CHAPTER LXXII

HASSOCKS HEATH HILL

WHEN Mr. Jovey Jessop heard of Mr. Bunting’s misfortune with his horses, he pitied him exceedingly, for thinking of nothing but hunting himself, it never occurred to him that a man could come into the country for anything else. It was such a thing for Mr. Bunting he said, to lose the best of the season, all through a damp stable, and though rather short of horses himself, Jovey determined to see if he could not give him a mount. So he took the Jug a stroll round the stables after breakfast, and upon hearing the report of Mr. Rowel the groom, how Lapwing was lame, and Lady Jane off her feed, and the Squirrel not fit to go, Mr. Jessop finally fixed that the Bold Pioneer should have the honour of carrying the distinguished stranger. That point settled, Jovey presently put the Jug into the dog-cart and drove him rapidly over to Burton St. Leger. Arrived there he left him to enjoy the society of Sore-eyed Sam at the Lord Cornwallis Inn door, and followed his card upstairs into Mr. Bunting’s apartment. After a few common places about the weather, the roads, and the state of the country—the hunting, not the political state—Jovey broached the subject of our hero’s horses, which he was sorry to hear had caught cold on the road, and concluded by saying, that he would be glad if Mr. Bunting would allow him to send one to Hassocks Heath Hill, which, he said, was one of their best meets, and where, he thought, they would find a wild fox, and he concluded the overture by saying that he hoped Mr. Bunting would dine and stay all night at Appleford Hall after hunting. To an out-and-out sportsman, nothing could be handsomer or more inviting, and though a less vigorous programme would have suited our friend quite as well, he could not say “nay” to the offer.

So it was settled that there should be a horse at Hassocks Heath Hill, and our master of hounds declining our hero’s offer of refreshment (though the Jug had a glass of whiskey) presently took his departure, and jumping into his dog-cart, drove rapidly away with the Jug, to the surprise of Sore-eyed Sam, who had not time to enquire who was to pay for the “glass.” Hassocks Heath was a popular meet as well for Mr. Jessop’s hounds as the Duke of Tergiversation’s men, to whose country it more properly belonged; but the Duke not caring to go long distances from home, had arranged to let Jovey Jessop draw all his out-lying covers on condition that he came whenever he required him, which enabled his Grace to talk of Mr. Jessop as a sort of appendage to the Castle—sometimes even going the length of saying that Jovey’s hounds were his Grace’s, only he didn’t like to be thought so desperately keen as to keep two packs.

That style of thing, however, only does for the wholly uninitiated, for of all the undesirable false pretences that men can indulge in, there is none so self-punishing as that of pretending to like hunting when they don’t. The parties impose upon no one but themselves.

The Prince Pirouetteza, however, was just the sort of person with whom to turn Mr. Jessop to account, and though His Highness had got far more bumping than he liked on the Holly Bush Inn day, and would much have preferred staying at home singing and playing his guitar to the ladies, yet the Duke was peremptory in his commands for him to go and see his “other hounds” at Hassocks Heath. “Must go and see my other hounds at Hassocks Heath.” So hunters were ordered, carriage horses were ordered, breakfast was ordered, at twenty minutes past eight to a minute, and the Duke having given all these orders and impressed the importance of punctuality on every one, went to bed at his wonted hour, and never thought more of the matter. What was the use of giving Jessop the covers if he didn’t get something from him in return, thought he. Besides, the great star should never appear upon the stage till the proper time of the evening. Nothing like making people wait for giving them a due sense of one’s importance, thought the Duke. Mr. Jessop on the other hand, was punctuality itself. Ten-thirty, to a minute was his hour, and as sure as people’s watches got to within five minutes of that time, Mr. Jessop’s hat would be seen bobbing above the neighbouring hedges, or the dog-cart, with the Jug and himself jolting to cover together, would be heard grinding and scattering the newly-laid stones on the converging road. Mr. Jessop wishing to keep his Jug as much for his own domestic purposes as possible, and not approving either of the glassings of public houses, or the hospitalities of private ones, always made his meets at out-of-the-way places, milestones, finger-posts, stone pits, bridges, &c., places where there was little or no chance of getting drink.

