It may be permissible to introduce a meet of hounds at or about the
end of a chapter, but I feel sure that the ensuing run must be given
elbow-room. Alarming to many though this statement may be, yet it may
be said that its foundations are laid in truth and equity, and in the
necessities of this history may be found the justification of the
chapter.
The Quarry Wood had not failed. Larry's fox had been in it. To Larry,
seated on his stout, bay cob, with a heart banging against his ribs,
and a soul absorbed into a single supplication, had come, suddenly and
beautifully, the answer to prayer, the ineffable spectacle of a large
and lovely fox, sliding quietly away, at the right place, at the right
moment. Life could offer Larry no more; not then, at all events.
"_My_ coverts--_my_ fox!"
Not many boys of sixteen, enthusiasts, endowed with just that touch of
the poetic temperament that can set the brain reeling, could know a
more wondrous moment.
Then to see Cousin Dick, blazing and splendid, charging out of the
wood, "like the man on the red horse in Revelation," as Christian said
afterwards--(Christian had sneaked away from Charles, the coachman,
and had followed Larry)--with the hounds flashing around and ahead of
him, and Cottingham's rasping "Forrad! Forrad!" from the wood behind,
like the blast of a bellows upon flames!
Larry had been past speech when that apocalyptic vision had
materialised in response to his halloa. He had waved his hat and
cheered the hounds to the line of the fox, but it had been
unnecessary; they had not had an instant's uncertainty, and had taken
hold on their own account without reference to anyone.
That the hold taken by the hounds was a firm and assured one was due,
not only to their own virtues, but also to the fact that where the fox
had broken, a tract of turf bog met the wood, and carried a scent of
entire efficiency. What, however, it was incapable of carrying were
the horses. The hounds, uttering their ecstasy in that gorgeous chorus
of harmonious discordance called Full Cry, sped across the bog like a
flock of seagulls; but for the riders, a narrow track between deep
ditches left by the turf-cutters for their carts, was the sole hope,
and a string of horses, galloping in single file, was soon following
hard on the heels of the Master. Foremost of them all were Christian
and Larry, filled with an elation beyond the power of words to convey.
The hounds were holding steadily right-handed across the bog, and were
ever widening the distance between them and the riders, but it was
enough for these two children to be able to keep their proud place,
next after the Master, and to know that no one, not even Cottingham,
could deprive them of it. It may gravely be questioned if Tommy, the
stout bay cob, and Harry, the residue of a hunt horse, appreciated a
position to which they were so little accustomed. Harry, whose heart,
indisputably in the right place, was possibly the only sound item in
his outfit, pounded gallantly on, roaring as he went, like a lion
seeking after his prey; but Tommy, whose labours were, as a rule,
limited to mild harness-work, was kept going mainly by stress of
circumstances, in which category Larry's spurs took a prominent part.
The bog-track at length became merged in a rushy field, and then
indeed did the pent waters of the hunt break forth. Major Dick's tall
chestnut had gradually increased his lead, and by the time the track
was clear of riders, he was two fields ahead, with Cottingham not far
behind, and a few indignant young men riding like maniacs to overtake
them. To have been held back by a schoolboy and a little girl is an
indignity not easily to be borne. The Broadwater Vale field was a
hard-going one, including a strengthening of young soldiers from the
regiment quartered at Riverstown, and it was not long before Tommy and
Harry were beginning to find themselves in a more familiar and less
exigent position. Judith, on the grey mare, went by them like a flash;
Doctor Mangan overtook them heavily, and heavily passed them. Father
David, riding a little wide of the crowd, waved a friendly hand to
Christian, as the black mare, composed and discreet, as became a
daughter of the Church, dwelt for an instant on the top of a wide
bank, before she struck off into the next field. Worst indignity of
all, Charles, the coachman, on the elderly carriage horse, drew
alongside, and presumed to offer directions and admonitions. "As if,"
thought Christian, as she drove Harry at the bank in the wake of the
black mare, "I cared a pin what he says!"
