Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (51 page)

But we will indulge in a day in this the most favoured locality, and select a meet at Independent Jimmy's friend, Mr Stanley Sterling's, he being about the only real sportsman on that side of the country.

Mr Sterling was a comfortable man, and was waited upon by a woman. After that, we need scarcely say he was a bachelor: for where is the lady who will submit to be tended by one of her own sex, if she can possibly help it? Well, Mr Stanley Sterling was a comfortable man, and was waited upon by a woman. He lived at a pretty, old-fashioned, gable-ended, grey-roofed place, called Rosemount Grange: where there was always a spare stall for a horse, and a hearty welcome for a friend. Moreover, there was generally a good wild fox to be found in his cover, Light-thorn-rough, at the back of the house, the next morning.

Let us also suppose that Mr Facey Romford—lured, perhaps, by the fame of Mr Stanley Sterling's nutty sherry, ruby port, and comfortable
ménage
generally—has come over to Rosemount to be handy for the meet on the morrow; and that Mr Freeman, of Shenstone Burn, commonly called Old Saddlebags, and the clergyman of the parish, form the
parli quarré,
for the evening.

Freeman, who is hard upon eighty years of age, has hunted all his life, and looks more like sixty than what he really is. He is a stout, square-built man, with silvery-white hair, shading an extremely rubicund face, with strongly marked lines, and whipcord like muscles: a little, twinkling, grey eye, lights up an intelligent countenance.

In marching order—that is to say, the day before hunting—Mr Freeman travels in his red coat and other hunting things, having his horse-rug rolled up before him, and the aforesaid saddlebags, containing his dress things, underneath him. Thus accoutred, he makes for the house of the nearest acquaintance he has to the meet, where Bags and his horse are always heartily welcome. Compared with the pyramids of luggage with which a modern exquisite travels, Saddlebags' wardrobe would seem strangely deficient; but Bags had lived in times when locomotion was difficult, and people had to think what they could do without, and not what they could do with—which, after all, is a great ingredient in travelling.

And yet to see the old gentleman come down in his nice black dress-coat, filled shirt, and clean vest—the latter vying the whiteness of his hair—with black shorts, silk stockings, and pumps, no one would suppose but he had come in his carriage, with a valet to boot. There he stands before Mr Stanley Sterling's bright parlour-fire with a beech-log on the top, as radiant and sparkling as the fuel itself. There, too, is Mr Romford, looking him over, thinking what a man he is for his years; and now in comes the Reverend Mr Teacher, the vicar, and the party is complete.

Mr Stanley Sterling did not attempt side-dishes, but let his cook concentrate her talents upon a few general favourites. Hence, the ox-tail soup was always beautifully clear and hot, the crimped-cod and oyster-sauce excellent, while the boiled fowls and ruddy ham ran a close race with the four-year-old leg of roast mutton, leaving the relish they give for the “sweet or dry” to support their claims for preference. Beet and mealy potatoes accompanied the solids, and macaroni and mince-pies followed in due course. A bottle of Beaujolais circulated with the cheese. They had then all dined to their hearts' content. As Romford chucked his napkin in a sort of happy-go-lucky way over his left shoulder, he thought how much better it was than any of the grand spreads he had seen. Grace being said, the plate-warmer was then taken from the fire, the horseshoe-table substituted, and each man prepared to make himself comfortable according to his own peculiar fashion.

And as each succeeding glass of bright port wine circulated down Mr Saddlebags' vest, the old man warmed with sporting recollections until he became a perfect chronicle of the chase. He seemed to remember everything—when Mr Princeps had the Hard and Sharps—when Mr Tedbury had the Larkspur—when Sir Thomas Twyford had a third pack that hunted all the country east of Horndean Hut, and so across by Broad Halfpenny wood lands to the town of Cross Hands in Marshdale. Then he got upon the subject of runs. That
tre
mendous run from Trouble House to Wooton Wood, eighteen miles as the crow flies, when nobody could get near the hounds for the last two miles save little Jim, the second whip, on a Pretender mare—the best animal that ever was foaled—no fence too large or day too long for her. Or that
mag
nificent day from Scotgrove-hill to Wellingore, when some of the crack men of the Hot and Heavy Hunt were out, and they ran from scent to view in the middle of Heatherwick Moor, thirteen miles, without allowing for bends,—the finest men with the finest finish that ever was seen! To all which Mr Romford sat listening as he would to a lecture. Facey dearly loved to pick up such stories at the end of a stinger. He kept weeding his chin till he almost made it sore.

