CHAPTER XLIV

TALLY HO!

OOI in there!” cries Jock, as the hounds reach the south end of the decoy, and at the accustomed sound they desert his horse’s heels, and proceed, each leisurely in his line, to draw through the moss, and reeds, and sedges, splashing and jumping and picking their way as they go. It is not a usual find (unless Bagwell has arranged matters beforehand), but the “ladies” in the castle like to see the sight, and now throng the terrace for the purpose. And very pretty the scene is with the rich varied evergreens, enlivened with the rich varied hues of the hunters, the cheer of the huntsman, the screams of the ducks, with the awe-stricken deer forming in groups among the browning ferns on the undulating hills in the distance, wondering if the commotion is directed against them.

“Twang, twang, twang,” presently goes Jock’s horn; tweet, tweet, tweet, goes the Duke’s, for he likes to have a blow, no matter why, and often aggravates Jock by its use. But the Duke is a man who thinks he has an instinctive knowledge of everything, and has only to take up a subject to become a professor. Out the hounds come at the duplicate summons, and Jock having got the majority of them around him, feels great Grampian gently with his spur and trots briskly away, crying, “cop, come away, cop, come away,” to the hounds as he goes. He then gets them well in advance of the field, being always “dasparately afraid” lest any of the horses should tread on their tails. The field then mingle promiscuously, red coats with black, and black with rustic drab, the Earl still adhering to the fair lady on the pony, which seems as lively as her mistress. So they go past the keeper’s lodge, round Newfield hill, and over Stebbing’s Bridge to Branchley.

The warren is the next draw; but Bag having the rabbits for his perquisite, takes care not to harbour any “vermin”; however, there is no harm in running the hounds through, and the line lies past a series of most inviting park hurdles, which Lord Marchhare always makes a point of jumping as he goes. His dark eyes sparkle as he approaches the first flight, and pointing them out to Miss Rosa with his whip, he draws his horse together and shoots him over like an arrow from a bow. He then pulls him up on the far side, and wheeling about charges the reverse way, Miss of course expressing her trepidation by a slightly suffused eyelid, which is not lost upon his lordship as he returns to her side. He thinks she is extremely pretty, and great Miss Wrigglesworth is altogether eclipsed by the wearer of the fox-brushed hat. He won’t ride over any more rails if she wishes him not. And of course she does wish him not.

Hark! What’s that? Tally ho! so it is, and already Haggish has his white horse by the head, and is striving over the green sward to get to the place. It’s Will Ranger, the under keeper’s voice, who has just shook a bag fox, a regular Leadenhall gentleman, down in Knotty-Ash Glen, and after hiding the sack, and viewing him away, is making as much noise as he can to delude people into the belief that he’s a wild one. Every body is now suddenly seized with a spurt of activity, the Duke gets out his horn and blows most profusely, the yellow whips holloo and crack their whips, though every hound is away, caps are adjusted, and hats thrust down upon brows, and Bagwell hurries up the Obelisk Hill for a view, as though he had never seen the fox before. As he goes he loses the invoice for him out of his pocket.

And now the hurricane of hounds get to the place, and old black-faced Rummager, with a vigorous dash to the point, hits off the scent with a yell, which the body of the pack endorse, and away they go up the echoing glen with a roar, the reverberating hills seemingly take pleasure in repeating the sound. Now the leading hounds reach the lowering banks of the end of the glen, and a slight overshoot occurs, the fox having changed his mind on viewing the wide-stretching water meadows in front so unlike his late confined residence in London, and has popped back into cover below the shelving rocks by the brook.

Ranger, however, being there with his whip to confront him, the fox again turns tail, and puts his head to the formidable unknown open, going in that confused zigzag sort of way that makes a huntsman doubt whether he is after a fox or a hare. It must be a hare! No, Fugleman speaks! It must be a fox! and Jock cheers the pack on the line.

