Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “This is your house, Roderick. It is for you to give your orders.”

  “Bosh!” exclaimed the son impatiently. “Don’t I tell you that you are mistress here, and will be mistress — —”

  “My dear Roderick, let us look things straight in the face,” said Lady Jane. “If I were sole mistress here there would be no hunting breakfast. It is just the very last kind of entertainment I should ever dream of giving. I am not complaining, mind. It is natural enough for you to like that kind of thing; and, as master of this house, it is your right to invite whomsoever you please. I am quite happy that it should be so, but let there be no more talk about my being mistress of this house. That is too absurd.”

  Rorie felt all his most generous impulses turned to a sense of constraint and bitterness. He could say no more.

  “Will you give me a list of the people you would like to be asked?” said his mother, after rather an uncomfortable silence.

  “I’ll go and talk it over with the Duke,” answered Rorie. “He’ll enter into the spirit of the thing.”

  Rorie found the Duke going the round of the loose-boxes, and uncle and nephew spent an hour together pleasantly, overhauling the fine stud of hunters which the Duke kept at Ashbourne, and going round the paddocks to look at the brood-mares and their foals; these latter being eccentric little animals, all head and legs, which nestled close to the mother’s side for a minute, and then took fright at their own tails, and shot off across the field, like a skyrocket travelling horizontally, or suddenly stood up on end, and executed a wild waltz in mid air.

  The Duke and Roderick decided which among these leggy little beasts possessed the elements of future excellence; and after an hour’s perambulation of the paddocks they went to the house, where they found the Duchess and Lady Mabel in the morning-room; the Duchess busy making scarlet cloth cloaks for her school-children, Lady Mabel reading a German critic on Shakespeare.

  Here the hunt breakfast was fully discussed. Everybody was to be asked. The Duchess put in a plea for her school-children. It would be such a treat for the little things to see the hounds, and their red cloaks and hoods would look so pretty on the lawn.

  “Let them come, by all means,” said Roderick; “your school — half-a-dozen schools. I’ll have three or four tents rigged up for refreshments. There shall be plenty to eat and drink for everybody. And now I’m off to the Tempests’ to arrange about the hounds. The Squire will be pleased, I know.”

  “Of course,” said Lady Mabel, “and the Squire’s daughter.”

  “Dear little thing!” exclaimed Rorie, with an elder brother’s tenderness; “she’ll be as pleased as Punch. You’ll hunt, of course, Mabel?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t shine in the field, as Miss Tempest does.”

  “Oh, but you must come, Mab. The Duke will find you a safe mount.”

  “She has a hunter I bred on purpose for her,” said the Duke; “but she’ll never be such a horsewoman as her mother.”

  “She looks lovely on Mazeppa,” said Rorie; “and she must come to my hunting breakfast.”

  “Of course, Rorie, if you wish I shall come.”

  Rorie stayed to luncheon, and then went back to Briarwood to mount his horse to ride to the Abbey House.

  The afternoon was drawing in when Rorie rode up to the old Tudor porch — a soft, sunless, gray afternoon. The door stood open, and he saw the glow of the logs on the wide hearth, and the Squire’s stalwart figure sitting in the great arm-chair, leaning forward with a newspaper across his knee, and Vixen on a stool at his feet, the dogs grouped about them.

  “Shall I send my horse round to the stables, Squire?” asked Rorie.

  “Do, my lad,” answered Mr. Tempest, ringing the bell, at which summons a man appeared and took charge of Roderick’s big chestnut.

  “Been hunting to-day, Squire?” asked Rorie, when he had shaken hands with Mr. Tempest and his daughter, and seated himself on the opposite side of the hearth.

  “No,” answered the Squire, in a voice that had a duller sound than usual. “We had the hounds out this morning at Hilberry Green, and there was a good muster, Jack Purdy says; but I felt out of sorts, and neither Vixen nor I went. It was a loss for Vixen, poor little girl.”

  “It was a grief to see you ill, papa,” said Violet, nestling closer to him.

  She had hardly taken any notice of Roderick to-day, shaking hands with him in an absent-minded way, evidently full of anxiety about her father. She was very pale, and looked older and more womanly than when he saw her yesterday, Roderick thought.

