There was a hedge in the way and, behind the hedge, a very narrow lane.
A fox, who was hidden in the meadow amongst some high rushes, intending to sleep until the evening came, and then to take a roosting fowl from a cartshed nearby, being smelt out by the hounds, sneaked to the hedge, crept through a little hole between the thorns—the way he had come—and, giving his tail a determined whisk to rid it of a dead bramble, ran nimbly up the lane.
He was an old dog-fox who had been hunted many times before. He understood the ways of hounds as well as any kitchen cat, and though—according to an established custom in his family—he always ran away from them, yet he by no means feared them. His cunning had always outwitted their blundering onslaughts, and he never failed to reach his earth safely, that went deep into a rocky hill.
The fox belonged to the country party in politics and always praised the landed gentry to his cubs, but all the farmers he wished dead because, having no manners, they sometimes shot or trapped the foxes.
When the fox slunk away, the hounds—not being accustomed to use their eyes—took him for a weasel. However, they soon discovered the scent and, making their usual sound, wagged their tails, rushed, pushed, and scrambled, and at last found a way through the hedge, and followed the fox.
If the hounds were surprised at the sudden appearance of what they had intended all the day to look for, the hunt—as the riders and runners after such a proceeding are called—were far more so, and all looked excitedly for a gate.
The chief whip, who was steward to the estate, and whose name was Mr. Pix, being called for by the company, pointed out to his master where the gate was which led into the lane.
Mr. Pix’s master, who was also master of the hunt, was Lord Bullman. His Lordship had been even more astonished than the hounds at the fox being discovered so near to the Hall, for he had not expected a find any nearer to home than Madder Hill. He blamed his ill-luck that the find should be made in a small meadow surrounded by high hedges. The fox, he believed, must have had a personal grudge against him, and had chosen this very spot in order to trap the whole hunt, and make the Master look foolish.
Even though that was not the direction in which the fox had gone, Lord Bullman—giving a very modest “Halloo!”—rode directly to the gate that had been pointed out to him. He even made his horse gallop, giving the beast a sharp stab with his spurs, and, coming quickly to the gate, he endeavoured to open it.
All who know his kind can truly say that, if a great man tries to do any self-imposed task, it’s best to leave him alone to do it. Seeing Lord Bullman ride up to the gate, his mounted servants and the rest of the hunt held back a little.
It is well known in all the countryside near West Dodder Hall that his Lordship’s tenants are advised to fasten all the gates through which the hunt may wish to ride so that they may open easily, or else they may incur his displeasure.
This order—that Mr. Pix never forgot to give to a newcomer—was, in most cases, obeyed, but in the meadow where the fox had been found it had often happened in the summer months that young people—happy in one another’s company—would wander in upon a Sunday and lie down upon the grass, making less room—it was supposed—for Farmer Mere’s cows. Thus it came about that Farmer Mere had fastened this particular gate, that led into the lane, with barbed wire.
There is always—as religious teachers in the last century knew—mischief ready for idle hands or for idle mouths. Lord Bullman grew impatient.
A fine gentleman, who had recently made a fortune by trading in picture-halls and had bought an estate near to Dodder, wishing to show his general unconcern about all common events—as well as to call attention to his good horsemanship—took a golden case out of his red coat and lit a cigarette. He hoped and expected that his horse would caper. But, instead of showing off the proficiency of his master as a rider, to all who might see, the horse—observing that the green grass looked tempting to one fed only on oats and beans—suddenly lowered its head and began to bite. The young man, in a hurry to chastise the unmannerly beast, dropped his gold case.
A woman laughed.
Lord Bullman pulled at the gate.
The remainder of the field sat idly upon their horses and chatted with one another. They had come into the meadow by one gate, and they intended to go out by another, and at least they sat safe and would not get dirtied if they remained where they were.
In every part of the British Empire, and in other places, too, of less repute, it is well known that an English gentleman never likes to be beaten. Neither does he care to commence a task that he is unable to finish. Lord Bullman might easily have called to his mounted lackeys, or else have delivered command to Mr. Pix that the gate should be pulled down. But he did not do so. He had his own character to think of—his own honour.
There were strangers present, onlookers from the village, and the rest of the hunt. Amongst the riders there were a few who were as well-bred and as rich as himself. To show these that he could not open a paltry gate, made of wood, would be an insult to his own noble ancestry.
Mr. Pix looked worried. He leaned down to get the ear of a friend who was walking, and whispered that they would soon hear something. And so they did—Lord Bullman was beginning to swear.
He swore first at Farmer Mere—who unfortunately was not there to hear him—for shutting the gate so tight, and then damned the gate to Hell because it would not open, and after that, gave his horse to the Devil because it would not stand still. But, for all his loud words, the gate remained closed.
Though some may argue otherwise, wealthy people, we affirm, are bad idlers. They do not like to be kept waiting. When matters grow dull and things come to a standstill, people of quality soon begin to fret. When the rich—and there is no mob like that mob—see a house a-burning, they like the flames to rise high; if the fire slackens and only black smoke appears, they begin to lose faith in the gaiety of the elements, and in themselves too. Even at a funeral fine people often become impatient, for they do not like any restraint.
But others, besides the gentry in the meadow, soon grew dissatisfied with the entertainment. Three little children, who had walked from Dodder village that was two miles away, considered that they were being cheated of their sport. They had hoped at least to see a man or two thrown or a woman’s leg broken. That was what they had come out to see. One of them, Winnie Huddy—for want of anything better to do—suggested a game by themselves. They soon forgot all about the hunt and Lord Bullman, and began to play touch in a corner of the field.
Besides this disrespectful gesture made by the children towards the noblest of country sports, there were other signs, too, that the kingdom of England was fast going to the Devil, or, what would be far worse for the landowners, to God. Two young and beautiful ladies, well-mounted, the daughters of an honourable knight, slipped—shameless hussies—from their horses, and began to gather daisies, their wish being that, during these moments when there was nothing doing in the way of murder, they might make a daisy-chain. The field was a sunny one, and the daisies plentiful, and the young ladies, with an entire disregard for what went on about them, picked greedily.
They might have accomplished their object, and decorated one another like two goddesses, if some one had not appeared to help Lord Bullman to open the gate.
It was certainly high time that he received assistance. My lord had a large income, and his oaths were like his guineas. He was justly and properly incensed against the gate.
The gate reminded him of his wife. She was the only other thing in the world that had ever withstood his will, and, seeing the gate in that fashion, he became more angry.
Lord Bullman had already broken his crop and torn his gloves, and his curses could have been heard upon Madder Hill, but the only one who seemed to heed them at all was Mr. Pix—a man religiously minded—who was forced to console himself, at a little distance away, with a flask of brandy.