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CLARKE. 67 Charlie Thornhill j 139 Which is the Winner ? 1 1 7 The Flying Scud j 157 Lord Falconberg’s Heir 128 Crumbs fro 7 n a Sportsman' s Table BY THOMAS A. TROLLOPE. 74 Marietta | 87 Li?idisfar?i Chase ( 2 s. 6 d.) 76 Beppo , the Conscript | 90 Giulio Mala test a 344 La Beat a 3 ] London : Chapman & Hall, 193 Piccadilly. fih /' /On/ GRANTLEY GRANGE BENEDICTS AND BACHELORS. BY SHELSLEY BEAUCHAMP, AUTHOR OF il NELLY HAMILTON,” ETC. t fyrtu L5hi j j An early worshipper at Nature’s shrine, I loved her rudest scenes — warrens and heaths, And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes.” C. Smith. NEW EDITION. LONDON : TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1879 ., ( The right of translation and reproduction is reserved.) ?X1> 6 7 2 % I 9 77 f CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE i. John Archer of Grantley Grange 1 it. Eoyston Rookery — The Dawn of Day 9 nr. Out with the Cubs, and a Kiss in the Hop-Yard 20 IV. A Queer Customer — Morning in the Valley 29 V. Andrews of Coney Green and the Hamlet of Honeybrook 36 VI. Moonlight on the Hills — Experience paid for ... 42 r VII. A Chat in the Studio — Johnson and Kate Archer 49 VIII. Autumn Tints and Woodland Scenery ... 57 IX. A Ghost in the Open — Griffin in the Grip ... 65 X. Old John, and how it happened 72 XI. Burton of Boscabel — Into the Biyer, and down I ** with the Flood ... ... ... ... 79 XII. The Kun from Henley — A Wet Jacket for a White Tip 87 XIII. Sunshine after Rain — The Storm and the Clear- ing 93 % XIV. Flirtation in the Fernery— Jane Clare and John 4 Archer 100 XV. Killing Time in the Country — Sno wed-up ... 109 4 " XVI. Winter Scenery — Binns the Basket Man 119 % ? XVII. Twilight Musings — Warne the Huntsman ... 131 . XVIII. Hounds and Canvas— The Picture Painted 141 XIX. Aspect of the Country— Spring approaching 153 i 1 503 1 0 iv CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE XX. Florence Mills and Charlie Burton 158 XXL The Hall, the Church, and the Village 166 XXII. The Old Squire and the Lawn Meet — The Race and the Eescue ... ... 173 XXIII. A Gray Day — The Bridge at Holme Wood ... 182 XXIV. The Bachelor’s Party and the Doctor’s Story 190 XXV. The Peyton Arms — Past and Present ... 197 XXVI. Marston Hills, and the Ride to the Liddiats 208 XXVII. Rose Brandon op Hazlewood ... ... 217 XXVIII. Love and Liberty — Charlie Burton and Flo- rence Mills ... ... ... ... 222 XXIX. Blue-Eyed Nellie, the Pet of the Village — Town and Country ... ... ... 229 XXX. The Find at Bramley Gorse, and the Kill at Branestone ... ... ... ... 239 XXXI. Johnson and the Gipsies— Endall-on-the-Hill 249 XXXII. Cumpton Common— The Last Day op the Season 260 XXXIII. In Luck for once — A Brace for the Finish 266 XXXIV. The Hunt Dinner at the Red Lion ... ... 272 XXXV. A Blushing Bride— Rose Brandon .. 280 XXXVI. On a Bright May-Morning Early — The Walk by the River ... ... ... 287 XXXVII. Doings at the Church— Mine and Thine — The Village of Wilmington ... ... 297 XXXVIII. The Waterfall in the Glen, and the Old Inn at Shipley ... ... ... ... 307 XXXIX. The Quarry Farm at the Fishing Ford — The Picnic Party ... ... ... 319 XL. Grantley Belfry — Thomas Jones and Joe the Fiddler ... ... ... 326 XLI. Wedding Bells — Jane Clare and Kate Archer 333 XLII. Florence Mills— Charlie sinks the Bachelor 340 GRANTLEY GRANGE. CHAPTER I. JOHN ARCHER OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. “ Well, John, old fellow, I see you are still amongst the good-looking ones ! You have a rare brown horse there/’ said Wells, as his friend Archer, who had come swinging along on the hand-gallop from Grantley Grange, drew rein and came up the hollow-way, that was deep down under the terrace- wall, where Wells stood by the holly- hocks. It was Eoyston Rookery that he came to, where Wells lived; an old-fashioned Manor-house in the Teme Valley, that was well situated in the midst of hop-yards and orchards, half-way down a slope that looked to the river and the fishing-fords. And it belonged to Wells, and it was a good sort of place to live at; for it was a pictur- esque old house, of irregular height, and roomy; half- timbered and patterned with ovals and circles and cross- bars, and heavy with ivy; and it had some big bay windows and a jutting porch, and clustered chimneys — twisted — and tall vanes. It was under a rookery too, and by a moat ; and there was a breadth of lawn and a sweep of shrubbery, and iron gates that led into a tangled garden. Corn-fields were about it, and meadows below it ; and high hills were at the back of it, that were wooded to the top of them. And “ the blow ” there was as good as a sea blow, for you had a sweep of seventy miles of country for the looking for it — from the Welsh mountains to the Cotswolds ; and there was such a fluttering of pigeons and a cawing of rooks and a cackling of fowls, and so many other sounds about the buildings, that there seemed to be B 2 JOHN ARCHER a good deal of busy life there ; and the neighing of colts and the clatter of hoofs told that the owner of it was a horseman. And as Archer, having ridden round to the front, jumped off at the porch, that was bright with roses and red autumn berries, Wells came across the lawn and met him. “ He is a fine-topped horse too, John,” said he, “ and a stepper. Plow are you? A new one, is he not? where did you pick him up ? ” “ May had him for a customer,” said Archer ; “ but as the horse seemed a likely one, and they did not deal, I bought him. How do you like him ? ” “ His colour is good,” said Wells. “Yes, it is,” said Archer; “a good and lasting one. Look at his mousey flank and tan-touched muzzle. He is a beauty ! ” “He moves well, John.” “ He has pace too, Harry, and can fence a bit. Throw your leg over him and feel his mouth. How are the colts ? ” “ Oh, flourishing ! They are all together now ; ride down and see them.” “Well, jump up, then, and give me your opinion just what you think of him.” So Archer turned the horse round, and Harry mounted : and then they went through a gorsed hoi low- way down into the meadows to see the colts — five of them — and the brood mares that were with them ; and they found them standing together there by some shedding, that was gorsed and wattled, and fronted south, serving for both shade and shelter. And past the shed v r as a brook — a trout stream — that came down through the woods to the river ; and there were some hurdles on the other side of it, and bushed bars beyond them, and a flight of rails with a gate in the middle of it, up under the hedgerow at the top, put there for jumping practice, as Wells rode his horses there in the summer to get them clever at their fences, and so make them into money in the hunting season. “ Well,” said Wells, as he handled the horse like a work- man, “ I like his move, John, and his action ; he does not ride amiss by any means. What shall I put him at? ” OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. o “ Just what you please,” replied Archer. “ Give him the hurdles, and then try the gorse.” So, crossing the brook at the roadway, Wells laid hold of him, and rushing him at the hurdles, the horse topped them cleverly ; and taking the bars in his stride, jumped them like a greyhound ! Wells then turned his round, and rode him gently down towards the water, caught his head short as he got near it, and sent him at it. Answering the call, the brown horse cleared it with lengthy bound, and landed splendidly, dropping at once into a steady canter, which, changing to a gallop at a touch, he raced him down to where the brook was wider — an open unbushed place higher up the meadow — when, without swerve or balk, he fled it famously, and dropped into his pace again just like a hunter. “ A water-jumper, John, and no mistake ! ” said Harry, as he came up, patting him. “ How well he goes ! Will Stevens and the gray will have a rival.” “ I hope so,” returned Archer; “ but take him on and put him over a good fence or two ; you will not part com- pany, I can assure you.” “ Oh, never mind ; I see he knows his business. What are you up to?” said Wells, seeing that his friend was busy with his pencil. “Just marking-in the forms of this old oak,” said Archer, “ as we are here. I have it on the canvas, with those two mares in shade and the rest in front, full in the sunlight. But those boughs yonder I shall lengthen, to throw some of the youngsters in half-shadow. I think they’ll group the better for it, Harry.” “ You are very good, John. When shall you finish it?” “ Oh, soon,” said Archer ; “ the first time I can get a working fit.” “Thanks,” Wells said; “I shall prize it. I mean to hang it in the dining-room ; there is a good light there. You should most certainly have been an artist ; you would have been R.A. by now, old fellow ! ” “ No doubt,” said Archer, “ if R.A. signified just ‘ruggling at it,’ and selling ‘pot-boilers’ for a pound apiece. Paint if you like, Harry, for a bit of pastime — I know you do a little in that way, just now and then — 4 JOHN ARCHER that’s very well; "but as for a living, why, it means starvation.” “Our stout-built friend, old Johnson,” Wells said, “ looks like starving, does he not? — strong as a horse, and at least six feet in height, and with as nice a place as man need live in.” “Yes; but as a rule you will, though, find it true; unless a man is bom with talent in him, or he has the interest of good friends to aid him. Now, Johnson is a genius,” Archer said, as all acknowledge, and he has good friends, too, who can always aid him. However, Harry, as my share chanced to be the 4 silver spoon,’ so I can work or play ; though were it otherwise, I should be less lazy. But, unfortunately, as you know, my dear fellow, money is 4 the root of all evil,’ as our school-copy read when we were juveniles.” “And the source of any quantity of good,” was the reply. 44 If you should have a surplus,” Wells said, 44 hand it over. I know the good of it, and I will chance 4 the evil.’ ” Ten years ago these men left school together when they were twenty-one — for lads remained there in those days till the nonsense was knocked out of them, and they were fit to face the world — Wells coming home to assist his father at the farm, and Archer going to learn the law in London. And as Wells was fond of farming, and always put his shoulder to the wheel like a man who meant it, he was able, when his old father died six years later, to take the management of the farm for his mother, who, with her two daughters, continued to live with him. After a time both sisters married, and settled within a few miles of each other, some distance up the valley. The mother then rented a cottage to be near them; so his aunt, Mrs. Cooper, her sister, came to keep house for him — he remaining a bachelor. But Archer, who was living in London, articled to an old uncle in Carey Street, was too fond of the country to take readily to a town life, and he soon tired of it ; the sooner, perhaps, because he knew that in all probability he should never be obliged to practise the law as a pro- fession ; and the time therefore with him passed drearily, so that he never heard from his friend Wells without longing to be back again in the old country. OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 5 But with the greenery of Lincoln’s Inn and Gray’s Inn, and the musical tinkle of the fountain in the Temple, he did at length manage most days, while summer lasted, to get some slight set-off against the hard, high stool, the drudgery of office, and the endless survey of bricks and mortar. For he had only to evade the vigilance of Mr. Kewtye — the “managing man,” when his uncle was away — to he in a few minutes over the roar of Fleet Street, and safe in the solitude of the Temple Gardens, where, in his loved surroundings of rustling leaves and falling water, sweeps of greensward and a moving river, with tall trees like the old tall trees “ at home,” he, in the quiet of the dear old place, would, with his well-thumbed “ Tennyson ” for company, forget the details of the law and its belongings. And when he turned homewards in the evenings, he would go up through the Green Park, and wait for the jingle of the four-in-hands as he loitered in Rotten Row, and watched the riders there, and coveted their horses for a gallop. And he would linger long at the rails there until Royalty came by ; that, as a low murmur ran along them and hats were raised, he might catch a glimpse of that sweet pale face with the kindly smile, that, if it but bent towards him, sent him on his way all the happier under the old trees where the rooks were cawing, while settling in the twilight in their places ; that straightway turned his thoughts to sounds near home — sounds that he liked and used to listen to at Royston Rookery along with Wells, 'when the evening shadows purpled out and faded under that hill-side many a mile away. But his best days were Saturdays ; for those were “ red- letter ” ones, and given to the river or South Kensington — forgetting at the latter all the world amongst the pictures; and thence for Bayswater across “ the Gardens,” over the lengthened shadows of the elms — his pipe his company. He had his picture-windows too, just like a child, and “ did ” them regularly ; and when his uncle sent him west on business, he would get across to Christie’s and MHean’s, and come back wild about some “ grand old Cox,” or Hulme, or Gilbert, Cattermole or Frith. His route to Carey Street being Covent Garden, he would bargain with the old women at the stalls for homely garden flowers and common ferns. He always had fresh 6 JOHN ARCHER flowers and some birds. A dog be could not keep, or be would have bad one ; but as be fraternised witb Dick, tbe cat, a fine black fellow wbo sat purring by bim, be soon made up for it, for tbey became great friends. His Sundays too were pleasurable ; for if not booked for dinner at bis uncle’s, be would start betimes for some far village cburcb ; and after service — simple and earnest there like that “at borne” — dine at some road-side inn, and then turn out in loving search of heaths, by-lanes, and commons, or wherever else be might find birds or flowers, or anything that seemed to look “ like home.” But even witb all these set-offs, bis office duties were tbe direst drudgery, and be found himself quite unable to settle down to the daily routine required of him. For being a true lover of nature, and therefore of tbe country, and endowed witb a poetic temperament and great enthu- siasm, no wonder that at times — away from bis loved woods and bills, and all their greenery — be should so dearly long for his own apple-orchards and tbe cowslip- meadows, tbe bluebell-hedgerows and the primrose- copses, and the nightingale-lanes that were hawthorn-bidden, “ at the old home in Worcestershire.” And his most joyous of all. evenings — those at the Academy — helped this feeling, when in the glad hours he so often spent there — and they were indeed very happy ones — he saw but the pictures, not the people ; and longed to be away with Cole in the corn-fields, or with Leader on the hills, or up amongst the Welsh mountains and with Syer for company. And autumn came again, his second autumn ; and the play of light ceased amongst the leaves, and there was no longer on the sanded walk a moving flicker of red-gold and purple. And dead leaves fell in the fountain, and the old garden-seat in the Temple was littered with them ; and blue mists crept along the grass, and damps came up from the river ; and Archer perforce became more learned in the law. Then fogs came on ; not the thin white fogs of home, that, though they grayed the hills, yet showed the woods through, but thick ones — dense ones, ten times worse than last year — fogs he could almost eat ; that shrouded him in their yellowness, and bumped him badly, hiding the folks he met, and bothering him. And drivers harassed him OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. 7 with shouts, and cabs worried him with shaves, and boys so maddened him with cries, that he felt, if it continued much longer, he must kick somebody. For his evening walks home over the soft green turf where the sheep were, and with the rooks and the song- birds for company, had been obliged to be given up — -as the days got shorter — and exchanged for a stuffy omnibus at the Turnstile ; that, as it was always filled quite full with steaming City men, bound like himself for Bays- water, and grumbling at the weather and the funds, did not mend matters or temper. But the fogs got thicker, and the horses fell ; and passengers got out and walked, and growled at being morning after morning so late at office. And sleet began to drive, and snow to fall ; and then the climax came, for dirt and mud and slush were everywhere ; that made his thoughts turn still more to the country, where he knew there would be snow, but white and glittering — ay, white for miles ; and the ground crisp, and the ice thick, and not like that in the parks — unsafe and rotten. The rabbiting and the ratting too would be remem- bered, round by the orchard hedgerows and the ricks, with that varmint, Tanner, and that cute old Bobby, the two dogs — Archer’s chums ; and Jerry would be thought of, the stout cob that he had to ride, and who had carried him so well with the hounds in the holidays, and who woiyld “ lead over ” a fence, when the drop on the north side was a frosty one, or the hog-backed stile looked “ nasty.” So it very soon came about that London was spoken of disre- spectfully, Carey Street condemned, and the law books one and all anathematised. And as time went on, the craving for the country that John Archer had, intensified; and the hard high stool seemed harder, and dreary days still drearier ; when — all at once as it seemed— they ceased to use gas in the office, for the days were longer, and light till “ leaving time.” Then shadows fell from houses on the road ; for bursts of sunshine came, that filled the Kentish lanes with prim- roses, and brought the flower-girls, who plagued him con- stantly with them and violets, just as they seemed to do twelve months ago. That time was bad enough, but he got over it ; but now, do what he would, it would bring back to mind each nook in all those dear old lanes “at 8 JOHN ARCHER home,” where all spring wild-flowers grew. He dodged the fern-men every time he saw them, and crossed the street at every flower-girl, and shirked his one pet place of Covent Garden. But it was all in vain, however, for he got worse, and even passed the black man without giving, and the old crooning woman who so “ God blessed” him. And then, unable to put up with it any longer — for he found punch- ing the boy and scoring his pad furiously did him no manner of good — he plainly told his uncle he would have no more of it “ there ” — law or no law. So, rushing off to Bayswater, and bidding his artist- friends good-bye, he packed his traps in the morning, and caught the ten train at Paddington ; his old chum, John- son, with whom he lived, seeing “the last of him.” Of* course there was a row when he did get home, but he did not mind it ; for once at the Grange, he said he should stay there. And he did stay there ; for his father dying soon after- wards — in the following spring, killed by a fall while hunting — he came into possession ; when, getting his younger brother to see to the estate, and remain with his sister — his mother being dead — he joined Johnson and some artists in a sketching tour, that included a six months’ sojourn in Koine. With a love for “common objects,” and with an eye for colour, he always seemed to see a beauty in everything , and he would often amuse his more prosaic friends on his return home by his glowing description of scenes and scenery that they had themselves wholly ignored, or had in part passed over — so much did he appreciate that joy of colour, that harmony of form, and that all-pervading presence of the beautiful,, that, so thoroughly “ felt ” by artists, seems sometimes strange to others. And so, with his yearning for the country satisfied, he at length settled down to lead the life of a country gentle- man ; his brother Edward taking the management of the estate, and being well paid for his stewardship ; and he, John Archer, spending his time now at home, now with his acquaintances — a wide circle of hunting and artist friends. In the winter he stayed some time at Hazelwood, where Brandon, one of his tenants, lived — a very pretty place lower down the valley — as it was handier for the OF GRANTLEY GRANGE. Sr hunting of that portion. And in the summer, when ho got away for a few weeks to have a run round amongst his old friends, he made Town bearable by devoting the greater portion of his time there to the Academy, and to the studios of the men he knew. And now that he was just commencing his sixth season with hounds, and had promised his friend Burton of Bos- cobel to come out in scarlet — to “ don the pink ” — Charlie being, according to his own showing, a shy youth, and in want of some one to bear him company and go shares in “ lighting up the landscape,” he, Archer, had ridden up to Wells, who lived on the Herefordshire side of the river, ten miles distant from the Grange, to see about some hay and oats, and to show him his new horse and to have a gossip ; and also to have another look at the mares and colts, before putting in the finishing touches to the picture he^ was painting. CHAPTER II. ROYSTON ROOKERY' — THE DAWN OF DAY. “ There, then, Harry,” said Archer, as he finished sketch- ing the oak, and proceeded to touch in some portions of the shed under it, as Wells sat on the brown horse and watched him ; “ I think that will do. There is first-rate colour on that old gnarled trunk. Look at those grays, ,r said he, “ and browns ; those tender greens and nice cool neutral tints. I certainly must try if I can get them, and that old thatch. Where those boughs bend I think I will put some pigeons — some white ones. They would come in well aboY T e that chestnut colt.” “ They would,” said Wells. “ How well that old tree branches, does it not ? ” said Archer. “ The way those boughs give off is most artistic ; though, were Charlie Burton here, he would see “ a tree,’ r — just that and only that, like the famed primrose on the river’s brim, — and miss all that sweet colour most com- pletely, and all those forms and branchings I have sketched. A melancholy case, I call it, Harry — untutored vision. “ Now, that is where I gain, and where he loses. It is 10 ROYSTON ROOKERY. strange, too,” said Archer ; “ for when we have been in town during the season, and have gone together to the Academy, I have several times been quite delighted to see him, when there, positively pleased at some poor transcript of a scene he knew ; and yet that same scene, as painted all by Nature, would be passed repeatedly by him — ay, quite unnoticed. So with the multitude ! The highest praise, you very often find, is lavished on some painty- looking picture — Nature at second hand, inferior to her — that fails most utterly in the original to gain one word. Is it not strange ? ” “It is,” said Wells. “ I cannot understand it ; for though not versed in art, I do see colour.” “ I often think how much is missed,” said Archer, “through that same want of sight. Now, Charlie, I dare say, most days rides round the farm ; and through the lanes and the woods, and along the hills, and so back home by the river ; and yet, as I know, all he sees — or perhaps, for the matter of that, five hundred others— is land, trees, water ! Well, I go, we say, the same round, and I see fine colour, and light and shade in every combination, and changing tints, the same as you might do, and groups and forms, too, that are picturesque, and make material for artists’ bits — { pictures,’ in short, unframed, but nature- painted ; -the grand originals man never equalled ! Who has the best ride, think you, he or I ? “ That is just where I gain when I am hunting : where others find but sport, I find enjoyment. I like the sport, but I also love the country ; and so,” said Archer, “ in- stead of limiting the pleasure that I have to just the run, my pleasure, hunting days, includes it all — the ride to hounds, and that back home again. What their eyes miss, mine see ; that’s just about it. A blessed faculty, and thank God for it ! Now, then, I am with you, TIarry,” said Archer, as he pocketed the sketch. “Well, jump up, then,” said Wells, “and ride him, John. We will go up to the house.” “ No,” he replied ; “ you keep your sitting, man ; I’ll walk. If you have luck, those colts will make some money.” “This brown horse, too,” Wells said; “or I am mis- taken. He will keep a place, you’ll see, when hunting comes.” THE DAWN OF DAY. 11 44 He has already done so,” was the reply, “ and a good place too.” “ He has ! Where, when ? — not since you "bought him, John?” “ Yes, since,” said Archer ; “ last week a time or two, and twice before. I had him out, too, yesterday 3 cub- hunting.” “ So soon? ” said Wells. “ Most of the grain is in,” said Archer, “ where our hounds draw. They are sooner there than we are in the valley.” “ Well, you are early, John.” “ I like to be. The first day’s cubbing, Harry, I turn out with the hounds, and I make most days with them all through the season.” “ You get your money’s worth, old boy, I think.” “I do ; if we have an early autumn and a latish spring, and are not laid by through frost. The two months’ start I get, I would not miss. The woodlands here are fine, but fancy up there in a nice October ! ” “ Grand, I should say,” said Wells, as he rode forward and opened the gate for Archer. “Well, here we are, then, John,” said he, dismounting. “ Quiet, Countess, down ; don’t you be troublesome. Ross,” said Wells, “ put her in a while, and see to this horse. Let him have some chilled water, and make him comfortable.” “ Yes, sir,” said the groom, touching his hat as he spoke. “ Here’s Miles waiting to see you, sir.” “Well, my man, what is it?” said Wells to an old fellow who was standing by the stables, and who had edged away as the horse went in. “ Ax yur pardin, sur, fur disturbin’ on ye,” said the fellow, as he pulled his forelock, “ but a waants a noaate, if a ma be so bould, fur poor Took fur the doctur. The relavin' offisur dunna come till Toosday, sur, and as ye be Gardin o’ the parish, it ’ood saaive ’em waaitin’ loike.” “ What is the matter with him ? ” said Wells. “ A dunna neow disakly, sur,” was the reply, “ but I apprehends as it’s summut i’ his innards, or his yud. He took bad i’ the harvist, sur, a week agoo — the sun come on him, sur, most onaccountably — and he arn’t been well roight since.” 