It is related of the late Bishop of Winchester that, on one occasion when shooting, he was asked by his host to remonstrate with the keeper for his non-attendance at church, and accordingly he did so. "Well, my lord," replied the man, "I owns I doesn't go much to church, but I reads my bible regular, and I can't say as I've found anything there about t' apostles going a-shooting, and they was bishops."
"Quite right, my man, quite right," was the ready answer. "You see they did not preserve much in those days, so they went fishing instead."
Equally ready was the answer of the Rev. William Halston, when his diocesan informed him that so much hunting did not meet with his approval, and on the argument waxing warm had allowed himself to make use of a somewhat unclerical expression. "Sir," said the angry bishop, "you go galloping all over the country, and your parish is going to the dogs."
"Exactly the reason, my lord, why I hunt," replied his reverence with a smile. "When all my parishioners are going to the dogs, it is my positive duty to go also, if only to look after them."
The bishop thought somehow that he had met his match, and so nothing further was said on the subject. That little episode occurred some twenty years ago, when Mr. Halston was a younger man, but his love of hunting has if anything increased with his age, and seldom is his well-known face absent from any of the meets within reasonable distance (which he computes at eighteenmiles); and a bold rider must be the man who, when hounds are running, sets himself down to cut out "t' ould Parson," as the Rector of Copthorpe is called.
Copthorpe, I may mention, in early days was the only church for miles on that side of the country, and the living embraced no less than four straggling parishes, the farthest being some twenty miles distant. With the growth of the population came the necessity for more places of worship, and besides a new church built at Lappington by Sir John's father there is also one at Highfield, situated at the other extremity, the mother church still being, of course, at Copthorpe.
From this it may be wondered how the Rector can find time to do his work and hunt as well. But that he does so is undeniable, for there is not a cottage in the whole parish that some time or other during the week he does not visit, and high and low, rich and poor, one and all love and honour their Parson.
The cottagers simply adore him, for numerous are the tales round the country-side of how "t' ould mon sot up night after night wi' Jack Bliss when ay fell down t' gravel-pit drunk, and welly killed hisself;" and how "ay used to ride o'er every other day wi' some port-wine or summut in his pocket when So-and-so's wife was bad in t' fever-time, six years back." Often does the old gentleman (for he now numbers close on seventy years), coming back after a long day with the hounds, snatch a hasty meal, and, jumping on the back of his famous pony Jerry, canter off some six or seven miles to see a poor parishioner that one of his curates had reported sick; and, should occasion require it, the morning light will find him seated by the bedside of the sufferer, speaking to him or her such words of consolation and hope as make the pain seem less and the heart seem lighter.
His power, too, is unlimited, and on more than one occasion has the arrival of ParsonHalston put a sudden stop to a free fight that looked strangely like ending in bloodshed. For the men know that he will stand no nonsense; and still fresh in the memory of most of the pitmen is the discomfiture of one of their number, Black Joe, who in his drunken fury attacked his pastor, and went down like an ox before a deadly left-hander, delivered with a science born of Alma Mater and "town and gown."
They caught "t' ould Parson" up in their stalwart arms then and there, and how they did cheer him as they carried him down the street!
From that day his rule was established, and a word now is sufficient, without anything else, to stop "riot."
But it is not only those workers in the mines that have their story; the farm-labourers are equally loud in singing his praises, for did not he, when a paid hireling was stumping the country urging them to strike against their masters, jump on the cart from whence theranter was hurling forth denunciations against "the landlords' tyranny and the farmers' oppression," and holding him forcibly down with one hand, address them all as they gazed in wonder, and say to them how they had "worked together and drank together, hunted together and suffered together, for many years; and now would they listen—they, the men of Bullshire—to a miserable whimpering Cockney from London, who could neither mow a swath nor pitch a load to save his life?"
And when they were all for ducking the vermin in the mill-pond, did not he drive him off to the town in his own cart, and never lose sight of the agitator till he saw the train safely out of the station with, the individual well on his road back to town and his employers?
Ay, there are many of them now who shake their heads, and pointing to their fellows in the neighbouring counties, say: "If it 'adna been for our ould Parson we should a' been in the same fettle. Strikes meanstarvation, and when a man's clemmed" (hungry), "and' ain't got no one but hisself to thank for't, ay begins to look a fule, that ay does."
Mr. Halston employs three curates, to each of whom he gives a particular district, and they have every evening to bring in their reports of what goes on, and what they have done during the day. Eagerly sought after are these positions, for it is a well-known fact that, after their years of training at Copthorpe, if they are worth their salt they are pretty sure to tumble into a good berth. One thing is however made asine quâ non—that during their stay they must do their share of work. "Duty first and pleasure afterwards," is the motto of the Rector, and he sees that it is strictly carried out.
Such is a brief description of the man who may be ranked among the best of sportsmen and truest of friends in Bullshire, or indeed any country in the world.
As a man and a friend he is full of the milk of human kindness, hospitable to a fault, and never so happy himself as when giving pleasure to others. As a sportsman, a bold and forward rider, yet always with excellent judgment, displaying as much knowledge of what a fox is likely to do as if he was being hunted himself; a knowledge of the country second to none, a capital judge of both horse and hound, and with a love of hunting that, as I have said, advancing years serve only to increase.
Small wonder that when Tom hearshis"view holloa" he knows it is right, and gets forward at once, though there are those who may shout themselves hoarse without attracting the desired attention. "Parson's like my old Solomon," says he; "'e never throws his tongue till he's d——d well certain; but then, by Guy! 'e does let 'em have it."
Whenever it is possible Mr. Halston goes to cover with the hounds, and back again in the same company (unless called away byparish work) after the day is over, and dearly does old Tom love those rides and cheery chats, learning himself, he freely admits, as much as ever he can teach. See them now both in the centre of the pack, jogging homeward in the failing light. Says Tom: "That was a straight-necked 'un we had to-day, sir; but I'm main puzzled what made you guess he'd try them earths at Billowdon."
"Well, Tom," replies the Rector, "I argued it out by common sense. Suppose you'd been hard pressed and knew of a house you could turn into, wouldn't you go for it?"
"Yes, but it was turning right into the mouths of the pack. I was 'nation mad when I found 'em open that I hadna ta'en your hint," continues the Huntsman.
