TILBERRY STEEPLECHASE.
The guests assembled at the How soon divide themselves into sections
or groups, like the various members of the lower animal creation.
Mr. and Mrs. Chasubel draw around them the more seriously minded of
the younger visitors,--Lavinia Cardonnel; Cecilia Hawtree, who has a
poetical mind, and is Anglican to the verge of Romanism; Laura and
Mary Radnor, who are great upon church decoration and choir singing;
and some others. General Mactower attracts the young men, as it were,
into a focus of sporting talk, varied with anecdotes of the London
world, which, according to the General, is about as vile a world as
could well exist without calling down a burning fiery rain for its
destruction. Sir Wilford contrives to be attentive to all his guests,
but shows himself so particular in his devotion to Sibyl that other
people cannot afford to be uncivil to her, even were they disposed
to snub so lovely a girl.
The matrons and their daughters admit the fact of Miss Faunthorpe’s
beauty, but with certain reservations. They admire her complexion,
but opine that its transparent purity of tint argues a consumptive
tendency.
‘And what a dreadful thing for poor Sir Wilford to marry a
consumptive wife, my dear!’ says Mrs. Radnor, in an awful voice.
‘And to have consumptive children,’ adds her daughter Laura.
‘Poor little dears,’ exclaims Miss Hawtree, compassionating the
sorrows of these unborn infants in advance. ‘I think it quite wicked
of consumptive people to marry, don’t you, Mrs. Radnor?’
‘Yes, my love, there ought to be a law against it.’
‘What pretty manners Miss Faunthorpe has!’ remarks Mrs. Vernon, whose
daughter possesses every attraction except good looks and agreeable
manners,--‘so sweet, so caressing. But don’t you think--I hardly
like to say it, for it sounds so uncharitable, and I should be the
last to say anything uncharitable after dear Mr. Chasubel’s moving
discourse this morning,--don’t you think she seems rather artful?’
‘As deep as Garrick,’ says the outspoken Mrs. Radnor.
‘She actually seems to discourage Sir Wilford’s attentions, quite
pretends to avoid him, makes believe to prefer ladies’ society, when
we all know that she must be delighted at the idea of making such a
brilliant match.’
‘When we know that the girl is brought here on purpose to marry
him,’ rejoins Mrs. Radnor. ‘The old uncle has set his heart upon
it, of course, and will leave her the whole of his property, to the
detriment of her two sisters; there’s another girl at Redcastle, Mrs.
Stormont tells me. Very unjust, I call it.’
This conversation takes place on Sunday afternoon, in a cosy circle
round the morning-room fire, while Sibyl and some of the younger
guests are walking in the park. Sunday evening affords an opportunity
for the display of musical genius, or talent, as the case may be;
and after the daughters of the land have done the most they can with
Miss Lindsay’s sacred ballads, Beethoven, Mozart, Mendelssohn, and
Chopin, Sibyl takes her turn at the instrument, and surpasses all her
forerunners, not so much by the brilliancy of her singing or playing
as by the thought and feeling which pervade both. In the long empty
days at Lancaster Lodge her piano has been her friend and companion,
the confidante of all her vague regrets and fears,--her sorrowful
love for her absent husband. Memory and hope have spoken to her in
many a tender strain of Mozart’s, in the deeper pathos of Beethoven,
or Mendelssohn’s dreamy melody.
Sir Wilford Cardonnel knows very little about music, save that of his
hounds giving tongue in the chill morning air that blows over heath
and moor, but he is not the less pleased that Sibyl should excel in
the musical line. His future wife ought to be an accomplished person.
He is glad, too, that she should ‘take the shine’ out of Phœbe and
Vinnie, neither of them highly gifted by Apollo, though both have
laboured hard, and flourish at a quickish pace through unmelodious
fantasias, arpeggio-ing up and down the piano with a movement which
their brother calls a rough gallop.
Altogether Sibyl is a success at the How. No one can dispute that.
Marion looks on and wonders at her sister’s calm acceptance of the
general homage. She wears her honours as to the manner born, while
Marion feels overpowered with shyness all through that aristocratic
Sabbath; and says ‘Thank you,’ for everything, from an introduction
or a compliment, to the too hasty removal of her plate by an
all-accomplished serving-man.
By Monday morning, however, even Marion is quite at her ease, save
for an inward awe of Phœbe and Lavinia who, behind their brother’s
back, give her a little of the _de haut en bas_ manner by which
intrusive commoners are crushed. But Fred Stormont takes her under
his protection, and finding Sibyl unapproachable amidst her various
admirers, consoles himself with a mild flirtation with Marion, to
which even his watchful parent reconciles herself, reflecting that,
after all, a dower of five thousand pounds--or possibly ten--is
better than nothing, and that, no heiress being forthcoming, dear
Frederick might make Marion happy by proposing to her.