12 R0YST0N ROOKERY. “Yes, I heard of it,” said Wells; “but I thought he was better.” “ I were a-washm’ o’ ma’ ’ands, sur, at woame, as I’d col lied wi’ the t ay-kittle — my woife, sur — that be Mary Moiles, as chars fur ye a’ toimes, sur, an’ thank ye fur it ; bein’ out a-lazin’, sur, wi’ the wimmen folk i’ the whate- fields — when theer come a tabber at the doore, an’ in strays Hopcutt, the cow-leech, sur, as cured ‘Blossom,’ an’ maade forty on ’em to the paail agen ; bless their pratty ’arts, they be faamous milkers ! So ‘ John,’ says I — I calls him John, sur — ‘you bin a-drinkin’;’ an’ I bats him on his yud, playful-loike, wi’ ma hat, ’cos he’d got a squilt o’ his nose, sur, as showed the drink. ‘ Don’t be lungeous, Moiles,’ says he, ‘ Took’s off his yud.’ ‘Lord bless me ! ’ says I; ‘John, sit thee doun.’ So he sot doun; an’ then he up and teld ma, sur, as how he’d met the poor soul a- tryin’ to get through a gat i’ the hedge in a unkid sort o’ a waay, as though he were moithered loike ; an’ a-pearin’ arter his butty, as he said had fettled his horses and sooped ’em oop, and had left him wi’ a bigger load than he could well heft — it were ony some broken bits o’ hetherins though, for his kittle. So says Hopcutt, ‘ Thinkin’,’ says he, ‘ to turn his thoughts a bit and cheer him up, poore wretch, I says, ‘ The crops ha’ bin koindish-like, Tom ’ — Tom’s his first naame, sur — ‘ fur theer be a dollup o’ whate about this turn.’ ‘Ay,’ says he, a-pickin’ at his cooat, quaire and daffy-loike, ‘ I conna mend it, the thread fazles so.’ ‘ Then odds it,’ says Hopcutt. But he couldna maake much on him, sur ; so he saw him saafe at woame — he lives theer anant the church, sur — and then he corned on to ma to get ma see fur the doctur ; and so, sur, I corned to you.” “Well, come into the kitchen,” said Wells, “and sit you down a bit.” “Much obleeged, sur, that’s sure,” said the fellow. “ A drap o’ port winde-and-waater now moight do him a power o’ good, p’raps, poor, wretch ! They saay it be moighty streng timin’ ! ” “ Well, when the doctor thinks it proper for him,” said Wells, “ if you will come up, he shall have some ; and anything else that is fit for him.” “ Thank you koindly, sur ; it ’ood ba welcome to him.” “Now, John,” said Wells, “come in. What will you have, old fellow ? ” THE DAWN OF DAY. 13 “ Oil, nothing, thank yon, Harry,” said Archer. “ A Worcestershire youth that, evidently,” said he. “Yes,” replied Wells; “but with a cross of Stafford- shire in him. His mother was a Dudley woman — ‘hur coom’d fro’ Doodley ’ood soide,’ as he says — and it makes him fond of the 0. Well, now, what will you have? After a good ten-miles’ ride I’m sure you must want some- thing, John,’ said Wells. “ Come, what is it to be? ” “ Just one drop of barland, then, Harry, for a quencher. It is good, I know, and will not hurt a body.” “ Made with the nut-mill, John, and pure pear-juice. Excuse me just a moment. Here, Mary,” said he, as he made out an order for the doctor, “just give that note to Miles, and let him have some bread-and-cheese and cider ; then draw some perry, and bring us both a crust in.” (l How is your aunt ? ” said Archer. “Oh, thanks, she is tidy-like,” said Wells. “She is gone up to the common with some things for a youngster who is ill at one of our cottages. There is a good deal of illness round about here. The doctor, they say, is busy.” “ The wind you always get on these hills,” said Archer, “ ought, though, one would think, to blow it clear away.” “ The fall of the leaf, John ; I suppose that’s it. What have you got this season ? ” “ Four, and 4 fit ; ’ the bay and gray that I rode up to April, and this new brown horse that you seem to fancy, and that one at the farm at Hazelwood, that golden bay. I always go there,” Archer said, “ for some time in the season, and stay with my tenant there ; you know him — Brandon. How are you off for hay now ? Have you any old?” “ Only a rick or two,” said W^ells ; “ not much to spare. W T hat, are you out then ? ” “ I have plenty of new left,” was the reply, “ but not much old ; and Brandon, too, is short ; so I wish you would let me have two tons or so.” “ W T hen shall you want it ?” said Wells ; “ this week or the next? Now help yourself, John. You have seen to Miles, Mary ? ” “ I have, sir,” said the girl. “ Thanks, Haiuy,” said Archer. “ Oh, next week will do, if that is right for you.” 14 R0YST0N ROOKERY. “ Yes, that will suit me very well, 5 ’ said Wells ; “ we go for coal this week.” “ What is it now ? ” said Archer. “Well, four at market, hut three pounds ten to you. Oats?” “ Yes ; I could do with some, if they are not too light. What price ? ” “ They are making three-and-six, but three to you. They are bright and full, and weigh well. How many shall I send you ? ” “ Say sixty bushels.” “ How is the perry, John? ” “ Oh, very good,” said Archer. “ What a fine colour it is ! ” “Yes / 5 said Wells; “it was all picked fruit. Good healthy drink, John, and beats all your spirits.” “ Spirits ? I should think it does, indeed,” said Archer. “The vilest things a man can ever take to; they make men beasts, and ten times worse than beasts; and they cause more crime and misery than all else. But it is no matter, Harry, what it is, ale, wine, or spirits, a drunken fellow is to me disgusting ; to sit and sot until his brains are gone, it’s horrid ! If men would only quench their thirst and stop, how much this world of ours would be the gainer ! ” “ It would,” Wells said ; “ that’s certain, “John.” “ Have you much cider fruit, Harry ? ” “Well, rather thin,” said Wells; “but lots of perry- pears and table-fruit.” “ Were you at market Saturday ? I did not see you ? ” “ Yes, I was,” said he ; “ but I only just rode in, John, to see some people, and left directly. Wheat was a trifle better, and so were oats.” “ Have you seen the otter yet ? ” “No,” said Harry; “but we tracked him, under the osier-bed there by the river. His holt is there, I think. I like those otter-hounds, they are so musical.” “ So musical ! So melancholy, eh ? ” said Archer. “ Have you engaged your pickers ? ” “ Yes, for Tuesday week. I shall have this time, I think, about seventy, with neighbours. The crop is light, so it won’t be long about.” “ The better chance for price, old man; they’ll fetch the more.” THE DAWN OF DAY. 15 “They might perhaps, John, as they are bad in Kent. That’s good for us.” “ Is yonr old drier, Nathan Styles, still w r ith you?” “ Yes,” said Wells ; “ but I fear for the last time. His asthma kills him. Where were you yesterday ? ” “ Oh, out by Pirton,” said Archer. “ There is a strong- ish litter there ; and so we had a merry rattler with the cubs, and killed.” “ It was a splendid morning for you,” said Wells. “ Yes, delightful ; and we both enjoyed the ride there immensely. Charlie Burton came in (Tver night to see me on some business, and so he stayed, to make sure of being up in time, and joined us. He has a rare mare this time, Plarry, and means to cut us down, the lot of us.” “ Is Parker back ? ” said Wells. “ No, not yet ; he is out with Miller. They mean to pick up Collins on the way. He started off with Johnson and a block, with great ideas of doing wondrous sketches ; but he left it for the hammer and the box, and took to plants and stones. Hardy is back, and Lee ; they are up in town.” “ Hammond, I think,” Wells said, “ is still there, is he not ? ” “Yes,” said Archer. “ I have to write to him soon, by the bye. I promised I would go with him to Richmond, but by mistake I fixed a hunting day. the eighth, and there is a meet then that I would not miss for anything. Dick Gale is with him. They have a place at Brompton, and ride together each day in the park for constitutional. I mean to try persuasion when I do write, touching the pleasure of a day with hounds, to see if they will join some Hunt or other. Whth means like theirs, they ought to drop a fiver, and mount the pink at once, and go like men. The Row, to my mind, Harry, is, I think, so tame ! Just as an exercising ground it is w r ell enough, to show your horses and to show yourself, and to advertise your tailor ; but it will not, like fox-hunting, make men manly, that you know, Plarry ; though many an hour,” said Archer, “ have I sat and watched them there, and longed for a gallop, when mooning home with Carey Street behind me. If that wretched old Kewtye ever found the blotting-pads, he would see his own phiz there some hundred times.” 16 ROYSTON ROOKERY. 44 Is your 1111016 all riglit now ? ” said Wells. 44 Oh, yes ; he is civil enough, 5 ’ was the reply ; “ but he was crusty for two or three years. You see, he did not like me giving him the slip ; but the fact is, Harry, I got home-sick, and I was bound to do it ; and I am heartily glad that I did leave the law behind me. 55 44 You would have been too honest for a lawyer, John,” said Wells. “ Don’t abuse the profession,” replied Archer, “ or I will charge you six-and-eightpenee for advice. All men must live. Your doctor gets a guinea at a gulp, but your poor lawyer lets you have three nibbles at him for the same ! ” 4 4 Yes,” said Wells ; 44 and when he can’t keep you nibbling any longer, he swallows you up bodily, and it’s ail over with you ! ” 44 Ah, well,” said Archer, there are necessary evils in this world, John.” 44 Yes, gradational,” was the reply ; 44 and I know one of the worst,” said Wells. 44 Be quiet,” said Archer. 44 Why don’t you go cub- bing ? ” 44 1 cannot spare the time, my dear fellow,” said Wells, 44 or I should like it well enough. X don’t,” said he, 44 see much of them till close to Christmas. You like cubbing?” 44 1 do,” said Archer. 44 With but a small 4 field, 5 and few out, we are quiet, and free from that constant halloo- ing and noise, and all that aimless galloping that leads to the hounds being maimed and yourself cannoned by some random rider, who, once he is outside a horse, thinks he has hands, and is, of course, a horseman. Before the fences thin you have some chance ; but when daylight breaks through them, to aid the cautious ones, then you have half the tailors in the country with you to override the hounds and make a noise. You often see men out, as you know, Harry, not hold of reins, but hanging to them for their very life, thinking if they have but their feet in the stirrups up to the hilt, after the manner of them, they are safe while leather lasts.” 44 You get the freshness of the morning, John. I think myself that is so very jolly ! I am always up at four,” ^aid Wells, 44 and out at five, and so I know it.” 44 You are ! 55 said Archer. THE DAWN OF DAY. 17 “Yes; at six we breakfast, and at nine have lunch, twelve dinner — just one hour to it. Come, help yourself,” said Wells. “ I wish I could turn out,” said Archer ; “ but it is only on hunting mornings that I am up so early ; just while the cubbing is about, or the fixtures are distant, and now and then in the summer, when I am at Hazelwood; but then, as you say, it is indeed very jolly. So fragrant, cool, and still; with scarcely a sound, but the singing of the song-birds or the ripple of a brook : and every bit of turf dew-wet and sparkling. I like to see the game, too, about the fields and the spinnies ; the coveys and the pheasants, and the rabbits and the hares, that come out in the white fog that hangs on the meadows to feed with the Herefords. You seem well off for game up here ? ” “ Too many rabbits, John ; for they play the deuce with that wheat by the wood.” “Yes,” said Archer; “I saw, as I rode up, that you have a strip off there as if it were mown.” “ Oh, yes, the wretches ! Down in the hop-yard hedge- rows and the orchards we do keep them under pretty well,” said Wells ; “ but in the covers we cannot touch them ; not, however, till the people at the Hall have shot there ; and by that time the keepers have generally con- trived to put them in their pockets. The deuce is in the rabbits, I think, John. I like them in the larder well enough ; they are good in any form ; but on the land they are awful nuisances. You’ll stay, of course,” said Wells, “ and take pot-luck with us ? ” “ If really pot-luck, John, I will,” said Archer. “Well, drink your perry then, and let’s turn out, and we’ll look round the things, and give the dogs a run.” “ That’s right,” said Archer ; “ I should like to do so. I see you have had some fresh white-faces — some Here- fords — since I was here.” “ Yes,” replied Wells, “ and they look kind too. Have you Tanner with you, John, and old Bobby now?” “ Yes,” said Archer, “ and as big a scamp as ever, is old Bobby?” “ Now, then, you dogs ! ” cried Wells. “ Hi ! Tip and Pepper ! We will go out this way, John, to stop Countess barking ; for though Ross has shut her in the stable, she would hear us, and then the old lady would want to join c 18 ROYSTON ROOKERY. •us ; and those dogs are awfully jealous of her because I notice her. Ah, here you are, you rascals ! Come along,” said Wells, as Tip and Pepper came to them, bounding and barking. So they went off with the dogs, and saw the stock and things, and the loose boxes, and the cart stables, and had a turn about the grounds till dinner. And after dinner they both went out again, and strolled about the garden and the terrace, and gossipped with the old fellow there who was trimming the cut yews, and who had worked “ on the place, sir, man and boy, a matter o’ sixty year, come Candlemas,” and who was still “ heart- well.” And then, as Harry would insist on dusting out the arbour in the hollies — “just for a bit of a smoke, you know, for company ” — they sat there ; with [the wooded hills before them, and the hop-yards and the orchards below them, that sloped to the meadows in the flat, that were dotted with the cattle, and willowed by the river. And it was very pleasant there ; for the light breeze that was blowing brought them the cry of the ringdoves, and the white weir at the mill sent its murmur up to them. And Tip, who was on the scamp as usual, went off hunt- ing in the shrubbery ; but Pepper, who was lazily inclined, lay by the old sun-dial, with his head between his paws, blinking at the pigeons on the lawn; that were pluming their snowy feathers, and cooing there by the ruined foun- tain, that made such a pleasant splashing sound, as its jet, still there, fell on the lilies in the basin. And the lazy old dog would keep dropping asleep and dreaming, to wake and whimper, and so startle the pigeons, and make them fly up to the ivied barn, to flutter down again when he settled, and strut about him. And Wells and Archer chatted together there for some time about horses and hops, and stock and crops and markets, and then of hounds and hunting, and the early fixtures ; when, “ John,” said Plarry, “ how about the run? You said you would tell me all about it after dinner, and what you and Charlie did amongst the cubs. Pirton I think you met at, did you not ? ” “ Yes,” said Archer ; “ Pirton Spinnies. They are be- yond the church, near the farm where you bought that bay cob. They are snug and quiet, with famous lying, and THE DAWN OF DAY. 19 with lots of feg ; and being down in a dip, are just the very places for a good litter. 5 ’ “ You must have started early,” said Wells, “ for that quarter ? 55 “ We did,” said Archer ; 44 soon after four, for the fix- ture was at six.” “ I wish I had been with you.” “ I wish you had,” said Archer. “ Friend Charlie was delighted with the ride.” “ A novelty to him, John, to see the day break.” “ Yes, it was, indeed ; but he thoroughly enjoyed it, though he did rub his eyes when he started.” “I think,” said Archer, 44 those early morning skies are beautiful, when they loose daylight in ! I like to see them as they flash the daffodil, that ripples through the gray and breaks it up; and see the forms it makes, that blend together and then shape to clouds — rose, dun, and violet — and each one underlit ! “ We watched it as we rode, trembling along the sky from east to west — you, earliest of birds, must see it fre- quently — and we saw the blue come in, and noticed how it crept along and widened, and scattered all the clouds to little bits, gold-edged; that, as broad daylight came, vanished to vapour in a sky all blue ! I only wish that I could see it oftener ; I envy all who can get up so early. “ We reached the spinnies as the clock struck six,” said Archer, 44 and found the pack there, with George and Dick the whips, and Will Warne the huntsman, and the Ked- Coat Eunner, who was by Will’s white horse, playing with the hounds. And we were soon joined by a score or so of others, well mounted, but in the rough, as we were also ; and then the Master came.” “Kerrison?” said Wells. “ Yes, Sir Charles,” said Archer ; “ he has been Master, as you know, for very many years,. and has always been popular. 4 Good-morning, gentlemen, 5 he said, as he rode up with some friends, and lifted his hat to the lot of us, and looking as young as ever, though he must be getting on a bit. 4 1 am glad to meet you. We are just a hand- ful I see, and so right in number for a good rattling spirt along the meadows. Now, Warne, 5 said he, 4 let’s put the youngsters in ; it is six o’clock, time’s up ! To give the eubs a chance, we will draw 44 down wind.” 5 ” ( 20 ) CHAPTER III. OUT WITH THE CUBS, AND A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. “ You found, of course,” said Wells. 44 I know tlie fixture ; it is safe for a litter, and a certain find.” “ We did,” was the reply ; “ for before the hounds had been ten minutes in, leaves rustled and sticks cracked, and then there was music ! And as the old hounds,” said Archer, 4 4 dashed merrily along through the fern and bracken, the youngsters faced the briers pluckiiy, not shirking them as they did at first, when it was all new to them and their hides were tender, but tearing away through them like good ones, and as wild as wolves.” 44 I suppose they are good hounds, are they not ? ” said Wells, 44 They had some of them here 4 at walk ’ at Nel- son’s farm, and also at the Hollies, and they seemed good hounds to me ; I often saw them.” 44 1 think they will make good hounds,” said Archer. 44 Old Charlie was delighted with them when with me yesterday. 4 What a lot of resolute young beggars these hounds are ! ’ said he. 4 The way they searched that underwood, and plunged into the thickest of the cover, was splendid. Scratches won’t cow them, I can see ; they’re game, and rare good plucked ones, and they will soon face gorse.’ 44 We found that the one we had up was the vixen ; so the hounds were stopped,” said Archer, 44 and turned again to cover, when very soon the whole place seemed alive, for we had the lot up — every cub a-foot. But as one of them chanced to meet a hound, and stopped to wonder at the strange encounter, he got quite bewildered, and the hounds were on to him ; for others seeing him, they settled' to him, and so he bolted. 44 Charlie and I,” said Archer, 44 were waiting in the meadow keeping a good look-out, when, as we heard the hounds running in the cover, we saw the cub come scramb- ling down the bank through the briers, and three hounds after him, almost at his brush, that neither of us had much time to move, as the rest of the pack came leaping through, close to them. ' Luckily, however, our horses A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. 21 were quiet, and they behaved well, though the hounds were tumbling against their legs and giving tongue lustily. We did not stir, of course,” said he, “ until they were all clear ; but then we made play up the meadows, where the pace was so sharp that we almost feared they would ‘chop’ him. The cub, though, held his own for several fields, when, thinking perhaps that he would be safer with his mother, he turned,” said Archer, 4 4 to try to get back into the cover, but meeting the hounds, it was soon all over with him ; his days were ended ! ” 44 Poor little beast ! ” said Wells. 