MATCHING GREEN.
A quaint old Essex village of single-storied cottages, some ivy mantled,
with dormer windows, thatched roofs, and miniature gardens, strewed with
picturesque irregularity round as fine a green as you will find in the
county. Its normal condition is rustic peace and sleepy beatitude; and it
pursues the even tenor of its way undisturbed by anything more exciting
than a meeting of the vestry, the parish dinner, the advent of a new
curate, or the exit of one of the fathers of the hamlet.
But this morning the place is all agog, and so transformed that it hardly
knows itself. The entire population, from the oldest gaffer to the
last-born baby, is out-of-doors; the two inns are thronged with guests,
and the road is lined with all sorts and conditions of carriages, from the
four-in-hand of the wealthy swell to the donkey-cart of the local
coster-monger. From every point of the compass are trooping horsemen, some
resplendent in scarlet coats, their nether limbs clothed in immaculate
white breeches and shining top-boots, others in pan hats and brown
leggings; and all in high spirits and eager for the fray; for to-day,
according to old custom, the Essex Hunt hold the first regular meet of the
season on Matching's matchless Green.
The master is already to the fore, and now comes Tom Cuffe, the huntsman,
followed by his hounds, whose sleek skins and bright coats show that they
are "fit to go," and whose eager looks bode ill to the long-tailed
denizens of copse and covert.
It still wants a few minutes to eleven, and the interval is occupied in
the interchange of greetings between old companions of the chase, in
desultory talk about horses and hounds; and while some of the older
votaries of Diana fight their battles o'er again, and describe thrice-told
historic runs, which grow longer with every repetition, others discuss the
prospects of the coming season, and indulge in hopes of which, let us
hope, neither Jack Frost, bad scent, nor accident by flood or field will
mar the fruition.
Nearly all are talking, for there is a feeling of _camaraderie_ in the
hunting-field which dispenses with the formality of introductions, its
frequenters sometimes becoming familiar friends before they have learned
each other's names.
Yet there are exceptions; and one cavalier in particular appears to hold
himself aloof, neither speaking to his neighbors nor mixing in the throng.
As he does not look like a "sulky swell," rendered taciturn by an
overweening sense of his own importance, he is probably either a new
resident in the county or a "stranger from a distance"--which, none whom I
ask seems to know. There is something about this man that especially
attracts my attention; and not mine alone, for I perceive that he is being
curiously regarded by several of my neighbors. His get-up is faultless,
and he sits with the easy grace of a practiced horseman an animal of
exceptional symmetry and strength. His well-knit figure is slim and almost
youthful, and he holds himself as erect on his saddle as a dragoon on
parade. But his closely cropped hair is turning gray, and his face that of
a man far advanced in the fifties, if not past sixty. And a striking face
it is--long and oval, with a straight nose and fine nostrils, a broad
forehead, and a firm, resolute mouth. His complexion, though it bears
traces of age, is clear, healthy, and deeply bronzed. Save for a heavy
gray mustache, he is clean shaved; his dark, keenly observant eyes are
overshadowed by black and all but straight brows, terminating in two
little tufts, which give his countenance a strange and, as some might
think, an almost sardonic expression. Altogether, it strikes me as being
the face of a cynical yet not ill-natured or malicious Mephistopheles.
Behind him are two grooms in livery, nearly as well mounted as himself,
and, greatly to my surprise, he is presently joined by Jim Rawlings, who
last season held the post of first whipper-in.
What manner of man is this who brings out four horses on the same day, and
what does he want with them all? Such horses, too! There is not one of
them that has not the look of a two hundred-guinea hunter.
I was about to put the question to Keyworth, the hunt secretary, who had
just come within speaking distance, and was likely to know if anybody did,
when the master gave the signal for a move, and huntsman and hounds,
followed by the entire field, went off at a sharp trot.
We had a rather long ride to covert, but a quick find, a fox being viewed
away almost as soon as the hounds began to draw. It was a fast thing while
it lasted, but, unfortunately, it did not last long; for, after a twenty
minutes' gallop, the hounds threw up their heads, and cast as Cuffe might,
he was unable to recover the line.
The country we had gone over was difficult and dangerous, full of blind
fences and yawning ditches, deep enough and wide enough to swallow up any
horse and his rider who might fail to clear them. Fortunately, however, I
escaped disaster, and for the greater part of the run I was close to the
gentleman with the Mephistophelian face and Tom Rawlings, who acted as his
pilot. Tom rode well, of course--it was his business--but no better than
his master, whose horse, besides being a big jumper, was as clever as a
cat, flying the ditches like a bird, and clearing the blindest fences
without making a single mistake.
After the first run we drew two coverts blank, but eventually found a
second fox, which gave us a slow hunting run of about an hour, interrupted
by several checks, and saved his brush by taking refuge in an unstopped
earth.
By this time it was nearly three o'clock, and being a long way from home,
and thinking no more good would be done, I deemed it expedient to leave
off. I went away as Mephistopheles and his man were mounting their second
horses, which had just been brought up by the two grooms in livery.
