by R S Surtees
They then clattered down Cockenhatch Hill, across the bridge over the rushing stream, and laying hold of their horses’ manes, proceeded to stand in their stirrups, and hug them up the opposite bank. That gained, some of the young ones, disdaining the road, dashed over a quickset fence into a heavy fallow, and sought the line Mr Romford was leading, or rather following, for Lucy was leading. The old ones pounded away on the road, reaching the crown of Eccleston Hill long before the seceders, when their admiring optics were greeted with a sight of the hounds swinging down the green slope of Rippendale Hill, closely followed by Lucy and Facey. Then there was a burst of enthusiasm at the magnificent way the hounds were doing their work, slightly clouded, perhaps, by the sight of the silvery Ribble, meandering its tortuous course through the rich green fields of the vale. What if he should cross it, thought they. However, it was no time for reflection. Meanwhile, Facey and Lucy had got together, and Facey’s keen eye descried the fox taking the water, and floating down the stream so as to land a good way below the taking-off place.
“Cunnin’ beggar,” said Facey, pointing him out to Lucy; “but I’ll have you in hand for all that,” muttered he.
The fox then crawled out on the opposite side, and after shaking himself leisurely among some dwarf willows, and listening to the music of the hounds, he again set off on his travels, as if in no way particularly concerned in the concert. He was an old dog-fox that had beat Lotherington and his lumberers twice or thrice before, and did not go in great fear of them. He was not aware that there had been any change in the programme, or he might have put on a little more steam. However, he kept on at a good steady pace, and being now so far from home, thought he might as well go on to Addington Woods, where there were not only plenty of rabbits, but very comfortable quarters and respectable keepers. And Facey, who saw the woods in the distance, and knew their attractions, thought to terminate the performance before they got there, not knowing when he might get out again if he once got in, with only his fair friend for a whip. So, riding inside the hounds, he cut off a wide angle, and met them at the place where the fox had crossed. Up they presently came, lashing and bristling for blood.
“Yoick, over he goes!” cried Mr Romford, taking off his hat, as Constance and Cruiser spoke to the scent on the exact tract of the fox.
Forthwith the whole pack took the water like a flock of sheep, and went fighting, and splashing, and striving to be first out. Then, after a scramble out, and a hearty preliminary shake, they again put their inquiring noses to the ground to solve the problem, “which way has he gone?” Trumpeter struck the scent with an exulting flourish; the rest scorned to cry, and away they went, pressing and pushing as before.
“For-rard, away!” cried Facey turning Brilliant about to have a run at the brook. “Well, how is it to be?” said he to Lucy, ere he dropped in his spurs to send his horse at it. “You first or I first?”
“Oh, both together,” replied Lucy, turning Leotard round also to take it in line.
“Bear to the left, then,” said Facey, nodding to a narrower place at an abrupt bend of the brook. “You take off by the bush there, and I’ll go a little higher up, so that we mayn’t break the bank with our weight.”
It was a prudent resolve; for the bank, which was a great resort for water-rats, immediately gave way with the weight of one horse; and when the first of the H.H.’s came up, hoping to cross over it as our master and his lady had apparently done, they found a very frowning, yawning, formidable-looking place, that did not at all improve upon acquaintance.
However, there was no help for it: a brook is a brook and must be either taken or let alone. Neither sober nor drunken men can do anything for us, and some of the knowing elderlies boldly wheeled round for Lowington Ford, while the younger ones charged here, there, and everywhere, two getting in for one that got over. Great was the splashing and snorting, and snatching at hats, and scrambling after whips, and loud the exclamations of “Catch my horse!” “Turn my horse!” “Help me out with my horse!” But for the inconvenience of being beaten by a lady, very few of them would have risked a ducking.
The country now became wilder and opener, the scent worse, and the seeing better. You looked into the landscape with minute distinctness. The Addington Woods were darkly visible. He would like to lay hold of him before he got there. A fresh fox would be very inconvenient at that hour.
“For-rard! for-rard! for-rard!” cheered Facey, to get his hounds on; but the land was poor and exposed, and the line took a deal of finding.
“To guide a scent well over a country for a length of time, and through all sorts of difficulties, requires the best and most experienced abilities,” said Mr Romford to Lucy, as they now trotted on, watching the proceedings.
“Dash it! yonder he goes!” exclaimed Facey, pointing the fox out to Lucy, stealing at a very steady, serviceable pace along the low side of a rough gorse-grown pasture, some fields ahead.
“So it is,” replied she, recognising her friend.
“Put them on to me, and I’ll give them a lift,” said Facey, pulling out his horn, and clapping spurs to his horse.
