CHAPTER XLII — THE MEET AT EVERSLEY GORSE
“We'll make you some sport with the fox Ere we case him.”
—All's Well that Ends Well.
“Oh! for a fall, if fall she must,
On the gentle lap of Flora;
But still, thank Heaven, she clings to her seat.”
—Hood.
“She held his drooping head,
Till given to breathe the freer air,
Returning life repaid their care;
He gazed on them with heavy sigh—
I could have wished e'en thus to die.”
—Rokeby.
IT had been arranged between my mother and Oaklands, in the earlier part of the evening on which the events described in the last chapter took place, that Fanny should have her first ride on the day but one following, by which time it was supposed that the habit would be fit for service, and the young lady's mind sufficiently familiarised with the idea, to overcome a rather (as I considered) unnecessary degree of alarm which I believe would have led her, had she been allowed to decide for herself, to relinquish it altogether. The only stipulation my mother insisted on was, that I should accompany my sister in the character of chaperon, an arrangement to which, as it was quite evident that Lawless intended to form one of the party, I made no objection. Accordingly, on the day appointed, Oaklands made his appearance about ten o'clock, mounted on his favourite horse, and attended by a groom, leading the grey Arab which was destined to carry Fanny, as well as a saddle-horse for me.
“Bravo, Harry! it does one good to see you and the 'Cid' together again,” exclaimed I, patting the arched neck of the noble animal; “how well he is looking!”
“Is he not?” replied Oaklands warmly; “the good old horse knew me as well as possible, and gave a neigh of pleasure when first I spoke to him. Is Fanny nearly ready?”
“She will be here directly,” replied I; and the words had scarcely escaped my lips when she made her appearance, looking so lovely in her hat and habit, that I felt sure it would be all over with Lawless as soon as he saw her.
“Why, Fanny,” exclaimed Oaklands, dismounting slowly and with effort, for he was still lamentably weak, “I have not seen you in a habit so long, I declare I should scarcely have known you; the effect is quite magical.”
A smile and a blush were her only reply; and Oaklands continued, “Will you not like to mount now? Lawless will join us; but he means' to abandon us again when we get near Eversley Gorse, for the superior attractions of a run with the subscription pack.”
“Oh, I hope the hounds will not come in our way,” exclaimed Fanny; “if you think there is any chance of their frightening my horse, I had better not ride to-day.”
“I do not think you need feel the least alarm; though spirited, Rose Alba is perfectly quiet; besides, we are not bound to ride towards Eversley, unless you approve of doing so,” replied Oaklands.
As he spoke, Lawless rode up just in time to catch the last few words. He was dressed in an appropriate hunting costume, and sat his horse (a splendid black hunter, whose fiery temper rendered all those in whom the bump of caution was properly developed remarkably shy of him) as easily as if he formed part of the animal. As he checked his impatient steed, and taking off his hat, bowed to Fanny, his eyes sparkling, and his whole countenance beaming with pleasure and excitement, he really looked quite handsome. The same idea seemed to strike Fanny, who whispered to me, “If ever your friend has his picture taken, it should be on horseback”.
“Good-morning, Miss Fairlegh!” cried Lawless, as flinging the rein to a groom, he sprang from the saddle, and bounded towards us; “glad to see you in what I consider the most becoming dress a lady can wear—very becoming it is too,” he added, with a slight bend of the head to mark the compliment. “What did I hear you say about not riding to Eversley? You never can be so cruel as to deny me the pleasure of your company, and I must go there to join the meet. I would not have hunted to-day, though, if I had known you wished to ride in another direction.”
“It was only that Fanny was afraid the hounds might frighten her horse,” replied I.
“Oh, not the least danger; I'll take care of all that,” returned Lawless; “the little white mare is as gentle as a lamb: I cantered her across the park myself yesterday on purpose to try—the sweetest thing for a lady I ever set eyes on. You have got some good cattle in your stables, Harry, I must own that.”
