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 call the slasher?”
“pop” gathered his wits together once more, and replied imperturbably, “oh, the slasher, you know—that miss merlin, you know. it’s a name bight gave her, you know. i’m sure i don’t know why; but he’s a devilish clever fellow, bight, so they say. it wouldn’t be a bad name for a horse, would it?”
“pop” relapsing into a brown study at this juncture, it was impossible to get anything more satisfactory out of that priceless piece of porcelain-ware; and the “jovial,” blowing off his indignation in clouds of cigar-smoke, trotted on to have a look at the hounds, young evergreen running his eye over myself and horse with a supercilious stare that, in my opinion, did no credit to his good manners. a leading duchess, however, in london, had stated her opinion that “lady evergreen’s boy was the best-dressed and the most impudent young one of his year;” so “pop” was very much the fashion in consequence.
a little wide of the hounds, in order to do no mischief, and a little clear of the horses, lest the four-year-old should prove too handy with his heels, i observe my former acquaintance tips, the rough-rider, in the full glory of his profession. he had so completely singled himself out from the crowd, that he could not but attract attention. rather neater in his dress than when i had seen him last, and with a clean white neckcloth of clerical proportions, mr. tips sat down in the saddle as no man but a professional horse-breaker ever does sit—an attitude only to be acquired by the habit of keeping constantly on his guard against the agreeable varieties of rearing, kicking, plunging, turning round, and lying down, adopted by a thoroughly refractory pupil when his “dander” is up. tips, prepared for any or all of these vagaries at a moment’s notice, kept his knees well forward, his feet home in the stirrups, his hands apart, holding the reins rather long, for he likes, he says, “to give them plenty of rope” when they begin throwing their heads about, and his short sturdy cutting whip ready in his right.
to-day, however, these precautionary measures seemed merely to arise from the force of habit, as the animal he was riding—a lengthy good-looking brown, on short legs, with long low shoulders, a long coat, a long head, and a long tail—looked as docile and good-tempered a four-year-old as ever was crossed, and played with its rusty bit, attached, as a horse-breaker’s bit always is, to the most insecure-looking and weather-beaten of bridles, with a good-humoured cheerfulness calculated to inspire the utmost confidence in its rider.
“you’ve got a pleasanter mount than usual to-day, mr. tips,” i remarked, coming alongside of him; whereat the four-year-old tucked its long tail in, and gave a playful kick or two, snorting the while in pure gaiety of heart. “are you going to make a hunter of him, or have you only brought him out for exercise?”
mr. tips dived towards his fully-occupied hands with his head, as the nearest approach he could afford towards touching his hat.
“never seen hounds till to-day, sir,” he replied. “sweet young horse he is, sir, as ever looked through a bridle; a kind animal, too, both in the stable and out; as mild as a milch cow, and as handy as a ladies’-maid.”
just then the object of our joint praises, startled, pardonably enough, by a tinker’s caravan that had taken up a conspicuous position on the green, shied violently away from the alarming object, and did not recover its equanimity without a succession of bounds and plunges, such as would have unseated most men ignominiously, but which produced no perceptible effect on the demeanour of the experienced tips, his affability only becoming, if possible, more conspicuous than before.
lost in admiration of my companion’s skill—for i confess to a great weakness for real finished horsemanship such as in my own person i have never yet been able to acquire—and taken up with the movements of the young horse and the conversation of its rider, i had not remarked that we had let the hounds slip on so far ahead as to find ourselves a long way behind the whole moving cavalcade, proceeding leisurely towards the gorse. an exclamation from mr. tips roused me to the true state of affairs.
