Market Harborough, and Inside the Bar

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

On the present occasion it was obvious that the day was getting worse. Sheets of mist came driving up the valleys, and wreathing round the crests of the wooded hills; the slight breeze seemed but to bring up fresh relays of vapour, and every visible object, trees, hedges, gates—nay, the very ears of the horses, and whiskers of their riders, were dripping and saturated with moisture. The Master of the Hounds, a thorough sportsman, never to be beaten by a difficulty, announced his intention of waiting whilst any one else remained; but it soon appeared that ere long he would have the field to himself. The Melton gentlemen lost no time in galloping home on their hacks, to while away the hours till dinner-time with a “smoking rubber.” Half-a-dozen yeomen adjourned to a neighbouring farm-house to have what they called “a snack” and drink a goodly allowance of port and sherry in the middle of the day. Even the clerical gentleman, owner of the chestnut ladies’-horse, thought it wouldn’t do; and just as Isaac on the grey turned up at the head of a strong detachment from Harborough, with whom he had fortunately fallen in, after losing his way twice, it was finally decided that the hounds should go home, and the day’s hunting be given up.

Warmed by his ride to covert, and hopeless of finding his way back, except in the same company, Mr. Sawyer lost no time in exchanging The Dandy for the grey. “If we are to lark home,” he thought, “I may as well ride a nag I can trust; but if ever I pin my faith upon one of these thin-booted gentlemen to show me the way again, why, I shall deserve the worst that can happen to me—that’s all!”

Now, although the appearance of a stranger does not create such a sensation in Leicestershire as in more remote countries, yet the Honourable Crasher was so well known, that it was natural some inquiries should be made as to his companion; for the Honourable C., who was thoroughly good-natured, had no sooner fraternised with our friend than he began to consider him in some sort, and in his own off-hand way, as under his especial charge. Mr. Sawyer’s exterior, too, although not extraordinarily prepossessing, was undoubtedly workmanlike. As he settled himself in the grey’s saddle, and altered the stirrups which Isaac could never be persuaded to pull to the same length, the clerical gentleman ranging alongside of the Honourable whispered to the latter:

“Who’s that fellow? Is he staying with you at Harborough?”

The Honourable laughed feebly.

“Don’t know him from Adam,” he replied, as if there could be any connection between the two. “He don’t seem half a bad fellow, though,” he added, “and I shouldn’t wonder if he could ride.”

Now, the clerical gentleman, who was, indeed, no other than the well-known Parson Dove, had struck up a firm alliance with the Honourable Crasher, cemented on both sides by a keen love for fox-hunting, or perhaps I should rather say, for galloping and jumping over a country—the Parson, be it observed, being the best sportsman of the two. On an occasion like the present, he hoped to secure his friend’s company at luncheon, by which stroke of policy he should please Mrs. Dove, who was not unprepared, and also show him a certain four-year-old, by which the Reverend set great store. Nay, it was by no means impossible that the Honourable, who never missed a chance of placing his neck in jeopardy, or the stranger who looked hard, might be induced to buy the animal for purposes of tuition. So he ignored all about Adam, and simply said, “It’s not a quarter of a mile out of your way to stop at the Rectory; indeed, you go by my stableyard. Won’t you and your friend come in and have a glass of sherry and a biscuit?”

Mr. Sawyer was a man who had no objection to a glass of sherry and a biscuit at any time, let alone such a cheerless day as this. The hospitable offer, too, was made in so loud a voice that he could not but accept it as addressed to himself; so he drew his horse back to the speaker, and thanked him for the offer, which he expressed his willingness to accept. The Honourable Crasher perceiving that he had been led into the virtual introduction of a man whose name he didn’t know, put a bold face on the matter, devoutly hoping the patronymic might never be asked, and the three turned in at a hand-gate, and jogged on amicably through the fog, in the direction of the Rectory.

As Mr. Sawyer ran his eye over the person and appointments of his future host, he could not but acknowledge to himself that never, no, never in his life had he seen such a thoroughly workmanlike exterior: from the clean-shaved ruddy face, with its bright-blue eye and close-cropped grey hair, down to the long heavy hunting-spurs, the man was faultless all over. Nobody’s leathers were so well made, so well cleaned, so well put on as Parson Dove’s; and, though he affected brown tops, it is well known that they were such unequalled specimens as to have caused one of his intimate friends who particularly piqued himself on “boots,” to give up all hope, even of imitation, and relapse into “Napoleons” in disgust. Why, the very way he folded his neckcloth was suggestive of Newmarket, and no scarlet coat that was ever turned out by Poole looked so like hunting as that well-cut unassuming black. His open-flapped saddle, his shining stirrup-irons, his heavy double-bridle, were all in keeping with the man himself, and it is needless to state that he was riding a thorough-bred bay, with a pair of fired forelegs, and about the best shoulders you ever saw on a hunter.

All this Mr. Sawyer had time to observe ere they rode into a neatly-bricked stableyard, where they gave their horses to a couple of smart grooms, and followed the owner through the back door, past the cleanest of kitchens and tidiest of sculleries, into the more aristocratic part of the mansion.