Can You Forgive Her?

  CHAPTER XVII.

  Edgehill.

  Of all sights in the world there is, I think, none more beautifulthan that of a pack of fox-hounds seated, on a winter morning, roundthe huntsman, if the place of meeting has been chosen with anythingof artistic skill. It should be in a grassy field, and the fieldshould be small. It should not be absolutely away from all buildings,and the hedgerows should not have been clipped and pared, and madestraight with reference to modern agricultural economy. There shouldbe trees near, and the ground should be a little uneven, so as tomark some certain small space as the exact spot where the dogs andservants of the hunt should congregate.

  There are well-known grand meets in England, in the parks ofnoblemen, before their houses, or even on what are called theirlawns; but these magnificent affairs have but little of the beautyof which I speak. Such assemblies are too grand and too ornate, and,moreover, much too far removed from true sporting proprieties. Atthem, equipages are shining, and ladies' dresses are gorgeous, andcrowds of tradesmen from the neighbouring town have come there tolook at the grand folk. To my eye there is nothing beautiful inthat. The meet I speak of is arranged with a view to sport, but theaccident of the locality may make it the prettiest thing in theworld.

  Such, in a special degree, was the case at Edgehill. At Edgehill thewhole village consisted of three or four cottages; but there was asmall old church, with an old grey tower, and a narrow, green, almostdark, churchyard, surrounded by elm-trees. The road from Roebury tothe meet passed by the church stile, and turning just beyond it cameupon the gate which led into the little field in which the houndsfelt themselves as much at home as in their kennels. There might besix or seven acres in the field, which was long and narrow, so thatthe huntsman had space to walk leisurely up and down with the packclustering round him, when he considered that longer sitting mightchill them. The church tower was close at hand, visible throughthe trees, and the field itself was green and soft, though neversplashing with mud or heavy with holes.

  Edgehill was a favourite meet in that country, partly because foxeswere very abundant in the great wood adjacent, partly because thewhole country around is grass-land, and partly, no doubt, from thesporting propensities of the neighbouring population. As regards myown taste, I do not know that I do like beginning a day with a greatwood,--and if not beginning it, certainly not ending it. It is hardto come upon the cream of hunting, as it is upon the cream of anyother delight. Who can always drink Lafitte of the finest, can alwaystalk to a woman who is both beautiful and witty, or can always findthe right spirit in the poetry he reads? A man has usually to workthrough much mud before he gets his nugget. It is so certainly inhunting, and a big wood too frequently afflicts the sportsman, as themud does the miner. The small gorse cover is the happy, much-enviedbit of ground in which the gold is sure to show itself readily. Butwithout the woods the gorse would not hold the foxes, and without themud the gold would not have found its resting-place.

  But, as I have said, Edgehill was a popular meet, and, as regardedthe meet itself, was eminently picturesque. On the present occasionthe little field was full of horsemen, moving about slowly, chattingtogether, smoking cigars, getting off from their hacks and mountingtheir hunters, giving orders to their servants, and preparing for theday. There were old country gentlemen there, greeting each other fromfar sides of the county; sporting farmers who love to find themselvesalongside their landlords, and to feel that the pleasures of thecountry are common to both; men down from town, like our friendsof the Roebury club, who made hunting their chosen pleasure, andwho formed, in number, perhaps the largest portion of the field;officers from garrisons round about; a cloud of servants, and afew nondescript stragglers who had picked up horses, hither andthither, round the country. Outside the gate on the road were drawnup a variety of vehicles, open carriages, dog-carts, gigs, andwaggonettes, in some few of which were seated ladies who had comeover to see the meet. But Edgehill was, essentially, not a ladies'meet. The distances to it were long, and the rides in CranbyWood--the big wood--were not adapted for wheels. There were one ortwo ladies on horseback, as is always the case; but Edgehill was nota place popular, even with hunting ladies. One carriage, that of theold master of the hounds, had entered the sacred precincts of thefield, and from this the old baronet was just descending, as Maxwell,Calder Jones, and Vavasor rode into the field.

  Edgehill.]

