IN FULL CRY
Riding to hounds is one of the few forms of sport which appeal to me,
and I should like it better still if no fox or other creature
were tortured.
On that point Dulcie and I had long been agreed; it was one of many
questions upon which we saw eye to eye, for on some subjects our
views differed.
"It seems to me grotesque," I remember her saying to me once, "that we
English should hold up our hands in horror at the thought of
bull-fights, while so many of us take pleasure in the hateful business
of the kill in fox-hunting."
In reply I had explained to her that the art of diplomacy lies in seeing
the beam in the other man's eye and drawing attention to it, while
blinding oneself to the mote in one's own, and if possible convincing
the other man that the mote does not exist. Dulcie, however, had her
full share of intelligence, with the result that, in modern slang, she
"wasn't taking any."
"In that case," she had retorted, "you should feel thankful that you are
not a diplomat, Mike. You have your points, but tact and logic are not
among them, you know!"
Sir Roland always mounted me when I stayed at Holt Manor in the hunting
season, and already I had enjoyed two capital days' sport. Pressed to
do so—and it had not needed great persuasion—instead of returning to
town on the second Saturday after Christmas, I had stayed over the
Sunday, for on the Monday hounds were to meet at the Manor House. All
the other guests, with the exception of two cousins of Sir Roland's, had
left on the Saturday, so that we were a family party to all intents; in
secret I was determined that before the dawn of spring I should be a
member of the family in reality.
Mounted on a well-shaped chestnut three parts thoroughbred, Dulcie had
never, I thought, looked so wholly captivating as she did on that Monday
morning; I overtook her, I remember, while the chattering cavalcade
trotted from the meet at Holt Manor to the first cover to be drawn.
The first cover proved to be tenantless. So did a small, thickly
underwooded copse. So did a stretch of bracken. So did a large pine wood
some miles from Holt Manor, which was usually a sure find.
"You may say what you like," Dulcie exclaimed as the notes of the
huntsman's horn warned us that the pack was once more being blown out of
cover, "I maintain still that a drag hunt has advantages over a fox
hunt—your red herring or your sack of aniseed rags never disappoint
you, and you are bound to get a run."
As we turned out of the lane into a broad meadow, then broke into a hand
canter across the soft, springy turf, to take up our position at a point
where we could easily slip forward if hounds should find, I told Dulcie
jokingly that if her father preserved foxes as carefully as he always
said he did, these covers on his estate would not have been drawn blank.
She turned her head sharply.
"Father always says," she exclaimed, "that—"
But what he always said I never heard, for at that instant a piercing
"Tally-ho!" rent the air, and, looking up, we saw a long, yellow,
lean-bodied fox which apparently had jumped up within a hundred yards of
the pack, lolloping unconcernedly towards a hedge near by. He reached
the fence, paused, cast a single glance behind him at the fifteen or so
couple of relentless four-footed pursuers, then popped calmly through a
gap in the fence, and disappeared.
A few moments later hounds had settled to the line, and were streaming
out across the broad, undulating pasture which spread away before us in
the distance, cut here and there by thorn fences, a winding stream
marked by pollards, and several post-and-rails. From all directions came
the field, galloping at top speed for the only gate in the thick hedge,
fifty yards ahead of us, crowding and jostling one another in their
anxiety to get through. Six or eight horsemen had cleared the fence at
the few places where it was jumpable. Others were preparing to follow
them. The music of the flying pack grew less distinct.
"Come along, Mike!" Dulcie called to me, turning her horse abruptly in
the direction of the hedge, "we shall get left if we hang about here."
She was thirty yards from the hedge now—twenty—ten. Timing his stroke
to a nicety her horse rose. An instant later he had cleared the fence,
with a foot or more to spare. I followed, and almost as my mare landed I
saw Dulcie lower her head and cast a backward glance.
Now we were sailing side by side over the broad, undulating pastures
which form a feature of that part of Berkshire. A hundred yards ahead of
us the pack tore ever onward, their sterns and noses mostly to the
ground, their music rising at intervals—a confused medley of sound in
various cadences, above which a single, deep, bell-like note seemed ever
prominent, insistent.
"That's Merry Boy," Dulcie exclaimed as she began to steady her mount—a
stiff post-and-rails was fifty yards in front of us. "I know his voice
well. Dan always declares that Merry Boy couldn't blunder if he
tried"—I knew Dan to be the huntsman.
On and on the pack swept, now heading apparently for a cover of dark
pines visible upon a hill to the left of us, away against the skyline.
