by R S Surtees
“Thanks,” said Mr. Bunting, chucking her a shilling.
“Good luck to you!” exclaimed the woman, delighted at his generosity.
Mr. Bunting then raised a short trot to get a little in advance of his informant. He was presently at the turn, presently at the gate, and presently in sight of the beloved spot.
Privett Grove was a pretty place even in winter, perhaps nicer to look at than to live in. It was an up-and-downy, in-and-outy sort of place with odd doors, odd windows, odds and ends altogether. You went up a step into the dining-room, and down a step into the drawing-room; the larder was where the library ought to be, and the scullery had usurped the place of the shoe-house. However, it was no time for criticism, and Mr. Bunting felt as if he could love everything about it — the road, the rails, the roller, the very chimney-pots themselves. It wore a holiday aspect both inside and out; for Old Gaiters having duly discharged the duties of groom had undertaken that of gardener, and scratched the road with a rake from the gate up to the door. All the stray leaves that had been careering about for weeks and weeks, were now caught and consigned to the cow-house. The drawing-room was put into a sort of semi-review order, the Kidderminster carpet uncovered, but the flowered chintz allowed to remain on the sofa and chairs. If, however, the sofa was covered, its worsted-worked cushions were exhibited in a way that looked as if they were going to be raffled for. There was that triumph of the art, Melrose by moonlight, all worked by Miss Rosa before she was fourteen; there was Slingsby Priory, and Coppenthorpe Castle, and a Cockatoo of most conspicuous colours. We don’t know how many stocking heels might be left undarned in order that she might work them, but that is not to the point. Our old acquaintance John Thomas was prepared to expect company, while Perker, the maid, saw by the way Miss Rosa twisted and turned and examined herself in each glass in succession, that she was bent on display. She had on her new lilac and black droguet, her neat waist set off with a band and a rich cut steel clasp, an embroidered muslin collar and sleeves trimmed with lilac-coloured ribbon. Very neat shoes and stockings completed her costume, in which she smiled complacently on herself in the cheval glass. Still it was not surmised in the kitchen who was the cause of all this commotion, and it was not until Owen Ashford came coughing and grunting up to the house that Perker became alive to the importance of the occasion.
“My gracious!” exclaimed she, clasping her hands, “if here isn’t Mr. What’s-his name!” adding, “shall forget my own next.” So saying, she slipped noiselessly down the back stairs, ejaculating “Mr. Bunting!” and took up a position at the green baize-covered door connecting the little entrance hall with the back passage and offices.
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, now went the bell, in reply to Crop’s summons, who had dismounted for the purpose. “Clear the way, woman,” cried the footman, hurrying up to where Perker was now listening, in her greatly distended petticoats. Having brushed past the impediment he let the door swing to upon her, and advanced becomingly up the entrance.
“Ladies at home?” now asked Mr. Bunting, in a careless sort of way, that but ill accorded with his feelings, giving at the same time a smile of recognition to the man.
“Yes, sir,” replied the obsequious servant, bowing to the compliment, whereupon Mr. Bunting alighted, feeling pretty well assured that the eyes of England were upon him, and proceeded to follow his pilot into the house — the beloved house that might be his, marble slab, Louis Quatorze clock, stuffed Ptarmigan and all. Passing all these, our hero, following the footman, turned to the right, and a bright red rug proclaimed the door of the room of presentation.
As they say first impressions are everything, it was lucky this was not Mr. Bunting’s first appearance, for John Thomas, forgetting to warn him of the downward descent into the drawing-room, just as our friend had put on his most captivating smile, and arranged something pleasant to say to both of the ladies, in he went in the head-foremost sort of style that a clown tumbles on to the stage, completely putting to flight smile, simper, sentiment, all he had got to say.
A trifle of this sort would be nothing to most men, but to a man like our hero, who went so much on appearances, it was Badly vexatious. He knew there was nothing made a man look so ridiculous as a descent of this kind, and there was nothing he dreaded so much as looking ridiculous, especially before her. It was therefore some minutes ere he got his nerves composed and his ideas sufficiently restored to their former order, so as to start from the place where he had left mother and daughter, viz., the railway station at Roseberry Rocks. Having done ample justice to the charms of that beautiful place — the Rocks we mean, not the station — Mr. Bunting next drew a few mutual acquaintances casually before them, and despite Mrs. McDermott’s efforts (who had a présentiment of what was coming) to turn the conversation, at length asked in a careless sort of way, if they had seen anything of their fat friend young Mr. Goldfinch since they left.
