CHAPTER VI MISS MERLIN

I always think convalescence is a more tedious process than actual illness. A man of active habits, who has lived a great deal out-of-doors, pines to be at work in the open air again; and although intellectual pleasures are doubtless very delightful, there is something in the sense of rapid motion, and strong physical exertion, which “leavens the blood” far more effectually than the richest mental food the Bodleian itself can afford. Before I had been confined to the inside of The Haycock for a week, or had digested a tenth of the contents of such new books as I had brought down with me in anticipation of occasional frosts, I had begun to loathe the very sight of the dust-coloured curtains in my bedroom, the staring paper in my sitting apartment, the smell of coffee that pervades the passages of an inn at all hours of the day and night—none the less because that beverage is seldom consumed within its precincts—and the general features of the prison I had chosen of my own accord. Nay, I almost caught myself, on more than one occasion, doubtful of my loyalty to Miss Lushington herself, censorious as to her appearance, sceptical on her excellence, and even insensible to her charms.

In this frame of mind I descended the stairs about ten days after my accident, with a strong feeling in favour of any novelty that might accidentally turn up, to divert the current of my thoughts.

During my late and protracted toilette, no whit accelerated by the difficulty of shaving in my crippled state (for I am no Volunteer, beared like the pard, and hold that a smooth chin denotes a respectable man), I had been disturbed and a little irritated by sundry bumpings and thumpings on the stairs and passages, which I attributed on reflection to the awkwardness of a new chambermaid. Expecting to meet, in my descent, nothing more formidable than this red-armed personage, I was surprised, not to say startled, to encounter on the landing one of the smartest ladies’-maids I have ever seen, who started—as ladies’-maids always do, at the unprecedented apparition of a stranger in the principal thoroughfare of an edifice erected for the accommodation of travellers—screamed faintly, placed her hand on her side, and turned away in an attitude of graceful and elaborate confusion.

Such a functionary, with the trimmest of figures, the most voluminous of crinolines, the neatest of boots, and a silver-spangled net gathering “the wandering tresses of her sun-bright hair,” was sufficiently in character with a couple of wide imperials, an enormous wicker basket covered with black oilcloth, looking like a trunk of considerable weight and substance, but which, instead of containing family jewels, plate, and valuables to a high amount, enclosed huge volumes of some cloudlike fabric, and when lifted, proved as light as a feather; two or more cap-boxes, a writing-case, a dressing-ditto, a leather bag, a square portfolio, several wraps, rugs, and shawls fastened together by a strap, and a bundle of parasols, en-tout-cas, and attenuated umbrellas, from the midst of which peeped an unaccountable but suggestive apparition in the shape of the sweetest little apology for a hunting-whip I have ever set eyes upon.

I am not a curious man—far from it; but it was to be expected that I should be at least interested in so extraordinary an arrival at a place like The Haycock: nor was it entirely unnatural that I should come to a halt on the landing with such a strategical disposition as brought me face to face with the well-dressed attendant, and satisfied me that the countenance over against mine own was an exceedingly pretty one. Ere I had half scanned it, however, a voice from an adjacent bedroom calling “Justine! Justine!” prompted me to identify its owner at once as a foreigner; but the accent in which Justine replied, “Coming in a minute, ma’am!” was so undoubtedly English, that my speculations were again completely at a loss; neither was the maid inclined to hurry herself, till she had given me an opportunity of perusing an extremely pretty face, with sparkling black eyes and an expression of determined coquetry, scarcely modified by dark hair dressed “à l’Impératrice,” and two little curls, something like those in a mallard’s tail, plastered down to her cheek-bones in a mode that I am given to understand is termed the “accroche c?ur,” or “heart-hooker,”—not at all an inappropriate title.

“Justine! Justine!” repeated the same lady-like and pleasing voice, this time in accents of command rather than entreaty; and Justine, after thanking me with great sweetness for stopping up the way, was compelled to obey the summons of her invisible lady.

