(COPYRIGHT STORY]. The Best Old Chap in the Hunt

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 26, 30 June 1906, Page 5

(COPYRIGHT STORY]. The Best Old Chap in the Hunt

By

Mrs Edward Kennard

(Author of ’The Tiger Cat,” etc.)

EVERYBODY said he was the best old chap in the Hunt, and certainly no more popular member went out with the celebrated

Grasborough Pack. He was an Indian Colonel, who had retired from the Army on his pension. Far from rich, it was a wonder to all how be managed to keep a stud of three or four hunters in his stable, and get the fun he did out of them. Late in life, lie had married a county lady of good birth and portion, but destitute of fortune. Report said, the match was made in the hunting field. After a couple of years of happy married life. Airs. Martineau died, leaving him with one daughter. He simply idolised his child, and as .-he grew up, his affection merged into absolute worshio.

Carry was a tine handsome girl of eighteen. at the time this story commences. Colonel Martineau admired her enormously. and was intensely proud of her good looks. It was a pleasant sight to see the pair sally forth together on a wintry morning, in order to pursue their favourite pastime of hunting. Carry was a magnificent horsewoman, possessing perfect hands and seat, and the most undaunted nerve. Never did she appear to better advantage than when attired in a neat, dark habit, her honest hazel eye- looking the whole world st m ight ly and innocently in the fate. Her red brown ringlets played rebelliously in the breeze and a delicate carmine mounted into her rounded cheeks. Indeed, it was impossible not to admire Carry. She was like a whiff from the sea. like a ray of sunlight on a gloomy day. Gloom and depression vanished in her presence. She made one forget such things as illness and suffering. Many girls in her position might have been spoilt by the excess of parental affection showered upon her earliest childhood, but hers was not a spoilable nature. She returned her father's fondness with interest, and was as devoted to the kind, indulgent old man as he was to his hrilliaiss young daugiUesr. They were a very happy couple, knit- together by bonds of the closest sympathy. Both were deservedly popular, and although poor, they were asked about a great deal, and managed to have a very good time of it.

Carry confided a good deal to her papa, nevertheless, she cherished a secret of her own. which she did not dare to confess to any human being. She thought of it by the hour together. Carry was in love, but could not decide whether the object of her affections returned her predilection or not. He was —what girls call—exceedingly nice to her. but he did not get beyond thwt point. When they met out hunting, he addressed her in a polite and friendly fashion, but during the two years of their acquaintanceship. he had never once committed himself by the use of lover-like langrage. Carry was not one of the forward, up-to-date, yonng women. who think nothing of making up to a man. and more or less proposing to him. On the contrary, she felt mortally ashamed of earing so much for a person, who apparently did not reciprocate the sentiment; <she could not help blushing with pleasure if Sir Rupert Rolwell spoke to her of his own free will, and occasionally her eyes might wander in his direction. But so well did she guard her secret, that no on— -not even her father guessed it. At least, so she flattered herself.

Sir Rupert was considerably her senior. but she did not mind that. He was the head of a very large banking firm of high repute. Altho ugh comparatively young to occupy so d stingu shed a position, he had worked his way up by sheer force of application and talent. He kept his stud of hunter- at Foxington. He had a great many more horses, however, than he could possibly ride himself, and having conceived an im-men-e admiration for Carry Martineau’s horsemanship, he constantly

mounted her. preferring she should hunt them, rather than some rough groom, with bad hands and temper. In this respect. Sir Rupert and the girl thoroughly understood one another. Each was of service to the other, and the arrangement suited them both. It enabled Carry frequently to accompany her father, when otherwise she would have been forced to stay at home, having nothing to ride. True, the Colonel experienced some misgivings as to .e. ep ting favours at the hands of so rich and powerful a personage as Sir Rupert, who, if report might he believed, looked to a dues! family for a bride. He did not want his girl to be talked about. The Baronet evidently liked Carry, and they were excellent friends, but he could not care for her name to be linked with any man who thought himself too fine to make her his wife. When the proper time came for her to marry, it would be better to chose some nice, young fellow in her own class of life. .Sir Rupert's name constantly figured in society papers as having been a guest of royal parties. Apart from the hunting he moved in a different sphere. .Colonel Martineau quite realised this, and only permitted Carry to ride the Baronet’s horses so long as gossip did not connect their names together. Like his daughter, he possessed a singularly sweet and unsuspicious nature. Personally. he disliked placing himself under an obligation to any man. but when Carry pleaded to be allowed to go hunting, he could not find it in his heart to refuse her request. 'People themselves are generally the last to hear what their neighbours are good enough to say about them. It never entered Colonel Martineau’s head to imagine that folk were beginning to say .Sir Rupert Rodwel! was amusing himself i--*- Carry's expense, and would drop ner as soon as- he was tired of her. "It is very foolish of the Colonel to allow- the flirtation to go on,” they said. "For of course a man in Sir Rupert's position, feted and sought after by every fashionable mother in the United Kingdom, wou’d never dream of marrying a mere, Ittle country nobody. no matter how pretty or how nice she may be. Besides, he is far too ambitious to sacrifice his ambition to Love. He "Is simply making a fool of pool Carry, and_somebody ought to give hfr father a hint as to the real state of the case.'*

