Edgehill.
Of all sights in the world there is, I think, none more beautiful
than that of a pack of fox-hounds seated, on a winter morning, round
the huntsman, if the place of meeting has been chosen with anything
of artistic skill. It should be in a grassy field, and the field
should be small. It should not be absolutely away from all buildings,
and the hedgerows should not have been clipped and pared, and made
straight with reference to modern agricultural economy. There should
be trees near, and the ground should be a little uneven, so as to
mark some certain small space as the exact spot where the dogs and
servants of the hunt should congregate.
There are well-known grand meets in England, in the parks of
noblemen, before their houses, or even on what are called their
lawns; but these magnificent affairs have but little of the beauty
of which I speak. Such assemblies are too grand and too ornate, and,
moreover, much too far removed from true sporting proprieties. At
them, equipages are shining, and ladies' dresses are gorgeous, and
crowds of tradesmen from the neighbouring town have come there to
look at the grand folk. To my eye there is nothing beautiful in
that. The meet I speak of is arranged with a view to sport, but the
accident of the locality may make it the prettiest thing in the
world.
Such, in a special degree, was the case at Edgehill. At Edgehill the
whole village consisted of three or four cottages; but there was a
small old church, with an old grey tower, and a narrow, green, almost
dark, churchyard, surrounded by elm-trees. The road from Roebury to
the meet passed by the church stile, and turning just beyond it came
upon the gate which led into the little field in which the hounds
felt themselves as much at home as in their kennels. There might be
six or seven acres in the field, which was long and narrow, so that
the huntsman had space to walk leisurely up and down with the pack
clustering round him, when he considered that longer sitting might
chill them. The church tower was close at hand, visible through
the trees, and the field itself was green and soft, though never
splashing with mud or heavy with holes.
Edgehill was a favourite meet in that country, partly because foxes
were very abundant in the great wood adjacent, partly because the
whole country around is grass-land, and partly, no doubt, from the
sporting propensities of the neighbouring population. As regards my
own taste, I do not know that I do like beginning a day with a great
wood,--and if not beginning it, certainly not ending it. It is hard
to come upon the cream of hunting, as it is upon the cream of any
other delight. Who can always drink Lafitte of the finest, can always
talk to a woman who is both beautiful and witty, or can always find
the right spirit in the poetry he reads? A man has usually to work
through much mud before he gets his nugget. It is so certainly in
hunting, and a big wood too frequently afflicts the sportsman, as the
mud does the miner. The small gorse cover is the happy, much-envied
bit of ground in which the gold is sure to show itself readily. But
without the woods the gorse would not hold the foxes, and without the
mud the gold would not have found its resting-place.
But, as I have said, Edgehill was a popular meet, and, as regarded
the meet itself, was eminently picturesque. On the present occasion
the little field was full of horsemen, moving about slowly, chatting
together, smoking cigars, getting off from their hacks and mounting
their hunters, giving orders to their servants, and preparing for the
day. There were old country gentlemen there, greeting each other from
far sides of the county; sporting farmers who love to find themselves
alongside their landlords, and to feel that the pleasures of the
country are common to both; men down from town, like our friends
of the Roebury club, who made hunting their chosen pleasure, and
who formed, in number, perhaps the largest portion of the field;
officers from garrisons round about; a cloud of servants, and a
few nondescript stragglers who had picked up horses, hither and
thither, round the country. Outside the gate on the road were drawn
up a variety of vehicles, open carriages, dog-carts, gigs, and
waggonettes, in some few of which were seated ladies who had come
over to see the meet. But Edgehill was, essentially, not a ladies'
meet. The distances to it were long, and the rides in Cranby
Wood--the big wood--were not adapted for wheels. There were one or
two ladies on horseback, as is always the case; but Edgehill was not
a place popular, even with hunting ladies. One carriage, that of the
old master of the hounds, had entered the sacred precincts of the
field, and from this the old baronet was just descending, as Maxwell,
Calder Jones, and Vavasor rode into the field.
[Illustration: Edgehill.]
"I hope I see you well, Sir William," said Maxwell, greeting the
master. Calder Jones also made his little speech, and so did Vavasor.