Completely mystified, I descended to the bar, there to find Miss Lushington for the first time in the worst of humours, or what that lady herself was pleased to call “uncommonly put about.” She ordered the waiter to and fro like a drill-sergeant, rang the ostler’s bell with vindictive vehemence, and mixed a glass of brandy-and-water for a customer that must have knocked his head off. Also she tossed her curls so haughtily, and carried herself so uprightly, as to denote she was prepared at any moment, if I may use the expression, to run her guns out and clear for action.

Without being a deep student in natural history, I have not failed to observe, that when a cow begins to put her muzzle to the ground, and throw the earth about with her feet, she is prepared to toss and gore. Also, that when a woman cocks her nose in the air, giving at the same time an occasional sniff through that elevated organ, while a perceptible rise and fall heaves the snowy cambric that veils her bosom, it is the forerunner of a breeze. In either case it is advisable to change the locality as rapidly as is practicable, and without reference to the ordinary forms of politeness.

Under these circumstances, I made my way forthwith into the stableyard, and had scarcely weathered the pump which commands its entrance, ere I came face to face with a very important-looking personage, whom I could not call to mind as having ever before seen within the precincts of The Haycock. There was no mistaking his profession, which was that of stud-groom. Not one of your working servants, who strips to his shirt on occasion, and straps like a helper; but a real swell groom, always in review order, just as I saw him now, and rejoicing in the only costume of the present century which has not varied the least in my recollection. These men have all the same figure—plump, dapper, and short-legged: clad in the same attire, to wit—a straight-brimmed hat, rather high in the crown; a pepper-and-salt cut-away coat, single-breasted, and of a length in the back only equalled by the shortness of its skirts; a blue-spotted neckcloth, with a horse-shoe pin; a waistcoat of the most extensive dimensions; drab breeches, with gaiters to match; and the old-fashioned watch-ribbon with a key at the end. Like the Ph?nix, the race is immortal and unchangeable. It possesses its own language, its own customs, its own traditions. As Napoleon the First said of the Bourbons, it learns nothing, and forgets nothing. It is reflective, sagacious, sober, and methodical; but on the other hand, it is opiniate, obstinate, wilful, and deaf to the voice of reason. You may leave one of the order, with perfect confidence, in charge of twenty horses, and be sure that everything will go on like clockwork, and that you will not be robbed of a shilling more than what he considers the due perquisites of his office; but if you want to arrange about your nags for yourself, to move them here and there, to enjoy for a day the pleasure of doing what you like with your own, be sure that you will reap only vexation and disappointment, confessing at length, in the bitterness of your heart, that the most accomplished of servants is but one degree removed from the most tyrannical of masters.

The man touched his hat to me with respectful politeness. Vanity whispered: “He acknowledges you at once for a gentleman, and perhaps you even look a little Crimean with your arm in that sling.” I replied to his salutation by a remark on the weather and the sport; and having informed him I was staying at the hotel, and detailed to him somewhat circumstantially the particulars of my accident and progress of my recovery, to all of which he listened with grave courtesy, I asked him, “Whose horses occupied that range of stabling?” which I now perceived by the straw around the door-sills, and hermetically sealed appearance of the windows, were inhabited by some valuable stud.

“They’re ours, sir;” answered the man, as if I must necessarily know who “we” were. “I shall be happy to show them to you before they are shut up;” and producing the ring-key from his pocket, he called a very neat light-weight pad-groom to his assistance, and ushered me, without further parley, into the sanctum of his stud.

Four better-looking animals, even as they showed then and there, with their clothes on, and littered up to their hocks in straw, it has seldom been my lot to set eyes on. They were much of the same pattern and calibre: small heads, large bodies, short flat legs, great power behind the saddle, and the best shoulders I ever saw. Two of them had been just run over with the irons, but not sufficiently to create an eyesore; the others had not a speck or blemish about them. What struck me most was, that while their appearance denoted they must be quite thorough-bred, they had none of the wincing, swishing, lifting ways that usually distinguish these high-born creatures when you approach them in the stable. On the contrary, they seemed as tame and docile as so many pet-lambs.

