The Lion at Home.
Sir Hampton Rea was out that morning, and very busy.
He had been round to the stables and seen the four horses that had arrived the night before, and bullied the coachman because he had said that one of them had a splinter in its leg, and that the mare meant for Miss Rea had rather a nasty look about the eye.
“You’re an ass, Thomas,” he said.
The man touched his hat, and Sir Hampton walked half across the stable-yard.
“Er-rum!” he ejaculated, half turning; and the coachman came up, obsequiously touching his hat again.
“Those horses, Thomas, were examined by a veterinary surgeon.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man.
“Er-rum! And I chose them and examined them myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve made a mistake, Thomas.”
“Very like, sir,” said the man. “Very sorry, sir.”
Sir Hampton did not respond, but gave a sharp glance round the very new-looking stable-yard and buildings, saw nothing to find fault about; and then, clearing his throat, went into the garden as the coachman winked at the groom, and the groom raised a wen upon his cheek by the internal application of his tongue.
“Er-rum!—Sanders!” cried the knight.
And something that had worn the aspect of a huge boa constrictor in cord trousers, crawling into a melon-frame, slowly drew itself back, stood upright, and revealed a yellow-faced man with a scarlet head and whiskers.
Perhaps it is giving too decided a colour to the freckles which covered Mr Sanders’s face to say they were yellow, and to his hair to say it was scarlet; but they certainly approached those hues, “Er-rum! Sanders, come here,” said Sir Hampton.
Sanders leisurely closed the melon-frame and raised the light a few inches with a piece of wood, and then slowly approached his master, to stop in front of him and scrape his feet upon a spade.
“Er-rum! I’m going to inspect the grounds this morning, Sanders,” said Sir Hampton.
Sanders, head gardener, nodded; for he was a man so accustomed to deal with silent objects that he seldom spoke, if he could possibly help it; but here he was obliged.
“Shall I want a spade?”
“No; certainly not.”
“Nor a barrow?”
“No!” sharply.
“Maybe ye’ll like me to bring a billhook?”
“Er-rum! No. Yes; bring a billhook.”
The gardener went slowly off to his tool-house, and returned as leisurely; Sir Hampton the while fiercely poking vegetables about with his stick—stirring up cabbages, as if angry because they did not grow—beet, for having too much top-onions, for not swelling more satisfactorily—and ending with a vicious cut at a wasp bent on a feast of nectarine beneath the great, new, red-brick wall.
Wasp did not like it. Ignorant of any doctrine concerning meum and tuum, he looked upon all fruit as pro bono publico, as far as the insect world was concerned. The nectarines might be choicely named varieties, planted by Sir Hampton’s order, after having been obtained at considerable expense—the wall having been built for their use; but fruit was fruit to the wasp, so long as it was ripe, and he resented interference. Pugnacity was crammed to excess in his small, yellow body, and prevented from bursting it by a series of strong black rings; so it was not surprising that the insect showed fight, and span round the new magistrate’s head with a fierce buzz.
“Css! Get out! Sh!” ejaculated Sir Hampton; and he struck at the wasp again and again. But the little insect was no respecter of persons. He had been insulted, and, watching his opportunity, he dashed in, and stung the knight in the tender red mark where his stiffly starched cravat frayed his neck, gave a triumphant buzz, and went over the wall like a yellow streak.
“Confound! Ugh!” ejaculated the knight; and then, seeing Sanders coming slowly back, he played Spartan, and preserved outward composure, though there was a volcano of wrath smouldering within.
He strutted off, with the gardener behind, fired a couple of shots at gardeners two and three, who were sweeping the lawn, and then entered into a general inspection of the garden.
“How—Er-rum!—how is it that bed is not in flower, Sanders?” “Done blooming,” said Sanders, gruffly.
“Done blooming, Sir Hampton!” exclaimed the knight, facing round.
“Done blooming, Sir Hampton,” said the gardener, slowly; and he looked as expressionless as a big sunflower.
“Take off that branch,” said the knight, pointing to an overhanging bough; and it was solemnly lopped off.
“Er-rum!” ejaculated the knight, when they had gone a little farther. “How is it that patch of lawn is brown?”
“Grubs,” said the gardener.
