HAZY WEATHER
WHEN Mr. Sawyer awoke in the morning, his first impression was, that he
had never left The Grange, but that the pattern of his bedroom paper was
strangely altered, and the situation of his couch had been mysteriously
changed in the night.
It was not till he had turned over, and yawned twice or thrice, that he
comprehended the actual position in which he was placed. Then, for the
first time, the magnitude of the undertaking on which he had embarked
presented itself to his mind; and then did he realise the deficiencies
of his stud, the difficulties he was about to encounter, the rashness
and perplexity of the whole proceeding. A feeling of loneliness stole
over him; and he even experienced a want of confidence in himself. For
an instant, he almost wished he was back at home, and the dastardly
possibility of returning there flashed across his mind. All these
unworthy thoughts, however, were dissipated by the entrance of Isaac,
with a pair of boots in one hand, and a glimmering bedroom candle in the
other, as the mists of morning are dispelled by the rising sun; and,
even as the shrinking combatant gathers confidence from the flash of his
drawn sword, so, at the first glimpse of those long-rowelled spurs of
which Marathon knew too well the persuasive powers, John Standish Sawyer
was himself again.
“Half after eight, sir,” said Isaac, setting down the candle, and
proceeding to pour cold water into the tub—a process that by no means
tempted his master to rise on the instant. “Half after eight, sir; and
the grey’s got a bit of a cough. It’s that strange stable as done it.
And you was to let me know in the morning which of them I was to take
on.”
“What sort of a day is it?” asked our friend, in a sleepy voice,
turning, like Dr. Watts’s sluggard, into a more comfortable position. At
that moment, it would not have broken his heart to be told that it was
too hard to hunt.
“Can’t see your hand,” was the encouraging reply: “it’s one of these
regular Leicester-sheer fogs, as the grooms tells me, as is wery
prevalent hereabouts. The lamps is lit now in the streets; but it’ll be
wusser up on the high ground. They’ll hunt, though, just the same, says
they. Weather never stops them here, unless it be the sewerest of frost
and snow, as I understand. Shall I open the shutters, sir?”
Isaac threw them back as he spoke, and drew up the blind, disclosing to
Mr. Sawyer’s view about eighteen feet of tiles, a weathercock pointing
east-south-east, and a chimney adorned with what is called an “old
woman”—an ingenious contrivance to prevent it from smoking, but in this
instance, to judge by the smell of soot which pervaded the apartment, by
no means a successful piece of mechanism—the whole wrapped in a mantle
of the densest and _wettest_ fog he ever remembered to have seen.
“Sure to be late such a morning as this,” thought Mr. Sawyer, preparing
for another comfortable half-hour in bed; but then he reflected that he
must send Isaac forward with a horse, also that he should have to find
his own way to Tilton Wood, on his hack—a sufficiently intricate
proceeding as studied overnight by a map, but which might become
excessively puzzling when reduced to practice, through large pastures
and unknown bridle-gates, on such a morning as the present.
“Take on the grey!” said he, peremptorily, ignoring the cough; “and
order breakfast for me in three-quarters of an hour.”
The fact is, Mr. Sawyer had but the grey to ride. He did not quite fancy
giving the roan his earliest trial in what he understood to be a hilly
country; and as for making his first appearance in High Leicestershire
on Marathon—really, though both were pretty strong, neither his nerves
nor his self-conceit would have stood such a test.
Somehow, everything went wrong, as is apt to be the case in a strange
place, and when we are particularly anxious for the reverse. He cut
himself shaving. His leathers were damp, and badly cleaned; looser, too,
at the knees, and tighter in the thighs, than he liked. Also, he
couldn’t find his button-hook; and any one who has put on boots and
breeches without the aid of that implement, will sympathise with his
distress. Isaac knew where it was, doubtless; but, ere his master
arrived at the stage of toilet at which it was required, Isaac and the
grey had made their _first_ wrong turn in the fog, about a mile from the
town, on their way to Tilton Wood.
Altogether, by the time The Boy, with rather heavy eyes and an unwashed
face, had brought round Jack-a-Dandy, our friend was in that mood which
is best described as having “got out of bed with the wrong foot
foremost.”
