‘You will go first, of course,’ said Wilfred, turning his horse’s head in the same direction.
The nice old hackney, albeit his best years had been spent as a stock-horse amid the unfair country of the Black Mountain run, was within a shade of thoroughbred. He went at the jump with his hind legs well under him, and, rising at exactly the proper moment, popped over with so little effort or disturbance of seat that Miss Fane might have held a glass of water in her whip-hand.
If she had turned her head she might not have been so self-possessed; for, the moment her back was turned, Wilfred Effingham, foreseeing that the talent would be sure to ride this, the only sensational fence of the run, turned his horse’s head to the big three-railer.
He rode an upstanding chestnut five-year-old, which he had selected as a colt from the Benmohr stud. For some time past he had employed himself in ‘making’ him, a pleasant task to a lover of horses. He had given the resolute youngster much schooling over logs, rails, and any kind of fence which came handy, avoiding those which were not unyielding. He was aware that no more dangerous idea can be contracted by a timber-jumper, than that he can break through anything, the first new fence that he meets being likely fatally to undeceive him. He flattered himself that Troubadour, from repeated raps, would take care to rise high enough over any fence.
At the moment he set him going he saw Argyll and Churbett, with Hampden, St. Maur, and all the ‘no denial’ division converging on the slip-rails, having witnessed Miss Fane’s disappearance through them.
Whether Troubadour was over-anxious to regain Emigrant, cannot be known. But he went at the fence too fast, hit the top-rail a tremendous bang, and rolled over into the paddock, narrowly escaping a somersault across his master.
He, however, was lucky enough to be thrown, by the mere impetus of the fall, clear of his horse. Jumping to his feet with the alacrity of youth, he caught the bridle-rein of the astonished Troubadour, who stood staring and shaking, just in time to see The Caliph sail over the high fence with a great air of ease and authority, followed by the others, among whom Churbett’s horse hit the fence hard, ‘but no fall.’ The ladies followed Miss Fane’s example and negotiated the middle rail successfully, as Wilfred jumped into his saddle, and sending his spurs into the unlucky Troubadour, rejoined his charge without further delay.
That young lady had pulled up, and was looking at the scene of the disaster with an anxious expression. Her face had assumed a paler hue, and her hands fidgeted with the bridle-rein.
‘I am so glad you are not hurt,’ she said. ‘I thought all sorts of things till I saw you get up and mount.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Wilfred, with a grateful inflection in his voice. ‘It was very awkward of Troubadour; but accidents will happen, and it will teach him to lift his legs another time. But we must ride for it now; we have been in the front so far. Ha! the hounds are turning to us; they will have Master Dingo before he reaches the cliffs.’