CHAPTER XII “DEAD FOR A DUCAT”

It is needless for me to observe that Mr. Sawyer was one of those individuals who are described in common parlance as not having been “born yesterday.” He had lived long enough in this superficial world of ours to recognise the prudence of “keeping his own counsel,” just as he kept the key of his own cellar at The Grange; and he would no more have thought of entrusting his dearest friend with the one than the other.

Accordingly, when he felt certain ominous thumps against the calves of his legs, which denoted that “Hotspur was suffering from palpitation of the heart,” he resolved to conceal if possible from every eye that untoward failing of so good an animal. And, with considerable judgment, he waited till his friends were out of sight ere he dismounted, and led his jaded steed into a barn, which he espied at hand, there to recover himself a little under shelter, and then, if possible, to make his way home in the dark, and trust to chance for some excuse to account for his delay, when he met them again at the dinner-table.

Perhaps the reason is, that in these fast times condition is so much better understood—for we cannot admit the uncomplimentary excuse that hounds do not run now as formerly—why horses stop so much less often in the hunting-field than they did in the palmy days of Musters and Assheton Smith, and “the d—d Quornites,” who were always either “showing” or “being shown the trick” some fifty years ago. Then a hunter’s reputation was as fragile as a sultana’s, and was guarded as jealously. Not only must he be “sans peur,” but also “sans reproche.” And the efforts of these lords to preserve the character of their treasures were as ingenious as they were ludicrous. One facetious nobleman actually got a tired favourite home next day right through the streets of Melton, disguised as the middle horse of a cart-team; nor did all the lynx-eyes, ready to watch for the “casualties” consequent on a clipper, discover the identity of one of the best nags in Leicestershire, under the weather-beaten winkers and shabby harness of a four-horse waggon. Mr. Sawyer trusted to the cloud of night for the same immunity.

He had just stabled his steed in the warmest corner of the shed, and, having taken off his own coat to fling over the animal’s heaving quarters, was beginning to speculate on the probable rheumatism that would succeed this imprudence, when, to his astonishment and disgust, the door was darkened by another figure, and his solitude disturbed by the entrance of a man and horse, in all probability seeking the same shelter for the same cause.

The new-comer was a remarkably good-looking person, extremely well got-up, particularly as regarded his nether extremities, and our friend at once recognised him as having been very forward with the hounds at different stages of the run. His horse, a well-bred bay, was “done to a turn.” When Sawyer looked at its drooping head and heaving flanks, it seemed to put him quite in conceit with the roan. For a moment neither spoke a word—then the absurdity of the situation seemed to strike them simultaneously, and they both burst out laughing.

“What? They’ve cooked your goose as well as mine!” said the stranger, in off-hand tones, producing at the same time a silver cigar-case, on which our friend could not help fancying he descried a coronet, and proceeding to light a most tempting-looking weed.

“A very likely day to do it, too,” he added, glancing, as Sawyer thought, somewhat contemptuously at himself and steed. “The pace for the first twenty minutes was alarming, and the country awfully deep. I should say you’ll hardly get that horse home to-night.”

The suggestion was neither flattering nor consolatory. Mr. Sawyer felt half inclined to be offended; but he thought of the silver cigar-case, and swallowed the retort uncourteous that rose to his lips. He was a true Briton, and not above a weakness for the peerage. “This good-looking man,” he argued, “notwithstanding his black coat, must be a Viscount at least!”

“I’m going as far as Market Harborough,” he observed meekly. “It cannot be more than seven or eight miles. I shall hope to accomplish that.”

“Lucky for you!” replied the other. “I want to get to Melton, if I can. I’ve a hack here at Welford, if this beggar can take me there. He’s short of work, poor devil! and could hardly wag coming up the hill. I should say your horse would die.”

This was an unpleasant and rather startling way of putting the matter. Mr. Sawyer had not indeed considered it from that point of view. Though a man of energy, he felt somewhat helpless; as who would not in a similar position? Eight miles from home, in a strange country, encumbered with a dying horse!

“What had I better do?” inquired he, rather plaintively, of the unknown.

Nobleman though he were, the latter seemed to be an energetic personage enough, and pretty familiar with the usages of the stable. Between them they made poor Hotspur as comfortable as circumstances would admit, the unknown conversing with great condescension and volubility the whole time.