  "I hope I see you well, Sir William," said Maxwell, greeting themaster. 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 heonly grunted in answer. Having slowly been assisted up on to hishorse,--for he was over seventy years of age,--he trotted off to thehounds, 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, whosaid, "Yes, Sir William," "No, Sir William," "No doubt, Sir William."One long-eared, long-legged fellow, in a hunting-cap and scarletcoat, hung listening by, anxious to catch something of the orders forthe morning. "Who the devil's that fellow, that's all breeches andboots?" said Sir William aloud to some one near him, as the huntsmanmoved off with the hounds. Sir William knew the man well enough, butwas minded to punish him for his discourtesy. "Where shall we findfirst, Sir William?" said Calder Jones, in a voice that was reallyvery humble. "How the mischief am I to know where the foxes are?"said Sir William, with an oath; and Calder Jones retired unhappy, andfor the moment altogether silenced.

  And yet Sir William was the most popular man in the county, and nomore courteous gentleman ever sat at the bottom of his own table. Amild man he was, too, when out of his saddle, and one by no meansdisposed to assume special supremacy. But a master of hounds, if hehave long held the country,--and Sir William had held his for morethan thirty years,--obtains a power which that of no other potentatecan equal. He may say and do what he pleases, and his tyranny isalways respected. No conspiracy against him has a chance of success;no sedition will meet with sympathy;--that is, if he be successfulin showing sport. If a man be sworn at, abused, and put down withoutcause, let him bear it and think that he has been a victim for thepublic good. And let him never be angry with the master. That roughtongue is the necessity of the master's position. They used to saythat no captain could manage a ship without swearing at his men.But what are the captain's troubles in comparison with those of themaster of hounds? The captain's men are under discipline, and canbe locked up, flogged, or have their grog stopped. The master ofhounds cannot stop the grog of any offender, and he can only stop thetongue, 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 bythe 8.30 from Euston Square, and got over here from Winslow in atrap, with two fellows I never saw in my life before. We came tandemin 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 thefly. I had to leave Onslow Crescent at a quarter before eight, and Idid 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 workby candle-light except a lawyer? I suppose you fellows were playingwhist, and drinking hard. I'm uncommon glad I wasn't with you, for Ishall be able to ride."

  "I bet you a pound," said Jones, "if there's a run, I see more of itthan you."

  "I'll take that bet with Jones," said Grindley, "and Vavasor shall bethe 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 trottedon for four miles, to Cranby Wood.

  Vavasor, as he rode on to the wood, was alone, or speaking, from timeto time, a few words to his servant. "I'll ride the chestnut mare i
nthe wood," he said, "and do you keep near me."

  "I bean't to be galloping up and down them rides, I suppose," saidBat, 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 tolet me have him if there's a chance. Do you understand?"

  "Oh, yes, I understand, sir. There ain't no difficulty in myunderstanding;--only I don't think, sir, you'll ever get a fox outof that wood to-day. Why, it stands to reason. The wind's from thenorth-east."

  Cranby Wood is very large,--there being, in truth, two or three woodstogether. It was nearly twelve before they found; and then for anhour there was great excitement among the men, who rode up and downthe rides as the hounds drove the fox from one end to another of theenclosure. Once or twice the poor animal did try to go away, and thenthere was great hallooing, galloping, and jumping over unnecessaryfences; but he was headed back again, or changed his mind, not likingthe north-east wind of which Bat Smithers had predicted such badthings. After one the crowd of men became rather more indifferent,and clustered together in broad spots, eating their lunch, smokingcigars, and chaffing each other. It was singular to observe theamazing quantity of ham sandwiches and of sherry that had beencarried into Cranby Wood on that day. Grooms appeared to have beenladen with cases, and men were as well armed with flasks at theirsaddle-bows as they used to be with pistols. Maxwell and Pollockformed the centre of one of these crowds, and chaffed each other withthe utmost industry, till, tired of having inflicted no wounds, theyturned upon Grindley and drove him out of the circle. "You'll makethat man cut his throat, if you go on at that," said Pollock. "ShallI?" said Maxwell. "Then I'll certainly stick to him for the sake ofhumanity in general." During all this time Vavasor sat apart, quitealone, and Bat Smithers grimly kept his place, about three hundredyards 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'sabout," said Grindley, meaning Sir William.