“Gold-spink,” replied Mrs. McDermott, with an emphasis on the “spink.”
“Goldspink — oh, yes, we see him occasionally,” said she; “he lives near here, you know.”
“Oh, does he?” replied Mr. Bunting, as though he had no idea of anything of the sort.
Mrs. McDermott here gave the bell-handle a turn, which John Thomas answered by bringing a silver tray with seed cake and some capital sherry; for the late Mr. McDermott was a great connoisseur, and had left her an excellent stock; which, however, Mr. Bunting declining, the conversation again resumed its former current of inquiry and recital: what they had been doing since they parted; where they had been, where they were going; and though Miss told of her hunt with the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds, she said nothing of Lord Marchhare, or of his lordship’s decoration of her pony’s head with the fox’s brush.
They then talked about hunting generally, Mr. Jessop’s hounds, the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds, Mr. Jonathan Jobling’s harriers; and Mr. Bunting expressed his astonishment at meeting Miss Rosa the day before. Shouldn’t have known her if it hadn’t been for her hat, never having seen her on horseback before, or with her hair in ringlets.
Then Mamma took up the running, and asked Mr. Bunting how he liked Rosa in ringlets; and though our hero was too good a judge to say anything decidedly against them, yet both Mamma and Miss saw that he preferred her hair plain. And the discussion reminded them of the interview in Seaview Place, when our other hero Jasper, first saw Rosa with her hair plain; and an inward something whispered to-them both, “What if the whole thing should ultimately turn upon the question of Plain or Ringlets?” Less important points have decided these momentous matrimonial matters.
And after a prolonged sit, during the whole of which Mrs. McDermott pertinaciously remained in the room, as the shades of evening began to draw on, Mr. Bunting at length asked leave to ring for his horses; and Mamma, having paved the way for another visit, an arrangement that Miss certified with a sweet smile and a shake of her ungloved hand, he at length backed himself out of the presence, taking care of the step as he left.
The last cough of the groom’s horse having died out on the cold evening air, Mamma and Miss resolved themselves into a committee to consider the whole matter. The pros and cons we are not at liberty to publish, but the debate lasted long after Mr. Bunting had coughed his way back to his uncomfortable quarters at Burton St. Leger.
CHAPTER LXXII.
HASSOCKS HEATH HILL.
WHEN MR. JOVEY Jessop heard of Mr. Bunting’s misfortune with his horses, he pitied him exceedingly, for thinking of nothing but hunting himself, it never occurred to him that a man could come into the country for anything else. It was such a thing for Mr. Bunting he said, to lose the best of the season, all through a damp stable, and though rather short of horses himself, Jovey determined to see if he could not give him a mount. So he took the Jug a stroll round the stables after breakfast, and upon hearing the report of Mr. Rowel. the groom, how Lapwing was lame, and Lady Jane off her feed, and the Squirrel not fit to go, Mr. Jessop finally fixed
that the Bold Pioneer should have the honour of carrying the distinguished stranger. That point settled, Jovey presently put the Jug into the dog-cart and drove him rapidly over to Burton St. Leger. Arrived there he left him to enjoy the society of sore-eyed Sam at the Lord Cornwallis Inn door, and followed his card upstairs into Mr. Bunting’s apartment.
After a few common places about the weather, the roads, and the state of the country — the hunting, not the political state — Jovey broached the subject of our hero’s horses, which he was sorry to hear had caught cold on the road, and concluded by saying, that he would be glad if Mr. Bunting would allow him to send one to Hassocks Heath Hill, which, he said, was one of their best meets, and where, he thought, they would find a wild fox, and he concluded the overture by saying that he hoped Mr. Bunting would dine and stay all night at Appleford Hall after hunting. To an out-and-out sportsman, nothing could be handsomer or more inviting, and though a less vigorous programme would have suited our friend quite as well, he could not say “nay” to the offer.
