Harrington did think about it—indeed, from the first reading of his lady-love’s unceremonious invitation he thought of nothing else. After much puzzling over time-tables, he found that trains—those particular trains which condescend, with an asterisk, to carry horses—could be matched so as to convey the black horse to the immediate vicinity of Medlow Court in something under a day, and this being so, he telegraphed his intention of putting up at the “Medlow Arms” on the following night, taking pains to add “Shall arrive at five p.m.,” so as to secure the promised invitation to dinner. He had been so chary of spending money since his loan to Juliet that he had still a few pounds in hand, enough as he thought to pay travelling expenses and hotel bills. His heart was almost light as he packed his hunting-gear and dress suit, albeit March 10 was written in fiery characters across a spectral bill which haunted him wherever he went.
It was still early in February, he told himself. Some stroke of luck might happen to him. Some rich young fool at Medlow Court might take a fancy to Mahmud and want to buy him. He had heard of men who wanted to buy horses, although it had been his fate to meet only the men who were eager to sell.
After no less than three changes of trains he arrived at the Toppleton Road Station—for Medlow and Toppleton—about half-past four, weary, but full of hope. He was to see her again—after three weeks’ severance. He was going at her own express desire. It was her tact and cleverness that had made the visit easy for him. Had he not Lady Burdenshaw’s invitation in his pocket, in a fine open-hearted hand, sprawling over three sides of large note-paper:—
“Dear Mr. Dalbrook,
“I hear you are coming over for a day or two with our hounds, and I hope you will contrive to dine with us every evening while you are in the neighbourhood. Your father and Sir Phillimore were old friends. Dinner at eight.
“Sincerely yours,
“Sarah Burdenshaw.”
Sir Phillimore had been in the family vault nearly fifteen years. The malicious averred that he had sought that dismal shelter as a refuge and a relief from the life which Lady Burdenshaw imposed upon him—open house, big shoots, hunting breakfasts, fancy balls, and private theatricals in the country; and in London perpetual parties or perpetual gadding about.
Sir Phillimore’s grandfather had come up from Aberdeen, a raw boy without a penny, and had found out something about the manufacture of iron which had eventually made him a millionaire. Sir Phillimore’s fortune had reconciled the beautiful Sally Tempest to a marriage with a man who was her senior by a quarter of a century, and the only license she had allowed herself had been her indulgence in boundless extravagance, and a laxity of manner which had somewhat shocked society in the sober fifties and sixties, though it left her moral character unimpeached.
In the eighties nobody wondered or exclaimed at Lady Burdenshaw’s freedom of speech and manner, or at the manners she encouraged in her guests. In the eighties Sarah Burdenshaw was generally described as “good fun.”
Harrington found the dear little rustic inn very picturesque externally, but small and stuffy within, and the bedroom into which he was ushered was chiefly occupied by a large old-fashioned, four-post bedstead, with chintz hangings that smelt of mildewed lavender—indeed, the pervading odour of the “Medlow Arms” was mildew. He dressed as well as he could under considerable disadvantages; and a rumbling old landau, which had the local odour, conveyed him to Medlow Court much quicker than he could have supposed possible from his casual survey of the horse. It was ten minutes to eight when he entered Lady Burdenshaw’s drawing-room.