THE FOX TAKES EARTH
Meanwhile at the front of the house things had been happening. Larry and
a subordinate stable helper had brought round Mr Fanshawe’s horse, and
the horses for General Grampound and Miss Lestrange.
“I must speak to you alone,” said Dicky, as he helped the girl into her
saddle—“not a word here.—Row? You saw us at breakfast—he has sworn not
to speak to me again—it’s over that business last night. Hush, here he
is.”
He swung into his own saddle as his uncle came down the steps, and
mounted the elephantine grey which Larry Lyburn was holding for him.
It was at this moment that a ragged individual, of the type which is all
eyes for disaster, and all ears for bad news, and all tongue for telling
it, yelled out:
“Here’s wan of the whips riding hell for leather. Musha! but somethin’
must a’ happened to the houn’s!”
Right across the park he was coming, a dingy scarlet figure on a big
brown horse.
“It’s Billy Croom, the second whip!” cried Mr Mahony, who was standing
up in his cart. “Will yiz look at the face of him, white as chalk!”
The huntsman took the sunk fence dividing the great lawn from the
grasslands, and, full gallop, came, scattering the crowd to right and to
left till ten paces from where General Grampound, Dicky Fanshawe and
Miss Lestrange were grouped he reined in, bringing the big brown mare on
her haunches.
“No mate!” cried Billy. “Mr O’Farrell’s tumbled down the stairs and
killed hisself—Musha! don’t all be axin’ me at once—He’s fell from the
first flure down to the haal—I left the docther settin’ his arum—an’ he
won’t be in the saddle agin for a month. ‘Into the saddle wid you,
Billy,’ says Mrs O’Farrell, and she near crazy, ‘and aff you go wid my
respects and give ’m the news.’ Stan’ clear and don’t be crowdin’
me—mind wid that stick, and don’t be proddin’ it into the mare, or it’s
stars she’ll be kickin’ out of you—she ain’t an umbrilla stand. What was
you afther sayin’, sir?”
“I am asking you, is Mr O’Farrell dead or not?” said General Grampound,
who had been vainly endeavouring to make his voice heard in the hubbub.
“No, sir; he’s only bruck his arum.”
“Then what the deuce do you mean by saying he had killed himself?”
“Who’d killed hisself?” asked Billy, unaccustomed to be taken literally,
and nettled at the tone of the questioner.
“Mr O’Farrell—are you deaf?”
“Who’s you talkin’ to?” replied the whip, a man with one of those long,
dark, narrow, devilish, fighting faces one meets with sometimes amidst
the Irish sporting classes.
Before the General could reply—and well for him, perhaps—at this moment
up went the cry from the stable-yard:
“Paddy’s out!”
“Paddy’s out!” yelled the throng, forgetting the disputants and surging
towards the stable side of the house. “Brayvo, Paddy! Where is he?
Afther him, and let’s chase him! Boys! boys! this’ll be the fun an’ all.
Set the houn’s afther him—there ain’t no houn’s—afther him on fut! Crack
him on the head if yiz catch him. No quarther, no quarther!—sure, he’s
biled babies alive, the blackguyard! There he is, runnin’. Shan’s
cotched him! No, he ain’t—he’s free. Afther him, afther him!”
A furious crowd surrounded the stable entrance, from which broke the
figure of a man running.
The extraordinary fact stands, take it how you will, that the crowd who
had sympathised and assisted in Mr Murphy’s escape were now, immediately
on his enlargement, all against him and eager to catch him. The spirit
of pity had vanished with the breaking of the bars, the spirits of
pursuit and revenge broke loose, and who knows what might have happened
but for Billy Croom, the whip, who, galloping in a semi-circle, faced
and herded back the pursuing crowd with his devilish expression and long
whip.
“Fair play!” shouted Billy, letting into the would-be hunters with his
whip. “Give him two minits’ law and let him have a run for his money.
Back you get, y’ divils, give him till he’s over the sunk fence—wait me
word! There, he’s over! _Tally ho!_ hark forrard!”