44 1 don’t myself like killing cubs,” said Archer ; 44 but what are you to do? You cannot help it. A fierce old dog-fox always dies so game, that with the excitement pity is stamped out : but those soft, woolly, flocky little dogs have all such winsome ways, and look so sharp with their bright beady eyes when they are at play — I have often watched them — that if they could be spared, I should be glad. However, as I know, Harry, that can never be, I will not get sentimental on the matter; for though it is not like your 4 fixture ’ hunting, still what we get is good, and I would not miss it. It also is, as you know, very useful in making horses clever at their fences, and quietly behaved, too, with the hounds. Besides,” said he, 44 there is so much to see in our fine woodland country in the autumn, when every hedgerow tree is flushed with colour, that sympathy with cubs is not obtru- sive ; yet thinking of them makes you pity them, if only that they are young.” 44 You see,” said Harry, pointing to the woods, 44 that yew-tree yonder, just up the gully, where the wood dips down ? Well, in the sandstone rock there, there’s a litter. I went up there the other night with Mann the keeper, who showed them to me. But the vixen winded us, though we were hidden ; and so she turned and laid her rabbit down under a bush, and slinked away into the brush and stayed there, and would not show again. The cubs, though, came out as the moon rose, and played and rolled about, ay, just like kittens.” 44 They are very pretty,” said Wells, 44 and were their scent less strong, they would do for pets, for ladies’ muffs.” 44 They are jolly little things, certainly,” said Archer. 22 OUT WITH THE CUBS. “ Well, after we had killed the cub, we went back again to the cover, to try if we could bolt another ; and they were soon on the move again. But they would not bolt, and we had nothing but up and down work and round and round, the pack dividing. At last, by dodging, Will got the hounds to settle to the one he thought was the strongest of the lot, and they soon forced him out through the fence at the upper end and along the banks, he holding them in check, so as to give the cub a start “ We soon,” said Archer, “ found that he was a game one, for he went straight and well, and things looked promising, and as if we should have a good gallop by the river. But after we had raced him for five or six fields, that had each of them tidy fences, and at one of which,” said Archer, “ your friend Simkins got a fall, he turned for a dingle that was handy ; but failing to hang there, he made off up the country, as if he knew there were some big woods beyond it ; and then some of the fellows began larking.” “ You get pretty well of that, no doubt,” said Wells. “ Yes,” replied Archer, “ always in the cubbing, and rather too much of it. Tom Harber was one of them. He backed his horse against the miller’s — Ben Branson, who was out — ‘ to fairly follow hounds, and to take all fences, no gates allowed ; 5 Charlie and I to see that neither shirked. So putting the steam on,” said he, “ away they went, as if they had tops and cords on in the season. “ The betting at first,” said Archer, “ was even by the ‘ field,’ then five to three was laid against the miller, whose horse, had up from grass, that good red roan, broke into heats, and so brushed half his fences. Tom picked his up at every place he came to — he is a neatish fencer, as you know — and chaffed the miller, who quite good- humouredly joined in the laugh we had, although it was against him, and still kept on. A check, though it was but a short one, put matters right, however, for the roan went better when the hounds hit off again. “We were now getting to some stiff enclosures,” con- tinued Archer, “ and so we betted on the pair for the first fall. The miller tried it, but his horse recovered ; when Tom, who fancied he could cut him down and stop him, spurred his black mare — that blood, hot-tempered one that broke the hurdles.” A KISS. IN THE HOP-YARD. 23 “ 1 know,” said Wells ; 44 a wild one.” “ Well, that soon made her fractious ; so, getting the bit in her teeth, she took her fences racing, when, catch- ing some stiff rails, he got a cropper ; the miller clearing them as Tom lay under. 4 4 4 First fall to Harher ! ’ said Ben, as he went on laughing, and raced for the next fence, and went over it. 44 4 Look out, old fellow,’ said Tom, as he picked him- self up and mounted, 4 1 shall be bound to catch you yet!’” 44 What fun ! ” said Wells. 44 1 wish I had been with you.” 44 Then they both went at it as if they meant it ; Charlie and I,” said Archer, 44 riding all the while well alongside them to keep score, the cub still in wind and the hounds going fairly, when the miller fell a whacker ! 4 4 4 A fall in flour ! ; cried Tom ; and then he fell too. 44 4 And better times, my boys ; a fall in meat ! ’ cried Ben, as he mounted again and rode off like a good one, before the grazier could get in the saddle again, and shouted at the next fence, 4 State of market : hops, gentle- men, you see, are somewhat lower/ as Pearce, the buyer, who w r as chaffing Ben, caught some big sticks and purled.” 44 He would leave his mark,” said Wells ; 44 for he is no feather-weight. Just stop a minute, John ; who is that man down the bank yonder ? He is on a bay there, look- ing at the hops. Oh, I see ; it is the new tenant up the hill. Ah, you may look, my man, but they beat yours. Yes, John.” “Well, while all this larking was going on,” said Archer, 44 the youngsters took their share with the old ones, and went well, and hunted fairly every yard of ground. As the cub was a strong one, and gave us a good gallop, we each thought we were in for a smart run ; but all at once w r e heard a noise of singing and laughing. So Charlie cried — 44 4 Push on, miller, and stick to him, grazier ; and ware hops, mind, when we get in the rows ! We are near a hop-yard, for I hear the pickers. It is all but over ; for if he ventures there his fate is sealed, they will soon settle him!’” “ It was early, too, for picking,” said Harry. 44 They have none of them commenced this side the water.” 24 OUT WITH THE CUBS. “ I thought so too ; but it was true, sure enough,” said Archer, “ for as we turned round a corner, there they were, down in a hop-yard, and all singing merrily. They looked so picturesque,” said he, “ grouped or scattered about as they were, and making bright bits of colour all about there ; with wreaths of blue smoke floating to the woods from their fires. It was quite a bit for Johnson.” “ The right one, too, to render it,” said Harry. “ He painted some of our lot once,” said he, “and did them famously ; so true and natural. Hop scenes are too often but fancy pictures, as you know, John; and all those unstudied attitudes of rustic beauty that you meet with altogether ignored for show and prettiness and posings ; elegant maybe,” said he, “but wrong, as they of course clash with all surroundings, and destroy the very charac- ter of such scenes. And you see the same thing in glean- ing and haymaking pictures ; how clean and neatly dressed, and what a town look they make the figures have ! It is wrong, of course.” “Yes,” Archer said, “and comes of studio-painting, and working more from models than from nature. I hold with models, though, for single figures, and also to correct form ; and they are often necessary to work in detail in your out-door studies ; but where there are many figures, as in hay and harvest fields, attitudes and groupings, to be truthful, must be marked-in carefully on the spot, and with all those lights and shadows well made out that show the time of day and where the sun is. A practised hand, perhaps, may mask a studio bit by piecing it together cleverly; but nine times out of ten,” said Archer, “you may tell it, either by fancy work or some queer fancy sky badly thought out, and at variance with the shadows.” “ You very often see it on the walls,” said Wells, “ in lots of galleries.” “ You do,” said Archer, “ and, much to my surprise, it passes muster. “ Well, to return to the hounds, Harry,” resumed Archer. “ They had crossed a lane as we caught sight of the pickers, and were now slanting over a grass patch, and making for the hop-yard ; and they all went right into it, as we watched them. And then ‘ from scent to view 9 was but the work of a moment ; for the people shouted and commenced running, up and across and in and out the A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. 25 alleys, as if tliey wanted to catch the cub themselves. So poor pug was soon settled — they mobbed him ! For as we cantered up along the adland an old hound fastened, and the youngsters had him ; the miller tearing in with waving hat, and cry of 4 Kill to me, you two — one fall to spare ! ’ a-s Harber showed at the bottom of the rows. Of course the place was all alive by then ; for each had so much to say, and all were talking.” 44 A pity too,” said Harry, 44 that they 4 chopped’ him. 44 Here’s Benson’s man,” said he. 44 What does he want, I wonder ? Excuse me, John.” 44 His master has some beans to sell,” said Wells, re- turning. 44 He says, will I ride round and see them, they are worth the money. So I will go up to-morrow, John. If they suit, it will save me going to town ; and if not, I will meet you at the Fox on Saturday. Do you know whose hops those were wdiere you killed the cub ? ” 44 The name was Mowbray,” said Archer. 44 Ah, Mowbray of the Green,” replied Wells. 44 He seems, I think, a very decent fellow ; he made us all go up,” said Archer, 44 and did us well.” 44 He has some early sorts,” Wells said, 44 that ripen quickly. I heard that he would pick a week before us. How did they look ? ” 44 Oh, fairish to my thinking. I asked the man who cut them; he said, 4 Well.’ But were Charlie here, he could tell you more about them ; they cribbed him ! ” “They did? Well, that is good ! ” said Harry, laugh- ing ; 44 1 am very glad they bad him. How did they manage it ? ” 44 Well, in this way,” said Archer : 44 when he dis- mounted he gave a man his mare to move about, and then he strolled amongst the pickers for a chat, while the hounds rested, as all the people went to work again as soon as the scurry was over.” 44 Women or girls?” said Wells. 44 A few of them were women, but the greater part of them,” said Archer, 44 were tall, well-grown, saucy-looking girls, with sunburnt faces, who swarmed round him as he got amongst them, and cried, 44 4 Come, I say, you, sir, just you pay your footing; it’s a rule, you know ; so if you don’t hand out, we’ll all soon crib you ! ’ 26 OUT WITH THE CUBS. 44 4 What’s that ? ’ said Charlie. 4 What do you mean "by that ? ’ making believe he did not know a bit. 44 4 Why, kiss and tumble you, and that right well, and soon, the lot of us ; as you will see, unless } r ou tip us just to drink your health. You will now, won’t you? Do, there’s a darling ! ’ said one girl coaxingly, with a meaning look, that seemed to us to be brimful of mischief.” 44 I missed that lot,” said Wells. 44 You did,” said Archer ; “ but Charlie boy, who rather likes a frolic, said, 4 No, I won’t ; I would sooner stand the kissing ; ’ thinking she did not mean it, though she said it. 4 So now then, girls, come on ! Come, who’s the first ? ’” 44 That’s just like him ! ” said Wells. 44 4 Why, you,’ she cried, and gave his lips a smacker ! 4 So in you go, young man, head over heels. Now kiss him, girls,’ said she, 4 as if you loved him. You don’t get such a young man every day ! ’ And with a jerk she fairly tipped him over, down into a crib that was half filled with hops, and close beside them.” 44 Poor Charlie ! ” said Wells. 44 So there they held him,” said Archer, 44 laughing as he fought, till each — near fifty of them — had bent down and kissed him ! Arid that so furiously, they stopped his breath.” 44 That’s good ! ” said Wells. 44 When just as he began to beg for mercy, the farmer came across, with whip in hand, and cried, ‘Just stop that, will you, you young hussies ? Confound your bodies ! How often have I said I won’t allow it, you fast young pieces? Just help him out at once, and make him tidy, or else I’ll stop your apples when you go, you cheeky varmints ! ’ So they very soon had him out,” said Archer. 44 What,” said Wells, 44 did Charlie say to it ? ” 44 Oh, only laughed,” said Archer; “though the hops had stained him finely. 44 4 A rule, they say,’ said he. 4 Oh, never mind them. Here, lassies, is some silver for you. Now be off,’ said Charlie, as he wiped his coat with his handkerchief, and pitched a couple of half-crowns to them; that brought several of them on their knees, all of a heap together, upsetting a crib as they scrambled for it. 44 4 And here’s, then, one for me, you nice young man. A KISS IN THE HOP-YARD. 27 I likes the look o’ you ; you’re nice, you are ! 5 cried one great girl, who kissed him, and then scampered.” “ What fun ! ” said Harry. “ How did you come off ? ” 44 Why, took the hint,” said Archer, 44 and tipped them, and so I escaped. We chaffed old Charlie pretty well about it ; but he vowed we were only jealous of his luck in getting such a lot of kisses without the asking. “ As all were now on the move up to the house, with Will and the whips and the farmer, and the rest of them, we followed,” said Archer, “ with Sir Charles, who had stayed along with his friends to see the fun and to treat the pickers. “ 4 You have a lively lot there, Mowbray,’ said he, as we overtook them. ‘I thought our friend, Mr. Burton here, would have been kissed to death. I do not think they are troubled with much shyness,’ “ 4 Oh, not a bit of it, Sir Charles,’ said the farmer ; 4 they’re brazen madams, and quite above my hands, I can assure you. All my work, that it is, to stop ’em prigging, although we give ’em as many apples as they can carry when they go home again after picking’s over; besides some of the rosiest from the heaps to thread, and hang in long loops, three deep, round their necks, confound ’em ! They go back through the towns, Sir Charles,’ said he, 4 rigged out that way ; with bundles on their heads as full as they can be, and with sprays of hops about ’em, picked from the hedges, or else begged from us, or, just as likely, perhaps taken without With your leave or By your leave ; for they’re awful imps, are hop girls ; awful ! ’ ” 44 We give ours hops,” said Wells , 4 4 to stop their stealing.” 44 And a good plan too,” said Archer. 44 Sir Charles then asked, 4 Where do you get them from, Mowbray ? They are healthy-looking girls, and bright and clean.’ ” 44 4 Most,’ said the farmer, 4 from the Black Country. A woman finds ’em, and brings ’em here from the pit- banks in a boat, at least half-way, and then they ride or trudge it; or, if our team’s at play, we send to 44 the Port,” ’ said he, 4 to meet ’em. They’re black enough at home amongst the cinders, but here they’re clean, I will say that for ’em, although they’re roughish. 44 4 You’d see ’em, if you stayed till night, Sir Charles— till seven o’clock — round that long water-trough,’ he said, 4 as wild as colts, and quite as full of antics ; scrubbing 28 OUT WITH THE CUBS. away for life, with all their back-hair down and half undressed, or flinging water, or squatting on the steps there by Nep’s kennel — we pen him up, or else he’d nip ’em tight ! — to comb their long locks out a bit, and brush ’em tidy ; for let who will be by, they’re not a bashful lot, that’s very certain ! “ 4 They all sleep there,’ said Mowbray, 4 in the barn ; their noise is awful. I often have to crack the whip at night, and sing out, 44 I’m a-coming ! ” Then they stop. The only quiet ones we have,’ he said, 4 are neighbours ; but they go home.’ ” 44 Something like my lot, John,” said Wells. 44 Bad is the best. I hope though this time they’ll be rather better.” 44 4 Now here we are, gentlemen,’ said Mowbray, as we reached the house,” continued Archer, 4 Come in, please ! We have some decent cider, and some perry. Have what you like ; you’re welcome. Come here,’ he said, 4 some of you men, and move the horses round, and keep ’em clear of hounds, but don’t you ride ’em. Get some chilled water and some gruel, Tom, and let ’em have it ; and, Dick, wipe ’em down a bit, and comb their manes out. Now, gentlemen ! ’ 44 4 Thanks, Mowbray,’ said Sir Charles, 4 you’re very good ; but we must not trespass too much on your kindness.’ 44 4 All right, Sir Charles,’ said he ; 4 we’ll have ’em seen to, they’ll be the fresher ; for it’s a good long way now till you reach the kennels. There’s water handy if the hounds will lap it.’ 44 So we went into the house,” said Archer ; 44 a large and roomy one, and with a kitchen well hung with hams and sides of bacon ; Will and the whips remaining with the hounds, and having their lunch outside on the pitch- ing. The wife, it appeared, was busy in the dairy, butter- making ; but the daughters, who seemed to be three nice homely girls, soon made themselves useful, and got a spread for us. A round of beef and a ham, and some nice brown-bread and cheese, and a capital meat-pie, and some chawl, all in a plain way, and so we enjoyed it, as although it was at that time but eight o’clock, we had breakfast at four, and the fresh air since then had given us both an appetite.” 44 1 think you fell on your feet at the right place,” said Wells. 44 1 think we did,” said Archer. ( 20 ) CHAPTER IY. A QUEER CUSTOMER MORNING IN THE VALLEY. “ Yates/’ said Wells, calling from the arbour to the olcl man who was clipping, “ don’t cut those yews too close ; and see that all the loppings are burnt before you go home, or they will be pitched aside somewhere, and settle my cows. Shy a stone at that rascal Tip, will you ? he will play the deuce with those hollyhocks. Come here, you sinner,” cried Wells, calling to him, “ and settle yourself down a bit by old Pepper.” But there was no come back in that dog ; for he left the lawn and treed the cat immediately, and made vigorous attempts to get up the ivy and have her in the branches, “What a varmint it is!” said Wells; “he has been coached out of those hollyhocks before to-day. Confound the dog, I don’t want him to spoil them ! ” “No,” said Archer, “ they make a nice line of colour along the terrace, and you can see them above the wall as you come up the bank ; they come in well between those two wonderful peacocks.” “Ah,” said Wells, “those are Yates’s handiwork; he is a dab hand at that sort of thing. He wants sadly to get to work at the yews round the moat ; he says, ‘ They’d look mighty fine, master, cushioned and bolstered ; ’ but I tell him, John, they are out of bounds, and look best there as they are.” “ So they do, Harry,” said Archer, “ though here they are right enough and in keeping with the timbered work and the chimneys. “ Well,” he continued, “ as I was saying, we had a good lunch there, and after we had done ample justice to it, we thanked the ladies and our worthy host for their kindness, and mounted to go home, as the pack had started, when a rough-looking fellow in a velveteen jacket, and with a whip in his hand, came up by the fold-yard to the green in the front, and touched his hat to the farmer. “‘It’s o’ no manner o’ use, maister,’ said he, going straight into the middle of his grievance; ‘ I mun gie him up ; for a bigger brute I never had to do with. He’s snapt the martingale and coined roight over, and thray 30 A QUEER CUSTOMER. times I’ve slipped him. Try some one else’s neck — I dunna moind it; for though he he a good horse, he’s a nipper, and never, I think, can he broke o’ rearin’.’ “ 4 Is that all that’s the matter with him ? ’ said Charlie. 44 4 That he all, sir,’ replied the fellow ; 4 and enough too, as I reckon. But p’raps you fancy, young sir,’ said he to Charlie, 4 as you can brake? My business I dun- now ; oh no, I don’t.’ 44 4 Well, don’t get riled, my man, I only spoke ; but if your master here will trust me on him, I’ll show you,’ Charlie said, 4 how you may manage him, and break him of that stupid rearing trick. How have you ridden him,’ he asked ; 4 with good sharp spurs and snaffle ? ’ 44 4 Sharp spurs and snaffle!’ sneered the man; 4 no spurs and curb. I guessed at once how much you knew about it. If you be foolish enough to try the spurs, young sir, you’ll find he’ll very soon settle you ; for he’ll break your neck, as he’d break mine if I was such a born fool as you think I be. Sharp spurs indeed ! If you corned out with the cakes, I stopt in till the loaves ; I warn’t half baked, nor borned yesterday. No, no,’ said the man, shaking his head, 4 whatever else he be, J em baint no fool ! ’ ” 44 The breaker, then, got savage on the matter?” said Wells. 44 It seemed so,” Archer said. 44 4 Then, said Charles to the farmer, 4 if you will risk the horse, I’ll risk the neck ; and all that I shall want is a snaffle and spurs. No martingale or curb, no stirrups or a whip ; merely a snaffle, Mr. Mowbray, and long spurs with sharp rowels in them ; mine are blunted. They set one’s tops off, but I never 1 use them. I hate a scratched horse,’ said Charlie, 4 and a horse that needs them. Come here, my boy,’ he called out to the youngster, 4 and hold my mare a bit.’ 44 The farmer, I, and all of us,” said Archer, 44 tried hard to turn him, but we could not. We told him,” said he, 44 that he would break his neck, and that it was a foolish thing to meddle with such an animal. But as he seemed so stiff about it, the horse was fetched, and the curb exchanged for a snaffle.” 44 What sort of a horse was he?” asked Wells; 44 a Cruiser brute ? ” MORNING IN THE VALLEY. 31 “ No, a big good-looking horse,” said Archer, “ well np to weight, bay, with black points. Taking his own spurs off, he put on a pair they brought him, which,” said Archer, “were regular prickers; and he then led the horse down into the straw-yard and mounted him slowly and de- liberately, the brute putting back his ears, but standing still. “ Then,” said Archer, “ he slipped the stirrups off and threw them down, so as to be safer if the horse fell over, just felt his mouth, and then — looked out for squalls.” “ But he could not stick him in that way,” said Wells. “ He could and did,” said Archer ; “ for he has, as you know,” said he, “ such a splendid grip ! I knew him, Harry, lose a stirrup once with hounds, and go on too without it to the finish.” “ You did?” said Wells. 64 Yes, and the same with girths ; a state of things that is just ten times worse,” said Archer. “I should think so indeed,” Wells said. 44 It was two seasons ago, and they snapt right through as he was going over a fence ; enough, you’ll say, to pitch him on his head. They were some that had been used with a buck-jumper, and so had got stretched and frayed ; but for more than twenty minutes, for I saw it,” said Archer, 44 he held a line and kept his place with hounds solely by grip, the saddle never turning or the ends catch- ing, as he did his fences. We had some big things too that day, that took some doing.” 