DEEPER AND DEEPER
TO walk a horse twice round a grass-field, in a set of light harness,
allowing him afterwards to stand for half an hour in the stables without
taking it off, can scarcely be called a thorough breaking-in of the
animal to the duties of a coach-horse. Such, nevertheless, was all the
tuition vouchsafed by the Honourable Crasher to Marathon’s inexperience,
ere the bay found himself placed alongside of another, in that
gentleman’s phaeton, for the purpose of taking his former and present
owner out to dinner.
His companion—no other than the redoubtable chestnut which Crasher had
been riding to covert on his first introduction to our friend—would have
been rated as an experienced break-horse by few persons less reckless
than his master. He was what is called “a bad starter,” but made up for
that deficiency by being as difficult to stop, when once off, as he was
at first to set in motion. He had a way, too, of hugging the pole when
out of humour, most subversive of his companion’s equanimity. Such
tricks were, doubtless, against the progress of Marathon’s education.
Altogether a more unpleasant pair, for locomotive purposes, have seldom
been “lapped in leather.”
There is no proverb more true than that “Where there is no fear, there
is no danger.” The Honourable Crasher’s nerves seemed not only totally
unsusceptible to the unworthy sensation
“Which schoolboys denominate ‘funk,’”
but he appeared utterly to ignore the possibility of anything like a
casualty wherever horseflesh was concerned. The consequence was that,
both in the saddle and on the coach-box, he came scathless out of
scrapes that must have been fatal to a man of a more nervous
temperament.
I will not dwell on the drive from Market Harborough to the Dove-cote—on
the tension of Mr. Sawyer’s nerves, and corresponding rigidity of his
muscles, whenever the wheel grazed a heap of stones or an ominous bang
against the splash-board reminded him that Marathon had not forgotten
how to kick. The Boy, indeed—selected for the office as being of light
weight—spent most of the journey on the hind-step, prepared for the
worst, but was not obliged to get down and run to their heads more than
a dozen times in the course of as many minutes, after which they settled
to their work and pulled like griffins. It is sufficient to say that,
when they arrived at the Rectory door, close on the tracks of the
ignominious fly that had preceded them at least half an hour, Mr.
Sawyer’s white tie was uncrumpled, and the Honourable’s whiskers still
in tolerable curl.
There was but one stranger present. The Reverend knew how to give a
dinner, or if _he_ didn’t his wife did, and had too much consideration
for his Harborough friends to inundate them with a host of country
neighbours with whom they were not acquainted. This exception was a
widowed cousin of Mrs. Dove’s—a voluble lady, not so young as she had
been, wearing her shoulders very bare, her dress very full, and her fair
hair puffed out with considerable ingenuity. She was a little rouged, a
little made-up, but very good-looking notwithstanding, in a _blonde_,
full-blown, boisterous style. A better foil for “Cissy” could scarcely
be imagined. This buxom beauty answered to the name of Merrywether, and,
to all appearance, would have had no objection to change it.
I pass over the drawing-room ceremonials, generally somewhat dreary
before dinner, and only enlivened, in the present instance, by the
personal daring of Major Brush, whose idiosyncrasy compelled him at once
to constitute himself Mrs. Merrywether’s devoted admirer, and will ask
my reader to imagine the company fairly settled at table (circular, with
a quantity of light, and flowers), the soup sipped, the first glass of
sherry swallowed, turbot and lobster sauce travelling leisurely round—in
short, to use a hunting metaphor, which most of the guests would
understand, their fox found and run into, and broken up with much
_gusto_ and satisfaction. “Whoop! Worry! worry! worry! Tear him and eat
him!”
Mr. Sawyer has got a good start and a good place. He did not succeed in
taking the daughter of the house in to dinner; for Struggles’s stout
figure was in the way, and he could not get by till that jolly personage
had unwittingly offered his arm. He secured the chair however on the
other side, and thought he spied the least shade of disappointment,
succeeded by one of the brightest looks, as he did so. He was consoled
accordingly, and, after the sherry, not so shy as usual.
Crasher, of course, in virtue of his rank, took in their hostess, who
was supported on her other hand by Savage. Mrs. Merrywether sat between
the Reverend and Brush. Everybody talked at once; and the champagne was
beyond praise.
Miss Dove was very agreeable, sharing her attentions with great
impartiality between Struggles and the agitated Sawyer; only, when she
addressed the latter, she used a somewhat lower tone than to any one
else. The dodge has a prodigious effect on a man who is not up to it;
and our friend was honest and inexperienced enough, where women were
concerned. He felt in the seventh heaven, and more inclined for drinking
than eating; always a bad sign. What is left to fall back upon, when the
stomach is affected by the maladies of the heart?
Not so Struggles. When she had seen the latter wholly engrossed in the
merits of a “_vol-au-vent_” Miss Dove turned her pretty face and
dangerous attention to her other cavalier.
“You’ve never asked me how I got home that dark night,” said she. “A
long drive in the wet is no joke after such a hard day. I dare say
you’ve forgotten all about it, Mr. Sawyer.” And the eyelashes went down
till they swept the delicate peach-like cheek.
