by R S Surtees
“Oh, certainly,” replied Wotherspoon, throwing up the window, when a sudden gust of wind nearly blew off his wig, and sadly disconcerted the ladies by making the chimney smoke.
Just at this moment our friend appeared in sight, and all eyes were then directed to the now gamboling tongue-throwing hounds, as they spread frisking over the green.
“What beauties!” exclaimed Mrs. Wotherspoon, pretending to admire them, though in reality she was examining the Point de Paris lace on Mrs. Broadfurrow’s mantle — wondering what it would be a yard, thinking it was very extravagant for a person like her to have it so broad. Old Spoon, meanwhile, bustled away to the door, to be ready to greet the great men as they entered.
“Major Yammerton and Mr. Jingle!” announced John Strong, throwing it open, and the old dandy bent nearly double with his bow.
“How are ye, Wotherspoon?” demanded our affable master, shaking him heartily by the hand, with a hail-fellow-well-met air of cordiality. “Mr. Pringle you know,” continued he, drawing our friend forward with his left hand, while he advanced with his right to greet the radiant Mrs. Wotherspoon.
The Major then went the round of the party, whole handing Mrs. Broadfurrow, three fingering her husband, presenting two to old Rintonl, and nodding to Nettlefold.
“Well, here’s a beautiful morning,” observed he, now Colossus-of-Rhodesing with his clumsily built legs— “most remarkable season this I ever remember during the five-and-thirty years that I have kept haryers — more like summer than winter, only the trees are as bare of leaves as boot-trees, haw, haw, haw.”
“He, he, he,” chuckled old Wotherspoon, “v-a-a-ry good, Major, v-a-a-ry good,” drawled he, taking a plentiful replenishment of snuff as he spoke.
Breakfast was then announced, and the Major making up to the inflated Mrs. Wotherspoon tendered his arm, and with much difficulty piloted her past the table into the little duplicate parlour across the passage, followed by Wotherspoon with Mrs. Broadfurrow and the rest of the party.
And now the fruits of combined science appeared in the elegant arrangement of the breakfast-table, the highly polished plate vieing with the snowy whiteness of the cloth, and the pyramidical napkins encircling around. Then there was the show pattern tea and coffee services, chased in wreaths and scrolls, presented to Mr. Wotherspoon by the Duke of Thunderdownshire on his marriage; the Louis Quatorze kettle presented to Mrs. Wotherspoon by the Duchess, with the vine-leaf-patterned cake-basket, the Sutherland-patterned toast-rack, and the tulip-patterned egg-stand, the gifts and testimonials of other parties.
Nor was the entertainment devoted to mere show, for piles of cakes and bread of every shape and make were scattered profusely about, while a couple of covered dishes on the well polished little sideboard denoted that the fourchette of the card was not a mere matter of form. Best of all, a group of flat vine-leaf encircling Champagne glasses denoted that the repast was to be enlivened with the exhilarating beverage.
The party having at length settled into seats, Major Yammerton on Mrs. Wotherspoon’s right, Mr. Pringle on her left, Mrs. Broadfurrow on Spoon’s right, her husband on his left, with Rintoul and Nettlefold filling in the interstices, breakfast began in right earnest, and Mrs. Wotherspoon having declined the Major’s offer of assisting with the coffee, now had her hands so full distributing the beverages as to allow him to apply himself sedulously to his food. This he did most determinedly, visiting first one detachment of cakes, then another, and helping himself liberally to both hashed woodcocks and kidneys from under the covers. His quick eye having detected the Champagne glasses, and knowing Wotherspoon’s reputed connoisseurship in wines, he declined Mrs. Wotherspoon’s tea, reserving himself for what was to follow. In truth, Spoon was a good judge of wine, so much so that he acted as a sort of decoy duck to a London house, who sent him very different samples to the wine they supplied to the customers with whom he picked up. He had had a great deal of experience in wines, never, in the course of a longish life having missed the chance of a glass, good, bad, or indifferent. We have seen many men set up for judges without a tithe of Wotherspoon’s experience. Look at a Club for instance. We see the footman of yesterday transformed into the butler of to-day, giving his opinion to some newly joined member on the next, with all the authority of a professor — talking of vintages, and flavours, and roughs and smooths, and sweets, and drys, as if he had been drinking wine all his life. Wotherspoon’s prices were rather beyond the Major’s mark, but still he had no objection to try his wine, and talk as if he would like to have some of the same sort. So having done ample justice to the eatables he turned himself back in his chair and proceeded to criticise Mrs. Wotherspoon’s now slightly flushed face, and wonder how such a pretty woman could marry such a snuffy old cock. While this deliberate scrutiny was going on, the last of the tea-drinkers died out, and at a pull of the bell, John Strong came in, and after removing as many cups and saucers as he could clutch, he next proceeded to decorate the table with Champagne glasses amid the stares and breath-drawings of the company.
