Chapter XIII: Gone Away!

SEE! a sudden thrill shoots through the field, though not a hound
has spoken; no, not even a whimper been heard. It is Speed’s new
cap rising from the dip of the ground at the low end of the
cover, and now having seen the fox “right well away,” as he says,
he gives such a ringing view halloa as startles friend Echo, and
brings the eager pack pouring and screeching to the cry—

“_Tweet! tweet! tweet!_” now goes cantering Dicky’s superfluous
horn, only he doesn’t like to be done out of his blow, and thinks
the “fut people” may attribut’ the crash to his coming.

All eyes are now eagerly strained to get a view of old Reynard,
some for the pleasure of seeing him, others to speculate upon
whether they will have to take the stiff stake and rise in front,
or the briar-tangled boundary fence below, in order to fulfil the
honourable obligation of going into every field with the hounds.
Others, again, who do not acknowledge the necessity, and mean to
take neither, hold their horses steadily in hand, to be ready to
slip down Cherry-tree Lane, or through West Hill fold-yard, into
the Billinghurst turnpike, according as the line of chase seems
to lie.

“_Talli-ho!_” cries the Flying Hatter, as he views the fox
whisking his brush as he rises the stubble-field over Fawley May
Farm, and in an instant he is soaring over the boundary-fence to
the clamorous pack just as his lordship takes it a little higher
up, and lands handsomely in the next field. Miss de Glancey then
goes at it in a canter, and clears it neatly, while Billy
Pringle’s horse, unused to linger, after waiting in vain for an
intimation from his rider, just gathers himself together, and
takes it on his own account, shooting Billy on to his shoulder.

“He’s off! no, he’s on; he hangs by the mane!” was the cry of the
foot people, as Billy scrambled back into his saddle, which he
regained with anything but a conviction that he could sit at the
jumps. Worst of all, he thought he saw Miss de Glancey’s
shoulders laughing at his failure.

The privileged ones having now taken their unenviable precedence,
the scramble became general, some going one way, some another,
and the recent frowning fences are soon laid level with the
fields.

A lucky lane running parallel with the line, along which the
almost mute pack were now racing with a breast-high scent,
relieved our friend Billy from any immediate repetition of the
leaping inconvenience, though he could not hear the clattering of
horses’ hoofs behind him without shuddering at the idea of
falling and being ridden over. It seemed very different he
thought to the first run, or to Hyde Park; people were all so
excitcd, instead of riding quietly, or for admiration, as they do
in the park. Just as Billy was flattering himself that the
leaping danger was at an end, a sudden jerk of his horse nearly
chucked him into Imperial John’s pocket, who happened to be next
in advance. The fox had been headed by the foot postman between
Hinton and Sambrook; and Dicky Boggledike, after objurgating the
astonished man, demanding, “What the daval business he had
there?” had drawn his horse short across the lane, thus causing a
sudden halt to those in the rear.

The Flying Hatter and the Damper pressing close upon the pack as
usual, despite the remonstrance of Gameboy Green and others, made
them shoot up to the far-end of the enclosure, where they would
most likely have topped the fence but for Swan and Speed getting
round them, and adding the persuasion of their whips to the
entreaties of Dicky’s horn. The hounds sweep round to the twang,
lashing and bristling with excitement.

“_Yo doit!_” cries Dicky, as Sparkler and Pilgrim feather up the
lane, trying first this side, then that. Sparkler speaks! “He’s
across the lane.”

“_Hoop! hoop! tallio! tallio!_” cries Dicky cheerily, taking off
his cap, and sweeping it in the direction the fox has gone, while
his lordship, who has been bottling up the vial of his wrath, now
uncorks it as he gets the delinquents within hearing.

“Thank you, Mr. Hicks, for pressing on my hounds! Much obleged to
you, Mr. Hicks, for pressing on my hounds! Hang you, Mr. Hicks,
for pressing on my hounds!” So saying, his lordship gathered Rob
Roy together, and followed Mr. Boggledike through a very stiff
bullfinch that Dicky would rather have shirked, had not the eyes
of England been upon him.

_S-w-ic-h!_ Dicky goes through, and the vigorous thorns close
again like a rat-trap.

“Allow me, my lord!” exclaims Imperial John from behind, anxious
to be conspicuous.