"Live and learn, Tom; live and learn," laughs the Parson. "You forget three seasons ago we lost one just in the same place."
"By Guy! so we did, and I forgot it at the moment. It was the day as young Mayster Bell jumped atop of Melody; butwhat's become of him, sir?" asks Tom. "How Sir John did pitch it into him that time to be sure."
"Oh, he's getting on first rate; he is inspector at the Deep-seam Pits. I was afraid, though, he was going to the bad at one time. He took a liking to the bottle; but Bliss's accident cured him," replies Mr. Halston. "But here we are at the kennels, and I must get on; I want to ride over to Halstead and see old Widow Greaves; she's a bit ailing; so good-night, Tom."
"Good-night, sir; good-night. See you out, I suppose, on Friday at Fearndale? Sure to find in the wood," says Tom, muttering to himself as he gets off his horse: "There's one of the best men in the world, danged if he ain't."
Mr. Halston is trotting along home, thinking over the events of the day and a hundred-and-one other things, when he is startled by the sudden reappearance of old Tom at his side, who, looking rather scared in answer tohis inquiry of "What's the matter?" says: "There's been a fearful accident at the pits, sir; my nephew's just come over. Explosion or summat; there's five-and-twenty poor chaps blocked up, 'e do say, and I thought you'd like to know on it."
Before Tom has well finished speaking, the Parson is urging his horse at best pace in the direction of the Deep-seam Pit, much to that animal's disgust. He pulls up at the first cottage he comes to, and, calling out a boy, sends him off to Copthorpe with a message to say where he has gone, and they need not expect him home at present, and that his groom is to ride Jerry over at once to take back his hunter.
"Look sharp, my lad," says he, tossing the boy a shilling, "and tell James to bring over my bottles with him—port and brandy—he'll know." And again he is on his way. On arriving at the scene of the accident he finds a large crowd of weeping women collected round the pit-mouth, making"confusion worse confused," and seriously interfering with the work of salvation.
Amidst the universal grief and terror he is not noticed at first, but when men and women simultaneously recognise him, if ever a man had reason to be proud, surely Mr. Halston is that man, for such a shout is raised of "Here's t' ould Parson; God bless 'un! we knowed 'e'd come; it's right now," as tells him plainly the place he holds in the hearts of these rough men and sorrowing women.
"Here, take my horse," says he to one of the men; and as Bell comes up he asks: "What is being done?" "Volunteers for an exploring party," briefly answers the inspector; and Mr. Halston steps forward and addresses the crowd.
"My lads," he says, "I am an old man, and perhaps some of you will think it ain't my place to go down; but, thank God, I can still wield a pick with anyone, and with His help we'll get the boys out. No, Mr. Bell," asthe inspector tries to dissuade him; "if I ain't much use myself, they'll work all the better for having their Rector with them. And now one word to you, my daughters. You can do no good here. Go home, and get things ready for your husbands against the time we bring them up safe and sound. Now" (to the engineer) "we are ready. Steady, keep your breath for work, lads," as cheer after cheer rends the air; and in a few moments the group of brave volunteers are descending the shaft on their errand of mercy.
All through the night they toil, relieving each other in shifts, working as only men can work when the lives of fellow-creatures depend on their exertions. The Parson is everywhere, quiet, calm, and collected, encouraging and directing, yet taking all his share of manual labour.
Twice he has to be sent to the surface, faint and gasping for breath; but almost before his absence is detected, he is back again in the centre of the noble band.
By 2A.M.the first six of the imprisoned miners are found, badly burned, but still alive; and before the sun has risen the whole of the twenty-five are restored to their wives, with the exception of three, whose work in this world is finished for ever.
Worn out as he is, Mr. Halston stops to comfort as best he can the fatherless and widow, and then Jerry carries him home. Men miss his kindly face at Fearndale on the Friday, but they know where he is, for the story of his heroism spreads far and wide; and when next he appears in the field, all press forward to do him honour. On the way to their first draw that day a fox jumps up in the open, and goes straight over Milston Brook. Tom has his hounds on the line in a crack, and before anyone has time to look round, three figures are seen sailing away over the grass on the far side of the water—Tom; Charles the First Whip, and, in front of all—the Parson.
"Never saw such weather or such a season in my life, Sir John. They tell us that 'a green winter makes a full churchyard,' but the saying doesn't hold good down here. Why, bless my heart, everybody's out hunting instead of being ill, and there's nothing for me to do at all."
"Ah Doctor," replies the Master, laughing, "it's better for us than for you then; and yet, in the long run, if the truth was known, I expect you can score more kills than my hounds."
A busy man is Edward Wilson, Esq., M.D., with an increasing practice necessitating thehelp of an assistant. Yet so devoted is he to hunting, that he thinks it a very hard case if he does not manage one day a-week with the hounds. As he rides up, the picture of robust health and the pink of neatness, one would scarcely imagine, as one listens to his chaffing about the weather and the paucity of patients, that he had had exactly two hours' sleep the night before, and was almost certain to find a message on his return home, calling him away some seven or eight miles, with the prospect of another nocturnal vigil. Yet such is the case. Yesterday afternoon, when he came back from his round, he had said to Thomas his coachman: "I shall manage a day to-morrow, Thomas; I don't think there is anything likely to happen, so have old Ladybird ready for me in the morning. They meet at Willowfield Lodge, and are certain to draw towards home."
Just as he was going to bed, a groom from Lorton Towers came galloping into his yard with an urgent message "As 'ow Doctor wurwanted at once; Lady Slowboy's took bad;" and away he had to go to assist the future Lord Slowboy on his "first appearance on any stage."
"Hang it all; she might have put it off," he said to himself as he buttoned his coat; "but I'm not going to lose my day's hunting for fifty heirs of Lorton;" and at 5.30A.M., the ceremony being over, before turning in he gave orders that he was to be called at half-past seven, and at half-past ten he arrives, as we see him, hale and hearty, at Willowfield Lodge.
Very well mounted is the Doctor, for he knows a horse when he sees one; and though he only keeps two—or rather, as he himself puts it, "one and a half" (the second one having to take him occasionally on professional trips)—they are both something above the average, and when hounds are running, Ladybird or Precipitate, the two horses, are pretty nearly certain to be seen in the van. It does not require a second glance at the keeneyes, the determined mouth, wreathed in a cheery smile, and the strong nervous hands, to show that before one is a man of iron will.