“Hadn't we better think of mounting? Time will not stand still for us,” observed I.
“Let me assist you, Fanny,” said Oaklands, advancing towards her.
“Thank you,” replied Fanny, drawing back: “but I need not give you the trouble; Frank will help me.”
“Here, get out of the way!” cried Lawless, as I hesitated, fancying from the shade on Oaklands' brow that he might not like to be interfered with; “I see none of you know how to help a lady properly. Bring up that mare,” he continued, “closer—that's it; stand before her head. Now, Miss Fairlegh, take a firm hold of the pummel; place your foot in my hand—are you ready?—spring! there we are—famously done! Oh, you know what you are about, I see. Let me give you the rein—between the fingers; yes—the snaffle will manage her best; the curb may hang loose, and only use it if it is necessary; let the groom stand by her till I am mounted; the black horse is rather fidgety; soh! boy, soh! quiet!—stand you brute!—there's a good boy; steady, steady—off we go!”
As Lawless pushed by me at the beginning of this speech, Oaklands advanced towards him, and his pale cheek flushed with anger. Apparently, however, changing his intention, he drew himself up haughtily, and, turning on his heel, walked slowly to his horse, mounted, and reining him back a few paces, sat motionless as an equestrian statue, gazing on the party with a gloomy brow until we had started, when, suddenly applying the spur, he joined us in a couple of bounds, and took his station at Fanny's left hand. Lawless having appropriated the off side, devoted himself to the double task of managing the Arab and doing the agreeable to its fair rider, which latter design he endeavoured to accomplish by chattering incessantly.
After proceeding a mile or two, Lawless sustaining the whole burden of the conversation, while Oaklands never spoke a word, we came upon a piece of level greensward.
“Here's a famous place for a canter, Miss Fairlegh,” exclaimed Lawless; “lean a little more towards me—that's right. Are you ready?—just tickle her neck with the whip—not too hard—jerk the rein slightly—gently, mare, gently!—there's a good horse, that's it! Eh! don't you see she settles into her pace as quietly as a rocking-horse—oh! she's a sweet thing for a feather-weight;” and restraining the plunging of the fiery animal he rode, he leaned over, and patted the Arab's arched neck, as they went off at an easy canter.
I was about to follow their example, but observing that Oaklands delayed putting his horse in motion, it occurred to me that this being the first ride he had taken since his illness, the exertion might possibly be too much for his strength; I waited, therefore, till he joined me, when I inquired whether he felt any ill effects from the unwonted exertion.
“No,” was the reply. “I feel an odd kind of fluttering in my side, but it is only weakness.”
“Had you not better give it up for to-day, and let me ride back with you? I dare say Lawless would not care about hunting for once, and would see Fanny home.”
“I will not go back!” he replied sternly; then checking himself, he added in a milder tone, “I mean to say it is not necessary—really I do not feel ill—besides, it was only a passing sensation, and is already nearly gone.”
He paused for a moment, and then continued, “How very dictatorial and disagreeable Lawless has grown of late, and what absurd nonsense he does talk when he is in the society of ladies! I wonder your sister can tolerate it.” “She not only tolerates it,” returned I, slightly piqued at the contemptuous tone in which he spoke of Lawless, “but is excessively amused by it; why, she said last night he was quite delightful.”
“I gave her credit for better taste,” was Oaklands' reply; and striking his horse impatiently with the spur, he dashed forward, and in a few moments we had rejoined the others.
“I hope illness has not soured Harry's temper, but he certainly appears more prone to take offence than in former days,” was my inward comment, as I pondered over his last words. “I am afraid Fanny has annoyed him; I must speak to her, and give her a hint to be more careful for the future.”
