A DAY WITH THE DOWNSHIRE.

Press, Volume LII, Issue 9129, 13 June 1895, Page 3

A DAY WITH THE DOWNSHIRE.

By Mrs Connby.

Illustrated Sporting and. Dramatic News. "Stapleton is one of our best meets," said Miss Foljambe during an after-supper waltz at the Downshire Hunt Ball. " Couldn't you possibly stay over tomorrow, and have a day with the hounds ?" Miss Foljambe was an exceedingly pretty and an exceedingly nice girl, so much so that, at our first meeting, I bad hopelessly lost my heart to her. Not that I was ass enough to dream of marrying her. Old Foljambe's daughter and heiress was not for the like 3 o. a younger son, with a hundred a year and his pay as a naval lieutenant. Yet a cat may look at a king, and for the last month, by dint of much diplomacy and more cheek, I had managed to gaze at my queen, not perhaps aa often as I should have liked, but much oftener than was good for my peace of mind. Not that I confined myself to looking. Far from it; 1 talked to ber as much and often as I could, aad the subject of our conversation more often than not was that of hunting. The choice was hers, not mine. I naturally should have preferred a topic of a more intimate and personal nature. Also, although theoretically I yield to no man in my ardour for the chase, actually I'm as hopeless a duffer as ever mounted a horse. Indeed, when I do get a day's hunting, a rare occurrence, 1 generally employ no more exalted means of locomotion than Shanks's mare. Hunting, however, was Miss Foljambe's passion. She had ridden ever since she could toddle, and to her a man who couldn't hold his own across country was a creature beneath contempt. Was I voluntarily to place myself in that despised category? Certainly not. Sitting together in the corridor of the Assembly Rooms, skating together ou the lake at Stapleton—for a three weeks' frost had only just broken up—l held my own across country with the best of them. Even now—" I only wish I could," I regretfully sighed. "The horse is the difficulty?" she observed thoughtfully. " Sir George," as her partner for the next dance presented himself, " how can one raise a mount for Mr Wynne, who is dying for a hunt tomorrow? Hasn't Andrews some fairish hirelings?" Let mc say at once that Sir George Lascelles and I wore acquaintance!, bat not friends. He was Miss Foljambe'9 .avowed suitor, which may have prejudiced mc against him, for in the country, where he owned a bit* property, he seemed popular enough. Anyhow, I always hated the sight of his face. I hated him more than ever, too, when with an offensively supercilious smile, "All Andrews's stud will be bespoken," he said slowly; "but my old hunter, Cock-robin, is eating his head off in the stable, and if you care to ride him, Mr Wynne, he is very much at i your service, I'm sure." I did not care to ride any horse, far less one belonging to Sir George. I was about to say so when— ■* You are in luck 1" cried Miss Foljambe. " Cock-robin simply doesn't know how to put a foot wrong." "He Is a good horse," remarked his owner ; " a worthy mount for a sportsman of Mr Wynne's tried skill and courage." That taunt settled it. Evidently the man expected mc to make a fool of myself. Never mind. The challenge had to be accepted. At least I could show that, however questionable my skill, my courage was beyond suspicion. For I didn t funk; let mc do myself that justice. I didn't mind risking my neck, and under other circumstances would have tumbled about quite happily; but I did object to exposing myself to Miss Foljambe's critical eyes. Even I could appreciate the good points j of the magnificent chestnut I found-wait-ing for mc the next morning in the stable yard of the inn. Cock-robin, indeed was a perfect picture, upon which, alas! his unhappy rider made a most unsightly blot. With uncommon strength he apparently united uncommon forbearance, for he carried mc kindly and quietly to the Meet. We arrived just as the hounds moved off. Good Heavens 1 What chaos I Carriages blocking up the narrow road-way, foot people lining the hedges, darting in and out under the horses' hoofs, horses, unmanageably fresh after tbe frost, kicking and plunging in the most disconcerting and dangerous way! In this confusion how reassuring was the sobriety of Cockrobin's demeanour! That paragon merely cocked his ears, quickened his trot, took rather a firmer hold of his bit, and steadily threaded bis way through the crowd till he found himself within easy reach of the hounds. Five minutes' jog behind a nea pepper-and-salt back, rising and falling in rhythmical harmony with her horse's trot, and belonging, as I guessed, to Miss Foljambe, brought us to a meadow into which we all turned. No sooner did Cock-robin feel springy turf under him, and see the hounds streaming away in front, than that-paragon, did I call him ? rather let mc say fiend—ducked his head. I felt an upheaval; lo and behold ! I was on his neck, ignominiously clutching bis mane. Miss Foljambe's glance of incredulous horror as I rushed past ber told mc my disgrace was complete. At least, if it were not, I soon made it so. For, struggling by a miracle back into the saddle, I found myself riding at a fence, so small that Cock-robin did not think it worth his while to go out of his way to seek the gate in the far corner. And so right in the wake of tbe hounds, perilously near them, indeed, he charged it, wa3 just going to take off when a hound came ! lolloping right across him. He stopped, '< swerved, jumped sideways, and, oh, , horror I landed mc on my back on the ground. It was the last straw. Up I scrambled amongst audible titters, while Miss Foljambe passed mc with ostentatiously averted head. Sir George rode up, hoped, with ironical politeness, I. was 1 not hurt, and said he never knew the old ' horse to play such a trick before. Even \ Cock-robin seemed to survey mc with an air of pained bewilderment, i For the next hour, one of the most • wretched of my life, dejected, ashamed, 5 I hung as far in the rear as my ardent • steed could be induced to remain. At last ' —j was alone in a narrow ride—there i came a whimper, swelling promptly to a 5 chorus, next a loud view-halloa, as the ' huntsman dashed past mc. Off we started, l up one ride, down another through a gap, 1 where an overhanging bough of a tree nearly knocked mc out of the saddle, and l then—we were out In the open, with the 1 hounds just disappearing over a stake- •* and-bound fence, and around ns a couple ' of score of bold spirits all racing madly ' for a start. For what followed I must j disclaim all responsibility. Cock-robia, i here emphatically the predominant parti ncr, regulated his pace himself and took his fences how, when, and where he

