when the first monday in november came harry was still living at the rectory. indeed, what other home had he in which to live? other friends had become shy of him besides his uncle. he had been accustomed to receive many invitations. young men who are the heirs to properties, and are supposed to be rich because they are idle, do get themselves asked about here and there, and think a great deal of themselves in consequence. "there's young jones. he is fairly good-looking, but hasn't a word to say for himself. he will do to pair off with miss smith, who'll talk for a dozen. he can't hit a hay-stack, but he's none the worse for that. we haven't got too many pheasants. he'll be sure to come when you ask him,—and he'll be sure to go."
so jones is asked, and considers himself to be the most popular man in london. i will not say that harry's invitations had been of exactly that description; but he too had considered himself to be popular, and now greatly felt the withdrawal of such marks of friendship. he had received one "put off"—from the ingoldsbys of kent. early in june he had promised to be there in november. the youngest miss ingoldsby was very pretty, and he, no doubt, had been gracious. she knew that he had meant nothing,—could have meant nothing. but he might come to mean something, and had been most pressingly asked. in september there came a letter to him to say that the room intended for him at ingoldsby had been burnt down. mrs. ingoldsby was so extremely sorry, and so were the "girls!" harry could trace it all up. the ingoldsbys knew the greens, and mrs. green was sister to septimus jones, who was absolutely the slave,—the slave, as harry said, repeating the word to himself with emphasis,—of augustus scarborough. he was very unhappy, not that he cared in the least for any miss ingoldsby, but that he began to be conscious that he was to be dropped.
he was to be taken up, on the other hand, by joshua thoroughbung. alas! alas! though he smiled and resolved to accept his brother-in-law with a good heart, this did not in the least salve the wound. his own county was to him less than other counties, and his own neighborhood less than other neighborhoods. buntingford was full of thoroughbungs, the best people in the world, but not quite up to what he believed to be his mark. mr. prosper himself was the stupidest ass! at welwyn people smelled of the city. at stevenage the parsons' set began. baldock was a caput mortuum of dulness. royston was alive only on market-days. of his own father's house, and even of his mother and sisters, he entertained ideas that savored a little of depreciation. but, to redeem him from this fault,—a fault which would have led to the absolute ruin of his character had it not been redeemed and at last cured,—there was a consciousness of his own vanity and weakness. "my father is worth a dozen of them, and my mother and sisters two dozen," he would say of the ingoldsbys when he went to bed in the room that was to be burnt down in preparation for his exile. and he believed it. they were honest; they were unselfish; they were unpretending. his sister molly was not above owning that her young brewer was all the world to her; a fine, honest, bouncing girl, who said her prayers with a meaning, thanked the lord for giving her joshua, and laughed so loud that you could hear her out of the rectory garden half across the park. harry knew that they were good,—did in his heart know that where the parsons begin the good things were likely to begin also.
he was in this state of mind, the hand of good pulling one way and the devil's pride the other, when young thoroughbung called for him one morning to carry him on to cumberlow green. cumberlow green was a popular meet in that county, where meets have not much to make them popular except the good-humor of those who form the hunt. it is not a county either pleasant or easy to ride over, and a puckeridge fox is surely the most ill-mannered of foxes. but the puckeridge men are gracious to strangers, and fairly so among themselves. it is more than can be said of leicestershire, where sportsmen ride in brilliant boots and breeches, but with their noses turned supernaturally into the air. "come along; we've four miles to do, and twenty minutes to do it in. halloo, molly, how d'ye do? come up on to the step and give us a kiss."
"go away!" said molly, rushing back into the house. "did you ever hear anything like his impudence?"
"why shouldn't you?" said kate. "all the world knows it." then the gig, with the two sportsmen, was driven on. "don't you think he looks handsome in his pink coat?" whispered molly, afterward, to her elder sister. "only think; i have never seen him in a red coat since he was my own. last april, when the hunting was over, he hadn't spoken out; and this is the first day he has worn pink this year."
harry, when he reached the meet, looked about him to watch how he was received. there are not many more painful things in life than when an honest, gallant young fellow has to look about him in such a frame of mind. it might have been worse had he deserved to be dropped, some one will say. not at all. a different condition of mind exists then, and a struggle is made to overcome the judgment of men which is not in itself painful. it is part of the natural battle of life, which does not hurt one at all,—unless, indeed, the man hate himself for that which has brought upon him the hatred of others. repentance is always an agony,—and should be so. without the agony there can be no repentance. but even then it is hardly so sharp as that feeling of injustice which accompanies the unmeaning look, and dumb faces, and pretended indifference of those who have condemned.