Half an hour's brisk riding brought us to the outskirts of a broad common, a great portion of which was covered by the gorse or furze from which it took its name. Around the sides of this were gathered from sixty to eighty well-mounted men, either collected in groups, to discuss the various topics of local interest which occupy the minds of country gentlemen, or riding up and down in parties of two and three together, impatient for the commencement of their morning's sport; while, in a small clear space, nearly in the centre of the furze-brake, were stationed the hounds, with the huntsman and whippers-in. “There!” exclaimed Lawless, “look at that! Talk about operas and exhibitions! where will you find an exhibition as well worth seeing as that is? I call that a sight for an empress. Now are not you glad I made you come, Miss Fairlegh?”
“The red coats look very gay and picturesque, certainly,” replied Fanny; “and what loves of horses, with their satin skins glistening in the sunshine! But I wish Rose Alba would not prick up her ears in that way; I'm rather frightened.”
While Lawless was endeavouring to convince her there was no danger, and that he was able and willing to frustrate any nefarious designs which might enter into the graceful little head of the white Arab, a young man rode up to Oaklands, and shaking him warmly by the hand, congratulated him on being once more on horseback.
“Ah, Whitcombe, it's a long time since you and I have met,” returned Harry; “you have been abroad, I think?” “Yes,” was the reply; “Charles and I have been doing the grand tour, as they call it.” “How is your brother?”
“Oh, he's all right, only he has grown a great pair of moustaches, and won't cut them off; he has taken up a notion they make him look killing, I believe. He was here a minute ago—yes, there he is, talking to Randolph. Come and speak to him, he'll be delighted to see you.” “Keep your eye on Fanny's mare,” said Oaklands, as he rode past me, “she seems fidgety, and that fellow Lawless is thinking more about the hounds than he is of her, though he does boast so much of the care he can take of her. I shall be with you again directly.”
“Do you see the gentleman on the bright bay, Miss Fairlegh?” exclaimed Lawless; “there, he's speaking to Tom Field, the huntsman, now; he has got his watch in his hand; that's Mr. Rand, the master of the hounds; you'll see some fun directly. Ah! I thought so.”
As he spoke, at a signal from the huntsman, the hounds dashed into cover, and were instantly lost to sight in a waving sea of gorse, save when a head or neck became visible for a moment, as some dog more eager than the rest sprang over a tangled brake, through which he was unable to force his way.
“Oh, you beauties!” resumed Lawless enthusiastically, “only watch them; they're drawing it in first-rato style, and there's rare lying in that cover. Now see how the furze shakes—look at their sterns nourishing; have at him there—have at him; that's right, Tom—cheer 'em on, boy—good huntsman is Tom Field—there again!—a fox, I'll bet five hundred pounds to a pony—hark!—a whimper—now wait—a challenge! another and another—listen to them—there's music—watch the right-hand corner—that's where he'll break cover for a thousand, and if he does, what a run we shall have! Look at those fools,” he added, pointing to a couple of cockney-looking fellows who were cantering towards the very place he had pointed to, “they'll head him back as sure as fate; hold hard there—why does not somebody stop them? By Jove, I'll give them a taste of the double thong when I get up with them, even if it's the Lord Mayor of London and his brother. Look to your sister, Frank, I'll be back directly.”
“Wait one minute,” shouted I, but in vain; for before the words were well out of my mouth, he had driven the spurs into his eager horse, and was galloping furiously in the direction of the unhappy delinquents who had excited his indignation. My reason for asking him to wait a minute was, that just as the hounds began drawing the cover, I had made the agreeable discovery that the strap to which one of my saddle-girths was buckled had given way, and that there was nothing for it but to dismount and repair the evil; and I had scarcely concluded the best temporary arrangement I was able to effect, when Lawless started in pursuit of the cockneys. Almost at the same moment a countryman, stationed at the outside of the gorse, shouted “Tally-ho!” and the fox broke cover in gallant style, going away at a rattling pace, with four or five couple of hounds on his traces. In an instant all was confusion, cigars were thrown away, hats pressed firmly down upon the brow, and, with a rush like the outburst of some mighty torrent, the whole field to a man swept rapidly onward.
