Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (37 page)

“Wish you mayn't ha' given him o'er much law,” now observed he, as Romford came trotting up.

“What, he's fresh, is he?” asked our master.

“Fresh as a four-year-old—went off like a shot,” replied Proudlock.

“So much the better,” rejoined Romford. “Don't care if he beats us;” adding to himself, “no credit in killin' a bag-fox—rather a disgrace, oi should say.”

Mrs Somerville then came cantering up, with the remaining hounds frolicking about her horse, and Mr Romford having now got his short pack reunited, Proudlock opened the gate into the wood, and in they all went together.

“Half way up the ride I struck him,” said Proudlock, “and he went briskly away as far as ever I could see.”

“All right,” said Romford, trotting on briskly.

And sure enough, just where a large wind-blown beech formed a comfortable resting-place for our friend after his exertions in carrying the fox, a sudden thrill of excitement shot through the pack as though they had been suddenly operated upon by a galvanic battery, and away they all went with an outburst of melody, that alarmed every denizen of the wood.

“That's him!” exclaimed Proudlock, coming up at a very galloping, dreary, done, sort of pace—refreshing the old pony with a knotty dog whip as he rode.

“No doubt,” replied Romford, getting the now pulling Baker well by the head. Lucy did the same by Leotard, and away they scuttled up the green ride together, leaving friend Proudlock immeasurably in the lurch. It is a sorry performance to see a retired giant toiling after a pack of hounds on a broken-winded pony.

The fox, however, had not made his exit on arriving at the rough oak rails at the top of the ride that commanded the open for though there was nothing to impede his progress, still he was confused and uncomfortable, and had not got the cramp out of his legs from confinement in the box, so that the Romford digression into the wrong wood was very convenient, and the fox availed himself of it to take a quiet trial of speed by himself along a grassy slope to the left. The further he went, the fresher he got, till he felt himself regaining his pristine strength; and after two or three rolls and stretches on the grassy mead, was beginning to cast about for a permanent resting-place, when the light note of Romford's horn, calling his hounds out of the first cover, came wafted on the breeze to where he was, now in the full enjoyment of his delectable liberty.

One twang was enough. It shot through his every nerve, and flourishing his brush with a triumphant whisk, he trotted away at a good, steady, holding pace, keeping as much out of sight by following the low grounds as he could. For he argued, very rationally, that even if the horn boded him no harm, still he was just as well in one strange place as another; while if it was any of those troublesome hunters in search of one of his class, the greater distance he placed between them and himself the better. So he went steadily on, not running to exhaust himself, but going as if he felt quite grateful for his freedom, and determined to do his utmost to retain it. Meanwhile friend Romford, with his short but efficient pack, had opened on his line, and the first outburst of melody coming down wind, confirmed the fox's worst suspicions as at first excited by the twang of the horn.

He had now little doubt it was the hounds, if not after him, after one of his own species, for whom he did not care to stand proxy; so he employed a very vigilant eye in scanning the country, with ears well back to catch any extraneous sound that might come. He wasn't going to be caught, if he could help it. And Romford being a fair-dealing man, and not at all inclined to take advantage of an over-matched animal, let his mettlesome hounds flash half over the fallow outside the wood without calling them back, though truthful Vanquisher refused to go an inch be yond the oak rails. Then when their misleading notes gradually died out, Vanquisher's deep-toned tongue was heard proclaiming the right line to the left, and back they all swung, dashing and hurrying as if to snatch the laurels of accuracy from his brow. And when they got to where the fox had rolled, there was such a proclamation of satiety as sounded like the outburst of forty months instead of twenty. Still it was not a great scenting day but Mr Romford did not care for that, and went as leisurely along as a master of harriers, instead of bustling and aggravating his great round shoulders into convulsions, as was his wont when he had a bad scent and a good fox before him. Indeed, he kept looking about in all the unlikely places for a wild fox to be, fearing lest the unfortunate fugitive should fall into the jaws of the pack without a chance for his life. But our worthy master was too careless, or too conscientious, for while he was thus dallying, letting the hounds hunt every yard of the scent, the fox was pursuing the even tenor of his way, over Linton Lordship, and so across Makenrace Common to Arkenfield.