44 Well,” said Harry, 44 1 will give him best, John. I should think he was stiff! sh the next day.” 44 No doubt he was,” said Archer, 44 with all his muscles tense; but he would not own it. Well, the first thing that he did was to let the horse walk, and, much to our surprise, he found him steady. Before he had ridden him, however, twice round the yard,” said Archer, 44 he was up in the air in a moment ; but just as he seemed like coming backwards — and we looked for Charlie to slip off him — he bounded like a shot and dropped again, through spurs sent home.” 44 The deuce he did ! ” said Wells. “Then he tried the trick again,” said Archer, “with the same result; a straight dart forwards, then a snort and stop, pawing with his foreleg and shaking his head, 32 A QUEER CUSTOMER. as if he scarcely knew what to make of it. Each time the horse reared, the spurs were sent in, which made him hound and drop. Then Charlie patted him. In half an hour, with many a shake of head, that horse,” said Archer, 44 walked from the straw-yard to a field, and quietly ; and then went round it without once rearing or attempting to, caressed and petted all the way by Charlie, who put him through his paces to a gallop and sat him splendidly, no horse going better.” “ I could not have believed it, John,” said Harry. “ Nor I,” said Archer, “ if I had not seen it. 4 There then/ Charlie said, as he rode up to us, 4 follow that plan, my man, and you will find it answer. Lower your hands when he comes up on end, and send the spurs in once and once only, but quickly and sharply, and so save your neck. You see, Mr. Mo wbray/ said Charlie, turning to the farmer, 4 in going forwards he is bound to drop ; he cannot tumble over when you 44 shoot ” him. 44 4 But mind one thing, my man/ said Charlie to the breaker, 4 you must not spur him till he is in the air. You want to trick him ; so all the time, besides, talk gently to him, as if he were the best-behaved horse out. You thus deceive him ; and he will soon think that when he comes up on end in that way he hurts himself, because your kindness, with the hurt, will puzzle him; and if you continue it, it will so bother him/ said Charlie, 4 that it will altogether throw him out of count, and he will very soon give it up entirely. You try it, man, for what I say is right ; you will completely cure him in a week, if you will, that’s certain/ ” 44 How did the fellow take it ? ” said Wells. 44 Like the magpie,” said Archer ; 44 he said but little, but he thought a deal. 4 1 have had some brutes to manage before to-day, Mr. Mowbray, for one friend or other — besides/ Charlie said, 4 1 have bred for years, and I break my own, and in a lot of youngsters you do get some most awful tempers — but I have never yet failed/ he said, 4 to make them handle well and safe to ride ; and except, perhaps, in such a case as this I never punish, and here no more than you have just seen. I have no faith in it, Mr. Mowbray/ said he, 4 nor ever had/ ” 44 He is right enough there, John, as I have found/’ said Wells. morning in the valley. 33 “ Then,” said Archer, “ Charlie got off the horse and gave him up to the man, and put on his own spurs again and mounted his mare, and then he and the rest of us started for home, he telling Mowbray that if the man failed, to send the horse over to Boscobel, and he himself would cure him. You know it, Harry, for I think you have been there ? ” “ Yes,” said Wells, “ I have ; and it is a nice place too. It was formerly the Warren ; but that was years ago.” “ Many years,” replied Archer ; “ in the old people’s time. We overtook the hounds, and gently trotted down by the river-side, and got back home at twelve, Charlie well pleased that he had come with me.” “I should think so,” said Wells; “quite a jolly morning ! He will have the horse, you’ll see ; that man won’t manage- him; his nerve is gone — not worth a button, John. I wish,” said he, as they crossed the garden for the house, to have a chat with the aunt, “ you would stay the night, old fellow ; the doctor promised to look in this evening.” “ No, not to-night,” said Archer. But he did so ; for after tea, time passed so pleasantly, the evening glow had vanished from the ceiling, and gray come before they thought that it was even sunset ; so, as the moon would not be up till ten, his horse was bedded. And when the doctor left after supper to go to his patient on the common, and then, if she was comfortable, to ride to his home in the village, they turned out with him to see how the moon looked, and to have a sniff of the cool night air and to open the gates for him. And as they came back again under the apple-trees in the end orchard, and stayed there as the sound of his horse’s hoofs died away, to listen to the owls hooting in the woods just over the water — for those glorious old woods, where the under- growth was as high as your head and the light only came with a flicker, were on either side of the river, and went billowing away for miles, dipping as the hills dipped — they saw the young moon rising over the tree tops, paling as she rose. So they sat there for a while on the wicket, listening to the weir. And there was a rustle in the hedgerow where the red dead leaves were lying as a stoat moved amongst them ; and the dry sticks in the orchard cracked brittle on the trees as they were hit by the apples that D 34 A QUEER CUSTOMER* dropped ripe into tlie grass. And a fox crossed the meadows below them ; for they heard amongst the sheep the bell of the bell-wether, that made them look there, and they saw him, like a lengthy brown dog, running by them. Then, as the wind stirred the bushes that were beside them, and sent a little shiver amongst the leaves on the oak over them, and on the elm that was upon the bank, the murmur of the weir came up to them with a moan, that rose and fell again as the night wind went sighing up the valley, lifting the leaves as it went. And as they went on up to the house the vault of the heavens looked high, and the stars in the blue of it golden ; for the night was a frosty one, and it would be fine on the morrow. And when the white fogs crept on by the water and the wood-shades deepened, the silence of night filled the valley ; for all were asleep at the farm, and the birds in the ivy were quiet. The next morning, after an early breakfast, John Archer was off betimes ; while there was a coolness in the air and a catch of frost on the meadows, as it showed now by the river, for the nights got cold there, and while the clematis and the hopbine in the hedges glistened with dew and gossamer. And the blue mists that were up the valley hid the hills, and rolled in light wreaths from the woods and hollows. And the lanes were still and quiet, and the dust upon the roads was unmarked by wheels ; and the only sounds to be heard were the caw of the rooks and the songs of birds ; and the smoke, with a fine day promise, went straight up between the woods from the cottages that were dotted about there. It was a morning that suited him, fresh and nice, and with all that sense of breeziness that you get from the rustle of the boughs and the falling of the leaves ; for they were fluttering in yellow flakes from the trees, winnowing to the red ones, or drifting across with the breeze to drop lightly into the brambles that lay clustered in the hedges there, purple with blackberries. And as he left the lanes for the hills, and rode up through the woods by the winding paths — where the light chequered them, and the shadows of the trees fell upon them — he thought of Nature’s bounty and her beauties, and of all those unbpught pleasures worth the having that MORNING IN THE VALLEY. 35 she ever lavishes upon those who love her. And when he had reached the top of the wood, he looked down into the dingles, and he saw far below him, between the long branches of some spreading yews, the valley mellowing in the morning light, as the sun shone, and blue burst through the sky. So getting off a while to rest his horse, he sat there, look- ing down into the valley through the tree-trunks, and in the silence drank in all its beauty. And as he watched the shadows creep out from the hedgerows, as the early farm- sounds came up to him — with what pleasure few know but those who love Nature as he loved her — and saw the sunny sweeps of meadow aftermath that were splashed with the purples of the saffron-flowers, he noticed how the long lengths of hop-j^ards that were beside them — whose tint at sundown is a sight to see — looked amber in the light, and with what a sheen the willowy river that was flickering in the sun shone so far away. And he also noticed on the uplands, where but so short a time ago white barley swayed and golden corn was bending — for the harvest always fell late there to the sickles of the reapers — how pure in the morning light were the tints upon the stubbles, and how well they came in between the rich browns in the woods, where the trees were russeting, and how good was the backing to them of the woods be- yond, that went sloping high up the hills with their colours — their grays and their blues and their purples— till they swept to their crest or went over them. Then, as he mounted again to go home, as a light breeze rose, soft gray clouds that were white-edged moved through the blue over him, and their shadows chased the sunshine in the valley. And seeing it as he did there, framed by the olive-green of the trees that were before him, he felt the beauty of it. And then, in his own quiet way, John Archer rode on thoughtfully to his home at the Grange. ( 36 ) CHAPTER Y. ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN AND THE HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 44 Good-morning,” said Oliver to Andrews, as they met by the Fox hotel in the county town, and rode into the yard together. 44 Why, what became of you, Ted, the other day; we never saw an inch of your countenance, old fellow, after we left the gorse — did you come to grief? ” 44 1 did,” was the reply, 44 and intense grief, over some stiff rails down by Furze-hill, where I had a regular purler and a lost shoe ; with hounds going like steam, and no blacksmith handy. So I got thrown out, and I turned for home ; which, considering it was the first day of the season, and there was a splendid 4 field 5 out, was certainly a nuisance. You had a very good run, George, I hear.” 44 Yes,” said Oliver, 44 we had, for an hour and forty minutes, with only that slight check by the park-palings, through those beggarly sheep getting out ; but which, by the bye, as letting you up amongst us, was a good thing for you. Well, come in,” said he, as they left the stables and turned into a corridor bright with greenery ; 44 what are you going to have ? ” 44 Oh, some of the old sort, I suppose,” said Andrews, 44 some bitter ; there is nothing better, I think. Have you sold your hops ? ” 44 All but a few pockets ; but I am in no hurry, for prices are up, and mine is a clean sample. I wish I had not sold,” said Oliver ; 44 they will fetch more money yet. 4 Farnhams 5 are middling, and there 'are but few 4 Olds 1 left.” Entering 44 the bar,” which, as it was market-day, w'as filled with farmers, graziers, hop-growers, and others — most of them local men, and many of them friends or acquaintances — they shook hands with some and nodded to others, and then, as the hunting men amongst them continued to discuss 44 the good thing the} 7 had on Tuesday,” the conversation merged from hops and crops to hounds and horses. Sitting about there — a light and airy room, and large and lofty, with cosy nooks, pot-ferns and flowers, and couches — were many of the best men in the district ; that THE HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 37 being, on market days, the great meeting-place, the resort of many, and a lounge for all. And it was there that, on the last day of each week, gossip was retailed, reports floated, prices fixed, and the runs of the week talked over. It was there, too, that the Hunt-dinners were held ; the landlord, genial and gentle- manly, and great in greyhounds, being a large subscriber and a thorough sportsman ; as was also his son, who, mounted well, went well. But while the hunting men stretch it as to fences, and the dealers stretch it as to price, it will be well to give here a few words about the two friends, who, seated in a quiet corner, were looking over the papers, and deep in the mysteries of the “ Country Markets.’’ Oliver, a good-looking young fellow of about five or six and twenty, was a hop-grower, well and favourably known in the district as “a good sort and a straight goer ” — a summary of character meaning much — and resident, as was his friend Andrews, in a small hamlet that was pretty and picturesque, and twelve miles distant from the station. Both were in easy circumstances, and Andrews the richer ; he being the son of a Manchester merchant, who was reputed to be wealthy, and known to be charitable. The eldest son, Robert, was in business with his father, and this one, the second son, Edward, or “ Teddy,” as they called him, being a good shot and fond of hunting, the old man took a small farm for him at Honey brook, in the Teme valley, and on the Herefordshire side of the river ; a hamlet that was backed by high hills and faced by wood and water ; and the farm was a fruitful farm, and it had just enough land about it to give employment to his son, and so keep him from being idle. And he liked Honeybrook ; for, as he said when he came to settle at it, “ it was really a jolly little place, and so snug and quiet.” And so it was ; for it lay in a hollow low down in a long drip in the valley, with wooded hills overlooking it ; and with hopyards sliding into it ; and it was so hidden by old hawthorns and apple-trees, and clumps and garden growths, that you had to come upon it all at once, which made it the jollier. For the way into it dropped suddenly between high banks, that were rough and tangled with gorse and fox- glove roots, and with fern and brambles ; where the rabbits 38 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN. stayed and looked at yon, and the birds sang on as yon passed into the shadow of the limes, listening to the bees. And at the bottom of the bank, in the snnlight — for the trees ended there — was the chnrch ; where the road turned short ronnd to the left by the rookery, and yon got snch a splendid bit of open country and river scenery, across the big pool at the court-house, past the island where the flag flapped. The church, too, was an old one, heavy with ivy, and gray and weather-stained, and you went down steps into it ; and as you came quietly down the bank leading your horse, you saw that the trees framed it, and that the square tower and the great yews stood out clearly against the high elms, under an arch of sky, and with a backing of cornfields and copses, with hills behind them that stretched away up the valley, graying as they went; and there was a deep-blue distance beyond them that you caught as the white pigeons swept across it when they flew from the tithe-barn to the lich-gate, to coo and flutter there, until the schoolgirls came to swing and play about the mount- ing-block, and to caw at the rooks squabbling in the rookery. And also at the bottom of the bank was a brook — you could hear the ripple of it before you saw it — that, though it was made to dip there under the road, to leave all dr}^ at the church, and to make foam-falls in the shrubberies, yet did pretty much as it liked up the village. So, as it had the lane to itself, it made it “a watery lane” for a mile or more — except a bit of a strip on the high bank above it, just for the foot-people — from where it came out of the woods and through the meadows, and brought the trout with it from under the big stones in the dingles, where the light was twilight, from the close boughs meeting. But shallow as the brook was, there were some good - trout in it ; for you could see them poising or darting for the banks as you rode splashing through it. For after you got beyond the church and the farm buildings, and passed the ivied house where the sparrows were — and where they let you know they were— and the half-timbered houses with the cut yews and the box-borders, and the red- brick place with the bushed laurustinuses and the dove-cot, the road so narrowed that it became all brook ! So you just swung your legs up on each side of the THE HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 89 saddle, to save spottling your stirrup-irons, and let your horse enjoy the coolness of it, as well as yourself, as you “ lolloped ” along,. chatting to the old women in the gardens, or gossiping with the youngsters paddling in the brook for primroses, or whatever happened to be growing there on the banks beside it. Not that they wanted them, by any means, as all the banks were yellow with them, or bright with the other flowers that in their turn grew there ; but the having to go into the water for them was a something they ought not to do, and so they enjoyed it, as you could see when they scampered out — the young monkeys! — and put their stockings on, laughing as only hearty and happy children can laugh. You could hear their joyous little screams so long after you left them, that you would turn a time or two in your saddle, thinking they were near you. And a very jolly little brook it was too ; for, except at flood-time, it was shallow enough to have plenty of tinkle about it, for it had lots of twistings and ripplings where the sandstone ridged it. And up above it, and on either side of it, were some thatched cottages — old gray ones ; and some gardens and orchards ; and a little farm or two, where there were fowls about ; and a wheelwright’s, where the path widened; and some cherry-orchards, with some red-tiled cottages, and some bee-hives by them ; and a dis- mal-looking old place, with some poplars round it, that was shut up, because it was “ haunted of a ghost, sir.” All the way up, indeed, was pretty ; for the women there were great hands at hollyhocks and gillies, and rose- bushes and scarlet-runners, that they trained by the privet- hedges for the passers-by to see, and to give them an excuse for a gossip with them whenever they had the chance of it; for the old dames would stand, scissors in hand, by the bushes, making believe to be trimming them. It was a nice-smelling place too, all about there ; for what with the violets and the sweetbrier, and the beans and “ the blossom,” and the honeysuckles and the meadow- sweet, and the whiffs of hay, each in its season, there was no lack of sweet scents in that village. But the best of it all was up at the end there, where the road branched off at the foot-bridge to go to the next ham- let ; and where you looked across the dingle to the big fox- cover, where they always “ found,” or up the long stubbles 40 ANDREWS OF CONEY GREEN. to the grass-lands, that sloped to the shy and the white clouds. For it was there that the orchards were thicker and the fruit was the finest ; and wdien they were heaped all over with their red and their white blossom, and thick with bees, and loud with the hum of them, the scent that was there then was a thing to be remembered. Altogether it was an old-fashioned fruity little place, where the farmers sold hops and cider, and the cottagers eggs and “ posies.” For they went to market on Saturdays, and they thanked the Lord other days ; and though they did 44 putt ” their legs up 4 4 o’ Sundays, and think’d o’ nothin’,” when their old rector was exhorting them, they certainly were a devout people, for they 44 thanked the Lord ” for everything, from hop-bines to honey. If Bella Birch was got to school after a boxing, or Jane Styles had her flowers 44 cheapened,” or Theresa Simpson’s youngest had to be re vaccinated, or the 44 rampagious ” donkey was pounded, or the relieving-officer’s pony lost 44 altogether,” they were that contented sort of people that they were equally grateful — so 44 thanked the Lord ” for all and everything, as 44 became them ” as Christians. And they had their manners also ; for they 44 sir’d ” the pig-killer, and 44 good man’d” the postman, and did hat-in- hand to the parson, who, poor man, being seventy-eight and short-sighted, often mistook their 44 obeysance ” for asking arms, and would potter on with, 44 1 never give money to beggars — bad plan, bad plan ; give you some meat though ; come round, come round.” It was a very early place too ; for except when they had company at the court-house, all the villagers looked to snore at eight in the winter and nine in the summer, 44 reg’lar like ; ” but when 44 the company came, they willingly robbed themselves of their rest to 44 see the carriages ” and 44 the gentlefolks.” Hence, going to bed so early, they were early risers ; and they brushed the dew off the grass, and they made their mark in the meadows ; for they were up betimes, and were out with the lark ; which, as one of them observed, as he perhaps thought of his younger days — he was only sixty-three, and it served the juvenile old boy all the day after to tell it amongst the mowers — was better than being out 44 for one.” And 44 Teddy ” went amongst them, and liked them, and they liked him ; and they testified publicly that 44 his head THE HAMLET OF HONEYBROOK. 