Can You Forgive Her? (27 page)

‘Well, sir.’ He said no more, and that he said with a drawl.

‘He’s as fine an animal to look at as ever I put my eye on,’ said George.

‘He’s all that,’ said Bat.

‘He’s got lots of pace too.’

‘I’m sure he has, sir.’

‘And
they tell me you can’t beat him at jumping.’

‘They can mostly do that, sir, if they’re well handled.’

‘You see he’s a deal over my weight’

‘Yes, he is, Mr Vavasor. He is a fourteen stoner.’

‘Or fifteen,’ said Vavasor.

Perhaps he may, sir. There’s no knowing what a ’orse can carry till he’s tried.’

George asked his groom no more questions, but felt sure that he had better sell his brown horse
if he could. Now I here protest that there was nothing specially amiss with the brown horse. Towards the end of the preceding season he had overreached himself and had been lame, and had been sold by some owner with more money than brains who had not cared to wait for a cure. Then there had gone with him a bad character, and a vague suspicion had attached itself to him, as there does to hundreds
of horses which are very good animals in their way. He had come thus to Tattersall’s
²
, and Vavasor had bought him cheap, thinking that he might make money of him, from his form and action. He had found nothing amiss with him, – nor, indeed, had Bat Smithers. But his character went with him, and therefore Bat Smithers thought it well to be knowing. George Vavasor knew as much of horses as most
men can, – as, perhaps, as any man can who is not a dealer, or a veterinary surgeon; but he, like all men, doubted his own knowledge, though on that subject he would never admit that he doubted it. Therefore he took Bat’s word and felt sure that the horse was wrong.

‘We shall have a run from the big wood,’ said George.

‘If they make un break, you will, sir,’ said Bat

‘At any rate I’ll ride
the brown horse,’ said George. Then, as soon as that was settled between them, the Roebury Club overtook them.

There was now a rush of horses on the road altogether, and they
were within a quarter of a mile of Edgehill church, close to which was the meet Bat with his two hunters fell a little behind, and the others trotted on together. The other grooms with their animals were on in advance, and
were by this time employed in combing out forelocks, and rubbing stirrup leathers and horses’ legs free from the dirt of the roads; – but Bat Smithers was like his master, and did not congregate much with other men, and Vavasor was sure to give orders to his servant different from the orders given by others.

‘Are you well mounted this year?’ Maxwell asked of George Vavasor.

‘No, indeed; I never
was what I call well mounted yet. I generally have one horse and three or four cripples. That brown horse behind there is pretty good, I believe.’

‘I see your man has got the old chestnut mare with him.’

‘She’s one of the cripples, – not but what she’s as sound as a bell, and as good a hunter as ever I wish to ride; but she makes a little noise when she’s going.’

‘So that you can hear her three
fields off,’ said Grindley.

‘Five if the fields are small enough and your ears are sharp enough,’ said Vavasor. ‘All the same I wouldn’t change her for the best horse I ever saw under you.’

‘Had you there, Grindems,’ said Maxwell.

‘No, he didn’t,’ said Grindley. ‘He didn’t have me at all.’

‘Your horses, Grindley, are always up to all the work they have to do,’ said George; ‘and I don’t know
what any man wants more than that’

‘Had you again, Grindems,’ said Maxwell.

‘I can ride against him any day,’ said Grindley.

‘Yes; or against a brick wall either, if your horse didn’t know any better,’ said George.

‘Had you again, Grindems,’ said Maxwell. Whereupon Mr Grindley trotted on, round the corner by the church, and into the field in which the hounds were assembled. The fire had become
too hot for him, and he thought it best to escape. Had it been Vavasor alone he would have turned upon him and snarled, but he could not afford to exhibit any ill temper to the king of the club. Mr Grindley
was not popular, and were Maxwell to turn openly against him his sporting life down at Roebury would decidedly be a failure.

