The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “Halloo!” shouted the earl. “There’s a man. Come on.” And then his continued shoutings hardly formed themselves into intelligible words; but Eames plainly understood that he was invoking assistance under great pressure and stress of circumstances. The bull was making short runs at his owner, as though determined in each run to have a toss at his lordship; and at each run the earl would retreat quickly for a few paces, but he retreated always facing his enemy, and as the animal got near to him, would make digs at his face with the long spud which he carried in his hand. But in thus making good his retreat he had been unable to keep in a direct line to the gate, and there seemed to be great danger lest the bull should succeed in pressing him up against the hedge. “Come on!” shouted the earl, who was fighting his battle manfully, but was by no means anxious to carry off all the laurels of the victory himself. “Come on, I say!” Then he stopped in his path, shouted into the bull’s face, brandished his spud, and threw about his arms, thinking that he might best dismay the beast by the display of these warlike gestures.

  Johnny Eames ran on gallantly to the peer’s assistance, as he would have run to that of any peasant in the land. He was one to whom I should be perhaps wrong to attribute at this period of his life the gift of very high courage. He feared many things which no man should fear; but he did not fear personal mishap or injury to his own skin and bones. When Cradell escaped out of the house in Burton Crescent, making his way through the passage into the outer air, he did so because he feared that Lupex would beat him or kick him, or otherwise ill-use him. John Eames would also have desired to escape under similar circumstances; but he would have so desired because he could not endure to be looked upon in his difficulties by the people of the house, and because his imagination would have painted the horrors of a policeman dragging him off with a black eye and a torn coat. There was no one to see him now, and no policeman to take offence. Therefore he rushed to the earl’s assistance, brandishing his stick, and roaring in emulation of the bull.

  When the animal saw with what unfairness he was treated, and that the number of his foes was doubled, while no assistance had lent itself on his side, he stood for a while, disgusted by the injustice of humanity. He stopped, and throwing his head up to the heavens, bellowed out his complaint. “Don’t come close!” said the earl, who was almost out of breath. “Keep a little apart. Ugh! ugh! whoop, whoop!” And he threw up his arms manfully, jobbing about with his spud, ever and anon rubbing the perspiration from off his eyebrows with the back of his hand.

  As the bull stood pausing, meditating whether under such circumstances flight would not be preferable to gratified passion, Eames made a rush in at him, attempting to hit him on the head. The earl, seeing this, advanced a step also, and got his spud almost up to the animal’s eye. But these indignities the beast could not stand. He made a charge, bending his head first towards John Eames, and then, with that weak vacillation which is as disgraceful in a bull as in a general, he changed his purpose, and turned his horns upon his other enemy. The consequence was that his steps carried him in between the two, and that the earl and Eames found themselves for a while behind his tail.

  “Now for the gate,” said the earl.

  “Slowly does it; slowly does it; don’t run!” said Johnny, assuming in the heat of the moment a tone of counsel which would have been very foreign to him under other circumstances.

  The earl was not a whit offended. “All right,” said he, taking with a backward motion the direction of the gate. Then as the bull again faced towards him, he jumped from the ground, labouring painfully with arms and legs, and ever keeping his spud well advanced against the foe. Eames, holding his position a little apart from his friend, stooped low and beat the ground with his stick, and as though defying the creature. The bull felt himself defied, stood still and roared, and then made another vacillating attack.

  “Hold on till we reach the gate,” said Eames.

  “Ugh! ugh! Whoop! whoop!” shouted the earl. And so gradually they made good their ground.

  “Now get over,” said Eames, when they had both reached the corner of the field in which the gate stood.

  “And what’ll you do?” said the earl.

