Can You Forgive Her?

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, dogcarts, gigs, and wagonettes, 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.

“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 someone 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 someone 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 candlelight,” said Grindley.

“Of course I did; and why shouldn’t I? Do you suppose no one can work by candlelight 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 today. Why, it stands to reason. The wind’s from the northeast.”

Cranby Wood is very large⁠—there being, in truth, two or three