It is needless for me to observe that Mr. Sawyer was one of those individuals who are described in common parlance as not having been “born yesterday.” He had lived long enough in this superficial world of ours to recognise the prudence of “keeping his own counsel,” just as he kept the key of his own cellar at The Grange; and he would no more have thought of entrusting his dearest friend with the one than the other.
Accordingly, when he felt certain ominous thumps against the calves of his legs, which denoted that “Hotspur was suffering from palpitation of the heart,” he resolved to conceal if possible from every eye that untoward failing of so good an animal. And, with considerable judgment, he waited till his friends were out of sight ere he dismounted, and led his jaded steed into a barn, which he espied at hand, there to recover himself a little under shelter, and then, if possible, to make his way home in the dark, and trust to chance for some excuse to account for his delay, when he met them again at the dinner-table.
Perhaps the reason is, that in these fast times condition is so much better understood—for we cannot admit the uncomplimentary excuse that hounds do not run now as formerly—why horses stop so much less often in the hunting-field than they did in the palmy days of Musters and Assheton Smith, and “the d—d Quornites,” who were always either “showing” or “being shown the trick” some fifty years ago. Then a hunter’s reputation was as fragile as a sultana’s, and was guarded as jealously. Not only must he be “sans peur,” but also “sans reproche.” And the efforts of these lords to preserve the character of their treasures were as ingenious as they were ludicrous. One facetious nobleman actually got a tired favourite home next day right through the streets of Melton, disguised as the middle horse of a cart-team; nor did all the lynx-eyes, ready to watch for the “casualties” consequent on a clipper, discover the identity of one of the best nags in Leicestershire, under the weather-beaten winkers and shabby harness of a four-horse waggon. Mr. Sawyer trusted to the cloud of night for the same immunity.
He had just stabled his steed in the warmest corner of the shed, and, having taken off his own coat to fling over the animal’s heaving quarters, was beginning to speculate on the probable rheumatism that would succeed this imprudence, when, to his astonishment and disgust, the door was darkened by another figure, and his solitude disturbed by the entrance of a man and horse, in all probability seeking the same shelter for the same cause.
The new-comer was a remarkably good-looking person, extremely well got-up, particularly as regarded his nether extremities, and our friend at once recognised him as having been very forward with the hounds at different stages of the run. His horse, a well-bred bay, was “done to a turn.” When Sawyer looked at its drooping head and heaving flanks, it seemed to put him quite in conceit with the roan. For a moment neither spoke a word—then the absurdity of the situation seemed to strike them simultaneously, and they both burst out laughing.
“What? They’ve cooked your goose as well as mine!” said the stranger, in off-hand tones, producing at the same time a silver cigar-case, on which our friend could not help fancying he descried a coronet, and proceeding to light a most tempting-looking weed.
“A very likely day to do it, too,” he added, glancing, as Sawyer thought, somewhat contemptuously at himself and steed. “The pace for the first twenty minutes was alarming, and the country awfully deep. I should say you’ll hardly get that horse home to-night.”
The suggestion was neither flattering nor consolatory. Mr. Sawyer felt half inclined to be offended; but he thought of the silver cigar-case, and swallowed the retort uncourteous that rose to his lips. He was a true Briton, and not above a weakness for the peerage. “This good-looking man,” he argued, “notwithstanding his black coat, must be a Viscount at least!”
“I’m going as far as Market Harborough,” he observed meekly. “It cannot be more than seven or eight miles. I shall hope to accomplish that.”
“Lucky for you!” replied the other. “I want to get to Melton, if I can. I’ve a hack here at Welford, if this beggar can take me there. He’s short of work, poor devil! and could hardly wag coming up the hill. I should say your horse would die.”
This was an unpleasant and rather startling way of putting the matter. Mr. Sawyer had not indeed considered it from that point of view. Though a man of energy, he felt somewhat helpless; as who would not in a similar position? Eight miles from home, in a strange country, encumbered with a dying horse!
“What had I better do?” inquired he, rather plaintively, of the unknown.
Nobleman though he were, the latter seemed to be an energetic personage enough, and pretty familiar with the usages of the stable. Between them they made poor Hotspur as comfortable as circumstances would admit, the unknown conversing with great condescension and volubility the whole time.