In the meanwhile Fanny's mare, which had for some minutes shown symptoms of excitement, pawing the ground with her fore-foot, pricking up her ears, and tossing her head impatiently, began, as Lawless rode off, to plunge in a manner which threatened at every moment to unseat her rider, and as several horsemen dashed by her, becoming utterly unmanageable, she set off at a wild gallop, drowning in the clatter of her hoofs Fanny's agonised cry for help. Driven nearly frantic by the peril in which my sister was placed, I was even yet prevented for a minute or more from hastening to her assistance, as my own horse, frightened by the occurrences I have described, struggled so violently to follow his companions as to render it very difficult for me to hold, and quite impossible to remount, him, so that when at length I succeeded in springing on his back, the hounds were already out of sight, and Fanny and her runaway steed so far ahead of me, that it seemed inevitable some accident must occur before I could overtake them, and it was with a sinking heart that I gave my horse the rein, and dashed forward in pursuit.
The course which Lawless had taken when he started on his wildgoose chase was down a ride cut through the furze, and it was along this turfy track that Rose Alba was now hurrying in her wild career. The horse on which I was mounted was a young thorough-bred, standing nearly sixteen hands high, and I felt certain that in the pursuit in which I was engaged, the length of his stride would tell, and that eventually we must come up with the fugitives; but so fleet was the little Arab, and so light the weight she had to carry, that I was sorry to perceive I gained upon them but slowly. It was clear that I should not overtake them before they reached the outskirts of the common, and then who could say what course the mare might take—what obstacles might not be in her way!
On—on we go in our headlong course, the turf reechoing to the muffled strokes of the horses' feet, while the furze, waving in the wind, seemed to glide by us in a rapid stream. Onward—still onward; the edge of the gorse appears a dark line in the distance—it is passed; we are crossing the belt of turf that surrounds it—and now, in what direction will the mare proceed? Will she take the broad road to the left, which leads again to the open country by a gentle ascent, where she can be easily overtaken and stopped; or will she turn to the right, and follow the lane, which leads across the terrace-field to the brook, swollen by the late rains into a river? See! she slackens her pace—she wavers, she doubts—she will choose the road! No; by Heaven! she turns to the right, and dashing down the lane like a flash of lightning, is for a moment hidden from view. But the space of time, short as it was, when her speed slackened, has enabled me to gain upon her considerably; and when I again catch sight of her she is not more than fifty yards ahead. Forward! good horse—forward! Life or death hangs upon thy fleetness. Vain hope! another turn brings us in sight of the brook, swollen by the breaking up of the frost into a dark, turbulent stream. Fanny perceives it too, and utters a cry of terror, which rings like a death-knell on my ear. There seems no possibility of escape for her; on the left hand an impenetrable hedge; on the right a steep bank, rising almost perpendicularly to the height of a man's head; in front the rushing water; while the mare, apparently irritated to frenzy by my pursuit, gallops wildly forward. Ha! what is that? a shout! and the figure of a man on horseback appears on the high ground to the right, between Fanny and the stream. He perceives the danger, and if he dare attempt the leap from the bank, may yet save her. Oh! that I were in his place. Hark! he shouts again to warn us of his intention, and putting spurs to his horse, faces him boldly at it. The horse perceives the danger, and will refuse the leap. No! urged by his rider, he will take it yet—now he springs—it is certain destruction. A crash! a fall! they are down! No; he has lifted his horse with the rein—they are apparently uninjured. Rose Alba, startled by the sudden apparition, slackens her pace—the stranger, taking advantage of the delay, dashes forward, seizes the rein, and succeeds in stopping her; as he does so, I approached near enough to recognise his features—
Unlooked for happiness! Fanny is saved, and Harry Oaklands is her preserver!
My first act on joining them was to spring from my horse and lift Fanny out of the saddle. “Are you really unhurt, my own darling?” exclaimed I; “can you stand without assistance?”