  “I’ll go at the hedge to the right.” And Johnny as he spoke dashed his stick about, so as to monopolise, for a moment, the attention of the brute. The earl made a spring at the gate, and got well on to the upper rung. The bull seeing that his prey was going, made a final rush upon the earl and struck the timber furiously with his head, knocking his lordship down on the other side. Lord De Guest was already over, but not off the rail; and thus, though he fell, he fell in safety on the sward beyond the gate. He fell in safety, but utterly exhausted. Eames, as he had purposed, made a leap almost sideways at a thick hedge which divided the field from one of the Guestwick copses. There was a fairly broad ditch, and on the other side a quickset hedge, which had, however, been weakened and injured by trespassers at this corner, close to the gate. Eames was young and active and jumped well. He jumped so well that he carried his body full into the middle of the quickset, and then scrambled through to the other side, not without much injury to his clothes, and some damage also to his hands and face.

  The beast, recovering from his shock against the wooden bars, looked wistfully at his last retreating enemy, as he still struggled amidst the bushes. He looked at the ditch and at the broken hedge, but he did not understand how weak were the impediments in his way. He had knocked his head against the stout timber, which was strong enough to oppose him, but was dismayed by the brambles which he might have trodden under foot without an effort. How many of us are like the bull, turning away conquered by opposition which should be as nothing to us, and breaking our feet, and worse still, our hearts, against rocks of adamant. The bull at last made up his mind that he did not dare to face the hedge; so he gave one final roar, and then turning himself round, walked placidly back amidst the herd.

  Johnny made his way on to the road by a stile that led out of the copse, and was soon standing over the earl, while the blood ran down his cheeks from the scratches. One of the legs of his trousers had been caught by a stake, and was torn from the hip downward, and his hat was left in the field, the only trophy for the bull. “I hope you’re not hurt, my lord,” he said.

  “Oh dear, no; but I’m terribly out of breath. Why, you’re bleeding all over. He didn’t get at you, did he?”

  “It’s only the thorns in the hedge,” said Johnny, passing his hand over his face. “But I’ve lost my hat.”

  “There are plenty more hats,” said the earl.

  “I think I’ll have a try for it,” said Johnny, with whom the means of getting hats had not been so plentiful as with the earl. “He looks quiet now.” And he moved towards the gate.

  But Lord De Guest jumped upon his feet, and seized the young man by the collar of his coat. “Go after your hat!” said he. “You must be a fool to think of it. If you’re afraid of catching cold, you shall have mine.”

  “I’m not the least afraid of catching cold,” said Johnny. “Is he often like that, my lord?” And he made a motion with his head towards the bull.

  “The gentlest creature alive; he’s like a lamb generally—just like a lamb. Perhaps he saw my red pocket-handkerchief.” And Lord De Guest showed his friend that he carried such an article. “But where should I have been if you hadn’t come up?”

  “You’d have got to the gate, my lord.”

  “Yes; with my feet foremost, and four men carrying me. I’m very thirsty. You don’t happen to carry a flask, do you?”

  “No, my lord, I don’t.”

  “Then we’ll make the best of our way home, and have a glass of wine there.” And on this occasion his lordship intended that his offer should be accepted.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Lord De Guest at Home

  The earl and John Eames, after their escape from the bull, walked up to the Manor House together. “You can write a note to your mother, and I’ll send it by one
of the boys,” said the earl. This was his lordship’s answer when Eames declined to dine at the Manor House, because he would be expected home.

  “But I’m so badly off for clothes, my lord,” pleaded Johnny. “I tore my trousers in the hedge.”

  “There will be nobody there beside us two and Dr. Crofts. The doctor will forgive you when he hears the story; and as for me, I didn’t care if you hadn’t a stitch to your back. You’ll have company back to Guestwick, so come along.”

  Eames had no further excuse to offer, and therefore did as he was bidden. He was by no means as much at home with the earl now as during those minutes of the combat. He would rather have gone home, being somewhat ashamed of being seen in his present tattered and bare-headed condition by the servants of the house; and moreover, his mind would sometimes revert to the scene which had taken place in the garden at Allington. But he found himself obliged to obey the earl, and so he walked on with him through the woods.

  The earl did not say very much, being tired and somewhat thoughtful. In what little he did say he seemed to be specially hurt by the ingratitude of the bull towards himself. “I never teased him, or annoyed him in any way.”

  “I suppose they are dangerous beasts?” said Eames.

