Dariel: A Romance of SurreyBlackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
General
Dariel: A Romance of Surrey
Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
Surrey (England) -- Fiction
Stoneman gave me a grin, and behaved a little better, and did his best
to be polite at luncheon-time, and after the narrow shaves of the
morning things went on more carefully; for the men who knew nothing
about a gun had now learned to be afraid of it. Until, with the sun
getting low behind a wood, we came to a bit of gorse-land having a steep
fall towards a valley, favourite harbour for a fox, in the days when my
chief business was such pleasant sport and jollity. There were narrow
rides cut through the furze down hill, and across them tussocks of
welted fern, and strigs of moots that cropped up again, after the
fuelling had been cleared.
"Why, this is the place where the yellow bunnies live," said Stoneman,
as he opened a gate for us, and we stood on the crest of the furzy
slope. "I know a man, and a clever fellow too, who has offered a guinea
apiece for them. He has given up business, and set up his staff in a
wild part of Wales; and there he is going in for a breed of these yellow
rabbits. He has got a big name for the fur, and expects to cut out
Chinchilla with it. I have heard of our golden bunnies lots of times,
and seen some of them once or twice. Shall we get a sample for him, and
then offer him live bunnies, if he jumps at it?"
All agreed cheerfully to this, and the dogs were taken up, while the
men, peeping down the steep ridges, got a shot or two at any of the
coney race who might be dining carelessly. Then, as all of these proved
to be of the common grey sort, Garrod's boy was sent home for a couple
of rough terriers, to run the furze thickets, while the guns should
watch the rides, for two or three yellow fellows had skipped away
unscathed.
That boy took a long time in carrying out his message, and when he came
back with his father behind him, the dusk of September was settling in
the valley, while a wisp of silvery vapour stole along the brown
halberds of the gorse, and the russet clumps of bramble. But the
hillside now was ringing with the merry yelps of dogs, or the squeak of
some puppy in a tangled grip, while the low covert ruffled, or was
channelled here and there, with the sway of some resolute terrier hot in
chase.
This holiday had been a rare enjoyment to me, though crossed with
anxiety now and then, among so many barrels governed less by experience
than excitement. Most of all, as I said, about Lord Melladew, who strode
along so poetically, clad in green velveteen, beautifully made, but
terminating unluckily in very smart buff gaiters short and
spruce--concerning him I had prayed all day that he were safe back in
the onion loft. Not that he carried a gun to his own disadvantage as the
reckless do, neither did he fire at random, but was well content, in the
manner of the public, to shout according to the hit or miss.
"Shut up all," I called out sharply; "too dark, too dark! I expect to
see at least a dog shot, every moment."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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