Prompt of decision, quick at diagnosing disease, with a heart full of sympathy for suffering, yet never faltering when forced to resort to the knife, Edward Wilson has made a name for himself second to none in that part of England. Indeed, over and over again his old friend and patron, Sir George Fennel, the great London physician, has urged him to migrate to town; but his answer is always the same:
"Couldn't live through one season. I must be in the fresh air; and if I did not see hounds now and then, I should pine away. Besides, I should miss all my old friends in Bullshire so; and as for fame, old Widow Fletcher and John Billings the blacksmith would not believe you if you told them there was a cleverer man than myself living! Poor souls! it shows their ignorance; but what more can I want?"
The Doctor is quite right. Among the poor he and the Parson run a neck-and-neck race for popularity. Perhaps from the fact of being associated with that, to them, great mystery—medicine—the Doctor is held in greater awe; but they all remember how, hand-in-hand, the two fought death in the fever-time; and the great authorities I have mentioned—the widow and the blacksmith—assert that "Doctor ay does know summat about rheumatiz; ay's got some stuff as sends it away all in a jiff like."
It is fifteen years ago since Edward Wilson, then five-and-twenty, came down to Bullshire as assistant to old Dr. Johnstone. He rather astonished the methodical old practitioner with his theories, for the young Doctor, whose whole soul was in his profession, had read deeply and judiciously, and was far in advance of the old-fashioned routine of blood-letting, cupping, and Epsom salts.
At first folks shook their heads, and muttered "Quackery;" but one or two badcases, which had been given over as hopeless by the principal, being successfully pulled through by the assistant, they began to think that after all there was something in the young fellow; and the surgical skill he displayed when, together with every other available medical man, he was called to the scene of the fearful railway accident at Billingdon, confirmed their opinion.
A year after this, old Johnstone died suddenly, and Wilson, after a brisk competition, bought his practice. Directly he felt himself his own master, he allowed his ideas a free scope, and consequently in a very short time his undoubted talent made itself known throughout the country-side, and the practice increased so enormously that, young and energetic as he was, he found it necessary to take an assistant, choosing after much deliberation the son of an old college chum and fellow-student.
"Why, Doctor, who'd have thought of seeing you to-day? I thought you were atLorton all last night," exclaims Mr. Noble, Lord Slowboy's agent, who rides up as Sir John finishes his repartee.
"So I was, Noble," replies our M.D., "but her ladyship, I am thankful to say, let me off at half-past five; and, as I was just telling Sir John, there being nothing else for me to do this weather, I thought I would come out on the chance of a job in the field."
"I hope you may be disappointed, then, for once. What a blood-thirsty villain! Did you ever hear such a thing, Boulter?" says the Master to the Secretary, who has just arrived on a new steed.
"Hear what?" rejoins that worthy.
"Why," continues Sir John, "the Doctor here says he saw you pass his window on that new horse, and has come out to follow in your wake all day, as he feels convinced you will break your neck, leg, or arm, or do something which he can turn into a fee."
"Don't you believe it," interrupts Mr. Wilson with a laugh; "it would not pay me to mend you, for directly you got well you'd be dunning me for a subscription, and I might whistle for my fees. But look at Tom; he evidently thinks it is time to be moving. Who-ho, old lady" (to his horse), "who-ho," as old Tom, having got the signal, trots by with the pack, and, lifting his cap in response to the Doctor's greeting, says:
"Main glad to see you out, Doctor; hope we shall find a good 'un for you."
In a few minutes the hounds are thrown in, and Mr. Wilson finds himself with Mr. Halston (the clergyman) and Charles at a convenient corner of the covert. As bad luck will have it, though, the fox breaks away on the far side.
"Bless my soul, this is rough," exclaims the Doctor; "come on;" and putting old Ladybird at the fence he goes crashing through the wood, followed by his two companions. As they emerge on the other sidethey see the hounds streaming away some three fields off below them, and have the satisfaction of knowing that for once they have got as bad a start as could well be.
"It's for Blessington Osiers," says Charles. "If we cut across to the left and over the brook we shall hit it off."
"You are right, Charles," rejoins the Parson. "What do you say, Wilson?"
"For'ard on, then," replies the Doctor; and the trio gallop off almost in a contrary direction to the hounds. They negotiate the water in safety, and pull up by the side of the Osiers just as the hunted fox enters them. Charles rides off to the bottom end to view him through, and as Tom comes up with the pack his "Tailly-ho, for'ard a-w-a-i-y!" proclaims the fact that Reynard has not found Blessington a place of rest.
"Why, where the deuce have you arrived from?" is the universal question asked by all the field.
"Home," says the Doctor with a chuckle,as he sets Ladybird going now in her proper place—in the front rank—and swings over a nasty fence with a double ditch. As he lands on the other side he notices the Secretary's nephew, a young lad who is riding a chestnut that is evidently as much as the boy can manage, and as his eye falls on the stiff timber which appears at the far end of the field he wonders what will happen. "Don't go too fast at the rails, my boy," he says. "Steady. My G—d, what a smash!" as the impetuous brute rushes at the fence, and, breasting the top rail, turns a regular somersault, throwing the boy, luckily, clear of him.
The Doctor is off his horse in a moment, and hounds and hunting are forgotten as he kneels by the side of the pale little face, supporting the lad's head on his breast, and feeling with professional skill for any injury.
"Stand back, gentlemen, please," he exclaims, as some of the field collect round."Give the boy air. There's nothing wrong beyond a slight shock and a broken arm. Ah Boulter, don't be alarmed," as the Secretary rides up. "Get him in a cart, and drive him home. I'll be round and set his arm directly."
"I'm all right, uncle," says the nephew, who has revived after a pull at the Doctor's flask. "Let me go on."
"No, my boy, you can't go on. You've broken your arm, and will have to be quiet for a bit," replies Mr. Boulter.
"What a bore!" ejaculates the lad; but adds, with a twinkle in his eye, "You'll have to pay Doctor Wilson a fee after all, uncle."
Everybody laughs at this, and the Doctor mutters under his breath: "That's what I call pluck." Then, trotting off home to fetch his paraphernalia, he is at The Grange almost as soon as the invalid. After making him comfortable, the Doctor has to go off on other errands of mercy, and as he drives the seven miles to visit his next patient, he tells Thomasthat he is sorry to have missed the end of the run, but if anything could repay him it is the amount of pluck shown by the Secretary's little nephew.