For a lawn meet perhaps a bag fox answers a better purpose than a wild one, for he shows in so many places that a wild one would avoid as greatly to increase the excitement of his followers. There is nothing so exhilarating as a view of the fox. It converts the field into a sort of Joint Stock Company on the limited liability principle, no one being obliged to go further than he likes. So it was on the present occasion. As Lord Marchhare piloted his fair charge along the brow of the undulating Martindale hills, with Jock cheering on his hounds in the green water-shining valley below, his lordship viewed the fox stealing round the middle of Canonridge Hill, with his old enemies the crows, too plainly denoting his line.

“Y-o-onder he goes!” cried his lordship, pointing him out to the lady. “Y-o-onder he goes! a regular flyer!”

“Where?” asked Miss Rosa, straining her pretty blue eyes in the direction of Gilden Clump, instead of Canonridge Hill.

“There! there! just where the sheep are—now you see them running!” exclaimed his lordship. “The fox is above them!”

“Oh, I see!” replied Miss Rosa, with increased animation, “I see, just crossing the green by the gate;” so saying, she got her pony by the head, and touching him lightly with her gold-mounted whip, scuttled after her excited leader as fast as it could lay its little legs to the ground. The consequence was, they crossed the line of the fox on the Warden and Lancroft Road, and brought the hounds to a momentary standstill, thereby causing a general objurgation of their followers from Jock as he came bustling up the hill on the line. Having, however, pretty well settled in his mind what he was after, he swung the hounds boldly to the left, to give the fox a little more law, and then let them make their own cast, despite the entreaties of the field to get them on to Horner’s Mill, from whence the fox had been seen to cross to Nunfield House. Jock, however, pretended to think otherwise, at all events, he inclined to let the hounds make it out for themselves. Not that it is a case of long concealment, for confinement has made the poor animal carry his own condemnation, and Trumpeter and Rallywood flinging well in advance, proclaim the line with most unmistakable energy. Away they all score to cry, now Trumpeter leading, now Tuneable, and presently Pilot, making direct for the mill, then over the water meadows, and so on by the gravel-pits up to the hill, on which the fox was viewed— the line extremely comfortable, with bridle-gates and grass belts on the ploughed fields. No occasion for leaping, though, if his lordship had not been so pleasantly engaged, he would have found occupation for his horse among the high stone walls of the hill enclosures. As it is, he cheers Miss Rosa along, promising her the brush if they kill. It is not, however, quite killing time yet, for a light breeze helps poor reynard down wind, and fear and freedom lend a little impetus to his cramped limbs. Still he runs bewildered; and instead of making for the main earths at Kesterton Rocks, as a native would have done, he turns short on the far side of Canonridge Hill, and retraces his steps on the other side. This détour would have been convenient for some in a hard run, but where little Snowdrop is going at her ease, there is no want of breathing time.

When people don’t know a country, and some never learn one, a twisting run is as good as a straight one, and Lord Marchhare being one of the innocent order, he kept piloting Miss Rosa carefully through gates and other shirking conveniences, believing they were having a capital thing. Meanwhile the hounds go tearing and screeching along, every one with a scent, each striving and racing to be first. Jock keeps hollowing them on, hoping they will make as much of the run as will prevent the majority of the field wanting another. So he lets the hounds cast, and fling, and feather, and do all the work for themselves, though he could have put an immediate stop to the performance by a lift if he liked. Thus they go most jovially down Summerland’s banks, skirting Tangleton brake, on to Copsewood House and Alum Hill, the fox very little before them, and each moment making that little less. The persecution now becomes too intense, for not only are three-and-twenty couple of great frantic fox-hounds, and two squeaking ignominious terriers leagued against him, but every clown and cur dog in the country makes common cause, as though he had been the abductor of all the geese, turkeys, and hens instead of never having been within a hundred miles of their hen-roosts before. “Here he is!” “Yonder he goes!” “Hoop! hoop! Tally ho! Tally ho!” “Have at him, Towler! good dog!” greet him at every point, until baffled and stupid he totters and rolls into an adjoining hedgerow. The pushing pack overrun the scent, a momentary lull ensues, quickly followed by a lusty “Who-Hoop!” as Novice and Traveller return to the spot and dispatch him. It’s Jock’s death-knell, who, hearing the fatal “cranch,” throws himself from his horse, and comes tearing through an apparently impracticable boundary fence composed of blackthorn and whitethorn entwined with honey-suckle and ivy—the blind ditch full of the luxuriance of rank grass and fern. Through it Jock tears, regardless of scratches, but the sight of such an obstacle is too great for the “Arl,” as Jock calls his lordship, who, hustling his horse, sends him at it full tilt, and landing with his fore-feet in the ditch, shoots his lordship well over his head into the next field. Rosa shrieked, as she saw by the undue elevation of the horse’s tail what had happened, a very different expression to what was elicited from Jock, who exclaimed, as he saw his young master regaining his legs after his headforemost flight, “A! what’s the dighted body loupen at!” and immediately proceeded to handle his fox. His lordship, however, being used to Jock’s politeness, and also quick on his legs, is at his now staring horse by the time Jock has extricated his fox from the hounds, when remounting, he “at” the fence a little lower down, and taking it on and off, returned handsomely to the place from whence he came. Miss Rosa having brushed the rising tears from her eyes, returns her well-ciphered lace-fringed ’kerchief to the saddle-pocket just as Jock struggles back through the formidable fence with his fox, followed by the now baying clamorous pack, rushing and pushing, and nearly upsetting him as he goes.