So it was settled that there should be a horse at Hassocks Heath Hill, and our master of hounds declining our hero’s offer of refreshment (though the Jug had a glass of whiskey) presently took his departure, and jumping into his dog-cart, drove rapidly away with the Jug, to the surprise of sore-eyed Sam, who had not time to enquire who was to pay for the “glass.” Hassocks Heath was a popular meet as well for Mr. Jessop’s hounds as the Duke of Tergiversation’s men, to whose country it more properly belonged; but the Duke not caring to go long distances from home, had arranged to let Jovey Jessop draw all his out-lying covers on condition that he came whenever he required him, which enabled his Grace to talk of Mr. Jessop as a sort of appendage to the Castle — sometimes even going the length of saying that Jovey’s hounds were his Grace’s, only he didn’t like to be thought so desperately keen as to keep two packs.
That style of thing, however, only does for the wholly uninitiated, for of all the undesirable false pretences that men can indulge in, there is none so self-punishing as that of pretending to like hunting when they don’t. The parties impose upon no one but themselves.
The Prince Pirouetteza, however, was just the sort of person with whom to turn Mr. Jessop to account, and though His Highness had got far more bumping than he liked on the Holly Bush Inn day, and would much have preferred staying at home singing and playing his guitar to the ladies, yet the Duke was peremptory in his commands for him to go and see his “other hounds” at Hassocks Heath. “Must go and see my other hounds at Hassocks Heath.” So hunters were ordered, carriage horses were ordered, breakfast was ordered, at twenty minutes past eight to a minute, and the Duke having given all these orders and impressed the importance of punctuality on every one, went to bed at his wonted hour, and never thought more of the matter. What was the use of giving Jessop the covers if he didn’t get something from him in return, thought he. Besides, the great star should never appear upon the stage till the proper time of the evening. Nothing like making people wait for giving them a due sense of one’s importance, thought the Duke. Mr. Jessop on the other hand, was punctuality itself. Ten-thirty, to a minute was his hour, and as sure as people’s watches got to within five minutes of that time, Mr. Jessop’s hat would be seen bobbing above the neighbouring hedges, or the dog-cart, with the Jug and himself jolting to cover together, would be heard grinding and scattering the newly-laid stones on the converging road. Mr. Jessop wishing to keep his Jug as much for his own domestic purposes as possible, and not approving either of the glassings of public houses, or the hospitalities of private ones, always made his meets at out-of the-way places, milestones, finger-posts, stone pits, bridges, &c., places where there was little or no chance of getting drink.
Thus he kept his Jug empty for the evening. Neither did Mr. Jessop encourage the attendance of the fair. Though a highly gallant gentleman when in his black pantaloons, he always declared that he never wished to see ladies out with his hounds. That hunting was dangerous enough for the men, and the ladies looked far better in their drawing-rooms, with nicely done-up fires waiting for the coming home of the gentlemen in the evening, than tearing across country with their hair over their shoulders, and their faces running down with perspiration. And though the cat-faced Miss Sowerbys did sneer and turn up their pug noses at the idea of anybody marrying “a mere fox-hunter,” yet as Mr. Jessop was fresh and good-looking, there were plenty of young ladies who would be glad to relieve the old Jug from his arduous office of Comptroller of the hospitalities of Appleton Hall.
Now, for our particular fox-hunting meet. Hassocks Heath, unlike some heaths which grow corn, grass, tares, turnips, anything but heather, is still a heath; wild, spacious, sporting and wet. On parts of it a man can career as if on a race-course, while in others he may blob up to his horse’s tail in a bog. It seems to be a sort of sanctuary for game: foxes use its straggling gorses, the black-faced sheep seem almost as wild as the foxes, hares and rabbits scuttle among its browning fern, and ripening ling; snipes haunt its rushy rills, partridges bask on its sunny slopes, while the co-leek, co-beck, co-beck, of the startled grouse, gives a finished wildness to the whole. There is nothing Leadenhallish or £ s d.-ish about Hassocks Heath. It would not do for Mr. Jessop if there was. The very road is spacious and open at the sides, leaving a traveller the choice of divergence as he prefers hard or soft. The land rises and falls in wavy sinuous hills, whose gentle dips and bends only reveal other hills beyond. Such were the general features of the dun and purple moors of Hassocks Heath — r favourite meet of Mr. Jessop’s hounds.
