Mr. Fortescue by William Westall

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MR. FORTESCUE

An Andean Romance

by

WILLIAM WESTALL

CHAPTER I.

MATCHING GREEN.

A quaint old Essex village of single-storied cottages, some ivy mantled,
with dormer windows, thatched roofs, and miniature gardens, strewed with
picturesque irregularity round as fine a green as you will find in the
county. Its normal condition is rustic peace and sleepy beatitude; and it
pursues the even tenor of its way undisturbed by anything more exciting
than a meeting of the vestry, the parish dinner, the advent of a new
curate, or the exit of one of the fathers of the hamlet.

But this morning the place is all agog, and so transformed that it hardly
knows itself. The entire population, from the oldest gaffer to the
last-born baby, is out-of-doors; the two inns are thronged with guests,
and the road is lined with all sorts and conditions of carriages, from the
four-in-hand of the wealthy swell to the donkey-cart of the local
coster-monger. From every point of the compass are trooping horsemen, some
resplendent in scarlet coats, their nether limbs clothed in immaculate
white breeches and shining top-boots, others in pan hats and brown
leggings; and all in high spirits and eager for the fray; for to-day,
according to old custom, the Essex Hunt hold the first regular meet of the
season on Matching's matchless Green.

The master is already to the fore, and now comes Tom Cuffe, the huntsman,
followed by his hounds, whose sleek skins and bright coats show that they
are "fit to go," and whose eager looks bode ill to the long-tailed
denizens of copse and covert.

It still wants a few minutes to eleven, and the interval is occupied in
the interchange of greetings between old companions of the chase, in
desultory talk about horses and hounds; and while some of the older
votaries of Diana fight their battles o'er again, and describe thrice-told
historic runs, which grow longer with every repetition, others discuss the
prospects of the coming season, and indulge in hopes of which, let us
hope, neither Jack Frost, bad scent, nor accident by flood or field will
mar the fruition.

Nearly all are talking, for there is a feeling of _camaraderie_ in the
hunting-field which dispenses with the formality of introductions, its
frequenters sometimes becoming familiar friends before they have learned
each other's names.

Yet there are exceptions; and one cavalier in particular appears to hold
himself aloof, neither speaking to his neighbors nor mixing in the throng.
As he does not look like a "sulky swell," rendered taciturn by an
overweening sense of his own importance, he is probably either a new
resident in the county or a "stranger from a distance"--which, none whom I
ask seems to know. There is something about this man that especially
attracts my attention; and not mine alone, for I perceive that he is being
curiously regarded by several of my neighbors. His get-up is faultless,
and he sits with the easy grace of a practiced horseman an animal of
exceptional symmetry and strength. His well-knit figure is slim and almost
youthful, and he holds himself as erect on his saddle as a dragoon on
parade. But his closely cropped hair is turning gray, and his face that of
a man far advanced in the fifties, if not past sixty. And a striking face
it is--long and oval, with a straight nose and fine nostrils, a broad
forehead, and a firm, resolute mouth. His complexion, though it bears
traces of age, is clear, healthy, and deeply bronzed. Save for a heavy
gray mustache, he is clean shaved; his dark, keenly observant eyes are
overshadowed by black and all but straight brows, terminating in two
little tufts, which give his countenance a strange and, as some might
think, an almost sardonic expression. Altogether, it strikes me as being
the face of a cynical yet not ill-natured or malicious Mephistopheles.

Behind him are two grooms in livery, nearly as well mounted as himself,
and, greatly to my surprise, he is presently joined by Jim Rawlings, who
last season held the post of first whipper-in.

What manner of man is this who brings out four horses on the same day, and
what does he want with them all? Such horses, too! There is not one of
them that has not the look of a two hundred-guinea hunter.

I was about to put the question to Keyworth, the hunt secretary, who had
just come within speaking distance, and was likely to know if anybody did,
when the master gave the signal for a move, and huntsman and hounds,
followed by the entire field, went off at a sharp trot.

We had a rather long ride to covert, but a quick find, a fox being viewed
away almost as soon as the hounds began to draw. It was a fast thing while
it lasted, but, unfortunately, it did not last long; for, after a twenty
minutes' gallop, the hounds threw up their heads, and cast as Cuffe might,
he was unable to recover the line.

