Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (13 page)

Here was a fresh gathering—the cream of the hunt—the gentlemen who came late, in fact, Newton and Snobson, and Hastler, and Spooner, the two Bibbings, with Spencer Jones, and Burgess and Scarratt, with the usual concomitant grooms. Great were the nudgings, and starings, and what next-ings as the cavalcade approached. The like had never been seen in the Heavyside Hunt.

“Well done, Romford!” exclaimed one.

“Who'd ha' thought it?” muttered another.

“A lady whipper-in,” observed a third.

“A deuced pretty one, too,” observed young Spooner, drawing his horse round to have a good stare at her.

And very pretty she was. Nicely hatted, nicely habited, nicely horsed, nicely arranged altogether.

So thought they all as she passed along, looking down demurely, as if she thought of nobody, and thought nobody thought of her. That of course was a little acting.

“Mornin',” said Facey, “mornin', mornin',” continued he, giving two or three random shots of nods at the different groups of sportsmen as he passed, several of whom took off their hats to the lady. He then made for a piece of rising ground a little to the left of the guide-post, in order to give his hounds a roll on the greensward prior to throwing off. And as he showed no symptoms of a desire to introduce his fair friend to this the first-class portion of his field either, they renewed their criticisms as soon as the cavalcade was past.

“Why, that's Mrs Rounding's horse,” observed Jones.

“So it is,” said Mr Newton. “Thought there couldn't be two of that colour.”

“They say he's vicious,” observed Hastler.

“Nothing of the sort,” replied Newton. “Mrs Rounding has no hand. See! that lady can do what she likes with him,” added he, watching Lucy's light hand, as she twisted and turned the horse about at her will.

“Who is she?” asked Mr George Bibbing, pressing up.

“Don't know,” answered Hastler, with a shake of the head.

“I do,” observed Jones, with a knowing wink.

“Well, who?” asked several.

“The lady at the ‘West-end Swell,' to be sure,” replied he, after a pause.

“Oh, nonsense,” rejoined Bibbing, “not a bit like her.”

“As like as ladies generally are in hats and habits to what they are in dresses.”

“Well, they do make a great difference to be sure,” observed Snobson, who had mistaken Mrs for Miss Noakes, once.

“But what is she doing here?” demanded Spooner.

“Better ask the master that,” replied Bibbing.

Facey, however, didn't look at all like a man to take liberties with, as he sat in the midst of his hounds, his little watchful ferrety eyes peeping and peering about in all directions; to “see how,” as he said, “the cat jumped.”

Lucy, on her part, took things very quietly, apparently paying more attention to the hounds than watching who was looking at her, though of course she still kept an eye out for admiration. Leotard also behaved most amiably, answering the touch of her light hand on the plain snaffle-bit, now turning Pillager, now following Rummager, as though he were personally interested in the order and decorum of the pack. At length, time being up,—a quarter to eleven,—Facey gave Lucy a nod, and after a wide-spreading run through the common, a slight twang of the horn brought the hounds to his horse's heels, and away they all jogged for Falcondale Wood.

“You take the high side,” said Facey to Lucy, as they now approached the cover—a long straggling wood, placed on a steepish hill-side. “You take the high side, and blow this whistle if he breaks,” continued he, giving her a shrill dog-whistle as he spoke; whereupon Lucy scuttled away up the rough side at the east end of the wood, closely followed by sundry swells, who preferred watching her to keeping along the low fields as usual.

