HOW WOLVES AND FOXES DIE.
One of our characters need trouble us no more. The summer passed, and
autumn came on quickly; but Bernard Haldane never saw the leaves change.
Life had been flickering within him, fitfully, for some time past; it
went out suddenly at last: the mortal sickness did not endure through
forty-eight hours. He betrayed no fear or impatience when he heard that
his end was approaching rapidly; only muttering under his breath--"There
is time enough for all I have to do." He paid no sort of attention to
the remonstrances of the physician, but caused himself to be carried at
once into his library where he remained locked in for nearly two hours,
with a servant whom he could trust thoroughly. Paper after paper was
examined and burned--a packet of yellow faded letters, first of all; and
Mr. Haldane retained throughout a perfect intelligence and
self-possession. He leant back in his chair when all was done, and
closed his eyes with a sigh of satisfaction, but roused himself from the
stupor that was creeping over him, to write, with great difficulty, a
few lines to Alan Wyverne; the signature was scarcely legible, and as he
was trying to direct the envelope, his head fell forward heavily on the
table. When they got him back to his room, he was almost too weak to
speak, though he rallied somewhat after taking strong restoratives.
The rector of the parish--a meek, single-minded, conscientious
man--thought it his duty to offer what comfort and succour he could,
though he feared the case was nearly desperate. What doubts, and
misgivings, and repinings entered into the system of Bernard Haldane's
dark cynical philosophy, God only can tell; he never tried to make a
proselyte. As regards any communion with the Church, or outward
observance of her ceremonies, he might have been the veriest of
infidels; but he had never shown himself her overt antagonist. He
listened now to all that the priest had to say, quite patiently and
courteously, but with an indifference painfully evident. When asked "if
he repented?" he answered, "Yes, of many things." Then came the
question, "Are you in peace and charity with all the world?" No word of
reply passed the firm white lips, but they curled with a terribly bitter
smile; and the skeleton hand that lay on the coverlet was clenched, as
though the long filbert-nails would pierce its palm.
The good rector felt utterly disheartened; he had not nerve enough to
cope with that intractable penitent; it would have been a sinful mockery
to speak of Sacrament, then; so he did the best he could--praying long
and fervently, even against hope, for the troubled soul that was so near
its rest. The sick man lay quite still, watching the movements of the
priest, at first with mere curiosity, soon with a growing interest; at
last it seemed as if his eyes would fain have thanked the kindly
intercessor; but they waxed dimmer every moment, till the heavy lids
closed slowly and wearily, not to be lifted again.
The physician standing by bent down his ear to the lips that still kept
moving. He caught one word--"Mildred"--and some other syllables
absolutely unintelligible. The frown on the brow and the contraction of
the features, just then, surely did not come from pain. So--murmuring a
farewell, that savoured, I fear, rather of ban than blessing--died
Bernard Haldane--more tranquilly and serenely than saints and martyrs
have died, who bore uncomplainingly all the burden and heat, and shrank
from no self-sacrifice that could benefit their kind.
The bitter face changed and softened strangely, they say, before the
corpse was cold, till it settled into intense sadness, and ten years
seemed taken from the dead man's age. That grave, pensive expression
perhaps was a natural one, before the keen morbid sensibility was so
cruelly warped and withered. It may be that he _did_ repent heartily at
last, though he could not forgive; thinking of the poverty all round him
that he had never stretched a hand to help, of the honest affection that
he may have barred out when he shut himself up in his arid misanthropy.
If he did once thoroughly realize this, and his utter impotence to make
any amends, be sure the latest pang of his life was the sharpest of all.
That is the worst of all philosophy--Epicurean or Stoic, seductive or
repellant; it _will_ often fail just at the critical time of trial. The
tough, self-reliant character, that meets misfortune savagely and
defiantly like a personal foe, holds its own well for a while; but, if
there be not Faith enough to teach humble, hopeful endurance, I think it
fares best in the end with the hearts that are only--broken.
Mr. Haldane's will was very brief, though perfectly explicit and formal.
Every one who had ever suffered from his temper or caprices found
themselves over-paid beyond their wildest expectations. These legacies
accepted, he left all that he possessed, without fetter or condition, to
his nephew.
