Can You Forgive Her? (29 page)

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 Clay-don’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
³
, 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 Chat 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 die 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 hue; 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.

B
URGO
F
ITZGERALD,
of whose hunting experiences something has been told in the last chapter, was a young man born in the purple of the English aristocracy. He was related to half the dukes in the kingdom, and had three countesses for his aunts. When he came of age he was master of a sufficient fortune to make it quite out of the question that he should
be asked to earn his bread; and though that, and other windfalls that had come to him, had long since been spent, no one had ever made to him so ridiculous a proposition as that. He was now thirty, and for some years past had been known to be much worse than penniless; but still he lived on in the same circles, still slept softly and drank of the best; and went about with his valet and his groom
and his horses, and fared sumptuously every day. Some people said the countesses did it for him, and some said that it was the dukes; – while others, again, declared that the Jews were his most generous friends. At any rate he still seemed to live as he had always lived, setting tradesmen at defiance, and laughing to scorn all the rules which regulate the lives of other men.

About eighteen months
before the time of which I am now speaking, a great chance had come in this young man’s way, and he had almost succeeded in making himself one of the richest men in England. There had been then a great heiress in the land, on whom the properties of half-a-dozen ancient families had concentrated; and Burgo, who in spite of his iniquities still kept his position in the drawing-rooms of the great,
had almost succeeded in obtaining the hand and the wealth, – as people still said that he had obtained the heart, – of the Lady Glencora M‘Cluskie. But sundry mighty magnates, driven almost to despair at the prospect
of such a sacrifice, had sagaciously put their heads together, and the result had been that the Lady Glencora had heard reason. She had listened, – with many haughty tossings indeed
of her proud little head, with many throbbings of her passionate young heart; but in the end she listened and heard reason. She saw Burgo, for the last time, and told him that she was the promised bride of Plantagenet Palliser, nephew and heir of the Duke of Omnium.

He had borne it like a man, – never having groaned openly, or quivered once before any comrade at the name of the Lady Glencora.
She had married Mr Palliser at St George’s Square, and on the morning of the marriage he had hung about his club door in Fall Mall, listening to the bells, and saying a word or two about the wedding, with admirable courage. It had been for him a great chance, – and he had lost it. Who can say, too, that his only regret was for the money? He had spoken once of it to a married sister of his, in whose
house he had first met Lady Glencora. ‘I shall never marry now, – that is all,’ he said – and then he went about, living his old reckless life, with the same recklessness as ever. He was one of those young men with dark hair and blue eyes, – who wear no beard, and are certainly among the handsomest of all God’s creatures. No more handsome man than Burgo Fitzgerald lived in his days; and this merit
at any rate was his, – that he thought nothing of his own beauty. But he lived ever without conscience, without purpose, – with no idea that it behoved him as a man to do anything but eat and drink, – or ride well to hounds till some poor brute, much nobler than himself, perished beneath him.