One stormy winter's evening the baronet, well armed, cloaked, and booted, left his own house for the metropolis, accompanied by one trusty servant. He was bearing papers of importance, and was hurrying on to lay them with the greatest dispatch before his fellow-conspirators. As night was drawing on, Sir Hugh's horse shied away from a wild figure, looming like some spectre in the fading light; and ere he had forced the animal back into the path, his bridle was caught by a half-naked lad, whom the rider at once recognized as an emissary he had often before employed to be the bearer of secret intelligence, and who, under an affectation of being half-witted, concealed much shrewdness of observation and unimpeachable fidelity to the cause.
"Whip and spur, Sir Hugh—whip and spur," said the lad, who seemed flustered and confused with drink; "you may burst your best horse betwixt this and London, and all to get there before you're wanted. A dollar to drink, Sir Hugh, like handsome Ned gave me this morning—a dollar to drink, and I'll save you a journey for the sake of the 'Bonny White Rose' and the 'Bird with the Yellow Bill.'"
Sir Hugh scrutinized the lad with a piercing eye, flung him a crown from his purse, and bid him "out with what he had to say, for that he himself was hurried, and must push on to further the good cause." The lad was sobered in an instant.
"Look ye here, Sir Hugh," he said eagerly; "handsome Ned went down the road at a gallop this morning. There's something brewing in London, you may trust me, Sir Hugh, and I tried to stop him to learn his errand; but he tossed me a crown and galloped on. He took the Hill road, Sir Hugh, and you came up the Vale; but he's bound for Dangerfield, I know, and mayhap he's got papers that will save your journey to London. No offence, Sir Hugh," added the lad, for the baronet's face was black as midnight.
"None, my good boy," was the reply in a hoarse, thick voice. "Hold, there's another crown for you—drink it every farthing, you villain! or I never give you a sixpence again;" and Sir Hugh rode on as though bound for London, but stopped a mile farther forward, at a place where two roads met; and entrusting his papers to his servant, bade him hasten on with them, whilst he galloped back through the darkness in the direction of his home.
Home, indeed! Had it ever been home to Sir Hugh? Would it be home to-night? When he got back there, and skulked into his own house like a midnight thief—what would he do?—why was he galloping so fast? Sir Hugh set his teeth tight, and holding his powerful horse hard by the head urged him on faster than before. The lights are all out in the little village of which he is sole master, and his horse's hoofs clattering through the street rouse the sleepy inmates for an instant ere they return to their peaceful rest. Sir Hugh is not sleepy; he feels as if he never should want to sleep again.
How dark it is in the Park under those huge old trees! He fastens his horse to one of the drooping branches, and after removing his pistols from their holsters spreads his cloak over the heaving flanks of the heated animal. Habit is second nature, and he does not forget the good horse. He strides through the shrubberies and across Lucy's garden, crushing with his heavy boot-heel the last flower that had lingered on into the winter. There is a light streaming from one of the windows in the gallery. Ha!—he may be right—he may not have returned in vain. For an instant a feeling of sickness comes over him, and he learns for the first time that he had cherished a hope he might be deceived.
He can let himself in by the garden-gate with his own pass-key. Ere he is aware, he is tramping up the corridor in his heavy horseman's boots—his hand is on the door—there is a woman's shriek—and Sir Hugh's tall, dark figure fills the doorway of Lucy's sitting-room, where, alas! she is not alone, for the stern, angry husband is confronted by Ned Meredith!
Lucy cowers down in a corner of the room with her face buried in her hands. Cousin Edward draws himself up to his full height, and looks his antagonist steadily in the face, but with an expression of calm despair that seems to say fate has now done her worst. Sir Hugh is cool, collected, and polite; nay, he can even smile, but he speaks strangely, almost in a whisper, and hisses through his set teeth. He has double-locked the door behind him, and turns to Cousin Edward with a grave, courteous bow.
"You have done me the honour of an unexpected visit, Mr. Meredith," he says. "I trust Lady Horsingham has entertained you hospitably! Pray do not stir, madam. Mr. Meredith, we are now quits; you saved my life when you encountered Colonel Bludyer; I forbore from taking yours when I had proofs that it was my right. We have now entered on a fresh account, but the game shall be fairly played. Mr. Meredith, you are a man of honour—yes, it shall be fairly played." Ned's lip quivered, but he bowed and stood perfectly still. "Lady Horsingham," continued Sir Hugh, "be good enough to hand me those tables; they contain a dice-box.—Nay, Mr. Meredith," seeing Ned about to assist the helpless, frightened woman; "when present, at least, I expect my wife to obey me." Lucy was forced to rise, and, trembling in every limb, to present the tables to her lord. Sir Hugh placed the dice-box on the table, laid his pistols beside it, and, taking a seat, motioned to Cousin Edward to do the same. "You are a man of honour, Mr. Meredith," he repeated; "we will throw three times, and the highest caster shall blow the other's brains out." Lucy shrieked and rushed to the door; it was fast, and her husband forced her to sit down and watch the ghastly game.
"Good God, Sir Hugh!" exclaimed Cousin Edward, "this is too horrible—for your wife's sake—any reparation I can make, I will; but this is murder, deliberate murder!"
"You are a man of honour, Mr. Meredith," reiterated Sir Hugh. "I ask for no reparation but this—the chances are equal if the stakes are high. You are my guest, or rather, I should say, Lady Horsingham's guest. Begin." Cousin Edward's face turned ghastly pale. He took the box, shook it, hesitated; but the immovable eye was fixed on him, the stern lips repeated once more, "You are a man of honour," and he threw—"Four." It was now Sir Hugh's turn. With a courteous bow he received the box, and threw—"Seven." Again the adversaries cast, the one a six, the other a three; and now they were even in the ghastly match. Once more Cousin Edward shook the box, and the leaping dice turned up—"Eleven." Lucy's white face stood out in the lamplight, as she watched with stony eyes that seemed to have lost the very power of sight.
"For God's sake, forego this frightful determination, Sir Hugh," pleaded Cousin Edward; "take my life in a fair field. I will offer no resistance; but you can hardly expect to outdo my throw, and nothing shall induce me to take advantage of it. Think better of it, Sir Hugh, I entreat you."
"You are a man of honour, Mr. Meredith, and so am I," was the only reply, as Sir Hugh brandished the box aloft, and thundered it down on the table—"Sixes!" "Good casting," he remarked; and at the same instant cocking the pistol nearest to him, discharged it full into his antagonist's bosom. The bullet sped through a delicate lace handkerchief, which he always wore there, straight and true into Cousin Edward's heart. As he fell forward across the table, a dark stream flowed slowly along the carpet, till it dyed the border of Lucy's white dress with a crimson stain. She was on her knees, apparently insensible; but one small hand felt the cold, wet contact, and she looked at it, and saw that it was blood. Once more she uttered a shriek that rang through those vast buildings, and rushed again to the door to find it locked. In sheer despair she made for the window, threw open the casement, and ere Sir Hugh could seize or stop her flung herself headlong into the court below. When the horrified husband looked down into the darkness, a wisp of white garments, a bruised and lifeless body, was all that remained of Lady Horsingham.
