THE GRAYS.
When Laurence Alsager awoke the next morning, he did not regard life
with such weariness, nor London with such detestation, as when he went
to bed. He had slept splendidly, as would naturally fall to the lot of
a man who for two years had been deprived of that greatest of
earthly comforts--an English bed. Laurence had bounded on French
spring-mattresses; had sweltered beneath German feather-lined
coverlets; had cramped himself up in berths; had swung restlessly in
hammocks; had stifled behind mosquito curtains; and had passed many
nights with his cloak for his bed, and his saddle-bags for his pillow,
with the half-naked forms of dirty Arabs dimly visible in the
flickering firelight, and the howls of distant jackals ringing in his
ears. He had undergone every description of bed-discomfort; and it is
not to be wondered at that he lingered long in that glorious nest of
cleanliness and rest provided for him at his hotel. As he lay there at
his ease, thoroughly awake, but utterly averse to getting up, he began
to think over all that had happened during the previous evening; and
first he thought what a charming-looking woman Lady Mitford was.
The Scotch gentleman who had remarked that Colonel Alsager was "a
deevil among the sax" had some foundation for his observation; for it
was a fact that, from the days when Laurence left Eton and was
gazetted to the Coldstreams, until he sold his commission and left
England in disgust, his name had always been coupled by the gossips
with that of some lady well known either in or out of society. He was
a mere boy, slim and whiskerless, when the intense admiration which he
excited in the breast of Mdlle. Valentine, combined with what she
afterwards termed the "coldly insular" manner in which he treated her,
gave that charming danseuse such a _migraine_ as rendered her unable
to appear in public for a week, and very nearly caused Mr. Lumley to
be favoured with a row equal to the celebrated Tamburini riot in the
days of M. Laporte. He was not more than twenty when "Punter" Blair
told him that his goings-on with Lady Mary Blair, the Punter's
sister-in-law, were the talk of the town; and that if her husband, the
Admiral, was blind, he, the Punter, wasn't, as he'd let Alsager pretty
soon know. Laurence replied that the Punter had better mind his own
business,--which was "legging" young boys at _écarté_ and
blind-hookey,--and leave his brother's wife alone; upon which Punter
Blair sent O'Dwyer of the 18th with a message; and there must
inevitably have been a meeting, had not Blair's colonel got a hint of
it, and caused it to be intimated to Mr. Blair that unless this matter
with Mr. Alsager were arranged, he, the colonel, should have to take
such notice of "other matters" affecting Mr. Blair as would compel
that gentleman to send in his papers.
So in a score of cases differing very slightly from each other. It was
the old story which was lyrically rendered by Dr. Watts, of Satan
being always ready to provide congenial occupation for gentlemen with
nothing to do. There is not, I believe, very much martial ardour in
the Household Brigade just now. That born of the Crimean war has died
out and faded away, and the officers have taken to drive off _ennui_,
some by becoming district visitors, and others by enjoying the honest
beer and improving conversation of the firemen in Watling Street. But
even now there is infinitely more enthusiasm, more belief in the
profession as a profession, more study of strategy as a thing which a
military man should know something of, than there was before the
Crimean expedition. The metropolitan inhabitants had little care for
their gallant defenders in those days. Their acquaintance with them
was limited to the knowledge that large red men were perpetually
discovered in the kitchens, and on discovery were presented as
relatives of the servants; or that serious, and in some cases fatal,
brawls occurred in the streets, when the pleasant fellows laid about
them with their belts, or ran amuck amongst a crowd with their
bayonets. An occasional review took place in the Park, or a field-day
at Woolwich; but no cordial relations existed between the majority of
the Londoners and the household troops until the news came of the
battle of the Alma. Then the public learned that the Guards'
officers were to be heard of in other places than ball-rooms and
divorce-courts, and that guardsmen could fight with as much untiring
energy as they had already displayed in feeding on householders and
flirting with cooks.