41 was screwed on, and his heart in the right place ; ” which, besides being a satisfactory state of things anatomically and mechanically, at once put him right with the whole village ; so right, in fact, that he never was known after that to be short of wasp-cake or whipcord ; the two things they always asked you to have of them when they really did like you — the first to ’tice the fish, and the second to tickle the animal in the dog-cart. So he made up his mind to stay there ; for, as he said, “ It’s a nightingale place, my dear fellow, for the meadows are cowslip ones; and the lanes are filled with violets, purple and white ones, plentiful as daisies ; and there are primroses on the banks, and wild flowers in the woods, so thick there that you crush them as you walk. And ‘ the blossom 5 is glorious — cherry and plum, and pear and apple — and its smell delicious ; and the hops are splendid; and the fishing and the shooting and the hunting there is each first-rate.” So that, as all there appeared to him to be superlative, he could not well do less than be satisfied. But as he knew but little of farming when, eighteen months previously, he took to it, his father employed a bailiff to superintend the farm for him and to see to the tilling. Oliver, therefore, whose own farm lay but three miles from there — just on the outskirts of the parish — kindly offered his services, when they met one evening at the rectory, in the way of supervision and general informa- tion ; so that ere long the two near neighbours became firm friends, and hunted, shot, and fished together; and their sisters, Loo and Cissy, had but few secrets from each other. With such companionship, and with the benefit of his friend’s experience, the bailiff was parted with at the year’s end ; and the little farm, “ Coney Green,” only a hundred and forty acres, was now, and had been for the past six months, entirely managed by Andrews himself, who, from constantly associating with the farmers of the district, was fast getting into those plain, sensible, and homely ways which, causing a wholesome horror of debt, made them the manly men they were — sturdy, free-feeling, and inde- pendent ; able and willing to pay their way, “if so be it pleased God the rain didn’t beat ’em.” Barely two and twenty, with excellent health and spirits, an iron constitution, and an even temper, hospitable 42 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILL8. to a degree, and with the means for hospitality — no wonder that Andrews, or, as he was familiarly called by his friends, “ Teddy Andrews,” was well liked. But with sound sense and good general knowledge he had yet a marked simplicity of manner that indicated credulity, and that often laid him open to the designs of the crafty. More than once had he been “ well bitten ; ” and more than once had George Oliver counselled caution in the varied dealings of buying and selling incidental to his pursuits. In horses he was especially weak, fancying, like many others, that because he had hunted for two seasons, all the “ points ” of a horse must necessarily be known to him. Honest himself, and thoroughly straightforward, he ever thought others were the same ; and “ wearing his heart upon his sleeve,” he never suspected duplicity, never imagined deceit. To use a West-country phrase, “he showed his cards, and they trumped his trick ; he opened his mouth, and the man jumped down it ; ” a duplex saying for the same thing — too little reticence and too much belief; a combination of circumstances that has brought many a man to grief. Returning now to the other occupants of the room, their conversation continued in an animated strain for some time; then, each going out on his own business, they separated, to meet again at “ the ordinary ” up-stairs, or later in the bar, so as to have a chat together before riding home. CHAPTER YI. MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS — EXPERIENCE PAID FOR “ Have you any more to do ? ” asked Oliver, as they met again in the evening ; for it had been a busy day with him, and he was later than usual. “ Only,” was the reply, “ to call about some fish I ordered, to see if they have sent it to the carrier. I shall be back again in ten minutes, and then,” said Andrews, “ I am ready when you are.” “ Well,” said Oliver, “ I don’t want to be too late home; so I will order the horses, Ted, and wait in the yard.” EXPERIENCE PAID FOR. 43 Half an hour later they were in the saddle, and with a splendid evening before them for their journey home. Passing nnder the old high tower of the cathedral, they went along the quay up to the bridge, that took them out into the open country, and thence to districts full of rich pasture-land and hops and orchards. And they rode on by the old-fashioned gardens in the suburbs, and reached the outskirts. And as they passed the quaint houses there, with their long avenues and their pigeon-boxes and their stately trees, the evening glow had spread across the landscape, and had caught with its golden light the country-seats that lay around there, belted by copses, and with water by them. And they went on, by pastures and stubbles and plough-land, to by-lanes and commons, where the gorse was a mass and the gipsies were numerous. Then, check- ing their horses as they got near a hill, Andrews broke silence thus : “ Where did you go to when I came to grief? I don’t know if they have if in the Herald.” “ Kept to the scent, and went on, Ted,” said Oliver. “ The hounds,” said he, “ soon crossed the road, and spring- ing the fence together, they raced along the meadows as mute as mice, till suddenly they dipped and showed again ; and then, as they 4 broke ’ well in line, their chorus came to us most musically. We knew by that some brookwork was before us, and that pace was needed, for it was Over- dale — a racing bit, and always many in it. I don’t suppose you know it, Ted,” said he. “ What, Overdale ? Few people but know that,” said Andrews, “ either by sad experience or by name. The former, George, would certainly have been mine had not I been thrown out.” “ You missed a bath, old fellow, I believe,” said Oliver. “ Its banks are honeycombed from being washed by very frequent floods, and they have straight sides, just like a railway cutting ; so that where they are not slanted for the cattle, it is no easy matter to effect a landing. The last time we had it,” said he, “seven out of twelve — though they were first-flight men — were into it, and under, and bobbing about like big floats in the water ; so that will tell you that it takes some doing.” “ Yes,” Andrews said, “ I have heard it is a clipper.” 44 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. “ As we got near it,” continued Oliver, “ Stevens — on the gray — gave us ‘ a lead/ for he was on his water- jumper; and cleverly he did it. Burton went next, and safely dropped the chestnut — his hot one — and Warden after him, along with Archer. Then Wells, then King, one down, one in ; I next,” said Oliver, “ and missed a grassing, ‘ Beauty ’ stumbling. Just as we were getting into stride again, thud comes Fred Collins right against the bank, and vanishes ; Jem Griffin too, who took it at the widest. And after we had landed, and turned in our saddles,” said he, “ to see who got in and who got over, we saw lots rushing at it as hard as they could pelt ; glad, no doubt, to have it soon over. Some did get over, but a lot got in ; but as there was a stiff line of rails in the pasture, that needed both eyes and hands, it prevented our watch- ing them. But afterwards, on ‘counting up the noses/ we made but sixteen total. The rest — a good large ‘ field ’ — being brooked, or roadsters ; for they never reached us till we had killed our fox. “You will see the line we took ; it is in the Field . I met the postman as I came,” said Oliver, “and looked. He took the papers on, though, with the letters ; but you shall have it when we send to-morrow. Loo has some things she has worked, Ted, for your sister.” “ Thanks,” said Andrews ; “ Cissy will be pleased. Much stiff, George ? ” “Well, yes,” said he; “but a splendid country, with doubles and good rails, and brooks and bullfinches. I got my full share, Ted, in size and ‘ nasty ’ places, so I was thankful ; still for the pickers there were donkey fences, which some I know negotiated calmly, as if they really thought them worth the doing. Just fancy ! ” George said. “ There' certainly are men who’d jump a thistle, and cast about how they shall best get over some small gutter ; and yet come out,” said Andrews, “ with the hounds, to say they do so. It is most laughable.” “ It is,” said Oliver, “ wild in the lanes, but frightened in the fields. Macadam courage coupled with fence-fever. Such men should always come out with a crupper, and hold on to it stoutly. “ The view from here,” said he, as they reached the brow of the hill — Crookthorpe Hill — “ I always think is so fine. I do not wonder at people pulling up to look at EXPERIENCE PAID FOR. 45 it. Even now, sloping away as it does for miles and miles, though lialf its charms are hidden in the duskiness, it is very beautiful,” said Oliver ; “ don’t you think so, Ted ? ” “Yes,” said Andrews; “it is almost as fine as that from Harry Wells’s place, or from the hill by Manor Wood.” “ They meet there shortly,” said Oliver. “John Archer is going ; but it is too outlying a fixture for me, at least just then. It is a long way from his place ; but I think he intends getting up to Fred Collins the night before, so as to be handy for it.” “ I have never been there with hounds,” said Ted ; “ but we had a picnic there last summer — that is, June twelvemonths — and I thought it then,” said he, “ a very jolly place, and the view magnificent.” But as George Oliver remarked, the view from where they were was then, as they saw it, even in the dusk, “ very beautiful ; ” for so golden was the sky with evening glow, the wooded hills looked black that closed the valley, giving a grandeur to their long length of sky-line ; and just above it was a flight of rooks, flying from their feeding- grounds straight home to roost. And down be- neath it were deep purple shadows, cut by white fog, that, rising to a level from the meadows, looked like a river. And as the gold got green, as Andrews and Oliver rode onwards, some glow-worm lights shone out upon the hills from cottages ; and lower down the slopes some larger lights were seen as well, from farms ; and in the hollows they were also twinkling, and thickening around a red one — the forge-fire that was down in the village below, where the blacksmith was busy ; for, as they came down the hill, they could both hear the clink on his anvil. As the green got gray, and they went by the mill in the flat, where the big pool and the willows and the half- sunken boat and the putchins were, it was all silent there — silent as the wheel ; for work was over, and the bats were skimming. Then the gray got blue, and the stars came out, one by one, as Ted and Oliver trotted through the valley ; and by the time they had reached the woods the sky was thick with them. And they rode on there along the bridle- paths, scaring the owls and starting many a rabbit in the glades that were dusky beneath them. And when they 46 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. emerged from under the tall trees, and passed from the darkness of them into the white light upon the hills, it was indeed beautiful ; for the moon was rising, and the yews and the hawthorns were throwing their long shadows on the turf, that lay white in the moonbeams. And they rode there silently in the moonlight, for the turf was too soft and springy to give back their footfalls ; and the only sound they heard was the clank of the little gates as they passed through them. And at the end of the hills they again passed into the darkness of the woods. And when, at last, they left them, and began to dip down to the lanes for home, the moon- light had fallen upon the valley, and they could see, as the moon caught it, the white streak of the river through the trees in the hedgerows ; for the fog in the meadows was thin, and it lay lightly on the grass. And they hastened on along the lanes between the copse-bordered banks to the cross-roads ; and there they pulled up, as their ways diverged, Andrew’s farm, Coney Green, lying to the right, and Oliver’s, the Brook Farm, three miles to the left of it. “Will you come round with me, old fellow, for a pipe ? ” said Andrews. “It w r on’t take you long, and you need not be back, you know, till after supper.” “No, not to-night,” said George ; “ it is much too late, and I have to pay the men, for I was short of change this morning, and they will be waiting for me ; and Loo will too. Not to-night.” “ Well, mind and come on Monday, then, to dinner, and see just what you think of my new purchase — a bay, my hoy — a fizzer ! ” “ What, on the deal again ? ” said Oliver. “ Who is the biter ? ” “ Implying by that term,” said Andrews, “ that I am ‘ bitten. 5 Why, Murby. I met with him on Tuesday out with hounds. He rode up when I came to grief, and pointed out a smith’s shop, and went with me ; so we rode home together.” “And made a deal, of course?” said Oliver. “Catch Murby civil if he can’t gain by it ! ” “ Yes, made a deal,” said Ted ; “ a good one too ! ” “ 0 youth and innocence,” said George, “ how art thou victimised ! No greater ‘ do 5 than he, Ted, walks in shoes. What was the figure ? ” EXPERIENCE PAID FOR. 47 “ Thirty.” “ And what the purchase ? ” “ A cob, a dappled bay ; round as a barrel, and with four black legs; strong as an elephant, and a splendid stepper — a noted trotter. He looks like carrying me right well to market, and giving most upon the road the go-by.” “ By running clean away the first time you try him ! ” “Not so, friend George ; now don’t you be severe. He is good with hounds too, and knows the stone-wall busi- ness. He was with the ‘ Cots wold 5 in the Bredon country.” “ And all that lot,” said Oliver, “ for thirty?” “ Yes, with half-crown out, chop-money.” “ 0 Teddy, Teddy, ‘ sold 5 again art thou, you helpless innocent ! Why, Jemmy Murby is the * deadest nail 5 in all the country, that everybody knows ; and so might you have heard. Why, he would even do his father in a deal for twopence-halfpenny, and think it clever ! ” “ Wait, wait, George, wait,” said Andrews ; “ you have not seen the cob-— you will find you are mistaken just for once.” “ I only hope, for your sake, that I am ; I fear I am not. A good bay cob,” said Oliver, “ like that, is worth, ay twice that sum, as park-hack for some gentleman in town, to daily pound along for constitutional in Rotten Row. Thirty pounds, indeed ! If he is sound, a dealer would give fifty. When can I see him ? ” “ Oh, to-morrow.” “ Well, to-morrow’s Sunday.” “ Say Monday, then,” said Andrews. “ I shall be in all day. Come early, and to dinner. Then see him, ride him, and try him round the fences.” “ I’ll look him over first.” “ Oh, he can jump,” said Ted, “ for Murby told me so.” “No doubt he can, at sudden swipe of some good double thong, and from the one side of the stable to the other. Oh Ted ! ” laughed Oliver. “ George, you are too bad. He is, as you will find for once, a good one.” “ AH right ; I’ll see him. Oh, what about his tail ? ” “ He has one.” “ Now has he, though ? ” said George. “ However could they do it at the price ! Good-night, old boy. On Monday, then, I will come across and see him.” 48 MOONLIGHT ON THE HILLS. “ Well, don’t forget. Good-night ; and come,” said Ted, “ to dinner.” And as the noise of their horses’ hoofs died away, and the one sound ceased before the other, through the winding lanes and distance that was different, there was stillness and silence ; for the night was calm and quiet, and it was only in the neighbouring woods that the least sound could be heard, for the wind was at rest, and it had not yet rustled up the valley. But there the leaves were dropping dead from the trees ; for the life had gone out of them, and they had lifted their last to the blue sky over them. And they were drifting from the boughs to the brambles, to fall into the ferns ; and to find there a resting-place on moss and grass. And the canopy that would be over them would be of green and gold ; for the time was autumn, and the ferns were flushing. And when Monday came George Oliver rode over to Honeybrook to Andrew’s farm there — Coney Green — that was close to “ the watery lane,” and had the horse out. “ He is not bad-looking, that is certain, Teddy,” said he, as Andrews stood him, with his head up, by the stables. “ Put the lad on him, and then let him walk.” “ Pie is a fairish mover. Now, boy,” said Oliver, “just slowly trot him on towards the gate, turn him sharp round and canter back to us.” “ He goes well, certainly,” said be, as the boy pulled up. “ I told you so,” said Andrews, “ but you would not believe it.” “ Don’t be too fast, Ted ; we will wait a bit. Just take him on again, my lad,” said Oliver, “ a good brisk trot, and at the same pace bring him back again.” “ There now, jump off,” said he. “ Ah, I thought as much ! Look here, Ted. Do you know what that means ? ” said Oliver, picking up the horse’s leg as he spoke ; “ bevelled for ‘ speedy cut ; ’ to hit with horn, not iron. Feel here,” said he, “ you see it is quite tender even now. That is the place he hits when, as you say, he trots out ‘ straight and sharp.’ There is dirt upon it. He is dear at thirty pence. I would not even have him as a gift ; for when he does come down, it will,” said Oliver, “ be like a shot, and without notice. “ See here again ; my fingers are quite greasy. That is EXPERIENCE PAID FOR. . 49 the stuff they use for broken knees/’ said George; “to hide white hair. * Had your lad cleaned his knees, you would have seen it. Here, boy,” said he, “go to the house and ask them for an iron and some brown paper — the iron hot. We shall see, then,” said Oliver, “ if what I say is right.” “ Well, this, I must say, is an awful nuisance. I thought for once,” said Ted, “ I had done well. He told me all about him, and seemed so candid. I never thought of looking at the shoeing, or getting hold of him below the knee.” “ And which you should have done,” said Oliver, “ as I have told you. Here comes the lad ; so now then, Ted, for test. The grease removed, I think you will find a patch, white under black. Just as I thought — look there ! “ ‘ A speedy cutter/ with two broken knees. You’re done, old fellow. Sell him for what he will fetch ; for if you don’t he will break your neck before you are ten days older. “ ‘ Thrown out 5 you were,” said Oliver, “ we know ; also ‘ let in/ “ 1 The world’s a wicked one, and u sharps ” are in it ; For “ flats,” yon see, are picked np in a minute ! ’ ” “Put the brute in,” said Ted ; “Cissy is calling us to come to dinner.” CHAPTER VII. A CHAT IN THE STUDIO — JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. “ Well, Johnson, how are you ? ” said Archer, as he turned into the studio in Elm-tree-walk, and found his friend — as usual there — busy at a canvas. “ Why don’t you stick that horrible creation in the corner ? ” said he, giving the lay figure a tap on the head as he passed it, that altered the balance of it, and stopped it peering into the colour- box ; “ it is enough to startle a fellow ! Here, hide his countenance, man, for goodness sake,” said Archer, as he picked up a wideawake and brought it down with a bang over the face of it. “ Plow you do work, Johnson ? ” “ It is play to me, Archie,” was the reply. “ Labor ipse voluptas. When do you return to the Grange?” said Johnson. E 50 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. 44 Oh, in about a fortnight, I suppose/’ said Archer; 44 there will be some home-fixtures about then.” “ I think I shall be back about then myself, just for a week or two ; and after that I must make my head- quarters here,” said Johnson, 44 and for some time too. I can’t half work at home with all those woods and hills tempting one to be idle ; and I hope you will come in too when 37 ou can, old fellow ; for if we are to keep faith with the huntsman, when the frost comes, and he is off duty, we must be up at the kennels a little oftener than we have been. There are those hounds and the old gray that you 4 rubbed in,’ ” said he, 44 just in the same state as they were a month ago.” 44 Well, you finish them,” said Archer, 44 there’s a good fellow ; it is to be a joint affair, you know, so it will be all one. His old woman, as he calls her, is pretty proud about it.” 44 Why did } r ou not come in to my place last night? ” said Johnson. 44 Two of the St. John’s Wood men were there, Dick Simms and Perrot; they are down from town for just a day or two. Dick’s picture was accepted, by the bye, and sold.” 44 Where at — the Dudley ? ” 44 No, at Suffolk Street ; they hung him well.” 44 1 am glad of that,” said Archer, “for he is such a decent fellow ; and Perrot, has he sold ? ” 44 The larger one he has, but not the others. He has a commission though for a pair of small ones. Two 4 circulars ’ ” said Johnson. 44 That’s right,” said Archer. 44 Did they sa}^ how all the fellows were at the old quarters ? ” 44 Oh, scratching at it,” said Johnson, 44 with a few sales in the season to help the 4 pot-boilers.’ ” 44 Have they hung you in New Street ? ” said Archer. 44 Yes, and fairly. I have had a letter from the secretaiy, and I find,” said Johnson, “that they have used me very well — one next below 4 the line/ two just above it, and the other picture they have 4 skied ; ’ but it was a duffer and not up to much — that heathy bit I got at Stanton Common. You remember it; I mulled the foreground?” “Yes,” replied Archer ; 44 it was not your best one, cer- tainly ; but they ought to have managed }^ou line space for that woodland one, because it was really a good picture.” JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 51 “ I am glad you like it, 5 ’ said Johnson ; “ but however good a picture might be, they know that I am but an outsider, an amateur, and therefore they have no idea of giving me priority in the hanging over one who paints for a living ; and I cannot blame them. I only wonder they give me a place at all ; but their secretary is a very good fellow, and they are a good sort there altogether, a very good sort,” said Johnson, “ and they hang impartially. You were out with the hounds, I think, yesterday ? 55 “ Yes,” said Archer, “ I was, or I should have been with you ; but when you come to kick your tops off, and settle down before a rousing fire, you do not feel much inclined after a day’s hunting to turn out again. It was late, too, when I returned; the clock struck seven as I left the station ; and after dinner I dropped off fast asleep, tired out.” Johnson was a very good fellow, and he and Archer were great chums. They were together in Rome for some time, as we have seen, sketching with some other men, and at home also they were often sketching out on the hills and in the woods ; for though Archer did but little in that way himself, Johnson painted regularly — “ fadding ” at it, as he said, “ for the love of it,” and more for occupation than from necessity ; for come of a good family, and the son of a barrister of some standing, he was left at his father’s death in a comfortable position ; so the Civil Service knew him no longer. And it was then that he left London, and settled in Worcestershire ; having been delighted with the scenery there, and in the adjoining county of Herefordshire, when he came down on a visit to Archer, whose acquaintance he had made in the Temple Gardens. For when J ohnson could get away from Somerset House for an hour or so, “ on im- portant business,” as he said, connected probably with the Red-tape Room or the Sealing-wax Department, he used to go there and sit by the fountain, to allow his mind to relax a little from “ the cares of office.” Had they met under any other circumstances, as for in- stance in a railway carriage, they would not of course have spoken to each other, however long the journey, as Englishmen are not in the habit of doing so ; but as all the surroundings there were equally congenial to them, after they had sat by each other for some weeks they became 52 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. acquainted, and accident bringing them still closer to- gether, they agreed for a time — as they were then both resident at Bayswater, Johnson having recently removed there from Pimlico — that they would occupy the same rooms ; and so before Archer left London they were chums together. And their rooms were very well situated, for they were near to those of some artist friends who lived there, and who had also a studio at Notting Hill; which, well placed in a quiet part, and with a good north light, was jointly occupied by them and by some St. John’s Wood men, Simms and Perrot being of the number; and there were few evenings that Johnson and John Archer did not turn in there to have a chat amongst “the paint-pots,” and assist in the fumigation of the room ; the smell of paint, as Simms observed, being “unhealthy.” Living afterwards in Worcestershire, in the same neigh- bourhood, they saw a good deal of each other ; for even when Johnson went to town for a week or two for a change, and squeezed a lot of colour away at the studio he had there — in the Elm-tree-walk — as an incentive to work while he was amongst his friends in the city, Archer would be sure to be riding over and looking in upon him, for they were great friends and good neighbours, and. were well suited to each other. It had been hinted too of late amongst those who knew them that, if they lived long enough, they might also become relations, as Archer had a sister, who was tall and shapely, and fair to look upon ; and Johnson, as an artist, was not blind to beauty. And the beauty of Miss Kate Archer came so very near to that ideal type depicted by artists, but so seldom met with, that it was a bad case with Johnson from the first time he saw her ; and they did say — that is, the gossips in the village — that when he came and settled there, because “ the scenery” was so pretty, they thought that Miss Archer was included in it. And though she was too good- looking for her lady friends to praise her, it was generally conceded that she was “ really a nice girl,” who, withlady- like accomplishments, had also a thorough knowledge of home duties, and was as well versed in domestic economy as she was in art and literature, and who, therefore, while able to see to the management of the kitchen, could yet hold her own in the drawing-room. JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 53 But not only was she able to do so, but she was sensible enough to be at all times willing to do so whenever she could lend a helping hand there ; for, as her old maiden aunts observed, “ she has always been brought up properly, my dear, and has no nonsensical pride about her ; so will make a good useful wife for any man.” And as Johnson was often pottering about there, when she was deep in the mysteries of apple-dumplings, or shelling peas, or feeding fowls, or busy with the butter in the dairy — for though Archer was not a farmer, he had cows and poultry, and grew enough hay for his horses — and as on such occasions she had seldom anything on better than a plain print-dress or a figured muslin, and would look rosy, and could not help looking pretty, the poor fellow got hit very hard indeed ; and, old bachelor as he looked, it was soon evident that he wanted a wife, and he meant to have one. So, as they all knew he was a determined sort of fellow when he had set his mind on anything, those in the neighbourhood began to look very knowing, and said they would “ make a match of it.” And they hoped it would be so, for J ohnson was a fine tall fellow, with a frank face and a big beard, and the people about there thought a good deal^of him, and liked him ; for he used to sketch their little ones, and gossip with themselves ; and whenever he had a chance of doing good amongst them — the poorer portion — he did not miss it. For he was old-fashioned enough to remember that kind words and sympathy, are acceptable, if even you have not spare cash about you ; and though they cost nothing to the piver, they are often worth a good deal to the receiver ; and that when it is so easy to do good, and to give pleasure to those who need it, it is a wrong thing and a selfish thing, and a pity too, if you do not do it, if only to get into that belief that people who exercise it do get into, that, take it altogether, the world is not such a very bad world after all ; only much of the good that is in it lies below the surface, and is seldom met with till you look for it. “ That seems to be a good bit you are doing there,” said Archer, getting up and looking at the canvas Johnson was at work at. “It will be, I hope,” was the reply, “when I have 54 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. finished it, and I have got all the high lights in. How about this one, Archie? 