The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  But the cavalcade began to move, and then Lord George was by her side. “You mustn’t be angry if I seem to stick too close to you,” he said. She gave him her sweetest smile as she told him that that would be impossible. “Because, you know, though it’s the easiest thing in the world to get along out hunting, and women never come to grief, a person is a little astray at first.”

  “I shall be so much astray,” said Lizzie. “I don’t at all know how we are going to begin. Are we hunting a fox now?” At this moment they were trotting across a field or two, through a run of gates up to the first covert.

  “Not quite yet. The hounds haven’t been put in yet. You see that wood there? I suppose they’ll draw that.”

  “What is drawing, Lord George? I want to know all about it, and I am so ignorant. Nobody else will tell me.” Then Lord George gave his lesson, and explained the theory and system of fox-hunting. “We’re to wait here, then, till the fox runs away? But it’s ever so large, and if he runs away, and nobody sees him? I hope he will, because it will be nice to go on easily.”

  “A great many people hope that, and a great many think it nice to go on easily. Only you must not confess to it.” Then he went on with his lecture, and explained the meaning of scent, was great on the difficulty of getting away, described the iniquity of heading the fox, spoke of up wind and down wind, got as far as the trouble of “carrying,” and told her that a good ear was everything in a big wood, — when there came upon them the thrice-repeated note of an old hound’s voice, and the quick scampering, and low, timid, anxious, trustful whinnying of a dozen comrade younger hounds, who recognised the sagacity of their well-known and highly-appreciated elder, — “That’s a fox,” said Lord George.

  “What shall I do now?” said Lizzie, all in a twitter.

  “Sit just where you are and light a cigar, if you’re given to smoking.”

  “Pray don’t joke with me. You know I want to do it properly.”

  “And therefore you must sit just where you are, and not gallop about. There’s a matter of a hundred and twenty acres here, I should say, and a fox doesn’t always choose to be evicted at the first notice. It’s a chance whether he goes at all from a wood like this. I like woods myself, because, as you say, we can take it easy; but if you want to ride, you should — By George, they’ve killed him!”

  “Killed the fox?”

  “Yes; he’s dead. Didn’t you hear?”

  “And is that a hunt?”

  “Well; — as far as it goes, it is.”

  “Why didn’t he run away? What a stupid beast! I don’t see so very much in that. Who killed him? That man that was blowing the horn?”

  “The hounds chopped him.”

  “Chopped him!” Lord George was very patient, and explained to Lizzie, who was now indignant and disappointed, the misfortune of chopping. “And are we to go home now? Is it all over?”

  “They say the country is full of foxes,” said Lord George. “Perhaps we shall chop half-a-dozen.”

  “Dear me! Chop half-a-dozen foxes! Do they like to be chopped? I thought they always ran away.”

  Lord George was constant and patient, and rode at Lizzie’s side from covert to covert. A second fox they did kill in the same fashion as the first; a third they couldn’t hunt a yard; a fourth got to ground after five minutes, and was dug out ingloriously; — during which process a drizzling rain commenced. “Where is the man with my waterproof?” demanded Mrs. Carbuncle. Lord George had sent the man to see whether there was shelter to be had in a neighbouring yard. And Mrs. Carbuncle was angry. “It’s my own fault,” she said, “for not having my own man. Lucinda, you’ll be wet.”

  “I don’t mind the wet,” said Lucinda. Lucinda never did mind anything.

  “If you’ll come with me, we’ll get into a barn,” said Sir Griffin.

  “I like the wet,” said Lucinda. All the while seven men were at work with picks and shovels, and the master and four or five of the more ardent sportsmen were deeply engaged in what seemed to be a mining operation on a small scale. The huntsman stood over giving his orders. One enthusiastic man, who had been lying on his belly, grovelling in the mud for five minutes, with a long stick in his hand, was now applying the point of it scientifically to his nose. An ordinary observer with a magnifying-glass might have seen a hair at the end of the stick. “He’s there,” said the enthusiastic man, covered with mud, after a long-drawn, eager sniff at the stick. The huntsman deigned to give one glance. “That’s rabbit,” said the huntsman. A conclave was immediately formed over the one visible hair that stuck to the stick, and three experienced farmers decided that it was rabbit. The muddy enthusiastic man, silenced but not convinced, retired from the crowd, leaving his stick behind him, and comforted himself with his brandy-flask.

