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CHAPTER XXIX. THE HUNT

The cover lay in a small valley, almost deep enough to be called a glen, watered by a stream which in winter and summer took the alternate character of torrent or rivulet; gently sloping hills rose on either side, their banks clad with low furze and fern, and behind them a wide plain extended to the foot of the great mountains of Connemara.

Both sides of the little glen were now occupied by groups on foot or horseback, as each calculated on the likelihood of the fox taking this direction or that. On the narrow road which led along the crest of the lower hill were many equipages to be seen, some of which were filled with ladies, whose waving feathers and gay colors served to heighten the effect of the landscape. The horsemen were dotted about, some on the ridge of the rising ground, some lower down on the sloping sides, and others walked their horses through the dense cover, watching as the dogs sprang and bounded from copse to copse, and made the air vibrate with their deep voices.

The arrival of the Knight’s party created no slight sensation as carriages and horsemen came dashing up the hill, and took their station on an eminence, from whence all who were not mounted might have a view of the field. No sooner was he recognized, than such as had the honor of personal acquaintance moved forward to pay their respects and welcome him home again; among whom Beecham O’Reilly appeared, but with such evident diffidence of manner and reserve that Darcy, from motives of delicacy, was forced to take a more than ordinary notice of him.

“We were sorry not to have your company at the abbey last night; you ‘ve had a cold, I hear,” said the Knight.

“Yes, sir; this is the first day I’ve ventured out.”

“Let me introduce you to Lord Netherby. One of our foremost riders, my Lord, Mr. Beecham O’Reilly. You may see that the merit is not altogether his own, – splendid horse you have there.”

“He’s very powerful,” said the young man, accepting the praise with an air of easy indifference.

“In my country,” interposed Lord Netherby, “we should value him at three hundred guineas, if his performance equal his appearance.”

“I say, Lionel, come here a moment,” cried the Knight. “What do you think of that horse? – but don’t you know your old playfellow, Beecham? Have you both forgotten each other?”

“How are you, Beecham? I’d never have guessed you. To be sure, it is six years since we met. You were in Dublin, I think, when I was over on leave last?”

“No, at Oxford,” said Beecham, with a slight flush as he spoke; for although he accepted the warm shake-hands Lionel proffered, his manner was one of constraint all through. Young Darcy was, however, too much occupied in admiring the horse to bestow much attention on the rider.

“He ‘d carry you well,” said Beecham, as if interpreting what was passing in his mind, “and as I have no fancy for him, – a worse horse will carry my weight as well, – I ‘d sell him.”

“At what price?”

“Lord Netherby has valued him at three hundred,” said the young man. “I gave nearly as much myself.”

The Knight, who heard this conversation, without being able to interrupt it, was in perfect misery. The full measure of his ruin rushed suddenly on his mind, and the thought that, at the very moment his son was meditating this piece of extravagance, he was himself actually a beggar, sickened him to the heart. Meanwhile, Lionel walked his horse slowly round, the better to observe the animal he coveted, and then cantered back to his place at Mrs. Somerville’s side.

Beecham seemed to hesitate for a second or two, then, riding forward, he approached Lionel: “Perhaps you would try him to-day, Captain Darcy?” The words came hesitatingly and with difficulty.

“Oh, no! he ‘s beyond my reach,” said Lionel, laughing.

“I’d really take it as a favor if you would ride him; I ‘m not strong enough to hold him, consequently cannot do him justice.”

“Take the offer, Darcy,” said Lord Netherby, in a whisper, as he rode up to his side; “I have a great liking for that horse myself, and will buy him if you report favorably.”

“In that case, my Lord, I’ll do it with pleasure. I accept your kind proposal, and will change nags if you agree.”

Beecham at once dismounted, and, beckoning to his servant, ordered him to change the saddles.

While this little scene was enacting, old Conolly rode up to the Knight, with a warning to keep the ladies in the road. “The fox will take the country towards Burnadarig,” said he; “the start’s with the wind; and as the fences are large and the ground heavy, they had better not attempt to follow the run.”

