Chapter XII: The Morning Fox.—the Afternoon Fox

097m

_Original Size_

THE day was quite at its best, when the party-coloured bees
emerged from the sweets of Tantivy Castle, to taint the pure
atmosphere with their nasty cigars, and air themselves on the
terrace, letting the unadmitted world below see on what excellent
terms they were with an Earl. Then Imperial John upbraided Major.
Yammerton for taking the words out of his mouth, as it were, and
the cockey Major turned up his nose at the “farmer fellow” for
presuming to lector him. Then the emboldened ladies strolled
through the picture-galleries and reception-rooms, regardless of
Mrs. Moffatt or any one else, wondering where this door led to
and where that. The hounds had been basking and loitering on the
lawn for some time, undergoing the inspection and criticisms of
the non-hunting portion of the establishment, the gardeners, the
gamekeepers, the coachmen, the helpers, the housemaids, and so
on. They all pronounced them as perfect as could be, and Mr.
Hoggledike received their compliments with becoming satisfaction,
saying, with a chuck of his chin, “Yas, Yas, I think they’re
about as good as can be! Parfaction. I may say!”

Having abused the cigars, we hope our fair friends will now
excuse us for saying that we know of few less agreeable scenes
than a show meet with fox-hounds. The whole thing is opposed to
the wild nature of hunting. Some people can eat at any time, but
to a well-regulated appetite, having to undergo even the
semblance of an additional meal is inconvenient; while to have to
take a _bonâ fide_ dinner in the morning, soup, toast, speeches
and all, is perfectly suicidal of pleasure. On this occasion, the
wine-flushed guests seemed fitted for Cremorne or Foxhall, as
they used to pronounce Vauxhall, than for fox-hunting. Indeed,
the cigar gentry swaggered about with a very rakish, Regent
Street air. His lordship alone seemed impressed with the
importance of the occasion; but his anxiety arose from
indecision, caused by the Binks’ dream and letter, and fear lest
the Yammerton girls might spoil Billy for Miss de Glancey, should
his lordship adhere to his intention of introducing them to each
other. Then he began to fidget lest he might be late at the
appointed place, and Miss de Glancey go home, and so frustrate
either design.

“_To horse! to horse!_” therefore exclaimed he, now hurrying
through the crowd, lowering his Imperial Jane-made hat-string,
and drawing on his Moffatt-knit mits. “_To horse! to horse!_”
repeated he, flourishing his cane hunting-whip, causing a
commotion among the outer circle of grooms. His magnificent black
horse, Valiant (the one he had seen old Binks bucketing),
faultless in shape, faultless in condition, faultless every way,
stepped proudly aside, and Cupid-without-Wings dropping himself
off by the neck, Mr. Beanley, the stud groom, swept the
coronetted rug over the horse’s bang tail, as the superb and
sensible animal stepped forward to receive his rider, as the Earl
came up. With a jaunty air, the gay old gentleman vaulted lightly
into the saddle, saying as he drew the thin rein, and felt the
horse gently with his left leg, “Now get Mr. Pringle his horse.”
His lordship then passed on a few paces to receive the
sky-scraping salutes of the servants, and at a jerk of his head
the cavalcade was in motion.

Our friend Billy then became the object of attention. The
dismounted Cupid dived into the thick of the led horses to seek
his, while Mr. Beanley went respectfully up to him, and with a
touch of his flat-brimmed hat, intimated that “his oss was at
‘and.”

“What sort of an animal is it?” asked the somewhat misgiving
Billy, now bowing his adieus to the pretty Misses Yammerton.