Tweet, tweet, tweet! went the horn; crack, crack, crack went Lucy’s light whip, and away the willing pack flew after their master.
As long as Facey viewed the fox, he galloped and blew his horn, and then stopped just at the place where he had seen him last. The hounds then dropped their noses, and quickly hit off the scent on much more favourable ground. They ran in good earnest. Galloper no longer keeps his place — Brusher takes it. See how he flings for the scent, and how impetuously he runs! Now another takes it, and so it is lost and caught, and caught and lost, by the compact phalanx of competing mouths. Mr Romford cheers them on, for he is anxious to kill the fox, as well for the credit of his pack as the éclat of our fair whipper-in. So he rides, all eyes, ears, and fears, looking anxiously out for any indication of the line. A man on a hay-rick now holds up his hat, and our master presently views the fox again, still pursuing the even tenor of his way towards the large sheltering woods. He has a good steady stare, and calculates the respective paces of each, thinking the balance of speed rather in favour of the fox. He is half inclined to lift them again. If it weren’t that they were hunting so well, he would do it. Just then fortune favours him. A party of practising riflemen, whom Pug mistakes for poachers, having been most unhandsomely peppered by one of the tribe, begin bang, bang, banging at the butt, causing him to make a long détour by Shirrington, and through Brandsby stone pits to Sherley. That seals his doom. He gets into a more populous neighbourhood, is headed and bothered, and driven from point to point, until baffled and flurried, he is almost driven into the mouths of the pack. Giving his horse to Lucy, Mr Romford dives among the worrying hounds, and picks him up a lamentable victim of mistaken identity. He had had a very different pursuer to Mr Lotherington. If he had known it was Romford, he would have made more sail.
“WHO-HOOP!” holloos Mr Romford, holding him on high. “Whohoop!” repeats he, with redoubled emphasis. “Who-hoop!” shrieked he for the third time. “Dash my buttons if I was ever so pleased at killing a fox in my life!” continued our master, throwing him on to the ground, and proceeding to examine his mouth. “A reg’lar hen-stealin’, goosegobblin’, turkey-worryin’ old sinner,” announced he, rising, and diving into his long, baggy black-and-white tartan vest for his knife. Off went the brush, head, and pads. “There,” said Mr Romford, pocketing them, “you’ll do no more mischief.” Then he again raised the now mutilated carcase high in air with both hands, and with a profusion of “Whohoops,” threw it to the clamorous pack, with un equal profusion of “Worry, worry, worried.”
“Clear the course there!” now exclaimed he, as the pull-Devil pull-baker pack, having broken the ring, were scrambling among the crowding horses’ legs. “Clear the course there;” repeated he, driving the field back with his whip like a circus master. Then there arose inquiries for the brush and the pads, and how long it had been.
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p; “Brush is bespoke,” muttered Facey, advancing to Lucy, and decorating Leotard’s head with it. “Better than the baccy-shop, this,” said he, in an under-tone, with a knowing wink, as he adjusted it. And Lucy thought of the time when another sportsman (Mr Sponge) placed a well-won brush in her hat, and sighed.
He then distributed the pads, while the satisfied field expatiated on the merits of the run, the time, the distance, and the severity of the pace. Nothing could be better, they all agreed. Time, an hour and twenty minutes; distance, anything they like to call it. And they were all extremely obliged to the lady, they said. So they at length separated in various detachments, according to their respective destinations, many of them “Which way-ing?” the country people, as though they had just dropped from the clouds. And Lucy and Facey rode home extremely well satisfied with themselves, and the hounds and the horses, and with all they had done. Facey had no idea that Lucy was such a fine horse woman, not knowing she had been in a circus before she took to the stage.
XVII. THE FRACAS — THE LARKSPUR HUNT IN DOUBLEIMUPSHIRE
WE ARE SORRY TO SAY that the unanimity which prevailed in the hunting-field, respecting Lucy and her equestrian performances, was not shared in by the domestic circles of the H.H. hunt. Her appearance, instead of propitiating matters as was expected, only fanned the smouldering flame of discontent that had been lit up by the sale of Leotard to Mrs Rowley Rounding into a down right blaze of anger and revenge.
“What! they were to have pretty horse-breakers down in the country, were they?” the ladies exclaimed. “They didn’t care about Mr Romford’s wealth or his pack, or his sporting prowess, or anything about him. They would have no impropriety!”