There was great exultation among the many who knew and loved Alan
Wyverne well, when they heard of his goodly heritage. Bertie Grenvil, on
guard at the Palace on the Sunday when the news came to town, called his
intimates around him to rejoice over the "pieces of silver" that his
friend had found, and presided at a repast such as Brillat-Savarin might
have ordered if he had served in the Household Brigade. Algy Beauclerc
lost heavily at the club that night, for he was tied, after the
Mezentian fashion, to a partner who never played the right card even by
accident; but he laughed a great honest laugh, and told the incorrigible
sinner, when the penance was over, that "he would make a very fair
player in time, if he would only sit still and take pains." The Squire
appeared at dinner radiant and triumphant, as if there were no such
thing as mortgages or Jews on this side of eternity. Lady Mildred looked
delighted and vaguely sympathetic, as if she would like to congratulate
_some one_ on the spot, but did not quite see her way. Helen Vavasour's
cheek flushed for an instant and then grew very pale; her lip trembled
painfully, as she whispered to herself, "Too late--ah me! too late!"
The _Goshawk_ was lying off Beyrout when "the good news from home" came
out. Wyverne received them with a placidity approaching to indifference,
which exasperated his companions intensely; but he left the party
immediately, and returned alone by the next steamer. When he landed in
England, he went straight to Castle Dacre. The first paper that he
opened was Bernard Haldane's letter. It ran thus:
"My dear Alan,--I wish I could have seen you once more, though
I have little to say besides farewell. Think as kindly of me as
you can; but don't try to persuade yourself, or others, that
you are sorry I am gone. I leave no chief mourner. If a dog
howls here to-night, it will be because the moon is full. It is
but common justice that we should reap as we have sown;
nevertheless, these last hours are rather dreary. I have left
everything undone that I ought to have done for thirty years
and more, but I have tried to make amends--at least to you. You
are young enough to enjoy this second inheritance thoroughly,
and wiser than when you lost your own. I will not attach to my
bequest even the shadow of an implied condition; yet I pray you
to keep the old house and its contents together as long as you
can. You said yourself it would be a pity to part them. I would
leave you my blessing if I dared; but it would be a sorry jest,
and might turn out badly. I do wish you all the good luck that
can be found in this mismanaged world. I wish it--even if you
persuade her mother to allow Helen Vavasour to shape your
altered fortunes. I am too tired to write more. It has been a
long, rough journey, and I ought to sleep soundly. Good night.
"Yours, in all kindness,
"BERNARD HALDANE."
It would be absurd to say that Wyverne felt deep sorrow for his uncle's
death; but an intense pity welled up in his honest heart as he read that
strange letter, and fancied the lonely old man tasking the last of his
strength to trace the weak wavering lines; in truth, the characters
seemed still more hazy and indistinct, when he laid the paper down.
By my faith--it is somewhat early in the day to become funereal. Let us
pass over two or three months and change the _venue_ entirely.
It is a soft grey December morning, with a good steady breeze, cool but
not chilly. The Grace-Dieu hounds are about to draw Rylstone Gorse for
the first time this season. It is a favourite fixture, and no
wonder--sufficiently central to let the best men in of two neighbouring
packs, yet sufficiently remote from town and rail to keep the profane
and uninitiate away. There is a brook, too, in the bottom, over which
the fox is sure to go; not very wide, but deep enough to hold a
regiment, which always weeds the field charmingly. The meet is in a big
pasture hard by: while the ten minutes' law allotted by immemorial
courtesy to distant comers is expiring, it may be worth while to mark a
few of the "notables."
There, leaning over the low carriage-door, and doing the honours of the
meet to Lady Mildred, stands the Duke of Camelot. There is nothing of
_morgue_ or reserve in the character or demeanour of that mighty noble,
but his manner is, in spite of himself, somewhat superb and stately.
