May Burnett, with her little palpitating heart full of trouble, pretty
butterfly of fashion that she was, was flitting through the sunshine one
afternoon for the second time to confide her troublesome secret to her
sister and obtain her help, but her heart failed her again. The right
road was so steep and hard, so she turned down the wrong one once more,
laughed at Claire, and left her with saddened face, as in response to
the again-repeated question, "Why did you come?" she replied:
"Oh, I don't know. Just to try and make people forget what a horrible
house this has been. I almost wonder, though, that I dare to call."
She gave her sister a childlike kiss, and away she went full sail, and
with no more ballast than she possessed two years before, at the time
she was so severely taken to task for flirting with Louis Gravani, when
the handsome young artist painted her portrait and that of her father,
hers to hang in the drawing-room, that of the Master of the Ceremonies
in the ante-room at the Assembly Rooms.
Claire went to the window to gaze down over the flowers in the balcony
at her sister, as she stepped lightly into her carriage, just as manly,
handsome Richard Linnell came by on the other side, to raise his hat
gravely to each of the sisters in turn, with the effect of making Claire
shrink back more into the room, so that she only heard the door of the
britzka banged to, and the horses start off, while Richard Linnell went
on with bended head and knitted brows, thinking of the part he had taken
in the serenade on that terrible night.
"Goose!" said May Burnett to herself angrily, as she ordered the footman
to go to Miss Clode's. "I believe she'd be ready to throw herself away
on that penniless fellow. I haven't patience with her, and--"
Here she had to bend to a couple of ladies with a most gracious smile.
A few yards further and she encountered Lord Carboro', whose hat was
carefully raised to her, and on turning the bend where the cliff curved
off to the north, she came suddenly upon a handsome pony carriage,
driven by Cora Dean in a dazzling new costume of creamy silk and lace,
while her mother leaned back in ruby satin, with her eyes half-closed, a
small groom behind, seated upon a very tiny perch, having his arms
closely folded, and his hat cocked at a wonderful angle.
The driver of the high-stepping pair of ponies stared hard at May
Burnett, while that lady leaned back languidly, and quite ignored the
presence of the handsome actress.
"Little upstart!" muttered Cora, as she gave her ponies a sharp cut,
making them tear along. "I'm not good enough for her to even see; but
maybe smuts will fall on the whitest snow. Who knows, my pretty baby
madam? Get on with you then!"
_Whish-swish_, and the ponies sent the chalky dust flying as they tore
along.
"Now, lookye here, Betsy, once for all," said Mrs Dean angrily; "if you
are going to drive like that, I stay at home. I like my bones, though
they do ache sometimes, and I'm not going to have them broke to please
you."
Cora frowned, and softly took up the second rein with the effect of
checking the ponies' rattling gallop just as heads were being turned and
gentlemen on horseback were starting off in pursuit.
"I ain't easily frightened, Betsy, you know," said Mrs Dean, panting.
"Speaking as a woman as has faced a whole company in the bad days on
treasury night, when there's been nothing in the cash-box, and your poor
father off his head, I say I ain't easily frightened."
"Now, mother--I mean mamma--how are we to get into society if you will
refer so constantly to those wretched old days?"
"They weren't wretched old days, my dear, and I was a deal happier then
than I am now. But never mind; we've got our tickets. I knew old
Denville would get 'em, and my Betsy'll startle some of 'em at the ball,
I know. Hold 'em in tighter, my dear, do."
"Don't be so foolishly nervous, mother. I have them well in hand."
"But why does that one keep laying down its ears and squeaking, and
trying to bite t'other one?"
"Play," said Cora shortly.
"Then I wish he'd play in the stable, and behave himself when he comes
out on the cliff. My word, look at that old Drelincourt, Bet--Cora,"
said the old woman, giving her daughter a nudge. "Look at the nasty old
thing in black. If she'd had any decency, she'd have left the place
when her old sister was killed, instead of being pushed about in her
chair like that."
"But she has a house here of her own," said Cora shortly, as she guided
her ponies in and out among the fashionable equipages, not one of whose
lady occupants noticed her.
"Look at 'em," whispered Mrs Dean, nudging her daughter again.
"They're a-busting with envy, but they shall be civil to you yet. I did
grudge the money for the turn out, and I told Ashley it was a swindle,
but they do show off, and I'm glad I bought 'em. Look at the fine
madams in that broosh; they're as envious as can be. Hit'm up, Cora,
and make 'em go. I should like to see anybody else's gal with such a
turn-out."
Too showy, and with a suspicion of the circus in the style of the
harness and the colours of the rosettes; but Cora Dean's pony carriage,
driven as it was in masterly style, created no little sensation in
Saltinville; and if, in addition to the salutes of the gentlemen, which
she acknowledged very superciliously, only one lady would have bowed in
recognition, Cora Dean would have enjoyed her drive, and probably have
gone more slowly.