when harry descended from the gig he found himself close to old mr. harkaway, the master of the hounds. mr. harkaway was a gentleman who had been master of these hounds for more than forty years, and had given as much satisfaction as the county could produce. his hounds, which were his hobby, were perfect. his horses were good enough for the hertfordshire lanes and hertfordshire hedges. his object was not so much to run a fox as to kill him in obedience to certain rules of the game. ever so many hinderances have been created to bar the killing a fox,—as for instance that you shouldn't knock him on the head with a brick-bat,—all of which had to mr. harkaway the force of a religion. the laws of hunting are so many that most men who hunt cannot know them all. but no law had ever been written, or had become a law by the strength of tradition, which he did not know.
to break them was to him treason. when a young man broke them he pitied the young man's ignorance, and endeavored to instruct him after some rough fashion. when an old man broke them, he regarded him as a fool who should stay at home, or as a traitor who should be dealt with as such. and with such men he could deal very hardly. forty years of reigning had taught him to believe himself to be omnipotent, and he was so in his own hunt. he was a man who had never much affected social habits. the company of one or two brother sportsmen to drink a glass of port-wine with him and then to go early to bed, was the most of it. he had a small library, but not a book ever came off the shelf unless it referred to farriers or the res venatica. he was unmarried. the time which other men gave to their wives and families he bestowed upon his hounds. to his stables he never went, looking on a horse as a necessary adjunct to hunting,—expensive, disagreeable, and prone to get you into danger. when anyone flattered him about his horse he would only grunt, and turn his head on one side. no one in these latter years had seen him jump any fence. but yet he was always with his hounds, and when any one said a kind word as to their doings, that he would take as a compliment. it was they who were there to do the work of the day, which horses and men could only look at. he was a sincere, honest, taciturn, and withal, affectionate man, who could on an occasion be very angry with those who offended him. he knew well what he could do, and never attempted that which was beyond his power. "how are you, mr. harkaway?" said harry.
"how are you, mr. annesley? how are you?" said the master, with all the grace of which he was capable. but harry caught a tone in his voice which he thought implied displeasure. and mr. harkaway had in truth heard the story,—how harry had been discarded at buston because he had knocked the man down in the streets at night-time and had then gone away. after that mr. harkaway toddled off, and harry sat and frowned with embittered heart.
"well, malt-and-hops, and how are you?" this came from a fast young banker who lived in the neighborhood, and who thus intended to show his familiarity with the brewer; but when he saw annesley, he turned round and rode away. "scaly trick that fellow played the other day. he knocked a fellow down, and, when he thought that he was dead, he lied about it like old boots." all of which made itself intelligible to harry. he told himself that he had always hated that banker.
"why do you let such a fellow as that call you malt-and-hops?" he said to joshua.
"what,—young florin? he's a very good fellow, and doesn't mean anything."
"a vulgar cad, i should say."
then he rode on in silence till he was addressed by an old gentleman of the county who had known his father for the last thirty years. the old gentleman had had nothing about him to recommend him either to harry's hatred or love till he spoke; and after that harry hated him. "how d'you do, mr. annesley?" said the old gentleman, and then rode on. harry knew that the old man had condemned him as the others had done, or he would never have called him mr. annesley. he felt that he was "blown upon" in his own county, as well as by the ingoldsbys down in kent.
they had but a moderate day's sport, going a considerable distance in search of it, till an incident arose which gave quite an interest to the field generally, and nearly brought joshua thoroughbung into a scrape. they were drawing a covert which was undoubtedly the property of their own hunt,—or rather just going to draw it,—when all of a sudden they became aware that every hound in the pack was hunting. mr. harkaway at once sprung from his usual cold, apathetic manner into full action. but they who knew him well could see that it was not the excitement of joy. he was in an instant full of life, but it was not the life of successful enterprise. he was perturbed and unhappy, and his huntsman, dillon,—a silent, cunning, not very popular man, who would obey his master in everything,—began to move about rapidly, and to be at his wit's end. the younger men prepared themselves for a run,—one of those sudden, short, decisive spurts which come at the spur of the moment, and on which a man, if he is not quite awake to the demands of the moment, is very apt to be left behind. but the old stagers had their eyes on mr. harkaway, and knew that there was something amiss.
then there appeared another field of hunters, first one man leading them, then others following, and after them the first ruck and then the crowd. it was apparent to all who knew anything that two packs had joined. these were the hitchiners, as the rival sportsmen would call them, and this was the hitchin hunt, with mr. fairlawn, their master. mr. fairlawn was also an old man, popular, no doubt, in his own country, but by no means beloved by mr. harkaway. mr. harkaway used to declare how fairlawn had behaved very badly about certain common coverts about thirty years ago, when the matter had to be referred to a committee of masters. no one in these modern days knew aught of the quarrel, or cared. the men of the two hunts were very good friends, unless they met under the joint eyes of the two masters, and then they were supposed to be bound to hate each other. now the two packs were mixed together, and there was only one fox between them.