"Humph--well, yes, I'm pretty well, thank'ee. Just move on, will you?
My mare can't stir here." Then some one else spoke to him, and he
only grunted in answer. Having slowly been assisted up on to his
horse,--for he was over seventy years of age,--he trotted off to the
hounds, while all the farmers round him touched their hats to him.
But his mind was laden with affairs of import, and he noticed no one.
In a whispered voice he gave his instructions to his huntsman, who
said, "Yes, Sir William," "No, Sir William," "No doubt, Sir William."
One long-eared, long-legged fellow, in a hunting-cap and scarlet
coat, hung listening by, anxious to catch something of the orders for
the morning. "Who the devil's that fellow, that's all breeches and
boots?" said Sir William aloud to some one near him, as the huntsman
moved off with the hounds. Sir William knew the man well enough, but
was minded to punish him for his discourtesy. "Where shall we find
first, Sir William?" said Calder Jones, in a voice that was really
very humble. "How the mischief am I to know where the foxes are?"
said Sir William, with an oath; and Calder Jones retired unhappy, and
for the moment altogether silenced.
And yet Sir William was the most popular man in the county, and no
more courteous gentleman ever sat at the bottom of his own table. A
mild man he was, too, when out of his saddle, and one by no means
disposed to assume special supremacy. But a master of hounds, if he
have long held the country,--and Sir William had held his for more
than thirty years,--obtains a power which that of no other potentate
can equal. He may say and do what he pleases, and his tyranny is
always respected. No conspiracy against him has a chance of success;
no sedition will meet with sympathy;--that is, if he be successful
in showing sport. If a man be sworn at, abused, and put down without
cause, let him bear it and think that he has been a victim for the
public good. And let him never be angry with the master. That rough
tongue is the necessity of the master's position. They used to say
that no captain could manage a ship without swearing at his men.
But what are the captain's troubles in comparison with those of the
master of hounds? The captain's men are under discipline, and can
be locked up, flogged, or have their grog stopped. The master of
hounds cannot stop the grog of any offender, and he can only stop the
tongue, or horse, of such an one by very sharp words.
"Well, Pollock, when did you come?" said Maxwell.
"By George," said the literary gentleman, "just down from London by
the 8.30 from Euston Square, and got over here from Winslow in a
trap, with two fellows I never saw in my life before. We came tandem
in a fly, and did the nineteen miles in an hour."
"Come, Athenian, draw it mild," said Maxwell.
"We did, indeed. I wonder whether they'll pay me their share of the
fly. I had to leave Onslow Crescent at a quarter before eight, and I
did three hours' work before I started."
"Then you did it by candle-light," said Grindley.
"Of course I did; and why shouldn't I? Do you suppose no one can work
by candle-light except a lawyer? I suppose you fellows were playing
whist, and drinking hard. I'm uncommon glad I wasn't with you, for I
shall be able to ride."
"I bet you a pound," said Jones, "if there's a run, I see more of it
than you."
"I'll take that bet with Jones," said Grindley, "and Vavasor shall be
the judge."
"Gentlemen, the hounds can't get out, if you will stop up the gate,"
said Sir William. Then the pack passed through, and they all trotted
on for four miles, to Cranby Wood.
Vavasor, as he rode on to the wood, was alone, or speaking, from time
to time, a few words to his servant. "I'll ride the chestnut mare in
the wood," he said, "and do you keep near me."
"I bean't to be galloping up and down them rides, I suppose," said
Bat, almost contemptuously.
"I shan't gallop up and down the rides, myself; but do you mark me,
to know where I am, so that I can change if a fox should go away."
"You'll be here all day, sir. That's my belief."
"If so, I won't ride the brown horse at all. But do you take care to
let me have him if there's a chance. Do you understand?"
"Oh, yes, I understand, sir. There ain't no difficulty in my
understanding;--only I don't think, sir, you'll ever get a fox out
of that wood to-day. Why, it stands to reason. The wind's from the
north-east."