  "How can he make the fox break?" said Vavasor; and as his voice wasby no means encouraging Grindley rode away.

  Lunch and cigars lasted till two, during which hour the hounds, thehuntsmen, the whips, and old Sir William were hard at work, as alsowere some few others who persistently followed every chance of thegame. From that till three there were two or three flashes in thepan, and false reports as to foxes which had gone away, which firstset men galloping, and then made them very angry. After three, menbegan to say naughty things, to abuse Cranby Wood, to wish violentlythat they had remained at home or gone elsewhere, and to speakirreverently of their ancient master. "It's the cussidest place inall creation," said Maxwell. "I often said I'd not come here anymore, and now I say it again."

  "And yet you'll be here the next meet," said Grindley, who hadsneaked 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 bythe appearance of the huntsman, who came galloping up one of therides, 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 givingup his chestnut mare to Bat Smithers, who suggested that he mightas well go home to Roebury now. Vavasor gave him no answer, but,trotting on to the point where the rides met, stopped a moment andlistened carefully. Then he took a path diverging away from that bywhich the huntsmen and the crowd of horsemen had gone, and made thebest of his way through the wood. At the end of this he came upon SirWilliam, who, with no one near him but his servant, was standing inthe pathway of a little hunting-gate.

  "Hold hard," said Sir William. "The hounds are not out of the woodyet."

  "Is the fox away, sir?"

  "What's the good of that if we can't get the hounds out?--Yes, he'saway. He passed out where I'm standing." And then he began to blowhis horn lustily, and by degrees other men and a few hounds came downthe ride. Then Tom, with his horse almost blown, made his appearanceoutside the wood, and soon there came a rush of men, nearly on thetop of one another, pushing on, not knowing whither, but keenly aliveto the fact that the fox had at last consented to move his quarters.

  Tom touched his hat, and looked at his master, inquiringly. "He'sgone for Claydon's," said the master. "Try them up that hedgerow."Tom did try them up the hedgerow, and in half a minute the houndscame upon the scent. Then you might see men settling their hats ontheir heads, and feeling their feet in the stirrups. The moment forwhich they had so long waited had come, and yet there were manywho would now have preferred that the fox should be headed backinto cover. Some had but little confidence in their half-blownhorses;--with many the waiting, though so abused and anathematized,was in truth more to their taste than the run itself;--with othersthe excitement had gone by, and a gallop over a field or two wasnecessary before it would be restored. With most men at such a momentthere is a little nervousness, some fear of making a bad start, adread lest others should have more of the success of the hunt thanfalls to them. But there was a great rush and a mighty bustle as thehounds made out their game, and Sir William felt himself called uponto use the rough side of his tongue to more than one delinquent.

  And then certain sly old stagers might be seen turning off to theleft, instead of following the course of the game as indicated by thehounds. They were men who had felt the air as they came out, and knewthat the fox must soon run down wind, whatever he might do for thefirst half mile or so,--men who knew also which was the shortest wayto Claydon's by the road. Ah, the satisfaction that there is whenthese men are thrown out, and their dead knowledge proved to be of noavail! If a fox will only run straight, heading from the cover on hisreal line, these very sagacious gentlemen seldom come to much honourand glory.

  In the present instance the beast seemed determined to go straightenough, for the hounds ran the scent along three or four hedgerowsin 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 behindhim before he bethought himself as to his best way to his purposeddestination. And here, from field to field, there were littlehunting-gates at which men crowded lustily, poking and shoving eachother's horses, and hating each other with a bitterness of hatredwhich is, I think, known nowhere else. No hunting man ever wantsto jump if he can help it, and the hedges near the gate were notalluring. A few there were who made lines for themselves, taking thenext field to the right, or scrambling through the corners of thefences while the rush was going on at the gates; and among these wasGeorge Vavasor. He never rode in a crowd, always keeping himselfsomewhat away from men as well as hounds. He would often be thrownout, and then men would hear no more of him for that day. On suchoccasions he did not show himself, as other men do, twenty minutesafter the fox had been killed or run to ground,--but betook himselfhome by himself, going through the byeways and lanes, thus leaving noreport of his failure to be spoken of by his compeers.