In front of us and to right and left horses were clearing fences, which
here were very numerous, some jumping well and freely, some blundering,
some pecking on landing, a few falling. Yet, considering the size of the
field, there was very little grief.
"Who is the girl in the brown habit?" I asked Dulcie, soon after we had
negotiated a rather high-banked brook. I had noticed this girl in the
brown habit almost from the beginning of the run—tall, graceful, a
finished horsewoman, mounted on a black thoroughbred, and apparently
unaccompanied, even by a groom.
"That?" Dulcie exclaimed, bringing her horse a little nearer, so that
she need not speak too loud. "Oh, she is something of a mystery. She is
a widow, though she can't be more than twenty-four or five. She lives at
the Rook Hotel, in Newbury, and has three horses stabled there. She must
have been there a couple of months, now. A few people have called upon
her, including my father and Aunt Hannah, but nobody seems to know
anything about her, who she is or was, or where she comes from. Doesn't
she ride well? I like her, though as yet I hardly know her. She's so
pretty, too, and has such a nice voice. I'll introduce you, if you like,
if I get a chance later."
I remembered that this widow in the brown habit had been one of the
first to arrive at the meet, but she had not dismounted. Dulcie also
told me that she had dined at Holt once, and evinced great interest in
the house. She had brought with her an old volume containing pictures of
the place as it was in some early century, a book Sir Roland had never
seen before, and that he had read with avidity, for everything to do
with the past history of his house appealed to him. Mrs. Stapleton had
ended by making him a present of the book, and before she had left, that
night Sir Roland had shown her over the whole house, pointing out the
priests' hiding-hole—a curious chamber which fifty years before had
come to light while repairs were being made in the great hall
chimney—also a secret door which led apparently nowhere.
"I think my father was greatly attracted by her," Dulcie said, "and I am
not surprised. I think she is quite lovely, though in such a curious,
irregular way; but besides that there is something awfully 'taking'
about her. She doesn't, however, seem to 'go down' very well with the
people about here; but then you know what county society is. She seems
to have hardly any friends, and to live an almost solitary life."
Though I had spared her as much as I could, and though I ride barely ten
stone seven, my mare was beginning to sob. Unbuttoning my coat and
pulling out my watch as we still galloped along, I found that hounds had
been running close on forty minutes without a moment's check.
"Dulcie," I said, coming up alongside her again, "my mare is nearly
beat. Have you a second horse out?"
She told me she had not—that my mount would have been her second horse
had she been out alone.
"Look," she exclaimed suddenly, "they have turned sharp to the right.
Oh, I hope they won't kill! I feel miserable when they kill, especially
when the fox has shown us such good sport."
I answered something about hounds deserving blood: about the way
the farmers grumbled when foxes were not killed, and so on; but,
woman-like, she stuck to her point and would listen to no argument.
"I hope they'll lose him in that cover just ahead," she exclaimed.
"Hounds may deserve blood, but such a good fox as this deserves to get
away, while as for the farmers—well, let them grumble!"
Half a minute later the pack disappeared into the dense pine wood. Then
suddenly there was silence, all but the sound of horses galloping still;
of horses blowing, panting, sobbing. From all directions they seemed
to come.
"Whoo-whoop!"
The scream, issuing from the depths of the wood, rent the air. An
instant later it came again:
"Whoo-whoo-_whoop_!"
There was a sound of cracking twigs, of a heavy body forcing its way
through undergrowth, and the first whip crashed out of the cover, his
horse stumbling as he landed, but recovering himself cleverly.
"Have they killed?" several voices called.
"No, worse luck—gone to ground," the hunt servant answered, and Dulcie,
close beside me, exclaimed in a tone of exultation:
"Oh, good!"
I had dismounted, loosened my mare's girths, and turned her nose to the
light breeze. Sweat was pouring off her, and she was still blowing hard.
"Shall I unmount you, Dulcie?" I asked.
She nodded, and presently she stood beside me while I attended to her
horse.
"Ah, Mrs. Stapleton!" I heard her exclaim suddenly.
I had loosened the girths of Dulcie's horse, and now I looked up.
Seated upon a black thoroughbred, an exceedingly beautiful young woman
gazed down with flushed face and shining eyes.
It was a rather strange face, all things considered. The features were
irregular, yet small and refined. The eyes were bright and brown—at
least not exactly brown; rather they were the colour of a brilliant
red-brown wallflower, and large and full of expression. Her skin, though
extremely clear, was slightly freckled.