Not much worse, certainly not much better, than his compeers was
Laurence Alsager in those days, always having "something on" in the
way of feminine worship, until the great "something" happened, which,
according to Jock M'Laren and one or two others, had occasioned the
great change in his life, and caused his prolonged absence from
England. But in all his experience he had only known women of a
certain kind; women of the world, ready to give and take; women, in
his relations with whom there had been no spice of romance save that
spurious romance of the French-novel school, so attractive at first,
so hollow, and bad, and disgusting, when proceeded with. It is not too
much to say that, varied as his "affaires" had been, he had not known
one quiet, pure-minded, virtuous woman; and that during his long
foreign sojourn he had thought over this, and often wondered whether
he should ever have a wife of his own, or, failing this, whether he
should ever have a female friend whom at the same time he could love
and respect.
Yes, that was the sort of woman, he thought to himself as he lay
calmly reflecting. What a good face she had! so quiet and calm and
self-possessed. Naturally self-possessed; not that firm disgusting
imperturbability which your hardened London coquette has, he thought;
like that horrible M'Alister, who puts her double eye-glass up to her
eyes and coolly surveys women and men alike, as though they were
slaves in the Constantinople market, and she the buyer for the Sultan.
There certainly was a wonderful charm about Lady Mitford, and, good
heavens! think of a man having such a wife as that, and going off to
sup with Bligh and Winton, who were simply two empty-headed _roué_
jackasses, and Pontifex, who--Well, it was very lucky that people
didn't think alike. Yes, that man Mitford was a lout, a great
overgrown-schoolboy sort of fellow, who might be led into any sort of
scrapes by--By Jove! that's what Dollamore had said with that horribly
cynical grin. And Lady Mitford would have to run the gauntlet of
society, as did most women whose husbands went to the bad.
Laurence Alsager was a very different man from the Laurence Alsager of
two years ago. He wanted something to fill up his leisure time, and he
thought he saw his way to it. Dollamore never spoke at random. From
his quietly succulent manner Alsager knew that his lordship meant
mischief, probably in his own person, at all events hinted plainly
enough that--Ah! he would stop all that. He would pit himself against
Dollamore, or any of them, and it would be at least a novelty to have
a virtuous instead of a vicious end in view. Mitford might be a fool,
his wife weak and silly; but there should be no disastrous
consequences. Dollamore's prophecy should be unfulfilled, and he,
Laurence Alsager, should be the active agent in the matter.
Simultaneously with this determination he decided upon deferring his
visit to his father, and settling himself in London for a time. He
would be on the spot; he would cultivate the acquaintance which
Mitford so readily held out to him; he would have the garrison well
under surveillance in order carefully to observe the enemy's approach;
and--The shower-bath cut short his reflections at this point.
He dressed and breakfasted; despatched his servant to see if his old
rooms in Jermyn Street were vacant; lit a cigar and strolled out. He
had at first determined to brave public opinion in every shape and
form, to retain his beard, to wear the curious light coats and
elaborately puckered trousers which a Vienna Schneider had a year
before turned out as prime specimens of the sartorial art. But even to
this determination the night's reflection brought a change, and he
found himself turning into Poole's, and suffering himself to be suited
to the very latest cut and colour. Then he must get a hack or two from
Saunderson in Piccadilly; and as the nearest way from Poole's in
Saville Row to Saunderson's in Piccadilly is, as every one knows, down
Grosvenor Place and through Eaton Place, that was the way that
Laurence Alsager walked.
Eaton Place is not a very cheerful thoroughfare at the best of times.
Even in the season, when all the houses are full of the domesticity of
parliament-members, furnished at the hebdomadal rate of twenty
guineas, there is a stuccoey and leading-to-not-much thoroughfares
depression about it; but on a January morn, as Laurence saw it, it was
specially dull. Sir Charles Mitford had mentioned no number, so that
Laurence took a critical survey of each house as he passed,
considering whether the lady in whom he had suddenly taken so paternal
an interest resided there. He had, however, passed a very few doors
when at the other end of the street he saw a low pony-carriage with a
pair of iron-gray ponies standing at a door; and just as he noted
them, a slight figure, which he recognized in an instant, came down
the steps and took up its position in the phaeton. It was Lady
Mitford, dressed in velvet edged with sable, with a very little
black-velvet bonnet just covering the back of her head (it was before
the days of hats), and pretty dogskin driving-gloves. She cast a timid
glance at the ponies before she got in (she had always had horsy
tastes down at Fishbourne, though without much opportunity of
gratifying them), and was so occupied in gathering up the reins, and
speaking to the groom at the ponies' head, as scarcely to notice
Laurence's bow. Then with a view to retrieve her rudeness, she put out
her hand, and said cordially:
"How do you do, Colonel Alsager? I beg your pardon; I was taking such
interest in the ponies that I never saw you coming up. They're a new
toy, a present from my husband; and that must be my excuse."