It was a captious, fleeting, catching scent, the hounds sometimes running almost mute, and sometimes tearing along with such a chorus or melody as looked as if they would change from scent to view, and run into him in a minute.

“Look out, Lucy!” Facey kept exclaiming, “look out! he's somewhere here;” but still the fox showed not, and first one hound and then another led the onward chorus, just as Romford expected to be handling him. And now the cry of the hounds attracted the roving population of the country. Mr Makepiece, the Union Doctor, Header, the horse-dealer, Herdman, the cattle-jobber, and Bartlett, the capless butcher's boy, on an extremely fractious tail-foremost chestnut pony.

“Is it a fox or a har?” asked Header, not knowing what to make of the medley.

“How far hey ye brought him?” demanded the butcher's boy; but Mr Romford didn't deign to give an answer to either.

“Keep that fiery steed of yours off the hounds,” was all the notice he took of the latter.

Then the hounds, having got upon a sound old pasture, set to running with such determined energy and vehemence, that, for the first time since they found, or rather went away, Facey kicked the Baker into a canter. Away Lucy and he went at a pace that, with the aid of a hog-backed stile out of the pasture, a wall out of the next field, and a scientifically-cut hedge beyond, soon shook off their recently joined comrades.

The hounds had now been running some five-and-twenty minutes or more, and Facey began to think better of the bagman than before; he almost thought he might beat them; didn't care if he did. “Poor is the triumph over the timid bagman,” said he.

The country, which had been cramped and awkward at first, now gradually improved—more grass, larger fields, fewer trees. If the fox did not take the best line that he might, he took far from a bad one; and, moreover, avoided all those points of publicity that too palpably betray the stranger. Lucy half thought he might be a wild one they had got on by mistake, but Facey saw by the want of confidence among his hounds, and the vacillating course of the animal, that it was not the real thing. Indeed, at times, if he hadn't known it was a fox, he would have thought he was hunting a hare. So he cheered and encouraged the hounds in an easy careless sort of way, still letting them do their own work. “No use keepin' a dog, and barkin' one's self,” thought he, as he slouched his great self in his saddle on the now placid Joe Baker. “If they can't tell which way he's gone, sure I can't,” continued he, watching their working. “Deuced good lot of hounds,” added he, admiring their performances. Then they went away again with a screech.

At the cross roads by Welton Pound up came Timothy Scorer, the perennially drunken horsebreaker, in a high state of excitement, on a sweaty curly-coated bay filly, with its head all over entanglement, like the bowsprit of a ship. Tim had met the fox full in the face by the reservoir of Thistleworth Mill, and had not yet got over his astonishment at the sight.

“Biggest fox that ever was seen! Had nearly knocked his mar off her legs,” he said, his spluttering vehemence contrasting with Mr Romford's easy indifference.

“Nearly knocked the mar off her legs!” exclaimed Timothy, trying to wheel her round out of the way of the hounds.

“You don't say so,” replied Romford. “Why, it must have been a wolf or a ram!”

Wolf or fox the hounds kept steadily on, if not with so good a scent as before, still with a holding one that occasionally rose into running.

And getting now into a more populous country, the magnetic influence of a pack of hounds again operated on the casual horsemen; and by the time the pack skirted the little agricultural village of Pendleton, the field had swelled to the number of six—viz., Mr Smith, the miller of the aforementioned Thistleworth Mill; Lawson, the road surveyer; Dweller, the auctioneer; Facey, and Lucy; with a fustian-clad servant on a white pony, who seemed inclined to give the letter-bag a round with the hounds, instead of carrying it on to its destination.

Here, too, there were symptoms of landlord farming—greener fields, trimmer fences, better gates. And, a wretched tailless cur having chased the fox and in his vehemence nearly knocked his own stupid brains out against a rubbing post, the line no took over that improved country, with a still further diminished scent, in consequence of the encounter from the cur.

