by R S Surtees
“Now,” said Lord Heartycheer to our fair friend, who still kept gallantly beside him, much to the horror of Hall, who was lobbing behind, his features endangered by the throwing up of his horse’s head to escape his heavy hand—” now,” said his lordship, “if you are afraid of crossing the vale, my man,” alluding to Paxton, “shall ride you by Wetherfield Mill, and so past Stubwick to Corsham, which seems his point.”
“Oh, no,” replied Angelena, bending forward on her horse, and adjusting her much-splashed habit, “I think I can manage it, if there’s nothing very frightful.”
“There’s the Liffey,” said his lordship, “and it’s rather full; otherwise the fencing is practicable enough.”
“Well, I must just go till I’m stopped,” replied she, thinking it wouldn’t do to part company with his lordship if she could help it.
“You’re a game one!” exclaimed he, spurring on to the now slightly pace-slackening pack.
“Angelena! (puff) Angelena! (gasp) Angelena!” (wheeze) cried Tom, now running down with perspiration, “let’s go ho — ho — ho — home. This brute of mine’s pu — pu — pulling my very ar — ar — arms off.”
“Oh, never say die!” cried Angelena; “give him his head — give him his head — he’ll go quiet enough.”
“I dare s — s — s — say,” replied Tom, still hauling away, “and then he’ll run off with me.”
“Not a bit of it,” exclaimed she, reining in her steed, obedient to Dicky Dyke’s upraised hand, the hounds having overrun the scent on the Donnington-road, and come to a momentary check. Then head-and-shoulders Brown and Brassey and Beale and Billy Dent, all the ramming cramming cocks, cluster behind Paxton, mopping their brows and relating their feats. A hat in the air from a man on a cornstack quickly breaks up the council, and clapping spurs to his horse, with a slight twang of his horn, Dicky gallops off to the spot — his activity being great when the “eyes of England” were upon him. Before the hounds reach the stack the galvanic battery of scent arrests their progress, and dropping their stems, they perfectly fly up the adjoining hedgerow.
“Across the vale for a hundred!” is the cry, followed by certain observations about water, and brandy-and-water being pleasanter.
“Told you so,” said his lordship to Angelena, as he gathered up his reins.
“Room! room!” cries Paxton, flourishing his whip, as the over-eager ones, forgetful of their allegiance, press too closely upon the lordly one, and reluctant Tom is again impelled forward by the rude impetuosity of his horse.
“Drop your hand, Tom! drop your hand!” cries Angelena, eyeing the lathered half-frantic steed, fighting and tearing to free itself from the unwonted oppression of the curb.
“Your friend is not much of a horseman, I think,” observed his lordship quietly, as they galloped on together.
“Not much,” replied Angelena, laughing at the figure Tom was cutting, his horse’s legs going one way and his head another.
“Rot this hunting!” growled Tom to himself, thinking what a licking he would give the horse if he only had him quietly tied by the head in a stable.
Away they all go up Crowfield-lane, and again brave the enclosures at Marygate, the fox now giving most unequivocal symptoms of crossing the Vale, with little hopes of any alleviation from a heading.
At the end of five minutes’ pretty easy fencing, “Crash! war’ horse! war’ horse! Vigilant!” is heard at the narrow corner of a field, where flattering hope led the anxious ones to expect there would be a gate, and Dicky Dyke is seen hovering from a high bank into the adjoining enclosure.
“Jump wide,” cries he, looking back at the great bullrushy ditch included in the performance.
His lordship gathers the black well together, and lands him beautifully on the top. Another instant, and he far outspans the treacherous ground beyond.
“Hold hard!” exclaims he, pulling his horse round to stop the fair Angelena; but ere the words are out of his mouth, she is coming clean off the bank too. “Well done you,” shouts he; adding to himself, as he scans her bright eye and unruffled composure, “Dash it, old Dicky was right.”
A brown horse’s head, with a whipt strawberry-cream mouth, is now seen bobbing above the bank; presently a pair of black legs are added to the view, and voices are heard exhorting the rider to get on, while others are imprecating him for stopping the way. It is Tom and his horse, at variance still; the horse wanting to be over, Tom wanting to be back. The horse, however, has it. With a deep grunt, for he is nearly pumped out, he lands on the bank, and, as Tom keeps tight hold of his head, both Angelena and Lord Heartycheer, who are looking back, expect to see him down, with Paxton or head-and-shoulders Brown, or some of the field, a-top of him: somehow or other the horse sees the ditch, and with another desperate effort, lands in a clumsy, floundering, sidelong sort of way just beyond it; but Tom, whose seat at best is very uncertain, loses his balance, and, after an ineffectual hug of the neck, drops, sack-like, upon the ground.
