A LEICESTERSHIRE LARK
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.
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