That night one half of Dangerfield Hall was consumed by fire. Its mistress was said to have perished in the flames. The good neighbours, the honest country people, pitied poor Sir Hugh, galloping back from London, to find his house in ruins and his wife a corpse. His gay companions missed "Ned Meredith" from his usual haunts; but it was generally supposed he had obtained a mission to the court of St. Germains, and there was a rumour that he had perished in a duel with a French marquis. A certain half-witted lad, who had followed Sir Hugh back to Dangerfield on that fearful night, might have elucidated the mystery; but he had been kidnapped, and sent to the plantations. After many years he returned to England, and on his deathbed left a written statement, implicating Sir Hugh in the double crime of arson and murder. But long ere this the culprit had appeared before a tribunal which admits of no prevarication, and the pretty boy with the golden curls had become lord of Dangerfield Hall. The long corridor had been but partially destroyed. It was repaired and refurnished by successive generations; but guests and servants alike refused to sleep again in that dreary wing after the first trial. Every night, so surely as the clock tolled out the hour of twelve, a rush of feet was heard along the passage—a window looking into the court was thrown open—a piercing scream from a woman's voice rang through the building—and those who were bold enough to look out averred that they beheld a white figure leap wildly into the air and disappear. Some even went so far as to affirm that drops of blood, freshly sprinkled, were found every morning on the pavement of the court. But no one ever doubted the Dangerfield ghost to be the nightly apparition of Lucy, Lady Horsingham. At length, in my grandfather's time, certain boards being lifted to admit of fresh repairs in the accursed corridor, the silver-mounted guard of a rapier, the stock and barrel of a pistol, with a shred of lace, on which the letter "L" was yet visible, were discovered by the workmen. They are in existence still. Whatever other remains accompanied them turned to dust immediately on exposure to the air. That dust was, however, religiously collected and buried in a mausoleum appropriated to the Horsinghams. Since then the ghost has been less troublesome; but most of the family have seen or heard it at least once in their lives. I confess that if ever I lie awake at Dangerfield till the clock strikes twelve I invariably stop my ears and bury my head under the bedclothes for at least a quarter of an hour. By these means I have hitherto avoided any personal acquaintance with the spectre; but nothing on earth would induce me to walk down that corridor at midnight and risk a private interview with the Dangerfield ghost!
CHAPTER X.
As for spending a whole morning in the drawing-room with the ladies it is what I cannot and will not submit to. Working and scandal, scandal and working, from half-past ten till two is more than I can stand, so the very first morning I was at Dangerfield I resolved to break the chain at once, and do as I always meant to do for the future. Accordingly, immediately after breakfast I popped my bonnet on—the lavender one, that had done a good deal of London work, but was still quite good enough for the country—and started off for a walk by myself, confiding my intentions to no one; as I well knew if I did I should have Aunt Deborah's "Kate, pray don't overheat yourself, my dear. Do wrap yourself up, and take care not to catch cold;" and Lady Horsingham's sarcastic smile, and "In my time, Miss Coventry, young ladies were not in the habit of trailing all over the country by themselves; but I expect soon to hear of their farming and fishing and shooting, I shouldn't wonder—not worse than hunting, at any rate. However, I say nothing;" and Cousin Amelia with her lackadaisical sneer, and her avowal that "she was not equal to walking," and her offer to "go as far as the garden with me in the afternoon." So I tripped down the back staircase and away to the stables with a bit of sugar for Brilliant, who had arrived safely by the train in company with White Stockings, and on through the kitchen-garden and the home-farm up to the free, fresh, breezy down.
I do enjoy a walk by myself, and it was the last chance I should have of one; for Cousin John was expected that very day, and when Cousin John and I are anywhere, of course we are inseparable. But I am sure an occasional stroll quite by oneself does one more good than anything. I think of such quantities of things that never occur to me at other times—fairies, brigands, knights, and damsels, and all sorts of wild adventures; and I feel so brave and determined, as if I could face anything in a right cause, and so good, and I make such excellent resolutions, and walk faster and faster, and get more and more romantic, like a goose, as I know I am.
Well, it was a beautiful morning, early in autumn—blue sky, light fleecy clouds, a sharp, clear air from the north, the low country studded with corn-ricks, and alive with reapers and cart-teams and cattle. A green valley below me, rich in fine old timber, and clothed with high, thick hedgerows, concealing the sluggish river that stole softly away, and only gleamed out here and there to light up the distance; whilst above and around me stretched far and wide the vast expanse of down, cutting sharply against the sky, and dwarfing to mere shrubs the clumps of old fir trees that relieved its magnificent monotony. I was deep in a daydream and an imaginary conversation with Frank Lovell—in which I was running over with much mental eloquence what I should say, and what he would say, and what I should reply to that—when a shrill whistle caused me to start and turn suddenly round; whilst at the same instant a great black retriever bounced up against my legs, and two handsome pointers raced by me as if just emancipated from the kennel. The consequence of all this was that I stepped hastily on a loose stone, turned my foot the wrong way under me, and came down with a slightly-sprained ankle, and the black retriever, an animal of exceedingly noisome breath, affectionately licking my face.
"Down, Juno!—I beg your pardon a million times; get down, you bitch! How shall I ever apologize? Confound you, get down," said an agitated voice above me; and looking up I espied the red-haired stranger of the railway, dressed in a most conspicuous shooting-costume, white hat and all, whose dogs had been the means of bringing me thus suddenly to the earth, and on whom I was now dependent for succour and support till I should be able to reach home.
In such an emergency my new friend was not half so confused and shy as I should have expected. He seemed to summon all his energies to consider what was best to be done; and as my foot pained me considerably when I tried to walk (particularly down hill), he made no more ado, but lifted me carefully in his arms, and proceeded incontinently to carry me off in the direction of Dangerfield Hall, where he seemed intuitively to know I was at present residing.
It was, to say the least of it, an unusual situation. A man I had never seen but once before in my life—and here was I lying in his arms (precious weight he must have found me!) and looking up in his face like a child in its nurse's, and the usages of society making it incumbent on us both to attempt a sort of indifferent conversation about the weather and the country and the beauty of the scenery, which the juxtaposition of our respective faces rendered ludicrous in the extreme.
"A tempting day for a walk, Miss—ah—ah" (he didn't know my name—how should he?—and was now beginning to get very red, partly from the return of his constitutional shyness and partly from the severity of his exertions). "I hope your foot does not pain you quite so much; be good enough to lean a little more this way." Poor man, how his arms must have ached! Whilst I replied somewhat in this fashion, "Thank you, I'm better; I shall soon be able to walk, I think; this is indeed a lovely country. Don't you find me very heavy?" "I think I could carry you a good many miles," he said quietly; and then seemed so shocked at such an avowal that he hardly opened his lips again, and put me down the very first time I asked him, and offered me his arm with an accession of confusion that made me feel quite awkward myself. Truth to tell, my ankle was not sprained, only twisted; and when the immediate pain wore off I was pretty sound again, and managed, with the assistance of my new acquaintance's arm, to make a very good walk of it. So we plodded on quite sociably towards the Hall, and my friend took leave of me at the farm with a polite bow and a sort of hesitating manner that most shy men possess, and which would lead one to infer they have always got something more to say that never is said. I knew I should be well scolded if I avowed my accident to any of the family; besides, I did not quite fancy facing all the inquiries as to how I got home, and Cousin Amelia's sneers about errant damsels and wandering knights; so I stole quietly up to my room, bathed my foot in eau-de-Cologne, and remained perdue till dinner-time, in despite of repeated messages from my aunts and the arrival of Cousin John.
People may talk about country pleasures and country duties and all the charms of country life; but it appears to me that a good many things are done under the titles of pleasure and duty which belong in reality to neither; and that those who live entirely in the country inflict on themselves a great variety of unnecessary disagreeables, as they lose a great many of its chief delights. Of all receipts for weariness commend me to a dinner-party of country neighbours by daylight—people who know each other just well enough to have opposite interests and secret jealousies—who arrive ill at ease in their smart dresses, to sit through a protracted meal with hot servants and forced conversation, till one young lady on her promotion being victimized at the pianoforte enables them to yawn unobserved; and welcome ten o'clock brings round the carriage and tipsy coachman, in order that they may enter on their long, dark, dreary drive home through lanes and by-ways, which is only endurable from the consideration that the annual ordeal has been accomplished, and that they need not do it again till this time next year.