“Look!” cried Violet, “they are chasing him.”
“Now’s our time,” said Dicky. “Uncle’s away over there to the left—let’s
pretend to follow the chase; leave everything to me. Can you take the
sunk fence?”
“Rather!” said she.
The hunted one had got a good start; he had left the sunk fence far
behind him, and was making for the woods. Behind him, out-streaming like
the tail of a fan-tail comet, came the populace.
Billy Croom, who could have ridden the quarry down easily, was far too
good a sportsman for that. He was riding at a trot, and from a distance
you could see that he was treating the pursuers after the fashion of a
pack of hounds—that is to say, with encouragement of voice and whip,
especially the latter.
He was having more fun out of the business than any one else. The
General riding near Billy seemed to be doing a great deal of shouting.
“To the right now!” said Dicky, when they had cleared the fence. “They
are all on ahead, and we can cut straight across to the woods.”
Mr Murphy was also making for the woods but far lower down, and he “went
to earth,” to judge by the roar of the pursuing pack, just as the lovers
reached the shelter of the trees.
“Let’s get off and leave the horses here,” said Dicky. “I must have a
good long talk to you. Patsy ought to be somewhere near. I told him this
morning to watch out for us, and keep close to us. I told him we’d most
likely take shelter in these trees.”
“Listen!” said Violet.
Patsy that morning, with rare fidelity and close attention to business,
had forsaken his duties and all delights, and posted himself in the
branches of a beech tree. From this vantage he could see the “meet.” He
saw Billy Croom riding furiously up and delivering his message. He saw
the pursuit of Mr Murphy, he saw Violet and Dicky Fanshawe’s manœuvre.
Directly they turned beyond the sunk fence and rode towards the wood, he
saw what they were after, marked their direction, came down the beech
tree with the rapidity of a monkey and made through the wood to meet
them.
“Oh! there you are,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Take the horses, Patsy, and lead
them back to the stable. We will return on foot.”
“Yes, sir,” said Patsy, taking the bridles.
“This way,” said Dicky, leading Violet, who was holding her short habit
in one hand. He led her amidst the trees which were sparsely set, till,
on looking round, nothing was to be seen but the tree-boles, the
withered fern under foot and above, through the tracery of the branches,
the dull December day. Here Mr Fanshawe struck his head in a dramatic
fashion. “I have been half-mad all the morning to have a word with you.
Violet, it’s all up.”
“What?” asked Violet, half-alarmed at the distraction visible in her
companion.
“Everything, the whole game. He and you are going away to-morrow
morning.”
“Dicky! what on earth do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you. But first tell me, what did you hear last night?”
“I lay awake waiting, that is to say, I didn’t go to bed; just lay down
with my clothes on. I heard the clock strike twelve; then a long time
passed, and then,” said Violet, “I heard a most awful yell.”
“That was when we caught him. Go on.”
“It went on to squeals just like a pig. I heard doors banging, and _his_
voice and his language, and other voices, then everything was quiet.
Then I lay listening to Lady Seagrave snoring. She is so deaf she heard
nothing, and she sleeps in the next room. Then I heard your knock, I
said ‘Yes,’ and then I heard——”
“Yes, go on.”
“Your dear voice,” said Violet, nestling her cheek against his shoulder.
Mr Fanshawe gulped, and pressed her to him.
“Then,” said Violet, “you asked me to open the door and say good-night,
and I said ‘No,’ and you said ‘Yes,’ and then I opened it. Then I said
good-night and shut my door, and—that’s all.”
Mr Fanshawe groaned.
“I wish it were,” he said.
“How?”
“He saw us.”
“When?”
“When I—Violet, dear—kissed you.”
Her face flushed scarlet.
“I was coming down the passage,” went on Mr Fanshawe, “going to my room,
after leaving you, when some one grasped me by the arm. It was uncle. He
had been standing in the dark at his door, and he saw everything, for,
you remember, I had a lighted candle in my hand.”