After breakfast on Monday there is a general inspection of the
stables, at which even Mr. Chasubel, the High Church parson,
assists, and in the course of which he entertains the company with
anecdotes of his hard riding days at Oxford, and his prowess in the
hunting-field. The horses are led out for admiration, and the guests
commit themselves to various opinions, at which the nether lips of
the Yorkshire grooms work convulsively in the respectful endeavour to
avoid a grin.
Tuesday is the race day, and there is a consultation as to how
people are to go: the faster of the party--including all the young
ladies--inclining to the saddle, the middle-aged and portly being
satisfied with a seat on the drag, or in Miss Cardonnel’s barouche.
‘You will ride, of course?’ says Sir Wilford to Frederick.
‘Oh, by all means; I shall go on the Dutchman. Here he is, poor old
fellow, looking as fresh as paint.’
An officious boy has just led the bony gray into the quadrangle,
where every eye is now directed to him.
‘Why, where the deuce did you get that beast from, Cardonnel?’ cries
General Mactower, as the lad whisks off the Dutchman’s checked
raiment, and exhibits his angular haunches and dejected neck. ‘Never
saw such a screw in your stable.’
‘It’s Mr. Stormont’s horse,’ says the boy, grinning.
‘Beg your pardon, Stormont,’ says the General. ‘I dare say he looks
better in action. Very good for leather, no doubt.’
‘He may not be much to look at,’ says Fred, wounded yet apologetic,
‘but he’s a devil to go.’
‘Ah, I dare say, those bony ones are sometimes.’
‘Well, Stormont, you’ll ride the Dutchman,’ resumes Sir Wilford,
‘that’s capital. You can take care of Miss Marion Faunthorpe.’
‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ gasps Fred, with an inward sinking. He knows
too well that on the Dutchman he has enough to do to take care of
himself, and that a whole hunting-field might be spilt around him
without his being able to afford help to the fallen.
‘You haven’t ridden much lately, I think you told me, Miss Marion,’
says Sir Wilford to that young lady, who has been going into raptures
about all the horses with long manes and sleek skins.
‘Not since I was quite a little thing, but I idolize riding.’
‘And you’ll not be afraid to ride to Tilberry to-morrow. It’s a nice
quiet road.’
‘I shall like it of all things.’
‘Very well, Chanter, you must find me a safe mount for this young
lady. She hasn’t been riding much lately.’
‘One of the old ones, eh, Sir Wilford?’
‘Yes, old and steady. But something good to look at, you know.’
‘There’s Brown Fixture, Sir Wilford, an uncommon good ’oss, and as
safe as a church.’
‘Yes, Fixture’ll do, nothing like an old steeplechaser.’
‘Fixture’s as steady as a Christian,’ says the groom, ‘and such a
memory too, nobody’d think how that ’oss do remember. He ain’t
forgot the day he bolted with Jem Kirk, tho’ it’s nigh seven year
ago. He never do pass that corner o’ th’ ’eath but what ’e’ll prick
up his old ears, and stick ’em back’ards and give a bit of a quiver,
as if he’d like to have another lark.’
‘He mustn’t have any larks with Miss Faunthorpe,’ says Sir Wilford.
‘Lor, bless you, no, Sir Wilford, that’s seven year ago. Fixture’s as
steady as a house. The smallest of our boys rides him beautiful.’
‘Well, Miss Marion, I think you’ll be safe on Fixture, especially
with Stormont to take care of you.’
Marion looks gratefully at Frederick, with a vague idea that he is
going to escort her with a leading rein, and that under his care she
would be safe upon the winner of the Leger.
‘And now let’s have a look at Juno,’ says Wilford. ‘That’s the mare I
mean for you, Miss Faunthorpe, and I think every one will allow she’s
a perfect beauty. My sister Phœbe wants her badly, but I’m afraid of
Phœbe’s eleven stone.’
That substantially built damsel gives her brother an indignant look
at this brutal remark, which could only come from one’s own flesh and
blood.
‘When I want a horse I shan’t ask you to choose him for me, Wilford,’
she says.
Juno is led forth and unveiled--a chestnut, glossy as the nut itself
when it bursts from its green casing, and beautiful in form, with a
small head and a Greek profile--ox-eyed like her mighty namesake.
‘How lovely!’ exclaim all the young ladies, envying Sibyl.