  “I’m not ill, my dear,” said the Squire, “only a little muddled and queer in my head; been riding too hard lately, perhaps. I don’t get lighter, you know, Rorie, and a quick run shakes me more than it used. Old Martin, our family doctor, has been against my hunting for a long time; but I should like to know what kind of life men of my age would lead if they listened to the doctors. They wouldn’t let us have a decent dinner.”

  “I’m so sorry!” said Rorie. “I came to ask you a favour, and now I feel as it I hardly ought to say anything about it.”

  And then Roderick proceeded to tell the Squire his views about a lawn meet at Briarwood, and a hunting breakfast for rich and poor.

  “It shall be done, my boy,” answered the Squire heartily. “It’s just the sort of thing you ought to do to make yourself popular. Lady Jane is a charming woman, you know, thoroughbred to the finger-nails; but she has kept herself a little too much to herself. There are people old enough to remember what Briarwood was in your grandfather’s time. This day week you say. I’ll arrange everything. We’ll have such a gathering as hasn’t been seen for the last twenty years.”

  “Vixen must come with you,” said Rorie.

  “Of course.”

  “If papa is well and strong enough to hunt.”

  “My love, there is nothing amiss with me — nothing that need trouble me this day week. A man may have a headache, mayn’t he, child, without people making any fuss about it?”

  “I should like you to see Dr. Martin, papa. Don’t you think he ought to see the doctor, Rorie? It’s not natural for him to be ill.”

  “I’m not going to be put upon half-rations, Vixen. Martin would starve me. That’s his only idea of medical treatment. Yes, Vixen shall come, Rorie.”

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Glas ist der Erde Stolz und Glück.

  The morning of the Briarwood Meet dawned fairly. Roderick watched the first lifting of the darkness from his bed-room window, and rejoiced in the promise of a fine weather. The heavens, which had been so unpropitious upon his birthday, seemed to promise better things to-day. He did not desire the traditional hunting morning — a southerly wind and a cloudy sky. He cared very little about the scent lying well, or the actual result of the day’s sport. He wanted rather to see the kind familiar faces round him, the autumn sunshine lighting up all the glow and colour of the picture, the scarlet coats, the rich bay and brown of the horses, the verdant background of lawn and shrubberies. Two huge marquees had been erected for the commonalty — one for the school-children, the other for the villagers. There were long tables in the billiard-room for the farming class; and for the quality there was the horse-shoe table in the dining-room, as at Roderick’s birthday dinner. But on this occasion the table was decorated only with hardy ferns and flowers. The orchids were not allowed to appear.

  Roderick noticed the omission.

  “Why, where are the thing-um-tites, mother?” he asked, with some surprise; “the pitcher-plants and tropical what’s-its-names?”

  “I did not think there was any occasion to have them brought out of the houses, Roderick,” Lady Jane answered quietly; “there is always a risk of their being killed, or some of your sporting friends might be picking my prize blossoms to put in their button-holes. Men who give their minds to horses would hardly appreciate orchids.”

  “All right, mother. As long as there is plenty to eat, I don’t suppose it much matters,” answere
d Rorie.

  He had certainly no cause for complaint upon this score. Briarwood had been amply provisioned for an unlimited hospitality. The red coats and green coats, and blue coats and brown coats, came in and out, slashed away at boar’s head and truffled turkey, sent champagne corks flying, and added more dead men to the formidable corps of tall hock bottles, dressed in uniform brown, which the astonished butler ranged rank and file in a lobby outside the dining-room. He had never seen this kind of thing at Briarwood since he had kept the keys of the cellars; and he looked upon this promiscuous hospitality with a disapproving eye.

  The Duke supported his nephew admirably, and was hail-fellow-well-met with everybody. He had always been popular at Ashbourne. It was his own place, his particular selection, bought with his own money, improved under his own eye, and he liked it better than any of his hereditary seats.

  “If I had only had a son like you, Rorie,” he said, as he stood beside the young man, on the gravel sweep before the hall-door, welcoming the new-comers, “I should have been a happy man. Well, I suppose I must be satisfied with a grandson; but it’s a hard thing that the title and estates are to go to that scamp of a cousin of mine.”