Wherever he appears, there is diffused around an ambrosial atmosphere
savouring of the _ancien regime_. Nature never meant him for a warrior
or statesman. His mission through life has been to _poser_ before the
world, unconsciously, as a perfect type of his order; you see it in
every movement of the long taper limbs, in the carriage of the patrician
head, in the peculiar sweep and curl of the ample grey whisker, in every
line of the clear-cut prominent features, in the smile which--intended
to be genial and benevolent--is simply condescending and benign. What
his mental capacities may be, it is impossible to say; he has never
tried them. But in his own country he hath great honour; the peasantry
believe him to be omniscient and omnipotent, if not omnipresent. Were
the fancy to seize him to rebel against the powers that be, I fancy the
stalwart yeomen would muster strong round the ancient banner, in
defiance of the claims of Stuart or Guelph. Nevertheless, the Duke is,
on the whole, a very good-natured and convivial potentate; when no
state-party is in question, he loves to gather round him pleasant people
who suit each other and suit him, without regard to their pride of place
or order of precedence. He brings, in one way or another, more than
twenty guests to the meet to-day, including, besides the family from
Dene, the Brabazons and Lord Clydesdale.
The Master had just fallen to the rear, after a brief conference with
the huntsman. He sits there, you see, with a listless indifference on
his dark handsome face, as if henceforth he had no earthly interest in
the proceedings; but in reality he is watching everything and everybody
with keen, inevitable eyes. Lord Roncesvaux is a cold, stern man, born
with tact and talent enough to have made him great in his generation, if
he had not devoted both exclusively, together with half his fortune, to
the one favourite pursuit. He speaks seldom in society--never in the
senate; but if a thrusting rired gets a step too forward at the gorse,
or presses on his hounds to-day, you will hear that well shaped mouth
open very much to the purpose.
A little to the left, with a clear space round him, is Clydesdale,
looking hot and savage, even this early hour. The horse would be quiet
enough if the rider would only let his mouth alone; but the Earl has a
knack of bullying his dependents, equine as well as human; so
"Santiago's" temper is getting fast exasperated, and his broad brown
chest is already flecked with foam.
Do you mark that lithe erect figure, on the wicked-looking bay mare,
moving from one group to another in the foreground? Everybody seems glad
to see him, and he has a jest or a smile ready for each successive
greeting. That is Major Cosmo Considine, who began life as a Guardsman,
and has served since in a more Irregular corps than he now chooses to
remember. The habitual expression of the face is gay and pleasant
enough, but sometimes the features look strangely haggard and worn, as
if the past was trying to tell its tale; and the thin lips, under cover
of the huge blonde moustache, will set, as though in anger or pain.
Redoubtable in battle--dangerous, they say, in a boudoir--he is
especially hard to beat when hounds are running straight and fast; no
matter how big the fencing may be, if it is a real good thing,
Satanella's lean eager head will be seen creeping to the front; and once
there, like her master on certain other occasions, "she is not to be
denied."
Major Considine married a wife, wealthy and fair, some three years ago,
and has ever since been purposing, gravely but vaguely, to become steady
and respectable. The pious intentions have not been carried out with
uniform success. The weak mind of his unhappy spouse is supposed to
oscillate almost daily between furious jealousy and helpless adoration;
but the silver tongue of the incorrigible Bohemian is still seductive as
when, in spite of relatives' advice and warning, it won him his bride;
about twenty minutes' persuasion always reduces her to the dreamy,
devotional phase, in which she remains till the next offence awakes her.
To do Cosmo justice, his aberrations are much more harmless than the
world gives him credit for; nor does he often seek now to illustrate his
theories practically.
There is Nick Gunstone, the great stock-breeder and steeple-chaser,
expatiating to a knot of true believers on the merits of a long, low,
raking five-year-old, with whom he expects to pull off a good thing
before next April. The young one looks wild and scared and fretful, and
evidently knows little of his business yet; but his rider has nerve
enough for both, and a hand as light as a woman's, though his muscles
are like steel. When the hounds are well away you will see the pair
sailing along in front, quite at their ease: a "crumpler" or so is a
moral certainty; but Nick Gunstone is all wire and whalebone, and seems
to rebound harmlessly from the earth, if he hits it ever so hard; he
believes religiously that "nothing steadies a young one like a heavy
fall," on which principle he generally sends them at the strongest part
of the fence, and the stiffest bit of timber. He is in rather a bad
humour to-day, for objections have just been made and sustained to his
receiving the aristocratic "allowance" in future; and Mr. Gunstone's
sensitive soul chafes indignantly at the injustice--of course on account
of the diminution of his dignity, not in the least because of the
addition to his weight!
