****
“Where is she?” demands the Major. “Where is she!’ repeats he, coming up.
“A Major, he mun gi’ us halfe-croon ony ho’ this time,” exclaims our friend Tom Springer, whose head gear it is that has been hoisted.
“Deed mun ye!” asserts Pitfall, who has now joined his companion.
“No, no!” retorts the Major angrily, “I said a shillin’—a shillin’s my price, and you know it.”
“Well, but consider what a time we’ve been a lookin’ for her, Major,” replied Springer, mopping his brow.
“Well, but consider that you are about to partake of the enjoyments as well as myself, and that I find the whole of this expensive establishment,” retorted the Major, looking back for his hounds. “Not a farthin’ subscription.”
“Say two shillin’s, then,” replied Springer coaxingly.
“No, no,” replied the Major, “a shillin’s plenty.”
“Make it eighteen-pence then,” said Pitfall, “and oop she goes for the money.”
“Well, come,” snapped the Major hurriedly, as Billy now came elbowing up. “Where is she? Where is she?” demanded he.
“A, she’s not here—she’s not here, but I see her in her form thonder,” replied Springer, nodding towards the adjoining bush-dotted hill.
“Go to her, then,” said the Major, jingling the eighteen-pence in his hand, to be ready to give him on view of the hare.
The man then led the way through rushes, brambles, and briars, keeping a steady eye on the spot where she sate. At length he stopped. “There she’s, see!” said he, sotto voce, pointing to the green hill-side.
“I have her!” whispered the Major, his keen eyes sparkling with delight. “Come here,” said he to Billy, “and I’ll show her to you. There,” said he, “there you see that patch of gorse with the burnt stick stumps, at the low end—well, carry your eye down the slope of the land, past the old willow-tree, and you have her as plain as a pike-staff.”
Billy shook his head. He saw nothing but a tuft or two of rough grass.
“O yes, you see her large eyes watching us,” continued the Major, “thinking she sees us without our seeing her.
“No,” our friend didn’t.
“Very odd,” laughed the Major, “very odd,” with the sort of vexation a man feels when another can’t be made to see the object he does.
“Will you give them a view now?” asked Springer, “or put her away quietly?”
“Oh, put her away quietly,” replied the Major, “put her away quietly; and let them get their noses well down to the scent;” adding—“I’ve got some strange hounds out, and I want to see how they work.”
The man then advanced a few paces, and touching one of the apparently lifeless tufts with his pole, out sprang puss and went stotting and dotting away with one ear back and the other forward, in a state of indignant perturbation. “Buck!” exclaims Pitfall, watching her as she goes.
“Doubt it,” replied the Major, scrutinising her attentively.
“Nay look at its head and shoulders; did you iver see sic red shoulders as those on a doe?” asked Springer.
“Well,” said the Major, “there’s your money,” handing Springer the eighteen-pence, “and I hope she’ll be worth it; but mind, for the futur’ a shillin’s my price.”
After scudding up the hill, puss stopped to listen and ascertain the quality of her pursuers. She had suffered persecution from many hands, shooters, coursers, snarers, and once before from the Major and his harriers. That, however, was on a bad scenting day, and she had not had much difficulty in beating them.
Meanwhile Solomon has been creeping quietly on with his hounds, encouraging such to hunt as seemed inclined that way, though the majority were pretty well aware of the grand discovery and lean towards the horsemen in advance. Puss however had slipped away unseen by the hounds, and Twister darts at the empty form thinking to save all trouble by a chop. Bracelet then strikes a scent in advance. Ruffler and Chaunter confirm it, and after one or two hesitating rashes and flourishes, increasing in intensity each time, a scent is fairly established, and away they drive full cry amid exclamations of “Beautiful! beautiful! never saw anything puttier!” from the Major and the field—the music of the hounds being increased and prolonged by the echoes of the valleys and adjacent hills.
The field then fall into line, Silent Solomon first, the Major of course next. Fine Billy third, with Wotherspoon and Nettlefold rather contending for his company. Nabley, Duffield, Bonnet, Reunison. Fanlder, Catcheside, truants, all mixed up together in heterogeneous confusion, jostling for precedence as men do when there are no leaps. So they round Hawthorn hill, and pour up the pretty valley beyond, each man riding a good deal harder than his horse, the hounds going best pace, which however is not very great.
