by R S Surtees
“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.
“Not a bad-like shop,” observed Facey to Lucy, as he kept one little roving pig-eye on his hounds, the other on the house.
“No, it’s not,” replied Lucy; adding, “I vote we go in and see what it’s like inside;” adding, “they were all over ours, you know.”
“Too much bother,” rejoined Facey; “the women will be all astir.”
“Oh, never mind that,” said Lucy. “Let’s see what they are like.”
Facey still kept holding his hounds on, more for the sake of making a survey of the place, than in any expectation of their hitting off the scent. At last he came to a swing cattle-gate, across a widish brook at the far end of the lawn; and, the country beyond not appearing inviting, he resolved to give in, hoping that Hazey might hunt the fox back into his country some other day.
“No use potterin’ on after the beggar any longer,” said he, turning the reluctant Baker round, with a “Cop—come away! cop—come away!” to his hounds. “First bagman I ever hunted,” said Facey, “and it shall be the last. Do one’s hounds more harm than enough.”
So saying, he kicked the Baker into a trot, and swung gaily over the green, as if to make the hounds believe he had done all he intended. He had got the Baker’s back down, at all events; and would have him quiet for the next day he was wanted.
“I should like a cup of tea very much now,” said Lucy, reverting to Bill’s proposal.
“Dash you and your tea! You women are always wanting tea—should go about with a kettle tacked to your saddles,” replied Romford.
“Well, I’m sure it’s a very harmless beverage.”
“Harmless enough,” retorted Facey; “but it does you no good.”
“Well, there’s not much feeding in it, perhaps; but, still, it’s very refreshing.”
“Well, then, come and refresh yourselves,” said Facey, turning his horse’s head towards the house, with a view of encountering the crinolines.
So they jogged over the greensward to the stables, Facey thinking, as he looked at his old lacklustre boots, that Lucy would have to do the decorative part of the entertainment, as he was only in very “so-so” guise. He would rather have his hot woodcocks at home, than damage his appetite by anything he might get at Hazey’s. However, he would see how the land lay.
XXXVII
TARRING NEVILLE
MR HAZEY’S BOY BILL, IN the exercise of a wise discretion, had run back to the house to give the alarm of “Company coming! company coming!” while Mr Romford made his final caste for his fox about the place. Bill informed his beloved parents in breathless haste as they still sat at their morning meal, that i’ wasn’t old Muggeridge who was towling about the grounds with the rum-and-milk harriers, but no less a personage than the great Mr Romford, who, with his sister, Mrs Somerville, he believed was coming in to breakfast. He did not say that he had asked them, lest that should have been wrong, but left it to be inferred that they had invited themselves.
“Breakfast!” ejaculated Hazey, throwing down his “Times,” and glancing at his garments.
“Breakfast!” exclaimed Mrs Hazey, thinking of her cream, eggs, and honey.
“Breakfast!” repeated Miss, recollecting that she looked rather yellow as she dressed.
And away they all started on their respective reviserships. But the boy Bill, having been seen, stood his ground in the way of dress, and confined his endeavours to rousing the establishment.
“Look sharp! look sharp!” was the cry; “there’s company coming! there’s company coming!”
And the news flew with such electricity that when our master and Mrs Somerville rode into the stable-yard, sly Silkey the groom and a couple of helpers were on the look-out for their horses, while a lad held back the door of a loose-box for the reception of the hounds. Having dismounted and got the latter housed, Facey locked the door, and putting the key in his pocket, proceeded to assist his sister to descend from her horse. A light bound from the saddle landed her on the ground, when, having shaken out her habit, she arranged it becomingly, with a due regard to the interests of her pretty booted feet and neatly fitting trousers. In truth Lucy looked very lovely. Her smart habit showed her natural figure to advantage, and the fine fresh morning air had imparted a genial glow to her bright complexion. Her hair, too, was all right.
“Now,” said Facey to Silkey, “you give these horses half a pail of gruel and a feed of corn apiece;” adding, “and don’t take the saddles off, but throw a rug over each of them:” so saying he stamped the thick of the mud sparks off his rusty Napoleons, and then proceeded to follow Lucy, who was already tripping along the gravel walk to the house.
“Rot the women,” muttered he, eyeing her; “they are never happy unless they are pokin’ their noses into each other’s houses. Can’t possibly be hungry so soon.”
“Now, who are you goin’ to ax for?” demanded he, overtaking her just as she gained the little iron wicket at the end of a well-kept gravel walk that evidently led to the front of the house.
“Oh, there’s no occasion to ask for anyone,” replied Lucy; “just ring the bell; they asked us in, you know.”
“Humph,” rejoined Romford; “not so clear that they meant us to come, though.”
“Well, if they didn’t, it will teach them to be more truthful another time,” replied Lucy, laughing; “besides,” added she, “this will do instead of returning their call, you know.
“Hut, oi never meant to return it,” growled Romford.