  Roderick, on this particular morning, was a nephew whom any uncle might be proud to own. His red coat and buckskins became him; so did his position as host and master at Briarwood. His tall erect figure showed to advantage amidst the crowd. His smile lit up the dark sunburnt face like sunshine. He had a kind word, a friendly hand-clasp for everybody — even for gaffers and goodies who had hobbled from their village shanties to see the sport, and to get their share of cold sirloin and old October. He took the feeble old creatures into the tent, and saw that they found a place at the board.

  Squire Tempest and his daughter were among the later arrivals. The meet was to be at one, and they only rode into the grounds at half-past twelve, when everyone else had breakfasted. Mrs. Tempest had not come. The entertainment was much too early for a lady who never left her rooms till after noon.

  Vixen looked lovely in her smart little habit. It was not the Lincoln green with the brass buttons, which Lady Mabel had laughed at a year ago. To-day Miss Tempest wore a dark brown habit, moulded to the full erect figure, with a narrow rim of white at the throat, a little felt hat of the same dark brown with a brown feather, long white gauntlets, and a whip with a massive ivory handle.

  The golden bay’s shining coat matched Violet’s shining hair. It was the prettiest picture in the world, the little rider in dark brown on the bright bay horse, the daintily quilted saddle, the gauntleted hands playing so lightly with the horse’s velvet mouth — horse and rider devotedly attached to each other.

  “How do you like him?” asked Vixen, directly she and Rorie had shaken hands. “Isn’t he absolutely lovely?’

  “Absolutely lovely,” said Rorie, patting the horse’s shoulder and looking at the rider.

  “Papa gave him to me on my last birthday. I was to have ridden Titmouse another year; but I got the brush one day after a hard run when almost everybody else was left behind, and papa said I should have a horse. Poor Titmouse is put into a basket-chaise. Isn’t it sad for him?’

  “Awfully humiliating.”

  Lady Mabel was close by on her chestnut thoroughbred, severely costumed in darkest blue and chimney-pot hat.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever met my cousin?” said Rorie. “Mabel, this is Miss Tempest, whom you’ve heard me talk about. Miss Tempest, Lady Mabel Ashbourne.”

  Violet Tempest gave a startled look, and blushed crimson. Then the two girls bowed and smiled: a constrained smile on Vixen’s part, a prim and chilly smile from Lady Mabel.

  “I want you two to be awful good friends,” said Rorie; “and when you come out, Vixen, Lady Mabel will take you under her wing. She knows everybody, and the right thing to be done on every occasion.”

  Vixen turned from red to pale, and said nothing. Lady Mabel looked at the distant blue line of the Wight, and murmured that she would be happy to be of use to Miss Tempest if ever they met in London. Rorie felt, somehow, that it was not encouraging. Vixen stole a glance at her rival. Yes, she was very pretty — a delicate patrician beauty which Vixen had never seen before. No wonder Rorie was in love with her. Where else could he have seen anything so exquisite? It was the most natural thing in the world that these cousins should be fond of each other, and engaged to be married. Vixen wondered that the thing had never occurred to her as inevitable — that it should have come upon her as a blow at the last.

  “I think Rorie ought to have told me,” she said to herself. “He is like my brother; and a brother would not hide his love affairs from his sister. It was rather mean of Rorie.”

  The business of the day began presently. Neither Vixen nor the Squire dismounted. They had breakfasted at home; and Vixen, who did not care much for Lady Jane Vawdrey, was glad to escape with no further communication than a smile and a bow. At a quarter-past one they were all riding away towards the Forest, and presently the serious business began.

  Vixen and her father were riding side by side.

  “You are so pale, papa. Is your head bad again to-day?”

  “Yes, my dear. I’m afraid I’ve started a chronic headache. But the fresh air will blow it away presently, I daresay. You’re not looking over-well yourself, Vixen. What have you done with your roses?”

  “I — I — don’t care much about hunting to-day, papa,” said Violet, sudden tears rushing into her eyes. “Shall we go home together? You’re not well, and I’m not enjoying myself. Nobody wants us, either; so why should we stay?”