“Give me,—” inwardly prays the Major, cantering consequentially along with his thong-gathered whip held up like a sword, “give me five and twenty minutes, the first fifteen a burst, then a fault well hit off’, and the remaining ten without a turn,” thinking to astonish the supercilious foxhunter. Then he takes a sly look to see how Napoleon is faring, it being by no means his intention to let Fine Billy get to the bottom of him.
On, on, the hounds press, for now is the time to enjoy the scent with a hare, and they have run long enough together to have confidence in their leaders.
Now Lovely has the scent, now Lilter, now Ruffler flings in advance, and again is superseded by Twister.
They brush through the heathery open with an increasing cry, and fling at the cross-road between Birwell Mill and Capstone with something like the energy of foxhounds; Twister catches it up beyond the sandy track, and hurrying over it, some twenty yards further on is superseded by Lovely, who hits it off to the left.
Away she goes with the lead.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaims the Major, hoping the fox-hunter sees it.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” echoes Nettlefold, as the clustering pack drop their sterns to the scent and push forward with renewed velocity.
The Major again looks for our friend Billy, who is riding in a very careless slack-rein sort of style, not at all adapted for making the most of his horse. However it is no time for remonstrance, and the music of the hounds helps to make things pleasant. On, on they speed; up one hill, down another, round a third, and so on.
One great advantage of hunting in a strange country undoubtedly is, that all runs are straight, with harriers as well as foxhounds, with some men, who ride over the same ground again and again without knowing that it is the same, and Billy was one of this sort. Though they rounded Hawthorn hill again, it never occurred to him that it was the second time of asking; indeed he just cantered carelessly on like a man on a watering-place hack, thinking when his hour will be out, regardless of the beautiful hits made by Lovely and Lilter or any of them, and which almost threw the Major and their respective admirers into ecstacies. Great was the praise bestowed upon their performances, it being the interest of every man to magnify the run and astonish the stranger. Had they but known as much of the Richest Commoner as the reader does, they would not have given themselves the trouble.
Away they pour over hill and dale, over soft ground and sound, through reedy rushes and sedgy flats, and over the rolling stones of the fallen rocks.
Then they score away full cry on getting upon more propitious ground. What a cry they make! and echo seemingly takes pleasure to repeat the sound!
Napoleon the Great presently begins to play the castanets with his feet, an ominous sound to our Major, who looks back for the Bumbler, and inwardly wishes for a check to favour his design of dismounting our hero.
Half a mile or so further on, and the chance occurs. They get upon a piece of bare heather burnt ground, whose peaty smell baffles the scent, and brings the hounds first to a check, then to a stand-still.
Solomon’s hand in the air beckons a halt, to which the field gladly respond, for many of the steeds are eating new oats, and do not get any great quantity of those, while some are on swedes, and others only have hay. Altogether their condition is not to be spoken of.
The Major now all hurry scurry, just like a case of “second horses! second horses! where’s my fellow with my second horse?” at a check in Leicestershire, beckons the Bumbler up to Billy; and despite of our friend’s remonstrance, who has got on such terms with Napoleon as to allow of his taking the liberty of spurring him, and would rather remain where he is, insists upon putting him upon the mare again, observing, that he couldn’t think of taking the only spare ‘orse from a gen’lman who had done him the distinguished honour of leaving the Earl’s establishment for his ‘umble pack; and so, in the excitement of the moment, Billy is hustled off one horse and hurried on to another, as if a moment’s hesitation would be fatal to the fray. The Major then, addressing the Bumbler in an undertone, says, “Now walk that ‘orse quietly home, and get him some linseed tea, and have him done up by the time we get in.” He then spurs gallantly up to the front, as though he expected the hounds to be off again at score. There was no need of such energy, for puss has set them a puzzle that will take them some time to unravel; but it saved an argument with Billy, and perhaps the credit of the bay. He now goes drooping and slouching away, very unlike the cock-horse he came out.
Meanwhile, the hounds have shot out and contracted, and shot out and contracted—and tried and tested, and tried and tested—every tuft and every inch of burnt ground, while Solomon sits motionless between them and the head mopping chattering field.
“Must be on,” observes Caleb Rennison, the horse-breaker, whose three-year-old began fidgetting and neighing.
“Back, I say,” speculated Bonnet, whose domicile lay to the rear.
“Very odd,” observed Captain Nabley, “they ran her well to here.”
“Hares are queer things,” said old Duffield, wishing he had her by the ears for the pot.
“Far more hunting with a hare nor a fox,” observed Mr. Rintoul, who always praised his department of the chase.
