The Drowned Sailor

by Benjamin Parsons

paused, and regarded her a moment. ‘I think so,’ he said, and awaited her response, which, not being forthcoming, prompted him to ask: ‘And what about you, Ravella?’

  ‘I was never in love with Clare.’

  ‘Oh, don’t laugh at me!’ he complained. ‘Tell me, do you think you could fall in love again?’

  But she dodged him with: ‘Oh, my aunt will be worrying about me,’ —and attempted to slip by, but he caught her arm and pulled her near.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well,’ she smiled archly, ‘we shall see, shan’t we?’ —and with that she darted away, leaving him to chew over the exchange on his own.

  This romantic episode buoyed up Ravella’s expectations no end, and she fairly skipped back to Mrs. Manderville’s guesthouse in a jubilee.

  ‘Goodness me!’ cried that lady on seeing her. ‘Who’s had some success today, then?’

  ‘I have, I have!’ she rejoined, dancing around the kitchen. ‘My hook is in his mouth, the bait is swallowed— one tug and I’ll land him, just see if I don’t!’

  ‘And what will you do with him then?’

  ‘What a question! He’s a millionaire, isn’t he?’

  ‘I didn’t ask what you’ll do with his money,’ she returned. ‘I said, what will you do with him?’

  ‘Oh, as to that,’ Ravella replied carelessly, ‘I’ll make him happy.’ A mischievous glint sparkled in her eye. ‘I’ll kill him with happiness,’ —with which she went upstairs to plan her final tug.

  During her sojourn in Hurlevor, Ravella had become friendly with some leading members of the parish hunt, whose maligned collective were only too pleased to avail themselves of a listening ear, into which they could pour the history of their woes, namely, how their sport had fallen so terribly out of fashion. They regaled her with details of lurid placards, expensive court cases, jeering youths frighting the horses and mothers throwing their children under the hooves by way of protest. Ravella listened so adroitly to all of this that she was soon looked upon as a first-rate supporter of the sporting cause, though in truth she had never once opened her mouth to give an opinion on the topic.

  However, she now decided to use this newly formed connexion as the instrument of her conquest of Trevick. She began to occupy herself with the hunt more and more often, to the exclusion of time she might otherwise, perhaps, have spent with him, and this denied him the hoped-for opportunity of reprising those interesting subjects that had sprung up in conversation before. Thus she kept him in intrigued suspense, for although she contrived to accidentally encounter him almost daily, it always happened that she was late for something, and could not stay. But it is a subtle exercise to generate want by denial, because if the denial continues too long, then the wanting turns bitter, and unprofitable— and it would never do for Trevick to tire of chasing after her. So she looked out for an opportunity to really secure him, force him to declare love outright, and thus attach himself to her utterly.

  As it happened, the hunt also provided this opportunity. Trevick had mentioned, while eagerly attempting to secure another interview, that he did not approve of fox hunting because of its barbarity. This was a boon to Ravella, who saw that to vex him by crossing his opinions would only make him more anxious to change hers.

  One day she encountered Mr. Bull, the leader of the Hurlevor Hunt, a bluff and hearty man who regaled her with: ‘Well it’s no good, is it, my lass? No good at all!’ in the broadest tones.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Ravella.

  ‘Damn foxes’ve all buggered off, ’aven’t they? Shafts our meetin’ this weekend though, dunnit? Pretty buggered, I’d say!’

  His colourful assessment of the situation was true enough. Perhaps the foxes of the neighbourhood were every part as wily as their reputation suggested, and had forsaken the groves and hedgerows of Hurlevor for the far more enticing luxuries of the dustbins and rubbish tips of the city; or perhaps the wildlife in the area was generally depleted by the farmers’ use of badger-poisons and pesticides; whatever it was, the result was the same, that Mr. Bull was at a loss to find anything to hunt, though the horses and hounds were as primed as could be.

  ‘I guess,’ he sighed, ‘it’ll have to be a drag, again.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Ravella, ‘I’m sure you’ll still have a bracing time of it.’

  ‘What’s that you say, my lover?’ he returned, misunderstanding her misunderstanding. ‘I mean drag-hunt, don’t I? Buggerin’ pointless though, if you ask me.’

  This expedient, a sack of aniseed or somesuch dragged across the countryside for a scent in lieu of genuine vermin, was often employed in the absence of decent game, or to appease protestors.