There was a dinner-party at Dangerfield regularly once a month, and this was the day. Aunt Horsingham was great on these occasions, astonishing the neighbours as much with her London dresses as did Cousin Amelia with her London manners. We all assembled a few minutes earlier than usual in the drawing-room, so as to be ready to receive our guests, and great was the infliction on poor Aunt Deborah and my humble self. How they trooped in, one after another! Sir Brian and Lady Banneret and Master Banneret and two Misses Banneret; these were the great cards of the party; so Lady Horsingham kissed Lady Banneret and the young ladies, and opined Master Banneret was grown, much to the indignation of that young gentleman, who, being an Oxonian, of course considered himself a man. Sir Brian was a good-humoured jolly old boy, with a loud laugh, and stood with his coat-tails lifted and his back to the empty fireplace in perfect ease and contentment. Not so his lady; first she scrutinized everything Lady Horsingham had got on, then she took a review of the furniture, and specially marked one faded place in the carpet. Lastly, she turned a curious and disappointed glance on myself. I accounted for the latter mark of displeasure by the becoming shade of my gown; I knew it was a pretty one, and would meet with feminine censure accordingly. The Bannerets were soon followed by Mr. and Mrs. Plumridge, a newly-married couple, who were fêted accordingly. Mr. Plumridge was a light-haired, unmeaning-looking individual, partially bald, with a blue coat and white satin neckcloth; his bride a lively, sarcastic, black-eyed little woman, who must have married him for her own convenience—they said afterwards she was once a governess; but at all events she held her own handsomely when alone with the ladies after dinner, and partly from good-humour, partly from an exceedingly off-hand natural manner, forced even Lady Banneret to be civil to her. Then came the Marmadukes and the Marygolds, and old Miss Finch in a sedan-chair from the adjoining village, and a goodish-looking man whose name I never made out, and Mr. Sprigges the curate; and lastly, in a white heat and a state of utter confusion, my shy acquaintance of the railway and the pointers, who was ushered in by Lady Horsingham's pompous butler under the style and title of Mr. Haycock. He appeared to be a great friend of the family; and, much to his own discomfiture, was immediately laid violent hands on by my aunt and cousin—the former not thinking it necessary to present him to me, till he offered me his arm to take me in to dinner, when her face of reproval, on his stammering out he "had met Miss Coventry before," was worth anything, expressive as it was of shocked propriety and puzzled astonishment.
When you have a secret only known to your two selves, even with a shy man, it is wonderful how it brings him on. Before the soup was off the table Squire Haycock and I had become wonderfully good friends. He had hoped "my ankle did not pain me," and I had trusted "his arms did not ache." He had even gone the length of "vowing" that he would have shot his clumsy retriever for being the cause of the accident, only he let him off because "if it hadn't been for the dog——" and here, seeing Cousin Amelia's eye fixed upon us, my companion stopped dead short, and concealed his blushes in a glass of champagne. Taking courage from that well-iced stimulant, he reverted to our railway journey in company.
"I knew you again this morning, Miss Coventry, I assure you, a long way off; in fact, I was going the other way, only, seeing you walking in that lonely part of the down, I feared you might be frightened" (he was getting bright scarlet again), "and I determined to watch you at a little distance, and be ready to assist you if you were alarmed by tramps or sheep-dogs or——"
I thought he was getting on too fast, so I stopped him at once by replying,—
"I am well able to take care of myself, Mr. Haycock, I assure you, and I like best walking quite alone;" after which I turned my shoulder a little towards him, and completely discomfited him for the rest of dinner. One great advantage of diffidence in a man is that one can so easily reduce him to the lowest depths of despondency; but then, on the other hand, he is apt to think one means to be more cruel than one does, and one is obliged to be kind in proportion to previous coldness, or the stupid creature breaks away altogether. When the ladies got up to leave the dining-room, I dropped my handkerchief well under the table, and when it was returned to me by the Squire, I gave him such a look of gratitude as I knew would bring him back to me in the evening. Nobody hates flirting so much as myself, but what is one to do shut up in a country-house, with no earthly thing to occupy or amuse one?
Tea and coffee served but little to produce cordiality amongst the female portion of the guests after their flight to the drawing-room. Lady Horsingham and Lady Banneret talked apart on a sofa; they were deep in the merits of their respective preachers and the failings of their respective maids. Mrs. Marmaduke and Mrs. Marygold, having had a "Book-Club" feud, did not speak to each other, but communicated through the medium of Miss Finch, whose deafness rendered this a somewhat unsatisfactory process. Aunt Deborah went to sleep as usual; and I tried the two Miss Bannerets consecutively, but ascertained that neither would open her lips, at least in the presence of mamma. At last I found a vacant place by the side of Mrs. Plumridge, and discovered immediately, with the peculiar freemasonry which I believe men do not possess, that she was one of my sort. She liked walking, riding, driving, dancing—all that I liked, in short; and she hated scandal-gossiping, sensible women, morning visits, and worsted-work, for all of which I confess to an unqualified aversion. We were getting fast friends when the gentlemen came in from their wine, honest Sir Brian's voice sounding long before he entered the room, and the worthy gentleman himself rolling in with an unsteady step, partly from incipient gout, and partly, I fancy, from a good deal of port wine. He took a vacant seat by me almost immediately, chiefly, I think, because it was the nearest seat; and avowing openly his great regard and admiration for my neighbour, Mrs. Plumridge, proceeded to make himself agreeable to both of us in his own way—though I am concerned to state that he trod heavily on my sprained foot, and spilt the greater part of a cup of coffee over her satin gown. The Squire, whose nerves for the present were strung above blushing pitch, soon joined our little party; and whilst the two Miss Bannerets performed an endless duet on Aunt Horsingham's luckless pianoforte, and their brother, choking in his stiff white neckcloth, turned over the leaves, Sir Brian bantered Mr. Haycock gracefully on his abstemiousness after dinner, an effort of self-denial of which no one could accuse him, and vowed, with much laughter, that "Haycock must be in love! in love, Miss Coventry, don't you think so? A man that always used to take his two bottles as regularly as myself—I am a foe to excess, ladies, but Haycock's an anchorite, d—— me—a monk! Haycock! monks mustn't marry, you know!—wouldn't he look well with his feet shaved, Miss Coventry, and his head bare and a rope round his neck?" Sir Brian was getting confused, and had slightly transposed the clerical costume to which he alluded; but was quite satisfied that his little badinage was witty and amusing in the extreme. Indeed, Mrs. Plumridge and I couldn't help laughing; but poor Squire Haycock's embarrassment was so intense that he ordered his carriage immediately, and took leave, venturing, however, at the very last, to shake me by the hand, and braving once again the banter of the inebriated Baronet.
"Stole away," said Sir Brian; "a shy man, Miss Coventry—a shy, diffident man, my friend Haycock, but true as steel—not a better landlord in the county—excellent neighbour—useful magistrate—good house—beautiful garden—lots of poultry, and a glass beehive—wants nothing but a wife—order the carriage, my lady.—Mrs. Plumridge, you must come and see us at Slopperly, and don't forget to bring Plumridge.—Miss Coventry, you're a charming young lady; mind you come too." So jolly Sir Brian wished us both a most affectionate good-night, and, shaking Aunt Horsingham violently by both hands, packed himself into his carriage in a state of high good-humour and confusion. I have since heard that on his arrival at Slopperly he stoutly refused to get out, declaring that he preferred to "sit in the carriage whilst they changed horses," and avowing, much to his old butler's astonishment, his resolution to go "at least one more stage that night."
CHAPTER XI.