Gone for poor Charles were the days when Miss Christian had revered
him above all other created things; days such as the one on which,
after a ride round the yard on an unharnessed carriage horse,
Christian, in gratitude too great for words, had attempted to kiss
him. Charles had repelled the embrace, saying tactfully: "No pleasures
in Lent, Miss!" and Christian had accepted the excuse. Then Miss
Christian had been three years old, now she was thirteen, and Charles
had, in the interval, married a cook, and lost his figure, and with
it, had departed his nerve, and the reverance of Miss Christian, and
he knew it.
Close behind Charles came Dr. Mangan's "little girl," who had been
confided with a lubricating half-crown, to his care. Miss Letitia
Mangan was far from considering herself a little girl. She was sixteen
and a half, and conceived herself to be of combatant rank, even though
her thick, dark hair banged on her back in a ponderous pigtail, and
her education at the Cluhir Convent School was still uncompleted. The
fat, piebald pony that she was riding would have a sore back before
she got home. Christian, perched wren-like on her ancient steed (but a
wren placed with mathematical accuracy of directness with relation to
the steed's ears), noted with disfavour the crooked seat, the heavy
hand on the curb. Larry, hot and pink, with hat hanging by its guard,
his fair hair looking like storm-tossed corn-stooks, noted nothing,
being wholly engrossed in bitter conflict with Tommy. The art of
keeping a good start with hounds is not given to many, and least of
all to the young and inexperienced. From having been first of the
first, it had fallen to Larry and Christian to find themselves last,
and last in the despised company of Charles and "the Mangan girl."
The unexacting position of being at the heel of the hunt may have a
charm for the philosophic or unambitious, but so black a continuation
of so great a start was a trial quite beyond the endurance of a young
gentleman possessed of the artistic temperament. And then the
abominable Mangan girl came into play, and joined in the circling
performance at the big bank. Always, when Larry felt that this time
the cob was going to "have it," that cow-like red and white beast
would jam itself in the way, so he thought, raging. In this matter of
hunting, Dr. Mangan had not been well advised in his scheme for his
little girl's social advantage.
In the meantime the hounds had run their fox into Drumkeen Wood, and
the riders, arriving in small and breathless companies, thanked God
for a check, and tightened their girths and took courage. The latter
would undoubtedly be needed if the run continued; Drumkeen Wood was
hung like a cloak upon the side of a steep hill, and was the
invariable prelude to the worst going within the bounds of the hunt.
"If he's into the big earth here, I'm afraid it's good-bye to him!"
said Dr. Mangan, taking courage in a liquid form. "It was a sweet
gallop while it lasted! Sweet and short, like this toothful of cherry
brandy I'm after drinking!"
"Ah, that's poor stuff, Doctor," said Mr. Hallinan, proprietor of
Hallinan's Hotel, a prosperous hostelry, much patronised by
salmon-fishers. "Give me a sup of good old John Jameson in its
purity!"
"'Twas for Tishy I brought this out," replied the Doctor,
apologetically; "but I lost sight of her. She's back somewhere with
little Christian Lowry and young Coppinger."
"What sort of a lad is that?" asked Mr. Hallinan. "Is he as big a pup
as them young Lowrys?"
"Ah, they're not so bad altogether," said Dr. Mangan, indulgently.
"Young sprigs like them are none the worse for a little _tashpy_,
as the people say!" The Doctor's heavy voice relaxed a little over the
world _tashpy_ (which, it should perhaps be explained, is Irish,
and implies a blend of impudence and high spirits). He was quite aware
that his friend Hallinan and he regarded the Talbot-Lowrys from a
different standpoint.
"I was having a bit of lunch there the other day," he went on, "and I
thought they were nice boys enough."
"I hope you got enough to eat!" said Mr. Hallinan, disagreeably; "I'm
told that their butcher's sick and tired trying to get what he's owed,
out of them! There should be drink enough, anyway! I'm just after
sending in a case of whisky there. God knows when I'll be ped for it!"
At this moment the two gentlemen, whose horses were nibbling the grass
of the bank that surrounded the wood, were shaken by the sudden
appearance of the white nose of the Master's chestnut on the other
side of the bank.
"I'd be obliged if there was less noise!" said the Master's voice,
with threatening in it.