Once a year he takes a two months' holiday, in July and August, when he, together with three old college chums, may be seen clad in blue serge and drinking in great draughts of health on the deck of the yacht which belongs to the eldest of them. They generally wind up with a fortnight at the grouse, and then the Doctor returns to Bullshire with renewed life and with a fund of anecdote and adventures by sea and land, to hear him relate which is as good for a sick man as any of the prescriptions which he writes in his peculiarly neat handwriting.
Wherever he goes, castle or cottage, hall or homestead, his presence always cheers and lights up the sick-room, and Doctor Wilson's visit is looked forward to by the invalid as the pleasantest bit of his long day.
"Yes, sir, he's a niceish little horse, up to a goodish bit of weight too, and carries a lady. My daughter rides him often, and she says he's as handy as a kitten."
There is nothing very remarkable about the speaker, and but for the undeniable bit of "good stuff" he is riding, one would scarcely notice him in the crowd assembled at the meet.
As he turns half round to make the foregoing remark, allowing his right hand to rest on his horse's flank, a dark bay of wondrous shape, one may perhaps be struck with the peculiar look of shrewdness displayed in hiseyes, and notice the ease with which he sits in his saddle; but beyond that there is nothing at first sight to mark a difference from any other man in the field.
But Mr. James Holden the Dealer, more generally known as Old Jimmy Holden, is something out of the common.
First, he is one of the best judges of a horse in England, with some forty years' experience to back him.
Secondly, he is a man of the keenest perception. In two seconds he will sum you up as well as if he had been acquainted with you for a lifetime, and knows intuitively at a glance how much you are "good for."
Thirdly, he is one of the best and neatest riders imaginable, with a supreme contempt for such superfluous matter as nerves. Being possessed of hands of silk and will of iron, he can hand a raw young 'un over the stiffest country in the hunt, and make him perform as well as a thoroughly seasoned hunter.
Lastly, he is absolutely trustworthy—thatis to say, if you tell him that you want a horse and cannot afford more than such-and-such a sum, he will supply you with the best article that can be got for the money, frankly telling you any defects, and leaving himself but a fair margin of profit. If, however, a purchaser thinks himself very knowing and pits himself against Jimmy Holden, it is long odds that that bumptious individual, the purchaser, will find himself in the wrong box, for Jimmy takes a pleasure in getting what he calls "six to four the best of a knowing card."
He displays a vast amount ofesprit de corpsconcerning his own hunt, always keeping the pick of the bunch for some of his Bullshire customers. "You see," he says with a smile, "I meet them all out in the field, and if I was to come across any of my gents riding one of my 'osses that I knew to be a bad 'un, why I could not say good-morning with a free conscience or a light heart. That horse would be always staring me in the face, and making me uncomfortable."
To outsiders, however, he does not always show so much compunction, as the following anecdote will show. There was a young cotton lord who one season came down to stay with one of the members of the Bullshire for a month's hunting, and, being in want of a horse, was advised to go to Mr. Holden. Exceedingly knowing in matters of horseflesh did this young gentleman consider himself, and as he was rolling in wealth he also gave himself pretty considerable airs.
Accordingly he despatched the following epistle to Freshfield, where Jimmy's house and stables were situated: "Mr. Tinsel, being in want of a hunter, and hearing that James Holden is an honest dealer, will thank him to bring over two or three for his inspection to-morrow to The Shrubbery. Mr. Tinsel begs to say he requires a good horse and not a screw."
Now old Jimmy Holden was not accustomed to this sort of thing. He had, with his father before him, become quite an institution in theBullshire country, and everybody knowing what a right-down good sportsman he was, always treated him more as an equal than anything else, or at all events with respect and in good-fellowship. Indeed it was considered rather a privilege to buy one of his horses, and his company in the field was always sought after, where his fund of anecdote and quaint humour were wont to keep everybody in a roar. Therefore it may be imagined that the letter rubbed him up the wrong way in no slight degree, and not a word did he vouchsafe in reply.
The next time the hounds met, Mr. Tinsel, who was riding one of his friend's horses, came up to him and said, in a most offensive way: "You are Holden, the horse-dealer, ain't you?"
"My name is Holden, sir," replied old Jimmy, looking over the top of the young snob's head.
"Well, then, why the devil did not you answer my letter? I want a horse, and told you to bring me over two or three to look at,"continued young Manchester. "Is that your sort of way of doing business? because it ain't mine."
"I presume, sir, your name is Tinsel. If so, I beg to inform you that I am not in the habit of bringing over horses for strangers to look at. If you like to drive over to Freshfield, my foreman will show you one at my stables," said Jimmy, and straightway rode off fuming, while a visible smile was seen on the faces of all those within hearing.
"Sell him The Baron," said two or three of them; "it will serve him right."
The Baron was a grand-looking beast, whose appearance had deceived the wily James into buying him over in the "Land of the Shamrock;" but with his good looks his virtues came to an end, for he was without exception the veriest brute to ride imaginable, being a confirmed bolter, with no mouth, and with an awkward habit, if he did manage to get rid of his rider, of rushing at him open-mouthed, or else trying to kick his brains out.He had been tried at everything, but it was always the same, whether in saddle or harness; he was a regular man-eating savage.
Hitherto Holden had refused absolutely to part with him, though he had had more than one offer; but so outraged were his feelings on this occasion that he took the advice given, and Mr. Tinsel shortly became the owner of The Baron in exchange for a cheque for two hundred pounds.
It must be owned that at the last moment Jimmy relented, and told the young gentleman he had better not buy; but with the obstinacy of ignorance Tinsel insisted on the bargain, and so had his way.
The result was a foregone conclusion. The first day he took him out the brute ran away with him for six miles straight on end, jumping into the river to wind up with, from which predicament Mr. Tinsel was rescued just in time to save him from a watery grave.
The Baron emerged safely on the far side, and when caught was there and then despatchedto town for sale without reserve, being followed in a couple of days by his owner. This, however, happened some years ago, and Jimmy Holden does not care to say very much about it now.