I must despair of being able in simple narrative to convey the remotest idea of the dullness of Dangerfield Hall; but as during my residence there I beguiled the weary hours by keeping a diary (bound in blue velvet, with brass clasps and a Bramah lock), I have it in my power, by transcribing a few of its pages, to present to my readers my own impressions of life in that well-regulated establishment. I put things down just as they happened, with my own reflections, more or less philosophical, on the events of each day. My literary labours were invariably carried on after the family had retired for the night; and I may observe that a loose white dressing-gown, trimmed with Mechlin lace and pink ribbons—one's hair, of course, being "taken down"—is a costume extremely well adapted to the efforts of composition. I take a day from the diary at random.
Thursday.—Up at half-past seven; peeped in the glass the instant I was out of bed, and wondered how Cousin Amelia looks when she wakes. Yellowish, I should think, and by no means captivating, particularly if she wears a nightcap. I don't care how ugly a woman is, she has no right to look anything but fresh in the morning; and yet how few possess this advantage! Nothing like open air and plenty of exercise; saving one's complexion is undoubtedly the very way to spoil it. Saw Brilliant and White Stockings going to exercise in the Park. What coddles they look on these fine autumn mornings, covered with clothing! Felt very keen about hunting; the same feeling always comes on at the fall of the leaf; shouldn't wonder if I could jump a gate, with my present nerves. Should like once in my life to plant a field of horsemen, and show these gentlemen how a woman can ride. Interrupted in my daydreams by Lady Horsingham's bell, and huddled on my things in a tremendous hurry; forced to wash my hands in cold water, which made the tips of my fingers as red as radishes for the rest of the day. Got down to prayers by half-past eight, and took Aunt Deborah her tea and toast from the breakfast-table at nine.
Breakfast dull, and most of the party cross: Aunt Horsingham is generally out of humour at breakfast-time, particularly on Sundays. Cousin Amelia suggested my towels were too coarse: "they had rubbed a colour into my cheeks like a dairymaid's." John said I looked like a rose—a tea-rose, he added, as I handed him his cup. Cousin John is getting quite poetical, and decidedly improved since he left London. I wonder whom he got that letter from that was lying on his plate when he came down. I am not curious, but I just glanced at the direction, and I am certain it was in a lady's hand. Not that it's any business of mine; only I should think Miss Molasses would hardly have the face to write to him. I wonder whether there is anything between John and Miss Molasses. I asked him, half spitefully, the other day how he could bear to be parted from her now the season was over; and he seemed so pleased at my taking an interest in the thing at all that I had no patience to go on with my cross-questioning. I don't think she's good enough for John, I must confess; but he is easily imposed on by young ladies—as indeed, for that matter, are the rest of his great thick-headed sex. When breakfast was over and Cousin Amelia went off as usual to practise her music for an hour or two, I thought I might steal away for a visit to my favourites in the stable; indeed I saw John at the front door in a hideous wide-awake, with a long cigar in his mouth. But I was waylaid by Aunt Horsingham; and as these visits to the stable are strictly forbidden, I was obliged to follow her into the drawing-room, and resign myself for the whole morning to that dreadful worsted-work, more especially as it was coming on a drizzling mist, and there was no pretext for my usual walk.
"I am glad to see you getting more sociable, Kate," said Lady Horsingham, in her dry, harsh voice, as I took a seat beside her and opened my work-basket. "It is never advisable for any young lady to affect singularity, and I have observed with some concern that your demeanour on many occasions is very unlike that of the rest of your sex."
I never give in to Aunt Horsingham—after all she's not my own aunt—so I answered as pertly as ever I could:
"No: you mean I don't spend the morning in looking in the glass and talking evil of my neighbours; I don't scream when I see a beetle, or go into convulsions because there's a mouse in the room. I've got two legs, very good legs, Aunt Horsingham—shall I show you them?—and I like to use them, and to be out of doors amongst the trees and the grass and the daisies, instead of counting stitches for work that nobody wants or writing letters that nobody reads. I had rather give Brilliant a good 'bucketing' (Aunt Horsingham shuddered; I knew she would, and used the word on purpose) over an open heath or a line of grass than go bodkin in a chariot, seven miles an hour, and both windows up. Thank you, Aunt Horsingham; you would like to make a fine lady of me—a useless, sickly, lackadaisical being instead of a healthy, active, light-hearted woman. Much obliged to you; I had rather stay as I am."
"Miss Coventry," said my aunt, who was completely posed by my volubility, and apparently shocked beyond the power of expression at my opinions—"Miss Coventry," she repeated, "if these are indeed your sentiments, I must beg—nay, I must insist—on your keeping them to yourself whilst under this roof.—Amelia, my dear" (to my cousin, who was gliding quietly into the room)—"Amelia, go back to your music for ten minutes.—I must insist, Miss Coventry, that you do not inoculate my daughter with these pernicious doctrines—this mistaken view of the whole duties and essentials of your sex. Do you think men appreciate a woman who, if she had but a beard, would be exactly like one of themselves? Do you think they like to see their ideal hot and dishevelled, plastered with mud, and draggled with wet? Do you think they wish her to be strong and independent of them, and perhaps their superior at those very sports and exercises on which they plume themselves? Do you think they are to be taken by storm, and, so to speak, bullied into admiration? You're wrong, Kate, you're wrong; and I believe I am equally wrong to talk to you in this strain, inasmuch as the admiration of the other sex ought to be the last thing coveted or thought of by a young person of yours."
"I'm sure, aunt, I don't want the men to admire me," I replied; "but I would not give much for the admiration of one who could be jealous of me for so paltry a cause as my riding better than himself; and as for ideals, I don't know much about such things, but I think a man's ideal may do pretty well what she likes, and he is sure to think everything she does do is perfect. Besides, I don't see why I should bully him into liking me because I'm fond of the beautiful 'out of doors' instead of the fireside. And courageous women, like courageous men, are generally a deal more gentle than the timid ones. I've known ladies who would not venture into a carriage or a boat who could wage a war of words bitterer than the veriest trooper would have at his command; and I've heard Cousin John say that there is scarcely an instance of a veritable heroine in history, from Joan of Arc downwards, who was not in her private life as sweet, as gentle, and as womanly as she was high-couraged and undaunted when the moment came that summoned her energies to the encounter. Unselfishness is the cause in both cases, you may depend. People that are always so dreadfully afraid something is going to happen to them think a great deal more of self than anything else; and the same cause which makes them tremble at imaginary danger for their own sakes will make them forgetful of real sufferings in which they themselves have no share. I had rather be a hoyden, Aunt Horsingham, and go on in my own way. I have much more enjoyment; and, upon my word, I don't think I'm one bit a worse member of society than if I was the most delicate fine lady that ever fainted away at the overpowering smell of a rose leaf or the merry peal of a noisy child's laugh."
My aunt lifted up her hands and gave in, for the return of Cousin Amelia from the music-room effectually prevented further discussion; and we beguiled the time till luncheon by alternate fits of scandal and work, running through the characters of most of the neighbours within twenty miles, and completely demolishing the reputation of my friend, as they called her—lively, sarcastic little Mrs. Plumridge. John was off rabbit-shooting, so of course he did not appear at that meal so essential to ladies; and after Cousin Amelia, by way of being delicate, had got through two cutlets, the best part of a chicken, a plateful of rice-pudding, and a large glass of sherry, I ventured to propose to her that if the afternoon held up we should have a walk.
"I'm not equal to much fatigue," said she, with a languid air and a heavy look about her eyes which I attributed to the luncheon; "but if you like we'll go to the garden and the hothouses, and be back in time for a cup of tea at five o'clock."
"Anything to get out of the house," was my reply, and forthwith I rushed upstairs, two steps at a time, to put on my things; whilst my aunt whispered to her daughter, loud enough for me to hear, "She really ought to have been a man, Emmy; did you ever see such a hoyden in your life?"