The Amazonian division muster in great force, displaying every variety
of head-gear, coquettish and business-like. There is one of the
number--far in the background, with a solitary attendant--that even a
stranger would single out instantly, but with an instinctive feeling
that his glance ought not to rest there long. To be sure, her horse is
well worth looking at; for if shape and "manners" go for anything, Don
Juan must be a very cheap three hundred guineas' worth. But the rider's
appearance is still more remarkable. It would be rather difficult to
define exactly why. There is nothing particularly eccentric or "fast" in
her demeanour, or so far as one can judge while she is in repose; her
equipment and appointments, though faultless in every respect, are
perfectly quiet and unobtrusive; only a very stern critic would remark
that the miraculous habit fits her superb bust a shade _too_ well. You
see a frank fearless face, at times perhaps a trifle too mutinously
defiant; a broad, brent, white forehead; clear, bold blue eyes, flashing
often in merriment, seldom in anger; and thick coils of soft gold-brown
hair, braided tightly under the compact riding-hat. It is not exactly a
pretty picture, though its piquancy might be attractive to such as
admire that peculiar style.
The solitary horseman who never leaves her side is Mr. Lacy, the
professional artist, who has reduced riding over fences to a science. In
consideration of large monies, perfect mounts, and unlimited claret and
cigars, he consents to act as mentor and pioneer to the reckless _Reine
des Ribaudes_: the office is no sinecure, and the wages are
conscientiously earned. There is a look of grave anxiety on his pale
intellectual face to-day, such as may well become a brave man who
estimates aright the importance and perils of a task set before him, and
prepares to encounter them without reluctance or fear. Of a truth, in a
country like this, where, as a stranger, she rides "for her own hand,"
and means going, it is no child's-play to _chaperon_ Pelagia.
One other personage remains to be noticed--I venture to hope you are not
tired of him yet--Alan Wyverne; looking thinner and browner than when we
saw him last, but in very fair plight notwithstanding, who had just come
down into the Shires, with a larger stud than he ever owned in the old
days. He had no idea of the Vavasours being in the neighbourhood, or
perhaps even Rylstone Gorse would not have tempted him to ride the score
of miles that lay between the fixture and his hunting quarters. He has
got over the meeting with his uncle most successfully; how cordial it
was, on both sides, you may easily imagine. But he has so many friends
to greet, and congratulations to answer, that he has not found time,
yet, to approach the carriage in which Lady Mildred is reclining. Alan
has nothing in his stable, so far, that he likes so well as his ancient
favourite; he rides him first-horse to-day. In truth, Red Lancer is a
very model of a fast weight-carrier; you cannot say whether blood or
bone predominates in the superb shape and clean powerful limbs, and all
his admirers allow "that he is looking fitter than ever." He is apt to
indulge in certain violent eccentricities in the first five minutes
after he is mounted, but he has settled down now, and bears himself with
a quiet, stately dignity; nevertheless, there is a resolute look about
his head, implying obstinacy to be ruled only by a stronger will.
The ten-minutes' law has more than expired, and, at an imperceptible
signal from the Master, the pack moves on slowly towards the gorse. We
will not wait to witness the certain find, but get forward a mile or
two, to a point that the fox is almost sure to pass; being invisible we
can do no harm, even if we do cross his line.
Did you ever see a more truculent fence than that on your right, which
stretches along continuously for twelve hundred yards or more, on the
Rylstone side of the road on which we are standing? The double rails,
both sloping outwards, are much higher and wider apart than usual, and
the charge of a squadron would hardly break the new tough oak timber; to
go in and out is impossible, for there is a deep ditch in the middle
fringed by meagre, stunted quick-set; and on the landing side there is
actually another trench, vast enough to swallow up horse and rider, if
by any chance they got so far. The only outlet is through double gates,
with a bridge of treacherous planks between them. There was malice
prepense in the mind that contrived that fearful barrier. The owner of
the farm is a morose hard-fisted Scotch presbyterian, who regards all
sport as a snare and device of the Evil One, and acts according to his
narrow light, viciously. When he came into the country a year ago, he
was afraid to warn the hounds off his land, but went to a considerable
expense to stop them, as he thought, quite as effectually. The pleasant
innovation of wiring the fences was unknown in those days (soon, I
suppose, they will strew calthrops along the headlands, and conceal
spring-guns cunningly, to explode if you hit the binders); but David
Macausland did his worst after the fashion of the period; and so sat
down behind his entrenchments with the grim satisfaction of a consummate
engineer, waiting for the enemy to come on.