Thus he kept his Jug empty for the evening. Neither did Mr. Jessop encourage the attendance of the fair. Though a highly gallant gentleman when in his black pantaloons, he always declared that he never wished to see ladies out with his hounds. That hunting was dangerous enough for the men, and the ladies looked far better in their drawing-rooms, with nicely done-up fires waiting for the coming home of the gentlemen in the evening, than tearing across country with their hair over their shoulders, and their faces running down with perspiration. And though the cat-faced Miss Sowerbys did sneer and turn up their pug noses at the idea of anybody marrying “a mere fox-hunter,” yet as Mr. Jessop was fresh and good-looking, there were plenty of young ladies who would be glad to relieve the old Jug from his arduous office of Comptroller of the hospitalities of Appleton Hall.

Now, for our particular fox-hunting meet. Hassocks Heath, unlike some heaths which grow corn, grass, tares, turnips, anything but heather, is still a heath; wild, spacious, sporting and wet. On parts of it a man can career as if on a race-course, while in others he may blob up to his horse’s tail in a bog. It seems to be a sort of sanctuary for game: foxes use its straggling gorses, the black-faced sheep seem almost as wild as the foxes, hares and rabbits scuttle among its browning fern, and ripening ling; snipes haunt its rushy rills, partridges bask on its sunny slopes, while the co-beck, co-beck, co-beck, of the startled grouse, gives a finished wildness to the whole. There is nothing Leadenhallish or £ s. d.-ish about Hassocks Heath. It would not do for Mr. Jessop if there was. The very road is spacious and open at the sides, leaving a traveller the choice of divergence as he prefers hard or soft. The land rises and falls in wavy sinuous hills, whose gentle dips and bends only reveal other hills beyond. Such were the general features of the dun and purple moors of Hassocks Heath—a favourite meet of Mr. Jessop’s hounds.

If the man who plants a tree is entitled to be considered a public benefactor, assuredly the man who planted the clump on the rising ground in the middle of Hassocks Heath ought to be red-lettered in the almanac as a patriot, for it serves as a landmark to all the country round, to tinkers, muggers, pic-nick-ers, fox-hunters, shooters, farmers, and wayfarers of all sorts. The Hill at Hassocks Heath is the site of a lamb, a sheep, a cow, and a horse-fair—a sort of central rendezvous from all parts; and though certain white-headed frieze-coated farmers can “mind” when the Scotch firs were more numerous, none of them can ever remember the trees being any smaller. There they stand, at wide intervals, on the gravelly hill with plenty of room for their stagheaded tops to spread and afford shelter alike from the scorching sun, and the driving storm. The well-trodden dun-coloured grass around shows by the pole and pegholes, the clippings of tin, the shaving of sticks, and the ashes of fires, the varied purposes to which the place is applied. Now it is going to be used as the opening scene in the great British drama called the fox-hunt—in which every man can take a part without note or invitation. First to arrive on this auspicious day were a group of pedestrians; Jacky Bray, the gigantic quoitplaying blacksmith of Lockerby Ford, who has walked fifteen miles; Tom Cooper the gentleman, in a cat-skin cap, with blue glass buttons on a faded red-plush vest, who lives nobody exactly knows how, but whose bulging calves show little symptoms of want; Nat Skittles the pedestrian whistler, who can do anything but work; Jim Savage the horsebreaker, who is only half broke himself; Ned Willowford the travelling basket-maker of anywhere, and two or three smock-frocked shepherds and countrymen, who have each forfeited a day’s work to be present. Their beaming faces, however, show they expect plenty of fun for their money. If they do but see the Squire’s dogs find, they’ll be quite content.

“Aye, they are good dogs,” they say, and so they out with their pipes, and squat on the gravelly ground to enjoy a smoke, discuss their merits—eulogising such hounds as they have the pleasure of knowing by sight. The next change in the scene is the arrival of the horses, mostly fine handsome well-conditioned animals who know as well what they are going to do as the grooms who bestride them. Most of these men are got up for the occasion, smart ties, smart coats, smart boots, smart everything—for there are gentlemen who would rather not hunt at all than not turn out in other than what they consider tip-top style. This, of course, varies with the taste of each master, so here we have laced hats, plain hats, cockaded hats, light coats, dark coats, chestnut tops, red tops, pink tops, and nearly black tops. There is as much affectation about tops as there is about pipes, each man thinking to have his pipe or his tops blacker than his neighbours.