Cranby Wood is very large,--there being, in truth, two or three woods
together. It was nearly twelve before they found; and then for an
hour there was great excitement among the men, who rode up and down
the rides as the hounds drove the fox from one end to another of the
enclosure. Once or twice the poor animal did try to go away, and then
there was great hallooing, galloping, and jumping over unnecessary
fences; but he was headed back again, or changed his mind, not liking
the north-east wind of which Bat Smithers had predicted such bad
things. After one the crowd of men became rather more indifferent,
and clustered together in broad spots, eating their lunch, smoking
cigars, and chaffing each other. It was singular to observe the
amazing quantity of ham sandwiches and of sherry that had been
carried into Cranby Wood on that day. Grooms appeared to have been
laden with cases, and men were as well armed with flasks at their
saddle-bows as they used to be with pistols. Maxwell and Pollock
formed the centre of one of these crowds, and chaffed each other with
the utmost industry, till, tired of having inflicted no wounds, they
turned upon Grindley and drove him out of the circle. "You'll make
that man cut his throat, if you go on at that," said Pollock. "Shall
I?" said Maxwell. "Then I'll certainly stick to him for the sake of
humanity in general." During all this time Vavasor sat apart, quite
alone, and Bat Smithers grimly kept his place, about three hundred
yards from him.
"We shan't do any good to-day," said Grindley, coming up to Vavasor.
"I'm sure I don't know," said Vavasor.
"That old fellow has got to be so stupid, he doesn't know what he's
about," said Grindley, meaning Sir William.
"How can he make the fox break?" said Vavasor; and as his voice was
by no means encouraging Grindley rode away.
Lunch and cigars lasted till two, during which hour the hounds, the
huntsmen, the whips, and old Sir William were hard at work, as also
were some few others who persistently followed every chance of the
game. From that till three there were two or three flashes in the
pan, and false reports as to foxes which had gone away, which first
set men galloping, and then made them very angry. After three, men
began to say naughty things, to abuse Cranby Wood, to wish violently
that they had remained at home or gone elsewhere, and to speak
irreverently of their ancient master. "It's the cussidest place in
all creation," said Maxwell. "I often said I'd not come here any
more, and now I say it again."
"And yet you'll be here the next meet," said Grindley, who had
sneaked back to his old companions in weariness of spirit.
"Grindems, you know a sight too much," said Maxwell; "you do indeed.
An ordinary fellow has no chance with you."
Grindley was again going to catch it, but was on this time saved by
the appearance of the huntsman, who came galloping up one of the
rides, with a lot of the hounds at his heels.
"He isn't away, Tom, surely?" said Maxwell.
"He's out of the wood somewheres," said Tom;--and off they all went.
Vavasor changed his horse, getting on to the brown one, and giving
up his chestnut mare to Bat Smithers, who suggested that he might
as well go home to Roebury now. Vavasor gave him no answer, but,
trotting on to the point where the rides met, stopped a moment and
listened carefully. Then he took a path diverging away from that by
which the huntsmen and the crowd of horsemen had gone, and made the
best of his way through the wood. At the end of this he came upon Sir
William, who, with no one near him but his servant, was standing in
the pathway of a little hunting-gate.
"Hold hard," said Sir William. "The hounds are not out of the wood
yet."
"Is the fox away, sir?"
"What's the good of that if we can't get the hounds out?--Yes, he's
away. He passed out where I'm standing." And then he began to blow
his horn lustily, and by degrees other men and a few hounds came down
the ride. Then Tom, with his horse almost blown, made his appearance
outside the wood, and soon there came a rush of men, nearly on the
top of one another, pushing on, not knowing whither, but keenly alive
to the fact that the fox had at last consented to move his quarters.
Tom touched his hat, and looked at his master, inquiringly. "He's
gone for Claydon's," said the master. "Try them up that hedgerow."
Tom did try them up the hedgerow, and in half a minute the hounds
came upon the scent. Then you might see men settling their hats on
their heads, and feeling their feet in the stirrups. The moment for
which they had so long waited had come, and yet there were many
who would now have preferred that the fox should be headed back
into cover. Some had but little confidence in their half-blown
horses;--with many the waiting, though so abused and anathematized,
was in truth more to their taste than the run itself;--with others
the excitement had gone by, and a gallop over a field or two was
necessary before it would be restored. With most men at such a moment
there is a little nervousness, some fear of making a bad start, a
dread lest others should have more of the success of the hunt than
falls to them. But there was a great rush and a mighty bustle as the
hounds made out their game, and Sir William felt himself called upon
to use the rough side of his tongue to more than one delinquent.
