DOUGHTY DEEDS
ABOUT this period there might have been—and indeed, by his intimates,
there _was_—remarked an obvious change in the appearance, habits, and
general demeanour of our friend. No longer dressed in the
rough-and-ready style which had heretofore been at once his glory and
his peculiarity, Mr. Sawyer now began to affect a strange refinement of
costume, bordering on effeminacy. His boots were thinner and much
tighter than of old; he turned his collars over his neckcloth, after the
prevailing fashion, thereby imparting to his physiognomy an expression
of romantic vacuity; anointed his head till it shone again; affected
gloves on all occasions, and set up a ring. Altogether, his exterior was
as symptomatic of his disorder as that of Benedict. Also he purchased,
at a printseller’s over the way, a representation of a young person
washing her feet in a stream, and purporting to be a “Highland Lassie,”
but of a meretricious aspect which, it is only fair to state, is rarely
to be observed amongst the Scottish mountaineers. It was one of those
startling accidental likenesses to the lady of his affections, which a
man must be as hard hit as Mr. Sawyer to detect. In the hunting-field,
too, he adopted an ambitious style of riding, totally at variance with
his previous quiet, straightforward form; and a considerable interval of
bad-scenting weather enabled him to distinguish himself to his heart’s
content. When hounds run best pace, horses have not wind for
extraordinary exertions in the matter of fencing; and, moreover, such
saltatory exploits as are out of the common way can be witnessed but by
few, and those are completely engrossed in their own doings; but when
the pack checks in every field, a man who chooses to single himself out
by charging the ugliest bullfinches and the stiffest rails, either
because he wants to attract attention or to sell his horse, has every
opportunity of showing up the latter and calling down upon himself the
animadversions of all true sportsmen. Our friend, with the two horses he
bought from Mr. Varnish—both capital leapers—in addition to Hotspur and
the grey, had no lack of material on which to flourish away in too close
proximity to the chase. Charles Payne, though with a strong
fellow-feeling for “keenness,” began to hate the sight of him, Mr.
Tailby to dread his appearance as he would that of a black frost, and
Lord Stamford to find that even _his_ imperturbable good-humour might be
exhausted at last.
What is to be expected, however, of a gentleman who has taken to
repeating Montrose’s well-known lines—
“If doughty deeds my lady please,
Right soon I’ll mount my steed;
And keen his lance, and strong his arm,
That bears from me the meed;”
varied by the resolute sentiment—
“He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all!”
One or other of these romantic stanzas was continually on Mr. Sawyer’s
lips. After their enunciation, he was used to sigh deeply, shake his
head, and light a cigar, which he would smoke vehemently for a quarter
of an hour or so, in a brown study.
Our friend’s reflections, however, were not wholly dipped in the roseate
hues of hope. Stern misgivings would come across him, as to the
imprudence of the career on which he had embarked. He was spending a
deal of money, that was the fact; and he had always, hitherto, been of a
saving disposition, rather than otherwise. In the prosecution of his
schemes against Miss Mexico, his outlay, indeed, had been principally in
cheap jewellery and lavender-water—articles of fascination for the
purchase of which he would have been handsomely reimbursed by that
lady’s thirty thousand pounds, _if he had got it_. But in the present
case, not only was his extravagance much greater, but it is mere justice
to state, that he had never weighed Miss Dove’s fortune or the want of
it in the balance with her attractions. The former flame had half a
plum; the present might not have half-a-crown. Bah! what of that? Those
eyelashes alone were worth all the money!
Nevertheless, a stud of horses, though consisting only of the modest
number of four hunters and a hack, are not to be kept for nothing, more
particularly when away from home. Independent of stable-rent, forage,
subscriptions to hounds, and necessary _douceurs_ to different
individuals, any man who has ever paid a groom’s book will bear witness
to the extraordinary rapidity with which its different items accumulate.
_Naphtha_ alone is as dear as claret, and consumed with equal
liberality; sponges, rubbers, currycombs, and dandy-brushes require to
be replaced with astonishing frequency; and, what with shoeing and
removing, the blacksmith’s bill is as long as his stalwart arm. When you
add to all this an everyday dinner of the best, with champagne and
claret _à discrétion_—if such a quality, indeed, can be said to exist in
a bachelor party—you will not share Mr. Sawyer’s surprise at discovering
that his present expenditure far exceeded his calculations. The four
hundred he had paid to Mr. Varnish for two horses completed a good round
sum; and, for a minute or two, he thought he had better have remained at
The Grange.
This last item, however, in his outlay, suggested to him a method by
which he might combine fame with money-making, and, if Fortune stood his
friend, have his season almost for nothing. The chestnut five-year-old,
whom, out of compliment to Miss Dove, he had resolved to call
“Wood-Pigeon,” was really a good nag. He was a quick and fine fencer,
could gallop fast, and _go on_. Altogether, Mr. Varnish was not beyond
the mark when he described him to the purchaser as adapted for “safety,
punctuality, and dispatch.” Why not put him into this steeple-chase they
made such a fuss about, win a hatful of money in stakes, bets, &c., to
say nothing of the “honour and glory,” and then sell the whole stud, and
retire upon his laurels? Should Fortune smile, and land him first past
the post, it would be the proudest day of his life; and even in the
event of failure, why, “If doughty deeds my lady please,” &c.; and Miss
Dove could not but look upon him with a more favourable eye, when he had
worn her colours in the race.
Old Isaac must be taken into consultation. For the first time, his
master rather shunned the glance of that keen, hard eye. He walked into
the stable one evening, after hunting, and began to sound his servant on
the important position.
“By the by, Isaac,” said he, in an off-hand tone, “they’re talking of a
steeple-chase here. Only amongst the gentlemen, you know; we sha’n’t
want much training. I think I should have a fair chance with
Wood-Pigeon?”
Isaac shook his head. “Well, sir,” said he, “_you_ know best. Who’s to
ride?”
“Oh, I should ride him myself, of course,” replied his master, with a
toss of the head that as much as said, “With such a jockey, he’s sure to
win.” “Ride him myself, and do all I _know_, you may depend,” he added
facetiously.
Old Isaac reflected. “Have you ever ridden a steeple-chase?” he asked,
after a moment’s consideration.
Mr. Sawyer was obliged to admit that he never had.
“Well, then, _I have_,” said the groom. “You don’t know what it is. Such
a blazin’ pace through the fields! and such an owdacious scuffle at the
fences! Nothin’ but a professional can keep his head at that work; and
_he_ often gets it broke. Better not try it, master: better let it
alone. They’ll only make a fool of ye.”
Mr. Sawyer waxed indignant. “That’s my business,” said he; “yours is to
get the horse fit. I tell you I’ve entered him—Wood-Pigeon by Wapiti.
He’ll be first favourite the day of the race. Do you hear? I depend upon
you to get him thoroughly fit.”
Isaac scratched his head. “Fit!” he repeated. “Yes—I’ll get the _horse_
fit: you get the _rider_. If you _must_ have a turn at it, take my
advice, master. You get yourself in good wind; keep your head clear;
jump off at the moment the flag drops; never let his head go; and, above
all, _sit still_.”
After this, Isaac could never again be brought to open his mouth on the
subject.
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