The country we had gone over was difficult and dangerous, full of blind
fences and yawning ditches, deep enough and wide enough to swallow up any
horse and his rider who might fail to clear them. Fortunately, however, I
escaped disaster, and for the greater part of the run I was close to the
gentleman with the Mephistophelian face and Tom Rawlings, who acted as his
pilot. Tom rode well, of course--it was his business--but no better than
his master, whose horse, besides being a big jumper, was as clever as a
cat, flying the ditches like a bird, and clearing the blindest fences
without making a single mistake.

After the first run we drew two coverts blank, but eventually found a
second fox, which gave us a slow hunting run of about an hour, interrupted
by several checks, and saved his brush by taking refuge in an unstopped
earth.

By this time it was nearly three o'clock, and being a long way from home,
and thinking no more good would be done, I deemed it expedient to leave
off. I went away as Mephistopheles and his man were mounting their second
horses, which had just been brought up by the two grooms in livery.

My way lay by Matching Green, and as I stopped at the village inn to
refresh my horse with a pail of gruel and myself with a glass of ale, who
should come up but old Tawney, Tom Cuffe's second horseman! Besides being
an adept at his calling, familiar with every cross-road and almost every
field in the county, he knew nearly as well as a hunted fox himself which
way the creature meant to run. Tawney was a great gossip, and quite a mine
of curious information about things equine and human--especially about
things equine. Here was a chance not to be neglected of learning something
about Mephistopheles; so after warming Tawney's heart and opening his lips
with a glass of hot whiskey punch, I began:

"You've got a new first whip, I see."

"Yes, sir, name of Cobbe--Paul Cobbe. He comes from the Berkshire country,
he do, sir."

"But how is it that Rawlings has left? and who is that gentleman he was
with to-day?"

"What! haven't you heard!" exclaimed Tawney, as surprised at my ignorance
as if I had asked him the name of the reigning sovereign.

"I have not heard, which, seeing that I spent the greater part of the
summer at sea and returned only the other day, is perhaps not greatly to
be wondered at."

"Well, the gentleman as Rawlings has gone to and as he was with to-day is
Mr. Fortescue; him as has taken Kingscote."

Kingscote was a country-house of no extraordinary size, but with so large
a park and gardens, conservatories and stables so extensive as to render
its keeping up very costly; and the owner or mortgagee, I know not which,
had for several years been vainly trying to let it at a nominal rent.

"He must be rich, then. Kingscote will want a lot of keeping up."

"Rich is not the word, sir. He has more money than he knows what to do
with. Why, he has twenty horses now, and is building loose-boxes for ten
more, and he won't look at one under a hundred pounds. Rawlings has got a
fine place, he has that."

"I am surprised he should have left the kennels, though. He loses his
chance of ever becoming huntsman."

"He is as good as that now, sir. He had a present of fifty pounds to start
with, gets as many shillings a week and all found, and has the entire
management of the stables, and with a gentleman like Mr. Fortescue
there'll be some nice pickings."

"Very likely. But why does Mr. Fortescue want a pilot? He rides well, and
his horses seem to know their business."

"He won't have any as doesn't. Yes, he rides uncommon well for an aged
man, does Mr. Fortescue. I suppose he wants somebody to show him the way
and keep him from getting ridden over. It isn't nice to get ridden over
when you're getting into years."

"It isn't nice whether you are getting into years or not. But you cannot
call Mr. Fortescue an old man."

"You cannot call him a young 'un. He has a good many gray hairs, and them
puckers under his eyes hasn't come in a day. But he has a young heart, I
will say that for him. Did you see how he did that 'double' as pounded
half the field?"

"Yes, it was a very sporting jump. But who is Mr. Fortescue, and where
does he come from?"

"That is what nobody seems to know. Mr. Keyworth--he was at the kennels
only yesterday--asked me the very same question. He thought Jim Rawlings
might ha' told me something. But bless you, Jim knows no more than anybody
else. All as he can tell is as Mr. Fortescue sometimes goes to London,
that he is uncommon fond of hosses, and either rides or drives tandem
nearly every day, and has ordered a slap-up four-in-hand drag. And he has
got a 'boratory and no end o' chemicals and stuff, and electric machines,
and all sorts o' gimcracks."

"Is there a Mrs. Fortescue?"

"Not as I knows on. There is not a woman in the house, except servants."

"Who looks after things, then?"

"Well, there's a housekeeper. But the head bottle-washer is a chap they
call major-domo--a German he is. He looks after everything, and an
uncommon sharp domo he is, too, Jim says. Nobody can do him a penny piece.
And then there is Mr. Fortescue's body-servant; he's a dark man, with a
big scar on one cheek, and rings in his ears. They call him Rumun."