“best shog on a little, sir,” said he, with a sparkle of excitement in his eye. “blessed if they haven’t reached the covert already! and are putting in. there’s a short cut; this way, mr. softly, if you’ll be so good as follow me.”
with these words, tips thrust open an awkward hand-gate, the young one pushing it with his chest, as i felt convinced at the time, far more handily than tipple cider would have done, and entered a low swampy pasture patched with rushes, and stretching right away to the further end of the gorse from that where the hounds were put in. shutting my eyes to the great probability there was of our heading the fox, and resolving to shut my ears to the expostulations that would too surely accompany such a catastrophe, i followed my leader along the pasture, rather in a state of nervous trepidation, in no measure soothed by the view i now obtained of the assembled field, amongst whom i had no difficulty in recognising the well-known riding-habit.
tips sitting down in the saddle, put the four-year-old into a lurching awkward kind of gallop, and i followed him at a venture, tipple cider raking and snatching at his bridle in disagreeable exuberance of spirits, as if he were rather short of work.
there was a low rail at the extremity of the pasture, fortifying what had once been a gap into the covert itself, a shelter i was most anxious to reach before the eagle-eye of the earl could spy me out in so untoward a position. i had already made up my mind for a considerable détour which would bring me to a friendly hand-gate (i hate the foolish practice of jumping when hounds are not running), when i saw tips charge this said rail with the utmost coolness; the four-year-old resenting such an unnecessary demonstration, by turning short round, and kicking out violently at the offending timber.
“give us a lead, mr. softly, if it isn’t taking too great a liberty,” said tips, as quietly as if this cool request were the most natural thing in the world; adding, as a clinching argument, “you’ve on a hunter, i know.”
the rail, though not high, was strong and ugly. there was a nasty deep blind ditch on the taking-off side, and nothing but gorse-bushes to land in. i did not seem to care much about entering the covert at this point; but whilst i was deliberating the matter in my own mind, and tipple cider was doing all he could to get at the rail, tail first or anyhow, a horn resounded from the opposite side of the covert; the music of the hounds running, which had greeted us ever since we got within ear-shot, suddenly ceased: though i could see nothing of them, i could distinctly hear the rush of horses galloping up the adjacent pasture. it was evident they had gone away; and equally incontestable that we had lost our start. tips blazed up into excitement at once; he made no more ado, but caught the four-year-old short by the head, rammed both spurs in, and, notwithstanding an abortive kick or two, forced him over the rail, striking it hard with fore and hind legs. tipple cider, fired with emulation, took the bit in his teeth, and had me over it, clear and clean, before i was aware. the next instant, leaping and plunging through the gorse-bushes, i was following tips at the best pace i could muster, to get after the hounds.
my blood rose with the motion, my horse dropped to his bit, my pilot chose an easy, though devious path; if everything had gone right, i think at that moment i could have ridden fairly and boldly enough.
as we rounded the slight acclivity on which the gorse was planted, a beautiful panorama was spread out before us. already two fields ahead, the hounds were running hard, evidently with a capital scent, followed at different intervals by the scattering field, all fresh as fire, and every man taking the place to which he felt his skill and daring entitled him. nearest ourselves i recognised mr. naggett, striding away on the mealy chestnut with a great display of enthusiasm and hard riding, his feet stuck out, his elbows up to his ears, and his blue coat-tails flying in the wind. he was diverging, nevertheless, slightly from the line of chase, and making vigorously for the gate, which old ike, whose active feet had already taken him there, was hurriedly unfastening. two or three dark coats and the second whip seemed also inclined to avail themselves of this convenient egress; the body of the field, however, were charging the fence boldly (a fair hedge and ditch), making for the places that had been leaped by their leaders in the first flight. i saw plumtree jump it on his steady hunter; but i observed by the way in which he pulled the old horse out of his stride, upsetting the equanimity even of that experienced animal, that his nerves were by no means up to the mark. the earl and will hawke, a hundred yards or so ahead of these, were close to the hounds. “pop,” too, on the white horse, had got a capital start, and was blazing away as if he had a second horse in every field, and a spare neck in his pocket. rather in front of him, and alongside the hounds, rode the dauntless miss merlin, sailing away on “lady-killer.” i recognised his long swish-tail even at that distance; taking everything as it came in his stride, and diverging neither to right nor left.