the fox did not trouble them long. he could hardly have saved himself from one pack, but very soon escaped from the fangs of the two. each hound knew that his neighbor hound was a stranger, and, in scrutinizing the singularity of the occurrence, lost all the power of hunting. in ten minutes there were nearly forty couples of hounds running hither and thither, with two huntsmen and four whips swearing at them with strange voices, and two old gentlemen giving orders each in opposition to the other. then each pack was got together, almost on the same ground, and it was necessary that something should be done. mr. harkaway waited to see whether mr. fairlawn would ride away quickly to his own country. he would not have spoken to mr. fairlawn if he could have helped it. mr. fairlawn was some miles away from his country. he must have given up the day for lost had he simply gone away. but there was another covert a mile off, and he thought that one of his hounds had "shown a line,"—or said that he thought so.
now, it is well known that you may follow a hunted fox through whatever country he may take you to, if only your hounds are hunting him continuously. and one hound for that purpose is as good as thirty, and if a hound can only "show a line" he is held to be hunting. mr. fairlawn was quite sure that one of his hounds had been showing a line, and had been whipped off it by one of mr. harkaway's men. the man swore that he had only been collecting his own hounds. on this plea mr. fairlawn demanded to take his whole pack into greasegate wood,—the very covert that mr. harkaway had been about to draw. "i'm d––––d if you do!" said mr. harkaway, standing, whip in hand, in the middle of the road, so as to prevent the enemy's huntsman passing by with his hounds. it was afterward declared that mr. harkaway had not been heard to curse and swear for the last fifteen years. "i'm d––––d if i don't!" said mr. fairlawn, riding up to him. mr. harkaway was ten years the older man, and looked as though he had much less of fighting power. but no one saw him quail or give an inch. those who watched his face declared that his lips were white with rage and quivered with passion.
to tell the words which passed between them after that would require homer's pathos and homer's imagination. the two old men scowled and scolded at each other, and, had mr. fairlawn attempted to pass, mr. harkaway would certainly have struck him with his whip. and behind their master a crowd of the puckeridge men collected themselves,—foremost among whom was joshua thoroughbung. "take 'em round to the covert by winnipeg lane," said mr. fairlawn to his huntsman. the man prepared to take his pack round by winnipeg lane, which would have added a mile to the distance. but the huntsman, when he had got a little to the left, was soon seen scurrying across the country in the direction of the covert, with a dozen others at his heels, and the hounds following him. but old mr. harkaway had seen it too, and having possession of the road, galloped along it at such a pace that no one could pass him.
all the field declared that they had regarded it as impossible that their master should move so fast. and dillon, and the whips, and thoroughbung, and harry annesley, with half a dozen others, kept pace with him. they would not sit there and see their master outmanoeuvred by any lack of readiness on their part. they got to the covert first, and there, with their whips drawn, were ready to receive the second pack. then one hound went in without an order; but for their own hounds they did not care. they might find a fox and go after him, and nobody would follow them. the business here at the covert-side was more important and more attractive.
then it was that mr. thoroughbung nearly fell into danger. as to the other hounds,—mr. fairlawn's hounds,—doing any harm in the covert, or doing any good for themselves or their owners, that was out of the question. the rival pack was already there, with their noses up in the air, and thinking of anything but a fox; and this other pack,—the hitchiners,—were just as wild. but it was the object of mr. fairlawn's body-guard to say that they had drawn the covert in the teeth of mr. harkaway, and to achieve this one of the whips thought that he could ride through the puckeridge men, taking a couple of hounds with him. that would suffice for triumph.
but to prevent such triumph on the part of the enemy joshua thoroughbung was prepared to sacrifice himself. he rode right at the whip, with his own whip raised, and would undoubtedly have ridden over him had not the whip tried to turn his horse sharp round, stumbled and fallen in the struggle, and had not thoroughbung, with his horse, fallen over him.
it will be the case that a slight danger or injury in one direction will often stop a course of action calculated to create greater dangers and worse injuries. so it was in this case. when dick, the hitchin whip, went down, and thoroughbung, with his horse, was over him,—two men and two horses struggling together on the ground,—all desire to carry on the fight was over.
the huntsman came up, and at last mr. fairlawn also, and considered it to be their duty to pick up dick, whose breath was knocked out of him by the weight of joshua thoroughbung, and the puckeridge side felt it to be necessary to give their aid to the valiant brewer. there was then no more attempt to draw the covert. each general in gloomy silence took off his forces, and each afterward deemed that the victory was his. dick swore, when brought to himself, that one of his hounds had gone in, whereas squire 'arkaway "had swore most 'orrid oaths that no 'itchiner 'ound should ever live to put his nose in. one of 'is 'ounds 'ad, and squire 'arkaway would have to be—" well, dick declared that he would not say what would happen to mr. harkaway.