Mr. Hallinan's jaw dropped unaffectedly.
"Merciful God!" he murmured; "did he hear me, d'ye think?"
"Ah, no fear, man!" whispered the Doctor, encouragingly. "And if he
did itself, maybe you'd get your cheque a bit quicker!"
In the silence that followed, a whimpering whistle from a hound,
invisible, yet near at hand, sent a thrill through the waiting riders.
There followed the rustling rush of hounds through the undergrowth, as
they gathered to enquire into the whimper. Then another whimper,
merging into a squeal, and Cottingham's voice:
"Hark to Dulcet! Forrad to Dulcet!"
"Begad, they have him again," said Dr. Mangan, without enthusiasm. "I
wonder where is Tishy gone to? I suppose they'll run these blasted
hills now--"
The big grey horse, and his seventeen stone rider, moved off in the
opposite direction to the tread of the hunt, which was slowly and
steadily pushing upwards through the wood. Dr. Mangan was one of the
select company of followers of hounds who know when they have had
enough.
A narrow, stony passage, more resembling a drain than a lane, ran
round the wood; the riders hustled along it, like a train in a
cutting, too tightly packed for the most vindictive kicker to injure
his neighbour, too hampered by impeding rocks to make more speed than
can be accomplished by a jog. The drain ended at a V-shaped fissure
between two slants of rock, and, by the time the last horse had
clattered and scrambled up it, the hounds were away again, steering
up, across heathery fields, enclosed by fences and stone walls of all
sorts and sizes, for a great double-headed hill on the sky-line, three
or more miles away.
"Carrigaholt as usual!" said Major Dick, over his shoulder, to the
Hon. Sec., young Kirby of Castle Ire. "If you get a chance, try and
head him off the western rocks--and Bill! Tell those infernal
children of mine they're to keep with Charles and look out for bogs!"
His conscience as a parent thus appeased, the Master applied himself
to the no small task of keeping his hounds in sight, and of evading
the equal difficulties presented by rocks and bog holes. The offspring
in question were now, with Larry, in comparative and undesired safety
beneath the fluttering wing of Charles, and Bill Kirby, having
faithfully delivered his message, found himself immediately adopted as
an alternative protector, and repented him of his fidelity.
The hounds stormed on through the hills, running hard across the
frequent boggy tracts, more slowly, and with searchings, over the
intervening humps of rock and furze. The fox was making a well-known
point, and running a well-known line, but the fences in their infinite
variety, defied the staling force of custom, and the difficulties of
the going were intensified by the pace. The hounds gained at length
the ridge of the high country, and as they flitted along the skyline,
the riders, labouring among the rocks, skirting the bogs, pounding at
the best pace they could raise over the intervals of heather and
grass, felt that their hold on the hunt had become distinctly
insecure.
"'Christian dost thou see them?'" quoted Larry, kicking his heels into
the bay cob's well-covered ribs without effect, "for I don't!"
"They'll check at Carrigaholt," called back Bill Kirby; "that'll be
our chance--"
They were far up on the slope of the hills now; the country swung in
long, dipping lines, down to the Vale of the Broadwater, and spread,
in great and generous curves, away to the far range of the Mweelin
Mountains, that brooded, in colour a deep and sullen sapphire, on the
horizon. The town of Cluhir, a little puff of smoke, cut in two by the
wide river, lay below. The spires of the two churches rose above the
smoke, one on either side of the bridge that spanned the river. The
sound of bells, faintly rising from one of them, summoned the faithful
to the mid-day Mass in honour of St. Stephen.
Larry, pushing Tommy along at a dogged canter, lifted his bowler hat
as he heard the bells, and Christian and Judith looked at each other.
The tradition of the Protestant, "No demonstrations!" with its
singular suspicion and distrust of manifestations of reverence or
poetry, had been early implanted in them, and Judith murmured to
Christian: "How on earth does he remember?"
"I know I couldn't," admitted Christian; yet some feeling that, though
crushed, had survived the heavy feet of Lady Isabel's trusted manuals,
stirred in her in accord with the faint clash of the chapel bells,
making her envy Larry his accredited salutation, making her feel
something of the beauty, if not of holiness, of, at least, the
recognition that there were holy things in the world.