As the hounds move off, one of the field, a Mr. Briggs, finds it impossible to help breaking the tenth commandment and coveting the little bay, and when he sees the easy way in which the animal pops over the stiff rails out of the big grass-meadow, making as little of them as if they were a flight of hurdles, while he himself has been in vain looking all round for a convenient gate, the covetous desire increases, and a settled determination takes possession of him to become the owner or perish in the attempt.
Meanwhile Jimmy has noted all this, and though that jump seemed so carelessly and easily done, he well knows the value of it, and is quite prepared to hear Mr. Briggs say, as he does: "Is that bay for sale, Holden?"
"All my horses are for sale, sir," he replieswith a smile; adding, after a pause, "at a price."
Thereupon Briggs tries to look as if he was not the least interested in the matter, and accordingly shows most plainly how anxious he is to buy. "Oh, ah, yes," says he, "he seems likely to make a hunter. How much do you ask?"
"Well, sir, seeing that you are an old customer, I will let you have him at a hundred and twenty; but take my advice, Mr. Briggs, and when you are buying don't show as you're so sweet on the animal; it's as good as putting another five-and-twenty guineas on the price. However, you shall try him the day after to-morrow, and if you like the horse, which I am sure you will, you can have him at the price I said."
Needless to say Mr. Briggsdoeslike him, and a piece of paper signed with his name transfers one hundred and twenty guineas to the account of James Holden at the local bank, though it must be confessed that the little baydoes not perform quite so brilliantly under his new master's guidance as he did on the occasion when the exhibition at the rails so delighted his heart.
It was not to be supposed that Jimmy Holden would be left for ever in undisputed possession of such a lucrative position as dealer-in-ordinary to the Bullshire Hunt, and at one time there was quite an influx of veterinary surgeons, job-masters, and copers of all sorts; but they all dropped off and disappeared with the exception of one individual, who was a constant thorn in Jimmy's side, and whom he hated with a hate surpassing that of women (the inverse applies equally to the fair sex, love and hatred both being qualities they excel in).
He was named Seaford—Captain Seaford he called himself, though the Army List was innocent and silent as to his name or his regiment.
"A nasty, snivelling, horse-coping snob,"was Jimmy's verdict; "brings discredit on the profession, and makes people think as we're all rogues."
There was a deal of truth in this, for Seaford was as big a scamp as ever doctored a broken-winded nag or bishoped an old stager. Now and then he had a good horse, but it was the exception; and when such an accident did happen it was a wonder that he ever managed to shut his mouth again, so wide did he open it.
Farmer Simms used to say on those occasions: "Ay could see right through un' like a telescope."
A most plausible scoundrel is he notwithstanding, and if he manages to get hold of some new-comer he will stick to him like a leech till he has screwed something out of him. Of course he hunts, and equally of course he arrives rather late, not being over fond of letting his wares get cool—and stiff—at the meet.
He is mounted, perhaps, on araking-looking chestnut mare. There is a good deal of "furniture" about her, such as breast-plate and martingale; the throat-strap is broad, and the band across the forehead is blue and white enamel. That the mare can jump there is no doubt, for she sails over the big bank and ditch in rare form, and for two or three fields (Captain) Seaford is in front. After a little he is to be seen on another animal, which, when there are enough people round to see, can perform nearly as well as the chestnut, who is now on her way home. If anyone happens to meet her they will be somewhat surprised to see how lame she goes. "Run a nail into 'er 'oof," is the groom's version; but an F.R.C.V.S. would be puzzled to find that nail, and his certificate would show the lameness to proceed from a very different cause.
It is a marvel how Seaford manages to "pick up" so many flats, but he does a thriving trade; and though occasionally he has to square an unpleasant business, he hasalways a plausible tale ready to hand, and so comes out with merely a scratch on his somewhat shady character.
Once he outdid himself, and was as nearly put in prison as ever he wishes to be. It happened as follows. One evening, late, a couple of fur-capped individuals brought a horse into his yard and asked him if he would buy. A glance showed him the animal was valuable, and the price asked being only twenty pounds Seaford naturally concluded that it was a stolen one. However, he argued, it was nothing to do with him, and bought it there and then. Next day the police found it in his stables, and hard work it was for the Freshfield lawyer to prevent the magistrates committing the gallant Captain as a receiver of stolen goods.
The reason for his having incurred Jimmy's hatred is because he was sharp enough once, soon after he had come into the country, to sell him a broken-winded nag; and Jimmynever hears the last of it to this day. However, he swears he will be "even with the scamp yet," and being a man of his word there is little doubt but that he will.
A very enthusiastic individual is Mr. Bowles, J.P., or, as he is more generally called, The Major, from his connection with the local Volunteer force, which, it may almost be said, he founded. Liberal with his money, and at heart a good fellow and keen sportsman, his one great failing is the use, or abuse, of that Englishman's acknowledged privilege—grumbling.
He is never happy unless he is finding fault with something or somebody. No matter what it is, the stars in their courses have always conspired against him personally, or some unfortunate person has done thevery thing they should not have done, and so brought the matter in hand to utter grief.
Of course if they had listened to the Major everything would have progressed swimmingly; but as his opinions were seldom given until the fiasco had occurred (if occur it did), and even then were conflicting—not to say contradictory—recourse was seldom had to that fount of advice. It is generally whispered in Bullshire that when Bowles, after an infinity of trouble and expense, managed to inspire a certain amount of military enthusiasm sufficient for the formation of the corps of Bullshire Rifles, he refused to accept the command of them, in order that he might afterwards be able to say:
"Just like my luck; took all the trouble of getting the thing up, and then they go and put in a man over my head. A man, sir, who does not know his right hand from his left; a duffer, sir; a rank impostor, who calls himself Colonel, and is as ignorant of thedrill-book as—— But, there; it's always the same."
As a magistrate and justice of the peace he is equally aggrieved. Witnesses somehow never can give their evidence in a straightforward manner, and the decisions of the Bench afford him vast scope for criticism. "Never heard of such a thing," he will tell you. "Man brought up for poaching. Found with a gun, going along the road. Asked what he was doing. Said he was taking it to be mended. Would you believe it? They dismissed the case, notwithstanding all I could say. Gave him the benefit of the doubt, sir; and they call that justice, by Heaven!"
It is no use pointing out that ample evidence was produced at the inquiry to show that the man's story was correct, he was taking the gun to be mended, and an over-zealous local policeman had, as is by no means unusual, exceeded his duty. The Major will reply that he knows, and if the magistrates don't choose to exercise their powers,every loafer in Bullshire will be carrying a gun to be mended.