While this interesting operation was proceeding, the old dandy host produced his snuff-box, and replenishing his nose passed it on to Broadfurrow to send up the table, while he threw himself back in his chair and made a mental wager that Strong would make a mistake between the Champagne and the Sillery. The glasses being duly distributed, and the Major’s eye at length caught, our host after a prefatory throat-clearing hem thus proceeded to address him, individually, for the good of the company generally.
“Major Yammerton,” said he, “I will take the liberty of recommending a glass of Sillery to you. — The sparkling, I believe, is very good, but the still is what 1 particularly pride myself upon and recommend to my friends.”
“Strong!” continued he, addressing the clown, “the Sillery to Major Yammerton,” looking at Strong as much as to say, “you know it’s the bottle with the red cord round the neck.”
The Major, however, like many of us, was not sufficiently versed in the delicacies of Champagne drinking to prefer the Sillery, and to his host’s dismay called for the sparkling-stuff that Wotherspoon considered was only fit for girls at a boarding school. The rest of the party, however, were of the Major’s opinion, and all glasses were eagerly held for the sparkling fluid, while the Sillery remained untouched to the master.
It is but justice to Wotherspoon to add, that he showed himself deserving of the opportunity, for he immediately commenced taking two glasses to his guest’s one.
That one having been duly sipped and quaffed and applauded, and a becoming interval having elapsed between, Mr. Wotherspoon next rose from his chair, and looking especially wise, observed, up the table “that there was a toast he wished — he had — he had — he wished to propose, which he felt certain under any — any (panse) circumstances, would be (pause again) accepted — he meant received with approbation (applause), not only with approbation, but enthusiasm,” continued he, hitting off the word he at first intended to use, amid renewed applause, causing a slight “this is my health,” droop of the head from the Major— “But when,” continued the speaker, drawing largely on his snuff-box for inspiration, “But when in addition to the natural and intrinsic (pause) merit of the (hem) illustrious individual” (“Coming it strong,” thought the Major, who had never been called illustrious before,) “there is another and a stronger reason,” continued Wotherspoon, looking as if he wished he was in his seat again— “a reason that comes ‘ome to the ‘earts and symphonies of us all (applause). (“Ah, that’s the hounds,” thought the Major, “only I ‘spose he means sympathies.”) “I feel (pause) assured,” continued Mr. Wotherspoon, “that the toast will be received with the enthusiasm and popularity that ever attends the (pause) mention of intrinsic merit, however (pause) ‘umbly and inadequately the (pause) toast may be (pause) proposed,” (great applause, with cries of no, no,) during which the orator again appealed to his snuff-box. He knew he had a good deal more to say, but he felt he couldn’t get it out. If
he had only kept his seat he thought he might have managed it. “I therefore,” said he, helping Mrs. Broadfurrow to the sparkling, and passing the bottle to her husband while he again appealed to the Sillery, “beg to propose, with great sincerity, the ‘ealth of Her most gracious Majesty The Queen! The Queen! God bless her!” exclaimed Wotherspoon, holding up a brimming bumper ere he sunk in his chair to enjoy it.