Our friend _looked_ unutterable things. He could think of nothing more
appropriate to say, however, than that “He—he hoped she hadn’t caught
cold.”
Cissy laughed outright as she replied, “You wrapped me up too well for
any fear of that. Do I _look_ as if I had?” she added, lifting the
eyelashes, and fixing our friend with one of her killing looks, as you
run a great cockchafer right through the body with a pin.
You see, Mr. Sawyer wanted a good deal of bringing on; and the little
witch encouraged him accordingly.
“You look remarkably well,” said he, mustering courage, and proceeding
desperately, as, when once a shy man begins, he is always the boldest.
“I never saw anything so becoming as that dress. The effect is perfectly
lovely.”
“Hush!” replied Cissy; “you mustn’t say _that_. _There’s_ our beauty. If
you talk of loveliness, I am sure you must be perfectly smitten with
_that_,” nodding towards Mrs. Merrywether as she spoke, and drawing his
attention to the charms of that lady, who was _fair_, whereas Cissy
herself was more of a brunette, and thus smoothing the way for another
compliment.
“I don’t admire such light hair,” replied the gentleman, whose own
_chevelure_ was of the sandiest; “and she wants expression; and her eyes
are too far apart; and people’s skins should be even whiter than hers to
admit of such _very_ low dresses.”
Why are ladies always pleased when _other_ ladies’ dresses are thought
too low? Cissy was not above the prejudices of her sex. She gave him a
bewitching smile, and called him “a ridiculous creature.”
Even Mr. Sawyer could not misinterpret such signs of favour. Whatever
Miss Mexico may have _thought_, she had never called him “a ridiculous
creature” in her life.
“What I admire,” he proceeded, stealing a look at Miss Cissy as he
enumerated her personal advantages, “is more colouring, darker hair, and
arched eyebrows, and deeper eyes, long eyelashes, and altogether a
fresher and brighter style of beauty; in short, I don’t think she would
look at all well in a white dress with cherry-coloured trimmings.”
It was the very dress she wore herself. There was no mistake, thought
the fair angler: she had _hooked_ him. So she gave him another of the
captivating glances, and changed the conversation by drawing his
attention to her fan, of which the fragrant sandal-wood only added fuel
to his flame, while she turned to Struggles, who, having made an
excellent dinner, was vainly endeavouring to talk to her about the
coming ball.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Merrywether, whose most prejudiced detractor could not
have accused her, at this juncture, of wanting _expression_, was forcing
the running with the agreeable Brush. She was shaking her head, and
making eyes, and showing her teeth, and flourishing her shoulders at
him, with a degree of energy that must have been fatal to a less
experienced campaigner. The Major, however, was proof against all the
usual weapons of the female armoury. A confirmed flirt, it was his habit
just to stop short of love-making with every woman he sat next to; but,
if truth must be told, he never yet had seen one whose attractions he
could place in comparison with his cutlet, his champagne, his claret,
and his after-dinner cigar. A good-humoured, brainless, easy-going
_bon-vivant_, it was the Major’s eventual destiny to marry a learned
lady, with blue spectacles, under whose dynasty he faded away, and was
lost to the world altogether. But with this, at present, we have nothing
to do.
Mrs. Merrywether was quite willing to take him as he was. Before the
cheese was off the table, he had settled an expedition to the Crystal
Palace with her, the first time they were both in London, and secured a
flower from her bouquet, which he placed, with much mock-devotion, in a
glass of sherry and water. Also, on the departure of the ladies, he
dived for, and brought to the surface, the following articles, the
property of the efflorescent widow: One French fan—epoch,
Louis-Quatorze; one pair of white gloves, bound with ribbon, and
numbered six and three-quarters; one gold vinaigrette, with tiny chain
complete; and one lace-edged handkerchief, with a square inch of cambric
in the middle—it is presumed, in case of necessity, to dry the fair
mourner’s tears.
After this crowning feat, he threw himself back in his chair, and
settled to his host’s claret, like a man who is thoroughly well
satisfied with himself.
Never was a dinner that went off better. Mrs. Dove had Savage to listen
to, who was well-informed, and Crasher to look at, who was well dressed.
Struggles and Dove were congenial souls, and, if once they could get
together uninterrupted, would talk about hunting by the hour. Mrs.
Merrywether was pleased with her dinner; pleased with her neighbour;
also—for she knew, even before she went to the glass in the
drawing-room, that she was looking her best—pleased with herself. Cissy
was satisfied; Sawyer enchanted; and Crasher, looking forward with lazy
gratification to a dangerous drive in the dark, was in higher spirits
than usual.
We will leave the ladies to their tea and coffee, undisturbed. The
gentlemen close up round their host. A dry biscuit and a magnum of the
undeniable make their appearance. The parson fills out a bumper of the
rosy fluid, and proposes his first and only toast—“Fox-hunting!”
Each man drinks it with thirsty satisfaction.
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