“Thank ‘e, no,” replied his lordship, carelessly thinking it
would not do to let Miss de Glancey too much into the secrets of
the hunting field. “Thank ‘e, no,” repeated he, and ramming his
horse well at it, he gets through with little more disturbance of
the thorns than Dicky had made. Miss de Glancey comes next, and
riding quietly up the bank, she gives her horse a chuck with the
curb and a touch with the whip that causes him to rise well on
his haunches and buck over without injury to herself, her hat, or
her habit. Imperial John was nearly offering his services to
break the fence for her, but the “_S-i-r-r!_ do you mean to
insult me?” still tingling in his ears, caused him to desist.
However he gives Billy a lift by squashing through before him,
whose horse then just rushed through it as before, leaving Billy
to take care of himself. A switched face was the result, the
pain, however, being far greater than the disfigurement.

While this was going on above, D’Orsay Davis, who can ride a
spurt, has led a charge through a weaker place lower down; and
when our friend had ascertained that his eyes were still in his
head, he found two distinct lines of sportsmen spinning away in
the distance as if they were riding a race. Added to this, the
pent-up party behind him having got vent, made a great show of
horsemanship as they passed.

“Come along!” screamed one.

“Look alive!” shouted another.

“Never say die!” cried a third, though they were all as ready to
shut up as our friend.

Billy’s horse, however, not being used to stopping, gets the bit
between his teeth, and scuttles away at a very overtaking pace,
bringing him sufficiently near to let him see Gameboy Green and
the Flying Hatter leading the honourable obligation van, out of
whose extending line now a red coat, now a green coat, now a dark
coat drops in the usual “had enough” style.

In the ride-cunning, or know-the-country detachment, Miss de
Glancey’s flaunting habit, giving dignity to the figure and
flowing elegance to the scene, might be seen going at perfect
ease beside the noble Earl, who from the higher ground surveys
Gameboy Green and the Hatter racing to get first at each fence,
while the close-packing hounds are sufficiently far in advance to
be well out of harm’s way.

“C—a—a—tch ’em, if you can!” shrieks his lordship, eyeing their
zealous endeavours.

“C—a—a—tch ’em, if you can!” repeats he, laughing, as the pace
gets better and better, scarce a hound having time to give
tongue.

“Yooi, over he goes!” now cries his lordship, as a spasmodic jerk
of the leading hounds, on Alsike water meadow, turns Trumpeter’s
and Wrangler’s heads toward the newly widened and deepened
drain-cut, and the whole pack wheel to the left. What a scramble
there is to get over! Some clear it, some fall back, while some
souse in and out.

Now Gameboy, seeing by the newly thrown out gravel the magnitude
of the venture, thrusts down his hat firmly on his brow, while
Hicks gets his chesnut well by the head, and hardening their
hearts they clear it in stride, and the Damper takes soundings
for the benefit of those who come after. What a splash he makes!

And now the five-and-thirty years master of “haryers” without a
subscription coming up, seeks to save the credit of his
quivering-tailed grey by stopping to help the discontented Damper
out of his difficulty, whose horse coming out on the wrong side
affords them both a very fair excuse for shutting up shop.

The rest of the detachment, unwilling to bathe, after craning at
the cut, scuttle away by its side down to the wooden
cattle-bridge below, which being crossed, the honourable
obligationers and the take-care-of-their-neckers are again joined
in common union. It is, however, no time to boast of individual
feats, or to inquire for absent friends, for the hounds still
press on, though the pace is not quite so severe as it was. They
are on worse soil, and the scent does not serve them so well. It
soon begins to fail, and at length is carried on upon the silent
system, and looks very like failing altogether.

Mr. Boggledike, who has been riding as cunning as any one, now
shows to the front, watching the stooping pack with anxious eye,
lest he should have to make a cast over fences that do not quite
suit his convenience.

“G—e—ntly, urryin’! gently!” cries he, seeing that a little
precipitancy may carry them off the line. “Yon cur dog has chased
the fox, and the hounds are puzzled at the point where he has
left him.”

“Ah, sarr, what the daval business have you out with a dog on
such an occasion as this?” demands Dicky of an astonished drover
who thought the road was as open to him as to Dicky.

“O, sar! sar! you desarve to be put i’ the lock-up,” continues
Dicky, as the pack now divide on the scent.