"There is no excuse needed, Lady Mitford. The ponies are charming. Are
you going to drive them?"
"O yes; why not? Saunderson's people say they are perfectly quiet;
and, indeed, we are going to take them out to the farm at Acton, just
to show Mr. Grieve the stud-groom how nicely they look in our new
phaeton."
"You're sure of your own powers? They look a little fresh."
"Oh, I have not the least fear. Besides, my husband will be with me;
I'm only waiting for him to come down, and he drives splendidly, you
know."
"I've a recollection of his prowess as a tandem-whip at Oxford, when
the Dean once sent to him with a request that he'd 'take the leader
off.' Well, _au plaisir_, Lady Mitford. I wish you and the two ponies
all possible enjoyment." And he took off his hat and went on his way.
Oh, he was perfectly right; she was charming. He wasn't sure whether
she hadn't looked better even this morning than last night, so fresh
and wholesome. And her manner, without the slightest suspicion of an
_arrière pensée_, free, frank, and ingenuous; how nicely she spoke
about her husband and his driving! There could be no mistake about a
woman like that. No warping or twisting could torture her conduct into
anything assailable. He'd been slightly Quixotic when he thought to
give himself work by watching over and defending her; he--"Good
morning, Mr. Spurrier. Recollect me? Mr. Saunderson in?" Revolving all
these things in his mind, he had walked so quickly that he found
himself in Piccadilly, and in Mr. Saunderson's yard, before he knew
where he was.
"Delighted to see you back, Colonel. Thought I caught a glimpse of you
at the theatre last night, but was doubtful, because of your beard.
No; Mr. Saunderson's gone up to the farm to meet a lady on business;
but anything I can do I shall be delighted." Mr. Spurrier was Mr.
Saunderson's partner, a very handsome, fresh-coloured, cheery man, who
had been in a light-cavalry regiment, and coming into money on the
death of a relation, had turned his bequest and his horsy talents to
account. There were few such judges of horseflesh; no better rider
across country than he. "Thought you'd be giving us a call, Colonel,
unless you'd imported a few Arabs; and gave you credit for better
judgment than that. Your Arab's a weedy beast, and utterly unfit for
hacking."
"No, Spurrier, I didn't carry my orientalism to that extent. I might
have brought back a clever camel or two, or a dromedary, 'well suited
for an elderly or nervous rider,' as they say in the advertisements;
but I didn't. I suppose you can suit me with a hack."
Mr. Spurrier duly laughed at the first part of this speech, and
replied in the affirmative, of course, to the second. "You haven't
lost much flesh in the East, Colonel," said he, running him over with
his eye,--"I should say you pull off twelve stone still." Then Mr.
Spurrier, as was his wont, made a great show of throwing himself into
a fit of abstraction, during the occurrence of which he was supposed
by customers to be mentally going through the resources of his
establishment; and roused himself by calling the head-groom, and
bidding him tell them to bring out the Baby.
The Baby was a bright bay with black points, small clean head, short
well-cut ears, and a bright eye, arching neck, and, as she showed when
trotted up the yard with the groom at her head, splendid action. When
she was pulled up and stood in the usual position after the "show" had
been given, Laurence stepped up, eyed her critically all over, and
passed his hand down her legs. Spurrier laughed.
"All right there, Colonel. Fine as silk; not a sign of a puff, I'll
guarantee, and strong as steel. Perfect animal., I call her, for a
park-hack." A horse was never a "horse," but always an "animal" with
Mr. Spurrier, as with the rest of his fraternity. "Will you get on
her, Colonel? Just give her a turn in the Park.--Here, take this mare
in, and put a saddle and bridle on her for Colonel Alsager."
