When the spring came there were gay doings at the Hall. Old Mr.
Ellington had taken a sudden turn, and the housekeeper was near bidding
good-bye to her reason. There were extra men engaged in the stables, and
the black mare, Matchem, and the Squire's cob had very grand company
indeed. Things went so far that one morning the Branspath hounds met on
the Common by the Hall. For fifty-five years such a thing had not been
seen. The great dappled dogs stood in a clump by the high north wall of
the fruit garden, and the villagers stared round in wonder. The gorse to
the southward of the House was drawn, and a fox was found. There was a
wild crash and clamour for a few minutes in the plantation where Mary
Casely used to meet her lover, and then I am sorry to say that the
Huntsman began to use very bad language. Nothing had been attended to;
the hounds might as well have been entered at rabbits. The fox never
even had occasion to break covert, and the gay assemblage rode away
towards Branspath before two o'clock in the afternoon. The science of
earth-stopping had not been pushed to its final term on the Ellington
estate, but still there was hope now that the hounds had once been
permitted to cross the border which divided Squire Ellington's property
from that of the next sporting landowner.
After the abortive intrusion of the hounds there were still other
attempts at gaiety. The village began somehow to look brisk; the ancient
stagnation passed away, and grey cottagers spoke fondly of the old
times.
Throughout all this liveliness Mr. Casely kept to the mode of living he
had adopted ever since the night when he made allusions to Mr.
Ellington's windpipe. He went about his work as usual, but he spoke to
no one. He dropped going to church, and he never, as in past times,
drove his cart into Branspath. Mary had been sent to a relation's in the
South. Her father would not mention her name, and his family and
neighbours were particularly careful to say nothing about the girl who
had gone. Sometimes Casely would think about his pet, but he spared
words. Once a neighbour stepped in unawares, and found the strong man
stretched with his face on the settle, and sobbing hard; but he sat up
when he found he was not alone, spoke an oath or two, and was ready for
everyday chat.
In the autumn Casely happened to be out on the green, watching the women
spreading the nets to dry. It was a lovely day, and the larks were
singing wildly one against the other far up toward the sky. Suddenly
the chattering women grew quiet. A slender young lady, daintily dressed,
walked gracefully along the road that bordered the green. There was
silence while she passed, save for the larks' sweet jargoning. As soon
as the neat tall figure was sufficiently far off, one of the women
said--
"Who's that?"