  As long as the line of gates lasted, the crowd continued as thick asever, and the best man was he whose horse could shove the hardest.After passing some four or five fields in this way they came outupon a road, and, the scent holding strong, the dogs crossed itwithout any demurring. Then came doubt into the minds of men, manyof whom, before they would venture away from their position on thelane, narrowly watched the leading hounds to see whether there wasindication of a turn to the one side or the other. Sir William, whoseseventy odd years excused him, turned sharp to the left, knowing thathe could make Claydon's that way; and very many were the submissivehorsemen who followed him; a few took the roa
d to the right, havingin their minds some little game of their own. The hardest ridersthere had already crossed from the road into the country, and weregoing well to the hounds, ignorant, some of them, of the brookbefore them, and others unheeding. Foremost among these was BurgoFitzgerald,--Burgo Fitzgerald, whom no man had ever known to crane ata 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 inthis matter of his hunting, as he did so constantly in other mattersof his life.

  But almost neck and neck with Burgo was Pollock, the sportingliterary gentleman. Pollock had but two horses to his stud, and wasnever known to give much money for them;--and he weighed without hisboots, fifteen stones! No one ever knew how Pollock did it;--moreespecially as all the world declared that he was as ignorant ofhunting as any tailor. He could ride, or when he couldn't ride hecould tumble,--men said that of him,--and he would ride as long asthe beast under him could go. But few knew the sad misfortunes whichpoor Pollock sometimes encountered;--the muddy ditches in which hewas left; the despair with which he would stand by his unfortunatehorse when the poor brute could no longer move across somedeep-ploughed field; the miles that he would walk at night beside atired animal, as he made his way slowly back to Roebury!

  Then came Tom the huntsman, with Calder Jones close to him, andGrindley intent on winning his sovereign. Vavasor had also crossedthe road somewhat to the left, carrying with him one or two who knewthat he was a safe man to follow. Maxwell had been ignominiouslyturned by the hedge, which, together with its ditch, formed a fencesuch as all men do not love at the beginning of a run. He had turnedfrom it, acknowledging the cause. "By George!" said he, "that's toobig 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'shorse barely contriving to get up his hind legs from the broken edgeof the bank. Some nags refused it, and their riders thus lost alltheir 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 tento one that the occurrences of the day disgust rather than gratifyhim! One or two got in, and scrambled out on the other side, butTufto Pearlings, the Manchester man from Friday Street, stuck in themud at the bottom, and could not get his mare out till seven menhad come with ropes to help him. "Where the devil is my fellow?"Pearlings asked of the countrymen; but the countrymen could not tellhim that "his fellow" with his second horse was riding the hunt withgreat 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 givingunmistakeable signs of good condition. "I wonder what it is that'samiss with him," said George to himself, resolving, however, that hewould sell him that day if he got an opportunity. Straight went theline of the fox, up from the brook, and Tom began to say that hismaster had been wrong about Claydon's.

  "Where are we now?" said Burgo, as four or five of them dashedthrough the open gate of a farmyard.

  "This is Bulby's farm," said Tom, "and we're going right away forElmham Wood."

  "Elmham Wood be d----," said a stout farmer, who had come as far asthat with them. "You won't see Elmham Wood to-day."

  "I suppose you know best," said Tom; and then they were through theyard, across another road, and down a steep ravine by the side of alittle copse. "He's been through them firs, any way," said Tom. "Tohim, Gaylass!" Then up they went the other side of the ravine, andsaw 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 CalderJones, 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 hadspoken no word to any one since the hunt commenced, nor had he wishedto speak to any one. He desired to sell his horse,--and he desiredalso to succeed in the run for other reasons than that, though Ithink he would have found it difficult to define them.