Dinner having been at six, at nine o'clock precisely—for fox-hunters are generally pretty punctual—Bridget the maid re-entered the room with the tea-tray, just as the second bottle of port was finished, thus putting a stop to the veteran's recitals and causing him to fall back on the sherry. A game of whist followed tea, and Mr Teacher having taken his departure, Mr Facey retired to his comfortable couch with five shillings more in his pocket than he brought. “Not a bad night's work,” muttered our Master, as he added a couple of shillings to it that he had of his own. He never gave house-servants anything, alleging that he could take care of himself,—nor stable ones either, if he thought his horses would fare as well without his doing so.

B
REAKFAST AT
R
OSEMOUNT
G
RANGE WAS
conducted pretty much on the London Club principle, each guest having his separate
ménage,
viz., two teapots, one containing the beverage, the other the hot water, a small glass basin of sugar, a ditto butter-boat and cream-ewer, together with a muffin or bun, and a rack of dry toast. A common coffee-pot occupied the centre of the round-table, flanked on the one side with a well-filled egg-stand, and on the other with a dish of beautiful moor-edge honey. On the side-table were hot meats and cold, with the well-made household bread. Hence, each man, on coming down, rang for his own supply without reference to anyone else—a great convenience to foxhunters, who like riding leisurely on instead of going full tilt to cover.

On this auspicious day, however, it was “all serene,” as old Saddlebags said, the Master being in the house, and the hounds having to meet before the door; so they dawdled and talked as people do who are not in a hurry and are sure of being in time. Mr Romford was the only one who felt any concern, but his was not the uneasiness caused by the fear of unpunctuality, but alarm lest the redoubtable servants should arrive in a state of inebriety. Lucy, however, had undertaken to see them safe away from Beldon Hall, and the strong persevering man, who bought Mr Romford's horse, was charged to look after them on the road. And very creditably they both fulfilled their mission, for as our Master was deeply absorbed in the dissection of a woodcock's leg, the click of a gate attracted his attention, and looking up he saw the gay cavalcade pass along the little bridge over the brook into the front field, in very creditable form—Swig sitting bolt upright on his horse, and Chowey preparing his succulent mouth for fawning operations on the field.

The sight acted electrically on the party: Mr Sterling finished his tea, Mr Romford took the woodcock leg in his fingers, and old Bags quaffed off his half-cup of coffee at a draught. They were then presently up and at the window. Bridget went out with the bread, cheese, and ale on a tray, while Mr Sterling unlocked the cellaret, and produced cherry brandy and liquors for those who chose to partake of them. In came Bonus, and Dennis, and Bankford, and two or three other never-miss-a-chancers. Meanwhile our host and his guests are off to the stable, where the horses are turned round in the stalls all ready for a start. They mount and away, Romford on the Baker, late Placid Joe, Bags on his eighteen-years-old bay horse, still called the “colt,” and Mr Sterling on a five-year-old iron grey of his own breeding. Thus they come round to the front, to receive the “sky scrapes” of the men, and the “mornins” and “how are ye's?” of the field. Then more horsemen came cantering up, and more went into the house. At length the time being up—say a quarter to eleven—and Mr Facey making it a rule never to wait for unpunctual people, be their subscriptions ever so large, now gives a significant jerk of his head to Swig, which, communicating itself to Chowey, the two instantly have their horses by the head with the lively hounds bounding and frolicking forward the way the horses are going. The foot-people run and open the white gates, the parti-coloured cavalcade follow in long-drawn file, and the whole are presently in front of Light-thorn-rough—a cover so near the house and yet so secluded as almost to look like part of the premises. A deep triangular dell of some three acres in extent, abounding in blackthorn, gorse, broom, and fern, presenting in every part dry and most unexceptionable lying. The bridle-gate leading to it was always kept locked, and there was no foot-road within three quarters of a mile of it. Here indeed a fox might repose. Some persons are always certain that covers will hold a fox—even though they may have been shooting in them the day before—and keep repeating and reiterating the assertion up to the very moment of testing its accuracy. “Sure to be there!—sure to be there! Certain as if I saw him!” perhaps with a view of hiding their delinquency. Mr Stanley Sterling was not one of the positive order. He knew the nature of his wild animal too well to be bail for his appearance. So in answer to numerous inquiries if they are likely to find, he merely says he “hopes so,” and then takes up a quiet position for a view, a point from whence he can see without being seen himself.

