General Bounce; Or, The Lady and the Locusts

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

It was the last day of the Old Year, and he seemed to have resolved on making a peaceful ending, such as the thirty-first of December seldom vouchsafes in any climate but our own. Thoroughly English, too, was the party assembled round the breakfast-table at Newton-Hollows, from the red face of the old butler struggling in with the hissing urn, to the corresponding colour of Frank Hardingstone’s coat, betokening that he meant to enjoy our national sport of fox-hunting. Blanche was already down, looking charming in a riding-habit, as all pretty women do; and Mary’s quiet face showed more animation than usual, perhaps in consequence of an arrangement which was broached, apparently not for the first time.

“I am so glad we persuaded him not to ride,” observed Blanche, appealing as usual to Mr. Hardingstone; “he will not take care of that cough—men are such bad patients! Now with Mary to drive him in the pony-carriage, he can keep himself well wrapped up, and the air will do him good.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Frank, “Mrs. Delaval must take good care of her patient” (Mary looked as if she rather thought she would); “and I shall be completely at your service, Miss Kettering; you know I am not an enthusiast about hunting, like Charlie.”

“Oh, I shall do very well with old Thomas and Uncle Baldwin, if he can only keep up with me,” replied Blanche; “so I won’t ask you to stay with me.”

Frank seemed to think this would be no great sacrifice; but, as she spoke, the subject of their conversation entered the breakfast-room, and took his place as usual at Mrs. Delaval’s side. Poor Charlie! he looked thinner than ever, and the cough, though not so violent, was every day more and more frequent. To be sure his eye was bright, and his colour at times brilliant; everybody seemed to think he was better, save the Bubbleton doctors, and they never would give an opinion one way or the other.

“So Haphazard is to be disappointed of his gallop again,” complained Charlie, as he stretched his wasted hand for his tea-cup. “I have had quite enough of being nursed, Blanche, even by you. I really think I might ride him, just to see them find. I could get off if I felt tired, you know.”

“Get off when the hounds are running!” replied Blanche, “not you. Now be a good boy just this once, Charlie. Mary has promised to drive you in my pony-carriage with Scrub: she says you shall see everything if you’ll only trust yourself with her; and nobody will take such care of you as Mary, I know,” added she, rather mischievously. Charlie made no further objections, and Mrs. Delaval kept her eyes immovably fixed on the pattern of her tea-cup.

“Late, of course—servants always are late, except for dinner. Charlie, my boy, how are ye this morning? You’ve got no breakfast. Zounds! why is everything cold? Blanche, my sweet girl, ring all the bells, and kick that old fool into next week, if he don’t bring hot mutton-chops instanter. I can’t stay a moment. I must be off to Snaffles, or he’ll make some cursed mistake. It’s very singular that nobody ever understands my directions,” said the General, bustling into the room in a state of more than usual ferment, as is generally the case with occasional sportsmen on a hunting-morning. The General had been up since daybreak, but had not yet succeeded in snatching a quiet five minutes for his own breakfast; and even now, as he fussed about in a short green coat and high Napoleon boots, it seemed doubtful whether he would settle down to his meal, or be off on another visit to the stables, for the further confusion of the unfortunate Snaffles. Hunger carried it for the moment, but the trampling of hoofs and grinding of wheels on the sweep at the front-door soon drew our party to the window, from which Blanche’s eyes were delighted by the appearance of her favourite Water King, his fine coat glistening in the morning sun, his long thin tail whisking about as usual, and his rounded form seen in all its beauty under the unmounted side-saddle. “Isn’t he a darling?” exclaimed Blanche from the window, as the horse stepped proudly round to the door, pointing his small ears and glancing in every direction as though looking for his mistress. Old Thomas on a steady brown; Frank’s two hunters, well-bred, weight-carrying animals; the General’s black cob, and the little pony-carriage, completed the cavalcade, which was at length got into marching order, not without much difficulty and the issue of several contradictory orders from Uncle Baldwin, who, what with his anxiety about Blanche’s mounting and his care that Charlie should be properly wrapped up, to say nothing of his directions to every one concerning that undiscoverable passage, “the shortest way,” was already in a white heat, and altogether in a state quite the reverse of what we should suppose anticipatory of a day’s pleasure.

However, Blanche was in the saddle at last, and pacing quietly on with Frank by her side. The General, too, was mounted, but by no means as yet under way—so much had to be impressed on the butler in case of the Field stopping to luncheon; so much on Snaffles, who remained at home, about sundry brood mares in the paddocks, all in an interesting situation; so much on the keepers, who neglected the earth-stopping generally; and so very much on the bailiff, who invariably appeared at the last moment, that had it not been for the determination evinced by the black cob, his master would have remained at the front-door till dinner-time; that animal, however, a resolute Roman-nosed conveyance, seeing his stable companions rapidly deserting him, and rejoicing moreover in a stiff neck and perfectly callous mouth, made no more ado, but took the bit between his teeth, and lowering his head to the well-known angle of insubordination, rushed doggedly to the front, bearing the General rapidly past the pony-carriage in a manner more ludicrous than dignified. Charlie was in fits. Even quiet Mrs. Delaval laughed outright; and this simple incident, perhaps, made their drive far more lively—we will not say more agreeable—than it would otherwise have been, inasmuch as they had started in solemn silence; and, like all couples who feel that they are more to each other than either dares to confess, they might have remained unwillingly mute during the precious hours, from sheer inability to talk upon any topic but one, and a nervous dread of entering on that one lest an explanation should at once dispel the dream that had been the happiness of their lives. Now, however, they chatted gaily enough; and certainly if ever there was a situation calculated to raise the spirits of mortals, it was that in which our young lancer and his lady-love found themselves, on their way to Crop Hill, that thirty-first of December—a drive never afterwards to be effaced from the memory of the gentle charioteer. It was one of those beautiful balmy mornings that (when we get them) make an English winter more delightful than that of any other country in the world. It can only be described by the expression which it brought to every one’s lips, “What a hunting morning!” There had been heavy rain in the night, and the freshened pastures seemed actually to smile in the sun, as ever and anon he shone out with chastened beams over copse and meadow and upland; the very hedges, leafless though they were, seemed to breathe the fragrance of spring; mid-winter as it was, Nature seemed to be not dead, but sweetly sleeping; the robin hopped merrily from twig to twig; the magpie jerked and chattered, and flew before the pony-carriage, lighting now on this side of the lane, now on that, now disturbing its mate, now soaring away over the high thick hedge towards the distant wood. As they emerged into a line of fair open pastures from which their view, unchecked by fence on either side, swept over a rich green vale, dotted with cattle and clothed with hedge-row trees, they caught sight of their mounted friends cantering merrily along the grass ahead of them, Blanche’s habit fluttering in the soft, light breeze, her cavalier’s red coat and shining stirrup-irons glistening in the sun, and the General bumping steadily behind them on the high-stepping black cob, who, albeit usually an animal of imperturbable sobriety, had contracted a fatal passion for the chase, which on occasions like the present put him into a state of rebellious excitement that lasted throughout the day, and produced a sad reaction in the stable on the morrow.