And then certain sly old stagers might be seen turning off to the
left, instead of following the course of the game as indicated by the
hounds. They were men who had felt the air as they came out, and knew
that the fox must soon run down wind, whatever he might do for the
first half mile or so,--men who knew also which was the shortest way
to Claydon's by the road. Ah, the satisfaction that there is when
these men are thrown out, and their dead knowledge proved to be of no
avail! If a fox will only run straight, heading from the cover on his
real line, these very sagacious gentlemen seldom come to much honour
and glory.
In the present instance the beast seemed determined to go straight
enough, for the hounds ran the scent along three or four hedgerows
in a line. He had managed to get for himself full ten minutes' start,
and had been able to leave the cover and all his enemies well behind
him before he bethought himself as to his best way to his purposed
destination. And here, from field to field, there were little
hunting-gates at which men crowded lustily, poking and shoving each
other's horses, and hating each other with a bitterness of hatred
which is, I think, known nowhere else. No hunting man ever wants
to jump if he can help it, and the hedges near the gate were not
alluring. A few there were who made lines for themselves, taking the
next field to the right, or scrambling through the corners of the
fences while the rush was going on at the gates; and among these was
George Vavasor. He never rode in a crowd, always keeping himself
somewhat away from men as well as hounds. He would often be thrown
out, and then men would hear no more of him for that day. On such
occasions he did not show himself, as other men do, twenty minutes
after the fox had been killed or run to ground,--but betook himself
home by himself, going through the byeways and lanes, thus leaving no
report of his failure to be spoken of by his compeers.
As long as the line of gates lasted, the crowd continued as thick as
ever, and the best man was he whose horse could shove the hardest.
After passing some four or five fields in this way they came out
upon a road, and, the scent holding strong, the dogs crossed it
without any demurring. Then came doubt into the minds of men, many
of whom, before they would venture away from their position on the
lane, narrowly watched the leading hounds to see whether there was
indication of a turn to the one side or the other. Sir William, whose
seventy odd years excused him, turned sharp to the left, knowing that
he could make Claydon's that way; and very many were the submissive
horsemen who followed him; a few took the road to the right, having
in their minds some little game of their own. The hardest riders
there had already crossed from the road into the country, and were
going well to the hounds, ignorant, some of them, of the brook
before them, and others unheeding. Foremost among these was Burgo
Fitzgerald,--Burgo Fitzgerald, whom no man had ever known to crane at
a fence, or to hug a road, or to spare his own neck or his horse's.
And yet poor Burgo seldom finished well,--coming to repeated grief in
this matter of his hunting, as he did so constantly in other matters
of his life.
But almost neck and neck with Burgo was Pollock, the sporting
literary gentleman. Pollock had but two horses to his stud, and was
never known to give much money for them;--and he weighed without his
boots, fifteen stones! No one ever knew how Pollock did it;--more
especially as all the world declared that he was as ignorant of
hunting as any tailor. He could ride, or when he couldn't ride he
could tumble,--men said that of him,--and he would ride as long as
the beast under him could go. But few knew the sad misfortunes which
poor Pollock sometimes encountered;--the muddy ditches in which he
was left; the despair with which he would stand by his unfortunate
horse when the poor brute could no longer move across some
deep-ploughed field; the miles that he would walk at night beside a
tired animal, as he made his way slowly back to Roebury!
Then came Tom the huntsman, with Calder Jones close to him, and
Grindley intent on winning his sovereign. Vavasor had also crossed
the road somewhat to the left, carrying with him one or two who knew
that he was a safe man to follow. Maxwell had been ignominiously
turned by the hedge, which, together with its ditch, formed a fence
such as all men do not love at the beginning of a run. He had turned
from it, acknowledging the cause. "By George!" said he, "that's too
big for me yet awhile; and there's no end of a river at the bottom."
So he had followed the master down the road.
All those whom we have named managed to get over the brook, Pollock's
horse barely contriving to get up his hind legs from the broken edge
of the bank. Some nags refused it, and their riders thus lost all
their chance of sport for that day. Such is the lot of men who hunt.
