by R S Surtees
It was a pity that the great men’s horses were not so good as their clothes, or the turn out would have been very respectable. The Duke, to be sure, had a good one for himself, but Lord Marchhare having lamed the bay on which Leech depicted him piloting Miss Rosa, was reduced to a weedy little chestnut of one of the whips, while the Prince was put upon a great ambling, high-crested, hollow-backed white, that looked more like a trumpeter’s horse than a hunter. However, its flowing mane and abundant tail pleased the foreigner, who having mounted, began ambling and curvetting and caprioling among the crowd. But he had to earn his keep yet by having such of the field presented to him as the Duke thought would pay for the honour; and forthwith much of the same sort of scene ensued that was enacted at the battue — people being brought up and introduced whom the stranger would forget the next moment. To most of these the affable Prince offered some sage observation, such as “It vos von vare fine day for foxing — should kill many dozens of them he thought,” his Highness thinking that in fox-hunting, as in pheasant-shooting, quantity was the criterion of sport. Meanwhile Mr. Haggish sat on his great black horse Galashiels, tapping his boot with his whip, and grinding his teeth in disgust at the sight of the man who had shot one.
At length it came to Jock’s turn to be noticed, and addressing his huntsman, the Duke inquired what he was going to draw first.
“Wall, what your Grace pleases,” replied Jock, raising his cap, “I was thinking of going to Sunnyside at once.”
“Not Newham End?” replied the Duke, who always liked to sport on opinion.
“Newham End’s savan miles from here, your Grace,” replied Haggish with a smile. “Nevertheless, if your Grace wishes it, we can go.”
“Ah, I forgot,” replied the Duke, “I thought we were at the Mulberry Tree at Burtontongue Ferry. We’ll go to Sunnyside at once, then.”
Jock then got great Galashiels by the head, and calling his hounds together led the way, thus leaving the meet three-quarters of an hour after the appointed time. But time was made for vulgar souls, not for Dukes and Princes. A general move then ensued, glasses were paid for, horses remounted, and the Holly Bush Inn presently resumed its wonted solitude.
The Prince proceeded at a sort of amphitheatrish amble between Mr. Nelson Brown of Barrow Hill, and Mr. Rennison Reveley of Victoria Green, while the Duke pushed about, doing the agreeable in his own peculiar way, mangling people’s names, calling Hobson Hobson, and Hobson Hobson; asking after single men’s wives, and the wives of some who were dead.
Meanwhile Mr. Bunting was assiduously waited upon by Mr. Ellenger, who kept introducing people to him, though from want of knowing our friend’s name it was only a one-sided proceeding. The intervals were filled up with accounts of the country, and the marvellous runs Ellenger had seen, wherein the narrator had always been a conspicuous, if not a principal part. During all these varied proceedings, Owen Ashford had kept up a sort of running commentary of his own, in the shape of coughs, wheezes, and grunts, causing parties to look anxiously round, for there is nothing more appalling to a sportsman’s ear than a cough. It is so suggestive of “stop and go home.”
It is a point with some people, whether to tell a man he has lost a shoe, or let him find it out himself, or leave some one else to tell; the disgust at the information being oftentimes greater than the gratitude at being told, and an over-reach, a stub, and a cough, may be placed under the same category. Indeed a cough is perhaps more exempt than the rest, for the rider has a better right to know all about it than any body else, and if he does not think it worth noticing, there is no reason why any one else should.
This sort of logic seemed to prevail on the Holly Rush Inn day, for though many sportsmen started and looked round to see whence the short grunty cough proceeded, and Jonathan Jobling observed to Mr. Cordy Brown, the sporting butcher of Mayfield, that somebody’s horse would be better in the house, none of them thought of riding up to Mr. Bunting, and asking him if he did not think he had better go home.
So our hero proceeded in the great cavalcade, occasionally trying what a little counter-irritation in the shape of a touch of the spur would do towards stopping the disagreeable noise. But Owen Ashford would have it out, and went coughing, and wheezing, and grunting, regardless alike of kicking, or jagging, or nursing.