It was a bright sunny winter's day, and the few people in town were
taking their constitutional in the Row. As Alsager rode round by the
Achilles statue he heard ringing laughter and saw fluttering habits,
which, associated with the place in his mind with his last London
experiences, brought up some apparently unpleasant recollection as he
touched the mare with his heel, and she after two or three capricious
bounds, settled down into that long swinging gallop which is such
perfect luxury. He brought her back as quietly as she would come,
though a little excited and restless at the unaccustomed exercise, and
growled a good deal to himself as he rode. "Just the same; a little
more sun, and some leaves on the trees then, and a few more people
about; that's all. Gad! I can see her now, sitting square, as she
always used, and as easy on that chestnut brute that pulled so
infernally, as though she were in an armchair. Ah! enough has
happened since I was last in this place." And then he rode the Baby
into the yard, asked Mr. Spurrier her price agreed, to take her, told
Spurrier he wanted a groom and a groom's horse, and was sauntering
away when Mr. Spurrier said, "You'll want something to carry you to
hounds, Colonel?"
"I think not; at all events not this season."
"Sorry for that, as I've got something up at the farm that would suit
You exactly."
"No, thank you; where did you say?"
"At our farm at Acton. You've been there, you know."
"The farm at Acton,"--that was where Lady Mitford said she was going
to drive. She must be the lady whom Mr. Saunderson had gone to meet.
Spurrier saw the irresolution in his customer's face and acted
promptly.
"Let me take you out there; we sha'n't be twenty minutes going and this
is really something you ought not to miss. He's so good, that I give
you my word I wouldn't sell him to any but a workman. You will? All
right!--Put the horses to."
Within three minutes Laurence Alsager was seated by Mr. Spurrier's
side in a mail-phaeton, spinning along to Mr. Saunderson's farm and
his own fate.
There were few whips in London who drove so well or so fast as Mr.
Spurrier, and there were none who had better horses, as may be
imagined; but Laurence did not find the pace a whit too fast. He had
asked Mr. Spurrier on the road, and ascertained from him that it was
Lady Mitford who was expected. "And a charming lady too, sir; so
gentle and kind with every one. Speaks to the men here as polite as
possible, and they're not over-used to that; for, you see, in business
one's obliged to speak sharp, or you'd never get attended to. Don't
think she knows much of our line, though she's dreadfully anxious to
learn all about it; for Sir Charles is partial to horseflesh, and is a
good judge of an animal. He's been a good customer to us, and will be
better, I expect, though he hasn't hunted this season, being just
married, you see. That's the regular thing, I find. 'You'll give up
hunting, dear? I should be so terrified when you were out.' 'Very
well, dear; anything for you;' and away go the animals to
Tattersall's; and within six months my gentleman will come to me and
say, 'Got anything that will carry me next season, Spurrier?' and at
it he goes again as hard as ever."
"I saw the ponies at the door this morning," said Laurence, for the
sake of something to say; "they're a handsome pair."
"Ye-es," replied Mr. Spurrier; "I don't know very much of them;
they're Mr. Saunderson's buying. I drove 'em once, and thought they
wanted making; but Sir Charles is a good whip, and he'll do
that.--Ga-a-te!" And at this prolonged shout the lodge-gates flew
open, and they drove into the stable-yard.
Mr. Saunderson was there, but no Lady Mitford. Mr. Saunderson had his
watch in his hand, and even the look of gratification which he threw
into his face when he greeted Colonel Alsager on his return was very
fleeting. There was scarcely a man in London whose time was more
valuable, and he shook his head as he said, "I'll give her five
minutes more, and then I'm off.--What are you going to show the
Colonel, Spurrier?"
"I told them to bring out Launcelot first."
Mr. Saunderson shook his head "Too bad, Spurrier, too bad! I told you
how the Duke fancied that animal, and how I'd given his Grace the
refusal of him."
"Well, we can't keep our business at a standstill for dukes or any one
else. Besides, we've known the Colonel much longer than the Duke."
"That's true," said Mr. Saunderson with a courteous bow to Laurence.
"Well, if Colonel Alsager fancies the animal, I must get out of it
with his Grace in the best way I can."
It was a curious thing, but no one ever bought a horse of Mr.
Saunderson that had not been immensely admired by, and generally
promised to, some anonymous member of the peerage.
