That day the hounds met on Sir Charles's estate. Sir Charles and Lady
Bassett breakfasted in Pink; he had on his scarlet coat, white tie,
irreproachable buckskins, and top-boots. (It seemed a pity a speck of
dirt should fall on them.) Lady Bassett was in her riding-habit; and
when she mounted her pony, and went to cover by his side, with her
blue-velvet cap and her red-brown hair, she looked more like a
brilliant flower than a mere woman.
A veteran fox was soon found, and went away with unusual courage and
speed, and Lady Bassett paced homeward to wait her lord's return, with
an anxiety men laugh at, but women can appreciate. It was a form of
quiet suffering she had constantly endured, and never complained, nor
even mentioned the subject to Sir Charles but once, and then he
pooh-poohed her fancies.
The hunt had a burst of about forty minutes that left Richard Bassett's
cocktail in the rear; and the fox got into a large beech wood with
plenty of briars, and kept dodging about it for two hours, and puzzled
the scent repeatedly.
Richard Bassett elected not to go winding in and out among trees, risk
his horse's legs in rabbit-holes, and tire him for nothing. He had kept
for years a little note book he called "Statistics of Foxes," and that
told him an old dog-fox of uncommon strength, if dislodged from that
particular wood, would slip into Bellman's Coppice, and if driven out
of that would face the music again, would take the open country for
Higham Gorse, and probably be killed before he got there; but once
there a regiment of scythes might cut him out, but bleeding, sneezing
fox-hounds would never work him out at the tail of a long run.
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