  “He’s here, my lord,” said the huntsman to his noble master, “only we ain’t got nigh him yet.” He spoke almost in a whisper, so that the ignorant crowd should not hear the words of wisdom, which they wouldn’t understand or perhaps believe. “It’s that full of rabbits that the holes is all hairs. They ain’t got no terrier here, I suppose. They never has aught that is wanted in these parts. Work round to the right, there; — that’s his line.” The men did work round to the right, and in something under an hour the fox was dragged out by his brush and hind legs, while the experienced whip who dragged him held the poor brute tight by the back of his neck. “An old dog, my lord. There’s such a many of ‘em here, that they’ll be a deal better for a little killing.” Then the hounds ate their third fox for that day.

  Lady Eustace, in the meantime, and Mrs. Carbuncle, with Lord George, had found their way to the shelter of a cattle-shed. Lucinda had slowly followed, and Sir Griffin had followed her. The gentlemen smoked cigars, and the ladies, when they had eaten their luncheons and drank their sherry, were cold and cross. “If this is hunting,” said Lizzie, “I really don’t think so much about it.”

  “It’s Scotch hunting,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.

  “I have seen foxes dug out south of the Tweed,” suggested Lord George.

  “I suppose everything is slow after the Baron,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, who had distinguished herself with the Baron’s stag-hounds last March.

  “Are we to go home now?” asked Lizzie, who would have been well-pleased to have received an answer in the affirmative.

  “I presume they’ll draw again,” exclaimed Mrs. Carbuncle, with an angry frown on her brow. “It’s hardly two o’clock.”

  “They always draw till seven, in Scotland,” said Lord George.

  “That’s nonsense,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “It’s dark at four.”

  “They have torches in Scotland,” said Lord George.

  “They have a great many things in Scotland that are very far from agreeable,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “Lucinda, did you ever see three foxes killed without five minutes’ running, before? I never did.”

  “I’ve been out all day without finding at all,” said Lucinda, who loved the truth.

  “And so have I,” said Sir Griffin; — “often. Don’t you remember that day when we went down from London to Bringher Wood, and they pretended to find at half-past four? That’s what I call a sell.”

  “They’re going on, Lady Eustace,” said Lord George. “If you’re not tired, we might as well see it out.” Lizzie was tired, but said that she was not, and she did see it out. They found a fifth fox, but again there was no scent. “Who the –––– is to hunt a fox with people scurrying about like that!” said the huntsman, very angrily, dashing forward at a couple of riders. “The hounds is behind you, only you ain’t a-looking. Some people never do look!” The two peccant riders unfortunately were Sir Griffin and Lucinda.

  The day was one of those from which all the men and women return home cross, and which induce some half-hearted folk to declare to themselves that they never will hunt again. When the master decided a little after three that he would draw no more, because there wasn’t a yard of scent, our party had nine or ten
miles to ride back to their carriages. Lizzie was very tired, and, when Lord George took her from her horse, could almost have cried from fatigue. Mrs. Carbuncle was never fatigued, but she had become damp, — soaking wet through, as she herself said, — during the four minutes that the man was absent with her waterproof jacket, and could not bring herself to forget the ill-usage she had suffered. Lucinda had become absolutely dumb, and any observer would have fancied that the two gentlemen had quarrelled with each other. “You ought to go on the box now,” said Sir Griffin, grumbling. “When you’re my age, and I’m yours, I will,” said Lord George, taking his seat in the carriage. Then he appealed to Lizzie. “You’ll let me smoke, won’t you?” She simply bowed her head. And so they went home, — Lord George smoking, and the ladies dumb. Lizzie, as she dressed for dinner, almost cried with vexation and disappointment.

  There was a little conversation up-stairs between Mrs. Carbuncle and Lucinda, when they were free from the attendance of their joint maid. “It seems to me,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “that you won’t make up your mind about anything.”

  “There is nothing to make up my mind about.”

  “I think there is; — a great deal. Do you mean to take this man who is dangling after you?”

  “He isn’t worth taking.”

  “Carruthers says that the property must come right, sooner or later. You might do better, perhaps, but you won’t trouble yourself. We can’t go on like this for ever, you know.”

  “If you hated it as much as I do, you wouldn’t want to go on.”

  “Why don’t you talk to him? I don’t think he’s at all a bad fellow.”

  “I’ve nothing to say.”

  “He’ll offer to-morrow, if you’ll accept him.”