A man pays five or six pounds for his day's amusement, and it is ten
to one that the occurrences of the day disgust rather than gratify
him! One or two got in, and scrambled out on the other side, but
Tufto Pearlings, the Manchester man from Friday Street, stuck in the
mud at the bottom, and could not get his mare out till seven men
had come with ropes to help him. "Where the devil is my fellow?"
Pearlings asked of the countrymen; but the countrymen could not tell
him that "his fellow" with his second horse was riding the hunt with
great satisfaction to himself.
George Vavasor found that his horse went with him uncommonly well,
taking his fences almost in the stride of his gallop, and giving
unmistakeable signs of good condition. "I wonder what it is that's
amiss with him," said George to himself, resolving, however, that he
would sell him that day if he got an opportunity. Straight went the
line of the fox, up from the brook, and Tom began to say that his
master had been wrong about Claydon's.
"Where are we now?" said Burgo, as four or five of them dashed
through the open gate of a farmyard.
"This is Bulby's farm," said Tom, "and we're going right away for
Elmham Wood."
"Elmham Wood be d----," said a stout farmer, who had come as far as
that with them. "You won't see Elmham Wood to-day."
"I suppose you know best," said Tom; and then they were through the
yard, across another road, and down a steep ravine by the side of a
little copse. "He's been through them firs, any way," said Tom. "To
him, Gaylass!" Then up they went the other side of the ravine, and
saw the body of the hounds almost a field before them at the top.
"I say,--that took some of the wind out of a fellow," said Pollock.
"You mustn't mind about wind now," said Burgo, dashing on.
"Wasn't the pace awful, coming up to that farmhouse?" said Calder
Jones, looking round to see if Grindley was shaken off. But Grindley,
with some six or seven others, was still there. And there, also,
always in the next field to the left, was George Vavasor. He had
spoken no word to any one since the hunt commenced, nor had he wished
to speak to any one. He desired to sell his horse,--and he desired
also to succeed in the run for other reasons than that, though I
think he would have found it difficult to define them.
Now they had open grass land for about a mile, but with very heavy
fences,--so that the hounds gained upon them a little, and Pollock's
weight began to tell. The huntsman and Burgo were leading with some
fortunate county gentleman whose good stars had brought him in upon
them at the farmyard gate. It is the injustice of such accidents as
this that breaks the heart of a man who has honestly gone through all
the heat and work of the struggle! And the hounds had veered a little
round to the left, making, after all, for Claydon's. "Darned if the
Squire warn't right," said Tom. Sir William, though a baronet, was
familiarly called the Squire throughout the hunt.
"We ain't going for Claydon's now?" asked Burgo.
"Them's Claydon's beeches we sees over there," said Tom. "'Tain't
often the Squire's wrong."
Here they came to a little double rail and a little quick-set hedge.
A double rail is a nasty fence always if it has been made any way
strong, and one which a man with a wife and a family is justified in
avoiding. They mostly can be avoided, having gates; and this could
have been avoided. But Burgo never avoided anything, and went over
it beautifully. The difficulty is to be discreet when the man before
one has been indiscreet. Tom went for the gate, as did Pollock, who
knew that he could have no chance at the double rails. But Calder
Jones came to infinite grief, striking the top bar of the second rail,
and going head-foremost out of his saddle, as though thrown by a
catapult. There we must leave him. Grindley, rejoicing greatly at
this discomfiture, made for the gate; but the country gentleman with
the fresh horse accomplished the rails, and was soon alongside of
Burgo.
"I didn't see you at the start," said Burgo.
"And I didn't see you," said the country gentleman; "so it's even."
Burgo did not see the thing in the same light, but he said no more.
Grindley and Tom were soon after them, Tom doing his utmost to shake
off the attorney. Pollock was coming on also; but the pace had been
too much for him, and though the ground rode light his poor beast
laboured and grunted sorely. The hounds were still veering somewhat
to the left, and Burgo, jumping over a small fence into the same
field with them, saw that there was a horseman ahead of him. This was
George Vavasor, who was going well, without any symptom of distress.
