THE RUN OF THE SEASON
The breaking of a collar-bone is not a very serious matter. Men have
been known to suffer the mishap and continue for a time the activity
that brought it about without being any the worse. But to a man of the
Squire's age and weight the shock he had sustained was not altogether a
light one, and when he had reassured his anxious family as to his
comparatively perfect safety, he retired to his bed and kept to it for
a few days. It was the first time in his life that such a thing had
happened to him, and he did not take kindly to the confinement. But it
was eased of some of its rigour, after the first day, during which he
suffered from a slight fever, by his making his big bedroom an audience
chamber, in the manner of a bygone age, and most people in the house,
as well as a good many from outside it, were bidden to sit with him and
entertain him in turn.
Amongst the most welcome of his visitors was Virginia, for it was she
who had, by good fortune, released him from what might have been a far
worse predicament than was indicated by the slight damage he had
sustained, and although she would have done what she had for any other
member of the hunt, still, she had done it, and his gratitude to her
had the effect of removing from his mind the last vestiges of the
prejudice he had nursed against her, which in its latest stages had
been far weaker than he knew. What had happened was as follows.
A stout fox had been turned out of Hartover Copse within a few minutes
of the hounds being put into it, and had made off straight across
country with a business-like determination that seemed to show that he
knew exactly where safety lay and was going to lose no time in making
for it.
The Squire, old in his knowledge of the ways of a fox and the lie of
the South Meadshire country, had posted himself hard by the point where
the fox broke covert, and was one of the first away. For fifteen
minutes it was straight hard going, leaving little chance for those who
had not secured a good start to make up their distance, and none at all
for those who were following on wheels and hoped by taking short cuts
to come up with the hounds again at some point or other. When the
score or so who were in front obtained a minute of breathing space,
while the hounds, which had been running so straight that they overran
the line where the fox had turned hard by Gorsey Common, five miles
from Kencote, were casting about to recover the scent, there was little
of the main field to be seen. The Squire, with joy and exhilaration in
his breast, reined up and looked behind him. They had come down a long
slope and up another, and in all the mile-wide valley across which they
had ridden there were not more than a dozen others to be seen, and some
of them very far away. But amongst them were Virginia and Dick, who
were even now breasting the grassy, gorsey slope, at the top of which
he sat on his horse. Taken unawares, he could not but admire
Virginia's slim, graceful figure, swaying so lightly to every move of
the mare under her, and he had ready some words to call out to her when
she should reach him.
But before that happened the deep note of Corsican, the oldest and
wisest hound in the South Meadshire pack, and the thrilling chorus
which immediately answered it, warned him that the hounds had found
what they had been looking for, and immediately he was off again, with
all thought of those behind him forgotten, and nothing in his mind but
that baying dappled stream that was leading him, now as fast as before,
straight across a country as well grassed as any in the Shires.
Right through the middle of it too; and when he had galloped across
half a dozen wide meadows, and Kenilworth had landed him, without the
least little vestige of hesitation or clumsiness, on the other side of
a stiffish bullfinch, his heart went up in a paean of gratitude to
whatever power directs these matters, at the thought that he had taken
chances and had his second horse sent on to Beeston Holt, which lay
midway between Kencote and Trensham Woods, to which he now began
greatly to hope that this brave fox was leading them.
Only once before, during all the long years in which he had hunted over
this country, had such a thing happened. The line between Kencote and
Trensham, a distance of twenty-five miles at least, pierced lengthwise
this stretch of low-lying grazing country, which, intersected by a
brook or two, by stout fences of post and rail, and thick hedges which
had no need of barbed wire to aid their defence, was like the fairway
of a golf-course, perfect while you were on it, but beset with hazards
on either side. Only the most determined of foxes would keep to it for
the whole distance. There was Pailthorpe Spinney to the left, before
you got to the first brook, and no stopping of earths there could
prevent Master Reynard from poking his nose amongst them to try, if he
were so minded. And although he could always be bustled out again, it
was unlikely that, having once turned aside, he would take to the grass
again. He might make for Greenash Wood across heavy ploughs, or for
Spilling, where thick orchards made it impossible to follow the hounds,
and you had to take one or two wide circuits.
But this fox had already scorned the delusive shelter of Pailthorpe
Spinney, and if he was not bending all his attention on the Trensham
Woods, where he probably would find safety, if he got there in time, he
was at least bound to lead them over grass for another four miles, to
where, at Beeston Holt, he might possibly decide to turn aside and
cross the river and the railway and try for the first of a long chain
of coverts which circled round towards Blaythorn. In that case the
best of the day would be over, but if they could keep him on the move
there would be something to look forward to before they ran into him,
and the run would still be a memorable one. Yes, he was most likely to
do that. It was too much to hope for that that glorious day of
five-and-thirty years before would be repeated, when the high-stomached
ancestor of countless good Meadshire foxes had travelled straight as an
arrow, scorning all lesser chances of safety, for the high deep woods
of Trensham, and the Squire, not long since married, and in the very
flower of his tireless youthful vigour, mounted on his great horse
Merrydew, with no change, had kept with the hounds all the way and
shaken off master, huntsman, whips, and all, when they ran into him at
last within two fields of safety.
