THROUGH THE MILL
"She was iron-sinewed and satin-skinned,
Ribbed like a drum, and limbed like a deer,
Fierce as the fire, and fleet as the wind,
There was nothing she couldn't climb or clear;
Rich lords had vexed me in vain to part,
For their gold and silver, with Britomart."[2]
"It describes your mare exactly, and how the gifted, ill-fated author
would have liked a ride on such a flyer as Satanella."
The speaker's voice shook, and the cigar quivered between his lips
while they pronounced that ill-omened name.
"She's better than common, General," was the reply. "Just look at _her
crest_. They're the right sort, when they train on like that!"
General St. Josephs and Daisy Walters were standing on a breezy upland
common, commanding one of the fairest landscapes in England, backed by
a curtain of dusky smoke from the great metropolis, skirting two-thirds
of the horizon. There was heather at their feet; and a sportsman
set down in that spot from the skies might have expected to flush a
black-cock rather than to hail a Hansom cab at only two hours' distance
from its regular stand in Pall Mall.
The black mare, stripped for a gallop, stood ten yards off in the glow
of a morning sun. That Daisy meant to give her "a spin," was obvious
from the texture of his nether garments, and the stiff silver-mounted
whip in his hand.
He had met St. Josephs the night before in the smoking-room of a
military club, and, entertaining a profound respect for that veteran,
had taken him into his counsels concerning the preparations and
performances of the black mare. Daisy was prudent, but not cunning. The
elder man's experience, he considered, might be useful, and so asked
frankly for his advice.
The General cared as little for steeple-chasing as for marbles or
prisoners'-base, but in the present instance felt a morbid attraction
towards the young officer and his venture, because he associated the
black mare with certain rides, that dwelt strangely on his memory, and
of which he treasured every incident with painful accuracy, sometimes
almost wishing they had never been.
There is a disease, from which, like small-pox, immunity can only be
purchased by taking it as often as possible in its mildest form. To
contract it sooner or later, seems the lot of humanity, and St. Josephs
had been no exception to the general rule that ordains men and women
shall inflict on each other certain injuries and annoyances, none the
less vexatious because flagrantly imaginary and unreal.
The General had loved in his youth, more than once it may be, with the
ardour and tenacity of his character; but these follies were now things
of the past. In some out-of-the-way corner, perhaps, he preserved a
knot of ribbon, a scrap of writing, or a photograph with its hair
dressed as before the flood. He could lay his hand on such memorials,
no doubt; but he never looked at them now, just as he ignored certain
sights and sounds, voices, tones, perfumes, that made him wince like
a finger on a raw wound. To save his life, he would not have admitted
that the breath of a fresh spring morning depressed his spirits more
than a sirocco, that he would rather listen to the pipes of a Highland
regiment in a mess-room than to a certain strain of Donizetti, the
softest, the saddest, the sweetest of that gifted composer--softer,
sweeter, sadder to him, that it was an echo from the past.
Among the advantages of growing old, of which there are more than
people usually imagine, none is greater than the repose of mind
which comes with advancing years--from fatigue, indeed, rather than
satisfaction, but still repose.
It is not for the young to bask in the sun, to sit over the fire, to
look forward to dinner as the pleasantest part of the day. These must
be always in action, even in their dreams; but at and after middle age
comes the pleasure of the ruminating animals, the quiet comfort of
content. An elderly gentleman, whose liver has outlasted his heart, is
not so much to be pitied after all.
Yet must he take exceeding care not to leave go of the rock he clings
to, like an oyster, that he may drift back into the fatal flood of
sentiment he ought to have baffled, once for all. If he does, assuredly
his last state will be worse than his first. Very sweet will be the
taste of the well-remembered dram, not so intoxicating as of yore to
the seasoned brain; but none the less a stimulant of the senses, a
restorative for the frame. Clutching the cup to drain perennial youth,
he will empty it to the dregs, till the old sot reels, and the grey
hairs fall dishonoured in the dust.
If follies perpetrated for women could be counted like runs in a
cricket match, I do believe the men above forty would get the score.
"Let me see her gallop," said the General, with a wistful look at the
mare, "and I will tell you what I think."
He too was a fine horseman; but he sighed to reflect he could no longer
vault on horseback like Daisy, nor embody himself at once with the
animal he bestrode, as did that young and supple light dragoon.
"I never saw a better," said the old officer to himself, as the young
one, sitting close into his saddle, set the mare going at three-quarter
speed. "And if she's only half as good as her rider, the Irishmen will
have a job to keep the stakes on their side of the Channel this time!
Ah, well. It's no use, we can't hold our own with the young ones, and I
suppose we ought not to wish we could!"