“We will take your advice, Tom,” said the Knight. “Come here, Helen – Colonel Crofton, will you kindly bring Mrs. Somerville up here, and tell Lord Netherby to join us – the day will be for the fast ones only. There they go, – are they off?”

“Not yet, not yet,” said Conolly, as, standing in his stirrups, he looked down into the glen; “they’re hunting him through the furze cover this half hour. I know that fox well; he never breaks till the dogs are actually on him.”

By this time the scene in the valley was becoming highly exciting; the hounds, yelping and barking, bounded hither and thither; some, with uplifted throats, bayed deeply a long, protracted note; others, with noses to the earth, ran swiftly along, and then, stopping, burst into a sharp cry, as if of pain, while old Bob Carney’s voice, encouraging this one, and cursing that, was high above the tumult.

“Tiresome work, this is,” said Sir Harry Beauclerk; for his horse, mad with impatience, was white with sweat, and trembled in every limb.

“You’ll have it very soon, sir,” said old Conolly; “the dogs are together now. I wish that young gentleman there would move a little up the hill.” This was said of a young officer who took his station at the exit of the cover. “There they go, now! Tally-ho!” cried he, in ecstasy, and the shout re-echoed from a hundred voices, as the hounds, in full cry, burst from the cover, and were seen, in one compact mass, rising the opposite hill.

In a second every horse was away, save that little group around the Knight, and which, notwithstanding all the efforts of the servants, bounded and plunged in mad impatience. Beauclerk was the first down the hill, and over the brook, which he cleared gallantly. Conolly followed close; and then came Crofton in a group of others, among whom rode O’Reilly, all riding well and safely; and last of all was Lionel, mounted on the brown thoroughbred, and holding him together, in spite of all his eagerness to get on.

The Knight forgot everything that lay heavily on his heart as he watched his son nearing the brook, which he took flying. “He knows his horse; now! see!” cried Darcy, as his whole face beamed with enthusiastic delight; “look a little this way, my dear Mrs. Somerville, Lionel’s gaining on them!”

Mrs. Somerville scarcely needed the direction, for, notwithstanding her horse’s plunging, she had never taken her glass from her eye.

“Is that a wall on the side of the hill? I really believe it is!” said Lord Netherby, with an accent of amazement and horror.

“A stone wall, and a stout one. I know it well,” said Darcy. “There goes Sir Harry Beauclerk at it. Too fast, sir! too fast!” screamed out the Knight, as if his advice could be heard and followed at that distance.

“He’s down! he’s down!” cried several voices together, as horse and rider balanced for a second on the top, and rolled headlong on the opposite side, while Helen grasped her father’s arm, but never uttered a word.

“His horse is away – there he goes! – but the young man is on his legs again!” called out the Knight; “see how the rest are scattering now – they ‘ve no fancy for it;” for so it was, Beauclerk’s catastrophe, mounted, as they knew him to be, on one of the most perfect of hunters, had terrified the field, and they broke up into different groups, searching an exit where they could.

“There he goes, – that’s the way to take it!” cried Darcy, as Lionel, emerging from the little valley, was seen ascending the hill in a sharp canter; “see, my Lord! Do you mark how he holds his horse together? The hind legs are well forward – beautifully done!”

“Oh, beautifully done!” re-echoed Mrs. Somerville, as the young man, with one cut of his whip, rose the horse to the wall, topped, poised for an instant on its summit, and bounded down with the seeming lightness of a bird.

“They’re all together again,” said Helen. “Mr. Conolly has found a gap, and there they go.”

For a few moments the whole field were in sight, as they rode in a waving line, only a few stragglers in their rear; but the gradual dip of the ground soon hid them from view, and nothing remained save the occasional glance of a red coat as some rider, “thrown out” for a moment, sought to recover his place by an adroit “cast.”

“I suppose we are not destined to see much more of the day’s sport?” said Mrs. Somerville, with a pouting look; for she would infinitely rather have braved all the hazards of the field than have remained behind with the spectators.

“I trust we shall have another peep at them,” said the Knight. “By following this by-road to Burris Hill, the chances are that we see them winding along at our feet; the fox generally runs from this cover to the scrub beneath Nephin. We may go slowly, for if I be right in my calculation, they have a wide circuit to make yet.”