The “H.H.” had always been a most respectable, well-conducted hunt; and respectable it should be to the end of the chapter, or their husbands should have nothing to do with it. And they talked, and fumed, and stimulated each other into a grand phalanx of resistance. “No pretty horse-breaker!” was the cry. Swig and Chowey being still hors de combat, Lucy continued to officiate in their places to greatly diminishing fields, until one morning, at the meet at Mr Trollinger’s, Emerald Hall, instead of the usual offer of hospitality, they found the door shut, the window-blinds down, and the earths open; so when Facey thought the hounds were settling well to their fox, and about to drive him from the round hill on the left into the open, he popped into the honeycombed breeding earth behind the home farm. Pretty nearly the same thing was repeated at Starcross Court, much to Mr Romford’s chagrin; for though he cared nothing about the breakfast inside, or the sherry and biscuits at the door, he was always very anxious for what he called a “gollop.”
And as the party most concerned is oftentimes the last to know the real facts, so our friend was the talk of the country, without his having the slightest idea that he had done anything wrong. At length, one gentleman more venturesome than the rest volunteered to enlighten him, and also to express the almost unanimous wish of the country that he would be good enough to resign it. Mr Romford was petrified. He had no idea that ladies were prohibited from hunting with the H.H.; Lucy intruded upon no one, and why should they interfere with her? He didn’t understand such work — dashed if he did.
All this was looked upon as the arrogance of riches, and made the malcontents more than ever determined to sever the connection. Facey at first was inclined to be pacific, not wishing to forfeit the great eminence he had attained, and he was half inclined to concede that Lucy should not come out any more but the ladies would not let their husbands negotiate, and none of the fair dames being particularly fond of fox-hunting, which they considered a very inferior sport to shooting, they thought it would be a good thing to stop the adventurous amusement for a time, and also punish a purse-proud, arrogant man for his impertinence in thus thinking to ride rough-shod over them. So “go” was the word.
Then Mr Romford finding himself in a fix, dislodging the Turbot for a time, mounted his own cap of dignity, and resolved, if he was to lose the country, to sell himself as dearly as he could. So he said, of course he should not think of remaining a moment if he did not give perfect satisfaction, but they must all be aware of the enormous sacrifice he had made in coming to them, and the great outlay he had incurred in hunting the country, which would entitle him to the subscription for the season the same as if he remained, — not that he cared a farthing about money, and would most likely give it to a charity, but he did not choose to be snubbed or dictated to in that sort of way. And he talked as if he was well bred on both sides of his head, instead of only on one, and as if his pockets were full to repletion — talked till he almost made himself believe he was a gentleman. So the H.H.’s, not liking to contend with a man of Mr Romford’s means, were at length obliged to succumb. And they closed just in time to enable him to restore them some sixteen couple of the old H.H. hounds, which he had out at walk in various parts of the country, whose fate veered between the members of that famous scratch pack the Gatherley hounds and the rope — the Gatherley’s wanting the hounds for less than Mr Romford chose to take. He had long since put down the most incorrigible of the old offenders, and, having now got his own pack well made, could afford to dispense with the rest. So he drafted all those with H.H. on their sides, and told his late followers that he wished them joy of their treasures.
Facey was now better in funds than he had ever been in the whole course of his life; better, indeed, he almost thought than if he had got Oncle Gilroy’s fortin’; for if he hadn’t got a fortin’, he at all events had learned how to acquire one, and that was by hunting a country, keeping hounds, and getting his sport at other people’s expense. Far better than railway-making, turnip-sniggling, thief-catching, or any of the promiscuous pursuits he had once thought of. Hunting a country was the thing, and though the H.H.’s might take exception to his menage, as Lucy called it, they could take none whatever to his prowess as a sportsman. If they didn’t know his worth, others would. It must be a very “slee fox” that could beat him. And, though Mr Romford said it himself, there was a great deal of truth in the assertion, for he had a wonderful knack at circumventing a fox, and if there was not much style in his proceedings, there was a great deal of execution. This the H.H. gentleman felt, and recalled how often they had seen him handling his fox when old Lotherington had been nonplused, casting about without rhyme or reason — asking everybody’s opinion and advice— “Which way do you think he’s gone, Mr Brown?” “Which way do you, Mr Green?” That “which way” is a very posing question. However, there was no help for it, and a penn’orth of comfort being worth three-half pence to most of them, Romford, and Lucy, and Leotard, and all had to go, and were presently back at the old quarters at the “West-end Swell,” Facey telling people that the H.H.’s were such a set of confounded cock-tails he had given up the country in disgust. He then took stock, and found himself master of fifty couple of most efficient hounds, with the recipe for getting more, and a comfortable sum of money in his pocket. Very well off in fact. What he called “a very able man.”