“Must have squatted,” observes old “Wotherspoon, taking a pinch of snuff, and placing his double gold eye-glasses on his nose to reconnoitre the scene.
“Lies very close, if she has,” rejoins Godfrey Faulder, flopping at a furze-bush as he spoke.
“Lost her, I fear,” ejaculated Mr. Trail, who meant to beg her for a christening dinner if they killed.
The fact is, puss having, as we said before, had a game at romps with her pursuers on a bad scenting day, when she regulated her speed by their pace, has been inconveniently pressed on the present occasion, and feeling her strength fail, has had recourse to some of the many arts for which hares are famous. After crossing the burnt ground she made for a greasy sheep-track, up which she ran some fifty yards, and then deliberately retracing her steps, threw herself with a mighty spring into a rushy furze patch at the bottom of the hill. She now lies heaving and panting, and watching the success of her stratagem from her ambush, with the terror-striking pack full before her.
[Original Size]
And now having accommodated Mr. Pringle with a second horse, perhaps the reader will allow us to take a fresh pen and finish the run in another Chapter.
CHAPTER XXV.
A CRUEL FINISH.
EVERY hound having at length sniffed and snuffed, and sniffed and snuffed, to satiety, Solomon now essays to assist them by casting round the flat of smoke-infected ground. He makes the ‘head good first, which manouvre hitting off the scent, he is hailed and applauded as a conqueror. Never was such a huntsman as Solomon! First harrier huntsman in England! Worth any money is a huntsman! The again clamorous pack bustle up the sheep-path, at such a pace as sends the leaders hurrying far beyond the scent. Then the rear rush to the front, and a general spread of bewildered, benighted, confusion ensues.
“Where has she got to?” is the question.
“Doubled!” mutters the disappointed Major, reining in his steed.
“Squatted!” exclaims Mr. Rintoul, who always sported an opinion.
“Hold hard!” cries Mr. Trail, though they were all at a standstill; but then he wished to let them know he was there.
The leading hounds retrace their steps, and again essay to carry the scent forward. The second effort is attended with the same result as the first. They cannot get it beyond the double.
“Cunning animal!” mutters the Major, eyeing their endeavours.
“Far more hunt with a hare nor a fox,” now observes Mr. Bonnet, raising his white hat to cool his bald head.
“Far!” replies Mr. Faulder, thinking he must be off.
“If it weren’t for the red coats there wouldn’t be so many fox-hunters,” chuckles old Duffield, who dearly loves roast hare.
Solomon is puzzled; but as he doesn’t profess to be wiser than the hounds, he just lets them try to make it out for themselves. If they can’t wind her, he can’t: so the old sage sits like a statue.
At length the majority give her up.
And now Springer and Pitfall, and two or three other pedestrians who have been attracted from their work by the music of the hounds, and have been enjoying the panorama of the chase with their pipes from the summit of an inside hill, descend to see if they can either prick her or pole her.
Down go their heads as if they were looking for a pin.—The hounds, however, have obliterated all traces of her, and they soon have recourse to their staves.
Bang, bang, bang, they beat the gorse and broom and juniper bushes with vigorous sincerity. Crack, flop, crack, go the field in aid of their endeavours. Solomon leans with his hounds to the left, which is lucky for puss, for though she withstood the downward blow of Springer’s pole on her bush, a well-directed side thrust sends her flying out in a state of the greatest excitement. What an outburst of joy the sight of her occasioned! Hounds, horses, riders, all seemed to participate in the common enthusiasm! How they whooped, and halloo’d and shouted! enough to frighten the poor thing out of her wits. Billy and the field have a grand view of her, for she darts first to the right, then to the left, then off the right and again to the left, ere she tucks her long legs under her and strides up Kleeope hill at a pace that looks quite unapproachable. Faulder alone remains where he is, muttering “fresh har” as she goes.
The Major and all the rest of the field hug their horses and tear along in a state of joyous excitement, for they see her life is theirs. They keep the low ground and jump with the hounds at the bridlegate between Greenlaw sheep-walks and Hindhope cairn just as Lovely hits the scent off over the boundary wall, and the rest of the pack endorse her note. They are now on fresh ground, which greatly aids the efforts of the hounds, who push on with a head that the Major thinks ought to procure them a compliment from Billy. Our friend, however, keeps all his compliments for the ladies, not being aware that there is anything remarkable in the performance, which he now begins to wish at an end. He has ridden as long as he likes, quite as much as Mr. Spavin, or any of the London livery stable-keepers, would let him have for half-a-guinea. Indeed he wishes he mayn’t have got more than is good for him.