On the nearer head of Carrigaholt the check, predicted by Bill Kirby,
came. A narrow and level plateau ran between the twin crests; above it
on both sides, rose successive shelves of cliff, with swathes of
russet bracken muffling their fierce outline. Flung about on the
shelves, looking like tumbled piles of giant books in a neglected
library, were immense rectangular rocks; one would say that only the
grey and knotted cords of the ivy that had crept over them, held them
in their place upon those rugged shelves. At one end of the level
place the ground fell steeply to a wild stream, the Feorish, from
whose farther bank another hill, but little less formidable than
Carrigaholt, rose like an enemy tower, threatening its defences. The
hounds swarmed like bees among the rocks, jumping or falling from
shelf to shelf, burrowing and thrusting through the bracken, their
heads appearing suddenly in quite improbable places, with glowing eyes
and glistening pink tongues, demanding from their huntsman the
information that no one but themselves could give.
It was a place in which not one, but a hundred places of safety
presented themselves to a fox, but this good fox had despised them
all, and, of all the hounds, it was Amazon, Christian's beloved
foundling, who was first to recognise the fact. Far down, from the
bottom of the gorge, she called to her fellows, and it was Christian,
of all the riders, who first heard her voice. If Larry had had his
great moment, when the fox broke, it was Christian's turn now, when
Amazon fresh-found him. I suppose there are not very many people who,
as well as being perfectly happy, are conscious of their perfect
happiness. This little girl was of that privileged company, as, in
answer to her call, her father threw the pack over the edge of the
plateau and cheered them to Amazon.
In two minutes, a frenzied chorus was filling the narrow gorge, the
cry of the hounds, the hurrying reiterated notes of the horn, the
shouts of the Whips rating on stragglers, echoing and re-echoing from
cliff to cliff. Before the riders had committed themselves to the
descent, the leading hounds were straining up the opposite cliff face;
slithering, and slipping, the horses were hurried down a track that
goats had made between rocks and bracken, and, at the base, found
themselves confronted with the problem of the river. The River Styx
could hardly look less attractive than did the Feorish, as it swirled,
swollen and foaming, among its rocks, its dark torrent plunging from
steep to steep in roaring waterfalls. Some country men, high on the
cliffs, howled directions, and the Master, his eye on his hounds
struggling with the fierce stream, went on down the gorge until the
howls changed their metre, thus indicating to the experienced that the
moment had come to cross the river. The ford, such as it was,
permitted some half dozen of the horses to cross it, splashing and
floundering, wobbling perilously from the round and slimy back of one
sunken rock to another.
Judith and the grey mare, following close on Bill Kirby's heels, got
over neatly, and were away after him over the top of the hill before
Christian's turn came. The ancient and skilled Harry addressed himself
to the task with elderly caution, feeling his way with suspicion,
creeping across with slow-poised feet, and was so delicate over the
effort, that Larry's cob, following too close on him, was checked at a
critical moment. He struggled, slipped, recovered, found himself still
hindered by Harry, and, with a final stagger, lost footing altogether,
and rolled over.
Cottingham, subsequently recounting the incident, declared that
_he_ thought, he did, that the young genel'm was done for; but
"that little Miss Christeen--she's a nummer she is!--she off'n 'er
'oss before I fair sees what's 'appened, and she ketches the young
chap by the 'ed, and pulls 'im clear! Her did indeed! A lill' gurl
like what she is too! Her's wuth more than ten big men!"
What a singular encomium, "a nummer" might mean, was a fact known only
to Cottingham, but it was incontrovertibly Christian's eel-like
swiftness of action that had saved Larry from a worse accident. Small
and slender though she was, she was wiry, and she had the gift of
being able instantly to concentrate every force of mind and body upon
a desired point--a rare gift and a precious one.
But when she and Larry, dripping and hatless, were hauled into safety
by other helpers, less swift but more powerful, it was found that
Larry had not come out of the Feorish unscathed. His left hand was
hanging, helpless, with a broken wrist.