A stranger would naturally suppose from this that Mr. Bowles was not blessed with much heart; but he would be wrong. For it is a well-known fact that often when, in his official capacity, he has been forced to fine some poor devil who had been "looking on the wine when it was red"—or rather the beer when it was amber—and the sight had been too much for him, the Major, after the bench had dispersed, would drive round to the delinquent's cottage and gladden the sorrowing wife by putting into her hand double the amount of the fine that had been inflicted.
In the hunting-field he is looked upon as a standing joke, and if there are signs of a cover being blank, or a long wait at a cold corner, there is sure to be a party made up to "draw" the Major, the best of it being that he never sees men are laughing at him, but lays down the law, and abuses, condemns, andcomplains with the utmost heartiness and volubility.
Though a good horseman and forward rider, he never knows one horse from another if they are anything at all alike in colour; and it is the same with dogs. If you were to put any of his own retrievers along with some others, and ask him to point out those which belonged to him, he could not do it to save his life. Two rather funny incidents happened to him from this cause, the first with a horse, and the second concerning a dog.
One season he had a particularly good-looking bay, but finding it too hot for him he determined to sell, and so sent it up to London to a dealer, whom, when old Jimmy Holden had nothing that suited, he was wont to employ, getting a hundred guineas for it. A short time after he went to town himself, and going to the same man's yard was struck with the appearance of a good-looking bay, and bought it at a hundred and forty guineas. When the horse came down to his stables thestud-groom came in and said to him: "Why, sir, you didn't tell me as how you'd bought The Prince again."
"Prince, you fool," replied the Major; "I've not bought The Prince."
But he had, and had also paid forty guineas, besides railway fares, for the animal's trip to London and back.
The other affair, though perhaps almost telling more against himself, was not so expensive. He had given his friend, Lord Acres, a black retriever with a high character and a long pedigree, and had made no little parade of the gift. A few weeks afterwards he was shooting at Home Wood (Acres' place), and the dog was out. According to his usual custom, Bowles was grumbling at everything; guns, birds, cartridges, weather, and his servant all came in for their share. At last he pitched on the dog, and turning to his host during the process of lunch, he said: "Can't think, Acres, where you manage to pick up your dogs! Look at that mongrel brute there. Neversaw such a beast in my life. He's only fit to run behind a butcher's cart."
"Why, Major," replied his lordship, roaring with laughter, "that's looking a gift-horse in the mouth with a vengeance. It's your own dog that you gave me."
Bowles acknowledges now that for once in his life he wishes he had not spoken.
It is a beautiful morning for hunting. The late frost—which, though it lasted but a week, was sharp—is well out of the ground, and everybody who owns anything with four legs, besides a number who are dependent on their own, have turned out with the hounds at Mickleborough Green.
The landlord of The Three Bells, that quaint old inn—with its remains of past glories, as shown by its spacious coach-stables—which stands back from the road facing the green, is doing a roaring trade; and Lizzie the barmaid says her "arms do just ache a-drawing the beer." The hounds gathered round oldTom on the green, with pink coats dotted here and there, present as pretty a picture as one could wish to see. All are in high spirits and congratulating each other and themselves on the change in the weather and the prospects of a run. Chaff is flying thick about "the old mare's big leg," or "the lucky thing the frost was for that young horse who was pulled out on all occasions;" and old Tom comes in for his share, being told that "both the hounds and himself look as if they had been doing themselves well on those non-hunting days—waistcoat buttons a bit tight, eh Tom?" and such-like banter.
Presently, along the road the Major appears, in company with Mr. Boulter the Secretary, and young Earnshaw, who is learning farming—by hunting four days a-week—with Mr. Noble.
"Here's Bowles," say two or three sportsmen; "he can't find much to grumble at to-day, anyhow."
As he rides up they greet him with ahearty "Good-morning, Major; lovely day, isn't it?"
"Lovely day? Lovely fiddlestick!" is the reply. "Up to your neck in mud. Country so heavy you can't ride, and then of all places to pick out Mickleborough! Why, the water will be out all over the bottom. But there, it's always the same. I told Lappington he ought to meet at the Kennels; but nobody ever listens to me."
"Well, but Bowles," interrupts the Secretary; "we met at the Kennels the last fixture before the frost."
"And you ought to meet the first day after. By Heavens, I'd meet every day there till the country was fit to ride," grumbles the Major. "Look at the hounds too. Why, Tom must have got the whole pack out, and borrowed some besides. Now I ask you, can we expect any sport with such a pack as that? 'Pon my soul the Hunt's going to the devil."
"Short of work, Major; must give 'em abit of exercise," puts in the Huntsman, as Bowles rides off to anathematise the landlord of The Three Bells, for presuming to offer him a glass of "d——d muddy home-brewed," calling, however, for a second edition of the same. By this time the Master has arrived and there is a general bustle, a tightening of girths, a shortening of stirrups, and the usual preparations for a start. The word goes round that the first draw will be Mickleborough Wood, and Tom with the hounds is already on his way there before it reaches the ear of the Major, at that moment engaged in an altercation with his servant, who, according to Bowles, has put a wrong bridle on his second horse, but, according to the man himself, has only obeyed his master's instructions.
No sooner does he hear the appointed place than he gives up the bridle argument, and making his way to where the Master and others are trotting down the lane, commences: "You don't mean to say, Lappington, you're going to put them into the Wood? Why, weshall never get away, and the rides will be impassable. My good sir, just think. Here, some of you fellows, try and persuade him, he never listens to me, nobody ever does;" adding, under his breath, "never heard such d——d folly in my life."
"Why, Bowles," replies Sir John, laughing, "you said a minute ago that the bottoms would be under water, and now you object to the high ground. Where would you go to, you old growler?"
"Growler be hanged: I never grumble. But it is a little bit too much, when one comes out for a day's hunting, to be turned loose into a forest of trees growing on a bog. The man who planted Mickleborough Wood ought to have been hung," says Bowles.
What more he might have added will never be known, for at this instant a ringing view holloa is heard, and the hounds are away full cry, a fox having jumped up in a spinney on the road to the Wood.