The lives of such men as Mr Grindley,–men who are tolerated in
the daily society of others who are accounted their superiors, do not seem to have many attractions. And yet how many such men does one see in almost every set? Why Mr Grindley should have been inferior to Mr Maxwell the banker, or to Stone, or to Prettyman who were brewers, or even to Mr Pollock the heavyweight literary gentleman, I can hardly say. An attorney by his trade is at any rate as good
as a brewer, and there are many attorneys who hold their heads high anywhere. Grindley was a rich man,–or at any rate rich enough for the life he led. I don’t know much about his birth, but I believe it was as good as Maxwell’s. He was not ignorant, or a fool;–whereas I rather think Maxwell was a fool Grindley had made his own way in the world, but Maxwell would certainly not have made himself a banker
if his father had not been a banker before him; nor could the bank have gone on and prospered had there not been partners there who were better men of business than our friend. Grindley knew that he had a better intellect than Maxwell; and yet he allowed Maxwell to snub him, and he toadied Maxwell in return. It was not on the score of riding that Maxwell claimed and held his superiority, for
Grindley did not want pluck, and every one knew that Maxwell had lived freely and that his nerves were not what they had been. I think it had come from the outward look of the men, from the form of each, from the gait and visage which in one was good and in the other insignificant. The nature of such dominion of man over man is very singular, but this is certain that when once obtained in manhood
it may be easily held.

Among boys at school the same thing is even more conspicuous, because boys have less of conscience than men, are more addicted to tyranny, and when weak are less prone to feel the misery and disgrace of succumbing. Who has been through a large school and does not remember the Maxwells and Grindleys,–the tyrants and the slaves,–those who domineered and those who submitted?
Nor was it, even then, personal strength, nor always
superior courage, that gave the power of command. Nor was it intellect, or thoughtfulness, nor by any means such qualities as make men and boys loveable. It is said by many who have had to deal with boys, that certain among them claim and obtain ascendancy by the spirit within them: but I doubt whether the ascendancy is not rather thrust on
them than claimed by them. Here again I think the outward gait of the boy goes far towards obtaining for him the submission of his fellows.

But the tyrant boy does not become the tyrant man, or the slave boy the slave man, because the outward visage, that has been noble or mean in the one, changes and becomes so often mean or noble in the other.

‘By George, there’s Pollock!’ said Maxwell, as
he rode into the field by the church. ‘I’ll bet half a crown that he’s come down from London this morning, that he was up all night last night, and that he tells us so three times before the hounds go out of the paddock.’ Mr Pollock was the heavy-weight sporting literary gentleman.

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O
F
all sights in the world there is, I think, none more beautiful than that of a pack of fox-hounds seated, on a winter morning, round the huntsman, if the place of meeting has been chosen with anything of artistic skill. It should be in a grassy field, and the field should be small. It should not be absolutely away from all buildings, and the hedgerows should not have been
clipped and pared, and made straight with reference to modern agricultural economy. There should be trees near, and the ground should be a little uneven, so as to mark some certain small space as the exact spot where the dogs and servants of the hunt should congregate.

There are well-known grand meets in England, in the parks of
noblemen, before their houses, or even on what are called their
lawns; but these magnificent affairs have but little of the beauty of which I speak. Such assemblies are too grand and too ornate, and, moreover, much too far removed from true sporting proprieties. At them, equipages are shining, and ladies’ dresses are gorgeous, and crowds of tradesmen from the neighbouring town have come there to look at the grand folk. To my eye there is nothing beautiful in that.
The meet I speak of is arranged with a view to sport, but the accident of the locality may make it the prettiest thing in the world.

Such, in a special degree, was the case at Edgehill. At Edgehill the whole village consisted of three or four cottages; but there was a small old church, with an old grey tower, and a narrow, green, almost dark, churchyard, surrounded by elm-trees. The road from
Roebury to the meet passed by the church stile, and turning just beyond it came upon the gate which led into the little field in which the hounds felt themselves as much at home as in their kennels. There might be six or seven acres in the field, which was long and narrow, so that the huntsman had space to walk leisurely up and down with the pack clustering round him, when he considered that longer
sitting might chill them. The church tower was close at hand, visible through the trees, and the field itself was green and soft, though never splashing with mud or heavy with holes.