If well-kept fences are more pleasant to the eye, they have the disadvantage of being more difficult to get over; and those that our friends now approached were so carefully tended, so skilfully mended with old wire-rope, as scarcely to present any preferable place. It was pretty much of a muchness where they took them. However, neither Facey nor Lucy were people to turn away; and, after two or three well-executed leaps, they were rewarded by getting into more open and park-like ground. Indeed, they were in a park—none other than Tarring Neville Park, the seat of our distinguished friend, Mr Hazey, though a well-wooded hill at present shut out the mansion from their view. On, on they went Facey more bent on watching the working of his hounds, than mindful of the country through which they were passing. And, as the line of scent inclined down the now grassy slope, of course Facey followed down the grassy slope; and as it then diverged along the side of a sparkling stream, why, along the side of the sparkling stream he went also, wondering, as he rode, whether there were any trout in it. “Shouldn't be s'prised if there were,” he said.

And as the hounds were casting about, here, there, and everywhere—Romford acting “sleeping partner” as before—a puffing, turban-capped youth suddenly rushed up, and breathlessly demanded to know “what they were doing there?”

“Hunting a fox, to be sure,” replied Facey, holding his hounds on towards an enclosed belt of wood by the side of the stream.

Then the youth looked at Romford, and Romford looked at the youth; and it occurred to them simultaneously that they had seen each other before.

“Why, it's Mr Romford, isn't it?” asked the youth, now appealing to Lucy, who was putting on the hounds to her brother; “and Mrs Somerville,” added he, taking off his cap respectfully to the handsome lady as he spoke.

“Oh, Mr Hazey! how do you do?” rejoined our fair friend, leaning forward and tendering him her hand, Lucy's quicker perception enabled her to detect in the heterogeneous garments the smart young gentleman who accompanied his father to call upon them on the Sunday.

It was, indeed, Bill—Hazey's boy Bill—now sent out to discharge (for the thirteenth time) old Mr Muggeridge, as Hazey thought, from bowling about Tarring Neville with the rum-and-milk harriers. Finding his mistake, Bill was anxious to efface the abruptness of his inquiry, and now ran on alongside of Lucy to where Romford was still holding his feathering hounds on the waning scent. The more likely the fox seemed to beat Facey, the more anxious Facey felt to beat the fox. “Didn't do to be beaten by a bagman!” he muttered.

“Mr Romford! Mr Romford!” now exclaimed Lucy, coming up with Bill and a couple-and-a-half of straggling hounds; “here's Mr Hazey! here's Mr Hazey!”

“Hazey, is there?” retorted Romford; adding to Affable,
“for-rard on,
good bitch!
for-rard on!
How are you, sir?” continued he, looking hastily over his shoulder, adding, “Oh, it's you, is it?” seeing it was the son; “how are ye? How's the old 'un?” meaning his brother master of hounds. “Yoicks, Challenger: good dog—speak to him again! How's the old 'un?” repeated he, turning again to his hounds.

“Nicely, thank you; how are you?” replied the boy Bill.

“You've not seen the fox, have you?” asked Mr Romford without noticing the inquiry after his own health.

“No,” replied Bill.

“Deuced odd,” rejoined Mr Romford; “deuced odd. Ran him quite briskly up to within half-a-mile of this place, since when the scent's been gettin' weaker and weaker. Humph!” added he, as he sat watching the energies of the hounds gradually subsiding. “Seems to be gone altogether!” muttered he. “What place is this?” now demanded Mr Romford of his young friend.

“This! replied Bill. “This is Tarring Neville—our place, you know.”

“Tarring Neville, is it?” muttered Facey. “Well, mind,” added he, after a pause, “I brought this fox out of my own country,” fearing lest old Hazey might make reprisal upon him; adding, “and if I can kill him above ground, you know, I may.”

The scent, however, now failed altogether—even yellow-pied Vanquisher gave it up.

“I'll just make one cast,” observed Facey, half to Lucy half to himself; and then, turning to Bill, he added, “and we'll come up to the stables, and get some gruel for the horses.”

“Do,” replied Bill; adding, “and some breakfast for yourselves.”

“Breakfast!” muttered Facey; “more like dinner, I should think!” forgetting how early he had come out.

He then cast his hounds for the first time during the run, making a very comprehensive semicircular advance, which brought him right in front of Tarring Neville.