Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/320

 . 14, 1831.] fascinating to fishermen’s eyes, and Grovely Woods crowning the high down ridge to the left, and on the right, Salisbury Plain proper, shelving from the high land gently to the road.

Westby arrived at his destination.

“No, Mrs. Wilson was not at home.”

“And Mr. Newton?”

“Out with the harriers,” replied the man, to Westby’s anxious inquiry.

“Where did they meet?”

“Druid’s Head, sir.”

“Is there anything at home that I can ride?”

“Only old Ironsides, sir; but Mr. Newton says he wouldn’t ride him for a hundred pounds.”

“Hum,” muttered Westby, “my ride’s worth more than that. Tell the groom to clap on the saddle. I know the old horse has got some stuff in him yet. By the bye, I expect somebody will be calling presently to see Mr. Newton on particular business; you will say that Mr. Newton is certain to return here directly after the hunting is over. I shall save time if I go round to the stables and get on the downs by the back way. Send me out a mouthful of bread and cheese.”

Up a steep chalk cut from the valley, on to the high ground—it made the old horse blow again! and then a vast surface spreading out for miles in the bright sunshine, a perfectly open country without hedge or ditch, undulated by the deluge waters of pre-Adamite time, covered with turf, and here and there ploughed land, and young corn-crops of emerald green, and dull green patches of swedes, and thinly scattered plantations of dark fir. But overhead! the crowning glory of the land,—a grand hemisphere of sky closing to a low horizon marked by down lines of exquisite curve, or darkly fringed by far distant trees,—masses of dazzling white cloud grandly marching across the bright ether—those cumuli which walk upon the wings of the wind.

I do not say that it is a land for poets to sing, but it is a clean, wholesome land, delicious to London eyes,—a land for drawing a long breath deep down into the lungs,—a glorious draught free from carbon sediment, opening the senses to that feeling of abundant health which pervades every object far and near.

But I cry a truce to all elaborate descriptions of this scene. Your horse begins to feel the fascinating turf, the curb tightens insensibly in the hand, and you are off into a glorious canter long before you have had time for a minute view.

Nevertheless Westby had to pursue a very conservative policy with regard to the old horse.

“Stand still, old gentleman, can’t you? Allow me to look for the hounds.” Westby’s eyes sweep over the country. “There they are!—they’re ‘drawing’ those swedes by the Druid’s Head.” The huntsman’s horse is knee-deep in that green sea which swallows up the hounds. Straining your eyes hard, you can just perceive glancing tips of white which hurry to and fro. Ah! there’s that furthest man waving his cap, the huntsman gallops up, the white tips suddenly converge, and dash on to the turf in an indefinite white mass. It’s too far to hear couplet and chorus. “Steady, old man, steady!” The keen east wind is pouring new life into the old horse. “They’re coming right to us!” What a pretty sight! hounds and horsemen growing nearer life-size every moment, speckling the turf dips with excitement. “Whoa, boy, whoa!” The old horse frets against the curb. “Ah! they’ve lost her in that furze!” Westby will be up with them in a minute or two. It’s too far to distinguish faces, but that’s George Newton, by his big black horse. Strange he should be so far in the rear!

“Hold hard, sir, pray!” shouts the huntsman to Westby, who was making straight for his friend.

Westby, in his eagerness to reach Newton, did not perceive that he had almost ridden over the hunted hare.

Whir! whir! whir! go a large covey from the furze.

By Jove! that lady’s horse, the chesnut, has bolted. No! how well she rides!

Hark! the hounds are singing to their work again.

“I’ll take the fidgets out of you!” cries Westby, giving the old horse his head.

Away they go! down the turf slope, across the Devizes road, up the turf on the other side, right ahead. Newton well up this time—Westby pushing along the old horse at his best speed, in hopes of overtaking his friend.

The east wind rattles against the face, and whips up a tremendous glow, and cuts tears out of the eyes.

“Very pretty!” exclaims Westby, as the lady with the spirited chesnut skims a line of hurdles. “At it, old man!” and he rams his heels, for lack of spurs, into the old horse. “Over! All right!” The old horse recollects his work. But, alas! it won’t do—a deal of fuss and pulling for the first three minutes, and then the old horse begins to sing a hollow tune.

“It’s no use my scampering on at this rate,” thinks Westby, “I shall knock all the wind out of the old fellow;” so he pulls up the old horse into a walk, and watches with disgust the whole “field” sweep away.

By dint of some clever short cuts, and thanks to divers checks and doublings, Westby managed to keep pretty well in sight, but “puss” did not cry “enough” till she had got, with many a twist and turn, to Stonehenge.

In among the old grey stones, as Westby trots up, were steaming horses, and men with hot, contented faces, and eager panting hounds, clustered round the master, who held gallant “puss,” worthy of her fate, in “his red right hand.”

“Here, Gaylass! Gaylass! Beauty!”

“There’s George Newton!” through the interval in the stones, on the other side of the circle. Westby urges forward his horse—he curbs him in the next moment—there’s a lady at Newton’s side. One glance, as she half turns her face—Lilian Temple!

But the old horse was minded to push on, and the reins had fallen loose in Westby’s hands.

“Who’d have thought of seeing you?” exclaimed Newton.

“Karlo Magno!” broke involuntarily from Lilian’s lips.

Ah! the east wind and long gallop had steeped