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Wild Adventures in Wild Places
Chapter One
Part I – The Moors and Fens of England
In the Depths of the Forest – Frank and his Toad – A Day with the Hounds – The Furies’ Leap – “That Fox was my Fate.”
There is no doubt at all that when young Frank Willoughby brought out his book with him, and seated himself on the trunk of the old fallen tree, he meant to read it; but this intention had soon been abandoned, and, at the moment our tale commences, the book lay on the grass at his feet, and Frank was dreaming. He was not asleep, not a bit of it; his eyes were as wide open as yours or mine are at this moment; but there was a far-away look in them, and you could tell by the cloud that seemed to hang on his lowered brow that his thoughts were none of the pleasantest. He was not alone, at least not quite, for, not a yard away from his feet, there sat gazing up into his face – why, what do you think? A great toad! Do not start; men in solitude have taken up with stranger companions than this. And Frank was solitary, or at least he conceived himself to be so; and day after day he left his home on the borders of the great forest of Epping, and wandered down here into the depths of the wood, and seated himself idly on that log as we see him now. The toad had come to know him, and he to know the toad. He even brought crumbs for him, which the batrachian never failed to discuss, and seemed to enjoy. So the two took a kindly interest in each other’s welfare.
On this particular forenoon the summer sun was very bright; it shimmered down through the trees like a shower of gold, it glittered on the grass-stems, it brightened the petals of the wild flowers, and burnished the backs of myriads of beetles, as they opened their cloaks and tried to fly in it. No wonder that on this glorious morning the birds sang in every tree, and that the happy hum of insect life was everywhere around.
“Well, old gentleman,” said Frank at last, addressing the toad, “you are like myself, I think; you are not over happy.”
“Pooh!” the toad seemed to reply. “I’m enjoying the sunshine and the free, fresh air, ain’t I? My house isn’t many yards round the corner. I’m a jolly old bachelor, that’s what I am, and there’s no life like it. No, I’m not unhappy, if you are. Pooh!”
“Heigho!” sighed Frank.
But list! There is some one singing, some one hidden at present by the trees, but evidently coming nearer and nearer to where Frank is sitting – a rich, mellow, manly voice; and the song comes directly from the heart, that you can easily tell, and from a gladsome heart, too, and one in unison with the freshness and brightness to be seen on every hand —
“I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green.
With bended bow and bloodhound free;
For that’s the life that’s meet for me.”
Next moment, brushing the boughs aside, a tall, handsome young man of some five-and-twenty years appeared upon the scene. Brown he was as to beard and whiskers, bronzed as to cheeks and brow, and clear in eye as a little child.
“Why, Chisholm!” cried Frank, starting up and grasping his friend’s extended hand.
“Why, Frank!” cried Chisholm, “you terrible old recluse; and so I have found you at last, have I? Fairly ferreted you out. Sit down, old man, and give an account of yourself.”
“Well, you see,” said Willoughby, “I – I want to go up for my degree, and I – the fact is I’ve been reading.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared Chisholm, laughing till the forest rang again. “Been reading, have you?” As he spoke he kicked the book that lay on the grass. “Been reading Byron – ha, ha, ha! I do believe the boy’s in love.”
Young Frank turned red all over.
“Why, how do you know?” he said, “and how did you find me out, here in the forest? Chisholm, you’re a wizard, or something worse.”
“Been to your father’s house, dear boy,” replied Chisholm, explaining. “Splendid fellow, your father, by the way. Enjoyed some rare sport and fun – but missed you sadly, you may be sure; but your father told me everything. ‘My young rascal,’ – these are his very words, Frank – ‘my young rascal,’ he said, ‘has fallen in love, and wants to marry right away; of course I couldn’t give my consent, because he is only a boy, you know, so he went into a pet, and has taken lodgings somewhere on the borders of Epping Forest, under the pretence of reading.’ And that, Frank, was the only clue to your whereabouts that I could get; but you see I’ve found you, my boy. And now tell me all about it.”
“A most modest request, I do declare,” said Frank, with a smile; “but never mind, I never did have a secret from you, and it may do me good to unburden my mind.”
“That it will,” said Chisholm; “but before you begin just pitch Byron at that ugly toad there, will you?”
“That I certainly won’t; he has been my only companion for weeks.”
“Well, well, well,” said Chisholm, “buried in the depths of Epping Forest, his only companion a toad, the once gay and jolly Frank Willoughby. Why you must be deeply in love.”
“I am, and that is a fact, and if you only saw the object of my affections, I do not think you would wonder much. She is – ”
“Now Frank, dear boy,” Chisholm said, “I must apologise for interrupting you; but pray do not begin to dilate on the charms of your fair enslaver. I know she must be everything that is good and beautiful, else she never could have captivated you. Just tell me how it happened, and where it happened.”
“It happened down in Wales,” replied Frank, “that is where it happened; but the day, Chisholm, that was big with my fate, was a day with the hounds. You know how fond I am of hunting, don’t you?”
“I know,” said Chisholm, laughing, “that there used not to be a better man than yourself, Frank, in the field; that you crossed the very stiffest country at the very heels of the hounds, and though you often said you didn’t like to see a poor fox broken up, you managed, nevertheless, to be always in at the death. That is what you used to be, my boy. What you are now may be quite another thing, since a lady has come to be woven up in the web of your history. Remember the story of Hercules, Frank.”
“Oh! bother Hercules,” cried Frank impatiently; “pray let me get on with my own story.”
“Heave round then,” said Chisholm.
“Well, then, when I arrived this year, early in spring, back from my little trip to Malta, I brought with me a letter of introduction to General Lyell, of Penmawhr Castle, in Brecknockshire. He keeps a nice little pack of smallish foxhounds – oh! such rare ones for a run – they can puzzle out the coldest scent, and when they find, they follow in such beautiful form, that it seems to me you could cover the pack with the mainsail of my father’s yacht.”
“Go on,” cried Chisholm, “you’re warming to your subject; there’s life in you yet.”
“You may be sure,” continued Frank, “that I did not take long to forward my letter, and in due course an invitation followed. ‘Hounds meet at the Three Cross Roads,’ ran the epistle, ‘on Tuesday, the 9th. Come and spend the Easter holidays with us, and take us as you find us.’ There were three clear days before the 9th, but my impatience would not let me wait. I sent Bob, my man, down with my mare the next morning, and followed on the same evening. My man had chosen the best inn in the village, for I meant to meet the general for the first time with the hounds, and show him what sort of metal my mare and I were made of.
“Next
