They had talked in guarded terms till now—the terms of Jacobite freemasonry; but Sir Jasper’s heart grew too full on the sudden for tricks of speech. “God bless him!” he cried, rising to the toast. “There’ll be a second Restoration yet.”
Maurice, his face recovered from traces of the fight with his stubborn brother, had been abashed a little by Oliphant’s coming, for, like Rupert, he had the gift of hero-worship. But now he, too, got to his feet, and his face was full of boyish zeal. “We’ll hunt that fox of yours, Mr. Oliphant,” he laughed—“ay, as far as the sea. We’ll make him swim—over the water, where our toasts have gone.”
“He’s bred true to the old stock, Sir Jasper,” laughed Oliphant. “I wish every loyalist in Lancashire had sons like Maurice here to bring with him.”
Sir Jasper found no answer. An odd sadness crossed his face, showing lines that were graven deeper than Oliphant had guessed. “Come, we shall be late for the meet,” he said gruffly. “Oliphant, do you stay and rest yourself here, or will you ride with us? The meet is at Easterfield to-day.”
“As far as the cross-roads, then. My way lies into Langton.”
Oliphant’s tone was curt as his host’s, for he was puzzled by this sudden coolness following his praise of Maurice. As they crossed the courtyard to the stables he saw Sir Jasper glance up at the front of the house, and there, at an upper window, Rupert the heir was watching stronger men ride out to hunt the fox. He saw the misery in the lad’s face, the stubborn grief in the father’s, and a new page was turned for him in that muddled book of life which long night-riding had taught him to handle with tender and extreme care.
At the cross-ways they parted. All had been arranged months since; the proven men in Lancashire, as in other counties, were known to the well-wishers of the Prince. Each had his part allotted to him, and Sir Jasper’s was to rally all his hunting intimates. So far as preparation went, this campaign of the Stuart against heavy odds had been well served. The bigger work—the glad and instant wish of every King’s man to rally to the call, forgetting ease of body, forgetting wives and children—was in the making, and none knew yet what luck would go with it.
“At Langton to-morrow,” said Oliphant, over-shoulder, as he reined about.
“Yes, God willing—and, after Langton, such a fire lit as will warm London with its flames.”
When they got to Easterfield, Maurice and his father, the sun was shining on a street of melting snow, following a quick and rainy thaw, on well-groomed men and horses, on hounds eager to be off on the day’s business. And, as luck had it, they found a game fox that took them at a tearing gallop, five miles across the wet and heavy pastures, before they met a check.