  Now they had open grass land for about a mile, but with very heavyfences,--so that the hounds gained upon them a little, and Pollock'sweight began to tell. The huntsman and Burgo were leading with somefortunate county gentleman whose good stars had brought him in uponthem at the farmyard gate. It is the injustice of such accidents asthis that breaks the heart of a man who has honestly gone through allthe heat and work of the struggle! And the hounds had veered a littleround to the left, making, after all, for Claydon's. "Darned if theSquire warn't right," said Tom. Sir William, though a baronet, wasfamiliarly 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'toften 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 waystrong, and one which a man with a wife and a family is justified inavoiding. They mostly can be avoided, having gates; and this couldhave been avoided. But Burgo never avoided anything, and went overit beautifully. The difficulty is to be discreet when the man beforeone has been indiscreet. Tom went for the gate, as did Pollock, whoknew that he could have no chance at the double rails. But CalderJones came to infinite grief, striking the top bar of the second rail,and going head-foremost out of his saddle, as though thrown by acatapult. There we must leave him. Grindley, rejoicing greatly atthis discomfiture, made for the gate; but the country gentleman withthe fresh horse accomplished the rails, and was soon alongside ofBurgo.

  "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 shakeoff the attorney. Pollock was coming on also; but the pace had beentoo much for him, and though the ground rode light his poor beastlaboured and grunted sorely. The hounds were still veering somewhatto the left, and Burgo, jumping over a small fence into the samefield with them, saw that there was a horseman ahead of him. This wasGeorge Vavasor, who was going well, without any symptom of distress.

  And now they were at Claydon's, having run over some seven miles ofground in about thirty-five minutes. To those who do not know whathunting is, this pace does not seem very extraordinary; but it hadbeen quite quick enough, as was testified by the horses which hadgone the distance. Our party entered Claydon's Park at back, througha gate in the park palings that was open on hunting days; but a muchmore numerous lot was there almost as soon as them, who had come inby the main entrance. This lot was headed by Sir William, and ourfriend Maxwell was with him.

  "A jolly thing so far," said Burgo to Maxwell; "about the best we'vehad this year."

  "I didn't see a yard of it," said Maxwell. "I hadn't nerve to get offthe first road, and I haven't been off it ever since." Maxwell was aman who never lied about his hunting, or had the slightest shame inriding 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 yourfriend Grindley, and a chap whose name I don't know who dropped outof heaven about half-way in the run; and there was another man whoseback I saw just now; there he is,--by heavens, it's Vavasor! I didn'tknow he was here."

  They hung about the Claydon covers for ten minutes, and then theirfox went off again,--their fox or another, as to which there was agreat discussion afterwards; but he who would have suggested theidea 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 towardsRoebury. Those ten minutes had brought up some fifty men; but it didnot bring up Calder Jones nor Tufto Pearlings, nor some half-dozenothers who h
ad already come to serious misfortune; but Grindley wasthere, very triumphant in his own success, and already talking ofJones's sovereign. And Pollock was there also, thankful for the tenminutes' law, and trusting that wind might be given to his horse tofinish the run triumphantly.

  But the pace on leaving Claydon's was better than ever. This may havecome from the fact that the scent was keener, as they got out soclose upon their game. But I think they must have changed their fox.Maxwell, who saw him go, swore that he was fresh and clean. Burgosaid that he knew it to be the same fox, but gave no reason. "Samefox! in course it was; why shouldn't it be the same?" said Tom. Thecountry gentleman who had dropped from heaven was quite sure thatthey had changed, and so were most of those who had ridden the road.Pollock confined himself to hoping that he might soon be killed, andthat 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 anothertrot to be got out of him. That night Pollock turned up at Roeburyabout nine o'clock, very hungry,--and it was known that his animalwas 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 Maxwellfollowed him and rode close with him to the end. Burgo for a whilestill led the body of the field, incurring at first much condemnationfrom Sir William,--nominally for hurrying on among the hounds, but intruth because he got before Sir William himself. During this latterpart of the run Sir William stuck to the hounds in spite of hisseventy odd years. Going down into Marham Bottom, some four or fivewere left behind, for they feared the soft ground near the river, anddid not know the pass through it. But Sir William knew it, and thosewho remained close to him got over that trouble. Burgo, who wouldstill lead, nearly foundered in the bog;--but he was light, and hishorse pulled him through,--leaving a fore-shoe in the mud. After thatBurgo was contented to give Sir William the lead.