It was pleasant to get out even into that formal garden. The day was soft and misty, such as one often finds it towards the close of autumn—dark without being chill—and the withered leaves strewed the earth in all the beauty of wholesome natural decay. Autumn makes some people miserable; I confess it is the time of year that I like best. Spring makes me cross if it's bad weather, and melancholy if it's fine. Summer is very enjoyable certainly, but it has a luxuriance of splendour that weighs down my spirits; and in those glorious hot, dreamy haymaking days I seem unable to identify myself sufficiently with all the beauty around me, and to pine for I don't exactly know what. Winter is charming when it don't freeze, with its early candle-light and long evenings; but autumn combines everything that to me is most delightful—the joys of reality and the pleasures of anticipation. Cousin Amelia don't think so at all.
"A nasty raw day, Kate," she remarked as we emerged from the hothouse into the moist, heavy air. "How I hate the country! except whilst the strawberries are ripe. Let's go back to the house, and read with our feet on the fender till tea-time."
"Not yet, Emmy," I pleaded, for I really pined for a good walk; "let's go on the highroad as far as the milestone—it's market day at Muddlebury, and we shall see the tipsy farmers riding home and the carriers' carts with their queer-looking loads; besides, think what a colour you'll have for dinner. Come on, there's a dear!"
The last argument was unanswerable; and Cousin Amelia putting her best foot foremost, we soon cleared the garden and the approach, and emerged on the highroad three miles from Muddlebury, and well out of the sight of the windows of Dangerfield Hall. As we rose the hill, on the top of which is perched the well-known milestone, and my cousin began already to complain of fatigue, the sound of hoofs behind us caused us both to stop and look round.
"It's cavalry," said Amelia, who jumps rather rapidly to conclusions, and is no judge of a horse.
"It's a stud," was my reply; "somebody coming to hunt with 'the Heavy-top.' Let's stand in this gateway and see them pass." We took up a position accordingly; and if I felt keen about the commencement of the season previously, how much more so did I become to watch the string of gallant well-bred horses now jogging quietly towards us with all the paraphernalia and accessories of the chase!
Two, four, six, and a hack, all clothed and hooded, and packed for travelling. Such a chestnut in the van, with a minute boy on him, who cannot have weighed four stone; strong, flat, sinewy legs (the chestnut's, not the boy's), hocks and thighs clean, full, and muscular as Brilliant's, only twice the size; a long, square tail, and a wicked eye. How I should like to ride that chestnut! Then a brown and two bays, one of the latter scarcely big enough for a hunter, to my fancy, but apparently as thoroughbred as Eclipse; then a gray, who seemed to have a strong objection to being led, and who held back and dragged at his rein in a most provoking manner; and lastly, by the side of a brown hack that I fancied I had seen before, a beautiful black horse, the very impersonation of strength, symmetry, courage, speed, and all that a horse should be.
"Ask the groom whose they are," whispered Amelia as he went by. "I don't quite like to speak to him; he looks an impudent fellow with those dark whiskers."
I should like to see the whiskers that would frighten me; so I stepped boldly out into the road, and accosted him at once.
"Whose horses are those, my man?" I asked, with my most commanding air.
"Captain Lovell's, miss," was the reply. My heart jumped into my mouth, and you might have knocked me down with a feather.
"Captain Lovell's!" exclaimed Amelia; "why, that's your old flirt,
Kate. I see it all now." But I hardly heard her, and when I looked up
the horses were a mile off, and we were retracing our steps towards
Dangerfield Hall.
What a happy day this has been, and how unpromising was its beginning! And yet I don't know why I should have been so happy. After all, there is nothing extraordinary in Captain Lovell's sending down a stud of horses to hunt with so favourite a pack as "the Heavy-top" hounds. I wish I had summoned courage to ask the man when his master was coming and where he was going to stay; but I really couldn't do it—no, not if my life depended on it. All the way home Cousin Amelia laughed and sneered and chattered, and once she acknowledged I was "the best-tempered girl in the world;" but I am sure I have not an idea why I deserve this character. Her words fell perfectly unheeded on my ear. I was glad to get to the solitude of my own room, when it was time to dress for dinner, that I might have the luxury, if it was only for five minutes, of thinking undisturbed. But there was Aunt Deborah to be attended to; for poor Aunt Deborah, I am sorry to say, is by no means well. And Gertrude came in "to do my hair;" and then the dinner-bell rang, and the wearisome meal, and the long evening dragged on in their accustomed monotony. But I did not find it as dull as usual, though I was more rejoiced than ever when the hand-candles came and we were dismissed to go to bed.
And now they are all fast asleep, and I can sit at my open window and think, think, think as much as I like. What a lovely night it is! The mist has cleared off, and the moat is glistening in the moonlight, and the old trees are silvered over and blackened alternately by its beams; the church tower stands out massively against the sky. How dark the old belfry looks on such a night as this, contrasting with the white tombstones in the churchyard, and the slated roof shimmering above the aisle! There is a faint breeze sighing amongst the few remaining leaves, now rising into a pleading whisper, now dying away with a sad, unearthly moan. The deer are moving restlessly about the Park, now standing out in bold relief on some open space brightened by the moonlight, now flitting like spectres athwart the shade. Everything breathes of romance and illusion; and I do believe it is very bad for one to be watching here, dreaming wide awake, instead of snoring healthily in bed. I wonder what he is about at this moment. Perhaps smoking a cigar out of doors, and enjoying this beautiful night. I wonder what he is thinking of. Perhaps, after all, he's stewed up in some lamplit drawing-room talking nonsense to Lady Scapegrace and Mrs. Lumley, or playing that odious whist at his club. Well, I suppose I may as well go to bed. One more look into the night, and then—hark! what is it? how beautiful, how charming! Distant music from the wood at the low end of the Park. The deer are all listening, and now they troop down towards the noise in scores. How softly it dies away and rises again! 'Tis a cornet-à-piston, I think, and though not very skilfully played it sounds heavenly by moonlight. I never thought that old air of "You'll Remember Me" half so beautiful before. Who can it be? I have never heard it since I came here. It can't be Captain Lovell's groom; it's not quite impossible it might be Captain Lovell himself. Ah, if I thought that! Well, it has ceased now. I may as well go to bed. What a happy day this has been, and what dreams I shall have!
CHAPTER XII.
Friday.—This has been an eventful day. I thought somehow it would be so; at all events, the first day's hunting is always an era to me—so when I came down to breakfast in my riding-habit, and braved the cold glances of my aunt and the sarcasms of my cousin, I was prepared for a certain amount of excitement, although, I confess, I did not bargain for quite so much as I got.
"You'll enjoy yourself to-day, I trust, Miss Coventry," said Aunt
Horsingham, looking as black as thunder.
"Mind you don't get a fall," observed Cousin Amelia with a sneer; but I cared little for their remarks and remonstrances. White Stockings was at the door, Cousin John ready to lift me into my saddle, and I envied no mortal woman on earth, no not our gracious Queen upon the throne, when I found myself fairly mounted, and jogging gently down the park in all the delightful anticipation of a good day's sport. I think I would rather have ridden Brilliant of the two, but John suggested that the country was cramped and sticky, with small fields and blind fences. Now, White Stockings is an animal of great circumspection, and allows no earthly consideration to hurry him. He is, moreover, as strong as a dray-horse, and as handy, so John declares, "as a fiddle." To him, therefore, was entrusted the honour of carrying me on my first appearance with the Heavy-top hounds. The meet was at no great distance from Dangerfield Hall, and being the beginning of the season, and a favourite place, there was a considerable muster of the élite of the county, and a goodly show of very respectable horses to grace the covert side. As we rode up to the mounted assemblage, I perceived, by the glance of curiosity, not to say admiration, directed at myself and White Stockings, that ladies were unusual visitors in that field, and that the Heavy-top gentlemen were not prepared to be cut down, at all events by a woman. Cousin John seems to know them all and to be a universal favourite.