“A very nice oss, sir,” replied Mr. Beanley, with another touch
of hat; “yes, sir, a very nice oss—a perfect ‘unter—nothin’ to do
but sit still, and give ‘im ‘is ‘ead, he’ll take far better care
o’ you than you can of ‘im.” So saying, Mr. Beanley led the way
to a very sedate-looking, thorough-bred bay, with a flat flapped
saddle, and a splint boot on his near foreleg, but in other
respects quite unobjectionable. He was one of Swan’s stud, but
Mr. Beanley, understanding from the under butler, who had it from
Jack Rogers—we beg his pardon,—Monsieur Rougier himself, that Mr.
Pringle was likely to be a good tip, he had drawn it for him. The
stirrups, for a wonder, being the right length, Billy was
presently astride, and in pursuit of his now progressing
lordship, the gaping crowd making way for the young lord as they
supposed him to be—for people are all lords when they visit at
lords.

Pop, pop, bob, bob, went the black caps of the men in advance,
indicating the whereabouts of the hounds, while his lordship
ambled over the green turf on the right, surrounded by the usual
high-pressure toadies. Thus the cavalcade passed through the
large wood-studded, deer-scattered park, rousing the nearer herds
from their lairs, frightening the silver-tails into their holes,
and causing the conceited hares to scuttle away for the
fern-browned, undulating hills, as if they had the vanity to
suppose that this goodly array would condescend to have anything
to do with them. Silly things! Peppercorn, the keeper, had a much
readier way of settling their business. The field then crossed
the long stretch of smooth, ornamental water, by the old
gothic-arched bridge, and passed through the beautiful iron gates
of the south lodge, now wheeled back by grey-headed porters, in
cerulean-blue plush coats, and broad, gold-laced hats. Meanwhile,
the whereabouts of the accustomed hunt was indicated by a
lengthening line of pedestrians and small cavalry, toiling across
the park by Duntler the watcher’s cottage and the deer sheds, to
the door in the wall at the bottom of Crow-tree hill, from whence
a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding country is obtained. The
piece had been enacted so often, the same company, the same day,
the same hour, the same find, the same finish, that one might
almost imagine it was the same fox On this particular occasion,
however, as if out of pure contradiction, Master Reynard, by a
series of successful manoeuvres, lying down, running a wall,
popping backwards and forwards between Ashley quarries and
Warmley Gorse, varied by an occasional trip to Crow-tree hill,
completely baffled Mr. Boggledike, so that it was afternoon
before he brought his morning fox to hand, to the great
discomfort of the Earl, who had twice or thrice signaled Swan to
“who hoop” him to ground, when the tiresome animal popped up in
the midst of the pack. At length Boggledike mastered him; and
after proclaiming him a “cowardly, short-running dastardly
traitor, no better nor a ‘are,” he chucked him scornfully to the
hounds, decorating Master Pillerton’s pony with the brush, while
Swan distributed the pads among others of the rising generation.

The last act of the “show meet” being thus concluded, Mr.
Boggledike and his men quickly collected their hounds, and set
off in search of fresh fields and pastures new.

The Earl, having disposed of his show-meet fox—a bagman, of
course—now set up his business-back, and getting alongside of Mr.
Boggledike, led the pack at as good a trot as the hounds and the
state of the line would allow. The newly laid whinstone of the
Brittleworth road rather impeded their progress at first; but
this inconvenience was soon overcome by the road becoming less
parsimonious in width, extending at length to a grass siding,
along which his lordship ambled at a toe in the stirrup trot, his
eagle-eye raking every bend and curve, his mind distracted with
visions of Binks, and anxiety for the future.

He couldn’t get over the dream, and the letter had anything but
cheered him.