This selection of the best horse in the stud for Miss Faunthorpe
is tantamount to a proposal, thinks every one, and from this time
forward Sibyl is regarded as the future Lady Cardonnel, and honoured
accordingly.
Has he or has he not proposed? the council of matrons ask one another
by-and-bye in the comfortable morning-room where they have assembled
to write their letters and read the newspapers.
The majority opine that the offer has been made and accepted, and
that Mr. Trenchard is here to arrange about settlements.
‘Phœbe Cardonnel must know,’ hazards Mrs. Chasubel, this conversation
taking place in the absence of the Miss Cardonnels, who are playing
billiards with their younger guests.
‘She may, but she’s such a reserved girl, there’s no getting anything
out of her; and as it’s evident that she and Lavinia hate the idea of
their brother’s marrying, it’s a subject we can’t approach very well.’
‘I feel sure he has proposed,’ says Mrs. Radnor. ‘He looks as if it
was a settled thing.’
‘He may have settled it all in his own mind, but not yet declared
himself,’ responds Mrs. Chasubel. ‘He must know that there is no
chance of rejection.’
Mrs. Chasubel is right. Sir Wilford is fixed as fate, but has not yet
found an opportunity to ask the fatal question. Sibyl is always in a
crowd. She contrives to avoid anything approaching a _tête-à-tête_.
And a man can hardly propose during a game of pyramids, or on a
crowded drag with a spirited team in his hand, or as he hands his
beloved a cup of tea at kettledrum time, or on the stairs, or in
church.
Sir Wilford bides his time, therefore, and is patient.
The important Tuesday is a fine clear day, with a high wind, but no
frost. Tilberry Races begin at half-past one, so there is no time for
luncheon at the How, and a necessity for picnic baskets on the drag,
very much to the delight of all the younger guests, who prefer to
take their refreshment uncomfortably out of doors to the commonplace
convenience of the dining-room.
At a quarter before one the horses and carriages are brought round
to the porch, and Marion, in a borrowed habit and a chimney-pot
hat, which is balanced rather hazardously on a small mountain of
padded hair, awaits, with some faint apprehension, her first ride on
anything larger than Tommy, the old pony.
She has not yet seen Brown Fixture, and as she stands on the top step
with Fred Stormont at her side she surveys the animals timorously.
There is Juno, satin-skinned and proud of bearing, arching her
graceful neck, and gazing pensively at the company with her ox-eyes,
pawing the ground a little with one delicate hoof, as if eager to
take flight. And here is Sibyl, looking her prettiest, a small,
slender prettiness, in neatly fitting riding habit, and hat poised at
exactly the right angle.
Sir Wilford is at hand to mount her, and there is the usual careful
adjustment of stirrup and skirt, curb and snaffle.
‘I wonder which is my horse?’ says Marion, with an appealing look at
Mr. Stormont.
‘Which is Fixture, boy?’ asks Fred of an attendant lad.
‘This here, sir,’ answers the youth.
‘This here’ is the animal in his charge, a tall brute, with a neck
a yard long, and, in the language of the stable, too much daylight
underneath.
‘Good gracious!’ cries Marion, appalled at the aspect of this animal,
‘am I to go up there?’
‘He’s a big one, isn’t he?’ responds Fred. ‘Capital stride I should
think, get over plenty of ground in his gallop. Looks like an old
steeplechaser, doesn’t he?’
‘He looks very dreadful,’ says Marion dubiously.
‘Oh, you needn’t be afraid of him. He’s steady enough, depend upon
it. Sir Wilfred’s head man wouldn’t put you on an unsafe horse.’
‘I hope not,’ says Marion. ‘But you’ll take care of me, won’t you,
Mr. Stormont?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ answers Fred. ‘Ah, here’s the Dutchman, rather
fresh, I’m afraid.’
This last remark has reference to an uncouth attempt of the Dutchman
to back into an adjacent shrubbery, on being dragged out of which he
entangles himself clumsily with the other horses.
The drag and barouche have driven off by this time, and everybody is
mounted except Marion and her swain.
Mounting Marion upon Fixture is not the easiest operation in
mechanics. She gives a tremendous spring, but always at the wrong
moment, and after two or three false starts she is hoisted to a level
with Fixture’s saddle, only to remain there suspended in mid air
until allowed to slide gently to earth again.
‘I’m afraid I’m not a good hand at mounting a lady,’ murmurs the
patient Frederick, after he has made himself almost apoplectic in
the endeavour and now an experienced groom comes forward, tells
Marion exactly at what angle to put her left leg, and throws her up
into the saddle as if she were a ball.