“O, sar! sar! you should be chaasetised!” added he, shaking his
whip at the drover, as he trotted on to the assistance of the
pack.

The melody of the majority however recalls the cur-ites, and
saves Dicky from the meditated assault.

While the brief check was going on, his lordship was eyeing Miss
de Glancey, thinking of all the quiet captivating women he had
ever seen, she was the most so. Her riding was perfection, and he
couldn’t conceive how it was that he had ever entertained any
objection to sports-women. It must have been from seeing some
clumsy ones rolling about who couldn’t ride; and old Binks’s
chance at that moment was not worth one farthing.

“Where’s Pringle?” now asked his lordship, as the thought of
Binks brought our hero to his recollection.

“Down,” replied Miss de Glancey carelessly, pointing to the
ground with her pretty amethyst-topped whip.

“Down, is he!” smiled the Earl, adding half to himself and half
to her, “thought he was a mull’.”

Our friend indeed has come to grief. After pulling and hauling at
his horse until he got him quite savage, the irritated animal,
shaking his head as a terrier shakes a rat, ran blindfold into a
bullfinch, shooting Billy into a newly-made manure-heap beyond.
The last of the “harryer” men caught his horse, and not knowing
who he belonged to, just threw the bridle-rein over the next
gatepost, while D’Orsay Davis, who had had enough, and was glad
of an excuse for stopping, pulls up to assist Billy out of his
dirty dilemma.

Augh, what a figure he was!

But see! Mr. Boggledike is hitting off the scent, and the
astonished drover is spurring on his pony to escape the
chasetisement Dicky has promised him.

At this critical moment, Miss de Glancey’s better genius
whispered her to go home. She had availed herself of the short
respite to take a sly peep at herself in a little pocket-mirror
she carried in her saddle, and found she was quite as much heated
as was becoming or as could be ventured upon without detriment to
her dress. Moreover, she was not quite sure but that one of her
frizettes was coming out.

So now when the hounds break out in fresh melody, and the Flying
Hatter and Gameboy Green are again elbowing to the front, she
sits reining in her steed, evidently showing she is done.

“Oh, come along!” exclaimed the Earl, looking back for her. “Oh,
come along,” repeated he, waving her onward, as he held in his
horse.

There was no resisting the appeal, for it was clear he would come
back for her if she did, so touching her horse with the whip, she
is again cantering by his side.

“I’d give the world to see you beat that impudent ugly hatter,”
said he, now pointing Hicks out in the act of riding at a stiff
newly-plashed fence before his hounds were half over.

And his lordship spurred his horse as he spoke with a vigour that
spoke the intensity of his feelings.

The line of chase then lay along the swiftly flowing Arrow banks
and across Oxley large pastures, parallel with the Downton
bridle-road, along which Dicky and his followers now pounded;
Dicky hugging himself with the idea that the fox was making for
the main earths on Bringwood moor, to which he knew every yard of
the country.

And so the fox was going as straight and as hard as ever he
could, but as ill luck would have it, young Mr. Nailor, the son
of the owner of Oxley pastures, shot at a snipe at the west
corner of the large pasture just as pug entered at the east,
causing him to shift his line and thread Larchfield plantations
instead of crossing the pasture, and popping down Tillington Dean
as he intended.

Dicky had heard the gun, and the short turn of the hounds now
showing him what had happened, he availed himself of the
superiority of a well-mounted nobleman’s huntsman in scarlet over
a tweed-clad muffin-capped shooter, for exclaiming at the top of
his voice as he cantered past, horn in hand,

“O ye poachin’ davil, what business ‘ave ye there!”

“O ye nasty sneakin’ snarin’ ticket-o’-leaver, go back to the
place from whance you came!” leaving the poor shooter staring
with astonishment.

A twang of the horn now brings the hounds—who have been running
with a flinging catching side-wind scent on to the line, and a
full burst of melody greets the diminished field, as they strike
it on the bright grass of the plantation.

“For—rard! for—rard!” is the cry, though there isn’t a hound but
what is getting on as best as he can.

The merry music reanimates the party, and causes them to press on
their horses with rather more freedom than past exertions
warrant.

Imperial John’s is the first to begin wheezing, but his Highness
feeling him going covers a retreat of his
hundred-and-fifty-guineas-worth, as he hopes he will be, under
shelter of the plantation.