Once in the saddle, however, things mended rapidly. No _horseman_ could
get upon Jack-a-Dandy without feeling what a good little animal it was;
and, indeed, Jack’s career had been a somewhat adventurous one.
Thorough-bred, but too small to be put in training, he had fallen into
the hands of a steeple-chasing horsedealer, who sank his pedigree, and
put him in one or two good handicaps as “his daughter’s pony.” Master
Jack could jump like a deer, and, with nine stone seven on his back, was
quite able to make hunters of considerable pretensions look extremely
foolish. This could not go on for ever, and the dealer broke, after
which, Jack carried the drunken whip of a pack of Irish fox-hounds for
two seasons, and, when that establishment “busted up,” found his way
once more into his native country, as leader in a young gentleman’s
tandem, who tried to graduate at Oxford. Pending the failure of that
acolyte, he had a good deal of fun at Bullingdon, winning cleverly
whenever he had a chance, and only left the University because his
master did, and took him to London, and, despite certain eccentricities,
rode him in the Park. When that youth was compelled to obtain his
passports for the Continent, Jack, in company with several other
valuables, was seized by the creditors; and I fancy he had a very bad
time of it for two or three years, till he turned up at Smithfield,
nothing but skin, bone, and blemishes, with a pair of raw shoulders that
would have made you sick. Here Mr. Sawyer, struck with his
“make-and-shape,” bought him, after a good deal of haggling, for
thirteen pounds ten shillings, throwing in half-a-crown for luck, and
standing two pots of beer and a glass of brandy-and-water, besides the
man’s expenses who brought him to the West-end. Altogether, he cost him
less than fourteen sovereigns; and he justly considered him very cheap
at the money. Though his knees were broke, and he was fired all round,
he never stumbled or was lame; and if you didn’t mind a succession of
kicks for the first half-mile and a mouth which bad usage had rendered
perfectly callous, he was as pleasant a hack as you could wish to get
upon. Jack never wanted to pull, if the rein was laid on his neck; but
the moment it was caught hold of, his old associations took it as a
signal to _go_, and go he _would_, accordingly. With regard to his
appellation—the last among many _aliases_—when his master called him
“Jack,” old Isaac called him “The Dandy,” and _vice versâ_.
There are a good many ways from Market Harborough to Tilton Wood. Of
course, the morning being very thick, and Mr. Sawyer a perfect stranger
to the country, he chose the most intricate, hoping to pass between the
Langtons—of which, for the more complete bewilderment of strangers,
there are five or six—and so to reach Stanton Wyville, whence he meant
boldly to leave the lanes, and strike out into a line of bridle-gates,
by the corner of Stanton Wood, which might or might not eventually land
him somewhere about Skeffington.
Deluded man! Ere he reached the grass-track he meant to follow, the fog
was denser than ever. He managed to get through one bridle-gate, after
catching his horse’s rein on the post—an insult which The Dandy resented
by putting his head down, and racing wilfully and aimlessly into the
surrounding obscurity—and then found himself riding round and round the
same field, with extraordinary perseverance, and not the remotest chance
of escape.
He would have liked, now, to get back again into the lanes; but he could
not even hit the gate at which he entered, and had embarked upon the
tedious process of coasting the field methodically, for that purpose,
and giving up all idea of hunting for the day, when, much to his relief,
he spied a gigantic object looming through the fog, which, on a nearer
approach, proved to be nothing larger than a horseman, cantering
confidently towards him.
On inspection, this timely arrival turned out to be the Honourable
Crasher, with an enormous cigar in his mouth, looking more tired than
ever, and, apparently, quite unconscious of the fog and everything else.
With an effort, however, he recognised his fellow-traveller of the day
before, and courteously offered to guide him—a proposal which the latter
accepted with great readiness.
“I had _almost_ lost myself,” said he, “what with this thick fog, and
not knowing the country.”
To which the Honourable Crasher replied, “_Y-e-e-es_—it makes one cough,
but it’s all plain sailing now,” and broke into a gallop.
Poor Mr. Sawyer! If he had only known it! His guide was one of the many
gentlemen who could hunt twenty years from the same place, and never
know their shortest way from one point to another.
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