You know the occupants of that low phaeton that sweeps round the corner
so smoothly and rapidly, pulling up within a hundred yards of us? Miss
Vavasour's ponies are too fiery to be trusted in a crowd, so she has
listened to Maud Brabazon's suggestion that they should take their
chance of seeing something of the run, instead of going to the
meet--yielding the more readily because her own fancy, to-day, inclines
to comparative solitude. There they are, left entirely to their own
devices, with only a staid elderly groom to keep them out of mischief.
The fair adventuresses have not to wait; before they have been posted
five minutes, a symphony and crash of hound-music comes cheerily down
the wind, and a dark speck, developing itself into shape and colour as
it approaches, steals swiftly down the fifty acre pasture. Fortunately
they are not forward enough to do any harm; even the restless ponies
stand still, as if by instinct, while a big dog-fox crosses the road,
quite unconscious of the bright eyes that are following him; he whisks
the white tag of his brush knowingly, just as he clears the fence,
evidently thinking it will prove a "stopper," at least to his human
foes. Two minutes more, and the pack sweeps compactly over the crest of
the rising ground; a little in the rear, on either flank, come the real
front-rankers--the ambitious spirits who, wherever they go, will assert
their pride of place; the very flower of science and courage; the best
and boldest of England's _Hippodamastae_. Do you think the whole world
could show you such another sight as this?
There is Cosmo Considine, sending Satanella along as if he had another
spare neck at home, in case of accidents, and as if she had ten
companions in the stable (instead of a brace) to replace her if she
comes to grief. There is Lord Roncesvaux, riding as jealous as any of
them, though he would scorn to confess such a weakness; there is a
fierce light now in his broad black eyes, though the listlessness has
scarcely left his face. There is Nick Gunstone, holding his own
gallantly, discreet enough to give "the swells" a widish berth. And
there, in the van of the battle, flutters the bright-blue habit, and
gleams the soft golden hair.
"How very fortunate!" Helen Vavasour cried. "We are just in the right
place; they must cross the road, and we shall see all the fencing."
Mrs. Brabazon was more experienced than her companion, and, indeed, had
been no mean performer over a country in her day. She shook her pretty
head negatively, as she answered--
"I am afraid not, dear, unless there is an unusual amount of chivalry
out to-day. I have been looking at that place, and I believe it is
simply impracticable. They must get round it somehow, and the hounds
will leave them here."
The old groom, standing at the ponies' heads, touched his hat, in assent
and approval.
"You're quite right, my lady," he said. "There's no man in these parts
as would try that fence; no more there didn't ought to. It's hard on a
thirty-foot fly, let alone the drop; and it's a broken neck or back if
you falls short, or hits a rail."
The _impasse_ is evidently well known, and the leaders of the field
appear to be very much of the speaker's opinion; for instead of
following the hounds down the middle of the pasture, they began to
diverge on either side, the huntsman setting the example. Will Darrell
takes fences as they come, very cheerfully, in an ordinary way; but a
great general has no business to risk his life like a reckless
subaltern; and the idea of being laid up with a broken limb so early in
the season is simply intolerable. With Lord Roncesvaux's servants duty
stands first of all; they know that no credit won by mere hard riding
would excuse a fault of rashness, or soften the implacable Master's
anger. Cosmo Considine acknowledges the necessity of a compromise,
growling out an imprecation in some strange outlandish tongue; and
Pelagia's pilot, after a hurried word exchanged with the Major, for whom
he has a great respect and esteem, follows him to the right, utterly
disregarding the remonstrances of his impetuous charge. Even Nick
Gunstone thinks that this will be rather too strong an illustration of
his favourite theory, and reserves the young one's steadying lesson for
a more convenient season.
A few sceptics determine to judge for themselves, and ride right down to
the fence; but one glance satisfies them, and they gallop along it in
both directions, rather losing ground by their obstinacy than otherwise.
Amongst these is Lord Clydesdale. Perhaps the Earl is aware of the
proximity of the pony-carriage; at any rate, he thinks it necessary to
make a demonstration; so he takes a short circuit, and pretends to
charge the fence, with much bluster and flurry. Santiago behaves with a
charity and courtesy very amiable, considering the provocation he has
undergone, and tries to save his master's honour by taking on himself
the odium of a decisive refusal. But the sham is too glaring to deceive
the veriest novice; Maud Brabazon's smile is marvellously meaning, and
Miss Vavasour's curling lip does not dissemble its scorn.
