"You can't go there, Kate," vociferated Mrs. Lumley. "This way; here's a gate in this corner."
I clenched my teeth, and rode straight for the fence. It looked dark and forbidding. I did not see how it was to be done, but I trusted to Brilliant, and Brilliant nearly did it—but not quite. There was a loud crash; one of my pommels gave me an awkward dig in the side. I saw the white star on my horse's forehead shoot below me; and the muddy, gravelly lane seemed to rise in my face and rasp my hands and smear my habit, and get conglomerated with my hair. The horsemen were all round me when I got up. I did not care for my accident; I did not care for being bruised—in fact, I did not know whether I was hurt or not—but my prevailing feeling was one of burning shame and horror as I thought of my dress. To have had a fall amongst all those men! I could have sunk into the earth and thanked it for covering me. But there was no lack of sympathy and assistance. The huntsman pulled up; the noble Master offered me his carriage to go back to London; everybody stopped to tender advice and condolences.
"The lady's had a fall."—"Give the lady some sherry."—"Catch the lady's horse."—"Can we render the lady any assistance?" John, of course, was much distressed and annoyed, but glad to find I was not seriously hurt. Mrs. Lumley only stood aloof and sneered. "I told you not to ride there, Kate," said she; "and what a fall you've had—amongst all these people, too!" She very nearly made me an enemy for life.
I was too much hurt to go on. The stag was taken, as usual, in a large pond about a mile from where I met with my accident; but our party had had enough of hunting for one day. I am sure I had; and I think the Gitana was nearly beat, though her mistress would not confess it. We soon got back to the station, where I washed my face and put myself to rights. After all, I was very little the worse, and everybody said I had "gone like a bird." As we returned to London by the fast train, and I sat in that comfortable, well-cushioned carriage, enjoying the delightful languor of rest after fatigue, I half resolved to devote my whole life to a sport which was capable of affording such thrilling excitement as that which I had so recently enjoyed. I had never been so happy, I thought, in my existence as whilst I was leading the field on my dear Brilliant. It was a pure, wholesome, legitimate excitement; there were no harassing doubts and fears, no wounded feelings and bitter thoughts, no hours and days of suspense and misery to atone for a few short moments of delight. If I was disappointed in other things, could I not devote myself wholly to hunting, and so lead a happy and harmless life? If I had been a man, I should have answered in the affirmative; but I am a woman, and gradually softer thoughts stole over me. A distant vision of a happy home, with home-interests and home-pleasures—others to love, others to care for, besides myself—all a woman's duties, and all a woman's best delights. I shut my eyes and tried to realize the picture. When I opened them again, Mrs. Lumley had gone fast to sleep; but John was watching me with a look of painful attention. He certainly had acquired a very earnest, keen look of late, such as he never used to wear. I do not know what prompted the question, but I could not forbear asking him, in a sort of half-laughing way, "John, if I had broken my neck to-day, what on earth should you have done?"
"Mourned for you as a sister, Kate," he replied gravely, even severely. I did not speak another word the whole way home.
CHAPTER XIX.
"I shall miss you sadly, Kate; but if you enjoy your visit I shall be quite satisfied."
It was Aunt Deborah who spoke. Dear Aunt Deborah! I felt as if I had not been half attentive enough to her lately. I had selfishly been so taken up with my own thoughts and my own schemes that I had neglected my poor suffering relative, and now my heart smote me for my want of consideration. Aunt Deborah had not left the house since our return from Dangerfield. She looked worn and old, but had the same kind smile, the same measured accents as ever. Though she endured a good deal of pain and was kept in close confinement, she never complained: patient and quiet, she had a kind word for every one; and even her maid avowed that "missus's" temper was that of an angel. "Hangel," the maid called it, but it was perfectly true. Aunt Deborah must have had something very satisfactory to look forward to, or she never would have been so light-hearted. One thing I remarked, she was fonder of John than ever.
"I won't go, my dear aunt," was my reply, for my conscience smote me hard. "I won't go; I don't care about it; I had much rather stay and nurse you here."
But Aunt Deborah wouldn't hear of it.