by R S Surtees
The pace having been severe, and the return pretty sure, several of the field, the fat ones in particular, pulled up and sat mopping themselves on the side of the hill, from whence a secure view of the farther performance was obtained; but Jonathan, as in duty bound, went skating down the steep side followed by the Jug, Mr. Bunting, and such others as felt sure their steeds could get up again. The hare had now puzzled the pack, and there was nothing for it but patience and letting them try to make it out for themselves. So Jonathan having pulled up at a respectful distance, sat shading his eyes from the sun, watching their bustling anxiety, but inability to proceed.
At length they had so foiled the ground that it was no use letting them persevere any longer, and there was nothing for it but to help them. So, advancing and passing through the familiar gap, he made a forward cast to be certain she was not on, and then returned to belabour the hedge, when a very few cracks of the great whip sent her flying out of her form, one ear lobbing one way the other another, looking as if she didn’t know which leg to put first. Having recovered her surprise, she presently got into her stride, and went bowling away to the joy of the hill siders, and the excitement of the pack, who strained every nerve as before. Jonathan hugged his great horse Humpty Dumpty, and went labouring after them, grinning with delight at the feat. Billy Rough’un, too, dropped quietly on his bit, and took the enclosures as if conscious he would have to contend with the hills. Nor was Billy out in his reckoning, for the hare now treated the field to a turn round the base of Bossington hill, and then regained the downs by the gorge between it and the Chapel, when, getting breath, she again scuttled along the brow of the general range of undulating hills, the now reunited field following the pressing pack with every demonstration of joy and delight. Foremost went Jobling, grinning and hugging his horse in a high state of enthusiasm at the round he was giving the red-coats, hoping Mr. Boyston would see the marvellous hits of old Lavender, and appreciate the guidance of Leader. On, on they went, all plain sailing and smooth, nothing to hinder or distract the attention, no asking the way over Bartnaby bog, no offering of Huggins to hold Wiggins’s horse while he pulled out a gap or opened a gate for the rest.
At length, on passing Barricane bam, puss met with an impediment. Tom Hollowjaw’s, the shepherd poacher’s stump-tailed lurcher, Teaser, turned her, and but for the deficiency of helm would in all probability have killed her. As it was he got a mouthful of fur, and sent her flying down Banfield footway instead of pursuing her easier line along the brow of the hill. This greatly aggravated her discomfort, already sufficiently taxed by the vehement clamour of her pursuers behind. Still, like Jovey Jessop’s Brushwood Banks fox, she had been hunted before, and did not despair of escaping again. So she exerted herself to the utmost, and speeding along put as much space between herself and her followers as ever she could. Thus she traversed Towlsworthy Hill, dipped into Watergate Valley, and again made for higher ground on Warleighworth Wold. Still the cry of the hounds and the cheer of the fat huntsman pursued her, and made her wish for a friend to relieve her. There were plenty of hares if one would but get up-plenty of hares if one would but get up! But alas! no friend was by.
The fox is always supposed to be a gentleman, and the hare a lady; and though the sexes are sometimes transposed, the terms remain the same, and exercise a considerable influence in the chase. The fox is pursued with a vehement ardour, if not an inveterate hatred; everybody has something to say against him — while a little turnip nibbling and wheat cropping is about the worst that can be laid to the charge of poor puss.
Still a hare takes a deal of hunting, especially on a bad scenting day, and those who have been at the trouble of unravelling her steps, watching the working of Lilter and Tilter and Wonderful, don’t like to be baulked of their prize in the end, even though they are regardless after they have got it. On the present occasion, with two strangers out, of course it would not do to be beat, and Jonathan worked with assiduous care. All the field, too, were careful, each man feeling his credit involved in the performance of the pack.