My way lay by Matching Green, and as I stopped at the village inn to
refresh my horse with a pail of gruel and myself with a glass of ale, who
should come up but old Tawney, Tom Cuffe's second horseman! Besides being
an adept at his calling, familiar with every cross-road and almost every
field in the county, he knew nearly as well as a hunted fox himself which
way the creature meant to run. Tawney was a great gossip, and quite a mine
of curious information about things equine and human--especially about
things equine. Here was a chance not to be neglected of learning something
about Mephistopheles; so after warming Tawney's heart and opening his lips
with a glass of hot whiskey punch, I began:
"You've got a new first whip, I see."
"Yes, sir, name of Cobbe--Paul Cobbe. He comes from the Berkshire country,
he do, sir."
"But how is it that Rawlings has left? and who is that gentleman he was
with to-day?"
"What! haven't you heard!" exclaimed Tawney, as surprised at my ignorance
as if I had asked him the name of the reigning sovereign.
"I have not heard, which, seeing that I spent the greater part of the
summer at sea and returned only the other day, is perhaps not greatly to
be wondered at."
"Well, the gentleman as Rawlings has gone to and as he was with to-day is
Mr. Fortescue; him as has taken Kingscote."
Kingscote was a country-house of no extraordinary size, but with so large
a park and gardens, conservatories and stables so extensive as to render
its keeping up very costly; and the owner or mortgagee, I know not which,
had for several years been vainly trying to let it at a nominal rent.
"He must be rich, then. Kingscote will want a lot of keeping up."
"Rich is not the word, sir. He has more money than he knows what to do
with. Why, he has twenty horses now, and is building loose-boxes for ten
more, and he won't look at one under a hundred pounds. Rawlings has got a
fine place, he has that."
"I am surprised he should have left the kennels, though. He loses his
chance of ever becoming huntsman."
"He is as good as that now, sir. He had a present of fifty pounds to start
with, gets as many shillings a week and all found, and has the entire
management of the stables, and with a gentleman like Mr. Fortescue
there'll be some nice pickings."
"Very likely. But why does Mr. Fortescue want a pilot? He rides well, and
his horses seem to know their business."
"He won't have any as doesn't. Yes, he rides uncommon well for an aged
man, does Mr. Fortescue. I suppose he wants somebody to show him the way
and keep him from getting ridden over. It isn't nice to get ridden over
when you're getting into years."
"It isn't nice whether you are getting into years or not. But you cannot
call Mr. Fortescue an old man."
"You cannot call him a young 'un. He has a good many gray hairs, and them
puckers under his eyes hasn't come in a day. But he has a young heart, I
will say that for him. Did you see how he did that 'double' as pounded
half the field?"
"Yes, it was a very sporting jump. But who is Mr. Fortescue, and where
does he come from?"
"That is what nobody seems to know. Mr. Keyworth--he was at the kennels
only yesterday--asked me the very same question. He thought Jim Rawlings
might ha' told me something. But bless you, Jim knows no more than anybody
else. All as he can tell is as Mr. Fortescue sometimes goes to London,
that he is uncommon fond of hosses, and either rides or drives tandem
nearly every day, and has ordered a slap-up four-in-hand drag. And he has
got a 'boratory and no end o' chemicals and stuff, and electric machines,
and all sorts o' gimcracks."
"Is there a Mrs. Fortescue?"
"Not as I knows on. There is not a woman in the house, except servants."
"Who looks after things, then?"
"Well, there's a housekeeper. But the head bottle-washer is a chap they
call major-domo--a German he is. He looks after everything, and an
uncommon sharp domo he is, too, Jim says. Nobody can do him a penny piece.
And then there is Mr. Fortescue's body-servant; he's a dark man, with a
big scar on one cheek, and rings in his ears. They call him Rumun."
"Nonsense! There's no such name as Rumun."
"That's what I told Jim. He said it was a rum 'un, but his name was Rumun,
and no mistake."
"Dark, and rings in his ears! The man is probably a Spaniard. You mean
Ramon."
"No, I don't; I mean Rumun," returned Tawney, doggedly. "I thought it was
an uncommon rum name, and I asked Jim twice--he calls at the kennels
sometimes--I asked him twice, and he said he was cock sure it was Rumun."
"Rumun let it be then. Altogether, this Mr. Fortescue seems to be rather a
mysterious personage."
"You are right there, Mr. Bacon, he is. I only wish I was half as
mysterious. Why, he must be worth thousands upon thousands. And he spends
his money like a gentleman, he does--thinks less of a sovereign than you
think of a bob. He sent Mr. Keyworth a hundred pounds for his hunt
subscription, and said if they were any ways short at the end of the
season they had only to tell him and he would send as much more."
Having now got all the information out of Tawney he was able to give me, I
stood him another whiskey, and after lighting a cigar I mounted my horse
and jogged slowly homeward, thinking much about Mr. Fortescue, and
wondering who he could be. The study of physiognomy is one of my fads, and
his face had deeply impressed me; in great wealth, moreover, there is
always something that strikes the imagination, and this man was evidently
very rich, and the mystery that surrounded him piqued my curiosity.