The Knight, after a few words to the parties in the carriage, took the lead with Lord Netherby, while Mrs. Somerville and Helen followed, an indiscriminate crowd of carriages and horsemen bringing up the rear.

This was an arrangement artfully accomplished by the Earl, who had been most impatiently awaiting some opportunity of conferring with the Knight on the question of politics, and ascertaining how far he himself might adventure on claiming the merit of converting him, when he returned to England. He had already remarked that Darcy’s name did not appear in the division on the second reading of the Bill of Union, and the fact seemed so far indicative of a disposition not to oppose the Government. The subject was one to be approached with skill, and it was at last by an adroit congratulation on the pleasant contrast of a country life with the fatigues of Parliament, that he opened the discussion.

“I believe, my Lord,” said the Knight, laughing, “that Irish gentlemen are very likely to enjoy in future a fair proportion of that agreeable retirement you have so justly lauded. The wisdom of our rulers has thought fit to relieve us of the burden of self-government in Parliament, and left us, if we can succeed in effecting it, to govern ourselves at home.”

“That will be unquestionably the lot of many, Knight. I am quite aware that men of second-rate importance will no longer possess any at all; but estated gentlemen, of high position and liberal fortunes, like yourself, for instance, will not lose their influence by the greater extent of the field in which it is exercised.”

Darcy sighed, but made no reply; the thought of his utter ruin came too painfully across him to permit of an answer. Lord Netherby interpreted his silence as doubt, and continued: “You are unjust, not only to yourself, but to us, by any discredit of this point. Men of real knowledge about Ireland and her interests will have a greater position than ever they enjoyed before; no longer buried and lost among the impracticable horde of theorists and false patriots of a Dublin Parliament, they will be known and appreciated by a deliberative assembly where the greatest men of the empire hold council.”

“I am forced to differ with you on every point, my Lord,” said the Knight, calmly; “we are united to England, not that we may make an integral portion of your empire, but simply that we may be more easily governed. Up to this hour, you have ruled this country through the instrumentality of certain deputed individuals here amongst us; your system has had but indifferent success. You are now about to try another method, and govern us through the means of Party. Into the subdivisions of these parties Irishmen will fall, – with such success, personally, as their abilities and weight may obtain for them; but Party, I assert, will now rule Ireland, not with any regard to Irish interests or objects, but simply to put this man into power, and to put that man out. Now I, my Lord, humble as my station is, have no fancy for such contests as these, – contests in which the advantages of my country will always be subordinate to some Cabinet intrigue or Ministerial stratagem. To-day, the Government may find it suit their views to administer the affairs of Ireland ably, justly, and fearlessly; to-morrow, a powerful faction may spring up here, who, by intimidation without, and by votes within the House, shall be able to thwart the administration in their Home measures. What will happen then? This faction will be bought off. By concessions to them in Ireland, they will obtain all their demands, for the sake of pliancy about interests of which they care little, and know nothing. This will succeed for a time; the ‘King’s Government’ will go well and flippantly on; you may tax the people, promote your followers, and bully your opponents to your heart’s content: but, meanwhile, Ireland will be gaining on you; your allies, grown exacting by triumph, will ask more than you dare, or even have, to give; and the question will then arise, that the party who aspires to power must bid for it by further concession; and who is to vouch for the moderation of such demands, or what limit will there be to them? I see a train of such evils in the vista; and although I neither pretend to think our domestic legislature safe nor faultless, I think the dangers we have before us are even greater than such as would spring from an Irish Parliament.”

Lord Netherby listened with great impatience – as perhaps the reader may have done also – to this declaration of the Knight’s views, and was about to reply, when suddenly a cheer from some country people, stationed on a rocky height at a short distance, drew all eyes towards the valley, where now the hounds were seen in full cry, three horsemen alone following. One of these was the huntsman; Lionel another; the third was in plain clothes, and not known to any of the party. He was mounted on a powerful horse, and even at that distance could be seen to manage him with the address of a perfect rider. The rest of the field were far behind, some still standing on the verge of a mountain torrent, which appeared to have formed the obstacle to the run, and into which more than one seemed to have fallen.