‘Gracious!’ she exclaims, ‘I’m here at last, but oh, how high it is!’
She surveys the earth beneath her with a sense of awe; it is like
being on a mountain top, and not half so safe. She gives a little cry
of surprise when Fixture begins to move, as if motion were the last
thing one might expect from a horse.
The rest of the riders have gone down the avenue, Sir Wilford riding
Bull of Bashan, and keeping close beside Sibyl on Juno.
Frederick now clambers upon the Dutchman, who to the last moment
struggles to elude his half-proprietor, as if desirous to prove that
a horse cannot serve two masters. Fixture caracoles gently upon the
gravel sweep while Fred is mounting, but even these gentle movements
strike terror to the unaccustomed soul of Marion.
‘I’m afraid he’s very spirited,’ she remarks to one of the grooms.
‘Lord, mum, he’s nigh twelve year old, there’s none too much spent in
him. You’d best ride him on the curb if you’re any ways timid.’
‘Which is the curb?’ inquires Marion.
The man shows her, and adjusts her reins, which she has been
clutching in her right hand in an inextricable tangle.
‘But do you think I can manage him with the reins in my left hand?’
she asks. ‘It seems so left-handed, I’m afraid I shan’t have any
power over him.’
‘You can hold on with both hands if you’re timersome, miss, but the
lighter you handle Fixture the better. He’s got a very nice mouth,
and he don’t stand being sawed at. Ride him on the curb if you like,
but let your ’and foller ’is ’ed.’
This language is as dark as Hebrew to Marion. She has but one
thought, and that is that she would fain be at rest in the barouche
or the drag, nay, safe at home in the obscurity of domestic life,
with cross Hester and impertinent Jane. Anywhere, anywhere, off the
back of Brown Fixture, who has just caught sight of some obnoxious
object, and has made himself into an arch from which Marion feels as
if she were sliding.
Fred has now brought the Dutchman so far into subjection as to turn
his nose towards the avenue, and Fixture being clutched and jerked
in the same direction by Marion, the two set out, as uncomfortable
a couple as ever enjoyed the delights of equestrian exercise. When
they are well out of ear-shot the grooms and boys burst into a
simultaneous guffaw.
‘After this we must have some beer,’ says the head man. ‘I’m blest if
ever I see such a brace o’ cockneys. I ain’t had such a laugh since
Chrizzlemas.’
Fixture proves himself worthy of his reputation, and goes down the
avenue with amiable sobriety, nay, would be perfect in his conduct
were it not for that brute the Dutchman, who shies at sight of a
rabbit, wheels round altogether at sight of a rook, and otherwise
disgraces himself by convulsive movements and collapses which disturb
Fixture’s equanimity, though he evidently regards them with contempt.
The brown horse behaves so well, however, that when they have walked
down the avenue and emerged upon the road, Marion begins to feel
quite easy in her mind, and to think that after all she really does
doat upon riding.
But for the Dutchman’s evil example Fixture would behave admirably
all the way to Tilberry, a nice level road, with little to alarm a
reasonable equine mind. The Dutchman is, however, a creature without
reasonableness of mind, and contrives to see objects of horror in the
clearest road, whereby Marion is every now and then startled from her
equanimity by a sudden bouncing of Mr. Stormont’s horse against hers,
a movement by which she narrowly escaped being pushed into a ditch.
‘Isn’t your horse a little wrong in his mind, Mr. Stormont?’ she
asks, after one of these encounters. ‘He puts his ears back in such a
dreadful way, and starts and plunges so awfully.’
‘Only high spirit,’ replies Fred, ‘all thoroughbreds do it.’
‘Then I think I’d rather ride an unthoroughbred,’ says Marion.
When they have walked for about half a mile Frederick suggests a
gentle trot, to which proposal Marion acquiesces smilingly. But the
very beginning of the gentle trot makes her breathless, and she finds
herself jerked about in her saddle in a most ferocious way. She holds
on to the reins, however, with both hands, and endures stoutly, till
Fred, in charity, reins in the Dutchman, whereupon Fixture stops as
if some spring had been touched in his internal economy, and nearly
pitches Marion out of the saddle by the suddenness of his stoppage.
‘I’m afraid you don’t quite enjoy trotting,’ says Fred.
Marion pants for a little while, struggling with the innumerable
hair-pins which sustain her pyramid of plaits, before she can recover
breath enough to answer.
‘I dare say it’s very nice,’ she replies at last, ‘but it jerks one,
don’t you think? Perhaps Fixture is not a good trotter?’