Edgehill was a favourite meet in that country, partly because foxess were very abundant in the great wood adjacent, partly because the whole country around is grass-land, and partly, no doubt, from the sporting propensities
of the neighbouring population. As regards my own taste, I do not know that I do like beginning a day with a great wood,–and if not beginning it, certainly not ending it. It is hard to come upon the cream of hunting, as it is upon the cream of any other delight. Who can always drink Lafitte of the finest, can always talk to a woman who is both beautiful and witty, or can always find the
right spirit in the poetry he reads? A man has usually to work through much mud before he gets his nugget. It is so certainly in hunting, and a big wood too frequently afflicts the sportsman, as the mud does the
miner. The small gorse cover is the happy, much-envied bit of ground in which the gold is sure to show itself readily. But without the woods the gorse would not hold the foxes, and without
the mud the gold would not have found its resting-place.

But, as I have said, Edgehill was a popular meet, and, as regarded the meet itself, was eminently picturesque. On the present occasion the little field was full of horsemen, moving about slowly, chatting together, smoking cigars, getting off from their hacks and mounting their hunters, giving orders to their servants, and preparing for
the day. There were old country gentlemen there, greeting each other from far sides of the county; sporting farmers who love to find themselves alongside their landlords, and to feel that the pleasures of the country are common to both; men down from town, like our friends of the Roebury club, who made hunting their chosen pleasure, and who formed, in number, perhaps the largest portion of the field;
officers from garrisons round about; a cloud of servants, and a few nondescript stragglers who had picked up horses, hither and thither, round the country. Outside the gate on the road were drawn up a variety of vehicles, open carriages, dog-carts, gigs, and waggonettes, in some few of which were seated ladies who had come over to see the meet But Edgehill was, essentially, not a ladies’ meet
The distances to it were long, and the rides in Cranby Wood – the big wood – were not adapted for wheels. There were one or two ladies on horseback, as is always the case; but Edgehill was not a place popular, even with hunting ladies. One carriage, that of the old master of the hounds, had entered the sacred precincts of the field, and from this die old baronet was just descending, as Maxwell, Calder
Jones, and Vavasor rode into the field.

‘I hope I see you well, Sir William,’ said Maxwell, greeting the master. Calder Jones also made his little speech, and so did Vavasor.

‘Humph – well, yes, I’m pretty well, thank’ee. Just move on, will you? My mare can’t stir here,’ Then some one else spoke to him, and he only grunted in answer. Having slowly been assisted up on to his horse, – for he was
over seventy years of age, – he trotted off to the hounds, while all the farmers round him touched
their hats to him. But his mind was laden with affairs of import, and he noticed no one. In a whispered voice he gave his instructions to his huntsman, who said, ‘Yes, Sir William,’ ‘No, Sir William,’ ‘No doubt, Sir William.’ One long-eared, long-legged fellow, in a hunting-cap and scarlet coat,
hung listening by, anxious to catch something of the orders for the morning. ‘Who the devil’s that fellow, that’s all breeches and boots?’ said Sir William aloud to some one near him, as the huntsman moved off with the hounds. Sir William knew the man well enough, but was mindedto punish him for his discourtesy. ‘Where shall we find first, Sir William?’ said Calder Jones, in a voice that was really
very humble. ‘How the mischief am I to know where the foxes are?’ said Sir William, with an oath; and Calder Jones retired unhappy, and for the moment altogether silenced.

And yet Sir William was the most popular man in the county, and no more courteous gentleman ever sat at the bottom of his own table. A mild man he was, too, when out of his saddle, and one by no means disposed to assume special
supremacy. But a master of hounds, if he have long held the country, – and Sir William had held his for more than thirty years, – obtains a power which that of no other potentate can equal. He may say and do what he pleases, and his tyranny is always respected. No conspiracy against him has a chance of success; no sedition will meet with sympathy; – that is, if he be successful in showing sport
If a man be sworn at, abused, and put down without cause, let him bear it and think that he has been a victim for the public good. And let him never be angry with the master. That rough tongue is the necessity of the master’s position. They used to say that no captain could manage a ship without swearing at his men. But what are the captain’s troubles in comparison with those of the master of hounds?
The captain’s men are under discipline, and can be locked up, flogged, or have their grog stopped. The master of hounds cannot stop the grog of any offender, and he can only stop the tongue, or horse, of such an one by very sharp words.