All the same, no person had yet dared to open Colonel Martineau's eyes. It was a splendid hunting morning. A moist wind blew refreshingly, the going was in perfect order, and the hounds met in the very cream of the country. Carry and her father started in the highest of spirits. The girl was mounted on a very fine chestnut thoroughbred belonging to Sir Rupert, and the Colonel rode his lie.-t ami most confidential hunter. Although close on seventy years of age, the old man was still uncommonly bad to bear when hounds really ran Hard. He had a w .nderfully quick eye, and directly he landed in a field spotted the best way out of it. If he rode a trifle cunning on occasions, it was only natural at his time of life, but given a good run.-and. a reliable horse, he could' still show his back to most of the yr linger generatim. The chestnut thoroughbred was an old friend, and the girl invariably looked forward to the days when she was lucky enough to secure a mount upon him. He was very fast, and a fine, bold fencer who never turned his head.

Father and daughter formed rather a pathetic spectacle to the observant on looker. The old man struggling gallantly against the ever-increasing inroads of age: the young and beautiful girl, an incarnation of a vigorous life. The thought arose, what would happen when he went, and she was left alone, shorn Of his fostering care? Such adoiation

for any human being pre-er ted a painful as well as an admirable side. The Colonel's love seemed almost too great. What if something happened to |>art father from daughter? Marriage. Death? The mind foresaw a hundred possibilities in the future. There was a tremendous muster at the meet. It was attended by fashionable people frern the reirolest parts of the country. Many great personages were present, and for a quarter of an hour prior to tire start, conversation reigned supreme. Sir Rupert Rod well had came from London by train thr-t morning. Drectly he saw the Martinears appear on the scene, he rode up to tarry, and asked her if she would mind looking at a young horse a farmer had brought for his inspection. They went off together, unconscious themselves of th- interest which they excited, but eyed by many pairs of curious orbs. Meanwhile, the Colonel dismounted from his hunter, i.i order to tighten the girths of the saddle. As he stood on the ground, a garrulous lady of title axosted him. He acknowledge her salutations courteously, and. after a few preliin’uary remarks, she went on to say—“ls it true. C lunel Martineau, that your daughter is engaged to be married to Fir Rup-rt Rod well? I have heard the report hi seveial quarters of late.” He gave a gasp of astonishment. “Good gracious, no." he responded. “Who says such a thing?" ’Ob. everybody is talking about their being so much in one another's c mpany. her riding his horses and so on. It is no business of mine, but if I were you. Colonel. I should put a stop to the affair at once, unless”—and she pursed up h r lips ineredously—“Sir Rupert really means business. It never does a girl any good to get talked about, and the hunting field is a regular hot led of go-sip. as you ought to know as well as 1." She moved off, leaving Colonel Martineau in a state of distressed agitation. Why could not people ho'd their tongues. and allow a girl a little innevent enjoyment, without saying spiteful Hungs about her? He had never heard Sir Rupert say a word to his daughter which he disapproved of. H? lielieved him to be a straightforward, honourable man. Carry was not a flirt. She conducted herself with modesty and decorum. Rut the mere idea of her being talked about was gall and wormwood. When he was at leisure he must think the situation quietly over, and decide what was the best course to pursue. He was terribly put out. but not wishing to spoil Carry's day he determined to hold his peace for the time being. The hounds now moved off. and to his dismay, a second lady approached him. and asked him precisely the same question. Was it true Carry was engaged to Sir Rupert? He gave an indignant denial to the rumour. and dug his spurs into his horse's sides. Thank goodness! the period of eross examiu it'ou had eeasbd. for no sooner were bounds pul iuto the covert, than they <.avc tongue, and in a few minutes streamed away at a tremendous pace over the great sward. So deeply was the Colonel vexed, that he threw caution to the winds. He got a first-rale start, and about a dozen of the foremost men charged the first fence simultaneously. Crash, crackle, went the twigs, but they were all of them over. Hurrah, throw away cigars, cram down hats, forget the petty annoyances of humdrum existence. Sit tight in the saddle, and ride for all you are werth. There is a scent today with a vengeance. Onward steal the beauties; sileut. stern, fleet, implacable. The fox is only just ahead of them, and his pursuers mean business. So do the eager horsemen and women in their rear. Everywhere stretches a sea of grass,' intersected by dark lines of varying fences. Carry also has been fortunate