****

“I think the ‘atter’s oss has about ‘ad enough,” now observes
Dicky to his lordship, as he holds open the bridle-gate at the
end of the plantation into the Benington Lane for his lordship
and Miss de Glancey to pass.

“Glad of it,” replied the Earl, thinking the Hatter would not be
able to go home and boast how he had cut down the Tantivy men and
hung them up to dry.

“Old ‘ard, one moment!” now cries Dicky, raising his right hand
as the Hatter comes blundering through the quickset fence into
the hard lane, his horse nearly alighting on his nose.

“Old ‘ard, please!” adds he, as the Hatter spurs among the
road-stooping pack.

“Hooick to Challenger! Hooick to Challenger!” now holloas Dicky,
as Challenger, after sniffing up the grassy mound of the opposite
hedge, proclaims that the fox is over; and Dicky getting his
horse short by the head, slips behind the Hatter’s horse’s tail
for his old familiar friend the gap in the corner, while the
Hatter gathers his horse together to fulfil the honourable
obligation of going with the hounds.

“C—u—r—m up!” cries he, with an _obligato_ accompaniment of the
spur rowels, which the honest beast acknowledges by a clambering
flounder up the bank, making the descent on his head on the field
side that he nearly executed before. The Hatter’s legs perform a
sort of wands of a mill evolution.

“Not hurt, I hope!” holloas the Earl, who with Miss de Glancey
now lands a little above, and seeing the Hatter rise and shake
himself he canters on, giving Miss de Glancey a touch on the
elbow, and saying with a knowing look, “_That’s capital!_ get rid
of him, leggings and all!”

His lordship having now seen the last of his tormentors, has time
to look about him a little.

“Been a monstrous fine run,” observes he to the lady, as they
canter together behind the pace-slackening pack.

“Monstrous,” replies the lady, who sees no fun in it at all.

“How long has it been?” asks his lordship of Swan, who now shows
to the front as a whip-aspiring huntsman is wont to do.

“An hour all but five minutes, my lord,” replies the magnifier,
looking at his watch. “No—no—an hour ‘zactly, my lord,” adds he,
trotting on—restoring his watch to his fob as he goes.

“An hour best pace with but one slight check—can’t have come less
than twelve miles,” observes his lordship, thinking it over.

“Indeed,” replied Miss de Glancey, wishing it was done.

“Grand sport fox-hunting, isn’t it?” asked his lordship, edging
close up to her.

“Charming!” replied Miss de Glancey, feeling her failing
frizette.

The effervescence of the thing is now about over, and the hounds
are reduced to a very plodding pains-taking pace. The day has
changed for the worse, and heavy clouds are gathering overhead.
Still there is a good holding scent, and as the old saying is, a
fox so pressed must stop at last, the few remaining sportsmen
begin speculating on his probable destination, one backing him
for Cauldwell rocks, another for Fulford woods, a third for the
Hawkhurst Hills.

“‘Awk’urst ‘ills for a sovereign!” now cries Dicky, hustling his
horse, as, having steered the nearly mute pack along Sandy-well
banks, Challenger and Sparkler strike a scent on the track
leading up to Sorryfold Moor, and go away at an improving pace.

“‘Awk’urst ‘ills for a fi’-pun note!” adds he, as the rest of the
pack score to cry.

“Going to have rine!” now observes he, as a heavy drop beats upon
his up-turned nose. At the same instant a duplicate drop falls
upon Miss de Glancey’s fair cheek, causing her to wish herself
anywhere but where she was.

Another, and another, and another, follow in quick succession,
while the dark, dreary moor offers nothing but the inhospitable
freedom of space. The cold wind cuts through her, making her
shudder for the result. “He’s for the hills!” exclaims Gameboy
Green, still struggling on with a somewhat worse-for-wear looking
steed.

“He’s for the hills!” repeats he, pointing to a frowning line in
the misty distance.

At the same instant his horse puts his foot in a stone-hole, and
Gameboy and he measure their lengths on the moor.

“That comes of star-gazing,” observed his lordship, turning his
coat-collar up about his ears. “That comes of star-gazing,”
repeats he, eyeing the loose horse scampering the wrong way.