The first that was stripped, a flea-bitten grey, of extraordinary beauty and symmetry, may serve as a specimen of the rest. His head, when turned round in the stall, showed like that of an Arab, so square was it in the forehead, and so tapering at the delicate velvet-like muzzle. The small silken ears, too, might have listened for the bells of the caravan in the glowing Syrian air, so pointed and symmetrical was their form, so restlessly they quivered at the slightest noise; and the mild black eye, with its latent fire, might have belonged equally to a gazelle in the rose groves of El-Gulbaz, or an Arab maid at the door of her father’s tent in the heart of the Buyuk-Sahar.

I have often thought that in the eye of no other animal is there so reflective an expression, as in that of a horse. There is a depth of honesty and goodness in that full shining glance, that vouches for the intrinsic worth of his character—that seems to denote courage, generosity, gratitude, all the nobler qualities which man would fain arrogate to himself, and a sensitive disposition, which is hurt, rather than angered, by an injury. When irritated, nay even maddened, by ill-usage, how soon he is soothed and appeased by a little judicious kindness! How he appreciates approbation! How willing he is to expend his force, his energies, his very life, for the sake of a kind word, or a well-timed caress from the hand he is so proud to obey! It seems to me that his is the brute nature which most resembles that of the best and bravest of the human race—true, loving, and courageous; writhing under injury, but giving all, freely and generously still; springing to the kind word or gesture, and always ready at the call of the voice he loves; game to the back-bone, and staunch to the last drop of his blood. This may seem a far-fetched parallel, and my reader may smile at me for a hot-brained enthusiast; but I love a good horse from my heart, and that’s the truth!

Nevertheless, although the grey’s head and neck may have seemed to argue an Eastern origin, the size and power of his lengthy frame were as far removed as possible from the attenuated proportions, the spare lean quarters of the indigenous Arab. He looked like getting through deep ground, and shooting well into the next field, whatever might be the size or nature of the fence that opposed his progress. I thought, on such a horse as that, there was no obstacle should stop me in the Soakington country; and I felt a momentary disgust while I compared his noble beauty with the more plebeian appearance of Tipple Cider and Apple-Jack.

“He looks a right good one,” said I, “and as fit to go as a man can get him. What is his name?”

“We call him the ‘King of Diamonds,’” replied the groom, modestly accepting, and passing over, my compliment to his own skill, as implied in approval of the horse’s condition. “Next to him is ‘Prince Charming;’ and the chestnut mare’s name is ‘Beller Donner;’ and the bay in the far stall, he’s ‘Lady-Killer;’ that’s all our stud, sir,” he added, touching his hat. “We don’t keep any hack; they’re no use to us, hacks ain’t.”

“I suppose the grey’s the best of them,” I observed, reverting to the beautiful animal who was now being covered up once more.

“Neatest fencer of the lot,” answered the man, “and they can all go middling straight for that matter; but the Prince, he pounded of ’em all that heavy day last week in the Vale; and Beller Donner, she was the only one as got over the Bumperley Brook, down by Heel Tappington, last Thursday was a fortnight. Ah! we beat ’em all that day, we did. If it hadn’t been for a man hoeing turnips, we have had to take the fox from the hounds ourselves. We did go owdacious, to be sure! ‘The Beller,’ as I calls her, had had pretty nigh enough, I can tell you, sir. But when we do get a start, of a fine scenting morning, I’ll tell you what it is, sir—we takes no denial, and we stands for no repairs!”

Amused with the manner in which my new friend seemed to identify himself with his proprietor, I proceeded to question him further about the horses, eliciting from him their various qualifications and merits, to which he was obviously willing to do ample justice.