even at the pace i was going, my heart beat faster at the sight. if such were wanting, this was indeed an additional inducement to catch them at any price. i caught hold of tipple cider’s head, and for a few resolute minutes i do believe the deluded animal thought he had got a regular “out-and-outer” on his back.
the hounds bent somewhat to the right. tips, who had an eye like a hawk, perceived it in a moment; and turning round on the saddle, good-naturedly motioned me to follow him. by diverging a little, we got upon a succession of sound headlands, with fair easy fences; the hounds kept turning towards us, and we began to overhaul them rapidly. excited as i was, i could not but admire the masterly manner in which the rough-rider handled the young one at his leaps. we were getting on gloriously. the first flight, including miss merlin, although a couple of fields distant, were scarcely nearer the hounds than ourselves. i rejoiced to think that i should drop amongst them, as it were, from the clouds, and assume my place in the front rank.
a momentary hesitation, another down-wind turn of the hounds, and there was but one fence between ourselves and the pack. my leader charged it resolutely; i prepared to follow him. it was an ugly place—a downhill gallop at it, a high straggling fence, sedgy banks, and something that was more of a watercourse than a ditch running on the far side. tips was as eager as a glutton, but the young one’s heart failed him the last stride; and, although his rider had him in such a grasp that he could not refuse, the powder was out of him, and he jumped short, dropping his hind legs, and rolling into the next field. tips was hardly clear of his horse before he was on him again; and i do not believe he lost half-a-dozen strides by the fall. why did i not follow? my heart failed me. i thought it would be rash to go where another horse had fallen, though i had seen exactly how it happened; and tipple cider was shaking his head, as much as to say, “why won’t you let me have a drive?” so i went to look for another place.
that sentence explains everything. need i say how, the further i rode along the fence, the deeper and wider it became? need i confess that i was eventually compelled to creep ignominiously through a gap in a green lane, the disappointed tipple cider grinding my leg against a tree and crushing my hat amongst its branches, in his disgust; or that i proceeded along this convenient alley as far as it lasted with renewed hopes, dashed by a bitter sense of vexation and shame? a stern chase is a long chase, by land as well as by sea; and there is no process, in my opinion, so utterly disheartening as that of trying to catch hounds in a run.
sometimes i heard their notes, borne by the westerly breeze in tantalising harmony on my longing ears. sometimes i caught sight of a few scattered riders in the distance, a lot of cattle herded together in a corner, or a flock of sheep formed up in military line, and not yet recovered from their panic. i rode on like a man in a dream; minutes seemed to lengthen themselves into hours, and i was surprised to find my horse so fresh after such prolonged exertions. at last, rounding the corner of the well-known tangler’s copse, and speculating vaguely how i should ever cross the sludge, supposing the chase to be still forward in the same direction, i caught a view of the whole assemblage, not a quarter of a mile off, on the opposite side of the brook. it was obvious they had killed their fox, after a capital run. horses were being led about, men on foot were standing in groups, some were in the act of remounting—it was probable that the run had been over some little time. distinct against the sky stood out miss merlin’s graceful figure, leaning forward to caress the redoubtable lady-killer, who had carried her so well. in close attendance, i made out the white hunter of the exquisite “pop.” i should think that poor beast must have had enough of it.
i was deliberating in my own mind whether i should not be fool enough to ride at the sludge in cold blood, when my motions were decided for me by a general break-up of the distant party; miss merlin and her attendant cavaliers taking the direct road for the castle. it was evident she did not at present mean to return to the haycock. moodily and dejectedly, i too took my homeward way. i was disgusted with myself—disgusted with hunting—disgusted with life. i should have liked to know what the hounds had done, too; but i felt i could not have brooked the good-humoured curiosity of mr. tips, nor the self-sufficient pity of mr. naggett, who would be sure to swear he had gone better than he really did.
espying these two sportsmen at a turn in the road gradually overtaking me, i set spurs to tipple cider, and rattled back to the haycock as fast as i could trot. arrived there, i found the dapper groom in marching order, getting out his horses for a journey. he had received orders that morning to move them on to melton; and i have never set eyes on miss merlin from that day to this.