  “Not a bit of it, if they’re properly treated. It must have been my handkerchief, I suppose. I remember that I did blow my nose.”

  He hardly said a word in the way of thanks to his assistant. “Where should I have been if you had not come to me?” he had exclaimed immediately after his deliverance; but having said that he didn’t think it necessary to say much more to Eames. But he made himself very pleasant, and by the time he had reached the house his companion was almost glad that he had been forced to dine at the Manor House. “And now we’ll have a drink,” said the earl. “I don’t know how you feel, but I never was so thirsty in my life.”

  Two servants immediately showed themselves, and evinced some surprise at Johnny’s appearance. “Has the gentleman hurt himself, my lord?” asked the butler, looking at the blood upon our friend’s face.

  “He has hurt his trousers the worst, I believe,” said the earl. “And if he was to put on any of mine they’d be too short and too big, wouldn’t they? I am sorry you should be so uncomfortable, but you mustn’t mind it for once.”

  “I don’t mind it a bit,” said Johnny.

  “And I’m sure I don’t,” said the earl. “Mr. Eames is going to dine here, Vickers.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And his hat is down in the middle of the nineteen acres. Let three or four men go for it.”

  “Three or four men, my lord!”

  “Yes—three or four men. There’s something gone wrong with that bull. And you must get a boy with a pony to take a note into Guestwick, to Mrs. Eames. Oh dear, I’m better now,” and he put down the tumbler from which he’d been drinking. “Write your note here, and then we’ll go and see my pet pheasants before dinner.”

  Vickers and the footman knew that something had happened of much moment, for the earl was usually very particular about his dinner-table. He expected every guest who sat there to be dressed in such guise as the fashion of the day demanded; and he himself, though his morning costume was by no means brilliant, never dined, even when alone, without having put himself into a suit of black, with a white cravat, and having exchanged the old silver hunting-watch which he carried during the day tied round his neck by a bit of old ribbon, for a small gold watch, with a chain and seals, which in the evening always dangled over his waistcoat. Dr. Gruffen had once been asked to dinner at Guestwick Manor. “Just a bachelor’s chop,” said the earl; “for there’s nobody at home but myself.” Whereupon Dr. Gruffen had come in coloured trousers—and had never again been asked to dine at Guestwick Manor. All this Vickers knew well; and now his lordship had brought young Eames home to dine with him with his clothes all hanging about him in a manner which Vickers declared in the servants’ hall wasn’t more than half decent. Therefore, they all knew that something very particular must have happened. “It’s some trouble about the bull, I know,” said Vickers—”but bless you, the bull couldn’t have tore his things in that way!”

  Eames wrote his note, in which he told his mother that he had had an adventure with Lord De Guest, and that his lordship had insisted on bringing him home to dinner. “I have torn my trousers all to pieces,” he added in a postscript, “and have lost my hat. Everything else is all right.” He was not aware that the earl also sent a short note to Mrs. Eames.

  DEAR MADAM [ran the earl’s note], Your son has, under Providence, probably saved my life. I will leave the story for him to tell. He has been good enough to accompany me home, and will return to Guestwick after dinner with Dr. Crofts, who dines here. I congratulate you on having a son with so much cool courage and good feeling.

  Your very faithful servant, DE GUEST

  Guestwick Manor, Thursday, October, 186—

  And then they went to see the pheasants. “Now, I’ll tell you what,” said the earl. “I advise you to take to shooting. It’s the amusement of a gentleman when a man chances to have the command of game.”

  “But I’m always up in London.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re not up in London now. You always have your holidays. If you choose to try it, I’ll see that you have shooting enough while you’re here. It’s better than going to sleep under the trees. Ha, ha, ha! I wonder what made you lay yourself down there. You hadn’t been fighting a bull that day?”

  “No, my lord. I hadn’t seen the bull then.”

  “Well; you think of what I’ve been saying. When I say a thing, I mean it. You shall have shooting enough, if you have a mind to try it.” Then they looked at the pheasants, and pottered about the place till the earl said it was time to dress for dinner. “That’s hard upon you, isn’t it?” said he. “But, at any rate, you can wash your hands, and get rid of the blood. I’ll be down in the little drawing-room five minutes before seven, and I suppose I’ll find you there.”