‘I think if you were to rise with him, and sit a little more in the
middle of your saddle, you might find it more comfortable,’ suggests
Frederick.
‘Do you think so? I’ll try next time.’
Fred endeavours to explain the theory of trotting, which, although he
has not quite conquered the practice, is firmly impressed upon his
mind.
‘Now,’ he says, flattering himself that he has made it all clear,
‘suppose we try again?’
A shake of the reins makes the Dutchman lunge violently forward as if
he wanted to dash his brains out upon the road, and starts Fixture
in a really delightful trot, if poor Marion only knew it. She bobs
up and down as if she were bathing, but when she rises the horse
doesn’t, and the effect is even more jerky than before. She is just
beginning to despair, when the red glow of a cottage fire, shining
through an open door, appals the Dutchman’s soul, and sends him into
a wild canter, in which Fixture immediately joins. The horses tear
along the road like the herd of swine driven down a steep place, and
Marion, frightened, but rather enjoying the swinging pace, finds
herself rising in her saddle as high as anyone could desire.
Inspired by the clatter of their hoofs the brutes rush on for some
distance, Fred as powerless to pull up the Dutchman as he would be
to stop a steam engine at express pace, or stay the passage of the
north wind. When the horses have had enough they stop.
‘I think I rose pretty well then,’ remarks Marion, self-complacently.
‘Just now, when you were cantering?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you oughtn’t rise in the canter, you know,’ says Fred. ‘You must
sit as if you were part of your horse; ‘sit down on him and ride
him,’ as the jockeys say.’
‘Good gracious! It’s very puzzling,’ exclaims Marion.
‘All practice. You must contrive to ride more.’
‘Yes, I should like it above all things. Uncle Trenchard has bought
Sibyl a horse. But I am not so favoured.’
‘Ah, it’s a good thing to be the favourite, isn’t it?’
That canter has brought them nearly to the racecourse. They overtake
the rest of their party, Sibyl looking as cool and comfortably upon
Juno as if she were sitting in her favourite easy chair at Lancaster
Lodge, while Marion is painfully conscious that the last half-hour’s
unaccustomed exercise has made an object of her.
‘How have you enjoyed your ride?’ asks Sibyl, coming to her side.
‘Oh, pretty well,’ replies Marion, rather crossly. ‘I’m not
accustomed to riding, like you, you know I haven’t a horse of my own.
Isn’t my hair dreadful?’
‘It’s rather rough. But that doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, not in the least--to you.’
‘How do you like Fixture?’ asks Sir Wilford, coming up to them.
‘Very well, thank you. But I think he uses the wrong legs when he
trots.’
Tilberry racecourse is a long strip of meadow land by the side of a
river, rather a dreary scene on a gray winter’s day, were it not for
the carriages, horses, tax carts, and various vehicles which enliven
it, and the eager crowd on foot.
Sir Wilford and his party are the most important group upon the
ground, the rest of the assembly consisting chiefly of tenant farmers
and their families, with a sprinkling of the Redcastle tradespeople,
and a few smart carriages belonging to the manufacturing classes,
chiefly noticeable for the newness of their harness, the splendour of
their liveries, and the indifferent quality of their horses.
Sir Wilford pats Fixture’s neck with a friendly air as he stands
beside Marion.
‘Poor old Fixture. Capital fellow he used to be six or seven years
ago. I’ve ridden him many a time over this very course. Won a cup
with him once, poor old chap. I wonder if he remembers?’
‘Where’s the steeple, Sir Wilford?’ asks Marion, looking round at the
landscape.
‘The what?’
‘The steeple. It’s a steeplechase, isn’t it?’
Sir Wilford smiles at the damsel’s innocence.
‘Steeplechase--across country, you know, and all that. There’s no
necessity for a steeple.’
‘Oh, I thought you chose a steeple, and then rode straight to it,
over hedges and ditches, and everything.’
‘We’ve sunk the steeple. But we go over the hedges and ditches.
There’s the saddling bell. Yes, Fixture does remember.’
‘I wish he didn’t,’ says Marion nervously, as the animal pricks up
his ears, and begins to curvet in a restless manner, which makes it
rather difficult to hold him.
The equestrians are drawn up in a line by the side of the racecourse.
There are no railings to divide the course from the rest of the
meadow. It is only marked out by a line of sods turned up by the
spade, and a post at intervals. The timber jumps are by no means
desperate, and are well guarded by furze bushes; the water jump is a
muddy ditch about twenty feet broad.
‘I wish you’d hold him for me,’ says Marion, appealing to Mr.