Half a minute later, Maud happened to be looking in an opposite
direction; an exclamation from the groom, and a low cry, almost like a
moan, from her companion, made her turn quickly. Helen had dropped the
reins; her hands were clasped tightly, as they lay on the bearskin-rug,
and her great eyes gleamed bright, and wild with eagerness and terror;
they were riveted on a solitary horseman, who came down at the fence
straight and fast.
Alan Wyverne had been baulked at the brook by some one's crossing him,
and the pace was so tremendous that even Red Lancer's turn of speed had
not yet quite enabled him to make up lost ground. It so happened, that
he had ridden along that double on his way to the meet, and though he
fully appreciated the peril, he had then decided that it was just within
his favourite's powers, and consequently ought to be tried.
Truly, at that moment, the pair would have made a superb picture. Alan
was sitting quite still, rather far back in the saddle; his hands level
and low on the withers, with hold enough on Red Lancer's mouth to stop a
swerve, but giving the head free and fair play; his lips slightly
compressed, but not a sign of trepidation or doubt on his quiet face.
The brave old horse was, in his way, quite as admirable; like his
master, he had determined to get as far over the fence as pluck and
sinew would send them; so on he came, with his small ears pointing
forward dagger-wise, momently increasing his speed, but measuring every
stride, and judging his distance, so as to take off at the proper spot
to a line.
They were within thirty yards of the rails now, and still Helen Vavasour
gazed on--steadfast and statuelike--without a quiver of lip or a droop
of eyelash. Maud Brabazon's nerves were better than most women's, but
they failed her then. She felt a wild desire to spring up and wave Alan
back; but a cold faint shudder came over her, and she could only close
her eyes in helpless terror.
There came a rush of hoofs sounding on elastic turf--a fierce snort as
Red Lancer rose to the spring--and then a dull smothered crash, as of a
huge body's falling.
Maud felt her companion sink back by her side, trembling violently: then
she heard a hoarse exclamation from the groom of wonderment and
applause; then Wyverne's clear voice speaking to his horse
encouragingly, and then--she opened her eyes just in time to see the
further road-fence taken in the neatest possible style.
There had been no fall after all. Red Lancer's hind hoofs broke away the
outer bank of the ditch, and he "knuckled" fearfully on landing; but a
strong practised hand recovered him just in time to save his credit and
his knees.
Negotiations were entered into soon afterwards with Mr. Macausland, and
powerful arguments brought to bear upon his cupidity; the austere
Presbyterian compromised with the unrighteous Mammon, so far as to
suppress the obnoxious middle ditch and render the fence barely
practicable. But they point out the spot still, as a proof of the space
that a perfect hunter can cover, with the aid of high courage and strong
hind-quarters, if he is ridden straight and fairly. The elderly groom,
who is saturnine and sceptical by nature, prone to undervalue and
discredit the exploits of others, when one of his fellows speaks of a
big leap, always quells and quenches the narrator utterly, by playing
his trump-card of the great Rylstone double.
It is almost an invariable rule--if a man by exceptional luck or pluck
"sets" the field the hounds are sure to throw up their heads within a
couple of furlongs. Fortune, as if tired of persecuting Alan Wyverne,
gives him a rare turn to-day.
There was a scent, such as one meets about twice in a season. The field,
spread out like a fan, begins to converge again, and the front rank are
riding like men possessed to make up their lost ground. All in
vain--nothing without wings would catch the "flying bitches" now, as
they stream over the broad pastures without check or stay, drinking in
the hot trail through wide up-turned nostrils, mute as death in their
savage thirst for blood. It was a trivial triumph, no doubt, hardly
worthy of a highly rational being; but the hunting instinct is one of
the strongest in our imperfect nature, after all; I believe that it
falls to the lot of very few to enjoy such intense, simple happiness as
Wyverne experienced for about eighteen minutes, as he swept on, alone,
on the flank of the racing pack, rejoicing in Red Lancer's unfaltering
strength. Such a tremendous burst must necessarily be brief. As Alan
crashes through the rail of a great "oxer," an excited agriculturist
screams: "He's close afore you." Close--the hounds know that better than
you can tell them. Look how the veterans are straining to the front.