  At five minutes before seven Lord De Guest came into the small drawing-room, and found Johnny seated there, with a book before him. The earl was a little fussy, and showed by his manner that he was not quite at his ease, as some men do when they have any piece of work on hand which is not customary to them. He held something in his hand, and shuffled a little as he made his way up the room. He was dressed, as usual, in black; but his gold chain was not, as usual, dangling over his waistcoat.

  “Eames,” he said, “I want you to accept a little present from me—just as a memorial of our affair with the bull. It will make you think of it sometimes, when I’m perhaps gone.”

  “Oh, my lord—”

  “It’s my own watch, that I have been wearing for some time; but I’ve got another—two or three, I believe, somewhere upstairs. You mustn’t refuse me. I can’t bear being refused. There are two or three little seals, too, which I have worn. I have taken off the one with my arms, because that’s of no use to you, and it is to me. It doesn’t want a key, but winds up at the handle, in this way,” and the earl proceeded to explain the nature of the toy.

  “My lord, you think too much of what happened to-day,” said Eames, stammering.

  “No, I don’t; I think very little about it. I know what I think of. Put the watch in your pocket before the doctor comes. There; I hear his horse. Why didn’t he drive over, and then he could have taken you back?”

  “I can walk very well.”

  “I’ll make that all right. The servant shall ride Crofts’ horse, and bring back the little phaeton. How d’you do, doctor? You know Eames, I suppose? You needn’t look at him in that way. His leg is not broken; it’s only his trousers.” And then the earl told the story of the bull.

  “Johnny will become quite a hero in town,” said Crofts.

  “Yes; I fear he’ll get the most of the credit; and yet I was at it twice as long as he was. I’ll tell you what, young men, when I got to that gate I didn’t think I’d breath enough le
ft in me to get over it. It’s all very well jumping into a hedge when you’re only two-and-twenty; but when a man comes to be sixty he likes to take his time about such things. Dinner ready, is it? So am I. I quite forgot that mutton chop of yours to-day, doctor. But I suppose a man may eat a good dinner after a fight with a bull?”

  The evening passed by without any very pleasurable excitement, and I regret to say that the earl went fast to sleep in the drawing-room as soon as he had swallowed his cup of coffee. During dinner he had been very courteous to both his guests, but towards Eames he had used a good-humoured and, almost affectionate familiarity. He had quizzed him for having been found asleep under the tree, telling Crofts that he had looked very forlorn—”So that I haven’t a doubt about his being in love,” said the earl. And he had asked Johnny to tell the name of the fair one, bringing up the remnants of his half-forgotten classicalities to bear out the joke. “If I am to take more of the severe Falernian,” said he, laying his hand on the decanter of port, “I must know the lady’s name. Whoever she be, I’m well sure you need not blush for her. What! you refuse to tell! Then I’ll drink no more.” And so the earl had walked out of the dining-room; but not till he had perceived by his guest’s cheeks that the joke had been too true to be pleasant. As he went, however, he leaned with his hand on Eames’s shoulder, and the servants looking on saw that the young man was to be a favourite. “He’ll make him his heir,” said Vickers. “I shouldn’t wonder a bit if he don’t make him his heir.” But to this the footman objected, endeavouring to prove to Mr. Vickers that, in accordance with the law of the land, his lordship’s second cousin, once removed, whom the earl had never seen, but whom he was supposed to hate, must be his heir. “A hearl can never choose his own heir, like you or me,” said the footman, laying down the law. “Can’t he though really, now? That’s very hard on him; isn’t it?” said the pretty housemaid. “Psha,” said Vickers: “you know nothing about it. My lord could make young Eames his heir to-morrow; that is, the heir of his property. He couldn’t make him a hearl, because that must go to the heirs of his body. As to his leaving him the place here, I don’t just know how that’d be; and I’m sure Richard don’t.”