Dulcie had exchanged a few remarks with her. Now she turned to me.
"Mike," she said, "I want to introduce you to Mrs. Stapleton. Mrs.
Stapleton, do you know Mr. Berrington?"
The beautiful young widow, gazing down at me as I looked up at her and
raised my hat, presently made some complimentary remark about my mount
and the way she jumped, then added:
"I noticed her all through the run—she's just the stamp of animal I
have been looking for. Is she for sale, by any chance, Mr. Berrington?"
I replied that the mare was not mine, that she must ask Miss Challoner
or Sir Roland. For the instant it struck me as odd that, hunting
regularly with this pack, she should not have recognized the animal,
for I knew that Dulcie rode it frequently. Then I remembered that some
people can no more recognize horses than they can recognize their casual
friends when they meet them in the street, and the thought faded.
There was talk of digging out the fox—an operation which Dulcie and I
equally detested—and that, added to the knowledge that we were many
miles from Holt, also that our horses had had enough, made us decide to
set out for home.
Looking back, for some reason, as we walked our horses away from the
cover-side towards the nearest lane, I noticed the young widow seated
erect upon her black horse, staring after us. I turned to shut the gate,
after we had passed into the lane; she was still sitting there, outlined
against the wood and apparently still staring in our direction.
Why, I don't know, but as I trotted quietly along the lane, to overtake
Dulcie, whose horse was an exceptionally fast walker, I felt uneasy.
Presently my thoughts drifted into quite a different channel. All
recollection of the day's sport, of the pretty widow I had just talked
to, and of the impression she had left upon my mind, faded completely. I
was thinking of someone else, someone close beside me, almost touching
me, and yet—
Neither of us spoke. It was nearly four o'clock. The afternoon was
quickly closing in. Away beyond the woods which sloped upward in the
western distance until they touched the sky, the sun's blood-red beam
pierced the slowly-rising mist rolling down into the valley where the
pollards marked the winding course of the narrow, sluggish stream. Over
brown woods and furrowed fields it cast a curious glow.
Now the light of the winter's sun, sinking still, fell full on my
companion's face, I caught the outline of her profile, and my pulses
seemed to quicken. Her hair was burnished gold. Her eyes shone
strangely. Her expression, to my eyes, seemed to be entirely
transformed. How young she looked at that instant, how absolutely, how
indescribably attractive! Would she, I wondered, ever come to understand
how deeply she had stolen into my heart? Until this instant I myself
seemed not fully to have realized it.
Presently she turned her head. Her gaze rested on mine. Gravely,
steadily, her wonderful brown eyes read—I firmly believe—what was in
my soul: how madly I had come to love her. Without meaning to, I
started. A sensation of thrilling expectancy took possession of me. I
was approaching, I felt, the crisis of my life, the outcome of which
must mean everything to both of us.
"You are very silent, Mike," she said in a low, and, as I thought,
rather strained voice. "Is anything the matter?"
I swallowed before answering.
"Yes—something is the matter," I said limply.
"What?"
I caught my breath. How could she look into my eyes like that, ask that
question—such a foolish question it seemed—as though I were naught to
her but a stranger, or, at most, some merely casual acquaintance? Was it
possible she realized nothing, suspected nothing, had no faint idea of
the feeling I entertained for her?
"What is the matter?" she asked again, as I had not answered.
"Oh, it's something—well, something I can't well explain to you under
the circumstances," I replied awkwardly, an anxious, hot feeling
coming over me.
"Under what circumstances?"
"What circumstances!"
"Yes."
"This is our gap," I exclaimed hurriedly, as we came to a broken bank by
the lane-side—I was glad of the excuse for not answering. I turned my
mare's nose towards the bank, touched her with the spur, and at once she
scrambled over.
Dulcie followed.
Around us a forest of pines, dark, motionless, forbidding, towered into
the sky. To right and left moss-grown rides wound their way into the
undulating cover, becoming tunnels in the distance as they vanished into
blackness, for the day was almost spent.
Slowly we turned into the broader of the two rides. We still rode side
by side. Still neither of us spoke. Now the moss beneath our horses'
hoofs grew so thick and soft that their very footfalls became muffled.
Ten minutes must have passed. In the heart of the dense wood all was
still as death, save for a pheasant's evening crow, and the sudden rush
of a rabbit signalling danger to its companions.
"What circumstances, Mike?" Dulcie repeated. She spoke in a strange
tone. Her voice was very low, as though she feared to break the silence
which surrounded us.