Stormont. ‘He’s been so dreadfully excited since that bell rang.’
Fred clutches at Fixture’s rein for a minute or so, and tries at
the same time to soothe the Dutchman, who has just expressed his
antipathy to a very small child in a pinafore, eating a large piece
of parliament.
Fixture shuffles about a little, and then seems to grow calm. Sir
Wilford and his party ride up and down, impatient for the beginning
of the sport. Marion and her protector keep together by the course.
The bell rings again, louder this time. There is a gust of excitement
in the very wind. The signal is given, the gaily coloured jackets
blaze out against the cold gray sky, the horses are off with a
rush--Fixture following them.
He has stood like a statue to see them go by, then, as they passed
him, he has gathered himself together, and pursued them like a
maniac. The old steeplechaser has not forgotten his trade.
There is a cry of horror from Sir Wilford and his party, a roar--half
terror, half laughter--from the crowd, as Marion is borne along, her
arms frantically encircling the animal’s neck, her plaits flying in
the wind, her shrill shrieks ringing out upon the air. She drops
something at every stage of her journey. First her whip, then her
handkerchief, then her hat, then one of the plaits, an artificial
enrichment which she has deemed a necessary appendage to a very good
head of hair. On flies Fixture, struggling for a place, feeling
that he must win or perish in the attempt. Marion, with her face
buried in his mane, sees nothing, knows nothing, except that she is
miraculously holding on somehow, and that sudden death is imminent.
The timber jump is before them, and the spectators hold their
breaths, anticipating a fearful fall, perhaps a deadly one, when Sir
Wilford gallops across on Bull of Bashan, and contrives to catch
Fixture’s bridle just as he his lifting himself to the leap.
The old steeplechaser swings on one side and lands Marion comfortably
on the turf, where she lies motionless till kindly hands raise her.
She is only stunned, and comes to her senses after a minute or so to
find herself the centre of a sympathetic crowd.
‘Poor dear!’ says a woman, ‘she did hold on well, didn’t she? It was
beautiful.’
Sibyl is on the scene by this time, and dismounts to assist the
fallen one.
‘You’re not hurt, are you, dear?’ she inquires, anxiously.
‘I don’t know whereabouts it is,’ replies Marion, clutching
her dishevelled plaits, ‘but I feel as if I was all but
killed--somewhere.’
Brandy flasks are produced, and the sufferer is persuaded to take
two or three sips of the spirit.
‘Back all right, I hope,’ says Sir Wilford, who has delivered over
the excited Fixture to a groom.
‘I feel as limp as if it was broken,’ replies Marion. ‘When did I
fall? was it the day before yesterday, or longer ago than that?’
‘My love, it was just this minute.’
‘Then I’ve had a long dream,’ replies Marion, putting her hand
to her head; ‘such a long dream. I feel as if I had been riding
steeplechases on horrid runaway horses for the last three weeks.’
‘I shall never forgive myself for putting you on Fixture,’ says Sir
Wilford, with a conscience-stricken air, ‘but I really thought he was
the quietest old horse in the stable.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind it a bit,’ answers Marion, who enjoys being the
object of general attention. ‘In fact, I rather like it. It’s very
exciting, you know.’
‘Uncommonly,’ mutters Sir Wilford, who has had as bad a fright as he
ever experienced in his life. ‘I thought you were done for when he
came to that fence. If it hadn’t been for the Bull--well, we won’t
talk about it.’
Here a small boy brings Marion the fallen plait of false hair, which
looks something like a defunct snake as he hands it to her, whereat
there is a faint titter.
After twisting herself about a little in the arms of her supporters,
Marion announces that she has no bones broken, to her knowledge.
‘My spine may go all wrong to-morrow, and make me a cripple for
life,’ she says, ‘but I think I can walk now.’
‘Shall I mount you again, ma’am?’ asks the groom, who is holding
Fixture. That quadruped is bathed in perspiration, stands like a
block of wood, and droops his head despondently as if fully aware
that he has made a fool of himself. ‘You might ride him home safe
enough, ma’am. He’s quiet now.’
‘What, get upon _him_ again?’ cries Marion. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Bring her to the barouche,’ says Sir Wilford, and Marion is led to
that vehicle, where the Miss Cardonnels inform her that they have
been suffering agonies of anxiety on her behoof, though neither they
nor Mrs. and Miss Radnor have left their seats.
‘We knew we could be no use,’ Phœbe remarks, apologetically, ‘and we
should have only increased the confusion if we had come to you.’