Tarring Neville now resembled a theatre at the critical moment of ringing up the curtain. Whatever bustle and confusion may have prevailed behind the scenes, all must be hushed and still at that momentous summons. So at Tarring Neville, when the ominous front door bell sounded there was an end of hurry and preparation. Basket the butler suddenly dropped from a trot to a walk; Henry the footman ceased fumbling at his coat-cuffs the breakfast tableau was recomposed, Mrs Hazey, in command of the teapot as before, while Hazey subsided, “Times” in hand, into his arm-chair, as though he had been sitting quietly at his meal, instead of having been to his dressing-room to exchange a shabby old silk frayed surtout for a smartish coatee and fancy vest.
“Mr Romford and Mrs Somerville,” now proclaimed stage-manager Tomkins, opening the breakfast-room door, when up started Hazey, laying down the “Times,” as though quite surprised and overjoyed at the announcement. He was rather pleased, for he was half inclined to think the Romfords wouldn’t visit him, and then adieu to his chance of a deal.
“My dear Mrs Somerville, how do you do?” exclaimed he, advancing and grasping her hand fervently; adding, “let me introduce Mrs Hazey. Mrs Hazey, Mrs Somerville; Mrs Somerville, Mrs Hazey. Then, while the ladies were bobbing and curtseying and showing each other their teeth, he turned to Romford, who was making a comparison greatly in favour of Lucy, and, shaking hands with him, said, “This is indeed quite an unexpected pleasure. Up betimes this morning, I guess—early bird that gets the worm, eh?”
“Doesn’t always get the fox though,” replied Facey with a chuckle.
“What! you’ve been hunting, have you?” exclaimed Hazey, with well-feigned surprise, ignoring the boy Bill’s visit, old Muggeridge, and all the out-door proceedings. “Well,” continued he, seeing the action of the ladies’ backs fast subsiding, “let me introduce Mrs Hazey. Mr Romford, my dear,” added he, “brother master of hounds; so glad to see you, Romford, you can’t think,” continued he, knocking off the mister, and turning again to his guest, adding “now pray be seated and have some breakfast, and tell us all about it. Where will you sit, Mrs Somerville? Where will you sit, Mr Romford? Stay, Mrs Somerville, I’ll pull the blind down, and keep the sun off your eyes,” so saying he lowered the shade, and Mrs Somerville, conscious of a healthy complexion, sat boldly down with her face to the light.
The foo
tmen and Tompkins then came in, the former bearing a tray with a reinforcement of cups and other crockery ware, in the midst of which rose the tall form of a coffeepot, with its usual accompaniments of hot milk and sugar, together with hot toast, hot rolls, hot everything. Mr Romford took tea, and Mrs Somerville took coffee, and our master nearly knocked the bottom out of a muffin plate by leistering two layers of roll with his fork at a blow. Hazey congratulated himself that it wasn’t his No.1 set when he heard it. “Rough fellow, that Romford,” thought he, eyeing his muscular arm; “strikes as if he was pronging a salmon.”
And now the usual sound of eating being established, after a careful listen at the door, Miss Anna Maria made her appearance, as if for the first time that morning, taking the chance of her breakfast things either being removed, or of Mrs Somerville not noticing them. The fact was, Miss, considering the importance of the occasion, had determined, as she glanced at herself in the cheval glass, to make a complete revision of her person, regardless of the time it would require; and so, beginning with the damask cheek, she removed the before-mentioned pallor by the slightest possible touch of rouge, and that giving satisfaction, she then proceeded to array herself in a charming négligée of black and violet foullard.
Miss Hazey was a pretty, sunny, blue-eyed girl of some twenty years of age, with a terrible taste for coquetting, which she gratified in the most liberal and promiscuous way. Lawyers, doctors, curates, soldiers, sailors, all were alike to her. Indeed, her sole employment seemed to be winning men’s hearts, and throwing them away. Her own was said to be equal parts steel and whalebone. Such was the young lady who now re-entered the dining-room at Tarring Neville, with the full determination of trying the force of her artillery upon the great and desirable Mr Romford. It was not every day that she had such a chance.
Miss gave a well-feigned start, as if surprised at the unexpected presence of strangers, which mamma seeing, and knowing her talent for dissimulation, seconded by exclaiming, “Oh, come in, my dear! come in! It’s Mr and Mrs Romford—I beg pardon, Mr Romford and Mrs Somerville. They’ve been out hunting already this morning, while you, idle girl, have been dozing in bed.” Then, turning to Mrs Somerville, who was just chipping the shell of a guinea-fowl egg, she said, “This is my daughter, Anna Maria, Mrs Somerville: Mr Romford, my dear.” Whereupon Miss Anna Maria gave two of her best Brighton boarding-school curtsies, and took up a favourable position, with her back to the light, immediately opposite our master. As she unfolded her napkin, she looked deliberately at him, and thought what a queer-looking man he was,—queer eyes, queer nose, queer hair, queer altogether. “Must be rich,” thought she, “he’s so ugly.” And Facey, peering at her out of the corners of his little pig eyes, thought she was just as smart a little girl as ever he had seen—uncommonly smart little girl—just his fancy of a girl, in fact. He then leistered the other layer of roll. And now Mr Hazey, wishing to know to what cause they were indebted for the honour of this early visit—especially to know how Mr Romford’s hounds came to be in his country—essayed to direct the conversation into the hunting line.