“I must go back!” exclaimed Angelena, turning pale on seeing that her fat man didn’t move.
“Oh, no!” shouted his lordship vehemently; “my groom will set him upright. See, he’s at him already,” continued he, looking back at Paxton throwing himself off his horse and clutching Tom up in his arms.
Sam, the second whip, having caught the horse, joined the group at the same instant; and Paxton, having done all that was needful, left Tom to the attention of Woodcock and Bowman and Ryle and others, who had had enough to awaken their sympathies, and make them glad of an excuse to pull up, especially now that water seemed inevitable. Paxton then remounted his horse and galloped on to his lordship, whom he assured that Tom was “nothin’ the worse — only a little shook — more frightened nor hurt,” he thought. And Angelena thought that was very likely the case.
The field was now much reduced; but among those that remained his lordship distinctly recognised the unwelcome features of Brassey and head-and-shoulders Brown.
“Forrard on!” was still the cry; and looking back, he thought he saw evidence that the pace had told in the diminished stride of their horses. He would give, he didn’t know what, for Angelena to beat them. Her horse seemed equal to doing it too.
“Yonder he goes!” cried his lordship, who had a wonderful knack of viewing foxes—” yonder he goes!” continued he, riding with his hat in the air, showing his venerable white head — an exhilarating sight to gentlemen beginning to flag, though his keen-eyed lordship’s “yonder” might be in the next field, or on the next farm, or rounding the base of the distant hill, or even rolling over the summit of it.
On this occasion the “yonder” was on the bright-green margin of the swiftly-flowing Liffey, on whose banks Reynard was shaking himself after his swim, preparatory to setting his head for the main earths at Thombury Scar, still distant some three or four miles — nothing on paper, but a good way to ride, taking the rough and smooth of the way, and the distance our friends had come, into consideration.
“I fear you’ll get wet,” observed his lordship to Angelena, as he eyed Billy Brick dropping from the rugged bank into the smoothly-eddying current, and raising his legs like shafts on either side of his horse’s neck.
“Oh, never mind,” replied Angelena, preparing to tuck up her habit and follow.
“Stop!” cried Dicky Dyke, pulling up to listen, with his hand in the air—” stop! There’s a bridge just above, and they are running that way.”
So saying he wheeled about, and scuttled away as hard as ever his horse could lay legs to the ground; for he rode like a trump when he knew there was nothing in the way.
All the rest had made for the bridge at starting, preferring that the fox should save his life by field than that they should lose theirs by flood; and Paxton had some difficulty in getting them to make way as our fine riders came up.
The shirkers looked savage at Angelena. Head-and-shoulders Brown thought she would be much better at home; Brassey hated to see women out hun
ting; while Jacky Nalder observed it was “pretty clear what she was after.” Altogether, they were not complimentary. It is fortunate that people do not hear all the kind things that are said of them in this world.
Just as our party reached the bridge the hounds came bristling out of the fields on to the road, and, from the way old Flourisher feathered down the hedgerow, it almost looked as if the fox had recrossed the water by the bridge. The pause that a highway generally occasions was shortened by Billy Brick’s unmistakable view-halloa, which drew Dicky’s horn from its case and sent him blowing and hurrying, with the pack at his horse’s heels. Brick had met the fox full in the face and nearly stared him out of countenance, and now stood cap in hand, sweeping it in the direction he had gone. The still stout-running pack dashed at the place, and, taking up the scent, went off nearly mute.
Lord Heartycheer, who had got his second horse in capital order at the bridge, furnished an excuse for Jacky Nalder and another to sit still and say that “when second horses appeared, it was time for one-horse men to shut up.” It was not a case admitting of delay, for at the pace the hounds were going — all over grass also — if a man didn’t buckle to at once, he was hopelessly left in the lurch. Head-and-shoulders Brown and Brassey would fain have declined too, particularly Brassey, whose horse’s shabby tail was shaking like a pepper-box, had it not been for the “hussy in the habit,” as he called Angelena. A hammer-and-pincers trot, however, was all they could raise, and most gratefully the noise fell on Lord Heartycheer’s ear. They’ll soon be hors de combat thought he.
