CHAPTER I.
COMING EVENTS.
Towards the middle of December, 1878, a dog-cart might have been seen standing outside the small station of Newcome, in Slopshire. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the turn-out—a goodish-looking animal in the shafts and a certain air of neatness stamped it as belonging to a gentleman, but beyond that there was no particular feature to attract attention. No gaudy red wheels, nothing dazzling in the way of "picking out;" simply an ordinary dog-cart, which had come down from Belton Hall to meet the 5.35 train from London.
Belton Hall, an old Elizabethan mansion, belonged to the Vivians, was inhabited by Colonel George Vivian and his daughter Mildred, and they were expecting two visitors, who had been asked to the Hall for Christmas and hunting—one, Jack Vivian, the Colonel's nephew; the other, a Mr. Thomas Simpson, who was known to the world in general to be following that calling which covers a multitude of sins, which means so much yet expresses so little, viz. "something in the City."
Colonel Vivian was as keen a sportsman and as good a man to hounds as there was in Slopshire, and his daughter followed closely in his footsteps—too closely sometimes, for on one occasion, when the Colonel came down at a stiffish stake-and-bound fence, Mildred, unable to stop in time, jumped right on the top of him, her horse's near hind-foot going slap through the crown of his new hat, which luckily did not at the moment contain her father's head.
Belton was therefore a certain find, and the Master, knowing this, always had a fixture there in the Christmas week.
Both Mildred and her father were too apt to gauge a man by his powers of getting over a country, and woe betide any unfortunate individual who had been seen to exhibit any—well, I will say hesitation—when hounds were running. If he happened to be staying at the Hall, he was chaffed most unmercifully, and under any other circumstances he was immediately set down in the mental tablets of the Vivians as a man who was not worth knowing.
There was but little fear of Jack not coming up to the mark in the way of riding, for, born and brought up in the country, his first recollections were associated with hounds, and his earliest lessons comprised "the run of a fox." Of late years he had not been able to hunt as much as he would have liked, for there were two fatal objections in his way—want of time and want of money.
Jack Vivian was a barrister, and a hard-working one withal. He had got his foot on the second rung of the ladder of success and meant going upwards; therefore he had little time for play, and but a small balance of spare cash; so it was only now and again that he could snatch a brief holiday, and, finding neck and spurs against a friend's horse, engage in his favourite pursuit. Notwithstanding this, there were few men who would care to back themselves against Jack across country, and there was probably not one (old Jim the Huntsman excepted) who knew more about a fox or what hounds were doing.
Mr. Simpson, on the other hand, was rolling in wealth, and as his "something in the City" did not occupy much of his time, he tried in every way to assume the appearance of a country gentleman, and to be considered a modern Nimrod.
Somehow, though, his three hundred-guinea hunters did not carry Mr. Simpson to the end, and it was marvellous the extraordinary and unforeseen obstacles that had prevented his appearance at the death.
Rivers suddenly had sprung up where none had been known before, and six-foot posts and rails, with broad double ditches, had caused Mr. Simpson alone to tarry on his course. In other words he was an arrant "funk," though of course he would not have acknowledged the soft impeachment.
It was, as you may think, very odd that such a man should be the guest of so ardent a sportsman as the owner of Belton, but it happened thus. The previous year the Colonel and his daughter were staying in Leicestershire, and at a friend's house they met Mr. Simpson. So taken up with admiring his horses was the Colonel that he either omitted to look at the owner, or else invested him with a halo which was the overflow of the equine worship.
Besides, open house, hunters five days a week for himself and daughter, and a large establishment, were not to be maintained for nothing; and the Colonel, in the matter of £ s. d., was a remarkably practical man, and had no objection to the possibility of a rich son-in-law, even though he might be "in the City."
Therefore, for Christmas week, Simpson and his horses were offered bed and board at Belton; and already, in his own mind, had Mr. S. drawn up a deed of partnership, with Miss Vivian as the Co., for he had been completely knocked out of time at the first sight of Mildred, and had fallen head over ears in—what he was pleased to call—love. What his chances of success were may be gathered from the following conversation, which took place in the drawing-room after the dog-cart had gone down to the station.
Mildred—it was a non-hunting day—was seated in a low easy-chair, occupied with five-o'clock tea, and by her side, on a cushion, reclined her cousin Ethel, a young girl of sixteen, while opposite was the Rev. Mr. Wilton, the clergyman of the place—one of the old school of sporting parsons, who was good for a fast twenty minutes either in the field or the pulpit; and though he had, for fifty odd years, hunted regularly four days a-week, there was not a man, woman, or child in the parish whose every trouble was not known to him, and there was not one of them who would not willingly have given up everything to help their idol, "t' owd parson."
With his back to the fire stood the Colonel, engaged in conversation with Florence Wingfield, sister to the expected Jack. She was staying in the house with her husband, Captain Tom Wingfield, of the 23rd Hussars, who at this moment was trying a new purchase by riding over to the kennels, some ten miles away.
"Which room has Mr. Simpson got, Milly?" said the Colonel suddenly.
"The best bachelor's room, papa," replied the young lady; "I put him there because I thought the gorgeous pattern of the new carpet you chose would suit his taste, and I have hung up some of those old sporting prints for him to take a lesson from."
"And what room has Jack got?" continued the Colonel, not best pleased at the impression his intended guest had produced on his daughter.
"Oh, dear old Jack has, of course, his own room. Florence arranged it just as it used to be, and before tea came I saw the fire was all right."
"I suppose you did not happen to see if Mr. Simpson's fire was all right, Mildred?" said Mr. Wilton, with a sly twinkle in his eye.
"No; Ethel did that," she replied, laughing; "besides, with that red face he can't be cold."
"Milly, never judge by appearances," interrupted Mrs. Wingfield, who saw by her uncle's face that the conversation was not particularly agreeable to him. Woman-like, she had read him like a book; and, though willing to keep the peace, she had long ago made up her mind that Mildred was to be her brother's wife or an old maid—aut Cæsar aut nihil; and having settled this, she set herself down to carry out her plans.
"Who is talking about judging by appearances?" put in a manly voice, as Tom Wingfield, somewhat muddy of coat, walked into the room.
"I was," said his wife. "I was telling Milly not to judge by appearances, for I thought you a nice fellow once, and—ahem!—I was taken in by your appearance."
"All right, Mrs. Impudence," retorted Tom; "no hunting for you. I thought I had two beautiful ladies' hunters, but I was deceived by appearances. Anyhow, let me have a cup of tea. I have given my new nag a lesson he won't forget. He refused that fence out of the road by the windmill, and put me down twice; then tried to bolt for Paradise Hill, but after a fight we got on terms, and he goes like an angel now."
"I must make a note of that, Wingfield," interrupted Mr. Wilton. "It is a curious coincidence of an animal being stopped on its way to Paradise, yet suddenly becoming an angel."
"Capital text for next Sunday, Wilton," said the Colonel. "But hark! I hear the dog-cart, and here they come round the corner of the drive."
"Oh Lord!" ejaculates Tom; "can anyone tell me how gray shirtings are? Must talk to a man who is in the City about shirtings or backwardations, you know. I'll ask Jack what he gave for his flannel shirts."
Amid the shouts of laughter which followed this sally the door opened, and the butler announced: "Mr. Simpson and Master Jack."