“You see, sir,” said he, “we rides ’em all alike; that’s where it is. We doesn’t go picking a horse for this here country, and a horse for that there; but we brings ’em out each in their turn, as regular as clockwork. Wery particular, we are; and when they are out, go they must, or we’ll know the reason why. We haven’t had Prince Charming, now, so long as the others; and the first day we rode him he seemed unaccountably shifty at large places; uneasy like, and prevaricating, and wanting to go anywhere but where we put him. Now some folks would have said, ‘This horse won’t suit at no price,’ and been dashed a little, as was natural, and so perhaps sent him back again and lost of him altogether. But that’s not our way, that isn’t. We just laid him alongside of the hounds as soon as ever they began to run, sat down upon him, catched a good hold of his head, and sailed him at his places so as he might go in or over, which he pleased; but he must do one or the t’other. The Prince seemed to take it all at once like. When we gets off him, we just gives a quiet little smile—we never laughs; and, says we, ‘I know’d he could gallop and go on, and now I’ve found out he can jump. I think we’ll keep him, John,’ says we,—My name’s John, sir,” (with a touch of his hat,)—“‘so put him in along with the others;’ and up we goes to a cup-o’ tea, and a book till bed-time.”

“That’s the way to make a hunter!” I exclaimed enthusiastically; for I confess I felt my blood stir at John’s description; “and to ride in that form, no doubt you require the very best, such as you seem to have got here.”

“We doesn’t grudge price, you see, sir,” answered John confidentially. “When we hears of what we think likely to suit, at Tattersall’s or elsewhere, we comes down with the money at once: two hundred, three hundred—no matter what, so long as they are real good ones. Now there’s Lady-Killer, (Here! Tom, take and strip that bay horse,) we bought him at The Corner, with never a character, for two hundred and fifty guineas. Know’d nothing at all about him, except that we’d seen him out, and seen him gallop. Well, Mason would have had him if we hadn’t. First day as we rode him, and first fence as we put him at, blessed if it wasn’t the park pales, up in Deersley Chase. My Lord’s hounds, they found their fox like winking, and away right over the park and amongst the fallow-deer, as if they was tied to him. What a scent there was, to be sure! Never checked nor hovered, nor seemed to take no notice of the riot; but away, with their heads up-wind, as straight and as even as the crop of my whip. Well, there was an awful scrimmage, to be sure: such a rush among the fast ones! and we was a-going slap in front of the whole on ’em, with our hands down, I can tell you. It is a pleasure to see us, sir. Three-quarters-of-a-mile of grass had just got the horses into their swing, when the hounds came to the park pales, and over, like a stream of water across a mill-dam. No time to think about it. While two or three of the tail hounds were falling back from the top, the others were rising the opposite hill, running alarming. It was a regular case of ‘jump, or else go home.’ Some of the gentlemen pulls up, and some goes shying away to look for a gate; and one—a young gent he was, from college—takes and rides at it; but his horse turns round and kicks. So there was plenty of room, you see, for anybody who wanted to go and try. We catches hold of the bay horse, very steady and determined, and we rides him at it, so that he could not have refused, if it had been ever so. I don’t think, myself, he knowed anything about timber, for he just took it with his knees, and turned completely over on the top of us. ‘Killed! by jingo!’ says my Lord, turning as white as ashes, for he had waited to see us have a drive at it afore he galloped away to the gate. ‘Worth a dozen dead ones yet, my Lord!’ says we, jumping into the saddle again as light as a feather, and away after the hounds. So from that time we called the bay horse ‘Lady-Killer,’ although I never knowed him touch a rail since, and now he’s as safe a timber-jumper as we’ve got in the stable!”

“Your master must have extraordinary nerve,” said I, somewhat aghast, I must confess, at this stirring narrative of escape and daring. “There are few men who would care to ride for a certain fall over so dangerous a fence, let hounds run as hard as they will.”

The man stared. “Men!” he repeated, “Master! I ain’t got no master: it’s my lady as I’m a talkin’ of—Miss Merlin: her that came two hours ago in a po’ chay. The prettiest rider in England, let who will be the other. Master, indeed! I should like to know the man who can see the way she goes. There’s a many of ’em that’s tried it; but bless you, she takes no more notice, but just cuts ’em down, and hangs ’em up to dry.”

