‘How did it happen?’ asked Mr. Piper. ‘You were with her, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I saw it all. She had set her heart upon hunting, you know. And Captain Standish said the horse was a splendid hunter—and so he seemed, poor foolish thing, till he took that fatal jump. We went to the meet, and then when the hounds went off we followed them with the rest. It was lovely, the thing I had been longing for ever since I began to ride. For the first hour or so it was the easiest thing in the world—riding a little, and waiting about a good deal; and then they found the fox, and there was a rush, and we started at a splendid pace, Bella and I side by side, and Captain Standish close to us. She rode beautifully, and the horse behaved beautifully. The captain praised her for her pluck. She jumped three or four low hedges—and a ditch or two—and did it as easily as if she had been hunting all her life—and then we came to a stretch of open country, and the horses flew. We were among the first all through, and Bella was in raptures with her horse—and then—and then—the rest seems like a dreadful dream—all dimness and confusion—we came into a big ploughed field with a bullfinch at the end. “There’s a gap,” cried somebody, and I was just riding off with some of the others towards a corner of the field, when Captain Standish called to Bella very loud, “Don’t try it,” and in the next minute I saw the black lift himself up for the jump beautifully—and then his hind feet caught in the top of the quickset hedge, and he rolled over into the next field with Bella under him. It was all done more quickly than I can tell it.’
There was a long pause, and then Mr. Piper gave a shuddering sigh.
‘Did you know she was following the hounds without her husband’s knowledge or consent?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid I did,’ answered Miss Porkman, with a contrite air. ‘But I did not think any harm would come of it. She rode so well, and the horse was a clever hunter. Captain Standish tried him two or three times. It was poor Bella’s inexperience; she went straight at that tall thick quickset hedge—an awful thing—like a wall.’
‘I don’t think it will be a particularly pleasant recollection for you to carry about with you during the rest of your life, Miss Porkman,’ said Mr. Piper.
‘Oh, Mr. Piper, surely you can’t blame me,’ remonstrated Vanessa, tearfully.
‘I do blame you for aiding and abetting my wife in disobedience,’ Mr. Piper answered, severely.
While this conversation was taking place in the corridor, Cyril Culverhouse sat in Mr. Piper’s chair by Bella’s pillow, and waited for the departing sinner’s confession, ready with words of comfort and exhortation.
‘I have been dreadfully wicked,’ she began, falteringly, ‘but it was all Mrs. Dulcimer’s fault.’