"Nonsense! There's no such name as Rumun."

"That's what I told Jim. He said it was a rum 'un, but his name was Rumun,
and no mistake."

"Dark, and rings in his ears! The man is probably a Spaniard. You mean
Ramon."

"No, I don't; I mean Rumun," returned Tawney, doggedly. "I thought it was
an uncommon rum name, and I asked Jim twice--he calls at the kennels
sometimes--I asked him twice, and he said he was cock sure it was Rumun."

"Rumun let it be then. Altogether, this Mr. Fortescue seems to be rather a
mysterious personage."

"You are right there, Mr. Bacon, he is. I only wish I was half as
mysterious. Why, he must be worth thousands upon thousands. And he spends
his money like a gentleman, he does--thinks less of a sovereign than you
think of a bob. He sent Mr. Keyworth a hundred pounds for his hunt
subscription, and said if they were any ways short at the end of the
season they had only to tell him and he would send as much more."

Having now got all the information out of Tawney he was able to give me, I
stood him another whiskey, and after lighting a cigar I mounted my horse
and jogged slowly homeward, thinking much about Mr. Fortescue, and
wondering who he could be. The study of physiognomy is one of my fads, and
his face had deeply impressed me; in great wealth, moreover, there is
always something that strikes the imagination, and this man was evidently
very rich, and the mystery that surrounded him piqued my curiosity.

CHAPTER II.

TICKLE-ME-QUICK.

Being naturally of a retiring disposition, and in no sense the hero of the
tale which I am about to tell, I shall say no more concerning myself than
is absolutely necessary. At the same time, it is essential to a right
comprehension of what follows that I say something about myself, and
better that I should say it now than interrupt the even flow of my
narrative later on.

My name is Geoffrey Bacon, and I have reason to believe that I was born at
a place in Essex called (appropriately enough) Dedham. My family is one of
the oldest in the county, and (of course) highly respectable; but as the
question is often put to me by friends, and will naturally suggest itself
to my readers, I may as well observe, once for all, that I am _not_ a
descendent of the Lord Keeper Bacon, albeit, if he had had any children, I
have no doubt I should have been.

My poor mother died in giving me birth; my father followed her when I was
ten years old, leaving me with his blessing (nothing else), to the care of
his aunt, Miss Ophelia Bacon, by whom I was brought up and educated. She
was very good to me, but though I was far from being intentionally
ungrateful, I fear that I did not repay her goodness as it deserved. The
dear old lady had made up her mind that I should be a doctor, and though I
would rather have been a farmer or a country gentleman (the latter for
choice), I made no objection; and so long as I remained at school she had
no reason to complain of my conduct. I satisfied my masters and passed my
preliminary examination creditably and without difficulty, to my aunt's
great delight. She protested that she was proud of me, and rewarded my
diligence and cleverness with a five-pound note. But after I became a
student at Guy's I gave her much trouble, and got myself into some sad
scrapes. I spent her present, and something more, in hiring mounts, for I
was passionately fond of riding, especially to hounds, and ran into debt
with a neighboring livery-stable keeper to the tune of twenty pounds. I
would sometimes borrow the greengrocer's pony, for I was not particular
what I rode, so long as it had four legs. When I could obtain a mount
neither for love nor on credit, I went after the harriers on foot. The
result, as touching my health and growth, was all that could be desired.
As touching my studies, however, it was less satisfactory. I was spun
twice, both in my anatomy and physiology. Miss Ophelia, though sorely
grieved, was very indulgent, and had she lived, I am afraid that I should
never have got my diploma. But when I was twenty-one and she seventy-five,
my dear aunt died, leaving me all her property (which made an income of
about four hundred a year), with the proviso that unless, within three
years of her death, I obtained the double qualification, the whole of her
estate was to pass to Guy's Hospital. In the mean time the trustees were
empowered to make me an allowance of two guineas a week and defray all my
hospital expenses.

On this, partly because I was loath to lose so goodly a heritage, partly,
I hope, from worthier motives, I buckled-to in real earnest, and before I
was four-and-twenty I could write after my name the much coveted capitals
M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P. All this while I had not once crossed a horse or looked
at a hound, yet the ruling passion was still strong, and being very much
of Mr. Jorrock's opinion that all time not spent in hunting is lost, I
resolved, before "settling down" or taking up any position which might be
incompatible with indulgence in my favorite amusement, to devote a few
years of my life to fox-hunting. At twenty-four a man does not give much
thought to the future--at any rate I did not.