5 ’ said Johnson, taking the picture off the easel, and putting on to it a partly-finished one that was face to the wall on the floor. 44 That foreground bothers me ; I always fail there in force or colour, or some confounded thing or other , 55 said he, pointing with his mahl-stick to some foreground detail. 44 I think it needs fresh eyes on it, for mine are tiring . 55 44 Well, you are the best judge , 55 said Archer, “ but I fancy it wants light . 55 “ But how will you get it with those rain-clouds over? The picture, as you see, is 4 Storm clearing off . 5 “Just so , 55 said Archer; “then clear the clouds by rifting them still more, so as to show the sky behind and get the blue reflected in the water . 55 44 You are right , 55 said Johnson. 44 A streak of emerald, please, there by your hand, to tone the blue and take the crudeness out, and I will scumble some in here ; it will improve it. There , 55 said he, as he did so ; 44 that, then, is about it. One change makes others, Archie. I shall have now to alter the colours of these cows. I think red, black, and dun will suit them best. What say you ? 55 44 Try it inside the blue there, on the palette ; here are the tubes . 55 44 Thanks; only just a squeeze. I see , 55 said Johnson. 44 Yes, that is just the thing ; just what was wanted. The colour in the water forces them and brings them out . 55 “ A gleam of light too in that left-hand corner would help your distance, and make those hills recede a mile or more ; at least, I think so . 55 44 It would , 55 said Johnson. 44 Give me the megilp. Well, what did you do out yesterday ? Was Collins with you?” 44 Oh yes,” said Archer ; “ the immortal Fred was there in fullest force, and on the chestnut, but only through the first run that we had, and scarcely that, for, falling at a brook, he lamed his horse ; so he got disgusted and then turned for home. I landed,” Archer said, 44 and as hounds were making for a wildish country, I left him at it . 55 44 Settle alongside, Archie, in this chair ; then I can paint and listen. Now fire away , 55 said Johnson, 44 and tell me what you met with worth the seeing — effects and good bits suitable for canvas, and all about them ; in case, from JOHNSON AND KATE ARCHER. 55 laziness or stress of weather, I get hard up for them, too idle may be to turn out and search. What you describe I see,” said Johnson; “and cloud effects and scenes as named by you have come in usefully in views I have commenced but never finished, until short of subject maybe in the winter, when I ‘ cook 5 them up a bit by composition. A shocking plan, you’ll say ; but then I am lazy, or rather, Archie, I begin too many and only finish a few of them ; and so, when I come upon them long after- wards, I touch and touch until I make them up. They are hybrid pictures, and for practice only. All those I sell are finished for the most part in the open; and so ought all to be. I am never satisfied with what I do,” said Johnson; “and so, you see, I get into bad habits.” “Just so,” said Archer; “ then paint the fewer, and finish as you do them, and put a check on your designing talent. It is all very well, you know, for a book illustra- tor ; but for my part,” said he, “ one good picture painted on the spot is worth a score of those pretty fancies, as you would find, old man, if you had to get your living by it.” “ Yes,” said Johnson, “ I am quite aware of it, and I know it is a very bad propensity ; but it is my unfortunate habit of drawing odds and ends that gets me into it. Come, let that dog alone now, and settle down a bit — poor Tiney ! — and tell me about yesterday, and what you did.” “Very well,” said Archer, ceasing to munch Tiney; “anything for a quiet life, old fellow. After you, Johnson, with the light — thanks. Where we met, then,” said he, “was at the Manor Wood, and I went to Fred’s place the overnight by train, so as to get away as early as possible the next morning, to give us time to look round at the country. Do you know it ? ”* “ No ; only by Vernon’s picture, that with the sweep of hills and woodland country ; the one that he sold so well straight off the easel. You must remember it,” said Johnson. “ A. L. ? ” said Archer. “No; by W. H.,” said he. “ Where the autumn leaves are fluttering from the trees, and the foreground is splashed with the colour of them, in amongst the ferns and 56 A CHAT IN THE STUDIO. brambles, and where yon have such a splendid bit of blue and purple distance, miles up the valley.” “ I think,” replied Archer, “ I know the one you mean, though he has painted several pictures of the valley and the woods about there, and the old lanes at the back of them, that, bowered over as they are, get so gloriously russet, when their banks are littered with leaves and their ruts matted with the mass of them, and when the only greens in them are those jolly velvet mosses, that serve,” said he, “ when a fellow has the object of his small affections by him, Johnson, as a cosy-cushioned seat at the foot of a gray oak, while he wrestles with opportunity at the sight of the upturned lips of the loved one, as she is looking for the bees in the ivy blossoms ; at least, she tries to make him think so.” “ Does she ? ” said Johnson, as he strengthened the light to make the hills recede, and stopped out a bit of blue that he found tell too strongly. “ I can hear you have been through it, old fellow. Ah, I have myself noticed,” said he, “ when I have been out sketching in some of the old quiet lanes like those you speak of, where the banks are high and the roots of the trees come out of them, how singular it is that, where those roots run about the road, there should so often be dots on the one side of them and scores on the other— just as though a parasol and a walking-stick had been there side by side. Something to do, perhaps, with the bees in the ivy -blossoms.” “ I should not wonder,” said Archer ; “but I will ask old Vernon, as he wanders about the lanes a good deal, fixing their beauties on the canvas.” “ Well, if he does not ‘ cook ’ his sketches, it is a fine bit of country out there, certainly,” said Johnson. “ He never ‘ cooks,’ ” said Archer, “ for I have been with him ; we leave all that to you. He paints all on the spot, like Millais and Leader, and Vi cat Cole and Hulme ; and he is therefore, as they are, always true to nature, as you may see,” said he, “ in every one he does. They are full of atmosphere — nice breezy-looking pictures, in fact, with some wind in them, that seems to bend the grass and to stir the water, and to sway the branches about as the leaves blow on them.” “Yes; I know them,” said Johnson. “ They are good pictures, and in good keeping ; and, with their broad AUTUMN TINTS AND WOODLAND SCENERY. 57 cloud-shadows and their moving clouds, they have a true out-door look about them that is very natural. I believe he is out in all weather for effects, and only works from studies in the worst of the winter ; and a good plan too,” said Johnson, “though I don’t practise it.” CHAPTER VIII. AUTUMN TINTS AND WOODLAND SCENERY. “I cannot myself stand the cold,” continued Johnson, stepping back a bit to see how the sky was coming, now he had got the light in, “ unless I am in exercise, and then I don’t care how cold it is; and though I do sell a few canvases occasionally to friends who want them, and exhibit a bit for the say-so, as a sop to one’s vanity, Archie, and for self-glorification, still, as I can manage without doing so, I can afford to play with it, and sketch, compose, or paint, just as I have a fancy for it. All in that book there by you,” said he, “ are composition sketches, designs, I may say — I have rather a weakness that way, as you know, Archie — from odd things you have told me one time or other, hunting incidents, and bits of scenery, and different effects that you have thought worth notice as you have come across them when you have been out with the hounds. What is your woodland bit, as good as Vernon’s? ” “Yes,” said Archer; “better in some respects, as embracing more ; as the wood we met at lies upon a hill, and you have from there a long look up the valley as well as over it, with its rich flat meadow-land and its hop-yards and orchards, that edge up the hills from the river. And between the little coppices and covers that lie in the hollows, you get,” said he, “ strips of sheep pasture and gullies, where the deep drips that come down through the big woods, and line them with shadows, widen out into the valley, and empty their rills into the brooks and the river.” “ Good for some sketching? ” said Johnson. b “ Yes, very good,” was the reply. “ I saw many bits,” said Archer, “ that would come well ; but none better 58 AUTUMN TINTS AND than from the wood, where there was a good foreground of briers and bracken, and some famous ragged turf with some grays and browns about it, a width of it, and some sheep there, nibbling at the soft green turf that was by it, where the hill sloped down to the dingles. Talk of ferns, old fellow,” said Archer — “well, you know those that were in that ‘ Summer Noon ’ that was in the Academy, where in the left-hand corner of the picture you got that glorious reflected light through the taller ones — quite liquid colour — that ran about the moss the ferns came out of, like the lights that flicker about a garden walk. I saw lots of it there, splendid ! All down the sides and shoulder of the hill the turf is covered with ferns, so high and strong that they scrape your boots,” said he, “as you ride through them ; and as they are just now turning from gold to russet, you may fancy their colour where the light comes through them ! The greens too were magnificent ; sloping to wooded hollows and ravines. I wish you had been there,” said Archer ; “ such great grand masses, all autumn-tinted, growing above an underwood waist-deep in ferns, and shadowed by big boughs, that looked as if they were the growth of years, and had sheltered them for a century. And in an open glade between the trees, where it was sunny, there were some figures — women at a spring, and children blackberrying — that, as they moved about, gave useful colour and nice contrasting form just where it was wanted.” “ Good distance ? ” said Johnson. “ Yes ; and mid-distance. Judge for yourself. I call it so,” said Archer. “ A level country lying between hills, high, vast, and wooded ; with farms and homesteads, and with ricks and cottages; and a gray river that was willow-fringed, and showed white at the weirs, where it tumbled over by the mills, and white again on the fords, where the sun caught it as it wound lazily along over the* blue of the shallows, and the indigo-green of the woods, rippling along to the steel-tint below it, where it was in shadow from a rain-cloud. And beyond it,” continued Archer, “ were purple breadths of heath and yellow stub- bles, and ruddy-looking fields above the meadows, with teams at plough there, and with wreaths of smoke drifting across them from some burning weeds.” “Scutch, probably,” said Johnson; “it gives those WOODLAND SCENERY. 59 long low trails that are so useful. A good mid-distance for a picture, Archie.” “Yes; but the hilly distance was still finer,” said Archer, “ swept as it was by cloud-shadows, from a rainy sky far up the valley, where the hills, range on range, rose into the darkness of it, and closed the view. The distance citywards was also good, fine indeed, as I saw it,” said he, “ under an atmosphere that blued it over and softened it, and that gave a nice mistiness to the tall poplars and the square clumps that led the eye on to the hamlets and the villages and the city ; where the high spire and the cathedral tower pierced the pall of smoke that lay there. And beyond it,” said Archer, “ was haze, then hills, a long and lofty range that was varied in outline, and deep blue in the hollows, and sunlit at the top, the lights shifting as we looked, and fronting a still further range, high too and wooded, that melted into distance miles away, under a sky all thin blue-gray and cloudless.” “By Jove,” cried Johnson, “what a place for pic- tures ! ” “ I thought you would say so,” said Archer. “We will go there, old fellow, when the warm days come in spring, and then you can paint a bit while I pick prim- roses. The woods all round there are full of them, and the paths are bordered with their yellow blooms, wdiich, mixed as they are with the blue and white of the violets and the wild hyacinths, the woods then are certainly worth seeing, I can tell you,” said Archer. “I will try a picture there,” said Johnson, “‘The Woods in Spring.’ ” “ They are worth it,” replied Archer, “ as you will say when you see them. Well, from this wood we went away directly and straight for our country, as good luck would have it, as the Manor Wood is the boundary of the Hunt, a neutral cover, and we reached the Rough at the bottom,” said Archer, “ and ran through it, many of us having to lead over there, for there were nasty bits about, and thence to Cruckstone Gorse — a holding place, Johnson, where a second fox was moved and the pack divided, and so split the horsemen. Will, however,” said he, “ with some difficulty got the hounds together again, and canter- ing on, he laid them on the line. Hunting it every inch 60 AUTUMN TINTS AND for half a mile, they owned it with a burst, then went away straight across country up to Quatford Top, where he soon was viewed, tearing along a grass piece three fields on. But as the pace, as you may suppose, was now too good for breathing-time, the potterers were thrown out ; so that it gave the hounds a chance, and cleared the way for those who meant to go. For the next three miles or so,” said Archer, “ Fred and I had our fences together, neither of our horses making one mistake — he rode the chestnut, I was on the bay — until we got the brook, a clipper — Barford Brook, which, as it is bushed by withies nearly all the way, requires some doing, and throws you out of stride. I always like water on the swing,” said he, “ as the pace lands you ; but when you have to turn your horse about, Johnson, and pound him at it, he knows what’s coming, and will then refuse, unless he is a water- jumper. I got it just right,” said Archer, “straight between the trees ; but the chestnut mare would not have it, so Fred got stuck. However, by dint of spur he at last got her over, but, dropping soft, she fell, and when he got her up he found her lame — wrenched, I expect,” said Archer. “ So, as I said, he left, and I went on. But it lost me time,” said he, “and the hounds were at check when 1 reached them. Will tried back and cast round, but it was all of no use ; so making sure that the fox had gone to ground in some unstopped earths a little farther on, they fixed to draw afresh rather than wait and dig.” “ And where did you go to then? ” said Johnson. “To Grantham Woods,” said Archer; “a splendid country, and a fox for certain. George Brooks, our break- neck rider, rode up then — you know him, Johnson. ‘ Are you for Grantham, John?’ said he. ‘I am,’ I said. ‘I shall not go, for one,’ said George ; ‘ they’ll never find.’ ‘ We found the last time,’ I replied, ‘ when it was a fixture.’ ‘ Yes,’ said he, 6 that you might do when you meet there, but not, John, when you come there from another quarter. Leadenhall-market is well-known to all, and so are its foxes ! What was your run last time ? ’ said George, ‘ a straight and good one ? Hang such old ringers dodging round the cover ; their stiffened limbs know not an inch of country ! When next you chop there — “ chop ” is the word,’ said he, 4 for there is no run in them — get, if you can, the handling of his carcass ; if you don’t find, WOODLAND SCENERY. 61 on roughing-up his coat, seeds from the chaff-hag, why, John, I’m a Dutchman ! A bagman I can swear to any- where/ said George, 4 and so can hounds, who will turn their noses up and scarcely eat him. If I go hunting, let it be for something ; none of your galloping about the rides,’ said he, 4 with spurts into a neighbouring field or two, but straight away, the country stiff and strong, and with fences big enough to weed the ruck, and give us room to move — hounds room to go. I am not a tailor- swell,’ said he, 4 to join a meet for well-cut coat, neat cords, and natty boots, and at the first stiff bit we get sneak home again. Meaning to go, John, give me the chance to find, and I will ride a distance ; but here,’ said he, 4 there’s none ; so I shall save my mare and save my time. But I am keeping you, I see ; they are on the move. Great luck, old boy ! If you should win the brush, just shake the seeds out ! ’ And so he left.” 44 Then do they,” Johnson said, 44 have bagmen there?” 44 Bagmen ! ” said Archer, 44 no ; nor did they ever have them ; but George likes pace, and when he does not get it, 4 Bag fox ! ’ cries he. It’s laughable.” 44 You don’t go with the old squire’s harriers, do you?” said Johnson, throwing his dun cow slightly into shadow to tally with the rain-cloud overhead. 44 Sometimes,” said Archer, 44 as it is a first-rate pack and he is a good fellow, that is if I have a young horse that I want to teach, or ij the meet is far ; though to my thinking that 4 thistle- whipping ’ is a tame affair, though I don’t mind a by -day now and then with them, Johnson, when — say in March — some old jack hares will go as straight as foxes. We had a very straight thing from the Hall meadows last season, but, as a rule, it’s ring, ring, ring all day, and pick and choose at every fence you come to ; still you do see all the hunting, but with foxhounds the pace prevents it. But I like a swing and pace,” said he; 44 not time to look — a run that makes you, Johnson, if you are to see it, go straight as pigeons and as swift as swallows ; that gets your steam up and well warms your blood, and rouses all the mettle that is in you — you and your horse ! That is the sort of hunting,” said Archer, “ that I like, old man. With hounds like ours, that can fly their fences and spring like greyhounds, it is sport indeed ! ” 62 AUTUMN TINTS AND “ Was Palmer out? ” said Johnson, “ Yes, lie was,” said Archer, “ along with Causer, and well-mounted too, on a rare good-looking one, that champed his bit and flung his flakes of foam while trotting on the turf beside the hounds, bringing his legs well under him at every stride. A small and well-bred head and good bang tail, set on just as it should be — a nice horse altogether,” said he, “ and a fencer, that pricks his ears as he nears the leap, just like a hunter, and lets his rider pull him well together. I saw him do some rails,” said Archer, “in first-rate style, most clean and steady — some four- barred ox-rails, five feet high at least, and nearly six if taken at the uprights — three to a length — so close together, and with no ‘ give 5 in them ! Were not the price a long one, I should buy him — three fifties, for I asked it, and he is cheap at the money,” said Archer. “ However, I must be content, for my last purchase — that brown horse — carries me splendidly. W T ells tried him when I was up there, and liked him too. He is a good horse, J ohnson.” “ And what has Causer now ? ” said Johnson. “ He seldom mounts well.” “ Oh, nothing much,” was the reply. “ A slashing- looking one, but middling pace — a soft one, I think,” said Archer, “ for he was soon pumped out in that run on the plough the other day. I doubt his judgment.” “ There then, Archie, I think that comes better,” said Johnson, looking with his head aside at the blue bits he had scumbled in the picture, rifting the sky, and so improving it. “What as to Grantham?” said he; “what sort of a country is it ? ” “ Oh, beautiful ! ” was^the reply ; “ all hill and dale, with great woods that are scored by ravines, and with old quarries and gullies in them, and lots of tumbling water. One dell, or rather a deep glen, that we rode through was very fine ; the hills rising on either side of it to a great' height, and cutting the sky with their greensward, green to the top of them. “ But we did not find there,” said he, “ though the hounds drew it carefully ; so we went on down into the dingle, a most tangled place, and there, picking our way over the broken ground and the brushwood, and poking about through the gorse and ling, and under the sprays and boughs, we found a wide brook that was WOODLAND SCENERY. 