Groups were gathered here and there along the bank, and dismounted horses galloped wildly to and fro, showing that the catastrophes had been numerous. While Lord Netherby looked with some alarm at the fearful chasm which had arrested all but three out of the entire field, the Knight followed Lionel with anxious eyes, as he led over the most desperate line of country in the West.

“I never knew a fox take that line but once,” said Darcy, pointing to a wide expanse of bleak country, which stretched away to the base of the great mountain of Nephin. “I was a child at the time, but I remember the occurrence well; horse, men, and hounds tailed off one by one, some sorely injured, others dead beat, for the fellow was a most powerful dog-fox, and ran straight ahead for thirty-four miles of a desperate country. The following morning, at a little after daybreak, the fox was seen in a half trot near Ballycroy, still followed by two of the dogs, and he lived many years afterwards as a pensioner at the abbey; the dogs were never worth anything from that day.”

While the Knight related this anecdote, the hounds and the hunters were gradually receding from view; and although at intervals some thought they could catch glimpses of them, at last they disappeared altogether.

“I am sorry, Helen,” said the Knight, “that our visitors should have been so unfortunate in their sport.”

“I am more grieved to think that Lionel should follow over such a country,” said Lord Netherby.

“He’s well mounted, my Lord; and though many would call him a reckless rider, he has as much judgment as he has daring. I am tolerably easy about him.”

Helen did not seem so confident as her father; and as for Mrs. Somerville, she was considerably paler than usual, and managed her mettlesome horse with far less than her customary address.

As well to meet their friends who were thrown out, as to show some of the scenery of the coast, the Knight proposed they should retrace their steps for a short distance, and take a view of the bay on their way back to the abbey. Leaving them, therefore, to follow their route, and not delaying our reader by an account of the various excuses of the discomfited, or the banterings of Tom Nolan, we will turn to the wide plain, where, still in full cry, the dogs pursued their game.

The Knight had not exaggerated when calling it a dreadful country to ride over; yawning trenches, deep enough to engulf horse and rider, were cut in the bog, and frequently so close together that, in clearing one, a few strides more presented another; the ground itself, only in part reclaimed, was deep and heavy, demanding great strength both of horse and horseman. Through this dangerous and intricate track the fox serpentined and wound his way with practised cunning, while at every turning some unlucky hound would miss his spring, or lose his footing in the slippery soil, and their cries could be heard far over the plain, as they struggled in vain to escape from a deep trench. It was in such an endeavor that a hound was catching at the bank with his fore-legs, as the huntsman dashed forward to take the leap; the horse, suddenly taking fright, swerved, and, before he could recover, the frail ground gave way, and the animal plunged headlong down, fortunately flinging bis rider over the head on the opposite bank.

“All safe, Bob?” cried Lionel, as he turned in his saddle. But he had no time for more, for the strange rider was fast nearing on him, and the chase had now become a trial of speed and skill. By degrees they emerged from this unsafe tract and gained the grass country, where high ditches and stone walls presented a more fair, but scarcely less dangerous, kind of fencing. Here the stranger made an effort to pass Lionel and take the lead, and more than once they took their leaps exactly side by side.

As they rode along close to each other, Lionel from time to time caught glimpses of his companion, who was a strong-built man of five-and-thirty, frank and fresh-looking, but clearly not of the rank of gentleman. His horse was a powerful thoroughbred, with more bone than is usually found in Irish breeding, and trained to perfection.

“Now, sir,” said the stranger, “we’re coming near the Crumpawn river; that line of mist yonder is over the torrent. I warn you, the leap is a big one.”

Lionel turned a haughty glance towards the man, for there was a tone of assumed superiority in the words he could ill brook. That instant, however, his eyes were directed to the front, where the roaring of a mountain stream mingled with the sharp cry of the hounds as they struggled in the torrent, or fell back in their efforts to climb the steep bank.

“Ride him fairly at it, – no flinching; and d – me if I care what your father was, I’ll say you’re a gentleman.”

Lionel bit his lip almost through with passion; and, had the occasion permitted, the heavy stroke of his whip had fallen on a very different quarter from his horse’s flank; but he never uttered a word.

