LOOTON PARK.
Looton is a large, ugly, uncomfortable old place, similar to hundreds
of others scattered over the British isles. No one knows exactly when
it was built, but everyone is aware that it is surrounded by the very
best land in Bordershire. The house stands in a large well-timbered
park, and is approached by two avenues from opposite directions.
Seated at the library-table, with his elbows well squared, a young
man of about one-and-twenty is dashing off a letter. He is Geoffrey
Saville, first cousin to Lady Fairfax, and has lately joined the Fifth
Hussars--so lately that he is still doing riding-school, from which a
fortnight’s visit to Looton has afforded him temporary emancipation.
He is a slim, bright-eyed, loose-limbed boy, with small impudent hazel
eyes, an aristocratic nose, and light-brown hair, of which one utterly
unreasonable lock always sticks up on the top of his head, cut, and
comb, and oil as he will. He is possessed of the highest of spirits,
the best of appetites, and unlimited assurance. He is gay, gentlemanly,
and generous, and swears by his new cousin, but old friend, Sir
Reginald Fairfax.
Here is his letter:
“MY DEAR NOBBS,
“I promised to send you a line to let you know how I was getting on.
Rex and Alice make no end of a good host and hostess; the feeding is
superior, and as to horses, I am ‘all found.’ Rex mounts me as he
mounts himself, and I take it out of his cattle fairly.
“We have had two or three good runs with the R. B. H. and Overstones,
especially last Tuesday; found at Heplow--(you don’t know where
that is, but never mind)--and ran to Clumber, a distance of eight
miles as the crow flies, with only one slight check. The pace was
prime, the grief awful. The fields were large and airy, but some of
the fences, notably the bullfinches, were real raspers. The finish
was highly select--Alice, Reginald, two cavalry men, a parson, the
huntsman, and yours obediently. Alice goes like a bird; and in a neat
double-breasted brown habit and pot-hat to match, and mounted on a
clipping bay thoroughbred, looks very ‘fit’ indeed. Rex pilots her,
and they make a very fair average example of the field. You know what
a customer he is. She follows him as if she had a spare neck in her
pocket, and charges wood and water as boldly as he does himself.
“Talking of water, there is a brute of a river here, called the Swale,
which winds about in the most mysterious manner. You come across it
when you least expect it. I have already been in twice! I paid my
second visit last Friday. I was steaming along close to the pack, when
what should I see in front of me but this sneak of a river. I rammed
in the spurs, and thundered down to it as hard as I could go, but I
had already bucketed the old horse too freely: he bore down as if he
meant business, stopped short, and shot me over his head into about
seven feet of muddy water. I’ll leave you to imagine the figure I was
when I picked myself out!
“I created a fine sensation all along the Queen’s highway _en route_
home. Alice and Reginald have never stopped chaffing me ever since.
You ask me how he plays the _rôle_ of married man? Capitally, my dear
fellow; and as to your unkind insinuation that I must be rather in
the way, considering they are so recently married, you never were
more mistaken in your life. They are not a bit a spooney couple; at
least I never see any billing or cooing, thank goodness, and I favour
them with a good deal of my society; but anyone can see with half an
eye that each thinks the other perfection, and that they suit down to
the ground. He has got a fortnight’s domestic privilege leave to go
and see poor Maitland of the Blues, who is dying at Cannes; they were
great chums always, and at Eton together. Meanwhile I remain here and
help old Miss Fane (a bitter specimen of the unappropriated blessing)
to take care of the fair châtelaine; and as I am to exercise the
hunters, and have the run of the stable, I am promising myself five
days a week between the two packs, and the very cream of hunting. I
wish you would go to Thomas and hurry him with my tops, and run me in
for another fortnight’s leave, as enclosed. If the chief looks grumpy,
say I have broken my collarbone. I’ll do as much for you another time.
“Yours in clover,
“GEOFFREY SAVILLE.”