Tales of Wonder | Page 4

a summer's day, we heard a shepherd calling to his dog,
we saw two maidens move towards a hidden farm, one of them singing softly; no other
sounds, but ours, disturbed the leisure and the loneliness of haunts that seemed not yet to
have known the inventions of steam and gun-powder (even as China, they say, in some of
her further mountains does not yet know that she has fought Japan).
And now the day and our horses were wearing out, but that resolute fox held on. I began
to work out the run and to wonder where we were. The last landmark I had ever seen
before must have been over five miles back and from there to the start was at least ten
miles more. If only we could kill! Then the sun set. I wondered what chance we had of
killing our fox. I looked at James' face as he rode beside me. He did not seem to have lost
any confidence yet his horse was as tired as mine. It was a good clear twilight and the
scent was as strong as ever, and the fences were easy enough, but those valleys were
terribly trying and they still rolled on and on. It looked as if the light would outlast all
possible endurance both of the fox and the horses, if the scent held good and he did not
go to ground, otherwise night would end it. For long we had seen no houses and no roads,
only chalk slopes with the twilight on them, and here and there some sheep, and scattered
copses darkening in the evening. At some moment I seemed to realise all at once that the
light was spent and that darkness was hovering, I looked at James, he was solemnly
shaking his head. Suddenly in a little wooded valley we saw climb over the oaks the
red-brown gables of a queer old house, at that instant I saw the fox scarcely heading by
fifty yards. We blundered through a wood into full sight of the house, but no avenue led
up to it or even a path nor were there any signs of wheel-marks anywhere. Already lights
shone here and there in windows. We were in a park, and a fine park, but unkempt
beyond credibility; brambles grew everywhere. It was too dark to see the fox any more
but we knew he was dead beat, the hounds were just before us,--and a four-foot railing of
oak. I shouldn't have tried it on a fresh horse the beginning of a run, and here was a horse
near his last gasp. But what a run! an event standing out in a lifetime, and the hounds
close up on their fox, slipping into the darkness as I hesitated. I decided to try it. My
horse rose about eight inches and took it fair with his breast, and the oak log flew into
handfuls of wet decay--it rotten with years. And then we were on a lawn and at the far
end of it the hounds were tumbling over their fox. Fox, hounds and light were all done
together at the of a twenty-mile point. We made some noise then, but nobody came out of
the queer old house.
I felt pretty stiff as I walked round to the hall door with the mask and the brush while
James went with the hounds and the two horses to look for the stables. I rang a bell
marvellously encrusted with rust, and after a long while the door opened a little way
revealing a hall with much old armour in it and the shabbiest butler that I have ever
known.
I asked him who lived there. Sir Richard Arlen. I explained that my horse could go no
further that night and that I wished to ask Sir Richard Arlen for a bed for the night.
"O, no one ever comes here, sir," said the butler.
I pointed out that I had come.

"I don't think it would be possible, sir," he said.
This annoyed me and I asked to see Sir Richard, and insisted until he came. Then I
apologised and explained the situation. He looked only fifty, but a 'Varsity oar on the
wall with the date of the early seventies, made him older than that; his face had
something of the shy look of the hermit; he regretted that he had not room to put me up. I
was sure that this was untrue, also I had to be put up there, there was nowhere else within
miles, so I almost insisted. Then to my astonishment he turned to the butler and they
talked it over in an undertone. At last they seemed to think that they could manage it,
though clearly with reluctance.