“Badly done! Never punish your horse at the stride!” said the fellow, who seemed bent on provoking him.

Lionel bounded in his saddle at this taunt on his riding; but there was no time for bandying words of anger; the roar of rushing water, and the misty foam, proclaimed the torrent near.

“The best man is first over!” shouted the stranger, as he rushed at the terrific chasm. Lionel dashed forward; so close were they, they could have touched; when, with a wild cheer, the stranger gave his horse a tremendous cut, and the animal bounded from the earth like a stag, and, soaring over the mad torrent, descended lightly on the sward beyond.

Lionel had lifted his horse at the very same instant; but the treacherous bank gave way beneath the animal’s forelegs: he struggled dreadfully to regain his footing, and, half rearing and half backing, tried to retire; but the effort was in vain, the slippery earth carried him with it, and down both horse and rider came into the stream.

“Keep his head to the current, and sit steady!” shouted the stranger, who now watched the struggle with breathless eagerness. “Well done! well done! – don’t press him, he ‘ll do it himself.”

The counsel was wise, for the noble animal needed neither spur nor whip, but breasted the white torrent with vigorous effort, sometimes plunging madly above, and again sinking, all save the head, beneath the flood. At last they reached the side, and the strong beast, with one bold spring, placed his fore-legs on the high bank. This was the most dangerous moment, for, unable to follow with his hind-legs, he stood opposed to the whole force of the current, that threatened every instant to engulf him. Lionel’s efforts were tremendous; he lifted, he spurred, he strained, he shouted, but all in vain: the animal, worn out by exertion, faltered, and would have fallen back, when the stranger, springing from his saddle, leaned over the bank, and, seizing Lionel by the collar, jerked him from his horse. The beast, relieved of the weight, at once rallied and bounded up the bank, where Lionel now found himself, stunned, but not senseless.

“Let them say what they like,” muttered the stranger, as he stood over him, “you ‘re a devilish fine young fellow! D – me if I’ll ever think so much about good blood again!”

Lionel was too weak and too much exhausted to reply, and even his fingers could scarcely close upon the whip he tried to grasp; yet, for all that, the stranger’s insolence sickened him to the very heart. Pride of race was the strongest feeling of his nature, and this fellow seemed determined to outrage it at every turn.

“Here, take a pull at this; you ‘ll be all right presently,” said the man, as he presented a little leather flask to the youth’s lips. But Lionel repulsed the offer rudely, and turned his head away. “The more fool you!” said he, coarsely; “your grandfather mixed many a worse-flavored one, and charged more for it;” and, so saying, he emptied the measure at a draught.

Lionel pondered on the words for some seconds, and suddenly the thought occurred to him that the stranger had mistaken him for another. “Ah! I see it all now!” thought he, and he turned his head to undeceive him; when, what was his surprise, as he looked up, to see that the fellow was gone. Mounted on his own horse, he was leading Lionel’s by the bridle, and, at a smart trot, moving down the glen.

The young man sprang to his feet and shouted aloud; he even tried to follow him; but both efforts were fruitless. At the turn of the road the man halted, and, looking round, waved his hat as in sign of adieu; then, moving forward, disappeared, while Lionel, his passion giving way to his sense of the absurdity of the whole adventure, burst into a fit of hearty laughter.

“I ‘ll be laughed at to the day of my death about this,” thought he, as he turned his steps to seek the path homeward on foot.

It was late in the evening when Lionel reached the abbey. The guests had for the most part left the dinner-room, and were dropping by twos and threes into the drawing-room, when he made his appearance in the midst of them, splashed and travel-stained from head to foot.

A burst of merry laughter rang out as they beheld his torn habiliments and mud-colored dress, in which none joined more heartily than the Knight himself, as he called aloud, “Well, Lionel, did you kill him, boy, or run him to earth below Nephin?”

“By Jove, sir! if old Carney is safe, I think nobody has been killed to-day.”

“Well, Bob is all right; he came back three hours ago. He has lamed Scaltheen; but she ‘ll get over it.”

“But your own adventures,” interposed Lord Netherby; “for so they ought to be, judging from the state of your toilet. Let us hear them.”