"Who's the lady, John, my boy?" whispered a fat squire in a purple garment, with a face to match; "good seat on a horse, eh? rides like a bird, I'll warrant her." I did not catch John's answer; but the corpulent sportsman nodded, and smiled, and winked, and wheezed out, "Lucky dog—pretty cousin—double harness."
I don't know what he meant; but that it was something intensely ludicrous I gather from his nearly choking with laughter at his own concluding observation, though John blushed and looked rather like a fool.
"Who's that girl on the chestnut?" I again heard asked by a slang-looking man with red whiskers meeting under his chin; "looks like a larker—I must get introduced to her," added the conceited brute. How I hated him! If he had ventured to speak to me, I really think I could have struck him over the face with my riding-whip.
"I told you it would not be long before we met, Miss Coventry," said a well-known voice beside me; and turning round, I shook hands with Captain Lovell; and I am ashamed to confess, shook all over into the bargain. I am always a little nervous the first day of the season. How well he looked in his red coat and neat appointments, with his graceful seat upon a horse, and so high-bred, amongst all the country squires and jolly yeomen that surrounded us! He had more colour too than when in London, and altogether I thought I had never seen him looking so handsome. The chestnut with the wicked eye, showing off his fine shape, now divested of clothing, curvetted and bent to his rider's hand as if he thoroughly enjoyed that light restraining touch: the pair looked what the gentlemen call "all over like going," and I am sure one of them thought so too.
"I saw your horses on their way to Muddlebury yesterday," I at length found courage to say. "Are you going to hunt all the season with the Heavy-top?"
"How long do you stay at Dangerfield?" was the counter question from Frank; "you see I know the name of the place already; I believe I could find my way now about the Park; very picturesque it is too by night, Miss Coventry. Do you like music by moonlight?"
"Not if it's played out of tune," I answered with a laugh and a blush; but just then Squire Haycock, whom I scarcely knew in his hunting costume, rode up to us, and begged as a personal favour to himself that we would accompany him to a particular point, from which he could ensure us a good start if the fox went away—his face becoming scarlet as he expressed a hope "Miss Coventry would not allow her fondness for the chase to lead her into unnecessary danger;" whilst Frank looked at him with a half-amused, half-puzzled expression that seemed to say, "What a queer creature you are; and what the deuce can that matter to you?"
I wonder why people always want to oblige you when you don't want to be obliged; "too civil by half" is much more in the way than "not half civil enough." So we rode on with Squire Haycock, and took up a position at the end of the wood that commanded a view of the whole proceedings, and, as Frank whispered to me, was "the likeliest place in the world if we wanted to head the fox."
The Heavy-top hounds are an establishment such as, I am given to understand, is not usually kept in Leicestershire, Northamptonshire, and other so-called "flying counties." I like to gain all the information I can—Cousin John calls this thirst for knowledge, "female curiosity"—and gather from him that the Heavy-top consists of twenty-two couples of hunting hounds, and that the whole twenty-two come out three times a week during the season. I don't see why they shouldn't, I'm sure; they look very fat, and remind me of the otter hounds poor Uncle Horace used to keep when I was a child. He (that's my oracle, Cousin John) further adds that they are remarkably "steady"—which is more than can be said of their huntsman, who is constantly drunk—and that they consume a vast quantity of "flesh," which, far from being a meritorious, appears to me a disgusting tendency. They are capital "line-hunters," so says John; a "line-hunter," I imagine, is a hound that keeps snuffing about under the horses' feet, and must be a most useful auxiliary, when, as is often the case, the sportsmen are standing on the identical spot where the fox has crossed. He considers them a very "killing" pack, not in manners or appearance certainly, but in perseverance and undying determination. Their huntsman is what is called "one of the old sort." If this is a correct description, I can only say that "the old sort" must have worn the brownest and shabbiest of boots, the oldest of coats, and the greasiest of caps; must have smelt of brandy on all occasions, and lived in a besotted state of general confusion, vibrating between "delirium audacious" and "delirium tremens." They have, however, a certain whip called "Will," who appears to me to do all the work, and to keep everything right. When old Tippler drinks himself to death (a casualty which must shortly happen), Will is pretty sure to succeed him—an event which I fancy will greatly add to the efficiency of the Heavy-top hounds. To crown all, Frank Lovell dubs the whole thing "slow;" but I have remarked gentlemen make use of this epithet to convey their disapproval of that which they cannot find any positive fault with—just as we ladies call a woman "bad style" when we have nothing else to say in her disparagement.
"Gone away!" exclaims Squire Haycock, lifting his cap high above his red head; "yonder he goes! Don't you see him, Miss Coventry, now whisking under the gate?"
"Forward, forward!" holloas Frank, giving vent to his excitement in one of those prolonged screams that proclaim how the astonished sportsman has actually seen the fox with his own eyes. The next instant he is through the hand-gate at the end of the ride, and rising in his stirrups, with the wicked chestnut held hard by the head, is speeding away over the adjoining pasture, alongside of the two or three couples of leading hounds that have just emerged from the covert. Ah! we are all forgotten now; women, children, everything is lost in that first delirious five minutes when the hounds are really away. Frank was gazing at me a minute ago as if his very life was at my disposal, and now he is speeding away a field ahead of me, and don't care whether I break my neck following him or not. But this is no time for such thoughts as these; the drunken huntsman is sounding his horn in our rear. Will, the whip, cap in hand, is bringing up the body of the pack. Squire Haycock holds the gate open for me to pass, Cousin John goes by me like a flash of lightning; White Stockings with a loose rein, submits to be kicked along at any pace I like to ask him. The fence at the end of the field is nothing; I shall go exactly where Frank did. My blood thrills with ecstasy in my veins: moment of moments! I have got a capital start, and we are in for a run.
As I sit here in my armchair and dressing-gown, I see the whole panorama of to-day passing once more before my eyes. I see that dark, wet, ploughed field, with the white hounds slipping noiselessly over its furrowed surface. I can almost perceive the fresh, wholesome smell of the newly-turned earth. I see the ragged, overgrown, straggling fence at the far end, glistening with morning dew, and green with formidable briers. I see Frank Lovell's chestnut rising at the weakest place, the rider sitting well back, his spurs and stirrup-irons shining in the sun; I see Squire Haycock's square scarlet back, as he diverges to a well-known corner for some friendly egress; I hear Cousin John's voice shouting, "Give him his head, Kate!" As White Stockings and I rapidly approach the leap, my horse relapses of his own accord into a trot, points his small ears, crashes into the very middle of the fence, and just as I give myself up for lost, makes a second bound that settles me once more in the saddle, and lands gallantly in the adjoining field, Frank looking back over his shoulder in evident anxiety and admiration, whilst John's cheery voice, with its "Bravo, Kate!" rings in my delighted ears. We three are now nearest the hounds, a long strip of rushy meadow-land before us, the pack streaming along the side of a high, thick hedge that bounds it on our left; the south wind fans my face and lifts my hair as I slacken my horse's rein and urge him to his speed. I am alongside of Frank. I could ride anywhere now, or do anything. I pass him with a smile and a jest. I am the foremost with the chase. What is ten years of common life, one's feet upon the fender, compared to five such golden minutes as these? The hounds stop suddenly, and after scattering and spreading themselves into the form of an open fan, look up in my face with an air of mute bewilderment. The huntsman and the field come up, the gentlemen in a high state of delight and confusion; but Mr. Tippler in the worst of humours, and muttering as he trots off to a corner of the meadow with the pack about his horse's heels,—
"Rode 'em slap off the scent—drove 'em to a check—wish she was at home and abed and asleep, and be d——d to her!"
