“I shall be so much astray,” said Lizzie. “I don’t at all know how we are going to begin. Are we hunting a fox now?” At this moment they were trotting across a field or two, through a run of gates up to the first covert.
“Not quite yet. The hounds haven’t been put in yet. You see that wood there? I suppose they’ll draw that.”
“What is drawing, Lord George? I want to know all about it, and I am so ignorant. Nobody else will tell me.” Then Lord George gave his lesson, and explained the theory and system of foxhunting. “We’re to wait here, then, till the fox runs away? But it’s ever so large, and if he runs away, and nobody sees him? I hope he will, because it will be nice to go on easily.”
“A great many people hope that, and a great many think it nice to go on easily. Only you must not confess to it.” Then he went on with his lecture, and explained the meaning of scent, was great on the difficulty of getting away, described the iniquity of heading the fox, spoke of up wind and down wind, got as far as the trouble of “carrying,” and told her that a good ear was everything in a big wood—when there came upon them the thrice-repeated note of an old hound’s voice, and the quick scampering, and low, timid, anxious, trustful whinnying of a dozen comrade younger hounds, who recognised the sagacity of their well-known and highly-appreciated elder—“That’s a fox,” said Lord George.
“What shall I do now?” said Lizzie, all in a twitter.
“Sit just where you are and light a cigar, if you’re given to smoking.”
“Pray don’t joke with me. You know I want to do it properly.”
“And therefore you must sit just where you are, and not gallop about. There’s a matter of a hundred and twenty acres here, I should say, and a fox doesn’t always choose to be evicted at the first notice. It’s a chance whether he goes at all from a wood like this. I like woods myself, because, as you say, we can take it easy; but if you want to ride, you should—By George, they’ve killed him!”
“Killed the fox?”
“Yes; he’s dead. Didn’t you hear?”
“And is that a hunt?”
“Well;—as far as it goes, it is.”
“Why didn’t he run away? What a stupid beast! I don’t see so very much in that. Who killed him? That man that was blowing the horn?”
“The hounds chopped him.”
“Chopped him!” Lord George was very patient, and explained to Lizzie, who was now indignant and disappointed, the misfortune of chopping. “And are we to go home now? Is it all over?”
“They say the country is full of foxes,” said Lord George. “Perhaps we shall chop half-a-dozen.”
“Dear me! Chop half-a-dozen foxes! Do they like to be chopped? I thought they always ran away.”
Lord George was constant and patient, and rode at Lizzie’s side from covert to covert. A second fox they did kill in the same fashion as the first; a third they couldn’t hunt a yard; a fourth got to ground after five minutes, and was dug out ingloriously;—during which process a drizzling rain commenced. “Where is the man with my waterproof?” demanded Mrs. Carbuncle. Lord George had sent the man to see whether there was shelter to be had in a neighbouring yard. And Mrs. Carbuncle was angry. “It’s my own fault,” she said, “for not having my own man. Lucinda, you’ll be wet.”
“I don’t mind the wet,” said Lucinda. Lucinda never did mind anything.
“If you’ll come with me, we’ll get into a barn,” said Sir Griffin.
“I like the wet,” said Lucinda. All the while seven men were at work with picks and shovels, and the master and four or five of the more ardent sportsmen were deeply engaged in what seemed to be a mining operation on a small scale. The huntsman stood over giving his orders. One enthusiastic man, who had been lying on his belly, grovelling in the mud for five minutes, with a long stick in his hand, was now applying the point of it scientifically to his nose. An ordinary observer with a magnifying-glass might have seen a hair at the end of the stick. “He’s there,” said the enthusiastic man, covered with mud, after a long-drawn, eager sniff at the stick. The huntsman deigned to give one glance. “That’s rabbit,” said the huntsman. A conclave was immediately formed over the one visible hair that stuck to the stick, and three experienced farmers decided that it was rabbit. The muddy enthusiastic man, silenced but not convinced, retired from the crowd, leaving his stick behind him, and comforted himself with his brandy-flask.
“He’s here, my lord,” said the huntsman to his noble master, “only we ain’t got nigh him yet.” He spoke almost in a whisper, so that the ignorant crowd should not hear the words of wisdom, which they wouldn’t understand or perhaps believe. “It’s that full of rabbits that the holes is all hairs. They ain’t got no terrier here, I suppose. They never has aught that is wanted in these parts. Work round to the right, there;—that’s his line.” The men did work round to the right, and in something under an hour the fox was dragged out by his brush and hind legs, while the experienced whip who dragged him held the poor brute tight by the back of his neck. “An old dog, my lord. There’s such a many of ’em here, that they’ll be a deal better for a little killing.” Then the hounds ate their third fox for that day.
Lady Eustace, in the meantime, and Mrs. Carbuncle, with Lord George, had found their way to the shelter of a cattle-shed. Lucinda had slowly followed, and Sir Griffin had followed her. The gentlemen smoked cigars,
