Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (44 page)

M
R
H
AZEY BEING, AS WE SAID
before, duly impressed with Mr Romford's importance, not only as a sportsman but a man of great social position, had marshaled his forces with an eye to general effect. Jawkins the huntsman, and Peter the whip, commonly called Peter Simple, were charged to put on clean ties and polish their boots to the utmost extremity, while Silkey the groom was cajoled into doing his best with the horses by the promise of an excursion to Kittlefield fair on the Monday. The hounds, too, were most carefully drawn—drawn as well with an eye to pace and endurance as to the more obvious qualities of colour and size. There is no master of hounds, however insignificant, who does not think he can astonish his friends with his powers, or with something about his establishment.

Jawkins was well named, for he was a bustling, noisy, shallow, show-off little fellow, continually holloaing and blowing his horn. As he never went to see any other pack of hounds but his own, he was perfectly satisfied with the Hard and Sharps, and had no doubt Facey would be equally pleased with them. If he, Facey, wasn't, he'd be no great judge, Jawkins thought. He was a good hand at puffing and selling hounds, and was in fact the Silkey of the kennel. Peter's nickname of Simple describes him. He was a silly fellow, a man that might be made to do almost anything.

What with Jawkins in a fuss and Peter in a flurry, a fox had an uncommonly good chance of escape. Peter had passed from place to place with great rapidity, sometimes getting through half a season, sometimes through a whole one, but never through two, till he came to friend Hazey. Still Peter was a smartish young fellow, and, like the gentleman who sat a horse with firmness, ease, and grace until the horse began to move, Peter's deficiencies were not apparent until the hounds began to hunt. Hazey, however, had him at his own price, and Peter was not only willing to make himself generally useful during the week, but also to go, too, for the letters and papers on a Sunday.

But here they come—hounds, horses, and all; Jawkins on Catch-'em-alive-O; Peter on Robin Adair, with Silkey riding Valentine for his much respected master. They trot gaily over the greensward, pass down the dip in the park to the well, and, making a bold sweep round the now leafless birches, come smartly up to the front with the air of the Inns of Court Volunteers. Here they halt for admiration; and now the inmates of the house, having duly satisfied nature, rise from the
débris
of breakfast and make for the windows, while the butler and footman come into the room to rearrange matters for any chance comers. Mrs Hazey and Anna Maria alone maintain their positions at the table—Mrs still presiding at the handsome melon-patterned tea service, while Miss takes charge of the coffee.

And now the door bell begins to twitch and tingle and ring, according to the status and nerves of the party pulling the brass knob—Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent. making the house resound with his summons, while little Mr Sheepshanks scarcely makes himself heard. In the guests come straddling and clanking their spurs, and frizzing up their side hair, all thinking themselves uncommonly killing. Then, after bobs and bows and shakes of the hand are exchanged with Mrs Hazey and Miss, the new comers apply themselves vigorously to the viands, and the process of deglutition is again in full force. And the cry is still, They come, they come! till Gritty the cook almost begins to fear for a famine. But as the kitchen-maid butters her last batch of hot rolls there is a sudden lull, neither entrance nor breakfast-room bell re-sound. The run is over, and Gritty retires to the cupboard to recruit with a glass of “Matchless Old Tom Gin.”

And now, after certain mysterious looks and nudges, something is said about the “weed,” and forthwith the return match of hand-shaking and grinning is played, and after a scramble for hats, caps, and whips in the passage, a certain sound then indicates and a scratching noise announces fire, and, the front door being hurriedly opened, a group of aspiring youths rush out and range themselves under the Italian-columned portico of the house for an inaugural smoke. Here they are presently joined by others, who have also beat a retreat, until the steps are as crowded as those of the “Rag” on a Derby night. And they whiff and puff and smoke and blow a great variety of curiously-shaped clouds. At length the pent-up torrent of humanity is burst by Mr Hazey appearing with his distinguished guest, Mrs Somerville, on his arm, followed by Romford with rather a formidable looking whip under his. The crowd then start and distribute themselves, some going up to the garden, some along the holly walk, others going down to stare the hounds out of countenance. And Facey, thinking to see their performance in the field, follows smoking suit, with his old briar-root pipe, and wanders away to the stables. Hazey then lionises Lucy: shows her his ducks, points out Spiceington spire on the hill, and Lord Dundreary's seat in the distance. Meanwhile the equestrian plot thickens. The heavy subscribers, men entitled to be late, come cantering up, whom Hazey greets with a fervor apportioned to the price and punctuality of their payments. And now an exclamation is heard of—

“There! there's my boy Bill!” from Hazey, pointing out his son turning on to the lawn on a good-looking grey—“There! there's my boy Bill! Show me the man who turns his son out better than I turn out my boy Bill!” Then, taking young Mr Heslop aside, he whispered in his ear, “That's a horse that would suit you now—safest, most temperate animal I ever was on; and
cheap,
too,” added he in a still lower key, with a squeeze of Heslop's arm.