A grim old lady who has but one eye, and answers to the name of "Jezebel," has threaded the fence, and proclaims in anything but a sweet voice to her comrades, that she has discovered the line of our fox. They join her in an instant, down go their heads in concert, and away we all speed again, through an open gate, across a wide common, into a strip of plantation, over a stile and foot-board that leads out of it, and I find myself once more following Captain Lovell with Cousin John alongside of me, and all the rest far, far behind. This is indeed glorious. I should like it to go on till dinnertime. How I hope we shan't kill the fox!
"Take hold of his head, Kate," says my cousin, whose horse has just blundered on to his nose through a gap. "Even White Stockings won't last for ever, and this is going to be something out of the common."
"Forward!" is my reply as I point with my whip towards the lessening pack, now a whole field ahead of us. "Forward!" If we hadn't been going such a pace I could have sung for joy.
There is a line of pollarded willow trees down in that hollow, and the hounds have already left these behind them; they are rising the opposite ground. Again Frank Lovell looks anxiously back at me, but makes no sign.
"We must have it, Kate!" says John; "there's your best place, under the tree; send him at it as hard as he can lay legs to the ground."
I ply my whip and loosen my reins in vain. White Stockings stops dead short, and lowers his nose to the water, as if he wanted to drink; all of a sudden the stream is behind me, and with a flounder and a struggle we are safe over the brook. Not so Cousin John; I see him on his legs on the bank, with his horse's head lying helplessly between his feet, the rest of that valuable animal being completely submerged.
"Go along, Kate!" he shouts encouragingly, and again I speed after Frank Lovell, who is by this time nearly a quarter of a mile ahead of me, and at least that distance behind the hounds. White Stockings is going very pleasantly, but the ground is now entirely on the rise, and he indulges occasionally in a trot without any hint on my part; the fences fortunately get weaker and weaker; the fields are covered with stones, and are light, good galloping enough, but the rise gets steeper every yard; round hills are closing in about us; we are now on the Downs, and the pack is still fleeting ahead, like a body of hounds in a dream, every moment increasing their distance from us, and making them more and more indistinct. Frank Lovell disappears over the brow of that hill, and I urge White Stockings to overtake my only companion. He don't seem to go much faster for all that. I strike him once or twice with my light riding-whip; I shake my reins, and he comes back into a trot; I rise in my stirrup and rouse his energies in every way I can think of. I am afraid he must be ill, the trot degenerates to a jog, a walk; he carries his head further out from him than is his wont, and treats curb and snaffle with a like disregard and callousness of mouth. Now he stops altogether, and catching a side view of his head his eye appears to me more prominent than usual, and the whole animal seems changed, till I can hardly fancy it is my own horse. I get a little frightened now, and look round for assistance. I am quite alone. Hounds, horsemen, all have disappeared; the wide, dreary, solitary Downs stretch around me, and I begin to have misgivings as to how I am to get back to Dangerfield Hall. Cousin John has explained it all to me since.
"Nothing could be simpler, Kate," said he this evening when I handed him his tea; "you stopped your horse. If ladies will go in front with a loose rein for five-and-forty minutes, 'riding jealous' of such a first-rate performer as Frank Lovell, it is not an unlikely thing to happen. If you could have lasted ten minutes longer, you would have seen them kill their fox. Frank was the only one there, but he assures me he could not have gone another hundred yards. Never mind, Kate, better luck next time!"
Well, to return to my day. After a while White Stockings began to recover himself. I'm sure I didn't know what to do with him. I got off, and loosened his girths as well as I could, and turned his head to the wind, and wiped his poor nose with my pocket-handkerchief. I hadn't any eau-de-Cologne, and if I had it might not have done him much good. At last he got better, and I got on again (all my life I've been used to mounting and dismounting without assistance). Thinking downhill must be the way home, downhill I turned him, and proceeded slowly on, now running over in my own mind the glorious hour I had just spent, now wondering whether I should be lost and have to sleep amongst the Downs; and anon coming back to the old subject, and resolving that hunting was the only thing to live for, and that for the future I would devote my whole time and energies to that pursuit. At last I got into a steep chalky lane, and at a turn a little farther on espied to my great relief a red-coated back jogging leisurely home. White Stockings pricked his ears and mended his pace, so I soon overtook the returning sportsman, who proved to be no other than Squire Haycock, thrown out like the rest of the Heavy-top gentlemen, and only too happy to take care of me, and show me the shortest way (eleven miles as the crow flies) back to Dangerfield Hall.
We jogged on amicably enough, the Squire complimenting me much on my prowess, and not half so shy as usual—very often the case with a diffident man when on horseback. We were forced to go very slow, both our horses being pretty well tired; and to make matters better, we were caught in a tremendous hailstorm about two miles from home, just as it was getting dark, and close to the spot where our respective roads diverged. I could not possibly miss mine, as it was perfectly straight. Ah! that hailstorm has a deal to answer for. We were forced to turn through a hand-gate, and take shelter in a friendly wood. What a ridiculous position, pitch dark, pelting with rain, an elderly gentleman and a young lady on horseback under a fir tree. The Squire had been getting more incoherent for some time; I couldn't think what he was driving at.
"You like our country, Miss Coventry; fine climate, excellent soil, nice and dry for ladies?"
I willingly subscribed to all these advantages.
"Good neighbourhood," added the Squire; "capital hunting, charming rides, wonderful scenery for sketching. Do you think you could live in this part of the world?"
I thought I could if I was to try.
"You expressed your approbation of my house, Miss Coventry," the Squire proceeded, with his hand on my horse's neck; "do you think—I mean—should you consider—or rather I should say, is there any alteration you would suggest—anything in my power—if you would condescend to ride over any afternoon; may I consider you will so far favour me?"
I said "I should be delighted, but that it had left off raining, and it was time for us to get home."
"One word, Miss Coventry," pleaded the Squire with a shaking voice.
"Have I your permission to call upon Lady Horsingham to-morrow?"
I said I thought my aunt would be at home, and expressed my conviction that she would be delighted to see him, and I wished him good-bye.
"Good-bye, Miss Coventry, good-bye," said the Squire, shaking hands with a squeeze that crushed my favourite ring into my prettiest finger; "you have made me the happiest of men—good-bye!"
I saw it all in an instant, just as I see it now. The Squire means to propose for me to-morrow, and he thinks I have accepted him. What shall I do? Mrs. Haycock—Kate Haycock—Catherine Haycock. No, I can't make it look well, write it how I will; and then, to vow never to think of any one else; I suppose I mightn't even speak to Frank. Never, no, never; but what a scrape I have got into, and how I wish to-morrow was over!
CHAPTER XIII.
My diary continued,—
Saturday.—Well, it is over at last; and upon my word I begin to think I am capable of anything after all I have got through to-day since breakfast. Scarcely had I finished the slice of toast and single cup of tea that constitute my morning meal, before I heard the tramp of a horse on the gravel in front of the house, followed by the ominous sound of the door-bell. I have remarked that in all country families a ring at the door-bell brings everybody's heart into everybody's mouth. Aunt Horsingham, brooding over the teapot as usual, had been in her worst of humours ever since she came down, and tried to look as if no bell that ever was cast had power to move her grim resolve.
"A message by electric telegraph," exclaimed Cousin Amelia, who is always anticipating some catastrophe; "no visitor would ever call at such a time."
"Unless he came to propose for one of us," suggested John, who was carving a ham at the side-table.
"Some one on business for me, probably," remarked Aunt Horsingham, drawing herself up and looking more stately than usual.
"Mr. Haycock!" announced the butler, throwing open the door with a flourish; and while all our untimely visitor's preparations, such as wiping his shoes, arranging his dress, etc., were distinctly audible outside, we looked at each other in mute astonishment, and I own I did feel the guilty one amongst the party.