Presently a divergence to the right through a line of well hung gates, brought the field full in face of the cover, and a momentary halt on a strip of green-sward outside, enabled the last of the late comers to get their horses and those in attendance to draw their girths, and make the final preparations for the chase. Meanwhile a couple of whips had scuttled away to their places, and the white bridle gate being at length opened, at a nod of assent from old Haggish, the glad pack went tearing head over heels into cover. Then the cheer of the veteran sounded o’er the scene, and the cracks of the whips reechoed among the hills.
Hark! a hound speaks — a light note, and doubtful, soon silenced by Haggish’s rate—” Cradulous! Credulous! what are you after, Credulous?” followed by a crack of the whip. And Credulous slinks away at the sound. Haggish goes on slowly and carefully, giving the hounds plenty of time to sniff and try each likely haunt, Jock being of opinion that foxes sometimes sleep in the daytime as well as man. Now the cover widens, and Jock’s cheery note is heard on the high ride. There is rare lying in every part, any yard of which may hold a fox. And the hounds seem to like it too, for they quest and feather three or four on a line — half inclined to speak — hardly daring to do so—” Have at him, Ballywood! old man;” holloas Jock to a favourite old finder, adding to himself, with a knowing jerk of the head, “he’s been there, for a guinea.” And Ballywood thinks so too, for after a flourish round a patch of struggling gorse he gives a low whimper, which Madrigal, dropping her stem, endorses, and away they race up the green pathway beyond. Now the scent fails them, and, after a momentary hesitation, they make an inward turn.
Prosperous then takes a fling in advance, and with a deeper note proclaims him on — Rallywood, Rantaway, Venturesome, Pillager, Rantipole, score to cry, and the body of the pack strive to the point.
Hark! what a crash. They’ve found him. “Now,” as Beckford says, “where are all your sorrows and your cares, ye gloomy souls! Or where your pains and aches, ye complaining ones! One holloa has dispelled them all — What a crash they make! And echo seemingly takes pleasure to repeat the sound. The astonished traveller forsakes his road, lured by its melody; the listening ploughman now stops his plough; and every distant shepherd neglects his flock, and runs to see him break. What joy! what eagerness in every face!”
Mr. Haggish has got great Galashiels by the head, and goes blob, blob, blobbing up the deep holding ride after his darlings. His eyes sparkle with delight, and he is quite another Mr. Haggish to what he was when eyeing the Prince before the Holly-bush Inn. His Highness too tears along with a loose seat and a loose rein on his great white charger, looking as though he would very soon stop him. Luckily, the old nag can take care of himself, and will shut up as soon as he thinks he has had enough. The Prince, however, expects each moment will be the last, and wonders what they can have done with the guns — why they are not doubling the fox up with one as he did. They vill not kill many dozen, if they take so much time over von, thought he.
That one, however, is a good one, and runs the cover’s utmost limits, anxious to break, but headed back in all his endeavours. Now by the foot people, now by the horse, now by a combination of both. What a host of enemies the poor animal has! He should have a dozen lives instead of one, especially with such a skirting pack as the Duke’s to contend with. The chorus increases; and even the terriers are squeaking at him. They’ll kill him if he doesn’t get away.
“Tallyho! there he goes across the ride, whisking his well-tagged brush, right under the Prince’s trooper’s nose, who hasn’t the sense to draw the horse aside for the hounds to pass. Over they go, tearing and screeching, each hound working as though he would eat the fox himself. A
sudden lull ensues! The echoing wood is still — who-hoop! cries Lord Marchhare, thinking the performance is over.
“Not a bit of it,” replies Mr. Haggish, spurring and cracking Galashiels through the tangled brake to the spot. The fox has laid down in an open drain, and the hounds have over-run the scent. Now Jock tries to recover him.