“There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it,” said Facey, determining to take another try in the advertising line; and forthwith he concocted a very specious announcement, offering the services of a gentleman with an excellent pack of hounds, to whom subscription was a secondary consideration to sport, to hunt a country, either for a term of years or for the remainder of the season. And having despatched the same to “Bell’s Life” and the “Field,” he quietly waited the result — amusing himself as best he could at the aforesaid Dog and Partridge Inn.
As luck would have it, the very first announcement brought an application from a gentleman, signing himself “Simon Greenfield, of Greenfield House, Honorary Secretary to the Larkspur Hunt,” asking him what he could do that season — immediately, indeed. The Larkspur Hunt, like the Heavyside one, had long been a free-gratis establishment — so long that the natives had ceased to look upon not subscribing as any accommodation; and when old Mr Bloomfield at lengt
h died, they had no doubt that plenty of people would be found ready to take the country on the same terms as he had had it. But experience shows, that with the great increase of wealth has not come a corresponding desire to support hounds, subscriptions being more difficult to collect now than they were fifty years ago. Formerly, hunting with shooting, satisfied a man: hunting from home, and shooting from home, both in reason and moderation. But now everybody must do everything: hunt in Leicestershire, shoot in Scotland, fish in Norway, race at Newmarket, and yacht everywhere, to say nothing of the necessity of enjoying the expenses of a London season, whether he likes town or not. As to a resident taking the hounds, that is a thing not to be thought of; hence, we have a breed of migratory masters — men like Mr Romford — who alight upon a country, and live out of the establishment. There were plenty of what Mr Romford would call “able men” in Doubleimupshire (the scene of the Larkspur Hunt operations), but they were all either gentlemen enjoying life’s wholesale recreations, or gentlemen most earnestly bent on making more money. The former gave their subscriptions more from coercion than anything else; while the latter found it more to their interest to subscribe liberally than to waste time which to them was money, in interfering with what they didn’t understand, and with which they would most likely burn their fingers if they meddled. So they gave their money and stuck to their trades, some hunting for fashion, some medicinally, some for air and exercise, some they didn’t know why. But as they were all £.s.d.-men, men deeply imbued with the spirit of gain, who had never been accustomed to the growing exorbitance of a pack of hounds, they always felt themselves imposed upon — never thought they got half enough for their money — never believed the hounds cost what they said, were always sure whoever had them was making money out of them, and so they went on until none but the worst of the migratory masters would touch, and at last even they began to fight shy. At length the country became vacant altogether, and had got so far into the season without hounds, when Mr Romford’s opportune advertisement appeared. It was looked upon as a very apropos announcement, — one that ought to be cultivated, and forthwith each man began screwing his neighbour to see if he could not induce him to subscribe a little more. The usual stock-victims, — the Lord Lieutenant, the County Members, and the Borough Members, — of course, were applied to, it being part of their duty to find funds for all. There was plenty of money in the county, plenty of plate and powdered footmen, but somehow the parties preferred producing the latter to the former. But plate and powdered footmen alone won’t draw, and the ladies soon began to feel the want of the red-coats, and the enlivening meets of the hounds. In this respect they differed from the Heavyside ladies, who thought sherry and biscuits were all that was required; whereas the Larkspur ladies looked upon a hunt as a grand nucleus of society — the promoter of balls, breakfasts, dinners, races, conviviality of all sorts. And as the winter had opened gloomily, and threatened to be very dull, they were more than usually urgent and pressing, when they heard of the advertisement, lest some other country might catch the advertiser up; for we all fancy other people want what we do. So Mr Simon Greenfield, who gave his services to the hunt instead of subscribing, was instructed to reply to the advertisement on behalf of the members of the Larkspur Hunt, whose country, Doubleimupshire, was then vacant — asking who the liberal-minded gentleman was that was ready to take one. And on receipt of the note, Mr Romford replied, sealing the letter with the invaluable Turbot-sitting-on-its-tail seal, which spoke more forcibly than whole reams of satin note paper could have done. Mr Romford! Mr Romford! I know the name perfectly, exclaimed several. And forthwith there was a rush to the Burkes, and an anxious turn to the R’s — Rippon, Robson, Robertson, roddam, oh yes — all right — here he is, Romford, Francis, Esq., J.P., D.L., seat Abbeyfield Park, patron of five livings, crest — a Turbot sitting upon its tail on a cap of dignity.” Just so! — here it is (holding up the letter), “a Turbot sitting upon its tail on a cap of dignity.” Well done, Romford, Francis, Esq. He would be the very man for their money.