The fox is then thrown carelessly on the green sward, the mortuary circle is formed, hounds and pedestrians in the middle, equestrians outside, and as Jock whips off the brush, a sort of general impeachment of the fox’s morality is made, Billy Buckwheat declaring that he is the identical thief that stole all their hens, while Tom Thistlewaite vows that he could swear to the rascal among a thousand. Thinks he just sees him now carrying off a turkey on his back. So, on the principle of giving a dog a bad name and hanging him, they give the fox a bad one and eat him. While the pack are contending for the unsavoury remains, Headstrong wrangling with Hostile for a haunch, and Pillager chasing Luckylass for a leg, Lord Marchhare, having dismounted, possessed himself of the brush, and drawn it to and fro through his Frangipane-scented cambric ’kerchief, proceeds to present it to Miss Rosa, regretting that the one in her pretty hat prevents him the pleasure of placing it there, but praying to be allowed to decorate her pony, whereupon, with the aid of a piece of string, he fastens it into the headstall, declaring that she looked quite charming, and worthy of being painted. And Miss Rosa simpered and smiled, and felt thoroughly delighted; was so glad that the Miss Springfields were there to see. And the Miss Springfields curled up their noses, and wondered she had not put the brush in her hat along with the other one. This having completed the ceremony, his lordship and the rest of the dismounted ones resume their horses, and the Duke turning, to Jock asks what he “will do next?”

“A, what your Grace pleases,” replied Jock, well knowing what would suit the Duke best.

“Another run would please me most,” replied his Grace, “but where to get one’s the thing.”

“Why, we maun just trot on to Lighthorn bushes,” replied Jock, “it’s na use potterin’ on about Trouble-hill or Twycross banks.”

“Why not?” asked the Duke.

“Why not?” retorted Jock, angrily, “Why not? why, because they’ve bin and stole all the foxes! Stole all the foxes, as I’m a livin’ man! There’s no greater folly than folks buying foxes—very likely buying their own back again. Soon come to havin’ their fox and their fish down by the same train. However, if your Grace thinks we can do any good nearer nor the bushes we had better go and see, for the day’s fast spending, and the nights begin to be longer than they were,” Jock hoisting his great self on to Grampian as he spoke. He then called his hounds together, and, without waiting for orders, cleared them of the crowd, and trotted briskly away, feeling pretty sure that the Duke would not follow.

Jock was right; for the Duke, after looking at his watch, thought he had taken as much exercise as would insure him an appetite for dinner; and suddenly recollecting that he had a great arrear of letters to write, he reined in his horse, while those who were going with the hounds passed onwards, and those who, like himself, had had enough, turned away, and dispersed right and left. And Miss Rosa, being rejoined by old gaiters, smiled a sweet adieu to the Earl, and was presently cantering homewards with the gay trophy nodding merrily over pony’s nose. Jock, with a choice few, then trotted off to the bushes, and effaced the recollection of the bagman by a chivey after a wild fox which finally beat him at dusk.