  “Don’t let him do that, Aunt Jane. I couldn’t say Yes. As for loving him; — oh, laws!”

  “It won’t do to go on like this, you know.”

  “I’m only eighteen; — and it’s my money, aunt.”

  “And how long will it last? If you can’t accept him, refuse him, and let somebody else come.”

  “It seems to me,” said Lucinda, “that one is as bad as another. I’d a deal sooner marry a shoemaker and help him to make shoes.”

  “That’s downright wickedness,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. And then they went down to dinner.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  Nappie’s Grey Horse

  During the leisure of Tuesday, our friends regained their good humour, and on the Wednesday morning they again started for the hunting-field. Mrs. Carbuncle, who probably felt that she had behaved ill about the groom and in regard to Scotland, almost made an apology, and explained that a cold shower always did make her cross. “My dear Lady Eustace, I hope I wasn’t very savage.” “My dear Mrs. Carbuncle, I hope I wasn’t very stupid,” said Lizzie with a smile. “My dear Lady Eustace, and my dear Mrs. Carbuncle, and my dear Miss Roanoke, I hope I wasn’t very selfish,” said Lord George.

  “I thought you were,” said Sir Griffin.

  “Yes, Griff; and so were you; — but I succeeded.”

  “I am almost glad that I wasn’t of the party,” said Mr. Emilius, with that musical foreign tone of his. “Miss Macnulty and I did not quarrel; did we?”

  “No, indeed,” said Miss Macnulty, who had liked the society of Mr. Emilius.

  But on this morning there was an attraction for Lizzie which the Monday had wanted. She was to meet her cousin, Frank Greystock. The journey was long, and the horses had gone on over night. They went by railway to Kilmarnock, and there a carriage from the inn had been ordered to meet them. Lizzie, as she heard the order given, wondered whether she would have to pay for that, or whether Lord George and Sir Griffin would take so much off her shoulders. Young women generally pay for nothing; and it was very hard that she, who was quite a young woman, should have to pay for all. But she smiled, and accepted the proposition. “Oh, yes; of course a carriage at the station. It is so nice to have some one to think of things, like Lord George.” The carriage met them, and everything went prosperously. Almost the first person they saw was Frank Greystock, in a black coat, indeed, but riding a superb grey horse, and looking quite as though he knew what he was about. He was introduced to Mrs. Carbuncle and Miss Roanoke and Sir Griffin. With Lord George he had some slight previous acquaintance.

  “You’ve had no difficulty about a horse?” said Lizzie.

  “Not the slightest. But I was in an awful fright this morning. I wrote to MacFarlane from London, and absolutely hadn’t a moment to go to his place yesterday or this morning. I was staying over at Glenshiels, and had not a moment to spare in catching the train. But I found a horse-box on, and a lad from MacFarlane’s just leaving as I came up.”

  “Didn’t he send a boy down with the horse?” asked Lord George.

  “I believe there is a boy, and the boy’ll be awfully bothered. I told him to book the horse for Kilmarnock.”

  “They always do book for Kilmarnock for this meet,” said a gentleman who had made acquaintance with some of Lizzie’s party on the previous hunting-day; — “but Stewarton is ever so much nearer.”

  “So somebody told me in the carriage,” continued Frank, “and I contrived to get my box off at Stewarton. The guard was uncommon civil, and so was the porter. But I hadn’t a moment to look for the boy.”

  “I always make my fellow stick to his horses,” said Sir Griffin.

  “But you see, Sir Griffin, I haven’t got a fellow, and I’ve only hired a horse. But I shall hire a good many horses from Mr. MacFarlane if he’ll always put me up like this.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” said Lizzie.

  “So am I. I hunt about twice in three years, and no man likes it so much. I’ve still got to find out whether the beast can jump.”

  “Any mortal thing alive, sir,” said one of those horsey-looking men who are to be found in all hunting-fields, who wear old brown breeches, old black coats, old hunting-caps, who ride screws, and never get thrown out.

  “You know him, do you?” said Frank.

  “I know him. I didn’t know as Muster MacFarlane owned him. No more he don’t,” said the horsey man, turning aside to one of his friends. “That’s Nappie’s horse, from Jamaica Street.”

  “Not possible,” said the friend.

  “You’ll tell me I don’t know my own horse next.”

  “I don’t believe you ever owned one,” said the friend.