“Forrard on!” cheered his lordship, rising in his stirrups, and pointing to the still racing pack, as Angelena again stole up beside him: “forrard on!” repeated he, adding as he looked at the now white-embossed cream colour, “that’s a gallant little mare, to be sure.”
“Isn’t she?” smiled Angelena, patting Lily-of-the-Valley’s thin neck.
“And a gallant little rider,” added his lordship, squeezing Angelena’s arm.
He then set himself back in his saddle, and charged a dark bullfinch as if he meant to carry it into the next county. The mare, lying close on his quarter, got Angelena through before it shut up like a rat-trap.
“That’s good!” cried his lordship, seeing she was safe, without missing the plume from her hat, which the jealous hedge had retained. “That’s good,” repeated he, hustling and spurring his fresh horse over the springy turf; adding to himself, “it is a satisfaction, after being persecuted by those bragging beggars, and their bragging fathers before them, to see them beat — iis-re-putably beat — by a woman!” added he, again looking back to where Brown was hitting and holding, and Brassey vociferating, “Get out of the way! — get out of the way! and, damn it, let me try!”
“Try, ay!” laughed his lordship, “you may try”; adding, as he saw Paxton’s scarlet coat coming up behind them, “I hope he’ll not be fool enough to help them.”
Paxton wasn’t fool enough; for, knowing that he was taken out hunting, which he didn’t like, solely for the purpose of keeping these people off his lordship, he thought he couldn’t do better than let them stay where they were, especially as he would have to take the leap in turn; so dropping his whip-thong as he advanced, he proceeded to pitch into the head-and-shoulders horse, whose master had now dismounted, in hopes of getting him to lead.
While this was going on behind, Billy Brick, who had again appeared in the extraordinary way that whippers-in sometimes do, was suddenly seen capping the now thrown-up hounds in a contrary direction to what they had just been running; and looking out, his lordship saw the fox threading the hedgerow of the next field.
“Here he is!” cried his lordship, pointing him out to Angelena; and a sod-coped wall being all that intervened between the fox and them, they over it together, just as Frolicsome turned him; and the whole pack, breaking from scent to view, rolled him up amongst them in the middle of a large pasture. “Who-hoop!” shrieked his lordship, throwing himself off his gallant grey, and diving into the thick of the pack for the prize. “Who-hoop!” screeched he, in wilder tone, fighting the pack for possession. “Whip off his brush, and give them him before those beggars come up,” cried he to Billy Brick, who now came to the rescue; which Billy having done, and his lordship having plentifully smeared his delicate white cords with blood, up went the fox, and in an instant his head, now flourished triumphantly by Sorcerer, was all that remained to be seen.
“That’s grand!” exclaimed his lordship, jumping round in ecstasies to Angelena—” that’s grand!” repeated he, seeing the coast was still clear.
“By Jove!” added he, “you’ve lost your fine feather; what a pity! However, never mind; we’ll put in the brush instead.” So saying, his lordship dived into his fine frill shirt — for he was a dandy of the old school — and producing a splendid diamond pin, such as a jeweller would ask at least a hundred for, and perhaps allow five-and-twenty as a favour, and running the brush into the Garibaldi band, pinned it up to the crown with the lustrous trinket.
“Now,” said he, squeezing her ungloved hand affectionately, “you are yourself again; that matches your hat beautifully — wear it on your way home, and keep the pin for my sake.” So saying, his lordship kissed her little hand, and remounting his horse, proceeded to parade her back through the country.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MR WOODCOCK, DEALER IN CRIPPLES.
BUT FOR BOWMAN, Woodcock, Ryle, and others, who felt it incumbent on them to make Tom hurt in order to excuse themselves for pulling up, there is no saying but our hero would have remounted after his fall and attempted to rescue his fair flame from the gallant old Lothario, who was witching her through the country as it were to the music of his hounds. These worthies, however, would not hear of such a thing. They were certain Tom was hurt — couldn’t be but hurt. “No bones broken,” Woodcock thought, “but very much shook,” he added, as he felt Tom’s shoulder and collar-bone and arm and elbow, and dived into his fat sides for his ribs. “No, the best thing he could do was to go home,” they all agreed, and after straining their eyes in the direction of the diminishing field till the hounds disappeared, and the horsemen looked like so many dots dribbling along, they turned their pumped and lathered horses to the grateful influence of the westerly breeze. It was a fine rim, they all agreed, though if the fox reached Bramblewreck Woods, which seemed his point, they had just seen as much as anybody could — nothing but labour and sorrow, tearing up and down the deep rides, pulling their horses’ legs off in the holding clay; and so they reported to Mr Jollynoggin, the landlord of the Barley Mow, where they pulled up to have a nip of ale apiece, and Jollynoggin swallowing the story with great apparent ease, they proceeded to tell subsequent inquirers they met on the road all, how, and about the run.