It was now my turn to be surprised. I confess I had never contemplated such a possibility as this; and now it flashed upon me all at once, as these things generally do. The owner of such high-bred cattle, the reckless equestrian, to whom wood and water formed but the mere items of a pleasurable excitement, was doubtless also the mistress of the fascinating Justine. I could picture to myself the sort of person likely to combine those dashing possessions. I imagined a lady of gaudy exterior, such as I remember to have met formerly out hunting in the vicinity of London, and masculine, not to say free-and-easy manners, with a bold eye, a dab of rouge, false plaits skilfully disposed, and a loud voice, enforcing a corresponding style of language, garnished with strong expressions. I could conceive that such a dame would never be content to sit down to dinner alone at the Haycock, after the excitement of a day’s hunting, particularly as she seemed to render that amusement as thrilling a one as possible, but that she would naturally make acquaintance with its sole inmate, bid him join her quiet little repast, a pint of sherry, and a bottle of champagne between the two, and what would become of me then? Perhaps, ere twelve hours had elapsed, we might be drinking the palest brandy-and-water together, while I smoked my virgin weed, and she indulged in a coquettish little cigarette. Of course she smoked. It is the fast thing for a woman to do in these days, and most of us know what a pace they can go when they like. I saw it all, in my mind’s eye—the little shyness at first, the gradual warming from acquaintance into friendship, and from friendship to intimacy; my own misgivings, struggles, subjugation, and eventual discomfiture.

I am not ashamed to confess my weakness. Any woman, who thinks it worth her while, can put her foot upon my neck. It is for this reason that I fight shy of the sex, that I am considered a bear and a bore by the majority of my female acquaintances, and that my pretty cousins call me The Woman-hater. There are certain allurements I cannot resist, certain encroachments I cannot withstand. I see the net, and walk into it open-eyed. Other men can emerge scathless from the ordeal of Christmas games and Twelfth-night festivities; can play at blind-man’s-buff without finding their mental vision dazzled and darkened by the game; can hunt the slipper or the ring, round and round the charmed circle, nor find the charm too potent for their peace of mind; nay, can even take a base advantage of the pendent mistletoe, with a forehead of brass, a check of marble, and a lip of stone. I envy them their insensibility, their moral courage, and their physical daring; but for my own part I think it wiser to leave these “little games” alone. Need I say I am a bachelor? Need I say I came to the Haycock in order to enjoy my favourite pastime, unmolested by the presence of the dominant sex? Even Miss Lushington I had considered an unnecessary addition to the establishment, a snare to be avoided and an enemy to be defied: but I had been somewhat reassured by the mild and motherly interest that lady took in my welfare, and the impartiality with which she shed her attractions on all alike. But now, if I was to be exposed to the insidious attacks of this mounted Delilah, beset by Miss Merlin, not only in the free intercourse of the hunting-field, but also when “taking mine ease in mine inn,” why I had better retire in disorder at once, and obviate the possibility of battle and defeat alike, by a tumultuous flight.

Revolving these weighty matters in my mind, I retraced my steps into the Haycock, and ordered a glass of sherry and a biscuit in the bar.

Miss Lushington filled out my liquor to the brim without a word, slamming down before me at the same time that biscuit, peculiar to the British hostelry, of which, to judge by its flavour, the ingredients are soda and sawdust, with a dash of gravel. I munched in silence for awhile, observing cautiously the clouds that gathered on the barmaid’s brow. At last I ventured an observation.

“A fresh arrival, I understand, Miss Lushington. The Haycock will be getting quite gay now, I presume.”

Miss Lushington’s only reply was a toss of her black head. “Do you expect any more visitors?” I proceeded, like a timid bather trying his depth. “This will be somewhat lonely for a lady all by herself, when she isn’t out hunting, I should say.”