Taken aback, I hesitated. We were very close together now—my leg
touched her horse. Already, overhead in a moonless sky, the stars shone
brightly. In the growing gloom her face was visible, though
partly blurred.
"Why not stop here a moment?" I said, hardly knowing that I spoke, or
why I spoke. My mouth had grown suddenly dry. The _timbre_ of my voice
somehow founded different. Without answering she shortened her reins,
and her horse was still.
Why had we stopped? Why had I suggested our stopping? I saw her, in the
darkness, turn her face to mine, but she said nothing.
"Dulcie!" I exclaimed suddenly, no longer able to control myself.
Without knowing it I leant forward in my saddle. I could see her eyes,
now. Her gaze was set on mine. Her lips were slightly parted. Her breast
rose and fell.
Some strange, irresistible force seemed all at once to master me,
deadening my will, my brain, my power of self-restraint. My arm was
about her; I was drawing her towards me. I felt surprise that she should
offer no resistance. My lips were pressed on hers....
* * * * *
She was kissing me feverishly, passionately. Her whole soul seemed to
have become suddenly transformed. Her arms were about my neck—I could
not draw away.
"Oh, Mike! Mike!" she gasped, "tell me you really mean it—that you are
not just playing with me—flirting with me—tell me you ... oh, I love
you so, dearest. Ah, yes. I love you so, I love you so!"
It was very dark by the time we had made our way through the extensive
wood—a short cut to Holt Manor—and were once more in the lanes, I
felt strangely happy, and yet a curious feeling which I could neither
explain nor account for obsessed me.
Our joy was so great—would it last? That was the purport of my
sensation, if I may express it so. I longed at that moment to be able to
look into the future. What had the Fates in store for me—for us both?
Perhaps it was as well I didn't know.
We had entered the park gates, and were half-way up the long avenue of
tall elms and stately oaks, when I saw a light approaching through the
darkness. It came nearer, and we guessed it must be a man on foot,
carrying a lantern.
Now he was quite close.
"Is that Miss Dulcie? a voice inquired out of the blackness, as the
light became stationary.
"Yes. That you, Churchill?" Dulcie called back.
Churchill was the head gardener. Born and bred on the estate, there were
few things he loved better than to recall to mind, and relate to anybody
sufficiently patient to listen to him, stories and anecdotes of the
family. Of "Miss Dulcie" he would talk for an hour if you let him,
telling you how he remembered her when she was "not so high," and of the
things she had done and said as a child.
"What do you want, Churchill?" she called to him, as he remained silent.
Still for some moments he did not speak. At last he apparently plucked
up courage.
"There's been sad doings at the house," he said, and his voice was
strained.
"Sad doings!" Dulcie exclaimed in alarm. "Why, what do you mean?"
"There's been a shocking robbery, Miss Dulcie—shocking. You'll hear
all about it when you go in. I thought it best to warn you about it. And
Master Dick—"
He stopped abruptly.
"Good heavens, Churchill!" she cried out in great alarm, "quick, tell me
what has happened, tell me everything. What about Master Dick?"
"He's been served shocking, Miss. Oh, it's a terrible affair. The whole
house looted during the hunt breakfast this, morning, and Master Dick—"
"Yes! Yes!"
"Treated something crool."
"Dick! They haven't hurt Dick. Oh, don't say they have done him some
injury!"
The tone of agony in her voice was piteous.
"He's come round now, Miss Dulcie, but he's been unconscious for hours.
They put chloroform or something on him—Sir Roland himself found him in
one of the upstairs rooms, lying on the floor just like dead."
"Oh, heavens, how awful! How is he now?"
"The two doctors are with him still, Miss, and as I come away, not ten
minutes ago, they telled me he was goin' on as well as could be
expected. It was at lunch time Sir Roland found him, and then the
robbery was discovered. Every bit of jewellery's been stolen, 'tis said,
and a whole chest-full of plate—the plate chests were open all the
morning as some of the old silver had been used at the breakfast. The
robbery must have took place during the meet, when the hall and rooms
downstairs was full of people and all the servants as busy as could be.
There was lots of cars there as you know, Miss, and the police think the
thieves must have come in a car and gone into the house as if they were
hunting-folk. But nobody don't seem to have seen any stranger going
upstairs—the police say there must have been several thieves on the
job. Master Dick may be able to tell something when he's hisself again,
pore young gentleman."
We didn't wait to hear more, but set our horses into a smart trot up the
avenue to the house.