Suddenly, as they stream along a thick bullfinch, old Bonnibelle wheels
short round and glides through the fence like a ghost; her comrades
follow as best they may; there is a snap--a crash of tongues--and a
savage worry. Alan Wyverne, too, turns in his tracks; and driving Red
Lancer madly through the blackthorn, clears himself from the falling
horse, just in time to rush in to the rescue, and--with the aid of a
friendly carter, who uses whip and voice lustily--to save from sharp
wrangling teeth rather a mutilated trophy.
Now, is not that worth living for? Wyverne could answer the question
very satisfactorily, as he loosens Red Lancer's girth and turns his head
to the wind, pulling his small ears, and stroking his lofty crest
caressingly. Nearly five minutes have passed, and the hounds are
beginning to wander about in a desultory, half-satisfied way, as is
their wont after a kill, before Lord Roncesvaux, and the huntsman, and
three or four more celebrities, put in a discomfited appearance.
It speaks ill for our chivalry that we should have left the
pony-carriage to itself all this time; but that "cracker" over the grass
was too strong a temptation; we were bound to see the end of it.
Mrs. Brabazon was the first to speak, breathing quick and nervously.
"Oh, Helen, was not that magnificent? But were you ever so frightened?"
The wild look had passed out of the girl's eyes, yet they were still
strangely dreamy and vague.
"It was very fearful," she said; "but I ought not to have been
frightened. There is no one like _him_--no one half so cool and brave. I
have known that for so many years!"
Maud's keen glance rested on the speaker's face for a second or two.
What she read there did not seem greatly to please her.
"I think we had better be turning homewards," she said, gravely; "I feel
tired already, and I am sure we shall see nothing more to-day."
From Miss Vavasour's flushing cheek, and the impatient way in which she
gathered up the reins and turned her ponies, it was easy to guess that
she did not wish her thoughts to be too closely scanned just then. But
before they had driven three hundred yards, she was musing again. At
last her lips moved involuntarily. Maud Brabazon's quick ear caught a
low, piteous whisper--"I don't think he even saw me"--and then a weary,
helpless sigh. In just such a sigh may have been breathed the dying
despair of that unhappy Scottish maiden, who pined so long for the
coming of her lover from beyond the sea, and whose worn-out heart broke
when he rode in under the archway without marking the wave of her
kerchief, or looking up at her window.
It was a very silent drive homewards. One of those two had good right to
be pensive. Last night, Lord Clydesdale, utterly vanquished and
intoxicated by her beauty, spoke out, right plainly. The day of grace
that Helen claimed for reflection is half gone already, and the
irrevocable answer mast be given to-morrow.
Shall we say--as they said in olden times to criminals called upon to
plead--"So God send you good deliverance?" Truly it was a kindly,
courteous formula enough; but I fancy it carried little meaning to the
minds of the judge or jury, and little comfort to the heavy heart of the
attainted traitor.
Throughout the country side that night men seemed unable to talk long
about anything, without recurring to the morning's run and the feat
which had made it so singularly remarkable. Even Clydesdale did not
venture to dissent or show discontent when Wyverne's nerve and judgment
were praised up to the skies; he only swelled sulkily, and indulged
under his breath in a whole string of his favourite curses, registering
another involuntary offence against the name he hated so bitterly. Red
Lancer came in for his full share of the glory; they discussed his
points and perfections one by one, till you might have drawn his
portrait without ever having seen him. He was as famous now, as that
mighty war-horse of whom the quaint old ballad sings--
So grete he was, of back so brode,
So wight and warily he trode,
On earth was not his peer;
Ne horse in land that was so tall;
The knight him cleped "Lancivall,"
But lords at board and grooms in stall
Cleped him--"Grand Destrere."
In the servants'-hall at Beaupre Lodge, the witness of the feat thus
expressed himself, an honest admiration lighting up for once his hard,
rough-hewn face--
"It's very lucky I ain't a young 'oman of fortun" (signs of unanimous
adhesion from his audience, especially from the feminine division). "Ah,
you may laugh. If I was, I'd follow Sir Alan right over the world,
without his asking of me, if it was only for the pleasure of blacking
his boots."
After this, who will say that "derring-do" is not still held in honour,
or that hero-worship has vanished out of the land?