The difference between a show and a sporting pack now begins to be apparent, the horses and servants of the men of the Duke’s hunt contrasting badly with the neat quiet equipments of those belonging to Mr. Jessop’s. The finely-shaped flea-bitten grey horse and the bright bay, in charge of the knowing-looking little fellow in the black frock-coat, striped vest, and Bedford cords, are our master’s own, his first and second horses, for he hunts the hounds himself, and always has two out. The diminutive genius in charge of them may be any age, any age at least, save young, for he was no boy when Mr. Jessop took him, and he has been with him many years. His name is Mark; he most likely has another, but it has long been lost from disuse, at least nobody would know him if he was called by it—while as “Mark” he is everybody’s acquaintance; follow “Mark,” is the order to all the second horsemen. “Where’s Mark!” is the cry when the hounds come to check, “let Mark have a run at it!” is the proposal when the leap is larger than people like, and they want it reduced. Nature meant Mark for a horseman, and it was lucky he hit upon hunting, or he might have been silk instead of scarlet, fluttering on a race-course instead of careering across country.

The slouching-looking clown following Mark, in the unbrushed hat, shaggy head, careless tie, and drab coat turned up with grease, riding the iron-marked chestnut with the white face and legs, is the Jug’s lad, Button, whose Christian name being Tom, of course they call him “Billy” and the led horse; a grand-looking grey— is the Bold Pioneer, one of our master’s own horses, now for Mr. Bunting’s riding. Whatever Mr. Jessop did, he always did well, a mount being a mount with him, and not an animal that could only go a few fields.

Scarcely has Mark brushed away the mud-specks, and rectified the little derangements of the road, greeted his acquaintance, and made a general survey of the scene, ere the hounds heave in sight, lobbing along in a longdrawn file on either side of the road, in the careless indifferent sort of way fox-hounds travel to cover. There are only a couple of scarlet coated men with them, Horneyman the first whip, who would be huntsman if his master ever gave him a chance by being away, and “Michael,” who, like Mark, most likely has some other name, if one did but know it.

Horneyman is a slight, slim, middle-aged man, while Michael is a little, short-legged, roundabout fellow, who sits like a sack, and looks as though he might be rolled about anywhere without hurting. And many rolls, and bumps, and thumps he gets in the course of the season, for he has no notion of turning, and has many a rough line to fight for himself. Lord Marchhare has been known to make a special expedition into the vale for the sole purpose of having a cram across country with Mr. Jessop’s men, old Halth and Contantment never indulging his lordship’s taste that way.

The gay cavalcade approaches, and now a gentle rate from Horneyman stops old Gidan, who as usual is well in advance of the pack, and all at once the head recedes, the tail advances, and twenty couple of great lashing fox-hounds arrive in a solid mass instead of in the loose straggling lines in which they had been travelling. Gladstone now throws his tongue joyfully as if to announce their arrival, and Chorister takes up the note with redoubled vigour.

“Ge-n-tly, old Noisy,” says Horneyman, with a smile and a shake of his head, and Chorister, knowing the reproof is all moonshine, makes another proclamation, louder, if possible, than before.

Horneyman then, turning off the road, takes up a position on the deserted Aunt Sally ground, a little on the left of the hill, where on the comfortable flat the hounds have ample space to roll and refresh themselves. The foot people now gather round criticising and identifying their favourites, and making the acquaintance of those they had not seen before. Horneyman then looks at his watch, and giving the exact time,—twenty minutes past ten,—a general drawing out of watches ensues, whose time is as various as their make, the Lockerby blacksmith’s hour being noon, Cooper, the gentleman with the calves, eleven, Skittles’s ten, Willowford’s nine, and Savage’s a little after seven. The shepherds and countrymen who go by the sun expressing their opinion that Horneyman’s watch will be right, the rest set theirs by it, and fresh reinforcements of horse and foot arriving, a large ring is now formed, hounds, Horneyman, and Michael inside, foot people in front, grooms and second horsemen hovering around.