Reuben and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sir Peter and his groom were on their way
To Foxdale Castle, there to spend the day,
Perhaps the morrow also, if they found
The dogs in fettle and the sport abound.

They rode along in silence. When not quite
A mile upon their way, the thoughtful Knight
Pulled up his horse, and, turning to his man,
“Ride back,” he said, “as smartly as you can,
And tell my lady that she's not to speak
To Binns the butler, when I am from home,
Not even if I tarry for a week;
Be off, and I'll ride slowly till you come.”

Now as the groom rides back, it may be told,
That while Sir Peter was both gray and old,
Her ladyship was in her blooming prime—
'Twas Hebe in the hoary arms of Time.
The butler, too, to make the matter worse,
Was pleasing to the eye, and young of course.
But that Sir Peter had the slightest cause
For jealousy, 'twere wrong even to suppose.

As up the avenue he rode, the groom
Espied the lady in the drawing-room,
At open window, with the gauze withdrawn,
And just one step between her and the lawn.

167

She stood enrapt within a new romance,
But startled by the groom's abrupt advance,
She in sweet consternation dropt the book,
And cast on him a fine, defiant look.
“Fellow, what brings you back? What seek you here?
Get to your stables! Is Sir Peter near?”

“No, madam; but he sends me back to say—
And, first, your pardon I would beg and pray,
For I am but the instrument, the horn
Through which Sir Peter's warning note is borne.”

“Quick, quick,” she cried, what need of this delay?
Sir Peter's horse has fallen, you would say,
And dash'd Sir Peter's head against a stone,
Broken his limbs, his ribs, his collar-bone;
Or horse and rider headlong in a ditch!
Speak, fellow, speak this instant! tell me which.”

“Fear nothing, madam, he is safe and well,
And, with your pardon, I have but to tell
The message that to me he did confide,
Which is, ‘That you on no account must ride
On the Newfoundland dog!’”

With that he spurr'd
His steed, and left without another word;
As if he could not venture to engage
The dreaded onset of my lady's rage.
For rage she did, and storm'd at dogs and men;
And, like a pretty panther in its den,

168

Pac'd to and fro across the drawing room,
Railing at old Sir Peter and his groom:—
“Newfoundland dog!” she cried, “the dotard fool!
Am I a child? a girl let loose from school?
I must not ride on the Newfoundland dog!
Who wanted to? Sir Peter, O Sir P!
Your brains are in a muddle, in a fog,
Your reason stranded, and your wits at sea.”

Then, 'mid the scented breezes of her fan,
And with the prettiest laugh that ever ran
The gamut of hysteria, she took
Her seat, and tried to settle at her book;
The words she read, but knew not what she read,—
Sir Peter's paltry message came instead;
And as she threw the fruitless book aside,
Behold, the dog, in all his strength and pride,
Came bouncing o'er the lawn. “Ah, ha, my steed!
I must not ride upon you! no, indeed!
Sir Peter says I must not,—but I will.
Come in, good dog. There, now, be still, be still.
If he can bear me, what a jolly thing,
To turn this room into a circus ring!
Now then, my Shetland; steady, Neptune, steady!
Sir Peter, hem! your most obedient lady!
Bravo, brave dog, thus round and round we go,
Whether Sir Peter like the pace or no.
Yo ho! yo ho! how nice, how jolly nice!
Thanks, good Sir Peter, for your good advice.”

But here bold Neptune, in his circling sweep,
Over a footstool made a sudden leap,

169

And though she rode as do the masculine gender,
He pitch'd her, heels o'er head, inside the fender,
And left her, as they say, all in a heap.
The maids and footman, summon'd by the crash
Of tongs and shovel, burst upon the scene.
They found her swooning, bleeding, and between
Her nose and jewell'd ear a frightful gash.
Some call'd for water, and some call'd for wine,
Rags, balsam, bandages, and anodyne:
They marvell'd how it happen'd, and agreed
The shovel or the grate had done the deed.
But soon her pale lips show'd returning bloom,
And whisper'd, as they bore her from the room,
“Bravo, my Shetland! quicker, quicker, there!
Now stop us, poor Sir Peter, if you dare.”

A messenger to Foxdale Castle sent
Inform'd Sir Peter of the accident,
Just as the dogs were ready for the fray,
And all gave promise of a glorious day.
His heart was braced to join the clanging pack,
But duty and affection held him back.
“Homeward, my men!” And as they homeward bent,
He question'd much about the sad event;
But all the breathless messenger could tell
Was, that some sort of accident befell
Her ladyship soon after he had gone,
Its nature, how, and wherefore, all unknown.
“We found her in a swoon; I saw her bleed.”
At hearing which Sir Peter mends his speed;
The sudden fire leaps from his horse's heels,
The road-side trees fly past, the landscape reels.

170

Nor breaks his pace until he halts to wait
The drowsy porter coming to the gate.
And, in a breath, dismounting at the hall,
He seeks his lady's room, boots, whip and all.

“Let him not enter!” cried a voice inside;
And when Sir Peter finds himself denied,
He turns in anger to the maids, who tell
All how their lady's sad mishap befell,
And how it was a shame, a cruel shame
That gentlemen could find no better game.
If they had husbands, they would let them know
Them and their grooms and messages—

“Go, go,”
Sir Peter cried, and left their loosen'd tongues,
In rising clamour about woman's wrongs.
He reason'd with himself, “I cannot see
How this Newfoundland accident can be
Connected with the message that I sent.
The butler's name through all the strange event
Never appears;—but stay,—does that not add
Suspicion to a case already bad?
It does, it does; I've been befool'd, 'tis clear:
His absence from this female clamour here,
And my exclusion from my lady's room—
What mean they but—Ah, come, my trusty groom,
And help me to unwind this ravell'd clue.
The very thing we told her not to do,
She's done,—but find the butler, bring him here.”

“My master, I have been to get my beer,

171

After this hot ride home, and him I found
Drunk in the cellar, snoring on the ground.”

“'Tis well, my man; I'd rather have him there,
Drunk as he may be, than some other where.
Why, he's an honest fellow, after all—
No way connected with these women's squall.
But what about this drawing-room ado—
My lady's fiction?”

“Sir, I fear it's true,
E'en to the rumour'd wound upon her cheek.
Your orders were, ‘That she was not to speak
To Binns, the butler;’ but for once I lied;
I said your orders were, ‘She must not ride
On the Newfoundland dog,’ and tho' I knew
It was the likeliest thing that she would do,
I did not think 'twould end as it has ended.
Forgive me, sir, 'twas Duty that offended.”

“Forgive you, groom of grooms and sage of sages!
You are forgiven, and I'll raise your wages;
For you have rid my bosom of its thorns,
And saved me from a noble head of horns.—
I'm sorry for my lady; but her case
Is curable. A scratch upon the face
Is not so bad, e'en tho' it leave a scar,
As many matrimonial scratches are.—
Take this;” and from his purse's silken fold,
He gave the groom a piece of shining gold.
Well pleas'd the solid offering to receive,
He took it, and went, laughing in his sleeve.