"Just like my luck," the Major is heardto ejaculate, as he puts his nag at the fence out of the lane. "Whenever I try and give anybody advice they tell me I am growling. Hold up, you awkward devil," to his horse, who pecks a bit on landing. "And here have I been wasting my time teaching a pack of idiots how to hunt the country, and lost my start."
After running hard for a quarter of an hour, the hounds check in a road, half the pack having flashed over the line.
Here the Major is in his glory, and holds forth. "What did I say this morning? If they will bring out every hound in the kennel, how can they expect them to hunt. Look there, now; look there. What the devil's the use of taking them up the road? The fox is for'ard, I'll wager. 'Pon my oath, I believe old Tom is getting past his work. There's that young ass, Simms, too, messing about—always in the way. I should like to know how he finds time to hunt. Every farmer seems to be able to do everything nowadays, andwhen they want to pay their corn-bill they cry out about the weather and ask for a reduction of rent."
"Not quite so bad as all that, Major," exclaim one or two farmers, who think it time to stick up for their characters. "Not quite so bad as all that. We likes to ride as well as anyone, and we likes to see others enjoy themselves over our land. But there, we know you don't mean it."
Just then, as if to convict the Major, Harbinger hits off the line up the road, and they are away again a cracker, Bowles coming in for plenty of chaff about the fox being for'ard and Tom being past his work.
To give him his due, he was right when he blamed the country, for it is precious heavy, and plenty of grief is the order of the day. The scent, too, improving, with every hundred yards, it becomes hard work to live with them. Sir John, as usual, is well up, and a few others are close in his wake, among them Bowles, whose coat, by-the-way, shows evident signsof contact with mother-earth—a catastrophe that was brought about, he says, "by the idiotic way that people mend their fences, with a great rail run through them."
However, when, after an hour and ten minutes, they run to ground, even he is fain to allow that they have had a real good thing, though he qualifies the admission with a few scathing remarks on the slovenly way in which the earths are stopped: "A disgrace to the country, by Heaven!"
Riding home he asks a few men to dinner the next day at his house, amongst them Sir John Lappington and Mr. Wilson the Doctor—in case of accidents, he says. His invitation is eagerly accepted, for his dinners are proverbial and his wine undeniable. To see him at his own table you would scarcely know him again for the same man. The grumbling has all been got over before the guests arrive; and as you drive home—with that comfortable feeling of having dined well, wisely, and in pleasant company—you bear away a cheerfulremembrance of witty sayings and thorough good-fellowship, of a countenance beaming with fun, and stories which, if you wake in the night and think of, will cause you to laugh afresh.
Nearly all these happy feelings and memories you may safely put down to the skill of your host the Major, whose sole failing, as I have said, lies in the fact that, from habit, in the field, he has become a Grumbler.
Wildmere House is a favourite meet with the Bullshire, consequently there is always a large field out at that fixture, every class of sportsman being represented, both those who mean business and those who merely come to partake of the good cheer offered them, and afterwards, when hounds begin to run, retire into the background, unless, indeed, some handy highroad lies parallel to the chase, when they reappear, splashed with mud, and enthusiasticad nauseam.
Most hospitable of entertainers is Colonel Talford, who occupies The House; and withhis pretty wife to assist him, there is little fear of any complaints being heard as to the quality or quantity of the breakfast. Equally certain is old Tom that a real straight-necked good-hearted fox is ready for him either in the Home Wood or Ravenshill Copse, for the Colonel makes it a rule with his keepers that there shall be foxes, and they know well that his rules are like the laws of the Medes and Persians—unalterable.
"No foxes, no keepers," is what he says; and if the quarry is not forthcoming, unless a very good reason can be given, go they have to.
He once came upon Velveteens in the act of burying a fox that he had trapped and knocked on the head—or, to be more accurate, Mrs. Talford, who was riding back from the Dairy Farm, saw the funeral going on, and told her husband. The man was a new keeper, who had been with him barely a month, and as a keeper was considered quite first-class. But there and then the Colonelwent out, had the fox dug up, and made the man take it over to Sir John Lappington, riding himself all the way behind him to see that he did it.
Through the main street of the village they went in procession, the men (for it was evening) turning out and hooting the unfortunate vulpecide; and when he had delivered his burden and apologised, the Colonel said: "Now you can go back and pack up your things; this is your last day in my service." His wages were paid that night, and in spite of all entreaties, the next day he left Colonel Talford and Bullshire for ever.
It is a lovely morning as Tom rides up with his beauties in front of the house, and, saluting the host and hostess, tosses off the glass of sparkling ale that is handed to him. There had been a catch of frost on the Monday, and folks learned in weather-lore had predicted a hard time; but nothing came of it, for a shower of rain on Tuesday night had utterly routed the destroyer of sport; andon the Thursday at Wildmere it is as fine a hunting-day as one could wish—if anything perhaps a shade too warm.
"We must give them a few minutes, Sir John," says Mrs. Talford to the Master, who has just arrived. "The Melton train is late, and there are always a few who honour us on this occasion by trying to cut us all down."
"Certainly, Mrs. Talford," replies Lappington, smiling and taking out his watch. "We will give them a quarter of an hour; but you need not be so fearfully sarcastic about the Meltonians. I think it is generally the other way. If I remember rightly, I have seen a lady on a horse called Queen Bee who generally requires a great deal of cutting down, and I have heard it said that this same lady is impossible to beat."
"Nonsense, Sir John; you know that if I do manage to get over the country it is all the Queen's doing, not mine. She's a dear, is not she? But come in and have something; my husband wants to see you about drawing theCopse first," rejoins Mrs. Talford, leading the way into the dining-room, and evidently pleased at the Master's flattery.
In a quarter of an hour, the Melton detachment having come up, the signal is given to move, and a long cavalcade trot off for Ravenshill. A minute or two later two horses are seen cantering across the grass to catch up the hounds; one carries Colonel Talford, and the other (the redoubtable Queen Bee) his wife.
As they come up and press forward to where Tom's white head is seen bobbing in the middle of the pack, men point her out, and you hear a whisper of "There she is, that's her—riding the same horse too; by Jove, old fellow, it's all very well to say 'only a woman,' but if you can beat her you'll do. Why, the last time we met here she cut us all down and hung us up to dry; only rode one horse all day. Dick Valpy had three out, and you know how he can ride; but I'm blessed if he didn't get nearly drowned inthe brook, while she sailed over it as if it was nothing. We'd been running for forty minutes then, but she can save her horse as well as ride, I can tell you."