“Very odd,” said he to himself, “very odd,” as nothing but
drab-coated farmers and dark-coated grooms lounging leisurely
“on,” with here and there a loitering pedestrian, broke the
monotony of the scene. “Hope she’s not tired, and gone home,”
thought he, looking now at his watch, and now back into the
crowd, to see where he had Billy Pringle. There was Billy riding
alongside of Major Yammerton’s old flea-bitten grey, whose rider
was impressing Billy with a sense of his consequence, and the
excellence of his “haryers,” paving the way for an invitation to
Yammerton Grange. “_D-a-ash_ that Yammerton,” growled his
lordship, thinking how he was spoiling sport at both ends; at the
Castle by his uninvited eloquence, and now by his fastening on to
the only man in the field he didn’t want him to get acquainted
with. And his lordship inwardly resolved that he would make
Easylease a magistrate before he would make the Major one. So
settling matters in his own mind, he gave the gallant Valiant a
gentle tap on the shoulder with his whip, and shot a few paces
ahead of Dicky, telling the whips to keep the crowd off the
hounds—meaning off himself. Thus he ambled on through the quiet
little village of Strotherdale, whose inhabitants all rushed out
to see the hounds pass, and after tantalising poor Jonathan Gape,
the turnpike-gate man, at the far end, who thought he was going
to get a grand haul, he turned short to the left down the
tortuous green lane leading to Quarrington Gorse.

“There’s a footmark,” said his lordship to himself, looking down
at the now closely eaten sward. “Ah! and there’s a hat and
feather,” added he as a sudden turn of the lane afforded a
passing glimpse. Thus inspirited, he mended his pace a little,
and was presently in sight of the wearer. There was the bay, and
there was the wide-awake, and there was the green trimming, and
there was the feather; but somehow, as he got nearer, they all
seemed to have lost _caste_. The slender waist and graceful
upright seat had degenerated into a fuller form and lazy slouch;
the habit didn’t look like her habit, nor the bay horse like her
bay horse, and as he got within speaking distance, the healthy,
full-blown face of Miss Winkworth smiled upon him instead of the
mild, placid features of the elegant de Glancey.

“Ah, my dear Miss Winkworth!” exclaimed his half-disgusted,
half-delighted lordship, raising his hat, and then extending the
right-hand of fellowship; “Ah, my dear Miss Winkworth, I’m
charmed to see you” (inwardly wondering what business women had
out hunting). “I hope you are all well at home,” continued he
(most devoutly wishing she was there); and without waiting for an
answer, he commenced a furious assault upon Benedict, who had
taken a fancy to follow him, a performance that enabled General
Boggledike to come up with that army of relief, the pack, and
engulf the lady in the sea of horsemen in the rear.

“If that had been _her_,” said his lordship to himself, “old
Binks would have had a better chance;” and he thought what an
odious thing a bad copy was.

Another bend of the land and another glimpse, presently put all
matters right. The real feather now fluttered before him. There
was the graceful, upright seat, the elegant air, the well-groomed
horse, the _tout ensemble_ being heightened, if possible, by the
recent contrast with the coarse, country attired Miss Winkworth.

The Earl again trotted gently on, raising his hat most
deferentially as he came along side of her, as usual, unaverted
head.

“Good morning, my Lord!” exclaimed she gaily, as if agreeably
surprised, tendering for the first time her pretty, little,
primrose-coloured kid-gloved hand, looking as though she would
condescend to notice a “mere fox-hunter.”

The gay old gentleman pressed it with becoming fervour, thinking
he never saw her looking so well before.

They then struck up a light rapid conversation.

Miss perhaps never did look brighter or more radiant, and as his
lordship rode by her side, he really thought if he could make up
his mind to surrender his freedom to any woman, it would be to
her. There was a something about her that he could not describe,
but still a something that was essentially different to all his
other flames.

He never could bear a riding-woman before, but now he felt quite
proud to have such an elegant, piquant attendant on his
pack.—Should like, at all events, to keep her in the country, and
enjoy her society.—Would like to add her to the collection of
Featherbedfordshire witches of which his friends joked him in
town.—“Might have done worse than marry Imperial John,” thought
his lordship. John mightn’t be quite her match in point of
manner, but she would soon have polished him up, and John must be
doing uncommonly well as times go—cattle and corn both selling
prodigiously high, and John with his farm at a very low rent. And
the thought of John and his beef brought our friend Billy to the
Earl’s mind, and after a sort of random compliment between Miss
de Glancey and her horse, he exclaimed, “By the way! I’ve got a
young friend out I wish to introduce to you,” so rising in his
saddle and looking back into the crowd he hallooed out,
“Pringle!” a name that was instantly caught up by the quick-eared
Dicky, a “Mister” tacked to it and passed backward to Speed, who
gave it to a groom; and Billy was presently seen boring his way
through the opening crowd, just as a shepherd’s dog bores its way
through a flock of sheep.