The Major meanwhile, all energy and enthusiasm, rides gallantly forward, for though he is no great hand among the enclosures, he makes a good fight in the hills, especially when, as now, he knows every yard of the country. Many’s the towl he’s had over it, though to look at his excited face one would think this was his first hunt. He’ll now “bet half-a-crown they kill her!” He’ll “bet a guinea they kill her!” He’ll “bet a fi-pun note they kill her!” He’ll “bet half the national debt they kill her!” as Dainty, and Lovely, and Bustler, after dwelling and hesitating over some rushy ground, at length proclaim the scent beyond.
Away they all sweep like the careering wind. On follow the field in glorious excitement. A flock of black-faced sheep next foil the ground—sheep as wild, if not wilder, than the animal the hounds are pursuing. We often think, when we see these strong-scented animals scouring the country, that a good beast of chase has been overlooked for the stag. Why shouldn’t an old wiry black-faced tup, with his wild sparkling eyes and spiral horns, afford as good a run as a home-fed deer? Start the tup in his own rough region, and we will be bound to say he will give the hounds and their followers a scramble. The Major now denounces the flying flock—“Oh, those nasty muttons!” exclaims he, “bags of bone rather, for they won’t be meat these five years. Wonder how any sane people can cultivate such animals.”
The hounds hunt well through the difficulty, or the Major would have been more savage still. On they go, yapping and towling, and howling as before, the Major’s confidence in a kill increasing at every stride.
The terror-striking shouts that greeted poor puss’s exit from the bush, have had the effect as well of driving her out of her country as of pressing her beyond her strength; and she has no sooner succeeded in placing what she hopes is a comfortable distance between herself and her pursuers, than she again has recourse to those tricks with which nature has so plentifully endowed her. Sinking the hill she makes for the little enclosed allotments below, and electing a bare fallow—bare, except in the matter of whicken grass—she steals quietly in, and commences her performances on the least verdant part of it.
First she described a small circle, then she sprung into the middle of it and squatted. Next she jumped up and bounded out in a different direction to the one by which she had entered. She then ran about twenty yards up a furrow, retracing her steps backwards, and giving a roll near where she started from. Then she took three bounding springs to the left, which landed her on the hard headland, and creeping along the side of the wall she finally popped through the water-hole, and squeezed into an incredibly small space between the kerbstone and the gate-post. There she lay with her head to the air, panting and heaving, and listening for her dread pursuers coming. O what agony was hers!
Presently the gallant band came howling and towling over the hill, in all the gay delirium of a hunt without leaps—the Major with difficulty restraining their ardour as he pointed out the brilliance of the performance to Billy—“Most splendid running! most capital hunting! most superb pack!” with a sly “pish” and “shaw” at foxhounds in general, and Sir Mosey’s in particular. The Major hadn’t got over the Bo-peep business, and never would.
The pack now reached the scene of Puss’s frolics, and the music very soon descended from a towering tenour to an insignificant whimper, which at length died out altogether. Soloman and Bulldog were again fixtures, Solomon as usual with his hand up beckoning silence. He knew how weak the scent must be, and how important it was to keep quiet at such a critical period; and let the hounds hit her off if they could.
Puss had certainly given them a Gordian knot to unravel, and not all the hallooing and encouragement in the world could drive them much beyond the magic circle she had described. Whenever the hunt seemed likely to be re-established, it invariably resulted in a return to the place from whence they started. They couldn’t get forward with it at all, and poked about, and tested the same ground over and over again.
It was a regular period or full stop.
“Very rum,” observed Caleb Rennison, looking first at his three-year-old, then at his watch, thinking that it was about pudding-time.
“She’s surely a witch,” said Mr. Wotherspoon, taking a prolonged pinch of snuff.
“‘We’ll roast her for one at all events,” laughed Mr. Trail, the auctioneer, still hoping to get her.
“First catch your hare, says Mrs. Somebody,” responded Captain Nabley, eyeing the sorely puzzled pack.
“O ketch her! we’re sure to ketch her,” observed Mr. Nettlefold, chucking up his chin and dismounting.
“Not so clear about that,” muttered Mr. Rintoul, as Lovely, and Bustler, and Lilter, again returned to repeat the search.
“If those hounds can’t own her, there are no hounds in England can,” asserted the Major, anxious to save the credit of his pack before the—he feared—too critical stranger.