“Cover, hoick!” cried Facey to his hounds, with a slight wave of his arm, and in an instant they were tumbling and scrambling head over heels through the blind fence into the wood. Facey, mounted on Brilliant, then rode quietly along on the line, keeping a watchful eye as well on the now wide spreading pack in the cover as on the Lucy-pressing youths up above. He had only sixteen couple of hounds out, having brought nothing but what he could depend upon. They had not been in cover many minutes, ere old black-and-tan Vanquisher, who had hurried along a path with a palpable but still unproclaimable scent, struck up a little fern-covered ravine, and as nearly as possible had old Reynard by the neck. But the fox bounced with a desperate energy that aroused the whole pack; a crash sounded through the wood as they hurried together, while the shrill sound of the whistle presently proclaimed he was gone. Facey got his horse by the head, and cramming into the ragged fence, cleared the wide water-channel beyond, and forced his way up the wooded bank, regardless alike of stubs, briars, and thorns. Another effort over a broad rail-topped mound, with a yawner on the far side, landed him handsomely on farmer Bushell's fallow, just as the hounds, closely followed by Lucy, were straining over the large grass-field beyond. There was a rare scent. Every hound threw his tongue, making the welkin ring with the melody. So they raced up Amerton Hill, past Nutwell grove and Kellerton Law, through Oakley Wood beyond. The pace presently slackened; hunting became more the order of the day, to the satisfaction of the majority of the field, who preferred seeing the intricacies of the chase unravelled, to being borne furiously along at a pace that did not allow them to look after anything but themselves. Thus they hunted steadily past Brackenhill Green, skirting Orton Moor, leaving the Scar on the left, down the banks by the Winwick road, into the Vale of Heatherfield below. Lucy and Facey, or rather Facey and Lucy, kept their places gallantly, Leotard going with the greatest temper and moderation, as though he were the best-behaved horse in the world.

Whatever Facey took, Lucy took; and whatever Lucy took, the young H.H.'s felt constrained to take, for the honour and credit of the hunt. So there was more dashing riding and heavy fencing on this occasion than usual. Romford, to do him justice, was always with his hounds, though Daniel Swig and Chowey both knew how to shirk. The steady hounds still kept pressing on, carrying the scent over the sandy soil of Heatherfield Vale with laudable pertinacity. This enabled the “heavy fathers” of the stage—the paterfamilias of the hunt—to come up, and presently the Westham and Studland road resounded with the ringing hoofs of the horses, and the laughing hilarity of the riders, each overjoyed at getting such a near view. And the slower the pace, the more they enjoyed it. “Splendid hounds! Finest run that ever was seen! By Jove! they're away again!” And scarcely had the fatties given their horses the wind, and the youngsters looked down for lost shoes, ere Harmony and Desperate, having got upon a warm headland, gave such a proclamation of satisfaction as brought all their fellows to the enjoyment, making young and old again drop on their reins. The hunt was up! Facey's round shoulders were again careering in the distance, and Lucy's plump figure was equally conspicuous. So they raced away, the hounds passing handsomely through the deer in Beechborough Park, round Sorrel Hill, past the limekilns at Dewlish, and into Langley Lordship beyond. And here the first check occurred. The fox had been chased by a shepherd's dog, and the mischief was increased by a complication of sheep. The stupid muttons were just wheeling into line as Facey slipped through the farmyard on the hill.

“Hold hard!” cried he, raising his hand high in the air, to enforce quiet from those behind, while his hounds made their own cast ere he interfered with them. They spread and cast well to the front, to the right, to the left,—but no scent. The fox has been forced back on his line, and the field are all over the ground. The steam of the horses, the chatter of the followers, and the clatter of the roadsters, increase the disaster. Facey sits transfixed, one keen eye watching the hounds, the other raking the country round. At length he sees the black author of the mischief skulking along a hedgerow to his smock-frocked master, who appears at a railing at the far corner of the field.

“Case for a cast,” says Facey to himself; and getting his horse by the head, he halloas “Turn them,” to Lucy, who forthwith gets round them in a quiet but most masterly manner, and a single twang of Facey's horn, with a crack of her whip, sent them all flying the way Facey wanted them. He then gave them plenty of swing, letting them use their own sagacity as much as possible, and was rewarded at the end of a semicircular cast by hitting oft the scent at a meuse.