"Easy with him, Martin, easy! Bring him over here.--So, Launcelot, so,
boy."
Launcelot was a big chestnut horse, over sixteen hands high, high
crest, long lean head, enormous quarters, powerful legs, and large
broad feet. He looked every inch a weight-carrying hunter, and a scar
or two here and there about him by no means detracted from his beauty
in the eyes of the knowing ones. Martin was the rough-rider to the
establishment, bullet-headed, high-cheek-boned, sunken-eyed, with
limbs of steel, and pluck which would have made him ram a horse at the
Victoria Tower if he had had instructions. As Mr. Spurrier patted the
horse's neck, Martin leant over him and whispered, "I've told one o'
them to come out on Black Jack, sir. This is a 'oss that wants a lead,
this 'oss does. Give 'im a lead, and he'll face anythink."
"All right," said Spurrier, as another man and horse came out; "here
they are. Go down to the gate in the tan-gallop, will you? put up the
hurdles first.--Now, Colonel, this way, please; the grass is rather
wet even now."
They walked across a large meadow, along one side of which from end to
end a tan-gallop had been made. Midway across this some hurdles with
furze on the top had been stuck up between two gate-posts, and at
these the boy on Black Jack rode his horse. A steady-goer, Black Jack;
up to his work, and knowing exactly what was expected of him; comes
easily up to the hurdles, rises, and is over like a bird. Not so
Launcelot, who frets at starting; but moves under Martin's knees and
Martin's spurs, gives two or three bounds, throws up his head, and is
off like a flash of lightning. Martin steadies him a bit as they
approach the leap, and Jack's rider brings his horse round, meets
Martin half-way, and at it they go together. Jack jumps again, exactly
in his old easy way, but Launcelot tears away with a snort and a rush,
and jumps, as Mr. Spurrier says, "as though he would jump into the
next county."
"Now the gate!" says Mr. Spurrier; and the hurdles were removed, and a
massive five-barred gate put up between the posts.
"You go first, boy," said Spurrier; and Black Jack's rider, who was
but a boy, looked very white in the gills, and very tight in the
mouth, and galloped off. But Jack was not meant for a country which
grew such gates as that, and when he reached it, turned short round,
palpably refusing. Knowing he should get slanged by his master, the
boy was bringing him up again, when he heard a warning shout, and
looking round, cleared out of the way to let Launcelot pass.
Launcelot's mettle was up; he wanted no lead this time. Martin, with
his face impassably set, brought his whip down heavily on him as he
lifted him; but Launcelot did not need the blow; he sprang three or
four inches clear of the leap in splendid style.
"By George, that's a fine creature!" said Laurence, who had all a
sportsman's admiration for the feat. "I think I must have him,
Spurrier, if his figure's not very awful. But I should first like to
take him over that gate myself."
"All right, Colonel; I thought he'd, take your fancy.--Get down,
Martin, and let down those stirrups a couple of holes for the Colonel,
will you?--And you, boy, tumble off there. I'll see whether that old
vagabond will refuse with me.--Ah, you're a sly old scoundrel, Jack;
but I think we'll clear the gate, old boy!"
Alsager was already in the saddle, and Spurrier was tightening the
girths, when the former heard a low rumbling sound gradually growing
more distinct.
"What's that?" he asked his companion.
"What?" asked Spurrier, with his head still under the saddle-flap; but
when he stood upright and listened, he said, "That's a runaway! I know
the sound too well; and--and a pair! By the Lord, the grays!"
They were standing close by the hedge which separated the meadow from
the road. It was a high quickset hedge, with thick post-and-rail
fence running through it, and it grew on the top of a high bank with a
six-foot drop into the road. Standing in his stirrups and craning over
the hedge, Laurence saw a sight which made his blood run cold.
Just having breasted the railway-bridge, and tearing down the incline
at their maddest pace, came the grays, and in the phaeton, which swung
frightfully from side to side, sat Lady Mitford--alone! A dust-stained
form gathering itself up out of the road in the distance looked like a
groom; but Sir Charles was not to be seen. Lady Mitford still held the
reins, and appeared to be endeavouring to regain command over the
ponies; but her efforts were evidently utterly useless.