“With all my heart!” gasped the disgusted Major, writhing with vexation — observing to Mrs. Wotherspoon as he helped her, and then took severe toll of the passing bottle himself, “by Jove, your husband ought to be in Parliament — never heard a man acquit himself better” — the Major following the now receding bottle with his eye, whose fast diminishing contents left little hopes of a compliment for himself out of its contents. He therefore felt his chance was out, and that he had been unduly sacrificed to Royalty. Not so, however, for Mr. Wotherspoon, after again charging his nose with snuff, and passing his box round the table while he collected his scattered faculties for the charge, now drew the bell-cord again, and tapping with his knife against the empty bottle as “Strong” entered, exclaimed, “Champagne!” with the air of a man accustomed to have all the wants of life supplied by anticipation. There’s nobody gets half so well waited upon as an old servant.
This order being complied with, and having again got up the steam of his eloquence, Mr. Wotherspoon arose, and, looking as wise as before, observed, “That there was another toast he had to propose, which he felt (pause) sure would (pause) would be most agreeable and acceptable to the meeting, — he meant to say the party, the present party (applause) — under any circumstances (sniff, snuff, sneeze); he was sure it would be most (snuff) acceptable, for the great and distinguished (pause), he had almost said illustrious (sniff), gentleman (pause), was — was estimable”—” — was estimable (pause) and glorious in every relation of life.
“This is me, at all events,” thought the Major, again slightly drooping his too bashful head, as though the shower-bath of compliment was likely to be too heavy for him. (applause), and keeps a pack of hounds second to none in the kingdom (great applause, during which the drooping head descended an inch or two lower). I need not after that (snuff) expression of your (sniff) feelings (pause), undulate on the advantage such a character is of to the country, or in promoting (pause) cheerful hospitality in all its (pause) branches, and drawing society into sociable communications; therefore I think I shall (pause) offer a toast most, most heartily acceptable (sniff) to all your (snuff) feelings, when I propose, in a bumper toast, the health of our most — most distinguished and — and hospitable host — guest, I mean — Major Yammerton, and his harriers!” saying which, the old orator filled himself a bumper of Sillery, and sent the sparkling beverage foaming and creaming on its tour. He then presently led the charge with a loud, “Major! your very good health!”
“Major, your very good health!”
“Your very good health, Major!”
“Major, your very good health!” then followed up as quickly as the glasses could be replenished, and the last explosion having taken place, the little Major arose, and looked around him like a Bantam cock going to crow. He was a man who could make what he would call an off-hand speech, provided he was allowed to begin with a particular word, and that word was “for.” Accordingly, he now began with, —
“Ladies and gentlemen, For the very distinguished honour you have thus most unexpectedly done me, I beg to return you my most grateful and cordial thanks. (Applause.) I beg to assure you, that the ‘steem and approbation of my perhaps too partial friends, is to me the most gratifying of compliments; and if during the five-and-thirty years I have kept haryers, I have contributed in any way to the ‘armony and good fellowship of this neighbourhood, it is indeed to me a source of unfeigned pleasure. (Applause.) I ‘ope I may long be spared to continue to do so. (Renewed applause.) Being upon my legs, ladies and gentlemen,” continued he, “and as I see there is still some of this most excellent and exhilarating beverage in the bottle (the Major holding up a halfemptied one as he spoke), permit me to conclude by proposing as a toast the ‘ealth of our inestimable ‘ost and ‘ostess — a truly exemplary couple, who only require to be known to be respected and esteemed as they ought to be. (Applause.) I have great pleasure in proposing the ‘ealth of Mr. and Mrs. Wotherspoon! (Applause.) Mrs. Wotherspoon,” continued he, bowing very low to his fair hostess, and looking, as he thought, most insinuating, “your very good ‘ealth! Wotherspoon!” continued he, standing erect, and elevating his voice, “Your very good ‘ealth!” saying which he quaffed off his wine, and resumed his seat as the drinking of the toast became general.
Meanwhile old Wotherspoon had taken a back hand at the Sillery, and again arose, glass in hand, to dribble out his thanks for the honour the Major and company had done Mrs. Wother-spoon and himself, which being the shortest speech he had made, was received with the greatest applause.
All parties had now about arrived at that comfortable state when the inward monitor indicates enough, and the active-minded man turns to the consideration of the “next article, mem,” — as the teasing shop-keepers say, The Major’s “next article,” we need hardly say, was his haryers, which were still promenading in front of the ivy-mantled tower, before an admiring group of pedestrians and a few sorrily mounted horsemen, — old Duffield, Dick Trail, and one or two others, — who would seem rather to have come to offer up their cattle for the boiler, than in expectation of their being able to carry them across country with the hounds. These are the sort of people who stamp the farmers’ hedges down, and make hare hunting unpopular.