At this depressing moment, again come the infantry, and commence the same system of peering and poking that marked their descent on the former occasion.
And now poor puss being again a little recruited, steals out of her hiding-place, and crosses quietly along the outside of the wall to where a flock of those best friends to a hunted hare, some newly-smeared, white-faced sheep, were quietly nibbling at the halfgrass, half-heather, of the little moor-edge farm of Mossheugh-law, whose stone-roofed buildings, washed by a clear mountain stream, and sheltered by a clump of venerable Scotch firs, stand on a bright green patch, a sort of oasis in the desert. The sheep hardly deign to notice the hare, far different to the consternation bold Reynard carries into their camp, when they go circling round like a squadron of dragoons, drawing boldly up to charge when the danger’s past. So poor, weary, foot sore, fur-matted puss, goes hobbling and limping up to the farm-buildings as if to seek protection from man against his brother man.
Now it so happened that Mrs. Kidwell, the half-farmer, half-shepherd’s pretty wife, was in the fold-yard, washing her churn, along with her little chubby-faced Jessey, who was equally busy with her Mamma munching away at a very long slice of plentifully-buttered and sugar’d bread; and Mamma chancing to look up from the churn to see how her darling progressed, saw puss halting at the threshold, as if waiting to be asked in.
[Original Size]
“It’s that mad old Major and his dogs!” exclaimed Mrs. Kidwell, catching up the child lest its red petticoat might scare away the visitor, and popping into the dairy, she saw the hare, after a little demur, hobble into the cow-house. Having seen her well in, Mrs. Kidwell emerged from her hiding-place, and locking the door, she put the key in her pocket, and resumed her occupation with her churn. Presently the familiar melody—the yow, yow, yap, yap, yow, yow of the hounds broke upon her ear, increasing in strength as she listened, making her feel glad she was at hand to befriend the poor hare.
The hunt was indeed revived. The hounds, one and all, having declared their inability to make any thing more of it.
Solomon had set off on one of his cruises, which resulted in the yeomen prickers and he meeting at the gate, where the hare had squatted, when Lovely gave tongue, just as Springer, with his eyes well down, exclaimed, “here she’s!” Bustler, and Bracelet, and Twister, and Chaunter, confirmed Lovely’s opinion, and away they went with the feeble scent peculiar to the sinking animal. Their difficulties are further increased by the sheep, it requiring Solomon’s oft-raised hand to prevent the hounds being hurried over the line—as it is, the hunt was conducted on the silent system for some little distance. The pace rather improved after they got clear of the smear and foil of the muttons, and the Major pulled up his gills, felt his tie, and cocked his hat jauntily, as the hounds pointed for the pretty farm-house, the Major thinking to show off to advantage before Mrs. Kidwell. They presently carried the scent up to the still open gates of the fold-yard. Lovely now proclaims where puss has paused. Things look very critical.
“Good mornin’, Mrs. Kidwell,” exclaimed the gallant Major, addressing her; “pray how long have you been at the churn?”
“O, this twenty minutes or more, Major,” replied Mrs. Kidwell, gaily.
“You haven’t got the hare in it, have you?” asked he.
“Not that I know of; but you can look if you like,” replied Mrs. Kidwell, colouring slightly.
“Why, no; we’ll take your word for it,” rejoined the Major gallantly. “Must be on, Solomon; must be on,” said he—nodding his huntsman to proceed.
Solomon is doubtful, but “master being master,” Solomon holds his hounds on past the stable, round the lambing-sheds and stackyard, to the front of the little three windows and a doored farm-house, without eliciting a whimper, no, not even from a babbler.
Just at this moment a passing cloud discharged a gentle shower over the scene, and when Solomon returned to pursue his inquiries in the fold-yard, the last vestige of scent had been effectually obliterated.
Mrs. Kidwell now stood watching the inquisitive proceedings if the party, searching now the hen-house, now the pigstye, now the ash-hole; and when Solomon tried the cow-house door, she observed carelessly: “Ah, that’s locked;” and he passed on to examine the straw-shed adjoining. All places were overhauled and scrutinized. At length, even Captain Nabley’s detective genius failed in suggesting where puss could be.
“Where did you see her last?” asked Mrs. Kidwell, with well-feigned ignorance.
“Why, we’ve not seen her for some time; but the hounds hunted her up to your very gate,” replied the Major.
“Deary me, how strange! and you’ve made nothin’ of her since?” observed she.
“Nothin’,” assented the Major, reluctantly.