  Rorie was a little way behind them, taking care of Lady Mabel, whose slim-legged chestnut went through as many manoeuvres as if he had been doing the manège business in a circus, and got over the ground very slowly.

  “Nonsense, child! Go back! I should think not! Jack Purdy may do all the work, but people like to see me to the fore. We shall find down in Dingley Bottom, I daresay, and get a capital run across the hills to Beaulieu.”

  They found just as the Squire had anticipated, and after that there was a hard run for the next hour and a quarter. Roderick was at the heel of the hunt all the time, opening gates, and keeping his cousin out of bogs and dangers of all kinds. They killed at last on a wild bit of common near Beaulieu, and there were only a few in at the death, amongst them Vixen on her fast young bay, flushed with excitement and triumph by this time, and forgetting all her troubles in the delight of winning one of the pads. Mrs Millington, the famous huntress from the shires, was there to claim the brush.

  “How tired you look, papa,” said Vixen, as they rode quietly homewards.

  “A little done up, my dear, but a good dinner will set me all right again. It was a capital run, and your horse behaved beautifully. I don’t think I made a bad choice for you. Rorie and his cousin were miles behind, I daresay. Pretty girl, and sits her horse like a picture — but she can’t ride. We shall meet them going home, perhaps.”

  A mile or two farther on they met Roderick alone. His cousin had gone home with her father.

  “It was rather a bore losing the run,” he said, as he turned his horse’s head and rode by Vixen, “but I was obliged to take care of my cousin.”

  One of the Squire’s tenants, a seventeen-stone farmer, on a stout gray cob, overtook them presently, and Mr. Tempest rode on by his side, talking agricultural talk about over-fed beasts and cattle shows, the last popular form of cruelty to animals.

  Roderick and Violet were alone, riding slowly side by side in the darkening gray, between woods where solitary robins carolled sweetly, or the rare gurgle of the thrush sounded now and then from thickets of beech and holly.

  A faint colour came back to Vixen’s cheek. She was very angry with her playfellow for his want of confidence, for his unfriendly reserve. Yet this was the one happy hour of her day. There had been a flavour of desolateness and abandonment in all the rest.

  “I hope you enjoyed the run,” said Rorie.

&n
bsp; “I don’t think you can care much whether we did or didn’t,” retorted Vixen, shrouding her personality in a vague plural. “If you had cared you would have been with us. Sultan,” meaning the chestnut “must have felt cruelly humiliated by being kept so far behind.”

  “If a man could be in two places at once, half of me, the better half of me, would have been with you, Vixen; but I was bound to take care of my cousin. I had insisted upon her coming.”

  “Of course,” answered Vixen, with a little toss of her head; “it would have been quite wrong if she had been absent.”

  They rode on in silence for a little while after this. Vixen was longing to say: “Rorie, you have treated me very badly. You ought to have told me you were going to be married.” But something restrained her. She patted her horse’s neck, listened to the lonely robins, and said not a word. The Squire and his tenant were a hundred yards ahead, talking loudly.

  Presently they came to a point at which their roads parted, but Rorie still rode on by Vixen.

  “Isn’t that your nearest way?” asked Vixen, pointing down the cross-road with the ivory handle of her whip.

  “I am not going the nearest way. I am going to the Abbey House with you.”

  “I wouldn’t be so rude as to say Don’t, but I think poor Sultan must be tired.”

  “Sultan shall have a by-day to-morrow.”

  They went into an oak plantation, where a broad open alley led from one side of the enclosure to the other. The wood had a mysterious look in the late afternoon, when the shadows were thickening under the tall thin trees. There was an all-pervading ghostly grayness as in a shadowy under-world. They rode silently over the thick wet carpet of fallen leaves, the horses starting a little now and then at the aspect of a newly-barked trunk lying white across the track. They were silent, having, in sooth, very little to say to each other just at this time. Vixen was nursing her wrathful feelings; Rorie felt that his future was confused and obscure. He ought to do something with his life, perhaps, as his mother had so warmly urged. But his soul was stirred by no ambitious promptings.