Our hare, which was a buck and a stout one, had now done the field good service. She had given them a very pretty lead out, or rather round, of some two miles in the first instance, one in the second with a straight shoot out, and a curve for the third. Though the hounds flew over the downs, they made it out tolerably well on the fallows, their merry stems twinkling when they would hardly trust their tongues to say the scent was there. At length a chalky fallow brought them studiously to their noses, and Jonathan, feeling that killing time was come, crept gently on, to be ready to save her in the last extremity. The field followed their great leader’s example, many of them looking alternately at the hounds and the Jug’s stolid unappreciative countenance. The pace gradually slackened until the hounds almost stopped upon the drab fallow.
Jonathan now drew rein, and sat transfixed. He was sure she was somewhere there. Humpty Dumpty presently gave himself a hearty shake, when up bounced puss right under his nose, and with a desperate effort to gain the opposite hedgerow, twisting and turning from her numerous open-mouthed pursuers, was finally snapped by Mariner, over whom Jollity and Jovial immediately rolled, when the whole pack poured in like bees at a hive, and the kill was complete.
Jonathan was amongst them in the twinkling of an eye, and from a ground worry the scene changed into a high in air trophy with the glad pack baying and jumping and pawing the stout British yeoman.
“WHO-HOOP!” holloaed Jonathan, with a voice that made the hills echo.
“Who-hoop!” responded Cordy Brown, from the thick of the field.
“Well hunted!” cried Telford, who paid his subscription in flattery.
“Deuced well!” assented Brickworth, mopping his brow.
“Five-and-fifty minutes!” announced Pole, who was time-keeper to the hunt.
Jonathan, having duly exhibited his victim, now proceeded to disembowel her and give his favourites a taste of her blood; after which, having got his hands licked pretty clean, the herculean huntsman advanced to the Jug with the hare in his hand, saying, “You were good enough to ax me to dine off a scoffla — but scoffas are not in my way — but if you’d accept a hunted hare, I shall be very glad to give you her,” holding the hare up to the Jug as he spoke.
“Thank you,” said the Jug, taking her and fastening her into Billy Rough’un’s hunting martingal.
“And make my compliments to Mr. Jessop,” continued Jonathan, helping him. —
“I will,” said the Jug.
“No better sportsman than Mr. Jessop,” continued Jonathan, thinking unless it were himself.
“Well, now, we are going to Somerslease Hill,” continued he, when they had got the hare adjusted. “There we shall find another stout ‘un, get on to fresh ground, and have another good gallop.”
“I think I must be going home,” replied the Jug, adding, “I’m going to ride this horse with the fox-hounds to-morrow.”
“So,” said Jonathan. “Well, then, sir, I’ll bid you good morning,” tendering him his still rather blood-stained hand as he spoke.
The Jug shook it and said “good morning,” too.
Jonathan then hoisted his great sternpost into the saddle, and, calling his handy hounds together, proceeded onwards, leaving our friends to journey home in the contrary direction.
CHAPTER LXXX.
PRIVETT GROVE AGAIN.
“WONDEE WHERE WE are,” now observed Mr. Bunting, looking about him, as their mutually receding steps soon put a wide space between our Mends and the held.
“I know,” replied the Jug. “This is Okers Over; that (nodding to a little hamlet embedded among large bare-branched trees beneath the shelter of a swelling hill) is Bluemeadows; at the back of it we get upon Bleakendale edge, and can either go home by the road or the fields, whichever you like.”
“My name’s ‘easy,’” replied Mr. Bunting; adding, “I suppose there’s nothing to do before dinner?”
“Nothing, unless you�
��ll like to go to the kennel and look over the hounds.”
“No — no; not in my way,” rejoined our hero; “that’s au old-fashioned proceeding,” added he.
“Well, then, we’ll just saunter quietly home by the road,” rejoined the Jug, dropping the reins on the neck of the now subdued Billy Rough’un, and diving into his side-pocket for the conversation -stopping weed. He presently had a large Lopez cigar, blowing a cloud round his harvest-moon face. The two then jogged on quietly together through Filterton, Swimingdale, and the little villages of Lofield and Upton. After passing the corn-mill the road rises over Warring-borough Hill, and though no great hand at recognising a country, it somehow struck Mr. Bunting that he had seen this one before — stacks by a bam — chimneys among trees — it was very like the ground about Privett Grove.
