More than a month had elapsed since Godfrey had made his début as a
recognised member of the Midlandshire Hunt. It is also necessary to
state that during that period he had seen a good deal of pretty Miss
Molly Devereux, who, faithful to the promise she had given him, had
shown him a large amount of the country, with the fences, hedges, and
ditches thereof. She was also the person who was mainly responsible for
the large sum of money he had spent on horseflesh during that time. As a
matter of fact, this impressionable young man was head over ears in
love, and to prove it, he neglected his work, imperilled his neck, and,
as his mother remarked, ran an almost daily risk of coming to an early
grave through waiting about on the outskirts of damp coverts, to say
nothing of the long, wet rides home on wintry evenings.
“I can not understand why you do it,” said the old lady, who, by the
way, was not nearly so obtuse as she pretended to be. “When you first
came home from abroad, you declared that the hunting would never possess
sufficient attraction to take you out on a damp day. Now you are never
happy unless you are in the saddle.”
“It’s a good healthy exercise, mother,” said Kitty, with the suspicion
of a twinkle in her eyes. “Besides, Godfrey has taken such a liking to
Sir George Penistone, the Master, that he is never happy when he is
parted from him.”
Now if there was one person in the country for whom Godfrey entertained
a profound distaste, it was for the gentleman in question. Sir George
was known to have been desperately in love with Miss Devereux ever since
he had left the ’Varsity; but, while he was plucky enough in the saddle,
and would ride his horse at anything that an animal could be expected to
jump, and at a good many that it could not, he had never been able to
screw up his courage sufficiently to broach the subject to her. Finding
that he had a rival in the field, however, had given him a fillip, and,
in consequence, relations between the two young men were as strained as
it was possible for them to be, and yet to allow them to remain on
speaking terms. Whether the young lady herself was aware of this is more
than I can say; if she were she gave no sign of it, but treated them
both with the same impartiality. Certain other ladies of the hunt vowed
that she was a heartless flirt, and that she was playing one man off
against the other. Such uncharitable sentiments, however, could only be
expected from people who would have acted in the same fashion had they
been placed in a similar position.
It has been said by a well-known writer, who, for all we know to the
contrary, was a crusty old bachelor, and therefore well qualified to
speak upon the matter, “that the very uncertainty of love is one of its
greatest charms.” I fancy that Godfrey Henderson, at that particular
time, would not have agreed with the sage in question. The uncertainty
of knowing whether he was loved or not, was making a different man of
him. In days that seemed as far removed from the present as if a gulf of
centuries lay between, he had been a happy-go-lucky, easy-going fellow,
taking the world as he found it, and never allowing himself to be much
troubled by anything. Now, however, he had grown preternaturally solemn,
was much given to silent communings with himself, and only brightened
up when he was in the presence of the person who was the object of his
adoration. Naturally this could not continue for long.
“I’ll speak to her the very first opportunity I get,” he said to
himself; “and if she won’t have me, I’ll cut the whole show and go
abroad. I could pick up Fensden in Dresden, and we’ll go off to Japan
together.”
But when he was given a favourable opportunity of speaking, he found he
was unable to bring his courage to the sticking-point, and for the next
day or two he called himself by a variety of names that, had they been
addressed to him by any one else, he would have considered most
objectionable. Regarded dispassionately, in the silent watches of the
night, it seemed a small thing to do. He had only to get her alone, to
take her hand, if he could manage to obtain possession of it, and then
to make his passion known, and ask her to be his wife. Any one could do
that, and he had the best of reasons, when he looked round the circle of
his married acquaintances, for knowing that it had been carried out
successfully on numerous occasions before. Yet when it became necessary
to put it into practice he discovered that it demanded a heroism to
which the charge of the Light Brigade and the storming of the Redan were
as nothing.
“I see that the hounds meet at Churley cross roads on Monday,” said his
sister, one morning at breakfast. “Molly wants me to go, but I fear it
will be impossible. I suppose it is not necessary to ask if you will be
there?”
“I suppose I shall,” Godfrey replied, as if he had not thought very much
about the matter.