Miss Lushington’s bright eyes flashed. “Ladies are very different in their tastes,” said she, laying a withering stress of sarcasm on this general and incontestable position. “Some women, Mr. Softly” (I have omitted to mention that my address is Cyrus Softly, Esq., Hat and Umbrella Club, London)—“some women seem to me more like men than women. In course every one to her liking. For my part, I say nothing; but this I will say: for a lady to come down to a out-o’-the-way corner like this—no friends, no followers; nothing but that highty-tighty maid (and if ever I catch her put her saucy face inside my bar, I’ll give her a piece of my mind, see if I don’t,) and hunt, hunt, hunt, day after day, and when it’s a frost or what not, read, read, read, from morning till night, and never out of a riding-habit, or else a plain dark gownd with no more trimming than on the back of my ’and” (Miss Lushington, when excited, had a habit of catching her breath, and in so doing let go a certain number of aspirates, and added a few elegant superfluities of language). “Why, I say it isn’t natural, and if it isn’t natural, there must be something in it, don’t you think so, Mr. Softly? And to see a maid dressed out like that flaunting miss, in flounces and fal-lals, with a velvet net to her ’air, and hear-rings like any lady of the land! In course it ain’t my place to make remarks, Mr. Softly; but you can’t prevent my thinking it a pity and a shame, not if you was to hang me alive for it the very next minute, there!”

Foreseeing no advantageous result from a continuance of the discussion with Miss Lushington, and surmising also that the strong opinion she had formed of the new arrivals was partly owing to Justine’s attractions, I left the barmaid in her own department, placing her hand to her side for “occasional spasms,” and catching her breath loudly at intervals, as is the habit of the sex when stimulated by any unusual excitement, and proceeded up the staircase and along the dark passage that led to my dormitory, pondering deeply on all that I had heard and seen.

My curiosity—more, my interest, was strongly aroused. Miss Merlin was evidently no common character. Brave, reserved, studious, and simple in her attire, she must be a lusus natur?, a flower like the aloe, blooming but once in a century; and here she was at Soakington;—how to obtain an introduction was the difficulty. Had I been sound again, nothing, I thought, could be easier: a large fence out hunting; an appropriate compliment to her horse, and implied flattering of herself; a gate opened at the right moment, and then a bow out-of-doors, which could not but ripen to a familiar greeting within. After that, it would be all plain-sailing. When I got thus far, I was perfectly astonished at myself. “Softly,” said I, “is it possible—you, who have been a shy man and a diffident all your life; who have never been willing to burn your fingers at the shrine of Cupid, much less scorch yourself up, body and bones and all; you, who have had warnings innumerable among your friends, and beacons untold in your own family—can you be such an ass? Did not your cousin Harry, helping a comparative stranger to put on her goloshes at a picnic, become involved in a series of dilemmas which came eventually under the notice of Sir Cresswell Cresswell, in reviewing whose decision a weekly paper was good enough to remark that the co-respondent, meaning Cousin Harry, had behaved with the blackest villainy throughout? Was not your brother John, accidentally offering an unknown damsel his umbrella in the street, compelled by an Amazonian mother to marry her within six weeks? Has not the Amazonion taken up her abode with him for life, and has not Mrs. John Softly borne twins to her lord on two successive occasions? Are these hideous examples insufficient, and must you in your own person furnish another deplorable instance of the inevitable result when—
“‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread’?”

“Let it alone,” cried Caution. “But may I not at least take a look at my danger?” whispered Curiosity. “Better bandage your eyes,” answered Caution. “Perhaps she is not good-looking after all,” urged Curiosity. “Don’t go near her for your life!” threatened Cau. “I’ll be d—d if I don’t!” thundered Q.

This was the end of the argument, and I arrived at it precisely as I reached a turn of the staircase that led to my bedroom. Justine was at this instant coming down with a basket in her arms far too wide for the narrow landing: the corner was exceedingly dark and inconvenient. In common humanity I could not but stop to assist her. Not very self-possessed at the best of times, I am afraid my efforts were of the clumsiest. Between us, we got the basket in the angle of the two walls. I was inside of it, and could not possibly get out: Justine could not very well leave me imprisoned. She laughed a good deal, and blushed and pulled as hard as she could. I, too, pushed vigorously, but it struck me Justine was remarkably pretty, and that of all places in the world this was the most whimsical for a conversation with a strange young woman of lively manners and prepossessing exterior.