“Yes, by all means,” added Beauclerk; “the huntsman says that the last he saw of you was riding by the side of some one in green, with three of the pack in front, the rest tailed off, and himself in a bog-hole.”

“But there was no one in green in the field,” said Crofton; “at least I did not see any one riding, except the red coats.”

“Let us not be too critical about the color of the dress,” said Lord Netherby; “I am sure it would puzzle any of us to pronounce on the exact hue of Lionel’s at this moment.”

“Well, Lionel, will you decide it?” said the Knight; “is the green man apocryphal, or not?”

“I ‘ll decide nothing,” said Lionel, “till I get something to eat. Any one that wishes to hear my exploits must come into the dinner-room;” and, so saying, he arose, and walked into the parlor, where, under Tate’s superintendence, a little table was already spread for him beside the fire. To the tempting fare before him the young man devoted all the energy of a hunter’s appetite, regardless of the crowd who had followed him from the drawing-room, and stood in a circle around him.

Many were the jests, and sharp the raillery, on his singular appearance, and certainly it presented a most ludicrous contrast with the massive decorations of the table at which he sat, and the full dress of the party around him.

“I remember,” said Lord Netherby, “seeing the King of France – when such a functionary existed – eat his dinner in public on the terrace of Versailles; but I confess, great as was my admiration of the monarch’s powers, I think Lionel exceeds them.”

“Another leg?” said Beauclerk, who, with knife and fork in hand, performed the duty of carver.

“Why don’t you say another turkey?” said Nolan; then, turning to Mrs. Somerville, he added, “I am sure that negus is perfect.”

The pretty widow, who had been contributing, as she thought unobserved, to Lionel’s comfort, blushed deeply; and Lionel, at last roused from his apathy, said, “I am ready now, ladies and gentlemen all, to satisfy every reasonable demand upon your curiosity. But first, where is Mr. Beecham O’Reilly?”

“He went home,” said the Knight; “he resisted all my efforts to detain him to dinner.”

“Perhaps he only came over to sell that horse,” said Nolan, in a half whisper.

“I wish I had bought him, with all my heart,” said Lionel.

“Do you like him so much,” said the Knight, with a meaning smile.

“I sincerely hope you do,” said Lord Netherby, “for he is yours already, – at least, if you will do me the honor to accept him; I often hoped to have mounted you one day – ”

“I accept him, my Lord,” interposed Lionel, “most willingly and most gratefully. You have, literally speaking, mounted me ‘one day,’ and I very much doubt if I ever mount the same animal another.”

“What! is he lame? – or staked? – did he break down? – is he a devil to ride?” broke from several of the party.

“Not one of all these; but if you’ll bestow five minutes’ patience on me I ‘ll perhaps inform you of a mode of being unhorsed, novel at least to most fox-hunters.” With this, Lionel narrated the conclusion of the run, the leap of the Crumpawn river, and the singular departure of his companion at the end.

“Is this a practical joke, Knight?” said Lord Netherby.

“I think so, my Lord; one of those admirable jests which the statutes record among their own Joe Millers.”

“Then you suspect he was a robber?”

“I confess it looks very like it.”

“I read the riddle otherwise,” said Lionel; “the fellow, whoever he was, mistook me for somebody else, and there was evidently something more like a reprisal than a theft in the whole transaction.”

“But you have really lost him?” said Beanclerk.

“When I assure you that I came home on foot, I hope that question is answered.”

“By Jove! you have most singular ways of doing matters in this country,” cried the colonel; “but I suppose when a man is used to Ireland, he gets pretty much accustomed to hear of his horse being stolen away as well as the fox.”

“Oh! we’ll chance upon him one of these days yet,” said the Knight; “I am half of Lionel’s mind myself now, – the thing does not look like a robbery.”

“There’s no end of the eccentricity of these people,” muttered Lord Netherby to himself; “they can get into a towering passion and become half mad about trifles, but they take a serious loss as coolly as possible.” And with this reflection on national character he moved into the drawing-room, where soon afterwards the party repaired to talk over Lionel’s adventure, with every turn that fancy or raillery could give it.