In his heart, however, he knew that it would require an extraordinary
force to keep him away. On Friday he did not go, for the reason that he
had incidentally learned that a certain lady would be in town at her
dressmaker’s. The same day he discovered that his old friend and
schoolfellow, James Bradford, to wit, had returned from America, en
route to the Continent, and the inference was that if they did not lunch
together, they would be scarcely likely to meet again for some
considerable time. What, therefore, was more fitting than that he should
catch the 10.18 train at Detwich, and set off for the Metropolis? His
mother and sister said nothing, except to wish him a pleasant journey.
When they were alone together afterward, however, Mrs. Henderson turned
to her daughter.
“Poor boy,” she said, “I never thought he would take it as seriously as
he is doing. I have never seen a harder case.”
To which her daughter replied somewhat enigmatically:
“I wish I knew what she intends doing.”
Despite the eagerness Godfrey had shown to renew his acquaintance with
his friend, Mr. James Bradford, he did not appear to derive such a vast
amount of satisfaction from their meeting as the trouble he had taken to
bring it about would have implied.
“I never saw such a change in a man in my life,” said Mr. James Bradford
afterward, when Godfrey had left the club. “He fidgeted about all the
time we were at lunch, and examined his watch at least twice in every
five minutes. Coming into money doesn’t appear to agree with him. It’s a
pity, for he used to be such a good chap.”
On leaving Pall Mall Godfrey took a cab to Bond Street, and for upward
of an hour paced religiously up and down that fashionable thoroughfare.
Then, taking another cab, he drove to Euston, where he spent at least
three-quarters of an hour inspecting the various trains that passed in
and out of the station, pottering about the bookstalls, and glaring at
the travellers who approached him. As every one is aware who lives in
the neighbourhood, there is only one good train in the afternoon that
stops at Detwich, hence his reason for going to the station at that
hour. As the time approached for that train to leave, he grew more and
more nervous, and when the train itself at length backed into the
station to take up its passengers, his anxiety became almost pitiable to
watch. Placing himself near the bookstall, he scrutinized every
passenger who approached him. At last he became aware of two figures,
who were making their way leisurely along the platform in search of an
empty carriage. One was Lady Devereux, tall, gray-haired, and eminently
dignified; her companion there is no need to describe. It struck
Godfrey, as he watched her, that never in his life had he seen so pretty
a face or figure. Nerving himself to carry out the operation he had in
mind, he strolled down the platform, then turning, walked back along the
train, glancing into the various carriages as he passed, until he
reached that in which the two ladies were seated. Then, as if he were
more than surprised at seeing them, he lifted his hat.
“How do you do, Lady Devereux?” he said. “This is an altogether
unexpected meeting!” Then, having saluted the younger lady, he inquired
whether they would permit him to travel down with them.
“Do so, by all means,” Lady Devereux replied. “Molly and I have been
obliged to put up with each other’s company since the early morning. But
how is it that you are not hunting to-day, Mr. Henderson?”
“An old friend has just returned from America,” Godfrey remarked, “and
he invited me to lunch with him. Otherwise I should have been out, of
course.”
Whether Miss Molly believed this statement or not I can not say, but I
do not think it probable. One thing was plain; on this particular
occasion she had made up her mind not to be gracious to the poor young
man, and when he endeavoured to draw her into conversation, she answered
him shortly, and then retired into the seclusion of her newspaper.
Why she should have treated him so it is impossible to say, but there
could be no sort of doubt that she was offended at something. In
consequence the poor fellow was about as miserable a specimen of the
human race as could have been found in England that day. When Detwich
was reached, he saw the two ladies to their carriage, and bade them
good-bye. Then, mounting to the box of his own dog-cart, he sent the
horse flying down the street at a pace that, had he not been well known,
would in all probability have secured him an interview with a
magistrate.
“And what sort of journey did you have?” inquired his mother, as she
gave him a cup of tea on his arrival at the house.
“Very pleasant,” he answered, though his looks belied his assertion.
“And would you care, as you said the other day, to go back to live in
London?” asked mischievous Miss Kitty.
“I think London is one of the most detestable places on earth,” he
replied, stirring his tea as though he were sweeping the Metropolis into
the sea.
“And did you see any one you knew while you were in town?” inquired his
mother.