The Squire made his entrance in a state of intense trepidation. Having been forcibly deprived of his white hat in the hall, he had nothing but natural means to resort to for concealment of his confusion. Had it not been for an enormous silk handkerchief (white spots on a yellow ground) with which he blew his nose and wiped his brow at short and startling intervals his condition would have been pitiable in the extreme. The "Squire's" dress too was of a more florid style than is usual in these days of sad-coloured attire. A bright blue neckcloth, well starched, and of great depth and volume; a buff waistcoat, with massive gilt buttons; a grass-green riding-coat of peculiar shape and somewhat scanty material; white cord trousers, York tan gaiters, and enormous double-soled shooting-shoes, pierced and strapped, and clamped and hobnailed, completing a tout ensemble that almost upset my aunt's gravity, and made me, nervous as I felt, stuff my pocket-handkerchief into my mouth that I might not laugh outright.
"Fine morning, Lady Horsingham," observed the Squire, as if he had come all that distance at this early hour on purpose to impart so valuable a piece of information—"fine morning, but cold," he repeated, rubbing his hands together though the perspiration stood on his brow. "I don't recollect a much finer morning at this time of year," he resumed, addressing Cousin John after a pause, during which he had ceremoniously shaken hands with each of us in succession.
"Will you have some breakfast?" asked Lady Horsingham, whose cold and formal demeanour contrasted strangely with the nervous excitement of her visitor.
"No, thank you—if you please," answered the Squire in a breath. "I breakfasted before I left home. Early hours, Lady Horsingham—I think your ladyship approves of early hours—but I'll ask for a cup of tea, if you please." So he sat down to a weak cup of lukewarm tea with much assumed gusto and satisfaction.
It was now time for Cousin Amelia to turn her battery on the Squire; so she presently attacked him about his poultry and his garden and his farm, the honest gentleman's absent and inconsequent replies causing my aunt and John to regard him with silent astonishment, as one who was rapidly taking leave of his senses; whilst I who knew, or at least guessed, the cause of his extraordinary behaviour began heartily to wish myself back in Lowndes Street, and to wonder how this absurd scene was going to end.
"Your dahlias must have suffered dreadfully from these early frosts," said Cousin Amelia, shaking her ringlets at the poor man in what she fancies her most bewitching style.
"Beautifully," was the bewildered reply, "particularly the shorthorns."
"You never sent us over the Alderney calf you promised, Mr. Haycock," pursued the lady, now adroitly changing her ground. "I begin to think you are not to be depended on."
"You do me injustice, Miss Horsingham; indeed you do," broke out the Squire in a white heat and with a deprecating glance at me. "I assure you I sent over a very fine cutting, with a pot and everything, directions for matting it in winter and transplanting after a year. If you never got it I'll discharge my gardener; I will, upon my word."
"I have got such a Cochin China to show you," persisted his tormentor, determined to renew the charge. "When you've finished breakfast I'll take you to the poultry-yard if you like."
"Delighted," replied the Squire, looking ruefully around him as if he meditated instant flight—"delighted, I'm sure; but they haven't flowered well this year. I'll teach you how to bud them if you like; but you're aware, Miss Horsingham, that they've no smell."
John could stand it no longer, and was forced to bolt out of the room. My aunt too rose from the table with something approaching a smile; and the Squire, screwing his courage to the sticking-place, was following her into the drawing-room, evidently for a private interview, when Cousin Amelia, who seemed to have made up her mind to take bodily possession of him, hurried the visitor off to the billiard-room, there to engage in a match which would probably last till luncheon-time. I never saw anything so hopeless as the expression of the victim's countenance whilst suffering himself to be thus led into captivity. He did summon courage to entreat "Miss Coventry to come and mark"—a favour which, notwithstanding my cousin's black looks, I really had not the heart to refuse him.
Game after game they played, the gentleman apparently abandoning himself to his fate. Sprawling over the table, making the most ridiculous blunders in counting, missing the most palpable of cannons, and failing to effect the easiest of hazards; the lady brandishing her mace in the most becoming attitudes, drooping her long hair over the cushions, and displaying the whiteness of her hand and slender symmetry of her fingers, as she requested her astonished adversary to teach her "how to make a bridge," or "pocket the red," or "screw it off the white," and lisped out "how hard it was to be disappointed by that provoking kiss!" The Squire made one or two futile attempts to engage me in a game, but Cousin Amelia was determined to have him all to herself; and as it was getting near the time at which I take Aunt Deborah her broth—for poor Aunt Deborah, I am sorry to say, is very ill in bed—I made my escape, and as I ran upstairs heard the billiard-room bell ring, and Squire Haycock summon up courage to "know if Lady Horsingham was at leisure, as he wished to see her for five minutes alone in the drawing-room."
People may say what they like about superstition and credulity and old women's tales, but I have faith in presentiments. Didn't I get up from my work and walk to the window at least a dozen times to watch for Cousin John coming home that wet day two years ago when he broke his leg with the harriers, and yet he had only gone out for a morning's canter on the best horse he ever had in his life? Didn't I feel for eight-and-forty hours as if something too delightful was going to happen to me the week that Brilliant was bought and sent home, looking like an angel in a horse's skin? That reminds me I never go to see him now; I hope I am not inconstant to my old friends. And what was it but a presentiment that made my heart beat and my knees knock together when I entered my own room to-day before luncheon and saw a brown paper parcel on the table, addressed, evidently by the shop people, to "Miss Coventry, Dangerfield Hall"? How my fingers trembled as I untied the thread and unfolded the paper; after all, it was nothing but a packet of worsteds! To be sure, I hadn't ordered any worsteds, but there might possibly be a note to explain; so I shook every skein carefully, and turned the covering inside out, that the document, if there should be one, might not escape my vigilance. How could my presentiments deceive me? Of course there was a note—after all, where was the harm? Captain Lovell had most politely sent me all these worsteds for a cushion I had once talked about working, and very naturally had enclosed a note to say so; and nothing to my mind could be kinder or more welcome than the contents. I am not going to say what they are, of course; though for that matter I easily could, since I have got the note by me at this moment, and have read it over to-day besides more than once. After all, there is nothing like a letter. Who does not remember the first letter received in one's childish days, written in a fair round text for childish eyes, or perhaps even printed by the kind and painstaking correspondent for the little dunce of a recipient. Who has not slept with such a letter carefully hoarded away under the pillow, that morning's first light might give positive assurance of the actual existence of our treasure. Nor is the little urchin the only glad supporter of our admirable postal institutions. Manly eyes moisten with tears of joy over those faint delicate lines traced by her hand whose gentle influence has found the one soft place. Woman hides away in her bosom, close to her loving heart, the precious scrap which assures her, visibly, tangibly, unerringly, that he is hers and hers alone. Words may deceive, scenes of bliss pass away like a dream. Though ever present to the mind it requires an effort to disentangle the realities of memory from the illusions of imagination; but a letter is proof positive; there it is in black and white. You may read it again and again; you may kiss it as often as you please; you may prize it and study it and pore over it, and find a new meaning in every fresh perusal, a hidden interpretation for every magic word. Nothing can unsay it, nothing can deprive you of it; only don't forget to lock it up carefully, and mind you don't go leaving about your keys.
I had hardly read my note over a second time before Cousin Amelia bounced into the room without knocking. I should have locked the door had I known she was coming; as it was, I had only time to pop the note into my dress (the seal made a great scratch just below my neck) before she was upon me, and throwing herself into my arms with a most unusual excess of affections exclaimed,—
"Give me joy, Kate—give me joy—he's gone to mamma—he's in the drawing-room with her now—O Kate, what shall I do?"
"My dear Amelia," I exclaimed, as the delightful thought flashed across me that, after all, the Squire's visit might have been for my cousin, though I must say I wondered at his taste, "am I to congratulate you on being Mrs. Haycock? I do indeed from my heart. I am sure he is an excellent, amiable man, and will make you a capital husband."