“Grubs, Sir Hampton,” said the knight, fiercely.
“Grubs, Sir Hampton,” said the corrected gardener.
“Ha!” said Sir Hampton, and they went a little farther.
“Those Wellingtonias are not growing, Sanders.”
“Two foot this year,” said the gardener.
“That’s very slow.”
“Fast,” said the gardener.
“Fast, Sir Hampton,” said the knight.
“Fast, Sir Hampton,” said the gardener, corrected again.
“Er-rum! Ah! This won’t do. This clump must be moved farther to the right,” said Sir Hampton, pointing to a cluster of shrubs.
“Kill ’em,” said Sanders.
“Then we’ll set more,” said the knight; and he went on to the farthest entrance of the garden, and the paths cut through the plantation, with a general desire exhibited in his every act, that as he had, so to speak, made the place and planted the grounds, it was absolutely necessary that he should have all the trees pulled up at stated intervals, to see how the roots were getting along.
There was a small iron gate at the end of the plantation walk, and this the gardener opened for his master to pass through, closing it after him, and sticking the billhook in his breast.
“Er-rum! Where are you going, Sanders?” said the knight, sharply.
“Back,” said Sanders—“’taint garden here.”
His domain extended no farther.
“Come along this moment, sir; and stop till I dismiss you.”
The knight looked purple as the gardener slowly unlatched the gate, and followed him about a quarter of a mile, to where the estate joined that of the Trevors; and here, as they neared the pastures, angry voices were heard.
“Quick, Sanders,” cried Sir Hampton—“trespassers!”
The next minute they were upon an angry group, consisting of Trevor, Pratt, Humphrey, a man with a sinister look and a mouth like a rat-trap, and a stumpy fellow, who was armed with a long plashing hook.
“Er-rum! what’s this?” exclaimed Sir Hampton, with the voice of authority.
“These men of yours, Sir Hampton,” said Humphrey, flushed and angry, “always trespassing across our ground.”
“My servants would do nothing of the sort, fellow,” said Sir Hampton.
“But they have done it, Sir Hampton,” said Humphrey. “There they are; there’s their footmarks right across the field; and they’re always at it, and breaking down the bushes.”
“Hold your tongue, Humphrey,” said Trevor. “I beg your pardon—Sir Hampton Rea, I believe?”
The wasp sting, kept back so long, now came out.
“And pray, sir, why are you trespassing on my grounds?” exclaimed the knight, furiously.
“Excuse me, I am on my own,” said Trevor.
“Your own! I never heard such insolence in my life. Who are you, sir? What the devil are you? Where do you come from?”
“Well,” said Trevor, with a red spot coming into each cheek, but speaking quite coolly, “my name is Trevor. I am the owner of Penreife, and I have lately returned from sea.”
“Then—then—go back to sea, sir, or get off my grounds; or, by gad, sir, my labourers shall kick you off.”
The men advanced menacingly; but, with a face like fire, Humphrey rolled up his cuffs.
“Humphrey! Stop; how dare you!” exclaimed Trevor, angrily.
The young keeper drew back, grinding his teeth; for the others continued to advance, and the rat-trap-mouthed man, finding Juno, the dog, smelling about him, gave the poor brute a kick, which produced a loud yelp.
“Excuse me, Sir Hampton, but—”
“Get off my grounds, sir, this instant!” roared the knight.
Wasp sting again.
“Look here,” said Pratt, “if it’s a question of boundary, any solicitor will look through the deeds, and a surveyor measure, and put it all right in—”
“Who the devil is this little cad?” exclaimed Sir Hampton.
“Cad?” cried Pratt.
“Yes, sir, cad. Oh! I thought I knew you again. Yes; you are one of that gang on the omnibus who insulted me the other day. And—and—” he stammered in his rage, turning to Trevor, “you were another of the party. Get off my grounds, sir—this instant, sir. Darley, Sanders, Kelynack—drive these fellows off!”
The three men advanced, and Sir Hampton took the general’s place in the rear, quivering still with rage and the poison of the wasp. Trevor was now flushed and angry, and Humphrey evidently ripe for any amount of assault or resistance, when Pratt stepped forward and laid his hand upon the arm of the angry knight.