“What place is that?” now asked he, trotting his horse up alongside Billy Rough’un.
“That,” rejoined the Jug, “that,” repeated he, with his usual careless indifference, “that’s what’s-its-name — where the widow with the pretty daughter lives.”
“Thought so,” said Mr. Bunting, gaily.
“What, do you know them?” asked the Jug.
“A little,” replied Mr. Bunting, “a little.”
“Suppose we call,” suggested the Jug.
“With all my heart,” replied our hero.
“If you know them well, I can take you a short cut to the stables through the fields,” said the Jug, pointing to a weak place in the hedge they were passing, where the hoof marks of a horse were still visible — this being one of the Jug’s short cuts to cover.
“Perhaps we may as well go the front way,” observed Mr. Bunting, our hero knowing that ladies do not like to be taken by surprise.
“P’raps we may,” assented the Jug, thinking to finish his cigar. So Baying he passed the place and plodded on to the gate. “This is the way in,” said he, opening and pushing it back, as if his companion was a perfect stranger to Privett Grove. The Jug then, having thrown his cigar-end away, produced a black pocket-comb, and, uncovering his bristles, proceeded to give them and his stubbly whiskers a good stirring up. He then ridded the comb out and offered it to our friend, who, however, preferred giving his curls a run through with his fingers to availing himself of it. So the Jug pocketed it without further to do. This performance brought them to the diverging road to the stables, which the Jug, pointing out, said, “Shall we put our horses up and go in, or how?”
“Better go up to the house and inquire if they are at home, which will give the ladies time to put on their best bibs and tuckers.”
“Well,” said the Jug, turning Billy Rough’un’s head up the road. The horses then paced quietly on, wondering what was going to happen. The “invisible guardian” of the house saw the approaching guests and gave the alarm ere the vociferous door-bell responded to the hearty summons of the Jug. He pulled as if he would pull the knob out of the socket.
The difference of the sexes is strikingly shown in the matter of visitors. Ladies are always at home to them; gentlemen, never. As soon as the bell sounds, the ladies whip away their uncompany-like work, and after glancing at themselves in the mirror, subside into a company posture; while the gentlemen hurry away to intercept the servant, and whisper lowly but vehemently “not at home” as he passes. Sometimes, indeed, the excommunicating order is general and positive—” never at home to any one;” while the exceptional guests of the ladies are few and far between. Of course we are speaking of middle life, one servant being quite unequal to exclude or to carry in the card of a caller in high life — there must be a shoal of them there to do that.
Our old friend John Thomas, in well-put-on clean stockings and neatly-stringed shoes, smiled as he opened wide the door for admission, whereupon the Jug, who was better pleased with Billy Rough’un, said, “if Mr. Bunting would give him his horse, he would take them round to the stable and get them some gruel;” so saying he laid hold of Merrylegs’ bridle and trudged away to the diverging road he had coveted before. Arrived at the stable, with the aid of Old Gaiters he got what he wanted, and having thrown a sheet over each horse, he returned to the front door, where he found the footman waiting to receive him. Following his guide, he presently made the head-foremost descent into the drawing-room that our hero had done on a former occasion. Indeed he did worse, for he almost landed in Mrs. McDermott’s lap, who was contemplating her daughter and Mr. Bunting as they sat upon the sofa — wondering if he was to be any “thing more” to her or not, and all that sort of thing. “Oh dear, that door!” exclaimed she, as the Jug recovered himself after his stumble; “oh dear, that door! wish we could devise some means of curing it — it is so disagreeable making such a sudden descent.”
“It is,” said the Jug, who now felt the full effect of the truism.
Miss Rosa than came forward to greet our unaffected friend, after which they all got into places again, and the chirp of conversation was presently renewed — surprised at seeing them together — supposed they had been hunting — harriers, and so on.