“Oh yes!” she replied, “it was only the fright—that dreadful river—but—” and raising her eyes timidly she advanced a step towards Oaklands.
“But you would fain thank Harry for saving you. My dear Harry,” continued I, taking his hand and pressing it warmly, “if you only knew the agony of mind I have suffered on her account, you would be able to form some slight idea of the amount of gratitude I feel towards you for having rescued her. I shudder to think what might have been the end had you not so providentially interposed; but you do not listen to me—you turn as pale as ashes—are you ill?”
“It is nothing—a little faint, or so,” was his reply, in a voice so weak as to be scarcely audible; and as he spoke, his head dropped heavily on his shoulder, and he would have fallen from his horse had not I caught him in my arms and supported him.
Giving the horses into the custody of a farming lad (who had seen the leap, and run up, fearing some accident had occurred), I lifted Oaklands from the saddle, and laying him on the turf by the roadside, supported his head against my knee, while I endeavoured to loosen his neckcloth. Neither its removal, however, nor the unfastening his shirt-collar, appeared to revive him in the slightest degree, and being quite unaccustomed to seizures of this nature, I began to feel a good deal frightened about him. I suppose my face in some degree betrayed my thoughts, as Fanny, after glancing at me for a moment, exclaimed, wringing her hands in the excess of her grief and alarm, “Oh! he is dead—he is dead; and it is I who have killed him!” Then, flinging herself on her knees by his side, and taking his hand between both her own, she continued, “Oh, Harry, look up—speak to me—only one word;—he does not hear me—he will never speak again! Oh! he is dead!—he is dead! and it is I who have murdered him—I, who would gladly have died for him, as he has died for me.” As she said this, her voice failed her, and, completely overcome by the idea that she had been the cause of Harry's death, she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly.
At this moment it occurred to me that water might possibly revive him, and rousing Fanny from the passion of grief into which she had fallen, I made her take my place in supporting Oaklands' head, and running to the stream, which was not above fifty yards from the spot, filled my hat with water, sprinkled his face and brow with it, and had the satisfaction of seeing him gradually revive under the application.
As consciousness returned, he gazed around with a bewildered look, and passing his hand across his forehead, inquired, “What is all this? where am I? Ah! Frank, have I been ill?”
“You fainted from over-exertion, Harry,” replied I, “but all will be well now.”
“From over-exertion?” he repeated, slowly, as if striving to recall what had passed; “stay, yes, I remember, I took a foolish leap; why did I do it?”
“To stop Fanny's mare.”
“Yes, to be sure, the water was out at the brook, and I thought the mare might attempt to cross it; but is Fanny safe? Where is she?”
“She is here,” replied I, turning towards the place where she still knelt, her face hidden in her hands. “She is here to thank you for having saved her life.”
“Why, Fanny, was it you who were supporting my head? how very kind of you! What! crying?” he continued, gently attempting to withdraw her hands; “nay, nay, we must not have you cry.”
“She was naturally a good deal frightened by the mare's running away,” replied I, as Fanny still appeared too much overcome to speak for herself; “and then she was silly enough to fancy, when you fainted, that you were actually dead, I believe; but I can assure you that she is not ungrateful.”
“No, indeed,” murmured Fanny, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion.
“Why, it was no very great feat after all,” rejoined Harry. “On such a jumper as the Cid, and coming down on soft marshy ground too, 1 would not mind the leap any day; besides, do you think I was going to remain quietly there, and see Fanny drowned before my eyes? if it had been a precipice, I would have gone over it.” While he spoke, Harry had regained his feet; and, after walking up and down for a minute or so, and giving himself a shake, to see if he was all right, he declared that he felt quite strong again, and able to ride home. And so, having devised a leading-rein for Rose Alba, one end of which I kept in my own possession, we remounted our horses, and reached Heathfield without further misadventure.