“Go on,” said Violet.
“He drew me into his room——”
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
“I never swear before ladies,” said Mr Fanshawe, with a miserable
attempt at jocularity, “but what he said, as far as I remember, was
something like this: ‘Now, sir—now, sir—now, sir—now, sir—what the
blank—what the blank—what the blank do you mean, sir? What the blank do
you mean, you hound?’”
“He called you a hound?”
“He called me a hound.”
“But this is serious, Dicky.”
“Very especially for me, as I could not strike him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, I believe, ‘Thank you, sir.’ It wasn’t a very brilliant
observation, under the circumstances.”
Violet put her hands round his neck, drew his face down and kissed it.
“I love you for having said it,” said she.
“That makes up. But I felt pretty bad, never felt worse. I declare to
heaven,” suddenly broke out Mr Fanshawe, “I can’t understand human
nature. Here’s a man as brave as they make them, a D.S.O., and all that,
with the heart of a bitter old maid——”
“Go on,” said Violet. “What happened then?”
“He said things about you, and—I ran away.”
“Ran away?”
“You see, if I had stayed I must have knocked him down. I told him he
was a liar before I left him, though; other things, too, that I want to
forget——”
Violet sighed one of those deep sighs that speak not of sorrow or
lackadaisical affectation. Her eyes were sparkling.
“If I could be glad about anything so horrible,” she said, “I would be
glad he spoke like that about me, for now I don’t care if I do——”
“What?”
“Run away with you.”
Mr Fanshawe again pressed her close to him. They were walking,
sauntering, all this time through the wood in any direction Fate might
lead them. He sighed.
“That’s the rub,” said he.
“How?”
“I will tell you. Patsy comes in here. This morning at seven, General
Grampound, my revered uncle, rang his bell. Patsy answered it. Patsy was
commissioned to tell a maid to tell Lady Seagrave that General Grampound
requested an interview with her ‘at once’ on business of the gravest
importance. Lady Seagrave replied that she would see him at eight
o’clock in her boudoir.
“A few minutes after eight the boudoir bell rang, and Patsy, who scented
mischief, answered it. He found the General and the lady together, but
unable to communicate, as the lady in her hurry had left her ear-trumpet
on her dressing-room table. Patsy was sent to fetch it.”
Mr Fanshawe paused, and, despite his dejection, chuckled.
“Patsy,” he went on, “does not love my uncle. Patsy, as far as I can
understand his character, is a compound of Machiavelli, Bismarck, Puck,
and one of Shakespeare’s fools all compressed into a page-boy in
buttons. Patsy saw the ear-trumpet on the table, and by the trumpet a
bottle of eau de Cologne. The combination would have meant nothing to an
ordinary person, but in Patsy’s mind it suggested the idea of playing
the ‘ould Gineral a trick.’”
“Go on,” said Violet interestedly.
“He took the cork from the eau de Cologne bottle and popped it into the
ear-trumpet.”
“Oh, bravo, Patsy!” cried Miss Lestrange. “Go on, go on!”
“Not only did he pop it in, but he rammed it tight, with a long
button-hook. Then he brought the ear-trumpet down, handed it to Lady
Seagrave, and shut the door. Then he listened.”
“What did he hear?”
“As far as I can gather, it was like listening to a scene in a French
farce. You know, the old girl hates to be thought deaf, and my uncle
hates to be thought stupid. Strange, that people with such obvious
defects should try to hide them. The General began to explain himself;
she requested him to speak louder. He bellowed, and she asked him was he
deaf. They seemed to have insulted one another for a quarter of an hour
or so without getting any ‘forrader’; at all events, he was unable to
tell her what he wanted to tell her, about us last night.”
“Thank heaven!” said Violet. “Not that I would care a button about any
one knowing, but, O Dicky, women feel about things differently to men,
and you can’t think the—the—_deep_ satisfaction that eau de Cologne cork
has given to my mind. She is such a meddler, such a fusser, and she has
such notions of propriety. You can’t understand an old lady of that
sort, because you are not a woman. If she had heard what he said, she
would have made you go off at once—I know her.”