“What you want for this country,” said he, rubbing away the while at Hotspur’s ears and forehead, “is a strong stud. If you’ve sport hereabouts, it pulls the horses so to pieces. Now this is a nice little well-bred horse enough, but he hasn’t size, you see, and scope; there’s nothing of him; consequently, when you drop into a run, he goes as long as he can, and it’s all U P! Mine, now, would have gone on for ever, if he’d had condition; but I only bought him ten days ago, and he’s never had a gallop. Nothing like good ones—big ones—and plenty of ’em! Look at him now; he’s getting better every moment.”

Without subscribing entirely to this statement, Mr. Sawyer humbly asked his new friend if he himself was very strong in horses?

“Not very,” was the reply. “I’ve got eleven, however, at my place, which I shall be very happy to show you whenever you like to come over. Every one of them up to more than your weight,” he added, casting his eye over Mr. Sawyer’s much-bemired figure. “I shall be happy to give you a mount on any one of them you fancy; and you will know them better than I can tell you.”

Our friend was penetrated with gratitude. Visions stole over him of an eligible acquaintance, that would soon ripen into friendship, with this most affable of peers; of a charming country-house, agreeable women, billiards, music, dry champagne, and flirtation—himself an honoured guest; of an introduction, perhaps, through his noble ally, into the best London society and everything that he had always thought most desirable, but hitherto considered beyond his reach. “Doubtless,” reasoned Mr. Sawyer, “he has remarked my riding, and taken a fancy to me. On further observation, he finds my manners are those of a perfect gentleman; and he is determined we shall become friends. How lucky Hotspur was so beat that I came in here!”

Accordingly, he thanked his new acquaintance with considerable empressement, and assured him that “he should take the first opportunity of taxing his hospitality.”

The unknown looked a little astonished. “Well,” he replied, “if you don’t mind roughing it a bit, I dare say I can find room for you, even in my little crib; but you can see the horses out hunting, and ride them too, just the same.”

“How considerate these noblemen are!” thought Mr. Sawyer, “and how playful! I dare say his ‘little crib,’ as he calls it, is three times the size of The Grange. But he insists on mounting me, all the same.” So he thanked him once more, and proposed that, as it was dark, and the horses were somewhat recovered, they should endeavour to make their way home.

“When will you come?” asked the unknown, as they emerged into the open air—both horses coughing, one lame before, and the other all round. “I’ve a bay that would carry you admirably, and a brown, and indeed, a chestnut that you would like. I’d take five hundred for the three; and they’re so perfect, a child might ride them.”

“What a cordial, good fellow!” thought Mr. Sawyer again. “He wishes me to enjoy my visit, and ride his horses with thorough confidence; so he tells me of their great value and perfect tuition. I have indeed ‘lit upon my legs,’ as the saying is.” “Thank you,” he replied aloud. “My time is my own; and I will pay you a visit whenever it is perfectly convenient to you to receive me. My name is Sawyer; and I am staying at Harborough. Perhaps you will kindly write and let me know.”

“Very well, sir,” answered the other, muttering something about “business,” but touching his hat, as Mr. Sawyer thought, with all the politeness of the old school, as their ways diverged; and he jogged off to get his hack, leaving our friend to plod on afoot by the exhausted Hotspur, in the darkening twilight, cheered but by one solitary star, which threatened to be soon eclipsed by the clouds that were rising fast in the sighing night-wind.

It was no such enviable position, after all. Seven miles at least had Mr. Sawyer to go; and he must walk, or ride at a foot’s pace, every yard of the way. The sky was ominous of rain; the Laranagas were all smoked out; and poor Hotspur was unquestionably “done to a turn.”

These are the moments which the most thoughtless of men cannot but devote to reflection. There is nothing like pace to drive away unpleasant considerations; but when two miles an hour is the best rate we can command, black Care is pretty sure to abandon his seat on the cantle of the saddle, and, springing nimbly to the front, grins at us in the face. I remember well how a fast-going youth—a friend of my boyhood, now, alas! gone to Jericho via Short Street, and with whom I have spent many a pleasant hour that might have been better employed—used to read with great energy whilst he was dressing. It was the only time, he said, that his conscience could get the better of him, and during which he had leisure to think of his sins and his debts. He smothered the accusing voice and its painful accessories by a course of severe study, and so got the anodyne and the information at once.

Mr. Sawyer’s reflections were cheering enough till he began to get tired. He liked the idea of visiting the hospitable nobleman with whom he had lately parted, and pictured to himself the very pleasant visit he hoped to pay him, and the accession of importance with which such an acquaintance would doubtless invest him amongst his Harborough friends. He only wished he had inquired his name; but then, he was evidently a personage whom everybody knew, and it was better not to betray his ignorance. Also, when the written invitation arrived—as unquestionably it would—with its armorial bearings, and signature in full, he would know all about it. Before he had tramped through the mud for a mile, he began to think he had rather “got into a good thing.”