Mr. Spurrier, who had mounted, comprehended the whole scene in a
second, and roared out, "Run, Martin! run, you boy! get out into the
lane, and stop these devils! Hoi!" this to the grooms in the distance,
to whom he telegraphed with his whip. "They don't understand, the
brutes! and she'll be killed. Here, Colonel, to the right-about! Five
hundred yards off there's a gate, and we can get through and head
them. What are you at? you're never going at the hedge. By G--, you'll
break your neck, man!"
All too late to have any effect were his last words; before they were
uttered, Laurence had turned Sir Launcelot's head, taken a short sharp
circling gallop to get him into pace, and then crammed him straight at
the hedge. Spurrier says that to his dying day he shall never forget
that jump; and he often talks about it now when he is giving a
gentleman a glass of sherry, after a "show" just previous to the
hunting season. Pale as death, with his hat over his brows, and his
hands down on the horse's withers, sat Laurence; and just as Sir
Launcelot rose at the leap, he dealt him a cut with a heavy whip which
he had snatched out of Spurrier's hand The gallant animal rose
splendidly, cleared posts and rails, crashed through the quickset, and
came thundering into the lane below. Neither rider nor horse were
prepared for the deep drop; the latter on grounding bungled awkwardly
on to his knees; but Laurence had him up in an instant, and left him
blown and panting, when at the moment the grays came in sight. Lady
Mitford was still in the carriage, but had apparently fainted, for she
lay back motionless, while the reins were dragging in the road.
Laurence thought there was yet a chance of stopping the ponies, upon
whom the pace was evidently beginning to tell severely, but, as they
neared a gate leading to a portion of the outbuildings, where on their
first purchase by Mr. Saunderson they had been stabled, the grays,
recollecting the landmarks, wheeled suddenly to the left and made for
the gate. The carriage ran up an embankment and instantly overturned;
one of the ponies fell, and commenced lashing out in all directions;
the other, pulled across the pole, was plunging and struggling in wild
attempts to free itself. The men who had been signalled to by Spurrier
were by this time issuing from the lodge-gates, and making towards the
spot; but long before they reached it, a tall man with a flowing black
beard had sprung in among the _débris_, regardless of hoofs flying in
all directions, and had dragged therefrom the senseless form of Lady
Mitford.
"What is the matter? Where am I?"
"You're at my farm, Lady Mitford," said Mr. Saunderson, advancing with
that old-fashioned courtesy which he always assumed when dealing with
ladies; "and there's nothing the matter, thank God! though you've had a
bad accident with the ponies, which seem to have run away; and I may
say you owe your life to Colonel Alsager, who rescued you at the peril
of his own."
She looked round with a faint smile at Laurence, who was standing at
the foot of the sofa on which she lay, and was about to speak, when
Laurence lifted his hand deprecatingly:
"Not a word, please, Lady Mitford; not a single word. What I did was
simply nothing, and our friend Mr. Saunderson exaggerates horribly.
Yes, one word--what of Sir Charles?"
"He has not heard of it? He must not be told."
"No, of course not. What we want to know is whether he started for the
drive with you."
"Oh no; he could not come,--he was prevented, thank God! And the
groom?"
"Oh, he's all right; a little shaken, that's all."
Laurence did not say that the groom had been _not_ a little shaken by
Mr. Spurrier, who caught the wretched lad by the collar, and holding
his whip over him told him mildly that he had a great mind to "cut his
life out" for his cowardice in throwing himself out of the trap, and
leaving his mistress to her fate.
Then it was arranged that Mr. Saunderson should take Lady Mitford
home, and explain all that had happened to Sir Charles. She took
Laurence's arm to the carriage, and when she was seated, gave him her
hand, saying frankly and earnestly, "I shall never forget that, under
Providence, I owe my life to you, Colonel Alsager."
As they drove back to town together, Mr. Spurrier said to his
companion "I shall have to book Sir Launcelot to you, Colonel. I've
looked at his knees, and though they're all right, only the slightest
skin-wound, still--"
"Don't say another word, Spurrier," interrupted Laurence; "I wouldn't
let any one else have him, after to-day's work, for all the money in
the world."
Laurence spoke innocently enough; but he noticed that during the rest
of the drive back to town Mr. Spurrier was eyeing him with great
curiosity.