“Well, but what do you call cheap?” asked Heslop, who knew that it was a term of various interpretation.

“Well,” said Hazey, scrutinising his victim attentively—“well, I'll tell you in two words—I'll tell you in two words—but first let me say that it's no use offering me less than I ask. I want eighty guineas for him, and I won't even take punds.”

Hazey had given eight-and-twenty for him about three weeks before, and had spent an hour in vainly endeavouring to get the seller to give him a sovereign back.

“Hem,” mused Mr Heslop, who wanted a horse for about the price Hazey had given. “Hem, I'll see how he goes.”

“Do,” rejoined Hazey, and he took an early opportunity of telling his boy Bill to keep near Mr Heslop, and show off his horse to the best advantage, keeping clear of water, of which the beast was rather shy.

But here comes Lucy on Leotard, accompanied by brother Romford on that magnificent good-for-nothing weight-carrier Everlasting, closely followed by the curious yellow and white fan-bearded gentleman, Mr Bonus,
alias
Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent., on a very inferior looking shrimp of an animal. Ten-and-a-half is much struck with Lucy, and does not think the less of her for having two thousand a year. Would make it into four, if he had her, in no time. He doesn't know whether Mrs Somerville looks best in a morning or an evening costume. The habit is very becoming to her, but then how elegant looking she was in full dress overnight. There were plenty of other gentlemen equally enamoured, but Facey kept a watchful eye on the whole, looking as if he was ready either to kick or strike.

Hazey, on his part, is much struck with Everlasting's magnificent appearance; above all with his fine arch neck, telling how lightly he would play with the bit and bend to the bridle. Hazey had noticed the gag in the Baker's mouth on the bag fox day, and guessed what his peculiarity was. Here, however, there seemed to be no mistake; light free action, undeniable shape, fine shoulders, beautiful head, full of intelligence,—altogether as fine an animal as ever he set eyes on. And Hazey felt flattered at Mr Romford bringing such a horse into his hunt—evidently one of his best—and showing that he thought the Hard and Sharp hounds required some catching.

And now, time being up, and a quarter of an hour's law being given to boot—for Hazey was always in a greater hurry to leave off than he was to begin—all parties having at length got together, the cavalcade moved off in a cluster, hounds first, Hazey next, supported on either side by Lucy and Facey. Great were the hopes of the Hard and Sharpites that they would astonish our Master. If they only had a chance, they thought, they could not fail to do so. Mr Romford's might be good hounds, but theirs, they were quite sure, were better. In fact, nothing could be better than theirs. Then they criticised and made their commentaries on Lucy. Deuced handsome woman she was—best turned-out woman they had ever seen. Most perfect model of a lady's horse she was on. Then there were inquiries as to whether she rode, so that they might not be cut down by her. But this question could not be answered. Bonus, however, believed so.

Hazey, in a general way, was never in a great hurry about finding, preferring one run a day to two, as indeed did most of his field; but on this occasion he stretched a point, and stopped a greater extent of country than usual, right up to Hawkworth Hills indeed. So, after making two or three insignificant places safe, as he called it, he gave the word for Rockwoodside; and forth with the bump of earnestness began to develop itself in the in creased bobbing of the caps and the extra working of the elbows and legs of Jawkins and Co. in advance with the hounds. Then the field got their horses short by the head; the steady old hunters bobbing on at their ease, the fractious ones pulling and fretting in a very disagreeable way to their riders.

So the gay cavalcade passed along Narrow Lane, round Grindstone Quarry Hill, and through the Scotch fir clump at Cornbrook, to avoid the great staring toll-bar at Latchford Law. Hazey never disturbed a 'pikeman if he could help it.

Fortune generally favours a master of hounds anxious to show sport. She is more considerate to them than she is to the “racing gents,” who are frequently drenched with rain and other unpleasantnesses. Not that rain can do foxhunters any harm; but fortune is generally propitious to them in other things,—good fox, good scent, good country, good find, good finish; all the “goods” the gods can provide, in fact. The sport is generally either very good or very bad.

And now the subsiding caps in front denote the approach to the cover, and the words, “Here we are!” presently passes along the line. Jawkins next pulls up, and Peter Simple presents a broadside to the field, to keep them off the valuable hounds. “War horse, Rachel!” cries he, taking a left-handed cut at the delinquent. “Have a care there, Prosperous!” hitting him, as he had missed the other.