“Foot, wind him! Rallywood, good dog — yooi, push him!” Jock making the cover ring with the crack of his ponderous whip. Still all is silent. Not a note, save those of the chatterers on the ride.
“Very odd,” observes Mr. Cordy Brown, who thought that hunted foxes never laid down.
“Very,” asserts the master of harriers.
“The Dike’s dogs are not worth a button,” mutters Mr. Archy Ellenger.
Tallyho! There’s a holloa at the low end of the wood, and Jock getting Galashiels by the head, crams away to the place. All right! He’s gone!
“Hark! what loud shouts
Re-echo thro’ the grove!
He breaks away!
Shrill horns proclaim his flight.
Each Btraggling hound
Strains o’er the lawn to reach the distant pack;
’Tis triumph all, and joy.”
Not all joy, perhaps, though we dare say it would have been in Somerville’s times when he wrote the above lines. Already the vision of Thorneyburn Brook and Butterlow fences arise in the minds of those who do not like bathing or bullfinching. Still it is a case of do all you can, and “dream the rest,” and each man elbows and legs himself out of cover, resolved to see as much as he can. Prince, Peers, peasants, all mixed up in heterogeneous confusion. The “get away” from a fox cover is the real leveller of rank, far more efficacious than any Reform bill.
We are sorry we cannot accompany the horsemen in their flight over Longhope Hill and down into the Hewish Yale, tell how the war-horse stopped with the Prince at MuddifordPond, and Lord Marchhare sending his chestnut at some impracticable palings, lighted on his head, and knocked his hat-crown out. How the Duke of Tergiversation thought he had had enough at Snowden Mill, and Archy Ellenger at Harper’s Green. How the field gradually tailed off, and Galashiels gradually gave in till Haggish deserted him at farmer Muttons, and finished the run on foot—” who-hooping” the fox at Toddlewood Hill. All this we must leave, to return to our hero Mr. Bunting in Sunny-side Wood.
The rides there, as we said before, were very deep and holding, well calculated to take the fiery edge off even the most sportive tailed horse, let alone one that could hardly go on the road, and Owen Ashford’s distress was painfully apparent to every one except his rider. Mr. Bunting thought it must be want of work, which would most likely go off after a gallop. So he just jogged him up and down the rides with the rest of the field, the cry of the hounds animating the horse into extra exertion. But nature will not be said nay to, and ere the grand Tallyho! Owen Ashford had done his “possible” finished before he had well begun. Nevertheless, Mr. Bunting held him on, hoping he might get the second wind peculiar to well-bred horses. Perhaps he might be better in the open. So he took his turn at the lower of the two gaps in the ragged wood-fence leading out of the cover, and with a desperate effort planted the gallant grey in the middle of it. There he stood coughing, and wheezing, and rocking-s 2 horsing, unable to get either backwards or forwards. The horsemen behind him then took the other gap, and in this undignified position our friend was doomed to see the last of the field. Presently Billingford, the woodman, came panting up, and, advising Mr. Bunting to dismount, applied his brawny shoulder to the horse’s quarters, and fairly thrust him over into the next field.
“He must be bad, surely!” exclaimed Billingford, as the horse lay-heaving and gasping like one of Mr. Rarey’s “Incorrigibles,” after a lesson, a very different looking animal indeed to what he was in Sligo Mews.
“I think he must,” replied Mr. Bunting, wondering what Captain Cavendish Chichester would say if he killed him.
“I’d get him up, and get him into the house, if I was you,” observed the woodman.
“Well, I think that would be the best thing,” replied our hero, “only the question is, how to do it.”
“He heaves heavily,” observed the man, eyeing Owen Ashford’s flank, “wish he mayn’t have got the staggers.” Most people have some pet disease with which they invest every horse that is ill.
Just then Owen Ashford raised his head, and after staring about him with a fixed unmeaning glare, he got first on his hind-quarters, and then after a rabbit-like sit, with a desperate grunt, raised himself wholly on all fours. There he stood more like the wooden horse in a saddler’s shop than anything likely to go. —
“He’s surely been very sair ridden that hus,” observed Billingford, eyeing his distended nostrils suspiciously.