“What you want for this country,” said he, rubbing away the while at Hotspur’s ears and forehead, “is a strong stud. If you’ve sport hereabouts, it pulls the horses so to pieces. Now this is a nice little well-bred horse enough, but he hasn’t size, you see, and scope; there’s nothing of him; consequently, when you drop into a run, he goes as long as he can, and it’s all U P! Mine, now, would have gone on for ever, if he’d had condition; but I only bought him ten days ago, and he’s never had a gallop. Nothing like good ones—big ones—and plenty of ’em! Look at him now; he’s getting better every moment.”
Without subscribing entirely to this statement, Mr. Sawyer humbly asked his new friend if he himself was very strong in horses?
“Not very,” was the reply. “I’ve got eleven, however, at my place, which I shall be very happy to show you whenever you like to come over. Every one of them up to more than your weight,” he added, casting his eye over Mr. Sawyer’s much-bemired figure. “I shall be happy to give you a mount on any one of them you fancy; and you will know them better than I can tell you.”
Our friend was penetrated with gratitude. Visions stole over him of an eligible acquaintance, that would soon ripen into friendship, with this most affable of peers; of a charming country-house, agreeable women, billiards, music, dry champagne, and flirtation—himself an honoured guest; of an introduction, perhaps, through his noble ally, into the best London society and everything that he had always thought most desirable, but hitherto considered beyond his reach. “Doubtless,” reasoned Mr. Sawyer, “he has remarked my riding, and taken a fancy to me. On further observation, he finds my manners are those of a perfect gentleman; and he is determined we shall become friends. How lucky Hotspur was so beat that I came in here!”
Accordingly, he thanked his new acquaintance with considerable empressement, and assured him that “he should take the first opportunity of taxing his hospitality.”
The unknown looked a little astonished. “Well,” he replied, “if you don’t mind roughing it a bit, I dare say I can find room for you, even in my little crib; but you can see the horses out hunting, and ride them too, just the same.”
“How considerate these noblemen are!” thought Mr. Sawyer, “and how playful! I dare say his ‘little crib,’ as he calls it, is three times the size of The Grange. But he insists on mounting me, all the same.” So he thanked him once more, and proposed that, as it was dark, and the horses were somewhat recovered, they should endeavour to make their way home.
“When will you come?” asked the unknown, as they emerged into the open air—both horses coughing, one lame before, and the other all round. “I’ve a bay that would carry you admirably, and a brown, and indeed, a chestnut that you would like. I’d take five hundred for the three; and they’re so perfect, a child might ride them.”
“What a cordial, good fellow!” thought Mr. Sawyer again. “He wishes me to enjoy my visit, and ride his horses with thorough confidence; so he tells me of their great value and perfect tuition. I have indeed ‘lit upon my legs,’ as the saying is.” “Thank you,” he replied aloud. “My time is my own; and I will pay you a visit whenever it is perfectly convenient to you to receive me. My name is Sawyer; and I am staying at Harborough. Perhaps you will kindly write and let me know.”
“Very well, sir,” answered the other, muttering something about “business,” but touching his hat, as Mr. Sawyer thought, with all the politeness of the old school, as their ways diverged; and he jogged off to get his hack, leaving our friend to plod on afoot by the exhausted Hotspur, in the darkening twilight, cheered but by one solitary star, which threatened to be soon eclipsed by the clouds that were rising fast in the sighing night-wind.
It was no such enviable position, after all. Seven miles at least had Mr. Sawyer to go; and he must walk, or ride at a foot’s pace, every yard of the way. The sky was ominous of rain; the Laranagas were all smoked out; and poor Hotspur was unquestionably “done to a turn.”
These are the moments which the most thoughtless of men cannot but devote to reflection. There is nothing like pace to drive away unpleasant considerations; but when two miles an hour is the best rate we can command, black Care is pretty sure to abandon his seat on the cantle of the saddle, and, springing nimbly to the front, grins at us in the face. I remember well how a fast-going youth—a friend of my boyhood, now, alas! gone to Jericho via Short Street, and with whom I have spent many a pleasant hour that might have been better employed—used to read with great energy whilst he was dressing. It was the only time, he said, that his conscience could get the better of him, and during which he had leisure to think of his sins and his debts. He smothered the accusing voice and its painful accessories by a course of severe study, and so got the anodyne and the information at once.
Mr. Sawyer’s reflections were cheering enough till he began to get tired. He liked the idea of visiting the hospitable nobleman with whom he had lately parted, and pictured to himself the very pleasant visit he hoped to pay him, and the accession of importance with which such an acquaintance would doubtless invest him amongst his Harborough friends. He only wished he had inquired his name; but then, he was evidently a perso............