“Pringle,” said his lordship, as the approach of Billy’s horse
caused Valiant to lay back his ears, “Pringle! I want to
introduce you to Miss de Glancey, Miss de Glancey give me leave
to introduce my friend Mr. Pringle,” continued he, adding _soto
voce_, as if for Miss de Glancey’s ear alone, “young man of very
good family and fortune—_richest Commoner, in England, they
say_.” But before his lordship got to the richest Commoner part
of his speech, a dark frown of displeasure had overcast the sweet
smile of those usually tranquil features, which luckily, however,
was not seen by Billy; and before he got his cap restored to his
head after a sky scraping salute, Miss de Glancey had resumed her
wonted complacency,—inwardly resolving to extinguish the “richest
Commoner,” just as she had done his lordship’s other “friend Mr.
Hybrid.” Discarding the Earl, therefore, she now opened a most
voluble battering on our good-looking Billy who, to do him
justice, maintained his part so well, that a lady with less
ambitious views might have been very well satisfied to be Mrs.
Pringle. Indeed, when his lordship looked at the two chattering
and ogling and simpering together, and thought of that abominable
old Binks and the drag, and the letter from the Boodleite, his
heart rather smote him for what he had done; for young and fresh
as he then felt himself, he knew that age would infallibly creep
upon him at last, just as he saw it creeping upon each particular
friend when he went to town, and he questioned that he should
ever find any lady so eminently qualified to do the double duty
of gracing his coronet and disappointing the General. Not but
that the same thought had obtruded itself with regard to other
ladies; but he now saw that he had been mistaken with respect to
all of them, and that this was the real, genuine, no mistake,
“right one.” Moreover, Miss de Glancey was the only lady who
according to his idea had not made up to him—rather snubbed him
in fact. Mistaken nobleman! There are, many ways of making up to
a man. But as with many, so with his lordship, the last run was
always the finest, and the last lady always the fairest—the most
engaging. With distracting considerations such as these, and the
advantage of seeing Miss de Glancey play the artillery of her
arts upon our young friend, they reached the large old pasture on
the high side of Quarrington Gorse, a cover of some four acres in
extent, lying along a gently sloping bank, with cross rides cut
down to the brook. Mr. Boggledike pulled up near the rubbing-post
in the centre of the field, to give his hounds a roll, while the
second-horse gentlemen got their nags, and the new comers
exchanged their hacks for their hunters. Judging by the shaking
of hands, the exclamations of “halloo! old boy is that you?”

“I say! where are you from?” and similar inquiries, there were a
good many of the latter—some who never went to the Castle, some
who thought it too far, some who thought it poor fun. Altogether,
when the field got scattered over the pasture, as a shop-keeper
scatters his change on the counter, or as an old stage coachman
used to scatter his passengers on the road with an upset, there
might be fifty or sixty horsemen, assmen, and gigmen.

