in Fraser, at one and the same time, washing the whole thing down with a draught of such coffee as no servant but my own, I verily believe, is capable of concocting.
I have seen some men breakfast, and that in apparent resignation, with a button-hook in one hand and a fork in the other, a wife calling to them in the passage, children running in and out of the room, the gardener waiting for orders at the door, and their hack snorting and pawing on the gravel in front. I suppose “the back,” as the adage says, “is made for the burden.” I am not ungrateful, when I reflect on sundry burdens that have not been made for my back.
At length, dressed, booted, and spurred, I made my way downstairs into the bar, where I found Miss Lushington, in a costume of surprising magnificence far surpassing any of her previous dresses, in a high flow of spirits, and up to her very ear-rings in the business of her office. Notwithstanding all she had on hand, however, she did not fail to greet me with cordial politeness; and here I must do Miss Lushington the justice to observe, that whatever might be the calls on her attention, and however numerous the circle of her admirers, offering the accustomed incense of flattery not unmixed with chaff, she had always a word and a smile to spare for the humblest and most bashful individual who entered the magic ring. “Dear heart! Mr. Softly,” said she, “it does me good to see you in your red coat again. But you’ll surely remember what an escape you’ve had. You’ll take warning, and not be so venturesome for the future.”
I was not above feeling a sense of gratification at this allusion to my supposed recklessness, though I detected something like a smile on Mr. Naggett’s rosy face, whilst it was uttered.
Yes, there was Mr. Naggett, in full bloom, armed and accoutred for the chase; sipping a fragrant concoction of gin-and-cloves moreover, as a further preparation. His horse, a large mealy chestnut, was being led up and down the yard. I saw it through the bar-window, and thought I never liked the look of an animal much less. All that art could accomplish had, however, been done, to set off its natural unsightliness. It was decorated with a new saddle and bridle, breast-plate, nose-band, and martingale complete. It was accoutred, moreover, with a gaudy saddle-cloth, rather too large, and a boot on every leg but one.
The owner, too, was got-up in an alarming manner, and as he would have said himself, “regardless of expense.” Mr. Naggett’s coat was blue, with the brightest of buttons, bearing some raised device, in which a crown-imperial predominated. Mr. Naggett’s waistcoat was scarlet, bound with yellow braid: and his cream-coloured neckcloth was secured by a red cornelian pin. A low-crowned hat, white cloth breeches, and high Napoleon boots, faultless in polish, but spoiled by a pair of thin racing spurs, very badly put on, completed Mr. Naggett’s resplendent costume. The man himself seemed in the highest possible spirits; but I thought I could detect a slight tremor of the hand, despite his morning stimulant—that tremor which a horse is so apt in discovering, particularly when he is ridden at water.
“Nice morning, sir,” said Mr. Naggett. He pronounced it marning; but this peculiarity I have observed amongst ultra sporting characters. “Hope I see you all right again, sir. You’ll want both hands to-day—heels too, or I’m mistaken. Looks like a hunting marning, don’t it, sir? And there’s a fox lies here in Soakington Gorse, as will give us a ‘buster,’ I know. Got your ‘riding boots’ on to-day, sir, I dare say.”
I was somewhat nettled at his tone, three parts jesting, and not above a quarter respectful; and I replied, wishing to return sarcasm with sarcasm—
“I shall follow you, Mr. Naggett, if I want to be well with them.”
Such delicate thrusts were completely thrown away upon my friend’s proof-armour of self-conceit.
“You might do worse, sir,” said he, in perfect good faith. “I’m riding a real good one to-day. Go as fast as he likes, he can; and jump! He’d jump a town, if you’d put him at it! I know whose fault it will be if we get thrown out to-day. Your health, Miss Lushington. What, Ike! be the hounds come already?”
The latter question was addressed to my old acquaintance, the earth-stopper, who with many a low salaam, and a gentlemanlike air of excusing himself, which he had acquired in his palmy days with “The Flamers,” and never completely shaken off, now sidled into the Bar.
“They’re not half-a-mile behind,” said the old man; and then turned to me, with a “Beg your pardon, sir,” as if to apologise that he had addressed the other first. I accepted the implied compliment; and could do no less in return than ask the veteran “What would he have to drink?”