in securing a start, and is right up in front among the leading division. Although she does not follow her father slavishly, they generally keep an eye on one another so as to be near n rase of accident. Rut both their hor.-es are fencing perfectly, neither leaking the smallest mistake, in spite of the formidable character of many of the obsta- les. A brilliant, blood-thrilling, so'ul-stir-ring twenty minutes. Them, a brief check in a road. Rut only momentary. and not long enough to allow those in the rear to gel on terms with the leaders, off tLe road in a jiffey. over a straggly fence, guarded on the near -ale by a wide and blind ditch. Drop lightly into the big grass field beyond. in the midst of which the keen little ladies are racing ahead in hot pursuit. At the tar end is a black bull-finch, lighte led here and there by two or three gaps. t c lone I Martineau gallops straight up to .he one nearest him. Carry steals along close on his right. There is nothing whatever to jump. He hardly steadies his horse. All is clear apparently. But 10, on a sudden his good hunter turns a frightful somersault. both steed and rider descending with terrific force to tin? ground. Carry -ets the chestnut at the bullfinch, and lands with a bit of a crash, hut safely. Good God! What has happened? The animal does not move, neither does her father. It did not take long to ascertain the cause of the disaster. Wire, wire, as usual. A single, treacherous strand was placed right in the centre of the gap. but so fine, so slight, only th most searching eye could detect its presence. And the Colonel's sight had already begun to fail him. The wire was almost invisible, and cruel—cruel lieyond conception. The baud that had placed it there deserved to be amputated. Carry no longer thought of run or bounds. The pair lay motionless, and still as Death. A great fear clutched at her heart, and well nigh stopped its pulsations. She jumped hurriedly from her horse. and several men gathered round the spot. The good bay hunter was dead. He lay where he fell, with a broken neck. At least, his sufferings had been short. But what about the Colonel? tarry fell on her knees by his side, and implored her d ar. dear father to speak one word of recognition. Alas, he was ins n-ilde to even her entreaties. Her fears increased. Verv gently and sorrowfully they raised him from th,. cold ground, covered him up with coats, and after an interval drove him to his home in a covered carriage and pail, larry followed t e mournful i tie procession on the chestnut. Die doctor eame without delay. Then, for the first tint! did sir- learn what had taken p> ice. The patient’s baek was brok n. He might linger on. hut at be-1 it could only lie a question of a few days. An hour later. Colonel Martineau regained consciousness, H.’s first act was to snd for Sir Rupert Rodwell. Carry wond< red. but did not dare ask any questions. Indeed, she was too heart-broken to do so. The Baronet came post haste in answer to the dying man's -request. < okmc! Martineau's head was quite clear now. He retained all his senses. bur from the chest downwards his limbs were contpletelv paralysed. "It is good of you to rouii." be sai l feebly to Sir Rupert, welcoming his visitor with a faint smile. "I want to ask a favour of you Iw-—before—l die." "You have only to name it." said Sir Rupert huskily. 10-day—l heard for the first time that —that my girl s name was b. ing coupled with yours. It gave me incx-pre-sible pain. Will you promise me to —sto leave her alone, when—when I am gone?” And he looked at Fir llup rt with pleading eves. The Baronet flushed red. "I did not know.” he faltered. “I never thought — (teople are so ill natur.d. 1 swear to you that 1 have never said a word to your daughter which all the world migh: not hear.” "Just so. I under.-tan l. You do not care enough for my girl to marry her. Tliereforc do not injure her fair fame. I ask this of you on my death-lied. God knows what will lawomc of niy darling.