Cake and wine presently made its appearance, and were placed on the table, whereupon the Jug, after a good steady stare at the cut-glass decanter,’ arose from his chair, and, helping bumpers all round, proceeded to distribute them — one to Mamma; one to Miss, one to Mr. Bunting, and, of course, one to himself. The ladies looked at theirs, Mr. Banting sipped at his, but the Jug, after ruminating over a good mouthful, finally swallowed it, and then took off the rest at a gulp.
“Good wine,” said he to Mrs. McDermott, nursing the glass on his knee, as if he meant to have another—” good wine! McKinnel’s, I should say,” smacking his thick lips.
“No, it is some I have had in the house a long time,” replied Mrs. McDermott, with a sigh; whereupon the Jug, seeing he had touched a wrong chord, helped himself to another glass, which very soon went the same way as the first one. Still he sat with his empty glass on his knee, as though he might be tempted to fill it again.
“Won’t you take a little cake?” now asked Mrs. McDermott, inclining her hand towards it.
“Thank you,” replied the Jug—” thank you, I will presently,” then, recollecting himself, he added, “Won’t you take a little, Mam?”
Mrs. McDermott declined, so did Miss Rosa, and Mr. Bunting, who was making play on the sofa, would not take any either.
The Jug then, after a pause, looked first at the cake, then at the wine, then at his feet, and finally rising, helped himself to a good thick slice of cake.
“Good eating requires good drinking,” observed he to Mrs. McDermott, as he helped himself to another glass of wine, and then resumed his seat by her side.
“So it does,” assented Mrs. McDermott, “and hunting makes people hungry.” —
“Very,” replied the Jug, munching away at the cake.
“Mr. Jovey Jessop is very fond of hunting, I suppose,” said she.
“Very,” replied the Jug.
“I wonder he doesn’t get married,” observed Mrs. McDermott, “he would be much more comfortable with a wife, I should think.”
“Humph — don’t know that,” thought the Jug, taking a liberal mouthful of wine.
“Plenty of elegant, accomplished girls in the world,” observed Mrs. McDermott, looking at her daughter.
“No doubt,” replied the Jug—” no doubt,” adding, after a pause, “only, for my part, I don’t know but I would rather have a wife that could set a good dinner on the table than one that could talk Greek.”
“Well, but she might do both,” observed Mamma.
“Seldom,” replied the Jug— “seldom — all go for show — happy medium’s the thing — happy medium’s the thing,” finishing the contents of his glass as he spoke.
Mamma then lowered her voice, and a subdued confidential conversation ensued between her and the Jug, which greatly facilitated Mr. Bunting’s approaches to the daughter. He felt that he got on better with her them he had done since the Pic Nic at Roseber
ry Rocks. He almost thought he might offer.
The friends were so comfortable that each waited for the other to give the hint to rise, and if the premature shades of one of those short winter days that appear so impossible in the fine long drawn ones of summer had not begun to obscure the room, there is no saying but they might have sat over the dinner-hour at Appleton Hall. The Jug’s inward monitor, however, coinciding with the waning day, caused him to haul up his great warming-pan of a watch, when dangling it by its jack-chain, he asked his companion if he knew what o’clock it was? Of course— “With her conversing,” Mr. Bunting had forgotten “all time,” and was perfectly astonished when he was told what it was, but there was no gainsaying the fact, or that they had sat quite long enough for a call — so the Jug rising, and helping himself to another glass of sherry en passant, asked permission to ring the bell for the horses.
And now, while they are bringing them, we will retrograde a little, and tell how Miss Rosa came to be in a more affable humour than usual
CHAPTER LXXXI.
THE NEW BONNET.
THE DAY AFTER our hero’s former visit to Privett Grove, Mrs. McDermott thought it her duty to go to Mayfield and tell Mrs. Goldspink what had happened. They had been such old friends, and the young people had always been so intimate, that she would not like Mrs. Goldspink to hear of anything likely to affect her daughter’s happiness from any one but herself. At the same time she could not go open-mouthed as though she thought they had achieved a great triumph, but just drop in in a quiet neighbourly way and broach the subject carelessly in the course of conversation.