63 brawling through the bottom, and dashing its foaming flakes on boulder stones, and on great rough slabs that had been washed down there from the quarries by the floods in the winter. A famous bit for a picture, Johnson,” said he, “ and full of colour ; for just above the brook there was a mass of red rock that jutted into it, and that was stained with some old gray moss and lichens, and half-shadowed by the long purple sprays of the boughs that hung over it. “ And ferns sloped up from it,” said Archer, “ banks of them ; most glorious ones, Johnson, growing luxuriantly, and shoulder high, in all the beauty of their autumn tints ; most splendid studies ! And up still higher, and nearly black — so deep was the green of it — was a wide-spread backing of some grand old yews, edged with the berries of the mountain-ash, that hung in tangles there, with feathery birch. “ Then, as we went onwards,” said he, “ we found a landslip that had pushed the brook out and turned its course, and so made a waterfall. A fine point as we saw it,” said Archer, “ with a rift of blue sky high up through the trees, over the white of it. And riding behind the hounds for some distance along the brook, we saw lots of material and any quantity of good things, passing great dock-leaves, both cup -like and spread out, the very things, old man,” said he, “ for foregrounds for you, whole beds of them, by pebbly shallows, and lots of hemlock that was grown to a giant size, and water-herbage. Rare studies, Johnson. “We will go there some time with the blocks and sketch them ; they are very fine. We also passed by many calm still pools,” said Archer, “ out of the current, where the banks had burst ; and in their bottle greens and browns, beneath the reflections of the bladed grass, were speckled trout, that made us long to stay a bit and fish there.” “ Well, let us go there some day soon,” said Johnson. “We will,” said Archer. “ After a mile or so of watery- way, that cooled the horses’ feet and made hounds fresher, a narrow pathway coming from the top ran by the brook, and so gave elbow-room, which we were glad of, as it saved us pressing the boughs back as we went along there, which we all had to do all up the brook, it was so overgrown. Being thus able to push along a bit, we quickened our horses’ pace, and went on through the glen to the end of it, 64 AUTUMN TINTS AND the hounds 4 drawing blank,’ the road as we made our way there, getting darker,” said Archer, “from some dense plantations of firs, beech, and oak. “ Turning a corner, under hanging trees, a burst of light disclosed a lengthy meadow, bright-green and sunny, sloping down gently to the valley under, and brightened by the scarlet of the coats and by the dappled hounds then trotting over it — a picture, Johnson.” 44 Yes,” he replied. 44 Well, how does mine come now ? ” 44 Oh, very well,” said Archer, looking at it. 44 It is much improved. I see you have 4 stopped ’ that light ; it is all the better for it.” 44 Well, while we watched the long cloud-shadows,” con- tinued Archer, 44 that were stealing slowly across from where the shadows of the glen fell on the meadow, and saw the lighter shades float on over the darker ones, to blot out, as they went, bright bits of colour, spotting the green with gray, a shout of ‘Gone away!’ and sound of horn, changed all our thoughts to the huntsman and the hounds.” 44 You found at last, then?” said Johnson. 44 We did,” said Archer. 44 A man out ploughing there beyond the meadow had seen a fox steal quietly away ; so as we came in sight he signalled to us. So Warne at once,” said he, 44 galloped with cap in hand to where he stood, cheering the hounds on as he went along. 44 1 seed him,’ said the fellow, 4 cross that field theer, and go by that big oak through that theer hedge, making for them big covers on the hill. He’s twenty minutes gone.’ 4 Was it a sheep-dog that you saw? ’ said Will. 4 It warn’t,’ said he. 4 I’d know a fox from a ship-dog any day. I’se seed ’em often ; you git your hounds on if you want to catch him, for when he passed he looked as fresh as paynt.’ So on we went,” said Archer. 44 4 As the ground was moister there, seemingly from rain that had not reached us, the hounds soon had their noses down and owned the scent, which, as it mended on the grass lands, it dropped the pickers,” said he, 44 for it gave us pace. The way hounds went,” said Archer, 44 looked so like a kill, that each man rode as if he booked the brush. Through wood and thicket, and prickly gorse and copse, the pack were so resolute that they dashed on without a pause, and raced mile after mile over turf and fallow- field. WOODLAND SCENERY. 65 “ At last,” said he, “ they viewed him making for some sheep under a hedgerow, where they were huddled up to- gether. With one wild scream from Will to spurt them on, they lengthened out and strained their very hearts, good hounds, to kill him. “ In three more fields they flung themselves upon him, and rolled him over down into the ditch. “A fifty-minutes’ run — five up — I one,” said Archer. “ A right good fox ! — no 4 bagman ’ that is certain ; so George, you see, was ‘out ’ for once, old man. “ So there’s chapter and verse for you,” said Archer ; “so shut up the painting now, Johnson, there’s a good fellow, and let us have a row on the river. We will go across the racecourse to the ferry, and take a boat from there. It is a jolly day, and we shall enjoy it.” “ Well, wait ten minutes,” said Johnson, “ and I will be with you ; and then we will pull up to Holt and have a look at the swans.” “ Agreed, old man ; so stir yourself,” said Archer. CHAPTER IX. A GHOST IN THE OPEN — GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. “ Who was the new man you were talking to to-day, Daw- son ? The fellow goes well.” “ The one on the bay do you mean ? ” “Yes, a sharp-looking little customer, who seems to have all his eye-teeth about him.” “ Oh, that was ‘little Jemmy,’ to be sure, Jemmy Griffin ; a very old friend of mine, and once a neighbour.” “ What, did he ever live in these diggings? ” “Yes, for two or three years ; but it was before your time. You had not come here then ; and he is now on a visit at Beckley. He is coming here, by the bye, to- morrow, Ered ; and if you will come too, and help us out with a hare and a' brace of birds, at four sharp, you will find him, I think, a very decent fellow.” “ Thanks,” said King ; “ he is good across country, that’s certain.” “ Yes, he is,” said Dawson ; “ but when I first knew F 06 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. him, he was as great a 6 tailor ’ as you ever saw, and had positively no hands or seat.” The speakers were young Harry Dawson, gentleman farmer, and Fred King, gentleman at large, the only son of a wealthy landowner, by whom he had been indulged from quite a boy, and who still gave him nearly all he asked for ; the locality, the interior of an old manor-house— Dyneley Court — in Herefordshire ; and the time, the even- ing of a hunting day in November, when King, who lived near there, at the Pool House, and who often looked-in in the evening for a gossip, and had been out that day with Dawson, settled himself in an easy-chair before the fire, and talked of the day’s “ run,” and kindred topics. “ Who put him in the way of it ?” said he. “Well, in a measure, I did,” said Dawson; “for, as I could not,” said he, “ ride with a fellow in that form, I just c grassed ’ him — a few soft ones, Fred, and one rattler — to get his hands down, and fit him to the pigskin, and he has gone very fairly ever since. We met in rather an odd sort of way. I don’t know if ever I told you of it ? ” “ I think not,” said King ; “ the name seems new to me.” “ It was when the governor was alive,” said Dawson ; “ one day somewhere about this time five or six years ago, I know we were busy wheat-sowing. We had the hounds here. They brought a fox from Cherwood, one of our outlying fixtures, as I think you know, Fred, and crossed the water, and ran him up the meadows and over the plough and through the orchards, and away for Hampton. We watched them — for being busy I had not,” said Daw- sou, “ been with them — out of hearing and over the hills, when, 4 Harry lad,’ says the governor, ‘just go round the fences, will you, and look them over ; and Jem here shall take some trous and hetherings to fill the gaps, if you find that there are any ; and count the sheep again as you come back. There may be some strayed if they have left the gates open.’ So I went,” said Dawson. “‘Well, Fred,’ said he, “ scarcely was I out of sight of the old man — in fact, I was but just past the sawpit — when I heard a most awful howling and scream on scream. Knowing that Jane Callow’s youngsters were out that way, getting in some fern we had cut for her for litter, I hurried on, thinking they had got a snake, or a snake had got them — GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 67 there are lots on the common, you know, and in those hedges — and that there was no time to lose ; so getting over the gate into Perryfield, and making for the noise, there the children were,” said Dawson, “sure enough, cowering under the hedge and screaming lustily. 4 What is the matter with you?’ I said, ‘you young varmints ! continued Dawson. 44 4 What are you making that noise for? You will frighten the whole parish!’ 4 Oh, sir; please, sir ; the ghost, sir ! ’ was the sobbing reply, given in the native dialect, which, as you know it too well, Fred, I will not,” said he, 44 inflict upon you ; 4 it’s there, sir; in the hedge, sir; please, sir’ — sob, sob. Looking where they pointed, there certainly was something white there — orthodox colour for ghosts, I thought,” said Daw- son ; 44 and also on the move, as though the apparition had its back up, and was stealing along the hedgerow to get away unnoticed. Quieting the miserable little imps, I went towards it,” said he, 44 and there, in the corner, caught in the brambles, was some light-coloured garment, bulged by the wind and surging in the breeze. Bending forward to hook it up, the confounded thing gave a groan, and then a second, more piteous than the first.” 44 The deuce it did ! ” said Fred, as he looked rather wild about the eyes. 44 Fact,” said Dawson. 44 Now I am not a nervous man myself, Fred ; but I must say I did not then wonder at the youngsters’ noise, especially when, amidst some more un- earthly sounds, I heard — now don’t get nervous, old fellow ; I see your hair is beginning to rise — right under my very feet, and below the ground, and said in the most sepulchral tones possible — steady, Fred, it’s coming — very sepulchral indeed, Fred — the stern command to 4 Get me out; get me out ! ’” “ By Jove ! ” said King. 44 Well, here was a fix,” said Dawson. 44 Who was ‘me,’ ghost or human? Jumping over the cutting on to the bank, I peered into the next field. Nothing there ; looked all round — still nothing ; yet the groaning and the moaning continued. Thinking, all at once,” said he, 44 it might be that fool of a fellow Biscoe 4 on for a lark,’ I sang ou ! — 4 Oh, you need not think I was fiightened, Fred,’” said Dawson — 4 4 4 Come, Master Jemmy, you get out of that, or I will make you ; none of your nonsense, you great stupid . 5 68 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. 4 But I cannot get out,’ was the reply. 4 Is it really you, Jemmy?’ I said, scarcely recognising his voice, and thinking,” continued Dawson, 44 1 had seen him down in the hop-yard before I started. 4 Yes, it is,’ was the reply. 4 Are you sure?’ said I. 4 Did jour godfathers and god- mothers give you that name ? ’ 4 Yes, yes, I tell you, I am J emmy ; and as you seem to know me, why do you let me lie here underground ? I am in a coffin : a perfect coffin.’ ” 44 What did you think when he said that — 4 in a coffin’?” said King, as he felt his scalp creep. 44 Why, with no Jemmy to be seen above ground, to tell you the truth,” said Dawson, 44 1 did not know what to think. Accident, however,” said he, 44 soon solved the mystery, luckily for Jemmy ; for in jumping back off the bank I stumbled,” said Dawson, 44 and, pitching forward, fell into the field, with my legs hanging over the cutting. 4 Let me catch hold of your legs,’ said a voice under me — just fancy, Fred, right under me.” 44 By Jove ! ” said King again. 44 4 No you don’t,’ said I, as I whisked them out ; 4 not if I know it;’ and up I scrambled,” said Dawson. “But to make a long story short,” said he, continued moanings and groanings induced me, after again listening, to push the briers aside — they had been pressed down by some- thing — and to look into the cutting ; and there at the bottom of it lay, crudled up, not a veritable 4 ghost,’ but an apparition of flesh and blood. 44 4 Why r , how in the name of all that is horrible did you get there ? ’ I cried with astonishment. 44 4 1 was thrown here,’ was the reply. 44 4 Who threw you here ? ’ I asked. 44 4 Charley.’ 44 4 What Charley?’ said I. 44 4 Old Charley.’ 44 4 And where is he gone, the rascal? * 44 4 Over the hedge — he jumped it.’ 44 4 How long ago ? ’ I inquired. 4 Perhaps we may catch him.’ 44 4 Oh, half an hour or more,’ was the reply ; 4 it must be, I know.’ 44 4 The scoundrel,’ I muttered, as I thought,” said Dawson, 44 of our one rural policeman, Timmings, and the GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 69 propriety of at once sending for him. 4 What conld have been his motive ? 5 44 4 Oh, he wanted to get rid of me, I suppose.’ 44 4 So! it seems, 5 I said. 4 However, the first thing to he done is to get you out of this, and to see to you, and then we will try if we cannot run him down. It is impos- sible, 5 said I, 55 continued Dawson, 44 4 that he can have got far by this time. I will soon have you out, old fellow, when I can get this pole from the hedge for you to hold t>y-’ 44 4 1 fear he has, 5 was the remark ; 4 for he went off on the gallop. 5 44 4 Did you say 44 gallop 55 ? 5 I asked, utterly astonished. 4 Oh yes, I see, 5 said I, 4 an idiom for pace. How shall we know him if we come up with him ? 5 44 4 He has a white mark down the face, 5 was the reply ; 4 a blaze. 5 44 4 Just so, 5 I said. Another idiom, I thought, for burn. It leaves a white mark,’ 5 said Dawson, 44 as you see, Fred, by my hand ; that is seamed from a burn I had three years ago. 44 4 And a stripe down the shoulder. 5 44 4 Ah ! where you hit him, 5 I remarked. 44 4 No, 5 said he, 4 where he was hurt when a colt. 5 44 4 Oh yes, very good ; when he was a youngster, you mean,’ I said, laughing. 4 A provincialism. 5 44 4 Yes, when he was a youngster — a two-year-old. 5 44 4 And what else,’ I asked, 4 has he, that we shall know him by if we catch him ? 5 44 4 A big bang tail,’ said he. 44 4 Why, what on earth are you talking about ? 5 I said. Poor fellow ! Slight concussion and wandering ; evidently hit on the head, thought I. This must be seen to. 4 Con- found the pole, will it never come out ? 5 I said, as I kept on trying,” said Dawson, 44 to drag it from the hedge to help him out with it. 44 4 Hi, you frightened brats ! 5 I shouted to the young- sters, who were too terrified,” said he, 44 to quit the field without me ; 4 cut away this minute and be off up to the house ; now, quick, and bring the men. A man in the grip, tell them, and to bring some picks— and hi, here ! a ladder too. Now, don’t forget the ladder! Eun all the way. He is off his head,’ I muttered, 4 clear enough. 44 A 70 A GHOST IN THE OPEN. big bang tail,” indeed. “Old Charley” with “a tail!” That is good, though.’ “ 4 1 shall be off my head very soon if you don’t hurry,’ said he. 6 Confound it all, I mean my horse, old Charley —why, lots know Charley ! ’ 44 4 O-o-oh ! ’ I almost whistled, 4 I see where you are now. You were one with the hounds, then, across here just now ? ’ 44 4 Of course I was,’ said he. “ 4 And have come to grief? ’ I said. “ 4 Can’t you see I have ? ’ said he. 44 4 Yes, yes, of course. How very stupid ! I wonder I did not see it,’ I replied. 44 4 1 wonder too,’ said he ; 4 but get me out, and we’ll talk afterwards. I can’t be in this form much longer.’ 44 4 Are you hurt ? ’ I asked,” said Dawson. 44 4 1 think so,’ he said, 4 for I am in great pain ; but I am so wedged in here and doubled up, I cannot tell what is the matter with me till I feel my feet a bit.’ ” 44 What a situation for him to have been in ! ’ said King. 44 It was,” said Dawson. 44 4 Well, cheer up, old fellow,’ I said,” continued Dawson, 44 4 and we will soon have you out of it now ; ’ for I could find the long fir-pole I had been tugging at — put there, Fred, to. bar the cattle — was giving, and I should soon have it. 4 Here ! ’ I called to him,, as I dragged it out, 4 try to catch hold of this, will you, and I will help you up with it ? ’ And with that I passed it down into the grip — one of our backwater cuttings, Fred, that is straight and narrow, and eight feet deep at least — a 4 grip ’ to him. But it was of no use,” said Daw- son, 44 for I found that the least exertion was too much for him ; and I at once saw that he was badly hurt. 4 Never mind,’ said I, 4 old man. Keep quiet ; we will try again directly. I have sent up to the house, and the men are coming. All right, here they are,’ I said. 4 They are only two fields off, so they won’t be long ; and I see they have a ladder and some picks with them. You won’t be there much longer, that’s one comfort.’ 44 4 It is indeed,’ he said ; 4 for I have been here long enough, I think. It is a blessing you found mo.’ 44 But the ladder,” said Dawson, 44 we found useless ; so we went to work at once and dug down to him, taking a GRIFFIN IN THE GRIP. 71 slant from six feet off or so, right to the bottom of the cutting. The thing then,” said he, “ was how we should get him up the slant, now that we had cut it. However, we solved that difficulty by digging round him, just for elbow-room, and then working upwards, making the slope into steps by ridging it. And so,” said Dawson, “ we landed him, and let him lie a while to get his breath, and gave him a drop of brandy that he said we should find in a flask in his pocket, as he had once saved a man’s life in the hunting-field through having, it; so since then he had never come out with the hounds without it.” 44 How was that ? ” said King. “I did not ask him then,” said Dawson; “ but he told me afterwards — one day after he had got about again. A fellow got sent against a tree when hounds were in cover ; and he got such a whack on the heart through it that it knocked the wind out of him, and nearly settled him, and 4 Jemmy ’ brought him to with the brandy.” “A capital thing for emergencies,” said King; “but, like fire,” said he, “ though a good friend, it is a bad enemy.” “ So the doctor remarked,” said Dawson, “ and that it was a pity people would not see it in that light. It would not have helped Jemmy there though he had it ; for he was too closely wedged to get at it. But when we did get him out it was of use to him. And then,” continued Dawson, 44 when his faint was over, we hoisted him — four of us — on our shoulders, and carried him gently to the house. And after he had come round, and we were able to let him talk a bit, we learned his name, and found he was the person who had taken Lin gens — Lingens it was at that time, at least; but he altered the name of it to the Sycamores. You know it,” said he, “by the cover ; and he was then over seeing to repairs and improvements. “ And he soon,” said Dawson, “ altered the look of the place ; and people about there said, 4 That new man, Griffin, seems to have some taste ;’ and so he had,” said he. 44 The wood-yard that was at the side of the house he put behind, and made in its place a lawn and croquet-ground ; and where there was a duck pond that was greened all over beneath the windows, he soon had sloping turf and flower-beds ; and what with filling here and cutting there, he made a pretty garden round the house; and by judicious thinning of the trees about it, he got some peeps of blue 72 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. distance through them, and glimpses of the river in the meadows. The moat,” said Dawson, “ he also filled up, and made a drive there, turning the water through the back of the shrubbery — where it was planted out — and dropping it down through the garden, over some ledges edged with ferns and rockery ; and then, cutting away the fence at the end there, he tumbled it over into the old quarry, and so got a waterfall, that with its picturesque surroundings of red rock, and broom and gorse, and hanging bushes, made a nice point, and came well as you looked up at it from the rustic bridge that he threw over from the bottom of the grounds to the asli-bed, where the stream flowed away to the river through the dell and the dingle, where he had winding walks and seats ; and a most jolly place it was, too, on a summer evening,” said Dawson, 44 as you may suppose, Fred.” 4 4 1 should think so,” said King, 44 but I have never been there, though I have often passed it and noticed the out- buildings.” 44 Yes,” said Dawson, 44 those he dressed up ; he edged them all with barge-boards, as you see them, and planted the ivy that covers them, and topped them with that dovecot.” 44 He must have spent a lot of money, then, inside the house and out of it,” said King. 44 He did,” said Dawson; 44 1 wish he could have stayed.” CHAPTER X. OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 44 Well, as I was saying,” resumed Dawson, 44 we got him to the house, and luckily the doctor was at hand, at one of our cottages up the road ; killing time there till he was wanted by a workman’s wife, who had sent for him ; so that we soon got help. 44 4 Two ribs upon the right and one on the left side are broken, if not crushed,’ said the doctor, after he had examined him ; 4 and he is badly bruised and shaken ; he must be kept very quiet, and not talk ; and do not let him exert himself in the least, or it may go hard with him. Much depends on that, remember ! Give me some flannel, OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 73 please/ said lie, ‘and I will put it on as well as I can ; but it must be lightly for the present, until we see what symp- toms show themselves . 9 “ ‘ I thought, doctor/ said I,” continued Dawson, “ ‘you always did them up tightly at once ; they bound me up pretty tight, I know, when I got a rattler out hunting once . 5 “ ‘ I dare say they did/ said he, ‘ and so should I do now in this case were I clear about it. Where the fracture is a simple one, straight through, Dawson, it is plain sailing ; but the case is different when they are crushed or badly broken, and a tight bandage would only add to the mis- chief. You see, it is this way, Dawson , 5 said he : ‘ unless it is a clean fracture, you get sharp edges ; and if you press those sharp edges in upon the lungs, you get inflammation from the irritation of it, and sometimes haemorrhage, that is often fatal ; and it is not unlikely, even as it is, that we may get inflammation in this case ; so we will make sure/ said the doctor, ‘ as we can soon tighten it if no symptoms occur of any moment. He is to have nothing, mind, but slops, and to be kept quite quiet. I will look in again/ said he, ‘ in a few hours, and see how he is . 5 “ So having made him as comfortable as he could / 5 said Dawson, “he went back to the cottage; calling again as he rode by in the evening, when the woman — Mrs. Smith — was able to release him. “ ‘ By gom, sir/ said Smith, as he brought the news, ‘it be twins ! I dunna know how I shall ever bear it . 5 55 “ Poor wretch ! 