“A lot of people I don’t care a scrap about,” he answered.
Feeling that he was not in a fit humour for society, he took himself off
to his studio, where he threw himself into an easy chair, and lit the
largest pipe in his possession. This he smoked as savagely as if it were
responsible for his troubles. By the time the dressing-bell rang, he was
more than ever determined to set off for Japan. So strong, however, was
the chain which bound him, that, on second thoughts, he came to the
conclusion that he would postpone his departure until after the meet at
the Churley cross roads on the following Monday. In consequence he spent
a miserable Saturday, and it was not until he came out of church on
Sunday morning that he was anything like his old self. All through the
service he had been paying a greater amount of attention to a neat
little toque, and the back of a very shapely head, a few seats in front
of him, than was altogether proper in a place of worship. According to
custom, the two families united in the porch.
“Good-morning, Mr. Henderson,” said Molly, as they shook hands, and
then, after they had passed outside and the usual commonplaces had been
exchanged, she continued: “What do you think of the state of the
weather?”
There was more in her speech than met the eye. What she really meant
was: “Do you think we shall be able to hunt to-morrow? If so, I am
prepared to be kind to you once more.”
Godfrey replied that there had been signs of frost early in the morning,
but he rejoiced to see that they were going off.
“We shall see you to-morrow, I suppose?” she said, as they passed
through the lych-gate out into the high road.
“Of course,” he answered. “Provided old Benbow doesn’t break his neck in
the meantime, I shall be there.”
“I am so glad,” she answered, and then, as though she felt that she had
said too much, she devoted her conversation during the rest of the walk
to Kitty, leaving Godfrey to discuss parish affairs with her father.
She had said enough, however, in that short time to transport Godfrey
into the seventh heaven of delight; and I venture to think that if any
one had been foolish enough to suggest a trip to Japan to him at that
moment, it would have been at the peril of his or her life.
I must leave you to imagine with what attention he studied the
appearance of the sky during the next eighteen hours. The barometer in
the hall was tapped with a regularity that was sufficient to
disorganize its internal economy forever and a day. Before he retired to
rest, he took careful stock of the heavens, and was relieved to find
that there was no sign of frost in the air. Next morning he was up
betimes, took his tub with the air of a man from whom great things are
expected, and made a heartier breakfast than he had done for some weeks
past. He looked a handsome figure in pink as his mother was careful to
inform him.
The distance to Churley cross roads from the Hall is little more than a
mile, so that the half-hour he had allowed himself to get there, enabled
him to jog along without hurrying his horse. It was what might be
described as a perfect hunting morning. A slight mist hung in places
upon the fields; it was, however, being quickly dispersed by the
sunshine. A pleasant breeze was driving the clouds across the sky,
throwing delightful shadows upon the meadows, and crisping the surface
of the river as he passed over the old stone bridge. When he reached the
cross roads he had still some ten minutes in hand; but as there were
several others as early as himself, this fact did not weigh heavily upon
his mind. Meanwhile he kept a sharp eye on the road down which he had
come, and when he espied the stout figure of the old baronet on his
famous hunter, with his daughter beside him, mounted on a somewhat
vicious-looking chestnut, he rode forward to receive them.
“A capital day,” said the old gentleman, when they had exchanged the
usual salutations. “We could scarcely have a better. Strangely enough,
as I was saying to Molly just now, in fifty years I’ve never known a wet
Churley Cross Meet.”
“What do you think of my new horse, Mr. Henderson?” inquired his
daughter, when the latter had remarked upon the strangeness of the
coincidence. “Papa bought him for me on Saturday.”
“He must be very nearly thoroughbred,” Godfrey replied, not caring to
add that he did not altogether like the look of the animal in question.
There was a nasty flicker in the horse’s eyes, of which, to Godfrey’s
thinking, he showed a great deal too much white. There could be no
denying his make and shape, however. “You’ll be showing us a clean pair
of heels to-day.”
“I’ll be bound she will,” said the old baronet, upon whom the horse had
evidently made a favourable impression. “They tell me he won a decent
steeplechase last season; and Seth Warton, of whom I got him, says he is
the best he has had in his stable for many a long day. That says
something.”