Ere long, it began to rain—first of all, an ominous drizzle, that seemed like continuing; then a decided pour, such as runs into the nape of a man’s neck and the tops of his boots, and wets him through in about a quarter of an hour. It was not much fun, churning the fluid in his soles; so he climbed stiffly into the saddle, and was disagreeably aware that Hotspur, besides being thoroughly tired, was also undoubtedly lame.

By degrees, his spirits fell considerably. He began to think of the Honourable Crasher, with his off-hand manner and his nine hunters. He remembered a certain fable of the earthenware vessel that sailed down-stream amongst the iron pots. How was he to hold his own in the fast-going set which he had entered? He had better, perhaps, have contented himself with the Old Country, and stayed quietly at home. The comforts of The Grange presented themselves in painful contrast to the muddy road along which he was plodding—even to the smoky bedroom and dingy parlour which would receive him at Harborough. Though the rain had moderated, he jogged along the dark highway, now squelching into puddles at the side, now cursing the stones lately laid down in the middle—in either case, to the equal discomfiture of poor Hotspur—and felt himself more unhappy and out of humour every yard he went.

Presently, the horse quickened his pace of his own accord; and the sound of hoofs behind him produced its usual inspiriting effect on the rider.

“Company, at all events,” observed Mr. Sawyer, aloud. “Hold up, you brute!” he added, as Hotspur made an egregious “bite,” that nearly landed him on his nose.

Ere long, the new arrivals ranged alongside of him. They were a lady and gentleman, on exceedingly tired horses. What a piece of luck! They were no other than the Reverend and Miss Dove!

“She knew me at once, though it’s so dark,” thought our friend, with considerable gratification, as the damsel, adapting her own pace to that of the jaded Hotspur without difficulty, accosted him by name.

“How lucky, too!” said she, in her joyous tones. “We shall keep each other company all the way to Harborough. Papa and I were just saying how lonely the road was, after dark; and our poor horses are so tired, they can hardly walk.”

“Lucky indeed, for me,” replied Mr. Sawyer, gallantly, adding with considerable empressement—for it was dark enough to give a shy man confidence—“Do you know, I was just thinking of you?”

The Reverend had dropped behind to light a cigar. Miss Dove seemed to have no objection to receive this statement: of the truth of which I have myself, however, strong doubts. She edged her horse a little nearer her companion, and answered laughingly,

“Indeed! A penny for your thoughts, then. I should like to know what you could have been thinking about me in the dark, after a day’s hunting.”

“I was thinking how well you rode,” answered Mr. Sawyer, who, not much versed in the ways of womankind, saw he might have said something more flattering, but like a frightened bather, put one foot in, and then withdrew it. It was not his line, you see, as he said himself; and consequently he felt a little awkward at first with the ladies.

The latter, however, are in all cases strenuous advocates for the “sliding scale” rather than the “fixed duty.” I think I have observed that they are usually as ready to bring a shy man “on” as they are to keep a forward one back. There is a certain temperature at which they consider you malleable; so they heat you up, or cool you down to it, with no small chemical skill. Sometimes, but rarely, they burn their own fingers in the process.

“I was wondering how you would get home,” said the young lady very innocently after a pause. “Your poor horse looked so very tired; but, then, he carried you famously. Papa and I knew you by your cap—didn’t we, Papa?”

Papa, who had now come up, corroborated his daughter; but the Reverend was somewhat abstracted and unobservant. He was not quite satisfied with the way his horse had carried him. He doubted whether the animal had pace. He doubted whether he had blood. He doubted whether he had courage. In truth, he was thinking just then whether he hadn’t better sell him to Mr. Sawyer.

That worthy was recovering his lost ground, by expressing many tender hopes that Miss Dove was not very tired. “She had had such a long day; and it was so wet for a lady to be out; and how would she ever get home all that way into Leicestershire?”

“Oh, we have a carriage at Harborough,” answered the fair object of all these anxieties; “and I don’t mind being late half so much as Papa does. I do so like being out at night. Do you know, though I am so fond of riding, I am rather romantic, Mr. Sawyer?”

“Oh, indeed! Yes, of course,” rejoined our friend, seeing another opening, but not getting at it quite so readily as if it had been in a bullfinch. “It’s very pleasant sometimes, particularly in the summer; and horses always go best at night. But, there’s no moon now,” he added, looking wistfully first at the heavens, and then, as far as the darkness would permit, in his companion’s face.