The General fell into a very common mistake. We are apt to think women
set a high price on the qualities we value in each other, forgetting
that as their opinions are chiefly reflected from our own, it is to
be talked about, no matter why, that constitutes merit in their eyes.
What do they care for a light hand, a firm seat, a vigorous frame, or
a keen intellect except in so far as these confer notoriety on their
possessor? To be celebrated is enough. If for his virtues, well. If for
his vices, better. Even the meekest of them have a strong notion of
improving a sinner, and incline to the black sheep rather than all the
white innocents of the fold.
In the meantime, Daisy felt thoroughly in his element, enjoying it as
a duck enjoys immersion in the gutter. Free goer as she was, the mare
possessed also an elasticity rare even amongst animals of the highest
class; but which, when he has once felt it, no horseman can mistrust
or mistake. As Daisy tightened his hold on her head, and increased her
speed, he experienced in all its force that exquisite sense of motion
which, I imagine, is the peculiar pleasure enjoyed by the birds of the
air.
Round the common they came, and past the General once more, diverging
from their previous direction so as to bring into the track such a
fence as they would have to encounter in their Irish contest. It was
a high and perpendicular bank, narrow at the top, with a grip on the
taking off, and a wide ditch on the landing side. Anything but a
tempting obstacle to face at great speed. Though she had gone three
miles very fast, the mare seemed fresh and full of vigour, pulling,
indeed, so hard that Daisy needed all his skill to control and keep her
in his hand. Approaching the leap, he urged her with voice and limbs.
They came at it, racing pace.
"Oh, you tailor!" muttered the General, holding his breath, in fear of
a hideous fall. "I'm wrong!" he added, the next moment. "Beautifully
done, and beautifully ridden!"
Even at her utmost speed, the mare sprang upright into the air, like
a deer, kicked the farther face of the bank with such lightning
quickness that the stroke was almost imperceptible; and, flying far
beyond the ditch, seemed rather to have gained than lost ground in this
interruption to her stride.
Away she went again! Over two more fences, done at the same head-long
pace, round the corner of a high black hedge, down into the hollow, up
the opposite rise, and so back into the straight, where Daisy, smiling
pleasantly, and much heightened in colour, executed an imaginary
finish, with his hands down.
"I've not seen such a goer for years," observed the General, as her
jockey dismounted, and two stable lads scraped a little lather from
the mare. "But she seems to take a deal of riding: and I think she is
almost _too_ free at her fences, even for a steeple-chaser."
"I'm delighted to hear you say so," was the answer. "_That's_ where we
shall win. When I had her first she was rather cautious; but I hurried
and bustled her till I got her temper up, and she puts on the steam
now as if she was going to jump into next week. I believe she'd do the
great double at Punchestown in her stride!"
The older man shook his head. "She has capital forelegs," said he;
"but I saw just such another break its neck last year at Lincoln. When
they're so free you must catch hold like grim death; for, by Jove, if
they overjump themselves at that pace, they're not much use when they
get up again!"
"That _would_ be hard lines," said Daisy, lighting a cigar. "It's the
only good thing I ever had in my life, and it must _not_ boil over.
If you come to _that_, I'd rather she broke _my_ neck than hers. If
anything went wrong with Satanella I could never face Blanche Douglas
again!"
"Blanche Douglas!" The General winced. It was not his habit to call
young ladies by their Christian names; and to talk familiarly of this
one seemed a desecration indeed.
"I should hope Miss Douglas will never ride that animal now," said
he, looking very stiff and haughty--"throaty," Daisy called it, in
describing the scene afterwards.
"Not ride her?" replied the young gentleman. "You can't know much of
Satanella, General, if you suppose she wouldn't ride anything--ah,
or do anything, if you only told her _not_! She's a trump of a girl,
I admit; but, my eyes, she's a rum one! Why, if there wasn't a law
or something against it, I'm blessed if I don't think she'd ride at
Punchestown herself--boots and breeches--silk jacket--make all the
running, and win as she liked! That's her form, General, you may take
my word for it!"
St. Josephs positively stood aghast. Could he believe his ears? Silk
jacket! Boots and breeches! And this was the woman he delighted to
honour. To have annihilated his flippant young acquaintance on the
spot would have given him intense satisfaction, but he was obliged to
content himself with contemptuous silence and sundry glances of scorn.
His displeasure, however, seemed quite lost on Daisy, who conversed
freely all the way back to town, and took leave of his indignant senior
with unimpaired affability when they arrived.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 2: From "The Romance of Britomart," not the least stirring
of those spirited verses called "Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes,"
composed by the late A. Lindsey Gordon, and published at Melbourne,
Australia, 1870.]