“A little gin, if you please, sir,” replied old Ike, passing the back of his hand across his mouth. And I saw his wasted features glow and his eyes brighten, as the liquid fire descended to those regions which people who are no anatomists call the “cockles of the heart.” He was still a wonderfully tough old specimen, this earth-stopper. Last night he had been his rounds on a shaggy white pony that looked like the ghost of a horse in the dim moonlight; and to-day, having already walked half-a-dozen miles or so before breakfast, he would follow the hounds for several hours on foot, and be ready again for his work by nightfall.
I saw the old man’s face brighten once more, as the door opened, and Tom Turnbull walked into the bar—not to drink anything, as I soon ascertained, but to inquire if a parcel had been left for his “Missis.” By the way, I should much like to have my curiosity satisfied as to what these parcels for farmer’s wives contain, that are continually left at houses of call. They are invariably small, limp, and a good deal crushed, wrapped in the softest of paper, and tied with the most tangled of string.
Mr. Turnbull looked the picture of a sportsman—low-crowned hat, pepper-and-salt coat, Bedford cord breeches, and brown-topped boots, thick leather gloves, and a blue bird’s-eye neckcloth. “How goes it, Tom?” exclaimed a voice I recognised. “Fine dry morning, this. Won’t you liquor up?”
“Never take anything before I go hunting, thank ye, sir,” replied Tom, turning round his rosy healthy face and clear eye, presenting a marked contrast to the dissipated looks of “Jovial Jem,” for it was none other who now addressed him. The Jovial had been in London, too, during the frost, and, judging by his appearance, had been engaged in a process which he termed “keeping the game alive,” but which was likely to be rapid destruction to the sportsman. He looked as if he had been partially drunk for a fortnight and was hardly sober now, as indeed probably was the case. He was attired, nevertheless, in the most fashionable hunting costume—long scarlet coat with large sleeves, white waistcoat with an infinity of pockets, blue-satin neckcloth and turned-down collar, well-cleaned leathers and top-boots, heavy workmanlike spurs as bright as silver, and a velvet hunting-cap. A cigar in his mouth of course, and, despite a certain nervous anxiety of manner, a merry leer in his eye, or it would not have been “The Jovial.” He had driven Crafty Kate over from The Ashes, and was about to ride a steady seasoned hunter that his father had given him on Christmas-day. “Look alive!” observed this well-dressed sportsman when he had greeted me, as he considered, with sufficient politeness, by slapping me on the back, and calling me “old one.” “The Earl leaves the Green to a minute, and it’s ten-thirty now”—words which caused an immediate bustle in the bar and emptying thereof, nobody but Mr. Naggett having the politeness to wish Miss Lushington “Good-bye.”
Soakington-Green, as it was called—an open space of verdure, generally too wet for cricket, and seldom boasting anything more lively than a worn-out pair of stocks and a few lean geese—was all alive when we mounted our horses and rode across its level surface. True to his character for punctuality, the Earl was already moving off, and I did but catch a glimpse of his long back and tall aristocratic figure as he jogged along amongst his hounds, in earnest conclave with Will Hawke. The pack were gathered round their huntsman’s horse, looking, as they always did, bright as pictures. Glossy in their coats, full of muscle, ribs just visible, and plenty of covering upon their backs, they stepped daintily along, with their sterns well up, and that sagacious quick-witted ready-for-anything expression which is characteristic of the fox-hound. A party of gentlemanlike-looking men from the Castle, admirably mounted, followed close upon the hounds; but my eye sought in vain amongst the troop for the well-known form in its close-fitting riding-habit, which was beginning to take up far too much of my attention. The tinge of disappointment I experienced was, however, rapidly cured by a conversation I happened to overhear between young Plumtree and a double-distilled dandy from the Castle, riding a conspicuous white horse.
The “Jovial,” whose shattered nerves could not brook suspense as well as mine, addressing the elaborate exquisite by the familiar abbreviation of “Pop” (his real name was Popham Algernon Adolphus Evergreen, so it did come shorter to call him “Pop”), asked him point-blank, “What they had done with the rest of the party?” to which “Pop” after a vague stare, and an effort to remember where he was, replied, “Party?—Oh!—Aw!—Yes. Some of the fellows were late, and went on at once to the Gorse. Emperor won’t like it (meaning the Earl); but daren’t blow up, because The Slasher’s gone on with ’em.”
“The Slasher?” exclaimed Plumtree, turning very red and forgetting in his indignation to be either slang or cool, “Who the devil do you cal............