The cover was a beautifully retired one,—just the sort of place in which a peace-loving fox might be expected to dwell, being an angular five-acre wood, lying in a dell at the junction of three grassy hills. Whichever way a fox broke, he was sure to be viewed by the whole of the field,—a great encouragement to those who, perchance, might not see him at any other time.

And now being all ready for the fray, Lucy, Facey, field, and all, Mr Hazey gives a nod to Jawkins, who gives another to his hounds, and away they dash into cover, as if each one knew the whereabouts of the fox and meant to have him by the neck in no time. Hazey's hounds were always very keen at the beginning, but their ardour very soon cooled.

“
Yoicks, wind him!”
cheers Jawkins, as much to show he is huntsman as anything else, while Peter Simple cuts away to a corner up which Reynard sometimes slips unperceived. And scarcely has Peter got there ere a very cool, collected, ruddy-coated gentleman, head in air, with brush extended, comes trotting up the ride below, looking as if he didn't exactly know whether the noise he heard proceeded from the hounds or from some hawbuck exercising his lungs. But the sight of Simple's sapient countenance satisfying Reynard on that point, he gave his well-tagged brush a sort of defiant whisk in the air, as much as to say, “Now, old stupid, what are you staring at? Why ain't you lookin' arter the cows?”

“Talli-ho!”
now screams the excited Simple, in a way that would infallibly have headed a pusillanimous fox, but this gentle man being one of the flying sort, and having, moreover, no great opinion of Jawkins' abilities, merely increases his speed, and, passing up the gorge between the hills, makes his way into the open. “Gone away! gone away!” screamed the half-frantic Peter, and then what screams, and whoops, and yells, and shrieks resound from the far end of the cover, how the pullers begin to get the bits in their months, and the funkers to look out for their leaders. “Which way! which way!” is the cry. “Where's Smith? where's Snooks? where's Noakes? where's Tomkins?”

Meanwhile the hounds, having got a capital start, shot well ahead, making the possibility of being overriden or even pressed upon quite extinct, for the scent is first-rate, and the country most favourable. So they race, and fling, and press, and snatch the scent as if one had as good a right to it as another. It was just the sort of day to make a third-rate pack look like a first-rate one—Hazey saw that, and so did Facey, though cunning Hazey pretended to deprecate the scent, holloaing to the hounds to get “for'ard,” as if they were not doing their best as it was.

Mr Facey Romford, who thought to do the grand and consequential—the General McMurdo of the review—found it necessary to put along rather faster than he expected, so getting his horse firmly by the head, he established himself in his seat, and hustled along as if he was out with his own pack. Lucy, too, scuttled along, closely followed by Hazey, the latter now looking alternately at her and her horse. He thought he never saw a neater couple. And though he had no intention of unduly risking his neck—seeing he kept Jawkins to do the dangerous—still he followed in her wake, not liking, in the first place, to be beaten by a lady, and thinking, in the second place, to see how she and her horse performed. He was all for appraising an animal, whether it was for sale or not. It kept his hand in. Besides, there is no saying what may happen. But the pace was too good for much observation, indeed, when our prudent master came to the third fence—a rough boundary hedge, with the usual briary entanglements, over which Mrs Somerville hopped without disturbing a twig, he began to wish he had not committed himself to the speculation of following her. What matter did it make to him how she rode. Confound the ugly place, he should like to turn away. “Come up!” exclaimed he to his horse, in the sort of half-resolute way that indicated a shirk, and Valentine, taking him at his intention, swerved to the left, while Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent. took it in his stride. Hazey then seeing old Mr Gallinger going as if for a gate, followed suit, and was presently enjoying the perspective of more gates in the distance, with the majority of the field cramming away on his right. Up and down, up and down they went,—now a coat, now a cap, now Mrs Somerville's hat and habit. The hounds were a long way ahead, pressing up the gently rising ground of Cowslip Grange, then through the fir plantations of Fawley, without dwelling a moment, and onwards, still pointing due north up the sloping side of Bullersgreen, and over the brook at Ravensdowne stone-pits. Here a most acceptable check ensued, for Everlasting had been gently intimating to Romford that the rising ground did not agree with him, and Facey did not wish the information to go any further. So he turned his horse's head to the air, and sat motionless, thankful that Jawkins had to make the cast and not him. Everlasting had taken his fences very well, and being a horse of enormous stride had kept Romford in a becoming place. Leotard, too, had gone well, and had left old Ten and-a-half-per-Cent. immeasurably in the lurch. The roadsters, and shirkers, and craners now seeing a pause, pushed on in hopes of getting another chance of being again left behind.