‘It’s such a dangerous thing to ride when one is not used to it,’
remarks Vinnie, soothingly. ‘Wilford ought to have known better than
to put you on that dreadful old horse.’
Marion, who felt herself a person of importance amidst the crowd on
the race course, shrinks into dire insignificance amongst these fine
ladies in the carriage. She is screwed in, bodkin, between Phœbe and
Mrs. Radnor. She knows she is looking an object in her battered hat
and disordered tresses, and she can see nothing whatever of the race.
The four ladies talk their usual family talk of uncles and cousins,
nephews and nieces, and people they know; discuss the domestic
affairs of the niece who is just married; review the prospects of the
nephew who is going to marry; talk about the cousin who has just
had a baby, and the unjust will of the uncle lately deceased; until
Marion absolutely wishes herself away from these privileged ones, and
thinks how nice it would be to be reading a novel on the parlour sofa
at uncle Robert’s, the sofa wheeled cosily up to the fire, and Jenny
kneeling on the hearth toasting muffins.
‘If my back _is_ broken, it’ll be a comfort to be a doctor’s niece,’
she tells herself consolingly.
It is dusk when the last race is run, and the How party turn their
faces homeward. A three-mile ride in the winter twilight lies between
them and kettledrum; an excellent opportunity for a _tête-à-tête_
with Sibyl, thinks Sir Wilford, who has found it impossible to secure
half an hour of that young lady’s society at the How. There she is
always surrounded.
He contrives to leave the course close at her side, and to keep
well in front of the other equestrians. Bull is quiet enough now,
and quite content to lapse into a lazy walk, having been indulged
with half a dozen tearing gallops across the level ground near the
racecourse. Juno and Bull step side by side, solemnly as a pair of
Flemish funeral horses, which have never done anything but ‘black
work’ since they were foaled.
It is a fine level road, a copse on one side, the moor upon the
other. Wintry stars begin to twinkle in the gray, cottage fires gleam
now and then across the road.
‘Now is my time,’ thinks Sir Wilford.
‘I hope you are not frightened at riding in the dark,’ he begins,
with a gush of originality.
‘Not at all. In the first place I don’t call this gray twilight
darkness, and in the second place I feel myself quite safe in your
care.’
‘I am glad of that,’ says Sir Wilford. ‘I am very glad you feel
yourself safe with me, Sibyl.’
This is the casting of the die. After this utterance of her Christian
name Sir Wilford feels he has committed himself to the deed. Receding
now were as difficult as to go on.
‘Yes, Sibyl, I am glad, for I want to be your protector all the days
of my life. I want this dear little hand,’ taking the hand that
droops carelessly at her side, with gold-handled whip lightly held,
‘I want this hand for mine. Oh, I think you must have seen ever so
long ago that I love you. I have made no secret of my attachment,
Sibyl. You are the first woman I ever met that I would care to make
mistress of the How--you are the only woman I ever have asked--the
only woman I ever shall ask to be my wife.’
‘Oh, stop, stop, Sir Wilford! Not one word more!’ cries Sibyl.
‘Forgive me for having let you say so much.’
While he has been talking she has decided on her course. A bold
step, but the only one open to her. This young man is honourable,
generous-minded. She will, she must trust him with her secret.
‘Forgive you, Sibyl, for what?’
‘Forgive me, if you ever can. I have been so wrong. I have acted so
meanly. Forgive me for not having understood you better, for not
having told you the truth about myself. I have led you on perhaps,
most unwillingly, but still I may have led you on to make this
generous offer.’
‘Generous be hanged!’ cries the impetuous Sir Wilford. ‘There’s no
generosity in a man trying to get the thing he most desires. Don’t
talk about leading me on, Sibyl. Of course, you led me on--that is
to say, you couldn’t help seeing that I love you to distraction, and
you’ve let me go on loving you. There’s no leading a fellow on in
that. You’re like one of the stars up yonder, and just let yourself
be admired. But you’re not going to reject me, Sibyl. I can’t believe
that.’
He does not believe it. Upon his own personal merits he has formed
no decided opinion. He knows that he is tolerably good-looking, does
justice to his tailor’s handiwork, rides straight to hounds, and is
free from vice. But he puts himself out of the scale altogether, and
reckons upon his position and surroundings. That there is any woman
in Yorkshire who would refuse to be mistress of the How and the How
stables is more than he can believe.
‘You won’t reject me, Sibyl?’ he repeats.
‘Indeed, Sir Wilford, I have no alternative. I can make you but one
answer.’
‘And that is----’
‘No.’
‘Oh, come, you can’t mean it, Sibyl.’
‘I do mean it.’