And yet!--there was that quick determined start, the sudden turn on
Gorsey Common, which meant contempt of the line pointing to the coverts
at Mountfield, the passing of Pailthorpe Spinney, and now this direct,
rattling run across brook and fence and hedge down the very middle of
the grasslands. It might happen--the run of a lifetime repeated. His
only fear now was that his second horse would not be up at Beeston Holt
in time, for there wasn't a horse in the country or in the wide world
which could carry his weight through to Trensham at the pace hounds
were running.
Beeston Holt lay on the bank of the river with the railway beyond it.
It was a straggling village, facing a stretch of common land, and there
was a wide space in front of its chief inn, where the Squire expected
to see his second horse waiting for him, if his groom had reached the
point. The hounds swept across the common no farther than a couple of
hundred yards away, going as strong as ever, and even the time lost in
riding that distance away from their line and changing horses might
lose him the good place he had hitherto kept.
But there was no horse waiting for him, and with angry despair settling
down on him he sat and saw the hounds disappear out of sight and the
few who still kept with or near them following at ever-increasing
intervals. Dick was one of them. He was riding Roland, the best
horse, not a weight carrier, in the Kencote stables, who was quite
capable of carrying him to the end of the great run that now seemed
certain; for the fox had not turned aside towards the nearer coverts
and must have had Trensham in his cunning mind since he had first set
out. Dick waved a hand to him as he galloped past. There was no sign
of Virginia; on such an occasion as this women, even the best beloved,
must look after themselves.
The Squire fussed and fumed, and Kenilworth, his blood thoroughly up,
could hardly be held, so anxious was he to go on with what he had
begun. In another second he would have let him have his way, but just
as he was about to do so he saw his man coming up the road, controlling
as best he could the antics of his horse, which had got wind somehow of
the passing of the hounds, in spite of the silence in which they were
now running. The Squire beckoned him to hurry his pace and as he came
up jumped off Kenilworth and on to Bay Laurel with all the activity he
might have shown on that memorable run of five-and-thirty years before,
and was off on to the turf in a twinkling. But not before he had seen,
out of the corner of his eye, Virginia, sailing gaily along on her
black mare, just behind him.
In a moment he had forgotten her; Bay Laurel was as fresh as if he had
just left his stable, for the groom had brought him along steadily
according to instructions, the fulfilment of which, however, had been
like to have cost him his place. The Squire felt the spring and lift
of the powerful frame under him, as, keeping him well in hand, and
riding as if he had been five stone lighter and had not forsaken the
hunting saddle for weeks past, he pounded the short, springy turf and
sent it flying now and again far behind him. There was a brook to take
just beyond the village, wide enough to have given him at his age
occasion for thought if it had come earlier in the day, and set him
casting about in his mind for the whereabouts of the nearest bridge.
But he went straight at it, and Bay Laurel took it like a skimming
swallow. Then came a five-barred gate--the only way from one field
into another, unless valuable time was to be wasted--and the Squire had
not jumped a five-barred gate since he had ridden thirteen stone. But
he jumped it now, and felt a fierce joy, as he galloped across the
meadow grass, at the surging up in him of his vanished youth, and all
the fierce delights that such days as this had brought him in years
gone by. He was as good as ever. His luck was in. There must be some
check before long, and a check, however short, would bring him within
sight of them.
A sudden memory born of his long past experience came to him. In a
field or two he would come to a footpath which led across stiles
through what had then been a peninsula of plough-land sticking out into
the pastures. The old mid-Victorian fox had stuck to the grass and
gone round the heavy land in a wide circle. If the Edwardian fox
should take the same line, that footpath would cut off half a mile, and
he made up his mind to follow it.
Ah! There it was--the path across the crest of the field, the stile,
and, beyond the hedge to the left, the dark plough ribbons and the
footway running down them. He jumped the stile and cantered carefully
down the narrow path, well content to go slow for the advantage to be
gained. Bay Laurel hopped over another stile and they were on grass
again and galloping freely, still keeping to the line of the scarcely
discernible field path. They topped a short rise, and the Squire just
caught sight of the hounds topping another away to the right. His
heart gave another bound of gratitude. He would be up with them yet.
There was the next stile and he knew the line to take. He was already
in front of some of those who had passed him waiting before the inn.
But his time had come. The last stile was flanked by a high thick
fence, on the other side of which, although he could not see it, was a
ditch wider and deeper than ordinary. There was nothing formidable
about the stile itself; it was no higher than the two Bay Laurel had
just hopped over in his stride, but looked rather more dilapidated.
Just as the horse was rising to it, he saw that the ditch on the other
side ran right along and was crossed by a plank, and although the horse
saw it too and was preparing for it, he instinctively checked him, and
then saw that it was too late. Bay Laurel blundered into the rotten
woodwork, and the Squire pitched forward over his shoulder, and the
next moment had rolled into the ditch with the stile, but fortunately
not the horse, on top of him.