Most conspicuous was his lordship’s old eye-sore, Hicks, the
flying hatter of Hinton (Sir Moses Mainchance’s “best man”), who
seemed to think it incumbent upon him to kill his lordship a
hound every year by his reckless riding, and who now came out in
mufti, a hunting-cap, a Napoleon-grey tweed jacket, loose white
cords, with tight drab leggings, and spurs on his shoes, as if
his lordship’s hounds were not worth the green cut-a-way and
brown boots he sported with Sir Moses. He now gave his cap-peak a
sort of rude rap with his fore-finger, as his lordship came up,
as much as to say, “I don’t know whether I’ll speak to you or
not,” and then ran his great raking chestnut into the crowd to
get at his old opponent Gameboy Green, who generally rode for the
credit of the Tantivy hunt. As these sort of cattle always hunt
in couples, Hicks is followed by his shadow, Tom Snowdon, the
draper—or the Damper, as he is generally called, from his unhappy
propensity of taking a gloomy view of everything.

To the right are a knot of half-horse, half-pony mounted
Squireen-looking gentlemen, with clay pipes in their mouths,
whose myrtle-green coats, baggy cords, and ill-cleaned tops,
denote as belonging to the Major’s “haryers.” And mark how the
little, pompons man wheels before them, in order that Pringle may
see the reverence they pay to his red coat. He raises his punt
hat with all the dignity of the immortal Simpson of Vauxhall
memory, and passes on in search of further compliments.

His lordship has now settled himself into the “Wilkinson and
Kidd” of Rob Roy, a bay horse of equal beauty with Valiant, but
better adapted to the country into which they are now going,
Imperial John has drawn his girths with his teeth, D’Orsay Davis
has let down his hat-string, Mr. John Easylease has tightened his
curb, Mr. Section drawn on his gloves, the Damper finished his
cigar, and all things are approximating a start.

“_Elope, lads! Elope!_” cries Dicky Boggledike to his hounds,
whistling and waving them together, and in an instant the rollers
and wide-spreaders are frolicking and chiding under his horse’s
nose. “_G-e-e-ntly_, lads! _g-e-ently!_” adds he, looking the
more boisterous ones reprovingly in the face—“gently lads,
gently,” repeats he, “or you’ll be rousin’ the gem’lman i’ the
gos.” This movement of Dicky and the hounds has the effect of
concentrating the field, all except our fair friend and Billy,
who are still in the full cry of conversation, Miss putting forth
her best allurements the sooner to bring Billy to book.

At a chuck of his lordship’s chin, Dicky turns his horse towards
the gorse, just as Billy, in reply to Miss de Glancey’s question,
if he is fond of hunting, declares, as many a youth has done who
hates it, that he “doats upon it!”

A whistle, a waive, and a cheer, and the hounds are away. They
charge the hedge with a crash, and drive into the gorse as if
each hound had a bet that he would find the fox himself.

Mr. Boggledike being now free of his pack, avails himself of this
moment of ease, to exhibit his neat, newly clad person of which
he is not a little proud, by riding along the pedestrian-lined
hedge, and requesting that “you fut people,” as he calls them,
“will have the goodness not to ‘alloa, but to ‘old up your ‘ats
if you view the fox;” and having delivered his charge in three
several places, he turns into the cover by the little white
bridle-gate in the middle, which Cupid-without-Wings is now
holding open, and who touches his hat as Dicky passes.

The scene is most exciting. The natural inclination of the land
affords every one a full view of almost every part of the
sloping, southerly-lying gorse, while a bright sun, with a clear,
rarified atmosphere, lights up the landscape, making the distant
fences look like nothing. Weak must be the nerves that would
hesitate to ride over them as they now appear.

Delusive view! Between the gorse and yonder fir-clad hills are
two bottomless brooks, and ere the dashing rider reaches Fairbank
Farm, whose tall chimney stands in bold relief against the clear,
blue sky, lies a tract of country whose flat surface requires
gulph-like drains to carry off the surplus water that rushes down
from the higher grounds. To the right, though the country looks
rougher, it is in reality easier, but foxes seem to know it, and
seldom take that line; while to the left is a strongly-fenced
country, fairish for hounds, but very difficult for horses,
inasmuch as the vales are both narrow and deep. But let us find
our fox and see what we can do among them. And as we are in for a
burst, let us do the grand and have a fresh horse.