‘You’re in love with some other fellow. Not that cur, Fred Stormont,
I hope?’
‘If I thought about Mr. Stormont at all I should detest him.’
‘Who is it, then?’
‘Sir Wilford, will you keep a secret if I confide one to you?’
‘Have I any claim to be considered a gentleman?’
‘Yes, yes, I know I may trust you.’
‘Go on,’ says Sir Wilford, sunk in gloom.
‘You know very little of my history, I think, Sir Wilford,’ begins
Sibyl, in a low but steady voice, ‘although you have done me the
greatest honour in your power to confer upon me. Perhaps all you
know is that I have been adopted by my uncle Stephen, and that he is
likely to leave me a fortune. I have no certainty that he will do so,
but I have every reason to believe it.’
‘Yes, yes. I know all about that.’
‘But you do not know, perhaps, that when my uncle came from India I
was absent from Redcastle. I had gone to London to get my living as
a governess. It was a dreary life, and would have seemed drearier,
I dare say, but for one event which happened to diversify it. I was
weak enough to fall in love with a gentleman who had as little to
marry upon as I had.’
‘Poor child! Passing fancy--romantic attachment. You’ll outlive that,
Sibyl.’
‘It will outlive me, for we contrived to make the bond lasting.
Without the knowledge of any of my family I was foolish enough to get
married! The man I married is the son of Mr. Trenchard’s worst enemy.
My only chance of inheriting my uncle’s fortune was the concealment
of my marriage. I have therefore contrived to keep the secret, and
you are the first to whom I have ever revealed it. If you betray me I
am ruined.’
‘Betray you! What do you take me for?’ cries Sir Wilford. ‘You are a
married woman, and your husband is living?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he suffers you to keep up this deception--to stoop to this
meanness. Forgive me----’
‘For calling things by their right names--yes, I forgive you. There
are no words too hard for my conduct; and yet, perhaps, if you could
measure the depth of misery I had sunk into before I made up my mind
to try for uncle Trenchard’s fortune, even you might pity me.’
‘Pity! Yes, Sibyl, I pity you with all my heart; but I can’t help
despising your husband.’
‘Do not despise him. What I have done has been done without his
knowledge or consent. He only traced me to my present home a very
little while ago, and he then told me that he would repudiate me and
my fortune when the day came for me to possess it.’
‘And yet you continue the deception?’
‘Would it not be positive idiocy to abandon it just now, when the end
is in all probability very near? My uncle has not many years to live.’
‘He looks rather shaky, poor old fellow--liver, I dare say.’
‘Why should I make a revelation that would be a shock to him, and
do no good to any one else? If my husband really loves me he will be
true to me as I am to him, and all will be well for us by-and-bye.’
‘And you’ll secure the old man’s money,’ says Sir Wilford. ‘Trust a
woman for looking after the main chance.’
‘You despise me, Sir Wilford,’ falters Sibyl humiliated.
‘No, no; nothing of the kind. Only when one comes to talk of money
it takes a little of the bloom off, you know. I had looked up to you
as an angel--something quite ethereal, you know. And when one comes
down to pounds, shillings, and pence--well, it’s rather a long way to
come, you know.’
‘You’ll keep my secret?’
‘Consider it buried in the deepest grave that ever was dug.’
‘And if you are tempted to despise, if you do despise me, as I fear
you must, try to remember that you have never known what it is to be
poor, that there is a depth of misery; abject fear for to-morrow’s
bread; the dread of being turned out of one’s wretched shelter into
the street, the horror of being clothed in rags, driven to the
workhouse. Consider that you have never known these things. I have,
and my deception grew out of them. If I told the truth to-morrow I
might have to go back to all those unforgotten horrors. If I play my
part steadily to the end, I may secure a happy future for my husband
and myself.’
‘Upon my word it’s a very trying position, Miss Faunthorpe, and I
feel for you with all my heart. It would have been kinder to me if
you had given me a hint of the truth a little sooner, and spared
me--well, spared me a very bitter disappointment. Yet I can but thank
you for having trusted me at the last.’
‘One word more, Sir Wilford. Pray do not let my uncle suppose that
you have asked me to be your wife. He would never forgive me for my
rejection of you.’
‘I’ll take care of that. He shall think me the most miserable object
in creation--a male flirt--a man who dangles about a pretty woman
meaning nothing but his own amusement. I’ll bear the brunt of the
old gentleman’s anger, Miss Faunthorpe, rely upon it; and if ever you
want a friend, remember that, in spite of his disappointment, Wilford
Cardonnel is yours to the death!’