  When he explained this to her, Ravella hit upon a plan, and mused aloud: ‘Oh dear, it must be terribly trying for you, to be always finding new courses to drag the sack along?’

  ‘Bloody right it is! If you’re not careful, you end up with the same buggerin’ chase every time, ’specially round ’ere with that milord Trevick owning everything you see, or buying it up as soon as you so much as look at it. An’ he won’t have us on his land, see? Miserable bugger as he is.’

  ‘Oh! Well,’ replied Ravella brightly, ‘if that’s all it is, there’s nothing in it! James Trevick and me are like two peas in a pod, and I’m sure he’ll be delighted to help me out, even if not you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mr. Bull. ‘And how might that be?’

  Ravella linked her arm in his. ‘If you would be so sweet as to let me join the meeting, just this once, and lend me your fine gelding Luca and some tackle, then I’m sure I could prevail upon milord Trevick to let us take the drag hunt over his land, even up to his front door, if I was of the party.’

  ‘I bet you could, too, you little darlin’ you! I reckon you’ve got him right where you want him, ’aven’t you? Well you can have what you like, my lover, just give me the nod, like.’ —and here he fixed his ruddy eye upon her damask cheeks with a new fervour. He was a man who knew a fit little filly when he saw one.

  Ravella certainly hoped that she did have Trevick where she wanted him, and determined to try her power that very weekend. Of course she did not ask his permission, but blithely gave instructions for the course to be laid all the way up to Hurlevor Point itself.

  In the early hours of the following Sunday morning the hunt met beneath overcast skies and drizzle. Summer, contrary to expectations, had not bloomed and blown into rosy heat, but had chilled in the bud and taken mildew; the gloomiest July had led onto a grey August. Nevertheless, Mr. Bull’s blood was up, the horses stamped and snorted, the hounds bayed, ran about and whelped with excitement, and everybody chatted and nodded and complained about this and that (as everybody feels comfortable in a crowd, when complaining) and a few straggling protestors turned out for form’s sake.

  Ravella appeared, bewitching in her pinks and astride the handsome chestnut Luca, handy with her crop. Mr. Bull whistled low, spat, sucked in his gut and trotted over.

  ‘That’s an ’appy horse, lass,’ he hallooed her, ‘with you astride him.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Ravella. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Would you like to blow my horn, my lover?’ he enquired next.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked, dismayed, and he produced the brass instrument.

  ‘Get them pretty lips of yours round that,’ he suggested, with a wink, and proffered it.

  Ravella accepted her fate and performed the office, resigned to suffer these subtle advances all morning.

  ‘That was a good ’un!’ he congratulated her, and the pack set off on the trail, the horses cantering behind.

  The hounds clamouring and horses stamping made a bright spectacle of the hunt on such an otherwise indifferent day, and the refreshing exercise made them a jolly crowd— though the lack of a definite quarry tended to diffuse any urgency. This did not annoy Ravella, however, since she had a quarry indeed; but her companion did not stint to voice his grumbles, in between a volley of flirtatious nois
es.

  They followed the trail, and the speed increased as the dogs ran ahead. They nipped in at the gate to Hurlevor Point, chasing through the woods eagerly. The horses bounded behind, taking the hedges easily and cantering up the drive, across the lawn.

  Ravella spied the house and smiled.

  Bull said: ‘This is rare going, you managed it good and proper my darlin’!’ as he skidded through a flowerbed.

  The hunt thundered on, up to the very windows of the old house, at one of which appeared a surprised face, and then, shortly, an outraged figure at the door, pulling on his shirt— James Trevick ran out in alarm to be immediately swamped by noses and tongues and wagging tails. Shouting at the riders in a passion and waving his arms he drove them on, with invectives against their audacity, which the huntsmen took to be a most uncouth display. Three mares galloped past him and hared away up the coast path, shooing the pack along, and then the bulk of the rout hurried behind and veered to the housefront.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ yelled the owner, with other, more colourful phrases, ‘Get off my land!’ and ‘Get out!’ the tamer among them.

  ‘Tight-fisted bastard,’ commented Bull, ‘changing his mind and thinking we’ll all jump to his tune! What’s he at, aye? What’s he reckon he’s doing?’ —and he turned to Ravella for a confirmation of his opinion, but her horse Luca suddenly seemed to shy as she was about to speak.