The next question was how to hunt three or four days a week on four
hundred a year, for though I was quite willing to spend my income, I was
resolved not to touch my capital. To begin with, I sold my aunt's cottage
and furniture and took a couple of rooms for the winter at Red Chimneys, a
roomy farm-house in the neighborhood of Treydon. Then, acting on the great
principle of co-operation, I joined at horse-keeping with my good friend
and old school-fellow, Bertie Alston, a London solicitor. Being both of us
light-weights, we could mount ourselves cheaply; the average cost of our
stud of four horses did not exceed forty pounds apiece. Moreover, when
opportunities offered, we did not disdain to turn an honest penny by
buying an animal cheap and selling him dear, and as I looked after things
myself, bought my own forage, and saw that I had full measure, our stable
expenses were kept within moderate limits. Except when the weather was
bad, or a horse _hors de combat_, I generally contrived to get four days'
hunting a week--three with the fox-hounds and one with Mr. Vigne's
harriers--for, owing to his professional engagements, Alston could not go
out as often as I did. But as I took all the trouble and responsibility,
it was only fair that I should have the lion's share of the riding.

At the end of the season we either sold the horses off or turned them into
a straw-yard, and I went to sea as ship's surgeon. In this capacity I made
voyages to Australia, to the Cape, and to the West Indies; and the summer
before I first saw Mr. Fortescue I had been to the Arctic Ocean in a
whaler. True, the pay did not amount to much, but it found me in
pocket-money and clothes, and I saved my keep.

Having now, as I hope, done with digressions and placed myself _en
rapport_ with my readers, I will return to the principal personage of my
story.

The next time I met Mr. Fortescue was at Harlow Bush. He was quite as well
mounted as before, and accompanied, as usual, by Rawlings and two grooms
with their second horses. On this occasion Mr. Fortescue did not hold
himself nearly so much aloof as he had done at Matching Green, perhaps
because he was more noticed; and he was doubtless more noticed because the
fame of his wealth and the lavish use he made of it were becoming more
widely known. The master gave him a friendly nod and a gracious smile, and
expressed a hope that we should have good sport; the secretary engaged him
in a lively conversation; the hunt servants touched their caps to him with
profound respect, and he received greetings from most of the swells.

We drew Latton, found in a few minutes, and had a "real good thing," a
grand run of nearly two hours, with only one or two trifling checks,
which, as I am not writing a hunting story, I need not describe any
further than to remark that we had plenty of fencing, a good deal of hard
galloping, a kill in the open, and that of the sixty or seventy who were
present at the start only about a score were up at the finish. Among the
fortunate few were Mr. Fortescue and his pilot. During the latter part of
the run we rode side by side, and pulled up at the same instant, just as
the fox was rolled over.

"A very fine run," I took the liberty to observe, as I stepped from my
saddle and slackened my horse's girths. "It will be a long time before we
have a better."

"Two hours and two minutes," shouted the secretary, looking at his watch,
"and straight. We are in the heart of the Puckeridge country."

"Yes," said Mr. Fortescue, quietly, "it was a very enjoyable run. You like
hunting, I think?"

"Like it! I should rather think I do. I regard fox-hunting as the very
prince of sports. It is manly, health-giving, and exhilarating. There is
no sport in which so many participate and so heartily enjoy. We enjoy it,
the horses enjoy it, and the hounds enjoy it."

"How about the fox?"

"Oh, the fox! Well, the fox is allowed to exist on condition of being
occasionally hunted. If there were no hunting there would be no foxes. On
the whole, I regard him as a fortunate and rather pampered individual; and
I have even heard it said that he rather likes being hunted than
otherwise."

"As for the general question, I dare say you are right. But I don't think
the fox likes it much. It once happened to me to be hunted, and I know I
did not like it."

This was rather startling, and had Mr. Fortescue spoken less gravely and
not been so obviously in earnest, I should have thought he was joking.

"You don't mean--Was it a paper-chase?" I said, rather foolishly.

"No; it was not a paper-chase," he answered, grimly. "There were no
paper-chases in my time. I mean that I was once hunted, just as we have
been hunting that fox."

"With a pack of hounds?"

"Yes, with a pack of hounds."

I was about to ask what sort of a chase it was, and how and where he was
hunted, when Cuffe came up, and, on behalf of the master, offered Mr.
Fortescue the brush.