If the man who plants a tree is entitled to be considered a public benefactor, assuredly the man who planted the clump on the rising ground in the middle of Hassocks Heath ought to be red-lettered in the almanac as a patriot, for it serves as a landmark to all the country round, to tinkers, muggers pic-nick-ers, fox-hunters, shooters, farmers, and wayfarers of all sorts. The Hill at Hassocks Heath, is the site of a lamb, a sheep, a cow, and a horse-fair — a sort of central rendezvous from all parts; and though certain white-headed frieze-coated farmers, can “mind” when the Scotch firs were more numerous, none of them can ever remember the trees being any smaller. There they stand, at wide intervals, on the gravelly hill with plenty of room for their stag-headed tops to spread and afford shelter alike from the scorching sun, and the driving storm. The well trodden dun-coloured grass around shows by the pole and peg-holes, the clippings of tin, the shaving of sticks, and the ashes of fires, the varied purposes to which the place is applied. Now it is going to be used as the opening scene in the great British drama called the fox-hunt — in which every man can take a part without note or invitation. First to arrive on this auspicious day were a group of pedestrians; Jacky Bray, the gigantic quoit-playing blacksmith of Lockerby Ford, who has walked fifteen miles; Tom Cooper the gentleman, in a cat-skin cap, with blue glass buttons on a faded red-plush vest, who lives nobody exactly knows how, but whose bulging calves show little symptoms of want; Nat Skittles the pedestrian whistler, who can do anything but work; Jim Savage the horsebreaker, who is only half broke himself; Ned Willowford the travelling basket-maker of anywhere, and two or three smock-frocked shepherds and countrymen, who have each forfeited a day’s work to be present. Their beaming faces, however, show they expect plenty of fun for their money. If they do but see the Squire’s dogs find, they’ll be quite content.
“Aye, they are good dogs” they say, and so they out with their pipes, and squat on the gravelly ground to enjoy a smoke, discuss their merits — eulogising such hounds as they have the pleasure of knowing by sight. The next change in the scene, is the arrival of the horses, mostly fine handsome well-conditioned animals who know as well what they are going to do as the grooms who bestride them. Most of these men are got up for the occasion, smart ties, smart coats, smart boots, smart every thing — for there are gentlemen who would rather not hunt at all than not turn out in other than what they consider tiptop style. This, of course, varies with the ta
ste of each master, so here we have laced hats, plain hats, cockaded hats, light coats, dark coats, chesnut tops, red tops, pink tops, and nearly black tops. There is as much affectation about tops as there is about pipes, each man thinking to have his pipe or his tops blacker than his neighbours.
The difference between a show and a sporting pack now begins to be apparent, the horses and servants of the men of the Duke’s hunt contrasting badly with the neat quiet equipments of those belonging to Mr. Jessop’s. The finely-shaped flea-bitten grey horse and the bright bay, in charge of the knowing-looking little fellow in the black frock-coat, striped vest, and Bedford cords, are our master’s own, his first and second horses, for he hunts the hounds himself, and always has two out. The diminutive genius in charge of them may be any age, any age at least, save young, for he was no boy when Mr. Jessop took him, and he has been with him many years. His name is Mark; he most likely has another, but it has long been lost from disuse, at least nobody would know him if he was called by it — while as “Mark” he is everybody’s acquaintance; follow “Mark,” is the order to all the second horsemen. “Where’s Mark!” is the cry when the hounds come to check, “let Mark have a run at it!” is the proposal when the leap is larger than people like, and they want it reduced. Nature meant Mark for a horseman, and it was lucky he hit upon hunting, or he might have been silk instead of scarlet, fluttering on a race-course instead of careering across country.
The slouching-looking clown following Mark, in the unbrushed hat, shaggy head, careless tie, and drab coat turned up with grease, riding the iron-marked chestnut with the white face and legs, is the Jug’s lad, Button, whose Christian name being Tom, of course they call him “Billy” and the led horse; a grand-looking grey — is the Bold Pioneer, one of our master’s own horses, now for Mr. Bunting’s riding. Whatever Mr. Jessop did, he always did well, a mount being a mount with him, and not an animal that could only go a few fields.
