CHAPTER XXIII DOUGHTY DEEDS

About this period there might have been—and indeed, by his intimates, there was—remarked an obvious change in the appearance, habits, and general demeanour of our friend. No longer dressed in the rough-and-ready style which had heretofore been at once his glory and his peculiarity, Mr. Sawyer now began to affect a strange refinement of costume, bordering on effeminacy. His boots were thinner and much tighter than of old; he turned his collars over his neckcloth, after the prevailing fashion, thereby imparting to his physiognomy an expression of romantic vacuity; anointed his head till it shone again; affected gloves on all occasions, and set up a ring. Altogether, his exterior was as symptomatic of his disorder as that of Benedict. Also he purchased, at a printseller’s over the way, a representation of a young person washing her feet in a stream, and purporting to be a “Highland Lassie,” but of a meretricious aspect which, it is only fair to state, is rarely to be observed amongst the Scottish mountaineers. It was one of those startling accidental likenesses to the lady of his affections, which a man must be as hard hit as Mr. Sawyer to detect. In the hunting-field, too, he adopted an ambitious style of riding, totally at variance with his previous quiet, straightforward form; and a considerable interval of bad-scenting weather enabled him to distinguish himself to his heart’s content. When hounds run best pace, horses have not wind for extraordinary exertions in the matter of fencing; and, moreover, such saltatory exploits as are out of the common way can be witnessed but by few, and those are completely engrossed in their own doings; but when the pack checks in every field, a man who chooses to single himself out by charging the ugliest bullfinches and the stiffest rails, either because he wants to attract attention or to sell his horse, has every opportunity of showing up the latter and calling down upon himself the animadversions of all true sportsmen. Our friend, with the two horses he bought from Mr. Varnish—both capital leapers—in addition to Hotspur and the grey, had no lack of material on which to flourish away in too close proximity to the chase. Charles Payne, though with a strong fellow-feeling for “keenness,” began to hate the sight of him, Mr. Tailby to dread his appearance as he would that of a black frost, and Lord Stamford to find that even his imperturbable good-humour might be exhausted at last.

What is to be expected, however, of a gentleman who has taken to repeating Montrose’s well-known lines—
“If doughty deeds my lady please,
Right soon I’ll mount my steed;
And keen his lance, and strong his arm,
That bears from me the meed;”

varied by the resolute sentiment—
“He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all!”

One or other of these romantic stanzas was continually on Mr. Sawyer’s lips. After their enunciation, he was used to sigh deeply, shake his head, and light a cigar, which he would smoke vehemently for a quarter of an hour or so, in a brown study.

Our friend’s reflections, however, were not wholly dipped in the roseate hues of hope. Stern misgivings would come across him, as to the imprudence of the career on which he had embarked. He was spending a deal of money, that was the fact; and he had always, hitherto, been of a saving disposition, rather than otherwise. In the prosecution of his schemes against Miss Mexico, his outlay, indeed, had been principally in cheap jewellery and lavender-water—articles of fascination for the purchase of which he would have been handsomely reimbursed by that lady’s thirty thousand pounds, if he had got it. But in the present case, not only was his extravagance much greater, but it is mere justice to state, that he had never weighed Miss Dove’s fortune or the want of it in the balance with her attractions. The former flame had half a plum; the present might not have half-a-crown. Bah! what of that? Those eyelashes alone were worth all the money!

Nevertheless, a stud of horses, though consisting only of the modest number of four hunters and a hack, are not to be kept for nothing, more particularly when away from home. Independent of stable-rent, forage, subscriptions to hounds, and necessary douceurs to different individuals, any man who has ever paid a groom’s book will bear witness to the extraordinary rapidity with which its different items accumulate. Naphtha alone is as dear as claret, and consumed with equal liberality; sponges, rubbers, currycombs, and dandy-brushes require to be replaced with astonishing frequency; and, what with shoeing and removing, the blacksmith’s bill is as long as his stalwart arm. When you add to all this an everyday dinner of the best, with champagne and claret à discrétion—if such a quality, indeed, can be said to exist in a bachelor party—you will not share Mr. Sawyer’s surprise at discovering that his present expenditure far exceeded his calculations. The four hundred he had paid to Mr. Varnish for two horses completed a good round sum; and, for a minute or two, he thought he had better have remained at The Grange.

This last item, however, in his outlay, suggested to him a method by which he might combine fame with money-making, and, if Fortune stood his friend, have his season almost for nothing. The chestnut five-year-old, whom, out of compliment to Miss Dove, he had resolved to call “Wood-Pigeon,” was really a good nag. He was a quick and fine fencer, could gallop fast, and go on. Altogether, Mr. Varnish was not beyond the mark when he described him to the purchaser as adapted for “safety, punctuality, and dispatch.” Why not put him into this steeple-chase they made such a fuss about, win a hatful of money in stakes, bets, &c., to say nothing of the “honour and glory,” and then sell the whole stud, and retire upon his laurels? Should Fortune smile, and land him first past the post, it would be the proudest day of his life; and even in the event of failure, why, “If doughty deeds my lady please,” &c.; and Miss Dove could not but look upon him with a more favourable eye, when he had worn her colours in the race.

Old Isaac must be taken into consultation. For the first time, his master rather shunned the glance of that keen, hard eye. He walked into the stable one evening, after hunting, and began to sound his servant on the important position.

“By the by, Isaac,” said he, in an off-hand tone, “they’re talking of a steeple-chase here. Only amongst the gentlemen, you know; we sha’n’t want much training. I think I should have a fair chance with Wood-Pigeon?”

Isaac shook his head. “Well, sir,” said he, “you know best. Who’s to ride?”

“Oh, I should ride him myself, of course,” replied his master, with a toss of the head that as much as said, “With such a jockey, he’s sure to win.” “Ride him myself, and do all I know, you may depend,” he added facetiously.

Old Isaac reflected. “Have you ever ridden a steeple-chase?” he asked, after a moment’s consideration.

Mr. Sawyer was obliged to admit that he never had.

“Well, then, I have,” said the groom. “You don’t know what it is. Such a blazin’ pace through the fields! and such an owdacious scuffle at the fences! Nothin’ but a professional can keep his head at that work; and he often gets it broke. Better not try it, master: better let it alone. They’ll only make a fool of ye.”

Mr. Sawyer waxed indignant. “That’s my business,” said he; “yours is to get the horse fit. I tell you I’ve entered him—Wood-Pigeon by Wapiti. He’ll be first favourite the day of the race. Do you hear? I depend upon you to get him thoroughly fit.”

Isaac scratched his head. “Fit!” he repeated. “Yes—I’ll get the horse fit: you get the rider. If you must have a turn at it, take my advice, master. You get yourself in good wind; keep your head clear; jump off at the moment the flag drops; never let his head go; and, above all, sit still.”

After this, Isaac could never again be brought to open his mouth on the subject.