“Cover hoick!—cover hoick!”
now cries Mr Facey Romford, and in an instant he has not a hound at his horse's heels. The “Hurl's” man, and the man with the mouth too, have deserted him, the former to take up a position by the beeches above, the latter to hide his ugly face in the dip of the dell.

“Eleu in there!—eleu in!”
cheers our Master, as Gamester and Woodbine take a flourish towards a slope of close-looking gorse.

“Very likely place to hold a fox,” observed he to himself, pulling a sample out of his beard and inspecting it. “Please, gentlemen, keep together! and don't holloa!” now cries he, looking round at the chatterers,—Mr Bonus asking after Mrs Hemming's horse, Mr Daniel Dennis wondering if it was going to rain. He has got his best coat on, and forgotten to look at his weathercock to see whether it is a safe venture or not.

Like the Ashby Pasture gorse in Nimrod's celebrated Leicestershire run, the cover soon begins to shake in various parts, the obvious effect of some twenty couple of hounds rummaging about it. The vibration increases with more activity towards the juniper bushes in the centre of the cover.

“Have at 'im there!”
cheers Mr Romford, with a crack of his whip, as if to awake a sleeping fox from his trance.
“Have at 'im there!”
repeats he, in a still louder key, now standing erect in his stirrups, contemplating the rich sea of bright undulating gorse. The vibration of the bushes increases, varied with the slight crackle from the snapping of rotten branches in the more open parts. “Fox, for a 'underd,” muttered Mr Romford, now buttoning the second top button of his “Tick,”—“Fox, for a 'underd!” repeats he and scarcely are the words well out of his mouth ere the short sharp
yap, yap,
of Pincher the terrier is followed by the deep sonorous voice of old Thunderer proclaiming the fact. “Hoick to Thunderer! hoick!” cheers Mr Romford, now standing on tip-toe in his stirrups, gazing intently on the scene, his eyes raking every corner of the cover, like Daniel Forester's on dividend-day.

And now the melody increases—twofold, threefold, fourfold, fivefold, tenfold—now it's all melody together—

as Somerville—not our fair friend, but the poet—sings.

“Now,” as Romford asks, “where are all your sorrows and your cares, ye gloomy souls! or where your pains and aches, ye complaining ones! One holloa will presently dispel them all.”

“Hark! there it is! Talli-ho! a-w-a-ay! Talli-ho a-w-a-a-y—a-w-a-ay!” The “away” stretched to the length of the rope-walk. It's Daniel, the Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale's Daniel, holloaing at the very top of his husky voice, each succeeding note becoming louder and better.

And now little Tom Chavey unfurls at once his proboscis and his flail-like whip, and with repeated “Get away, hounds!—get away!” seconds the sporting-like twang of Mr Romford's horn. Then what a scatter there is of the late combined forces. The late clustered phalanx is dissolved; its component parts are flying here, there, and everywhere, each man looking after his own particular leader, to whom he trusts for that knowledge of the country that his flurry effaces. Where's Jack? Where's Joe? Where's Tom? Then Mr Saddlebags rises greatly in public estimation, and whispers are heard among the uninitiated of “Stick to old Bags!”—“Follow Bags!”—“Bags knows every inch of the country.” And the Octogenarian gets the colt by the head and slips out at a corner into the grass fields on the left of the cover. There he commands the pack as they break—Thunderer first, Resolute next, Prodigal third, all the rest in a lump. Thunderer strikes the scent by the side of the wall, Prodigal endorses his dictum, and the rest of the pack adopt the same. Away they go like beans. And just at the critical moment the Honorary Secretary, who is riding a bay runaway with a dead side to its mouth, which has passed through half the hands in the country, gets the Pelham bit between its teeth, and charges into the thick of them, knocking over Rosamond and Rallywood, and scattering the rest right and left.