“Well done!” “Devilish well done!” “Capitally done!” cried the field, more to Lucy than Facey, as the hounds dashed over the fence into the turnip-field beyond, and took up the running inside the hedgerow. Being on turf, with a pleasant vista of white gates before them, the field kept on that tack, and Facey went scuttling along, throwing wide the portals as he passed. The best of friends, however, must part, and the line of gates at length came to an abrupt termination in a very rough, tangled boundary fence between Mr Pilkington's and Emmerson Gunliffe's farms, at Shepherdswell Hill. It seemed as if it was made up of all the rubbish and refuse of the country, and zigzagged like a lady's vandyked petticoat, wasting and spoiling a great width of land.

For the first time in the run, Facey changed his mind as he approached the fence, turning from a tangled black thorn lapped with mountain ash, to a still more impervious-looking ivy-blind place.

“Dash it! but this is a rum customer,” said Facey to Lucy, as he stood erect in his stirrups, looking what was on the far side.

“Oh, throw your heart over it,” said Lucy, “and then follow it as quickly as you can.”

“Heart!” muttered Facey. “I shall never find it again if I do. It would be like lookin' for a needle in a bundle of hay.”

“Let
me
try, then,” said Lucy, backing Leotard to give him a good run at it. She then put his head straight, gave him a slight touch of the whip and a feel of the spur, and was presently floundering in the thick of the fence.

“I thought how it would be,” said Facey, jumping off his horse, and running to her assistance. But before he got up, another vigorous effort of the horse extricated her from her difficulties, and landed her in the next field, with a considerable quantity of burrs and briars in her habit.

“Well done the lady!” cried the panting Mr Goldthrop, now coming up, not only pleased, but grateful for the performance.

If Facey would but charge it too, the field might all be able to get through. What a place it was!

And Facey, having clambered back into his saddle, turned his horse quick round, and thrusting his hat down on his brow, claimed his right of saltation. They were all ready to yield him the
pas
, services of danger being generally at a discount, and Romford was presently planted in the midst of the thicket, which Leotard had done little to enlarge. Scramble they went, the horse fighting and struggling as if in the sea, Facey sitting with his feet out of the stirrups, ready to throw himself off clear if required. It, however, was not necessary, for Brilliant, after many flounders, with a tremendous heave, extricated himself from a woodbine-laced binder that held him, and landed on his nose on the opposite side. He was up like lightning, and Facey, who held on by the mane and his spurs, being chucked back into his seat, gathered himself together, and ere he sat, gave a cheering exclamation of “There's nothing on the far side!” But if there was nothing on the far side, there was a great deal on theirs, as many of them seem to be aware. However, it was no time for measuring, and Leotard's friend, Tom Heslop, coming up on a three-parts-broken cart colt, dashed manfully in, and fought a road safely through in the miraculous way peculiar to drunken men. What before was all doubt and obscurity, suddenly became clear and transparent. It was then who should get at it first. No “I'll hold your horse if you'll catch mine,” or friendly negotiation of that sort. Meanwhile, the hounds had shot sadly away, leaving not a trace of their melody behind; and but for the clubbing of sheep and the staring of cattle, the H.H. gentlemen would hardly have known which way to ride. To be sure, an occasional countryman, after a prolonged stare, in reply to the inquiry if he had seen the hounds, would drawl out, “Ye-a-s, ar see'd them,” but none of them could muster intelligence enough to answer “where,” ere the questioner was out of ear-shot. However, they rode on, hopefully and manfully: the young ones, as usual, abusing the fox for taking such a line, the old ones wishing they might come up with them again before they killed.

Fortune, however, always favours the brave, and after clattering through the little straggling straw-thatched village of Reepham bringing all the women and children to the doors in bewildered astonishment, Mr Friar's quick eye caught sight of a red-coat topping the edge on the opposite hill, up whose sandy side ran the road they were then pursuing.

“Yonder they go!” cried he, pointing it out with his whip, though he did not know how far the hounds might be ahead of the coat. But riding to anything was better than riding to nothing, galloping about the country, exclaiming, “Have you seen the hounds?”

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.