when —when I am gone. If it were not for leaving Carry—my dear Carry alwne and ill-provided for, I should not tnind being snuffed out. We all must —go in—our turn. But Carry —Carry ” His Voice broke, tears mounted to his eyes. He had no thought save for his daughter. It was beautiful to witness his touching unselfishness and calm endurance of suffering. He could talk and think of nothing but the girl, destined so soon to be deprived of his all-powerful affection. Man of the world as he was. Sir Rujiert was moved to the foundations of his being. His better nature triumphed over the more scheming and ambitious side. He blamed himself for having studied his own convenience first and ■foremost. Carry was young and fresh and innocent. He thought her quite the nicest and prettiest girl who came out hunting. It was refreshing to talk to her after the fast, pushing, young women he met in London. And so, because her company pleased him, and he found it pure and restful, he had taken every opportunity of enjoying it, without pausing to consider what effect his attentions might produce, either upon the girl herself. or upon the hunting field at large. And yet, and yet—was there some other, deeper feeling behind all the surface conventionalities he flattered himself ho had decorously maintained. Why did he recall Carry’s clear eyes, in a London hallroom, or remember the play of her features, her little trieks of speech and manner’ Why, too, had ho. so often compared her with other girls, and even in business hours found she occupied a certain place in his thoughts’ He had not known. He had been too busy to inquire. It had sufficed to look forward with ever-increas-ing pleasure to the week ends, when he knew they should meet. But now, the sight of the Colonel lying there, so patient, so uncomplaining and resigned, yet full of apprehension for his daughter’s future, tore a veil of mist from Sir Rupert’s eyes. “Will you let me see Carry, and give me a chance to put matters right?” he said, in a gentle voice, unlike his usual brisk, authoritative tone.

He wondered at his own Mildness and stupidity. The World? P-baw! be knew the world and what its criticisms amounted to. He might have gone on drifting for years, thinking only of his own advantage, and deterred by ambitious calculations from listening to the inner promptings of his being. The good old man lying helpless on his death bed, had not only taught him a lesson, but also done him an infinite service. Thank goodness, he recognised it in time. He went in search of Carry and found her sitting all alone in the cosy little drawingroom. crying her heart out. When she perceived who the intruder was, she covered her face with her hands. For a moment he stood abashed by the greatness of her grief. Was it not presumption to speak any word of love now? How did he know whether it would bring comfort or not? And yet his blood tingled with a solemn conviction. Those eyes of hers were not ones to tell stories, and he had read in them ere to-day what hitherto had produced but a passing sense of exultation, but which now gave him confidence and strength. Gently, very gently, he took possession of her hands, and looked into the dear, dim eyes to seek confirmation of his hopes. “Carry,” he whispered. “Carry, I have come to ask you something. Can you guess what it is?” The colour mounted to her cheeks in a fierce rush. She sought to turn away her head, but his gaze held her spellbound. “I want you to be my wife. Carry. I have been talking to your father, and he is very unhappy about leaving you alcne and unprotected—•—” “Oh,” she interrupted, “you are only saying this out of pity.” “No, indeed lam not. lam saying it be—because I love you.” “I don’t believe it. We have known each other for two whole years, and all that time you have never cared for me—not- really, I am sure of it.” “I have, Carry. I swear to God that I have. Only, like a fool, I tried to suppress my sentiments. But now I know the truth.”

“Everybody said you would marry the daughter of a duke,” she said, excitedly. “I am only a poor girl, with no money and no position to speak of. J am not nearly' fine enough for you, I can only ride yo'ur horses.” He was puzzled by her attitude. Did she not care for him after all?” “If you dislike me, say so,” he said, brusquely. Carry began tearing the corner cf her handkerchief to pieces. “No, I—l don’t dislike you,” she mumbled. "Do you like me, Carry?” There was a long silence, so long that he began to be afraid. “Can’t you speak?” he said, imploringly. ’ Then, and then only, did she turn upon him with a gesture of indescribable beauty and pathos. “I did not think there was any occasion to speak. I —l th —thought, that you—knew. . . ” He gathered her in his arm and kissed her. “My darling,” he whispered, tenderly. "My beautiful darling! Show me the duke’s daughter to compare with you. Now, let us go together to your father. He is awaiting us.” Hand in hand, like a couple of children. they passed into the sick room. Carry’s secret had gone from her keeping. She had. however, no longer cause to be ashamed of it. When Colonel Martineau saw them approach his bedside, hand linked in hand, a smile of ineffable content illumined his features. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Take care of her,” he said to Sir Rupert. "That is my last injunction. Now—now —I can die—without regret.” The affianced pair knelt by his bedside, and offered up a prayer, whilst the dying man turned his face to the wall. They thought he was asleep, but by evening he had ceased .to breathe. The great heart was at rest. The noble spirit had depatred from it* earthly tenement in peace. Sir Rupert and Lady Rodwell eveg hallowed his memorv.

All men must die. Let them, the*, leave a heritage cf kindly recollect ton* to those who survive them. That eo«stitutes an imperishable legacy, which takes from death half its sadness —all its sting.