“DEAD FOR A DUCAT”
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 _viâ_ 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
personage whom everybody knew, and it was better not to betray his
ignorance. Also, when the written invitation arrived—as unquestionably
it would—with its armorial bearings, and signature in full, he would
know all about it. Before he had tramped through the mud for a mile, he
began to think he had rather “got into a good thing.”
Ere long, it began to rain—first of all, an ominous drizzle, that seemed
like continuing; then a decided pour, such as runs into the nape of a
man’s neck and the tops of his boots, and wets him through in about a
quarter of an hour. It was not much fun, churning the fluid in his
soles; so he climbed stiffly into the saddle, and was disagreeably aware
that Hotspur, besides being thoroughly tired, was also undoubtedly
_lame_.
By degrees, his spirits fell considerably. He began to think of the
Honourable Crasher, with his off-hand manner and his nine hunters. He
remembered a certain fable of the earthenware vessel that sailed
down-stream amongst the iron pots. How was he to hold his own in the
fast-going set which he had entered? He had better, perhaps, have
contented himself with the Old Country, and stayed quietly at home. The
comforts of The Grange presented themselves in painful contrast to the
muddy road along which he was plodding—even to the smoky bedroom and
dingy parlour which would receive him at Harborough. Though the rain had
moderated, he jogged along the dark highway, now squelching into puddles
at the side, now cursing the stones lately laid down in the middle—in
either case, to the equal discomfiture of poor Hotspur—and felt himself
more unhappy and out of humour every yard he went.
Presently, the horse quickened his pace of his own accord; and the sound
of hoofs behind him produced its usual inspiriting effect on the rider.
“Company, at all events,” observed Mr. Sawyer, aloud. “Hold up, you
brute!” he added, as Hotspur made an egregious “bite,” that nearly
landed him on his nose.
Ere long, the new arrivals ranged alongside of him. They were a lady and
gentleman, on exceedingly tired horses. What a piece of luck! They were
no other than the Reverend and Miss Dove!
“She knew me at once, though it’s so dark,” thought our friend, with
considerable gratification, as the damsel, adapting her own pace to that
of the jaded Hotspur without difficulty, accosted him by name.
“How lucky, too!” said she, in her joyous tones. “We shall keep each
other company all the way to Harborough. Papa and I were just saying how
lonely the road was, after dark; and our poor horses are so tired, they
can hardly walk.”
“Lucky indeed, for _me_,” replied Mr. Sawyer, gallantly, adding with
considerable _empressement_—for it was dark enough to give a shy man
confidence—“Do you know, I was just thinking of you?”
The Reverend had dropped behind to light a cigar. Miss Dove seemed to
have no objection to receive this statement: of the truth of which I
have myself, however, strong doubts. She edged her horse a little nearer
her companion, and answered laughingly,
“Indeed! A penny for your thoughts, then. I should like to know what you
_could_ have been thinking about _me_ in the dark, after a day’s
hunting.”
“I was thinking how well you rode,” answered Mr. Sawyer, who, not much
versed in the ways of womankind, saw he might have said something more
flattering, but like a frightened bather, put one foot in, and then
withdrew it. It was not _his line_, you see, as he said himself; and
consequently he felt a little awkward at first with the ladies.
The latter, however, are in all cases strenuous advocates for the
“sliding scale” rather than the “fixed duty.” I think I have observed
that they are usually as ready to bring a shy man “on” as they are to
keep a forward one back. There is a certain temperature at which they
consider you malleable; so they heat you up, or cool you down to it,
with no small chemical skill. Sometimes, but rarely, they burn their own
fingers in the process.
“I was wondering how _you_ would get home,” said the young lady very
innocently after a pause. “Your poor horse looked so very tired; but,
then, he carried you famously. Papa and I knew you by your cap—didn’t
we, Papa?”
Papa, who had now come up, corroborated his daughter; but the Reverend
was somewhat abstracted and unobservant. He was not quite satisfied with
the way his horse had carried him. He doubted whether the animal had
pace. He doubted whether he had blood. He doubted whether he had
courage. In truth, he was thinking just then whether he hadn’t better
sell him to Mr. Sawyer.
That worthy was recovering his lost ground, by expressing many tender
hopes that Miss Dove was not very tired. “She had had such a long day;
and it was so wet for a lady to be out; and how would she ever get home
all that way into Leicestershire?”
“Oh, we have a carriage at Harborough,” answered the fair object of all
these anxieties; “and I don’t mind being late half so much as Papa does.
I do so like being out at night. Do you know, though I am so fond of
riding, I am rather _romantic_, Mr. Sawyer?”