The ditch was newly dug and nearly dry, or he might have been drowned,
for he was wedged closely in and could hardly stir. Bay Laurel had
jammed the timbers down upon him, and without waiting to consider the
damage he had done was now off in the wake of the hounds, which he also
had seen topping the distant rise. The Squire was left alone,
powerless to extricate himself, in the remote stillness of the fields.
He had heard a crack, different somehow from the crack of the timbers,
as he fell, but did not at first connect it with broken bones of his
own. It was not until he realised that his left arm and shoulder were
lying under a beam in a very strange and uncomfortable position, and
tried to move them, that he knew what had happened to him and began to
feel any pain. Then he felt, suddenly, a good deal, not only in his
shoulder, but in his side, upon which a corner of the stile was
pressing, and thought he had broken every bone in his body.
The pain and the shock and the loneliness frightened him. Unless help
came he was likely to die at the bottom of this ditch, and he had a
moment of blind terror before he lifted up his voice and called for
help most lustily.
There was an instant answer. Virginia, who had followed his lead
across the plough, at some little distance, because she knew he would
not like her riding in his pocket, came through the gap, and drew rein
by his side. She was off her horse in a moment and trying her hardest
to lift the heavy timbers off him. But she only succeeded in shifting
their weight from one part of his body to another, and under his
agonised expostulations soon desisted. She stood up, white and
terror-stricken, the reins of her mare over her arm, and cried, "Oh, I
must get the weight off you, and then I will go for help."
Then she tried again, and did succeed in easing him a trifle, whereupon
he fainted, but soon came to again, to find her with her hat full of
water sprinkling his forehead. "I'm all right now for a bit," he said.
"Go and get somebody. Can you mount?"
"Yes, if you don't look," she said.
She led her horse a little way out into the field, threw herself across
the saddle, and scrambled up somehow. Then she set off at a gallop
towards the chimneys of a farm peeping above a grove of trees a quarter
of a mile away.
The Squire lay still, and looked up into the sky. Except for the
aching in his neck he was now free from pain, and having tested by
movement all the muscles of his body, was relieved to find that he had
got off rather lightly after all. It was an awkward, and rather an
absurd predicament to be in, but with the certainty of getting free
very shortly, he was not overmuch disposed to grumble at it.
Virginia's appearance had been providential, and she had been as
concerned for him as he was for himself. The stile was an old and very
solid one, and had come down on him _en masse_. It was doubtful
whether a man could have done more with it, single-handed, than she had
done, and a man might not have thought of loosening his stock and
fetching water when he had fainted. He had never fainted before. It
was a curious, not wholly unpleasant, sensation. He allowed his
thoughts to dwell on it, idly, as he lay still, staring up at the sky,
not now in great discomfort.
He became aware of something soft under his head. When he had first
fallen into the ditch he had lain with his head in the mud and had had
to raise it to see what he could now see comfortably. His right arm
had been disengaged, and he put up his hand to feel what it was that
was beneath him. He felt warm silk and the smooth hardness of Melton
cloth, and then he remembered that Virginia had looked rather curious
as to her attire when he had come to himself after his little fainting
fit. She had taken off her jacket and propped up his head with it. At
that discovery he arrived definitely at the point of liking her.
It was not long before he heard her calling to him, and then the trot
of her horse across the grass. "They are coming in a moment," she
cried out as she rode up to him; "two men from the farm, and they will
get you free in no time."
He looked at her a little curiously, and she blushed as she met his
gaze. When a woman has taken off the coat of her riding habit she has
begun to undress, and whatever comes next to it is not meant for the
public gaze. But she had not cared about that. If she had he would
not have been lying with a pillow under his head and she looked down
upon him, so to speak, in her shirt sleeves.
"Put on your coat before they come," said the Squire. "I'm all right
now; and thank you."
The two farm labourers who came running up the meadow made short work
of pulling the stile off him, and Virginia helped him to rise and to
climb out of the ditch. He stood on the grass stiff, and rather dazed,
with his left arm hanging uselessly, and she supported him for a
moment, until he said, "I'm all right now. I'll walk over to the farm,
and perhaps they'll lend me something to take me home in."
"The farmer has gone for the doctor," she said, "and they are going to
send a pony carriage up for you. See, I've brought a rug for you to
sit on till they come."
She spread it on the ground, and he sat down heavily, giving an
exclamation of pain as he jarred the broken bone. Virginia knelt
beside him and put the handkerchief she had already damped to his brow.
But he hitched himself away from her. He did not want the men, now
staring at him with bovine concern, to see him dependent on a woman.
"Don't bother any more," he said. "I'm all right now."
She got him to the farm, the doctor, who happened to be in the village,
bound up his arm, a fly was procured, and he set off for home,
Virginia, who had left her horse at the farm, by his side. By the time
they had gone, half-way, his accident now being known, a neighbour's
motor-car was sent to meet him, and in it they performed the rest of
the journey. But he refused to allow Virginia to send a telegram.
"It'll only upset 'em," he said, "and there's nothing the matter with
me now."
And that was why he arrived in on his wife and daughters and himself
brought the news that there was nothing to make a fuss about.