“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Bunting, “He’s hardly been out of a walk.”
“Then he mun be very bad somehow,” rejoined the man, “I would get him home, gin I ware you.”
“I wish I had him homo,” replied Mr. Bunting, eyeing the horse’s rigid frame.
“I’d slack his girths a bit, sir, I’d slack his girths,” observed the man, still conning Owen over.
Mr. Bunting did slack his girths, and the horse appeared relieved by the operation, after a good cough, wheeze, grunt, he dropped his head, and began to nibble at the grass by the rail side. That was encouraging, and after getting his bearings from the man and inquiring where he would find a veterinary surgeon, Mr. Bunting gave Billingford a shilling for his trouble; and horse in hand, set out to work his way homewards on foot, to the great disadvantage of his boots.
Poor Owen was very weak and tottering at first, and went coughing and grunting, and sobbing, as though he would break his heart; but he gradually picked up when he got upon the hard road, so much so indeed, that, after rising Little Hay Hill again, Mr. Bunting, tired of walking, and feeling for his “Bartleys,” inveigled the horse alongside a field-gate, when drawing his girths, he deposited himself very gently in the saddle, and then proceeded at a foot’s pace along the green strip by the side of the road. And with grunts, and groans, and occasional stoppages to stare, poor Owen Ashford at length began to go not so far amiss, though the country-people who saw him all thought the Duke’s hounds must have had a tarrible run. —
CHAPTER LXIX.
THE SURPRISE.
JUST AS OUR hero had got his sick horse nursed so far on his way home, as to about the place where ArchyEllenger overtook him in the morning, the animal, pricking his ears, gave a sudden start, and looking a-head, a flowing grey habit appeared upon the scene, borne by a careering white pony. It was now Mr. Bunting’s turn to start, for though an unfriendly hedge immediately concealed it from his view, a certain inward something whispered it was her. “Her” certainly he thought, and his heart throbbed at the sight. Another instant and the invidious hedge, descending into a cut and laid one, revealed the accuracy of the conjecture. “Her” it certainly was, in flowing ringlets too, which danced merrily in the sun to the motion of the pony. Mr. Goldspink’s opinion had come to her ears, and caused Rosa to resume her anfo-Roseberry-Rocks-style of dressing her bright silken tresses. —
Miss started too, for between ourselves, gentle reader, she thought, at first sight, that the approaching horseman was Lord Marchhare, and the worthlessness of the gipsy’s prophecy flashed upon her mind— ‘What, if after all she should be a duchess! The fates seemed propitious to the idea. As she got nearer however, the delusion was gradually dispelled, for beneath the black cap she now recognised first the dark whiskers, and then the familiar features of our friend.
“Why, Mr. Bunting!” exclaimed she, opening wide her beautiful blue eyes, as she reined in her ambling white palfrey beside him.
“Why, Mr. Bunting, who would have thought of seeing you here!” tendering her pretty little primrose-coloured kid-gloved hand as she spoke — half wondering if the gipsy was going to be right after all.
“Why, Miss Rosa, who would have tho
ught of seeing you!” responded our delighted Mend, seizing the proffered hand and pressing it fervently, adding, “This is indeed an unexpected pleasure.”
Up then came Old Gaiters, the groom gardener, on the yawning ewe-necked bay mare, which had been left immeasurably in the lurch by the quick-footed volatile pony. Gaiters and the mare had many a weary trash about the country after Miss Rosa, that neither his age nor the qualities of his steed qualified him for. Having succeeded in stopping the great boring brute, a few yards below them, he now sat staring and wondering who the smart gentleman in scarlet could be, and thinking he might do for his lady. Being down wind, Gaiters’s position would have been rather inconvenient if the parties had had anything particular to say, but being chiefly confined to questions and answers it did not make much matter.