“I’m certain you’re a great quiz,” answered Miss Dove to this harmless observation. “I told Mamma I was quite afraid of you, the day you came to luncheon at the Rectory. I dare say you think us all wild savages here, compared with what people are in your own country. By the bye, your country place is somewhere near London, I think you said?”

Mr. Sawyer did not remember saying anything of the kind, but he looked insinuating, which he need not have done, as it was so dark, and replied,

“Forty minutes by rail. I can run up, and do my shopping, and back again, between luncheon and dinner. I’m only half-a-mile from a station.”

Then he had a country place. So far, so good. In discussing him with Mamma, the latter had inclined to think not, but Miss Dove held strongly to her own opinion. She knew the country gentleman’s cut, she said; and in this instance she was right.

“Do you farm much?” was her next inquiry, putting the unconscious Sawyer through his facings, as only a woman can.

“Not much,” replied our friend. “I let most of my land; but I keep enough in my own hands to supply the house. One must have a few cows, you know, for milk and fresh butter.”

It was evidently all right. A man who had land to let and land to keep, and a place of his own, was clearly none of your penniless interlopers such as visit the grass at intervals, like the locust, and eat it bare, and fly off and are seen no more. Here was a bee worth catching; with a hive, and honey, and flowers of its own—a good, honest humble-bee, with plenty of buzz, and no sting.

By this time the lights of Harborough were twinkling in the distance, and the Rev. Dove, whose horse had coughed more than once, thought it advisable to trot forward and get the carriage ready; whilst his daughter and Mr. Sawyer came on at a foot’s pace, the latter gallantly affirming that he would take the greatest possible care of his charge, and wishing, as soon as they were alone, either that somebody else would overtake them, and so break the tête-à-tête, or else that he could find something to say, else she must think him so confoundedly stupid. It was agreeable, too, when he got a little more used to it. The girl talked on in her gentle, pleasant voice, of the hounds, and the people, and the country. Her tones had caught the languor of slight fatigue, and were very soft and silvery to the ear. More than once he wished it was not too dark to see the long eyelashes resting on her cheek, those silky excrescences having made no slight impression on Mr. Sawyer. He felt quite sorry when the turnpike denoted their approach to the confines of the town at which their ride must cease. He could not conceive now how he could have been so out of spirits not an hour ago.

“When shall I see you again?” he ventured to ask as their horses’ hoofs clattered on the stony pavement, and he saw the lamps of the Reverend’s carriage glowing like the eyes of some monster ready to carry off his Andromeda. As he spoke he even ventured to place his hand on her horse’s neck; and this was a great stretch of gallantry for Mr. Sawyer.

“Oh, you’ll be at the ball,” answered Miss Dove, without withdrawing her steed from the range of her companion’s caresses. “You’ll be at the ball, of course, even if we don’t meet out hunting before that.”

“Ball!” repeated our friend in amazement. “What ball do you mean?”

“Why, the Harborough Ball,” answered the young lady. “Everybody will be there; Captain Struggles, Major Brush—even Mr. Crasher, though he won’t do much in the way of dancing. Why, it is held at your hotel. The music will keep you awake all night, so you may as well go.”

“I will, if you’ll dance with me,” rejoined Mr. Sawyer, with the air of a man who is “in for a penny, in for a pound.”

And he felt queerer than he had ever done about Miss Mexico when she murmured a gentle affirmative. Nay, when he had put her carefully into papa’s carriage, and tucked her up as assiduously as if she was going to the North Pole, he whispered, “You won’t forget your promise?” while he shook hands, and wished her “Good-bye.” Nor did the scarce perceptible pressure with which that promise was ratified tend to restore our friend’s equanimity in the least.

He was not a ball-going man: far from it. Also, I question whether it is not a breach of privilege that your rest at an hotel should be broken for a whole night by the thumping of feet, the squeaking of fiddles, the Scotch Quadrilles, and the monotonous “Tempête;” whilst your dinner and general comfort for two days previous to, and two days after the solemnity, is reduced to positive misery. Nevertheless, Mr. Sawyer caught himself repeating more than once during the evening—which, by the way, he spent in an atmosphere of smoke, with Struggles, Brush, Savage, and the Honourable Crasher—“Ball! ball!—was ever anything so lucky? Go!—of course I’ll go! In fact, I promised: and perhaps she’ll dance with me twice!”