A Nine Days' Wonder

by B. M. Croker

Latterly, Peter was getting too heavy to ride to hounds, or school the young ones, and Master Ulick, when at home, took his place. All the world agreed that he was “the darling on a colt, with the loveliest hands in the world, and as bold as a young lion.” It is unnecessary to mention that none of his admirers had ever seen a young lion following the foxhounds; but their praise, though ignorant, was heartfelt and sincere.

Ulick loved animals, especially horses; he was crazy about hunting, and when he was at Kilmoran spent most of his time in the saddle. His mother made no objection; she was alive to the pecuniary value of a light-weight rider, and knew that after a month or two of Ulick’s training the young hunters’ prices were sensibly increased.

Even from the time he was twelve years old, this light-weight boy, with light hands, a bold heart, and mounted on an animal as youthful and eager as himself, caused many a pang of envy, and memory of the “has-been days,” to the veteran followers of the Harkaway hounds.

When Ulick was seventeen, and a cadet at Sandhurst, he met with an accident that nearly brought his career, and his neck, to an untimely end. One raw winter afternoon the hounds were running not far from Kilmoran. It had been a grand scenting day. Sport was good, and Ulick was out on a new investment—a fine upstanding four-year-old, with grand legs and quarters, but with an ugly fiddle-head and a small pig-like eye. He had, however, a famous pedigree—and with that same pedigree was allied a temper. At first he went kindly, taking all before him with extraordinary flippancy, sailing over places big or little, in a manner that it was a pleasure to witness. A hard-riding cavalry man had already bought him (mentally) and entered him for a couple of steeplechases at Punchestown and Sandown. Suddenly, something put the brown horse out—one never quite knows what upsets a hunter’s temper. Leading the field, he came thundering down to a big boundary-fence, wheeled about sharp on the edge, as if on a pivot—in short, balked before the whole hunt, knocked fifty pounds off his price, and all but shot his rider into the next field. The thrusting followers of the Harkaways stormed the obstacle and galloped on, and Ulick made another effort, put the horse at the ditch, which he again refused; and he not only refused, but reared, and snorted. As the hounds were now far ahead, his rider was determined to get the horse over, so to speak, dead or alive; the brown colt was as positively resolved not to jump. Each, boy and beast, was furious with the other; their blood was up, and it was now a frantic personal affair between them. The beast stood planted, with tucked-in tail, ears laid back, in a lather of sweat and foam, the picture of stubborn strength; the boy, with set white face, was equally dogged, and used every means in his power to conquer the brute—whip, spurs, voice. These were answered by plunges, rearings, and loud snorts of angry defiance. Then Ulick Doran tried peaceful methods, soothing and coaxing, and gentle walkings to and fro. But all to no purpose. The contest had lasted for twenty minutes. The field was empty, save for an old white goat, who stared her astonishment at the proceedings, and a little girl of ten years old, who had been watching the hunt from the top of the boundary-fence, and was the only human witness of the struggle—rather a pretty, slender child, with an amazing quantity of bright red hair; she wore no cap or hat, and was out, so to speak, in her pinafore.

It was a raw December afternoon, and little Mary Foley, her bare arms wrapped in her bib, waited on the top of the big ditch with breathless interest to see which would win, man or horse; and if Master Ulick would get the better of the baste? Her curiosity and anxiety were equally kindled. All the country knew, to use a local expression, “that Master Ulick’s riding bet all.” But, on the other hand, the horse looked a real savage, and the poor young gentleman might be hurted or killed. Anyhow, the Gripe was a terrible big lep.

The Gripe was a huge, deep ditch at the taking-off side. The landing was on a big sound bank, the top of which was only a few feet above the level of the next field; it was a wide, but otherwise perfectly safe up-jump, and the brown horse had negotiated several others of the same description with ease; he could, and he would—and—he would not.

During his exertions Ulick became aware of a figure in a fluttering blue pinafore, who was the sole spectator—a little girl, with a pair of remarkably neat black legs, who capered about on the top of the bank at a safe and discreet distance. It was the Foley child; he recognised her carroty head; she was not in the way at all, but what was she waiting for? He hated to see her watching him; he wished to goodness she would go home—indeed, he would be thankful to go home himself. As a last desperate expedient, he struck spurs into the sulky colt, and sent him round the field full gallop; wheeled suddenly, and brought him down to the fence at a pace that was terrific. The horse was taken unawares. No time now for stopping or propping: it was a case of in, or over; his own impetus carried him sheer off his legs; he made a spring—landed on the bank——

The little girl’s irrepressible yell of triumph died away on her lips when she beheld the hunter, after landing, stumble, lose his legs, and roll helplessly into the field, with his rider beneath him. At first she was too horrified to scream, or even stir. Surely to goodness they were both dead!

Presently the brown colt scrambled to his feet, shook himself, sniffed at his prostrate rider, then trotted off with high knee action, trailing reins, and proudly waving tail, as much as to say, “I think I got the best of that!”

Meanwhile, Ulick Doran lay in a motionless heap, precisely as if he were lifeless—in fact, as the child said to herself, “There was not a stir out of him! and what was to be done at all, at all?” Not a soul was likely to come near them; her father’s cottage was four fields away, and he and her mother were out, it being market day, and there was not a creature within but the cat. She crept down from the bank, and cautiously approached the still form. Master Ulick was as white as a sheet; his eyes were closed, and from a deep cut in his forehead the blood was oozing. Mary Foley, an only child, was unusually sharp and self-confident for her age; her mother, a delicate woman, was given to “weak turns” and long faints, and on some of these occasions little Mary had tended her without assistance. Perhaps Master Ulick was only overcome with the same kind of strong weakness as her mother? She eyed him critically for a moment, then boldly filched his handkerchief from his pocket, and darted off to the Holy Well, which lay within a couple of hundred yards. Returning breathless, she dabbed his temples and forehead with ice-cold water; and still he never moved, but lay like a stone. Then she sat down on the grass and raised his head, and laid it on her small lap; and as she resumed her operations with the wet handkerchief, some salt tears became mingled with the water from St. Bridget’s Well. In a short time she was weeping bitterly.