“We’ll see no more of him,” observed Miss de Glancey, wishing she
was as well out of it as Green.

“Not likely, I think,” replied his lordship, seeing the evasive
rush the horse gave, as Speed, who was coming up with some tail
hounds, tried to catch him.

The heath-brushing fox leaves a scent that fills the painfully
still atmosphere with the melody of the hounds, mingled with the
co-beck—co-beck—co-beck of the startled grouse. There is a solemn
calm that portends a coming storm. To Miss de Clancey, for whom
the music of the hounds has no charms, and the fast-gathering
clouds have great danger, the situation is peculiarly
distressing. She would stop if she durst, but on the middle of a
dreary moor how dare she.

An ominous gusty wind, followed by a vivid flash of lightning and
a piercing scream from Miss de Glancey, now startled the Earl’s
meditations.

“Lightning!” exclaimed his lordship, turning short round to her
assistance. “Lightning in the month of November—never heard of
such a thing!”

But ere his lordship gets to Miss de Glancey’s horse, a most
terrific clap of thunder burst right over head, shaking the earth
to the very centre, silencing the startled hounds, and satisfying
his lordship that it _was_ lightning.

Another flash, more vivid if possible than the first, followed by
another pealing crash of thunder, more terrific than before,
calls all hands to a hurried council of war on the subject of
shelter.

“We must make for the Punch-bowl at Rockbeer,” exclaims General
Boggledike, flourishing his horn in an ambiguous sort of way, for
he wasn’t quite sure he could find it.

“_You_ know the Punch-bowl at Rockbeer!” shouts he to Harry Swan,
anxious to have some one on whom to lay the blame if he went
wrong.

“I know it when I’m there,” replied Swan, who didn’t consider it
part of his duty to make imaginary runs to ground for his
lordship.

“Know it when you’re there, man,” retorted Dicky in disgust; “why
any————” the remainder of his sentence being lost in a
tremendously illuminating flash of lightning, followed by a long
cannonading, reverberating roll of thunder.

Poor Miss de Glancey was ready to sink into the earth.

113m

_Original Size_

“_Elope, hounds! elope!_” cried Dicky, getting his horse short by
the head, and spurring him into a brisk trot. “_Elope, hounds!
elope!_” repeated he, setting off on a speculative cast, for he
saw it was no time for dallying.

And now,

“From cloud to cloud the rending lightnings rage; Till in the furious elemental war Dissolved, the whole precipitated mass, Unbroken floods and solid torrents pour.”

Luckily for Dicky, an unusually vivid flash of lightning so lit
up the landscape as to show the clump of large elms at the
entrance to Rockbeer; and taking his bearings, he went swish
swash, squirt spurt, swish swash, squirt spurt, through the
spongy, half land, half water moor, at as good a trot as he could
raise. The lately ardent, pressing hounds follow on in long-drawn
file, looking anything but large or formidable. The frightened
horses tucked in their tails, and looked fifty per cent. worse
for the suppression. The hard, driving rain beats downways, and
sideways, and frontways, and backways—all ways at once. The
horses know not which way to duck, to evade the storm. In less
than a minute Miss de Glancey is as drenched as if she had taken
a shower-bath. The smart hat and feathers are annihilated; the
dubious frizette falls out, down comes the hair; the
bella-donna-inspired radiance of her eyes is quenched; the
Crinoline and wadding dissolve like ice before the fire; and ere
the love-cured Earl lifts her off her horse at the Punch-bowl at
Rockbeer, she has no more shape or figure than an icicle. Indeed
she very much resembles one, for the cold sleet, freezing as it
fell, has encrusted her in a rich coat of ice lace, causing her
saturated garments to cling to her with the utmost pertinacity. A
more complete wreck of a belle was, perhaps, never seen.

“_What an object!_” inwardly ejaculated she, as Mrs.
Hetherington, the landlady, brought a snivelling mould candle
into the cheerless, fireless little inn-parlour, and she caught a
glimpse of herself in the—at best—most unbecoming mirror. What
would she have given to have turned back!

And as his lordship hurried up stairs in his water-logged boots,
he said to himself, with a nervous swing of his arm, “I was
right!—women _have_ no business out hunting.” And the Binks
chance improved amazingly.

The further _denouement_ of this perishing day will be gleaned
from the following letters.