"Thank you," said Mr. Fortescue, taking the brush and handing it to
Rawlings. "Here is something for you"--tipping the huntsman a sovereign,
which he put in his pocket with a "Thank you kindly, sir," and a gratified
smile.

And then flasks were uncorked, sandwich-cases opened, cigars lighted, and
the conversation becoming general, I had no other opportunity--at that
time--of making further inquiry of Mr. Fortescue touching the singular
episode in his career which he had just mentioned. A few minutes later a
move was made for our own country, and as we were jogging along I found
myself near Jim Rawlings.

"That's a fresh hoss you've got, I think, sir," he said.

"Yes, I have ridden him two or three times with the harriers; but this is
the first time I have had him out with fox-hounds."

"He carried you very well in the run, sir."

"You are quite right; he did. Very well."

"Does he lay hold on you at all, Mr. Bacon?"

"Not a bit."

"Light in the mouth, a clever jumper, and a free goer."

"All three."

"Yes, he's the right sort, he is, sir; and if ever you feel disposed to
sell him, I could, may be, find you a customer."

Accepting this as a delicate intimation that Mr. Fortescue had taken a
fancy to the horse and would like to buy him, I told Jim that I was quite
willing to sell at a fair price.

"And what might you consider a fair price, if it is a fair question?"
asked the man.

"A hundred guineas," I answered; for, as I knew that Mr. Fortescue would
not "look at a horse," as Tawney put it, under that figure, it would have
been useless to ask less.

"Very well, sir. I will speak to my master, and let you know."

Ranger, as I called the horse, was a purchase of Alston's. Liking his
looks (though Bertie was really a very indifferent judge), he had bought
him out of a hansom-cab for forty pounds, and after a little "schooling,"
the creature took to jumping as naturally as a duck takes to water. Sixty
pounds may seem rather an unconscionable profit, but considering that
Ranger was quite sound and up to weight, I don't think a hundred guineas
was too much. A dealer would have asked a hundred and fifty.

At any rate, Mr. Fortescue did not think it too much, for Rawlings
presently brought me word that his master would take the horse at the
price I had named, if I could warrant him sound.

"In that case it is a bargain," I said, "for I can warrant him sound."

"All right, sir. I'll send one of the grooms over to your place for him
to-morrow."

Shortly afterward I fell in with Keyworth, and as a matter of course we
talked about Mr. Fortescue.

"Do you know anything about him?" I asked.

"Not much. I believe he is rich--and respectable."

"That is pretty evident, I think."

"I am not sure. A man who spends a good deal of money is presumably rich;
but it by no means follows that he is respectable. There are such people
in the world as successful rogues and wealthy swindlers. Not that I think
Mr. Fortescue is either one or the other. I learned, from the check he
sent me for his subscription, who his bankers are, and through a friend of
mine, who is intimate with one of the directors, I got a confidential
report about him. It does not amount to much; but it is satisfactory so
far as it goes. They say he is a man of large fortune, and, as they
believe, highly respectable."

"Is that all?"

"All there was in the report. But Tomlinson--that's my friend--has heard
that he has spent the greater part of his life abroad, and that he made
his money in South America."

The mention of South America interested me, for I had made voyages both to
Rio de Janeiro and several places on the Spanish Main.

"South America is rather vague," I observed. "You might almost as well say
'Southern Asia.' Have you any idea in what part of it?"

"Not the least. I have told you all I know. I should be glad to know more;
but for the present it is quite enough for my purpose. I intend to call
upon Mr. Fortescue."

It is hardly necessary to say that I had no such intention, for having
neither a "position in the county," as the phrase goes, a house of my own,
nor any official connection with the hunt, a call from me would probably
have been regarded, and rightly so, as a piece of presumption. As it
happened, however, I not only called on Mr. Fortescue before the
secretary, but became his guest, greatly to my surprise, and, I have no
doubt, to his, although he was the indirect cause; for had he not bought
Ranger, it is very unlikely that I should have become an inmate of his
house.

It came about in this way. Bertie was so pleased with the result of his
first speculation in horseflesh (though so far as he was concerned it was
a pure fluke) that he must needs make another. If he had picked up a
second cab-horse at thirty or forty pounds he could not have gone far
wrong; but instead of that he must needs go to Tattersall's and give
nearly fifty for a blood mare rejoicing in the name of "Tickle-me-Quick,"
described as being "the property of a gentleman," and said to have won
several country steeple-chases.

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