  Then they came up by Marham Pits to Cleshey Small Wood, which theypassed without hanging there a minute, and over the grass lands ofCleshey Farm. Here Vavasor and Maxwell joined the others, havinggained some three hundred yards in distance by their course, buthaving been forced to jump the Marham Stream which Sir William hadforded. The pace now was as good as the horses could make it,--andperhaps something better as regarded some of them. Sir William'sservant had been with him, and he had got his second horse atClaydon's; Maxwell had been equally fortunate; Tom's second horsehad not come up, and his beast was in great distress; Grindley hadremained behind at Marham Bottom, being contented perhaps with havingbeaten Calder Jones,--from whom by-the-by I may here declare that henever got his sovereign. Burgo, Vavasor, and the country gentlemanstill held on but it was devoutly desired by all of them that thefox might soon come to the end of his tether. Ah! that intenselonging that the fox may fail, when the failings of the horse beginto make themselves known,--and the consciousness comes on that allthat one has done will go for nothing unless the thing can be broughtto a close in a field or two! So far you have triumphed, leavingscores of men behind; but of what good is all that, if you also areto be left behind at the last?

  It was manifest now to all who knew the country that the fox wasmaking for Thornden Deer Park, but Thornden Deer Park was still twomiles ahead of them, and the hounds were so near to their game thatthe poor beast could hardly hope to live till he got there. He hadtried a well-known drain near Cleshey Farm House; but it had beeninhospitably, nay cruelly, closed against him. Soon after that hethrew 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 horsesthat 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 BurgoFitzgerald's horse. He gained a minute's check and then he startedagain, being viewed away by Sir William himself. The countrygentleman of whom mention has been made also viewed him, and holloa'das he did so: "Yoicks, tally; gone away!" The unfortunate man! "Whatthe d---- are you roaring at?" said Sir William. "Do you supposeI don't know where the fox is?" Whereupon the country gentlemanretreated, and became less conspicuous than he had been.

  Away they went again, off Cleshey and into Thornden parish, on theland of Sorrel Farm,--a spot well to be remembered by one or two everafterwards. Here Sir William made for a gate which took him a littleout of the line, but Maxwell and Burgo Fitzgerald, followed byVavasor, went straight ahead. There was a huge ditch and boundarybank there which Sir William had known and had avoided. Maxwell,whose pluck had returned to him at last, took it well. His horse wascomparatively fresh and made nothing of it. Then came poor Burgo!Oh, Burgo, hadst thou not have been a very child, thou shouldst haveknown that now, at this time of the day,--after all that thy gallanthorse had done for thee,--it was impossible to thee or him. But whendid Burgo Fitzgerald know anything? He rode at the bank as though ithad been the first fence of the day, striking his poor beast with hisspurs, as though muscle, strength, and new power could be imparted bytheir rowels. The animal rose at the bank and in some way got uponit, scrambling as he struck it with his chest, and then fell headlonginto the ditch at the other side, a confused mass of head, limbs, andbody. His career was at an end, and he had broken his heart! Poornoble beast, noble in vain! To his very last gasp he had done hisbest, and had deserved that he should have been in better hands. Hismaster's ignorance had killed him. There are men who never know howlittle a horse can do,--or how much!

  There was to some extent a gap in the fence when Maxwell had firstridden it and Burgo had followed him; a gap, or break in the hedge atthe top, indicating plainly the place at which a horse could best getover. To this spot Vavasor followed, and was on the bank at Burgo'sheels before he knew what had happened. But the man had got away andonly 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 chapjust send him to me," said Burgo in a melancholy tone. Then he satdown, with his feet in the ditch, and looked at the carcase of hishorse.

  There was no more need of jumping that day. The way was open into thenext field,--a turnip field,--and there amidst the crisp breakingturnip-tops, with the breath of his enemies hot upon him, with theirsharp teeth at his entrails, biting at them impotently in the agoniesof his death struggle, poor Reynard finished his career. Maxwell wascertainly the first there,--but Sir William and George Vavasor wereclose upon him. That taking of brushes of which we used to hear isa little out of fashion but if such honour were due to any one itwas 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. Heand Maxwell rode homewards together, having sent assistance to poorBurgo Fitzgerald; and as they went along the road, saying but littleto each other, Maxwell, in a very indifferent voice, asked him aquestion.

  "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 halfhis value, because he had brought with him a bad character.