pleased. My part was to remain on his back, and I performed it. A sorry enough figure, too, I cut, just as often as not oat of the saddle and on his neck. Still, we never quite parted company. More: we gradually forged ahead out of the rack and into the foremost line, and then-.But by this time I had eyes for nothing but the Eying pack. As we thundered down a gentle slope I saw them disappear down by a line of willows, and then reappear with dripping sides Water! No matter: I couldn't have turned Cock-robin if I would, and I wouldn't if I could. On we galloped ! I saw a streak of light, I heard a splash. Were we in? No, it was the huntsman with a couple of other*. lower down to keep him company. We were over—over 1 I had jumped the StaFleton ditch ie a place hitherto deemed unjutnpable, and had pounded the whole held I Oh! the mad delight of that gallop—a whole lifetime of ! bliss crammed into thirty minutes ! What do I know of its details? Flying fences, ditches on one, often on both sides; trappy creeping places, a flight of stout rails, a hairy bull-finch; over or through them all Cock-robin carried mc until—well, want of condition, the severity of the pace, my insane style of riding—up hill, down hill, over grass, young wheat, ploughnever sparing or easing him, began to tell on the old horse. He got blown, 1 can just remember struggling up a little incline, and with a stout stile staring mc in the face at the top of it, and then then* came a crash and a blank 1 Was I dreaming. "This is your doing, Sir George," said a woman's voice, low, bitter, passionate. " You knew he was no horseman, yet by your taunts you forced him. into riding. You hoped for this ! Coward ! Murderer l Yes, murderer 1 for if he dies his death will be at your door. Don'c come near him. And—for heaven's sake, call some one; set help, brandy, a doctor ! Do something. Don't stand there while he bleeds to death." The voice broke; something wet and warm fell on my face; 1 was touched, lifted —oh 1 excruciating agony I After all it must have been a dream, one of a series of nightmares, full of weariness, of consuming thirst, varied by intervals of horrible pain, for, when I woke up I was in bed in a strange room, with a nurse sitting by my side. I had had a fall in tbe hunting field, so she told mc, had cut my head about, broken my arm, damaged the muscles of my back, and been generally knocked silly. Also I had had a bout of fever and had been more or less light-headed ever since I was brought here — Here? Where was I, then? At Oakleigb, Mr Foljambe's place to which, being close at hand, I had been carried. I don't think I wa3 ever as happy as during those weeks of convalescence, Mrs Foljambe couldn't have taken more care of mc than she did if she had been my mother, while Miss Foljambe treated mc with a kindness which was little short of angelic, and which made mc more hopelessly her slave than ever. I also had tbe gratification of learning incidentally tbat Sir George had gone on a yachting trip to the Mediterranean. Now, practically unlimited as were our opportunities for tete-atete, it was not until I was almo.t myself again, and ashamed to trepass any longer on my host's hospitality, that Miss Foljambe ever alluded to my performance on Cockrobin. " I have something to say to you, Mr Wynne," she began one afternoon, to my surprise looking quite pale and horribly embarrassed. "I want to apologise for my abominable behaviour that day. Oh yes, it was abominable mean, disloyal to the last degree. I was so ignorant, so full of silly, petty prejudice that I dared to look down on you simply because, working hard at your profession, you had not had time or opportunity to learn what comes as a matter of course to all the idle, emptyheaded noodles in the country; and so, just when I ought to have stood by you I turned my back on you. I can't tell you bow ashamed of myself I have been. When I saw the plucky way you stuck to your horse—and—afterwards in your illness—so brave, so patient—" The tears had been in her voice all the time; now they were in ber eyes, and running down her cheeks. This was more than flesh and blood could stand. Scores of times I had told myself that to take advantage of a man's hospitality, to make love to hia daughter, was a scoundrelly act I neither could nor would commit. Yet this is what I did now; what's more, I've never repented doing it. For Miss Foljambe was pleased to accept mc, wretched detrimental that I was, and to laugh to scorn all notion of opposition to the husband of her choice.