55 said King. “ The doctor found him easier for the mixture — we had started Smith off / 5 said Dawson, “ with the prescription, as he was poking in the way — and so he soon left us, re- peating what he had said as to slops and quiet. We had sent in the mean time, and unknown to Griffin, to his mother’s place / 5 said Dawson, “ the Grove, down in the hollow at Deepdale Brook, where Moore now lives ; and we had also despatched a man or two to try to find the horse, and bring with them, if they could see it, that white mysterious thing that was caught on the hedge, and which I had quite forgotten and left there ; a garment, by the bye, that proved,” said Dawson, “to be an old white mackin- tosh, which, coming off as he fell into the grip, got caught by the briers, and lodged there. On the man’s return from 74 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. the Grove,” he continued, “he found there was no one there hut servants, as Mrs. Griffin and her daughters had gone — November being a dull month with us — for three weeks to some friends in Warwickshire — the Flemmings of Kenil- worth. As it was of no use,” said he, “ spoiling their pleasure by bringing them home, and as more than servants’ care was needed for him, we with difficulty per- suaded him to remain with us, for a few days at least. Begging we would not communicate with his people, his mother having heart-disease, and sending again to the Grove to impress the same upon the servants, he accepted the situation, and was very patient. “ Poor fellow,” said Dawson, “he had a stiff time of it, though ; for inflammation of the lungs did set in, and we had then to write to his friends, as he was very bad with it, and we did not at that time know how it might end. Of course we found them nice people; a wee bit old-fashioned,” said he, “ but very pleasant and ladylike. When able to be moved with safety, they had him with them ; and from that time to this,” said Dawson, “ we have been great friends.” “ How came he to leave this quarter ? ” said King. “ For one thing,” said Dawson, “ the house was damp ; the pool and the moat had been there too long, I expect : and for another, and the main reason, he came into some property by the death of an uncle ; and so gave up farming as being no longer necessary. His mother and sisters, though, still spend a part of the year with him, at his place, the Wooden d — up for the Ludlow country; and the rest of the year at Bath and Malvern, with a month at the sea in the summer.” “Did you capture the animal?” said King. “ Yes,” said Dawson ; “ they found the brute quietly grazing three fields off, with the reins round his legs ; and he came with them as gently as a lamb.” “ Then he was not a vicious wretch ? ” said King. “ Oh no,” was the reply ; “ but an ugly beast with a great coarse head, and an amount of jaw that looked like pulling. “Someone who had been kind enough to tutor Jemmy, had, it seems, told him when he was coming to a big place, to 4 put the steam on, sit back, loose his head, and let him have it.’ He did so,” said Dawson, “ and he did 4 have it ; ’ OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 75 for, mistaking the word 4 loose,’ he so slackened his curb while going a fizzer for the fence, that 4 old Charley,’ who really could jump, and would have cleared the lot, or have done it 4 on and off,’ was sent with a bang against the bank, and turned over into the next piece ; Jemmy coming to grief in the process, and falling through the briers into the grip.” 44 1 see,” said King. 44 Had not I found him,” said Dawson, 44 he might have stayed, ay, and remained, there for days ; for we were seldom round that corner, as we did not then turn sheep there; and the place itself was so completely covered, by the briers not rising after he went through them, that had he been unable to cry out, we might actually have passed the place a score of times without seeing him ; and doubled up as he was, closely wedged, he could not very well have helped himself.” 44 That’s certain,” King said. 44 Since then, however, we have had many a good day together, and he can now ride, as you have seen,” said Dawson, 44 to hounds with any man ; and but for that 4 ghost ’ in the open and Griffin in the grip, I should have missed knowing a very jolly fellow, and my sisters a nice family. 44 The memorable garment he still preserves ; it hangs in his sanctum, marked 4 In memoriam,’ and it certainly was instrumental in saving his life — it was more,” said Dawson, 44 it was the cause of it ; for had not the wretched thing caught as he fell, no 4 ghost ’ would have been seen, no screams heard, and no help given. Case of Q.E.D., old fellow, plain as your hat — hence the relic. 44 Mary,” said Dawson, calling to the servant, as he finished telling King all about the 4 ghost,’ 44 is that old J ohn’s voice that I hear out there ? ” 44 Yes, sir,” said the girl; 44 he’s been down at the clerk’s, and has just called in, sir.” 44 Then tell him to sit down a bit,” said Dawson, “and draw him some cider, and bring in supper. # “Would you like to go out into the kitchen, Fred,” said he, as they finished supper, 44 and have a chat with the old fellow ? He is on the settle there in the chimney corner. There is a good fire, I see.” 44 Yes, if you like,” said King. 76 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. “ He is quite a character, as you are aware, Fred ; and now old Mead is dead, he is the oldest man and 4 father of the parish/ Come on, then,” said Dawson, “while she clears the things, and we will draw him out a bit. “Well, John,” said Dawson, as they went into the kitchen, “ and how does the world use you, old man ? You’re late to-night.” “ My duty to you, sir,” said John, getting up and pull- ing his forelock — his smock-frock as white as snow and his cheeks as rosy as a pippin — 44 Oh, nicely, nicely, thank you, sir. I ates well an’ I sleeps well, an’ I thank the Lord I can take ma drop o’ drink. A taste o’ good stuff this now, Mayster Henry ; clane i’ the mouth. I drinks it to you, gentlemen.” “ Thank you, John ; don’t spare it if you like it. And what has Dovey,” said Dawson, “ got to say for himself?” “ A mighty little, sir ; mighty little. I ha’ been a-tacklin’ on him, sir, for racin’ the parson.” “ Racing the parson, John? ” “ Is, sir, o’ Sundays. I teld him it daynt become him. 4 Suppose the poor man,’ says I, 4 was to trip a word, why, you’d be on to him like ’ounds a-huntin’, or maybe head him. To finish afore the parson,’ says I, ‘would disgrace the parish.’ Not as he’s like the old un, sir, Parson Yaxley, as ood let us sleep all the sarmun, so as we didna snore, an’ in the winter arternoons, if it were a-snowin’, sir, ood send us out a shillin’ apiece fro the court-house, and stop hisself theer over his wine, comfort- able-like, for us to goo home paceable, like good Chris- tians, as doin’ on us more good nor a-settin’ to hear him i’ the cold theer. ‘ But, Dovey,’ I says, an’ as 4 fey ther o’ the parish ’ I says it, 4 he’s our suparior, so respecs his due ; no sarvant ever rides afore his ma} ster.’ ” 44 Yes, I have heard say the old rector was much liked,” said Dawson. “ That he were, sir,” said John ; 44 he were mighty good to me, mighty good ; that’s when I were a boy o’ sixteen, sir — a matter o’ sixty year agoo now, Mayster Henry, sixty year agoo. Well, sir, you know, my mother — rest her soul, poor ooman — claned the church, an’ I helped her, sol were alleys a-’angin’ about theer like ; an’ o’ Sundays, arter we’d turned the cushins up an’ put the books i’ the proper place • — i’ the font, sir — a good big un that were, sir, as they could OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 77 stand ’em up in, not that littler un theyn got now — an’ the dusters an’ her pattens theer ; her other pair, sir, in case o’ suddin wet o’ Sundays, so as to he pervided-like ; a werry thoughtful ooman were my mother, sir — we alleys left the doore open for the week, to make it sweet and clane and fresh-like for sarvice agin, and then locked the gate, to keep the gipsies out. “But as the fowls could goo in,” continued old John, “they did goo in, an’ the sheep too, for the matter o’ that, when they was turned i’ the churchyard ; so it were my place, you see, sir, to hunt the eggs up, an’ bring him all I could find theer, an’ — for he did the thing as was right, sir, an’ alleys behaved ’ansum to ma, sir — he used to gie ma a ’apenny apiece all round for ’em, good uns or bad uns.” “ Did you get many, then, in the church ? ” said King. “Purty well, sir* purty well,” said old John ; “but if theer’ d ’a bin another pilpit, or one o’ them three-deckers, we’d ’a done better, sir, for they laid eggs on eggs i’ the pilpit.” “ I wonder you did not have them come in on Sundays during service,” said King. “ So they did, sir, at one time,” said he, “ an’ was alleys welcome ; we never meddled ooth ’em, sir, nor mis- lested ’em ; but the clerk as they had then — old Thomas Cobb, as is dead and gone, rest his poor soul — had a mis- fortin, sir, so they was stopped.” “ What was that, John? ” said Dawson. “ Why, you see, sir,” said the old man, “ the parson had been a-lect’rin’ on him how to gie out the hymns proper-like, and we was to have, o’ the next Sunday, ‘ Hark ! the herald,’ on the bass viol — that were Joe Tim- mins — and the flageolet, Edwin Purchas ; both on ’em gone now, sir, an’ their instruments. An’ the clerk, Thomas Cobb, as I said, sir, in gieing of ’em out, were to stop at 4 Plark ! ’ an’ not on no accounts to goo on wi’ the ‘ herald ’ till the third 4 Hark ! ’ so as like to press the congereation.” 44 Impress, John,” suggested Dawson. “Perhaps it were, sir,” said John. “Well, when he stood up o’ the Sunday, sir, he disturbed one o’ them fowls, as had been paceable-like i’ the desk during prayers, and set him a-flyin’ on to the cushin, sir, where 4 Cock-a- doodle-do,’ says he. 4 Hark ! ’ cries Cobb — that were his 78 OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. first 4 Hark ! ’ sir— and looks as wild as two hawks, to think o’ the daredness o’ the fowl, and under his very nose too, sir. 4 Cock-a-doodle-do,’ says the fowl again, as hold as possible, and flapping his wings like a fighter. 4 Hark ! 5 cries Cobb again — that were his second 4 Hark ! ’ sir — fiercer than ever, when, as I sit here on this here settle, sir, the other fowls jines in, an’ in two minutes, what wi’ the 4 chuck-chucks 5 an’ the 4 doodle-doos,’ it were Meg’s delight, sir ; an’ in the middle on it all, sir, while every- body were well-nigh a-bustin’, he roars out, savager than ever — bein’ obligated-like, sir, to goo on wi’ his part — 4 Hark ! the herald angels sing ; ’ an’ then flopped back on to his cushin an’ disappeared ontirely, as the fowls went at it all at once, as if they meant it.” 44 That was awkward, however, John,” said Dawson, laughing. 44 It were, sir,” said John, who looked very serious ; 44 for we niver sung it that mornin’, arter all, sir. The viol tried it, and the flageolet tried it, but it ony sounded like both instruments a-laffin’, sir ; an’ so the flute an’ the fiddle gid in at that, sir ; an’ then we all laffed, sir, instru- ments an’ all ; an’ in the midst on it out o’ her pew walks the oud squire’s housekeeper, as were brought up religious, sir, an’ she went an’ jined the Methodies that very even- in’, sir, on the Green. 4 For,’ says she, 4 1 won’t sit theer an’ have my religion insulted by a parcel o’ fowls in that manner.’ An’ to her dyin’ day she would have it, gentle- men both, as how the parson an’ the clerk trained them fowls atween ’em ; an’ that it were all a planned thing to put her about an’ fluster her, ’ecos she didna hold good wi’ fowls in any way, on account o’ their n’ise an’ crowin’ ; an’ was alleys a 4 drattin’ ’em in an’ out o’ the church an’ about the buildin’s. So through the crowin’ the fowls was druv, an’ I,” said old John, 44 lost my ’apence ; an’ as for her, sir — well, she died a Banter, as were a judgment on her, through a- slanderin’ o’ them fowls.” 44 1 wonder you w r ere not clerk, John,” said King. 44 Well, sir, I niver warn’t no scholard,” said John, 44 or I could ha’ copt Thomas Cobb, I think, sir ; leastwaj^s in follerin’ the parson in a devout sort o’ a manner, and at a respectful distance — as I told Dove}^, sir, just now. But feyther didna hold good ooth schoolin’. He said he larnt hisself fro’ the Book o’ Natur ; but I niver seed it, sir, OLD JOHN, AND HOW IT HAPPENED. 79 though 1’se heerd folks, that he gentlefolks, a-mentionin’ on it; hut it were a pictur-hook, I know, sir, ’ecos they spoke o’ ‘ the beauties ’ in it.” “ They meant what you see round you, John — the beautiful hills and the woods,” said Dawson, “and the green fields and the river.” “Now, did they, sir?” said John, rousing up with astonishment. “ Ony to think o’ that, now ! Ay, there he a good maany o’ them things about in this part o’ the country, sir, a good maany.” “ And the blue sky and the birds, and the buds and the blossoms,” continued Dawson. “ Well, I holds good ooth the blue sky, Mayster Henry,” . said old John, “’ecos that brings the taturs on; an’ I approves o’ the blossom too, by reason o’ it looking like a lot o’ cyder about,” said he ; “ but as for them buds and birds, sir, the one takes the t’other, I reckon ; leastways them beggarin’ sparrers does, sir, as arn’t no good to no- body, an’ them tomtits. They played the very old un wi’ my aperycot this time, sir, an’ punished the pays dreadful, although I’d stringed ’em an’ feathered ’em an’ old-hatted ’em.” “ Ah, a heart-rending case,” said Dawson. “ Hold your cup, John. You won’t be afraid of a drop more ? ” “Niver were it, sir,” said John. “Fill it up for him, then, Mary,” said Dawson; “it won’t hurt him. Now, Fred,” said he, “ old John will tell us of his younger days.” “ A ool, a ool, sir. This be mighty good cyder, Mayster Henry,” said old John, “ mighty good.” “Drink it up, then,” said Dawson, “and light your pipe, John.” CHAPTER XI. BURTON OF BOSCABEL — INTO THE RIVER, AND DOWN WITH THE FLOOD. “Then you really had a good thing yesterday?” said Warden to his friend Burton, as the two bachelor chums sat before the fire, on a chill November evening, in Warden’s old-fashioned room at the Manor House, which BO BURTON OF BOSCABEL. was a straggling sort of place, half ivy, and situated in the midst of the hunting covers in Herefordshire, and in the hamlet of Deepdale. “First-rate, Fred,” was the reply; “ for they are low- scented hounds, and they suit the woodlands ; so if a fox is out, and there is anything like a scent, we are sure of sport.” Warden, who was a friend of Burton, was a young fellow of good family and of fair means; the farm that was attached to the Manor House "being a dairy-farm, that gave grazing ground to a large herd of milking cows, hence the cheese and the butter-making there were items of im- portance ; and it was a poultry-farm also, as ready a sale being found in the country town for eggs and chickens, and such-like, as in most places. The poultry and the pigeon house and the dairy were in a nice cool place by themselves, in a snug part of the shrubbery, and each had an enclosure of its own ; and their little ornamental buildings were surrounded by trees, and belted with rhododendrons, crimson and scarlet, that, when they were flushed with colour in the summer, looked well with the white pigeons about them. And the butterwome-n, Jane and Martha, went to market twice a week, and in the old-fashioned way too — on horseback, with their butter- bags — the cheese and the poultry being always sent on by the carrier. The two friends, Warden and Burton, lived in adjoining parishes, and near to Archer and Johnson, and they were also within a few miles of Andrews and Oliver ; the neigh- bourhood — as was all that district indeed up the valley — being wooded and beautiful. And Burton was also a farmer, and about thirty years of age, the same age as Warden ; but as lie was “ better off” than Warden, he kept more horses, for he had more- hunting. He also bred horses — good ones ; and he took a pleasure in “ breaking ” them himself, for he was a good rider, and, as we have seen in the cub-hunting, he could “ stick ” a horse as well as most men. The name of the place that he and his mother lived at was Boscabel, so named, or rather renamed, by an ancestor, “ Burton of Burton,” who, being a staunch Koyalist, sided with King Charles, and assisted, after the fight at Worcester, to shelter him from the “crop-heads.” He paid dearly, INTO THE RIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 81 however, for liis loyalty, as he had afterwards to “ com- pound ” to save his property. So he set his teeth hard, for he had “ the blood of the Burtons ” in him; and as soon as it was safe-for him to do so, he changed the name of the place from the Warren to Boscabel ; and making a new approach to it through the fields, he planted the one side of the road with Scotch firs, and the other with oaks, that at the time of our narrative had grown into a magnificent avenue ; the interlacement of their branches, the rich browns of the one and the grays of the other, with the light greens and the gorse-greens of their foliage, making as nice a bit of colour as one would wish to see, especially when the sun shone through it, and brought out the red lights on the fir-boughs, and threw such broad shadows beneath them, that were of such a rich soft green on the grass and so purple on the road, where they lay against, the bright bars of sunlight that went slanting across it. Alongside the avenue — or “ the drive,” as it was called — were the paddocks, the horses on the one side and the mares on the other. And as most of the colts and some of the hunters there were very fond of coming to the rails, just to have their noses rubbed and be messed with, the walk up there was a pleasant one. And the old fellow who did the ditching at the farm — old William — was one of a family who had continued to live there, from father to son, from the time it was the Warren — not an uncommon thing in the country, in those places where they care for the labourers — and who there- fore never forgot the bit of oak for his hat as the day came round ; as he thought it “ his dooty, sir,” cn the twenty- ninth of May, to commemorate the loyalty of the family by wearing the symbol of the king’s escape. And if you met him in the avenue, as you often might do, “ doin’ a bit o’ cuttin’, sir, to claire the draanes,” he had always his little say ready for you, correct to the letter, “ as how the oud master o’ all were a man o’ quality, sir, a good man an’ true; as were put down — though it niver coined off, sir, more’s the pity — for a 4 Knight o’ the Royal Oak’ by King Charles, as got up i’ the tree at Bos- cabel, sir, arter they’d druv him fro’ Qoster — you might ’a heerd on him, sir? — when that cussed oud Crum mil pum- mild him — darn his body ! ” 82 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. Burton, who was called “ Charlie ” by his friends, and c; young Mr. Charles ” by the men, though he was the only Mr. Charles now, his father being dead, was much liked in the neighbourhood, as he had money to spend, and he spent it freely ; and he had always a word for his workmen, and an eye to their cottages ; and if people would only work while they were at it, and put their strength into it, there was always plenty of employment and fair wages for them at Boscabel. And there were those about there who began to think they might have before very long a young mistress at Boscabel, as well as a master; for 44 had not young Mr. Charles been a good deal at the old squire’s of late at Peyton Hall ; and warn’t there that niece of his there, young Miss Florence, as had the golden hair ? ” So the two things being incontrovertible facts, the rumour com- menced ; and, as the sequel will show, rumour for once was right. Raymond was a neighbour of Burton, and lived at the Firs, the farm adjoining ; but he was not, like Charlie, a hunting man. To return to "Warden and Burton, as they were seated by the fire. 44 Come in,” shouted Warden, in response to a charivari at the door ; 44 you are just in time, old fellow,” said he, as Raymond entered — Jack Raymond of the Firs, a very great friend of his — and. shook hands with them. 44 Why did you not drop in to dinner? Find a seat, will you, and bring yourself to an anchor. Pass the wine, Charlie, and produce the trophy.” 44 Oh, bother the trophy ! ” said Burton. 44 He would call it 4 a tail,’ and ask for 4 Zingari ! ’ ” 44 What tale ? ” asked Raymond eagerly. 44 This,” cried Charlie, catching him a dab on the cheek with a fox’s brush. 44 Crede , crede, you unbelieving Ish- maelite ; ecce signum ! ” 44 You don’t mean to say you really won that ? ” said Raymond, with astonishment. 44 Don’t I ? But I do, my dear fellow,” was the reply. “Fern, vidi, vici ; I went and did it.” 44 Give it out, Charlie,” said Warden, 44 and let us have it; I have not yet heard the rights of it myself. It was a confounded nuisance I was unable to be with you; but it was our Boaid-day, and I wanted to bring forward the case of one of my men who is under the doctor’s hands.” INTO THE RIVER AND DOWN THE FLOOD. 83 Thus exhorted, Burton settled himself in his chair, stuck the poker in the fire, and proceeded to give them the particulars of “ the run from Henley.” “ You know the big covers , 55 said he, “ near Henley Dingles? Well, making for the upper end of them, we took the outer ride, as the best place for the fair start ; and waited there by the yews, amidst the whir of the pheasants and the crackling of the twigs, as the hounds worked beneath us in the wood — when Parker, who was ahead quietly listening, turned round briskly in his saddle, with ‘ Hush, you fellows ; they have found for a certainty . 5 And he was right too, sure enough , 55 said Burton, “as a low whimper, deepening into a bay, quickly proved, repeated and responded to, as it was again and again, by the whole pack. “ ‘ Hark ! hark to Warrior ! 5 cried Will, as he cantered up, standing in his stirrups, and looking ready to jump out of them. ‘ Have at him there, my beauties — have at him ! There 5 s a fox for a hundred ! 5 “ With a rustle and a rush up the bank, on they came with a crash, and with a jump and a scramble at the top, they left the woods for the open; Will, as their white sterns flickered at the fence, shouting, ‘Hold hard now, gentlemen, till they get away ; he’s right for Brookwood, and we’re in for a good un ! Come up, old horse. Now, stupid , 5 said he, as the old horse, getting a thonger, rapped the pleachers in his contempt for ‘ a four-footer , 5 ‘ are you going to say your pra) T ers at starting, you old beggar? Come along, I say ! 5 And waking him up with a touch of the spur and a jib of the rein, he turned the corner of the cover ; and then, pounding down a ride, reached the common just as the hounds, running well together, passed over it in front of him. Following in his wake,” said Burton, “ were Melville, Hardy, Lee, John Parker, Miller, and myself; our horses well in hand, and ourselves ready to cut out work for the best of them. As the hounds half checked and feathered by the pool, Will’s whip-hand stopped us ; then, as they went on again up the grass-lands for Lilton village, we gave our steeds their heads, and put them to it. For more than twenty minutes, my boys, we had it to ourselves,” said he, “ hard and fast ; for not a soul could live with us ; and as we rode together, each on his own line, we took our fences in our stride, and went like pigeons. 84 BURTON OF BOSCABEL. “ Passing Thrift] ands by the shrubbery — you know the swing-gate,” said Charlie — 44 we skirted the gravel-pits, and made for Haines ; then bending to the left, we crossed Croome Hill, and went on by the Elms to Tedby, and from thence to the ash-beds, and through the fold at Trew’s; and then, with a ring round the outbuildings there, where he failed to effect a lodgment, we pushed him through the brook in the meadows, and put his nose straight for Horton’s, the tops of whose kilns we could see before us ; the hounds,” said Burton, “ running at that time almost in view, and with scent breast-high.