“I sincerely hope he may prove to be all you could wish,” said Godfrey;
and at that moment the Master came forward to bid them good-morning.
“I think we’ll try the Spinney first, Sir Vivian,” he said. “I hear good
reports in that direction. A new horse, Miss Devereux, and I should say
a fast one. Have pity on us all!”
As if to prove that his manners were not so good as his looks, the
animal in question made as if he would rear, and for a moment Godfrey’s
heart seemed to stand still.
“I don’t like the look of him,” he said to himself. “Heaven send he does
her no mischief.”
But he was not permitted much time to think of such a thing, for the
Master had given the signal, and already a general move was being made
in the direction of the Spinney. Godfrey settled himself down by Miss
Devereux’s side, leaving the old gentleman free to discuss the
prospects of the day with the local doctor, a sportsman of some
celebrity in the neighbourhood.
“Miss Devereux,” said Godfrey, as they approached the wood, “at the risk
of offending you, I must say that I don’t altogether care about the look
of that horse. I should say, from his appearance, handsome as it is,
that he possesses more than a touch of temper. I do hope you will be
careful what you do with him to-day.”
“You needn’t be afraid,” she answered, as she flashed a sharp glance at
him. “I think we understand each other perfectly. He hasn’t been with
hounds for some time, and he’s naturally a little excited. It will wear
off, however, before the day is done.”
“I sincerely hope it may,” Godfrey continued. “In the meantime I can not
help wishing that we could exchange mounts.”
“You think that you could manage him better than I?” she said. “If that
is a challenge we will see. Now, let us watch what goes on, for I want
to be well away.”
At that moment three blasts of the horn were heard from the right, and,
before Godfrey could have counted twenty, the hounds were out of cover
and streaming away in the direction of the village--only to change
their course after the first quarter of a mile.
“It looks as if we were in for a fast thing,” said Miss Devereux; and
the words had scarcely left her lips when the chestnut gave a violent
plunge in the air and was off at a racing pace.
“If he goes on like that, the brute will pull her arms out, if he
doesn’t do anything worse,” Godfrey muttered to himself.
But so far the girl had got him well in hand. Sitting back in the
saddle, she let him have his head, taking a gradual pull at him as they
neared the first hedge. Whatever his other faults may have been, he was
certainly a jumper, for he cleared the obstacle in unmistakable style.
As she had said a few moments before, there could be no doubt that they
were in for a fast thing. The hounds were racing as if their one desire
was to run Master Reynard to earth before he could get into the next
field. Godfrey’s own horse, to use a phrase that his mother could never
understand, “was going strong,” but he could not live in the same county
with the chestnut. In spite of Miss Devereux’s undoubted skill in the
saddle, the horse was gradually becoming the master. At the third fence,
an ugly-looking post and rail, with a bad approach, he took off too
soon, giving his rider the chance of an extremely nasty fall. She saved
the situation, however, by a miracle. They had reached the top of the
hill, and were descending into the valley on the other side, when
Godfrey, whose horse was doing its best, realized that something very
serious was the matter ahead. The chestnut had undeniably got out of
hand, and, scared by some sheep, was edging toward the left.
“It is just what I expected,” he said to himself as he rode along some
half-a-dozen lengths behind the other. “She is losing control over him.
I must follow at all costs.”
Digging his spurs into the horse’s side, he endeavoured to race up to
the animal in front of him. He was too late, however. The chestnut had
got the bit in his teeth, and, swerving to the left, was galloping in
the direction of a small wood. Observing this, Godfrey turned his
horse’s head and made after him. Fortunately, the paddock over which
they were galloping was a large one; but the chestnut was going at such
a pace that he very soon crossed it. Skirting the wood, he began to
descend the hill on the other side. Then he disappeared altogether from
view. When Godfrey reached the top of the rise, he scarcely dared to
look about him; but when he did so, he saw that the horse had altered
his original course, and was making his way again across the angle, as
if he desired to reach the line the hounds were still following. In a
flash Godfrey realized the situation and took in the fact that the
animal was unconsciously making direct for a large chalk pit, and that
unless something were done at once to prevent him, nothing could save
both horse and rider from a terrible death.
“God help me to save her!” he cried. “God help me to save her!”