Some who have not seen her express their doubts, and vow that "No woman ever beat them yet, and, by gad, sir, they never shall;" but they do not know Mrs. Talford or Queen Bee, and before the day is over they will tell another tale.
Yet you would never take her for a hard rider, though anyone at a glance can see she is a finished horsewoman. Nothing could possibly be quieter than her turn-out. A well-fitting, well-cut, rough cloth habit, rather short; a neat white silk handkerchief tied and folded round a high stand-up linen collar, just showing, like a man's scarf, where the habit is made with a step; a small black felt hat, of the kind known as a "billycock," covering her well-shaped head, the hair of which is gathered into a small knot behind; while in her hand she carries a hunting-crop, made of a hollythat she herself cut from the lawn in front of the house.
Her seat is easy yet firm, and very square on her saddle. Those small hands too, which look as if they could hurt no living thing, can hold and control a puller with wondrous power, a fact her horses seem to recognise directly she takes up the reins of her bridle, for they go so quietly under her hand that one is forced to wonder what it was that made them fret and tear in such a disagreeable way when Mrs. A—— or Lady B—— claimed them for their own, in the days before they found that they were "too much for them," and had to sell them to the Colonel at a discount.
With all this, as she, having ranged up alongside of the pack, pulls up Queen Bee into a trot, and pats the neck of that more than perfect animal, one cannot help a feeling of astonishment that so slight and delicate-looking a woman should be able to go so hard; and in our inmost hearts we feel that if we could lay claim to half as straight a course asMrs. Talford we should not hide our light quite so much under a bushel as she does.
They are close to the Copse now, and Mrs. Talford and the Colonel slip down to the far side with Charles; the right of proprietorship allowing this, which is courteously yet firmly forbidden to the rest of the field.
"Gentlemen," says the Master, "for your own sport I wish the whole of the left side and bottom of the covert kept free. It's a clear start either way, therefore I must beg you not to get for'ard. Give the fox a chance, and then, so long as you don't ride over the hounds, go as you like."
Someone suggests that the Colonel and his wife have gone down to the bottom, whereupon Sir John shuts him up by saying: "That, sir, is only another reason why nobody else should go. When we draw your coverts we will allow you to go where you like, and keep the rest out of your way."
As the individual happens to be a gentleman who has only that season come down toBullshire, and has not subscribed as yet to the hounds, the remark causes a general titter, and the man wishes he had not spoken.
His discomfiture is, however, of short duration, for at this instant the hounds find, and from the chorus and way they rattle him up and down the covert it is clear that they are not far behind their fox. Two rings round the Wood and he finds it too hot to hold him, so away he goes across the slope in full view of the whole field.
"Hold hard one moment, gentlemen," shouts the Master, as Tom, horn in hand, tops the wood fence, and claps the hounds on to the line.
"Now"—and a hundred or more horses are rattling down the hill towards the fence at the bottom.
Some visibly diminish their pace as they near the obstacle, and some make a determined point to the gate in the corner, which a friendly yeoman is holding open. But there is little time to notice all this, for the pace isa cracker, and the scent is breast-high. Two or three loose horses are careering about the next field, and two or three dismounted riders are running after them.
"Catch hold, sir," says young Simms, as he stops one of the horses and delivers him up to his owner; "catch hold—I can't stop;" and he is over the next bank and ditch before the spilt one has recovered the effects of his acrobatic performance.
Such a jam at the double post and rails! There are but three or four negotiable places, and everybody is racing for them madly. The Parson and the Doctor fly them together, and so shake themselves clear of the ruck, while a hard-riding Meltonian carries away a heap of them.
But where is Mrs. Talford?
There she is on the left, close to the hounds, yet well wide of them, slipping along with an easy grace, looking as if she was merely cantering, Queen Bee taking everything before her, and making as little of the fences as ifthey were the lowest of hurdles. How the deuce did she get there? everybody who has time to notice her wonders. But no one ever knows how she does get anywhere. No matter what sort of a start she gets, unless hopelessly thrown out Mrs. Talford before long is certain to be found sailing along in close proximity to the hounds.
Presently they come to a check in the road, but it is only for a minute, for Beadsman hits off the line on the far side, over the wall, and across the fallows. Some of the road-riders come up at this moment, and stare blankly at the wall. One, a stranger, seeing a lady, and not knowing who she is, vainly endeavours to open the gate (a low one), which is locked, and thereby prevents anybody else getting over.
"Thank you, sir; I think I can manage it," is all Mrs. Talford says in her quiet way, and in another minute the would-be "pew-opener" is greeted with a sight of Queen Bee's hind feet, and the lady has resumed her former place with the hounds.
"Well done, Mrs. Colonel!" says old Tom (he always calls her Mrs. Colonel). "We shall show them the road again to-day. It's the old line, straight for Marston. Hold up," to his horse, who dropped his hind legs in a ditch. "Yonder he goes," as he catches sight of the fox making the best of his way up the rising ground in the distance; and, contrary to his usual custom, he catches hold of the hounds and lifts them for nearly half a mile, thereby cutting off a big slice.
"Oh Tom, you shouldn't have done that," says Mrs. Talford, as soon as they have settled on to the line again. "They were hunting beautifully."
"Don't mean anyone to get in front of the Queen, Mrs. Colonel, this time," is all he vouchsafes as they gallop down a lane, thereby saving their horses, and nicking in again at the corner. A holloa from the right, close in front of the hounds, shows the rest of the field that the end is approaching, and the Melton detachment are riding their hardest to catchthe Bullshire lady; but the only men who have as yet succeeded are Mr. Halston, the Master, and old Simms.
"It's over the brook, for a hundred, sir," shouts Tom, and he is right. With a splash that sends the water sparkling high in the air, the whole pack dash in, and are away on the other side racing in view.
"Surely she's not going to ride at that," men say to each other as Mrs. Talford catches her mare by the head.
But she is; and, with Sir John on the one side and the Parson on the other, she skims over like a bird. Old Tom's horse is done, and refuses, but being crammed at it again just gets over with a scramble. The rest ride at it in a body, some in, some over; some think better of it and turn back; but before any but the leading quartet are well over, Sir John's "who-whoop" rings out clear and loud, and tells them that they have again been beaten by "only a woman."