And now they were at Claydon's, having run over some seven miles of
ground in about thirty-five minutes. To those who do not know what
hunting is, this pace does not seem very extraordinary; but it had
been quite quick enough, as was testified by the horses which had
gone the distance. Our party entered Claydon's Park at back, through
a gate in the park palings that was open on hunting days; but a much
more numerous lot was there almost as soon as them, who had come in
by the main entrance. This lot was headed by Sir William, and our
friend Maxwell was with him.
"A jolly thing so far," said Burgo to Maxwell; "about the best we've
had this year."
"I didn't see a yard of it," said Maxwell. "I hadn't nerve to get off
the first road, and I haven't been off it ever since." Maxwell was a
man who never lied about his hunting, or had the slightest shame in
riding roads. "Who's been with you?" said he.
"There've been Tom and I;--and Calder Jones was there for a while.
I think he killed himself somewhere. And there was Pollock, and your
friend Grindley, and a chap whose name I don't know who dropped out
of heaven about half-way in the run; and there was another man whose
back I saw just now; there he is,--by heavens, it's Vavasor! I didn't
know he was here."
They hung about the Claydon covers for ten minutes, and then their
fox went off again,--their fox or another, as to which there was a
great discussion afterwards; but he who would have suggested the
idea of a new fox to Sir William would have been a bold man. A fox,
however, went off, turning still to the left from Claydon's towards
Roebury. Those ten minutes had brought up some fifty men; but it did
not bring up Calder Jones nor Tufto Pearlings, nor some half-dozen
others who had already come to serious misfortune; but Grindley was
there, very triumphant in his own success, and already talking of
Jones's sovereign. And Pollock was there also, thankful for the ten
minutes' law, and trusting that wind might be given to his horse to
finish the run triumphantly.
But the pace on leaving Claydon's was better than ever. This may have
come from the fact that the scent was keener, as they got out so
close upon their game. But I think they must have changed their fox.
Maxwell, who saw him go, swore that he was fresh and clean. Burgo
said that he knew it to be the same fox, but gave no reason. "Same
fox! in course it was; why shouldn't it be the same?" said Tom. The
country gentleman who had dropped from heaven was quite sure that
they had changed, and so were most of those who had ridden the road.
Pollock confined himself to hoping that he might soon be killed, and
that thus his triumph for the day might be assured.
On they went, and the pace soon became too good for the poor author.
His horse at last refused a little hedge, and there was not another
trot to be got out of him. That night Pollock turned up at Roebury
about nine o'clock, very hungry,--and it was known that his animal
was alive;--but the poor horse ate not a grain of oats that night,
nor on the next morning. Vavasor had again taken a line to himself,
on this occasion a little to the right of the meet; but Maxwell
followed him and rode close with him to the end. Burgo for a while
still led the body of the field, incurring at first much condemnation
from Sir William,--nominally for hurrying on among the hounds, but in
truth because he got before Sir William himself. During this latter
part of the run Sir William stuck to the hounds in spite of his
seventy odd years. Going down into Marham Bottom, some four or five
were left behind, for they feared the soft ground near the river, and
did not know the pass through it. But Sir William knew it, and those
who remained close to him got over that trouble. Burgo, who would
still lead, nearly foundered in the bog;--but he was light, and his
horse pulled him through,--leaving a fore-shoe in the mud. After that
Burgo was contented to give Sir William the lead.
Then they came up by Marham Pits to Cleshey Small Wood, which they
passed without hanging there a minute, and over the grass lands of
Cleshey Farm. Here Vavasor and Maxwell joined the others, having
gained some three hundred yards in distance by their course, but
having been forced to jump the Marham Stream which Sir William had
forded. The pace now was as good as the horses could make it,--and
perhaps something better as regarded some of them. Sir William's
servant had been with him, and he had got his second horse at
Claydon's; Maxwell had been equally fortunate; Tom's second horse
had not come up, and his beast was in great distress; Grindley had
remained behind at Marham Bottom, being contented perhaps with having
beaten Calder Jones,--from whom by-the-by I may here declare that he
never got his sovereign. Burgo, Vavasor, and the country gentleman
still held on; but it was devoutly desired by all of them that the
fox might soon come to the end of his tether. Ah! that intense
longing that the fox may fail, when the failings of the horse begin
to make themselves known,--and the consciousness comes on that all
that one has done will go for nothing unless the thing can be brought
to a close in a field or two! So far you have triumphed, leaving
scores of men behind; but of what good is all that, if you also are
to be left behind at the last?