“Very odd,” observed Mr. Catcheside, who was anxious for a kill.
“Never saw nothin’ like it,” asserted Mr. Rintoul, looking again into the pigstye.
“She must have doubled back,” suggested Mr. Nettlefold.
“Should have met her if she had,” observed old Duffield.
“She must be somewhere hereabouts,” observes Mr. Trail, dismounting, and stamping about on foot among the half-trodden straw of the fold-yard.
No puss there.
“Hard upon the hounds,” observes Mr. Wotherspoon, replenishing his nose with a good charge of snuff.
“Cruel, indeed,” assented the Major, who never gave them more than entrails.
“Never saw a hare better hunted!” exclaimed Captain Nabley, lighting a cigar.
“Nor I,” assented fat Mr. Nettleford, mopping his brow.
“How long was it?” asked Mr. Rintoul.
“An hour and five minutes,” replied the Major, looking at his watch (five-and-forty minutes in reality).
“V-a-a-ry good running,” elaborates old dandy Wortherspoon. “I see by the Post, that——”
“Well, I s’pose we must give her up,” interrupted the Major, who didn’t want to have the contents of his own second-hand copy forestalled.
“Pity to leave her,” observes Mr. Trail, returning to his horse.
“What can you do?” asked the Major, adding, “it’s no use sitting here.”
“None,” assents Captain Nabley, blowing a cloud.
At a nod from the Major, Solomon now collects his hounds, and passing through the scattered group, observes with a sort of Wellingtonian touch of his cap, in reply to their condolence, “Yes, sir, but it takes a slee chap, sir, to kill a moor-edge hare, sir!”
So the poor Major was foiled of his fur, and when the cows came lowing down from the fell to be milked, kind Mrs. Kidwell opened the door and out popped puss, as fresh and lively as ever; making for her old haunts, where she was again to be found at the end of a week.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.
THE reader will perhaps wonder what our fair friend Mrs. Pringle is about, and how there happens to be no tidings from Curtain Crescent. Tidings there were, only the Tantivy Castle servants were so oppressed with work that they could never find time to redirect her effusions. At length Mr. Beverage, the butler, seeing the accumulation of letters in Mr. Packwood, the house-steward’s room, suggested that they might perhaps be wanted, whereupon Mr. Packwood huddled them into a fresh envelope, and sent them to the post along with the general consignment from the Castle. Very pressing and urgent the letters were, increasing in anxiety with each one, as no answer had been received to its predecessor. Were it not that Mrs. Pringle knew the Earl would have written, she would have feared her Billy had sustained some hunting calamity. The first letter merely related how Mrs. Pringle had gone to uncle Jerry’s according to appointment to have a field-day among the papers, and how Jerry had gone to attend an anti-Sunday-band meeting, leaving seed-cake, and sponge-cake, and wine, with a very affectionate three-cornered note, saying how deeply he deplored the necessity, but how he hoped to remedy the delay by another and an early appointment. This letter enclosed a very handsome large coat-of-arms seal, made entirely out of Mrs. Pringle’s own head—containing what the heralds call assumptive arms—divided into as many compartments as a backgammon board, which she advised Billy to use judiciously, hinting that Major H. (meaning our friend Major Y.) would be a fitter person to try it upon than Lord L. The next letter, among many other things of minor importance, reminded Billy that he had not told his Mamma what Mrs. Moffatt had on, or whether they had any new dishes for dinner, and urging him to write her full particulars, but to be careful not to leave either his or her letters lying about, and hoping that he emptied his pockets every night instead of leaving that for Rougier to do, and giving him much other good and wholesome advice. The third letter was merely to remind him that she had not heard from him in answer to either of her other two, and begging him just to drop her a single line by return of post, saying he was well, and so on. The next was larger, enclosing him a double-crest seal, containing a lion on a cap of dignity, and an eagle, for sealing notes in aid of the great seal, and saying that she had had a letter from uncle Jerry, upbraiding her for not keeping her appointment with him, whereas she had never made any, he having promised to make one with her, and again urging Billy to write to her, if only a single line, and when he had time to send her a full account of what Mrs. Moffatt had on every day, and whether they had any new dishes for dinner, and all the news, sporting and otherwise, urging him as before to take care of Dowb (meaning himself), and hoping he was improving in his hunting, able to sit at the jumps, and enjoying himself generally..
The fifth, which caused the rest to come, was a mere repetition of her anxieties and requests for a line, and immediately produced the following letter:—