  Lizzie was in truth delighted to have her cousin beside her. He had, at any rate, forgiven what she had said to him at his last visit, or he would not have been there. And then, too, there was a feeling of reality in her connexion with him, which was sadly wanting to her, — unreal as she was herself, — in her acquaintance with the other people around her. And on this occasion three or four people spoke or bowed to her, who had only stared at her before; and the huntsman took off his cap, and hoped that he would do something better for her than on the previous Monday. And the huntsman was very courteous also to Miss Roanoke, expressing the same hope, cap in hand, and smiling graciously. A huntsman at the beginning of any day or at the end of a good day is so different from a huntsman at the end of a bad day! A huntsman often has a very bad time out hunting, and it is sometimes a marvel that he does not take the advice which Job got from his wife. But now all things were smiling, and it was soon known that his lordship intended to draw Craigattan Gorse. Now in those parts there is no surer find, and no better chance of a run, than Craigattan Gorse affords.

  “There is one thing I want to ask, Mr. Greystock,” said Lord George, in Lizzie’s hearing.

  “You shall ask two,” said Frank.

  “Who is to coach Lady Eustace to-day; — you or I?”

  “Oh, do let me have somebody to coach me,” said Lizzie.

  “For devotion in coachmanship,” said Frank, — “devotion, that is, to my cousin, — I defy the world. In point of skill I yield to Lord George.”

  “My pretensions are precisely the same,” said Lord George. “I g
low with devotion; my skill is naught.”

  “I like you best, Lord George,” said Lizzie, laughing.

  “That settles the question,” said Lord George.

  “Altogether,” said Frank, taking off his hat.

  “I mean as a coach,” said Lizzie.

  “I quite understand the extent of the preference,” said Lord George. Lizzie was delighted, and thought the game was worth the candle. The noble master had told her that they were sure of a run from Craigattan, and she wasn’t in the least tired, and they were not called upon to stand still in a big wood, and it didn’t rain, and, in every respect, the day was very different from Monday. Mounted on a bright-skinned, lively steed, with her cousin on one side and Lord George de Bruce Carruthers on the other, with all the hunting world of her own county civil around her, and a fox just found in Craigattan Gorse, what could the heart of woman desire more? This was to live. There was, however, just enough of fear to make the blood run quickly to her heart. “We’ll be away at once now,” said Lord George with utmost earnestness; “follow me close, but not too close. When the men see that I am giving you a lead, they won’t come between. If you hang back, I’ll not go ahead. Just check your horse as he comes to his fences, and, if you can, see me over before you go at them. Now then, down the hill; — there’s a gate at the corner, and a bridge over the water. We couldn’t be better. By George! there they are, — all together. If they don’t pull him down in the first two minutes, we shall have a run.”

  Lizzie understood most of it, — more at least than would nine out of ten young women who had never ridden a hunt before. She was to go wherever Lord George led her, and she was not to ride upon his heels. So much at least she understood, — and so much she was resolved to do. That dread about her front teeth which had perplexed her on Monday was altogether gone now. She would ride as fast as Lucinda Roanoke. That was her prevailing idea. Lucinda, with Mrs. Carbuncle, Sir Griffin, and the ladies’ groom, was at the other side of the covert. Frank had been with his cousin and Lord George, but had crept down the hill while the hounds were in the gorse. A man who likes hunting but hunts only once a year is desirous of doing the best he can with his day. When the hounds came out and crossed the brook at the end of the gorse, perhaps he was a little too forward. But, indeed, the state of affairs did not leave much time for waiting, or for the etiquette of the hunting-field. Along the opposite margin of the brook there ran a low paling, which made the water a rather nasty thing to face. A circuit of thirty or forty yards gave the easy riding of a little bridge, and to that all the crowd hurried. But one or two men with good eyes, and hearts as good, had seen the leading hounds across the brook turning up the hill away from the bridge, and knew that two most necessary minutes might be lost in the crowd. Frank did as they did, having seen nothing of any hounds, but with instinctive knowledge that they were men likely to be right in a hunting-field. “If that ain’t Nappie’s horse, I’ll eat him,” said one of the leading men to the other, as all the three were breasting the hill together. Frank only knew that he had been carried over water and timber without a mistake, and felt a glow of gratitude towards Mr. MacFarlane. Up the hill they went, and, not waiting to inquire into the circumstances of a little gate, jumped a four-foot wall and were away. “How the mischief did he get atop of Nappie’s horse?” said the horsey man to his friend.