It was manifest now to all who knew the country that the fox was
making for Thornden Deer Park, but Thornden Deer Park was still two
miles ahead of them, and the hounds were so near to their game that
the poor beast could hardly hope to live till he got there. He had
tried a well-known drain near Cleshey Farm House; but it had been
inhospitably, nay cruelly, closed against him. Soon after that he
threw himself down in a ditch, and the eager hounds overran him,
giving him a moment's law,--and giving also a moment's law to horses
that wanted it as badly. "I'm about done for," said Burgo to Maxwell.
"Luckily for you," said Maxwell, "the fox is much in the same way."
But the fox had still more power left in him than poor Burgo
Fitzgerald's horse. He gained a minute's check and then he started
again, being viewed away by Sir William himself. The country
gentleman of whom mention has been made also viewed him, and holloa'd
as he did so: "Yoicks, tally; gone away!" The unfortunate man! "What
the d---- are you roaring at?" said Sir William. "Do you suppose
I don't know where the fox is?" Whereupon the country gentleman
retreated, and became less conspicuous than he had been.
Away they went again, off Cleshey and into Thornden parish, on the
land of Sorrel Farm,--a spot well to be remembered by one or two ever
afterwards. Here Sir William made for a gate which took him a little
out of the line, but Maxwell and Burgo Fitzgerald, followed by
Vavasor, went straight ahead. There was a huge ditch and boundary
bank there which Sir William had known and had avoided. Maxwell,
whose pluck had returned to him at last, took it well. His horse was
comparatively fresh and made nothing of it. Then came poor Burgo!
Oh, Burgo, hadst thou not have been a very child, thou shouldst have
known that now, at this time of the day,--after all that thy gallant
horse had done for thee,--it was impossible to thee or him. But when
did Burgo Fitzgerald know anything? He rode at the bank as though it
had been the first fence of the day, striking his poor beast with his
spurs, as though muscle, strength, and new power could be imparted by
their rowels. The animal rose at the bank and in some way got upon
it, scrambling as he struck it with his chest, and then fell headlong
into the ditch at the other side, a confused mass of head, limbs, and
body. His career was at an end, and he had broken his heart! Poor
noble beast, noble in vain! To his very last gasp he had done his
best, and had deserved that he should have been in better hands. His
master's ignorance had killed him. There are men who never know how
little a horse can do,--or how much!
There was to some extent a gap in the fence when Maxwell had first
ridden it and Burgo had followed him; a gap, or break in the hedge at
the top, indicating plainly the place at which a horse could best get
over. To this spot Vavasor followed, and was on the bank at Burgo's
heels before he knew what had happened. But the man had got away and
only the horse lay there in the ditch. "Are you hurt?" said Vavasor;
"can I do anything?" But he did not stop. "If you can find a chap
just send him to me," said Burgo in a melancholy tone. Then he sat
down, with his feet in the ditch, and looked at the carcase of his
horse.
There was no more need of jumping that day. The way was open into the
next field,--a turnip field,--and there amidst the crisp breaking
turnip-tops, with the breath of his enemies hot upon him, with their
sharp teeth at his entrails, biting at them impotently in the agonies
of his death struggle, poor Reynard finished his career. Maxwell was
certainly the first there,--but Sir William and George Vavasor were
close upon him. That taking of brushes of which we used to hear is
a little out of fashion; but if such honour were due to any one it
was due to Vavasor, for he and he only had ridden the hunt throughout.
But he claimed no honour, and none was specially given to him. He
and Maxwell rode homewards together, having sent assistance to poor
Burgo Fitzgerald; and as they went along the road, saying but little
to each other, Maxwell, in a very indifferent voice, asked him a
question.
"What do you want for that horse, Vavasor?"
"A hundred and fifty," said Vavasor.
"He's mine," said Maxwell. So the brown horse was sold for about half
his value, because he had brought with him a bad character.