Bowman, who was rather near the wind in money matters, and not altogether without hopes of making a successful assault on old Hall’s coffers, especially if assisted by our enterprising friend, Tom, set-to to ply him with what he thought would be most agreeable to his vanity.. Alluding to the run, he said, “Tom certainly deserved better luck, for he had ridden most gallantly, and all things considered, he thought he never saw an awkward horse more neatly handled.” This pleased Tom, who, so far from being surprised at his fall, was only astonished he had managed to stick on so long; and not being sufficiently initiated in the mysteries of hunting to appreciate the difference between tumbling off and a fall, he began to think he had done something rather clever than otherwise. In this he was a good deal confirmed by the deferential tone in which Bowman addressed him, and the inquiring way he asked his opinion of his lordship’s hounds, observing, with a glance at Tom’s pink, that doubtless he had seen many packs; Tom didn’t care to say that this was his first day out with any — any foxhounds, at least — so he contented himself with saying that he “didn’t think they were much amiss.”
This gave Major Ryle an opportunity of launching out against Dicky Thorndyke, who had incurred the major’s seri
ous displeasure by sundry excursions after his pretty parlour-maid, whom Dicky was very anxious to entice away into Lord Heartycheer’s establishment. The major now denounced Dicky as a pottering old muff, and declared that Billy Brick, the first whip, was worth a hundred and fifty of him, either as a horseman, a huntsman, or a man. Bowman, on the other hand, was rather a Thorndyke-ite; for Dicky distinguished him from the ordinary black-coated herd by something between a cap and a bow, and Bowman’s vindication of Dicky brought out much good or bad riding and hunting criticism that served our Tom a good turn. Bowman expatiated on the way Dicky rode to save his horse — how he picked his country, avoiding ridge and furrow, deep ground and turnip-fields, never pressing on his hounds even in chase. The major retorted that Dicky was so slow at his fences that it was better to take a fresh place than wait till he was over; which produced a declaration that it was only certain fences he rode slowly at, bidding Ryle observe how Dicky went at places where he thought there was a broad ditch — above all, at brooks with rotten banks — those terrible stoppers in all countries. They then discussed Dicky’s prowess at timber-jumping, at which even Ryle admitted him to be an adept; but still he came back to the old point that either as a horseman, a huntsman, or a man, Billy Brick was worth a hundred and fifty of him.
The liberal width of the Mountfield road now presenting grass on either side, the heretofore silent Mr Woodcock managed to get our Tom edged off to his side, and pinning him next the fence, essayed to see if he could do anything for himself in a small way. Not that he thought he could accomplish anything at the bank, where it was well known his paper wouldn’t fly; but there was no reason why the venerable nag he bestrode might not be advantageously transferred to Tom’s stud, either in the way of an out-and-out sale, or in that still more hopeful speculation — because admitting of repetition — a swap, with something to boot. This antediluvian “had-been” was a fine, shapely, racing-like bay, in capital condition; for Woodcock, being a chemist, and a one-horse man to boot, had plenty of time and ingredients for physicking and nursing and coddling the old cripples it was his custom to keep — or rather not to keep longer than he could help. He went altogether upon age; nothing that wasn’t past mark of mouth would do for him, though somehow, after they got into his stable, they rejuvenated, and horses that went in nineteen or twenty came out nine or ten. “Seasoned horse — nice season’d horse,” Woodcock would say, with a knowing jerk of his head, over the counter, to a nibbling greenhorn sounding him about price; that horse should be in Lord Heartycheer’s stud; no business in my stable — rich man’s horse. Why, Sir — Sir John Green gave two hundred and fifty guineas — two hundred and fifty guineas, sir, for that horse.” And so he had, very likely, but a long time since.