“Why,” cried Dicky, “that was just what he was trying to ask her to do!
Patsy told me he began by asking her to send me off at once, as I was
conducting myself in an ungentlemanly manner, and ruining your prospects
of marriage——”
“We had two enemies to our happiness,” said Violet, “Patsy has made one
confound the other. What did she say to all that?”
“She said, ‘Speak louder,’” replied Mr Fanshawe with a grim chuckle.
“I can’t help thinking that there is a Providence at work,” said Miss
Lestrange devoutly—“this happening and Mr Boxall getting influenza. She
was putting him into my pocket at every opportunity. She had made up a
party for to-day in a closed carriage, to go to Tullagh. She, and I, and
He, and Lady Molyneux—ugh!—but now this blessed influenza.”
“Don’t!” said Dicky, suddenly catching hold of a tree and doubling
himself up in convulsions of merriment. “This is too much—it’s not
influenza.”
“What is it, Dicky?”
“I can’t tell—see here, Violet——It’s a sneaky thing to say things about
another man—I _must_ tell, though. Boxall isn’t in bed because of the
influenza.”
“What, then?”
“Patsy collared his eye.”
“His _what_?”
“His artificial one. It popped out of his head when that sweep chap hit
him. Patsy saw it on the road, and put it in his pocket.”
“Oh!” said Miss Lestrange.
“He’s sent a telegram for another one,” went on Mr Fanshawe; “Cupid’s
messenger, you know—ha! ha! ha!”
Miss Lestrange did not go into the same convulsions of merriment. To a
girl every man who presents himself in the guise of a suitor, whether he
is acceptable or wildly impossible, is a sort of trinket, a personal
possession—at the lowest, a scalp. A woman, whatever she may pretend,
feels a kindly interest at heart for _any_ man who admires and loses his
heart to her.
Had Mr Mahony, soot bags and all, fallen honestly and wildly in love
with Miss Lestrange, Miss Lestrange, while scouting and loathing and
closing the doors against her dusky suitor, would still have felt for
him an interest; and, had he broken his leg, the news would have been of
more moment to her than the news of a similar accident befalling Mr
Mullins or Billy the Buck, or any other male biped of the same species.
“Patsy,” said Miss Lestrange, “seems to have had a lot to do with our
affairs; is it Fate or just—Patsy?”
“It’s accident,” replied Dicky, whom a grave thought had suddenly
sobered. “Ireland is an accident factory; these things could never
happen in England. An Irishman creates an accident and then somehow
makes events from it. Patsy doesn’t do things of a set purpose, but he
takes hold of opportunity, and he can make more of an accident than most
people. But the thing that is bothering me is this. Though Patsy, by
means of an eau de Cologne cork, has stopped me from being summarily
expelled, all the Patsys and all the eau de Cologne corks in the world
won’t stop uncle from leaving and taking you away with him. He’s going
to-morrow by the 8.15 from Tullagh station.”
“How do you know?” asked Violet. “He has not said a word to me.”
“No, I don’t suppose he will till this evening; all the same, he is
going. The last words he said in that fantastic interview with the old
woman were, that he would leave the house to-day, only that he was too
late to catch the 8.15, but that he’d go to-morrow; and he has given
orders for the cart for the luggage, and the brougham to take you to the
station.”
“This is dreadful,” said the girl. “Dicky, it was the day after
to-morrow——”
“Yes; at two in the morning _we_ were to start.”
They had wandered far by this. They had crossed the drive and entered
the woods on the other side, walking in the direction of the Druids’
Altar. Breaking into a little glade they found themselves before the
ruin of a tree, the bole of a great oak, broken off some ten feet from
the ground; it was the same oak in which Mr Murphy had been hiding on
the day we first made his acquaintance.
“Let us sit down for a minute and think,” said the girl, pointing to the
moss-grown roots of the old tree.
------------------------------------------------------------------------