“Well, sir, what say you to turning out?” now asked our Master, as Wotherspoon still kept working away at the Sillery, and maundering on to Mr. Broadfurrow about the Morning Post and high life.
“Well, sir, what you think proper,” replied Spoon, taking a heavy pinch of snuff, and looking at the empty bottles on the table.
“The hare, you say, is close at hand,” observed our master of hounds.
“Close at hand, close at hand — at the corner of my field, in fact,” assented Wotherspoon, as if there was no occasion to be in a hurry.
“Then let’s be at her!” exclaimed the Major rising with wine-inspired confidence, and feeling that it would require a very big fence to stop him with the hounds in full cry.
“Well, but we are going to see you, ain’t we?” asked Mrs. Wotherspoon.
“By all means,” replied our Master; adding, “but hadn’t you better get your bonnet on?”
“Certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Wotherspoon, looking significantly at Mrs. Broadfurrow; whereupon the latter rose, and with much squeezing, and pardoning, and thank-you-ing, the two succeeded in effecting a retreat. The gentlemen then began kicking their legs about, feeling as though they would not want any dinner that day.
CHAPTER LV. THE COUNCIL OF WAR. — POOR PUSS AGAIN!
WHILE THE LADIES were absent adorning themselves, the gentlemen held a council of war as to the most advisable mode of dealing with the hare, aud the best way of making her face a good country. The Major thought if they could set her a-going with her head towards Martinfield-heath, they would stand a good chance of a run; while Broadfurrow feared Borrowdale brook would be in the way.
“Why not Linacres?” asked Mr. Rintoul, who preferred having the hounds over any one’s farm but his own.
“Linacres is not a bad line,” assented the Major thoughtfully; “Linacres is not a bad line, ‘specially if she keeps clear of Minsterfield-wood and Dowland preserve; but if once she gets to the preserve it’s all U. P., for we should have as many hares as hounds in five minutes, to say nothing of Mr. Grumbleton reading the riot act among us to boot.”
“I’ll tell ye how to do, then,” interposed fat Mr. Nettlefold, holding his coat laps behind him as he protruded his great canary-coloured stomach into the ring; “I’ll tell you how to do, then. Just crack her away back over this way, and see if you can’t get her for Witherton an
d Longworth. Don’t you mind,” continued he, button-holeing the Major, “what a hunt we had aboot eighteen years since with a har we put off old Tommy Carman’s stubble, that took us reet away over Marbury Plot, the Oakley hill, and then reet down into Woodbury Yale, where we killed?”
“To be sure I do!” exclaimed the delighted Major, his keen eyes glistening with pleasure at the recollection. “The day Sam Snowball rode into Gallowfield bog and came out as black as a sweep — I remember it well. Don’t think I ever saw a better thing. If it had been a — a — certain somebody’s hounds (he, he, he!), whose name I won’t mention (haw, haw, haw!), we should never have heard the last of it (he, he, he!).”
While this interesting discussion was going on, old Wotherspoon who had been fumbling at the lock of the cellaret, at length got it open, and producing therefrom one of those little square fibre-protected bottles, with mysterious seals and hieroglyphical labels, the particoloured letters leaning different ways, now advanced, gold-dotted liquor-glass in hand, towards the group, muttering as he came, “Major Yammerton, will you ‘blege me with your ‘pinion of this Maraschino di Zara, which my wine merchants recommend to me as something very ‘tickler,” pouring out a glass as he spoke, and presenting it to his distinguished guest.
“With all my heart,” replied the Major, who rather liked a glass of liquor; adding, “we’ll all give our opinion, won’t we, Pringle?” appealing to our hero.
“Much pleasure,” replied Billy, who didn’t exactly know what it was, but still was willing to take it on trust.
“That’s right,” rejoined old Spoon; “that’s right; then ‘blege me,” continued he, “by helping yourselves to glasses from the sideboard,” nodding towards a golden dotted brood clustering about a similarly adorned glass jug like chickens around a speckled hen.