“Oh, indeed! Yes, of course,” rejoined our friend, seeing another
opening, but not getting at it quite so readily as if it had been in a
bullfinch. “It’s very pleasant sometimes, particularly in the summer;
and horses always go best at night. But, there’s no moon now,” he added,
looking wistfully first at the heavens, and then, as far as the darkness
would permit, in his companion’s face.
“I’m certain you’re a great quiz,” answered Miss Dove to this harmless
observation. “I told Mamma I was quite afraid of you, the day you came
to luncheon at the Rectory. I dare say you think us all wild savages
here, compared with what people are in your own country. By the bye,
your country place is somewhere near London, I think you said?”
Mr. Sawyer did not remember saying anything of the kind, but he looked
insinuating, which he need not have done, as it was so dark, and
replied,
“Forty minutes by rail. I can run up, and do my shopping, and back
again, between luncheon and dinner. I’m only half-a-mile from a
station.”
Then he had a country place. So far, so good. In discussing him with
Mamma, the latter had inclined to think _not_, but Miss Dove held
strongly to her own opinion. She knew the country gentleman’s cut, she
said; and in this instance she was right.
“Do you farm much?” was her next inquiry, putting the unconscious Sawyer
through his facings, as only a woman can.
“Not much,” replied our friend. “I let most of my land; but I keep
enough in my own hands to supply the house. One must have a few cows,
you know, for milk and fresh butter.”
It was evidently all right. A man who had land to let and land to keep,
and a place of his own, was clearly none of your penniless interlopers
such as visit the grass at intervals, like the locust, and eat it bare,
and fly off and are seen no more. Here was a bee worth catching; with a
hive, and honey, and flowers of its own—a good, honest humble-bee, with
plenty of buzz, and no sting.
By this time the lights of Harborough were twinkling in the distance,
and the Rev. Dove, whose horse had coughed more than once, thought it
advisable to trot forward and get the carriage ready; whilst his
daughter and Mr. Sawyer came on at a foot’s pace, the latter gallantly
affirming that he would take the greatest possible care of his charge,
and wishing, as soon as they were alone, either that somebody else would
overtake them, and so break the _tête-à-tête_, or else that he could
find something to say, else she must think him so confoundedly stupid.
It was agreeable, too, when he got a little more used to it. The girl
talked on in her gentle, pleasant voice, of the hounds, and the people,
and the country. Her tones had caught the languor of slight fatigue, and
were very soft and silvery to the ear. More than once he wished it was
not too dark to see the long eyelashes resting on her cheek, those silky
excrescences having made no slight impression on Mr. Sawyer. He felt
quite sorry when the turnpike denoted their approach to the confines of
the town at which their ride must cease. He could not conceive now how
he could have been so out of spirits not an hour ago.
“When shall I see you again?” he ventured to ask as their horses’ hoofs
clattered on the stony pavement, and he saw the lamps of the Reverend’s
carriage glowing like the eyes of some monster ready to carry off his
Andromeda. As he spoke he even ventured to place his hand on her horse’s
neck; and this was a great stretch of gallantry for Mr. Sawyer.
“Oh, you’ll be at the ball,” answered Miss Dove, without withdrawing her
steed from the range of her companion’s caresses. “You’ll be at the
ball, of course, even if we don’t meet out hunting before that.”
“Ball!” repeated our friend in amazement. “What ball do you mean?”
“Why, the Harborough Ball,” answered the young lady. “Everybody will be
there; Captain Struggles, Major Brush—even Mr. Crasher, though he won’t
do much in the way of dancing. Why, it is held at your hotel. The music
will keep you awake all night, so you may as well go.”
“I will, if you’ll dance with me,” rejoined Mr. Sawyer, with the air of
a man who is “in for a penny, in for a pound.”
And he felt queerer than he had ever done about Miss Mexico when she
murmured a gentle affirmative. Nay, when he had put her carefully into
papa’s carriage, and tucked her up as assiduously as if she was going to
the North Pole, he whispered, “You won’t forget your promise?” while he
shook hands, and wished her “Good-bye.” Nor did the scarce perceptible
pressure with which that promise was ratified tend to restore our
friend’s equanimity in the least.
He was not a ball-going man: far from it. Also, I question whether it is
not a breach of privilege that your rest at an hotel should be broken
for a whole night by the thumping of feet, the squeaking of fiddles, the
Scotch Quadrilles, and the monotonous “Tempête;” whilst your dinner and
general comfort for two days previous to, and two days after the
solemnity, is reduced to positive misery. Nevertheless, Mr. Sawyer
caught himself repeating more than once during the evening—which, by the
way, he spent in an atmosphere of smoke, with Struggles, Brush, Savage,
and the Honourable Crasher—“Ball! ball!—was ever anything so lucky?
Go!—of course I’ll go! In fact, I promised: and perhaps she’ll dance
with me _twice_!”
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