As it was, in obedience to her mother's nudges and admonitions to "Hit
'm up again," she gave the ponies flick after flick with the whip, and
increased the restiveness consequent upon plenty of spirit and too much
corn.
It was a risky drive with restive beasts along that cliff with so slight
a railing, and the archives of the town told how one Sir Rumble Thornton
had gone over with his curricle and pair on to the shingle below, to be
killed with his horses. But Cora Dean and her mother thought only of
making a show, and the well-bred little ponies seemed to be kept
thoroughly in hand by their mistress, though they were fretting and
champing their bits and sending flakes of foam all over their satin
coats.
"I'm getting used to it now, Cora, my dear," panted the old woman. "I
don't feel so squirmy inside, and as if I should be obliged to go home
for a drop of brandy. Humph! I wish you wouldn't bow to him."
"Why not? He's our neighbour," said Cora tartly, as Richard Linnell
took off his hat. "He's the most thorough gentleman in this town."
"P'raps he is, but I don't think anything of such gentlemen as he is--
now Betsy, do a' done. Don't drive like that. I was getting used to
it, but now you've made my pore 'art fly up into my mouth."
A sharp snatch at the reins had made the ponies rear up, and Richard
Linnell, who was looking after them, started to go to Cora's help, but a
cut of the whip sent the two ponies on again, and the carriage spun
along, past the wide opening to the pier, down which Richard Linnell
turned to think out how he might get over the prejudice he knew that Mr
Denville had against him, and to wonder why Claire had grown so cold and
strange.
"I am getting well used to it now, Betsy," said Mrs Dean, as they drove
right along the London road for a mile or two; "but, I say, hadn't you
better turn their heads now? Let's get back on the cliff, where they
can see us. I hate these fields and hedges. Let's go back by the other
road, down by Lord Carboro's house, and through the street down to the
pier."
"Very well," said Cora shortly; and she turned the ponies, and took the
upper road.
Now, it so happened that after a short promenade Lord Carboro' had found
out that it was going to rain, by a double barometer which he carried in
his boots.
"Confound these corns!" he grumbled. "Ah, Barclay," he cried to a
thick-set man whom he met at that moment, "collecting your dues? It's
going to rain."
"Yes, my lord. My corns shoot horribly."
"So do mine; doosid bad. I'm going to get the carriage and have a
drive. Can't walk."
He nodded and went back to his handsome house and grounds, contenting
himself with sitting down in the lodge portico while the gardener's wife
ordered the carriage to be got ready.
"It isn't handsome, but it suits me," his lordship used to say, "and
it's comfortable. If I can't have things as I like with my money, and
at my time of life, why it's doosid strange."
So he waited till a groom brought the carriage down the drive, and then
looked at it as it came.
"Don't do to go wooing in," he said, with a chuckle, as he got in and
took the reins; and certainly it did not look like the chariot of love,
for it was a little, low basket carriage, big enough to hold one, and
shaped very much like a bath-chair. It was drawn by a very large, grey,
well-clipped donkey with enormous ears, quite an aristocrat of his race,
with his well-filled skin and carefully blackened harness.
"Thankye, John. Thankye, Mrs Roberts," said his lordship, as he shook
the reins. "Go on, Balaam."
Balaam went deliberately on, and just as they were going out of the
great iron gates, and his lordship was indulging in a pinch of snuff,
there was the rattle of wheels to his right, and Cora Dean came along
with her ponies at a smart trot, her mother looking like an over-blown
peony by her side.
"Juno, by Jove!" said his lordship, preparing to raise his hat.
But just then--it was a matter of moments--Balaam stood stock still,
drew his great flap ears forward and pointed them at the ponies, and
staring hard, lifted his tail, and, showing his teeth, uttered with
outstretched neck a most discordant roaring--_Hee-haw--Hee-haw_!
Cora's ponies stopped short, trembling and snorting. Then, with a jerk
that threatened to snap the harness, and as if moved by the same
impulse, they plunged forward and tore down the road that, a hundred
yards further on, became busy street, and went down at a sharp angle
right for the pier.
"Betsy!" shouted Mrs Dean.
Cora sat firm as a rock, and caught up the second rein to pull heavily
on the curb, when--_snap_!--the rein parted at the buckle, and with only
the regular snaffle rein to check the headlong gallop, the driver
dragged in vain.
The road became street almost like a flash; the street with its busy
shops seemed to rush by the carriage; a bath-chair at a shop door,
fortunately empty, was caught, in spite of Cora's efforts to guide the
ponies, and smashed to atoms, the flying pieces and the noise maddening
the ponies in their headlong race.
It was a steep descent, too, and with such bits even a man's arm could
not have restrained the fiery little animals as they tore on straight
for the sea.
"By Jove!" panted Lord Carboro', jumping out of his little carriage,
and, forgetful of all infirmities, he began to run; "they'll be over the
cliff. No, by all that's horrible, they'll go right down the pier!"
Volume One, Chapter XVII.