The End of the Run. A sporting novel

Front matter

A Digby's Popular Novel Scries Crown Svo, handsome cloth, price 2s 6d per Vol. Each Book contains 320 pp., and is printed on superior paper from new type* THE MYSTERY OF CLEMENT DUNRAVEN By JEAN MIDDLEMASS. Author of 'A Girl in a Thousand.' &c. {Third Edition. A HIDDEN CHAIN. By DORA RUSSELL. Author of ' The Other Bond,' ' Footprints in the Snow,' &c. [Third Edition. DR JANET OF HARLEY STREET. By Dr ARABELLA KENEALY. Author of f Some Men are such Gentlemen,' &c. [Sixth Edition with Portrait THE JOLLY ROGER. By HUME NISBET. Author of 'Her Loving Slave,' ' Bail Up,' &c. With Illustrations by the Author. [Fifth Edition. *o* Other Works in same Series in due course. DIGBY, LONG & CO., LONDON % porting Uobxl BY B. GALPIN AND AUSTIN OLIVER - if LONDON DIGBY, LONG t CO., PUBLISHERS 18 Botjvkrie Street, Fleet Street E.C.

Chapter I

All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon ; All night has the casement jasmine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune. Tennyson. Vera, Squire Archdale's young and pretty wife, was looking unmistakably bored, and, sad to relate, yawned more than once during her husband's some what sing-song interpretation of ' Launcelot and Elaine ' which he was busy reading from a neatly bound volume of Tennyson. It was only when he reached that portion of it where Guinevere is urging Launcelot to join the jousts at Camelot in order to still the voice of the ' tiny trumpeting gnat ' of scandal and he angrily replies, ' would yourself, now weary of my service and devoir, henceforth be truer to your faultless lord,' that Vera, glancing at her lord and master, seemed to show a faint interest in the reading, and began lazily comparing herself to that unlucky but well-beloved Queen, and then looking at her husband, she smiled to herself and murmured, ' Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King,' and with a touch of scorn she added, ' that passionate perfection, my good Lord.' Young Squire Archdale was what is called a worthy fellow, very steady and good, in fact, one of those people whose conscience is too obtrusive and pushing for their comfort.

His attention was chiefly absorbed in scientific farming, and his spare time spent in hunting and shooting, so that, from a sociable point of view, he was a trifle dull, at least, so Vera, his bright, sparkling, pretty little wife was beginning regretfully to acknowledge to her self. At the time our story opens, Arthur Archdale was performing a task which he had set himself, and, unfortunately for Vera, one he wished her to share with him, namely to read every evening some of the poetry of the day. He considered this a duty to Vera, who, in an unguarded moment, had once expressed her great fondness for poetry. He was now engaged in wading heavily through The Idylls of the King, and read on methodically, till the entrance of a servant with the evening paper and some letters for Vera, when with apparent relief to himself and wife, he put down his book and was soon immersed in 'the latest intelligence.' Vera opened her letters with little show of interest, till she came to the last, when, with an exclamation of pleasure, she noticed the handwriting to be that of an old friend of hers, Captain Hulbert, whom she had known while she was yet a child, but who had been out in India with his regiment since she married, now two years ago.

Vera was but nine teen when she became a wife, urged by her parents and flattered by Arthur Archdale's devotion. The first twelvemonth of their married life had been spent abroad, and it was now just a year since the Squire had brought his bride home to his country house in Blankshire. Foxlea Hall was a beautiful old red brick building, dating from the early days of ' Good Queen Bess.' It had passed comparatively unscathed, through the deadly period of the early part of the nineteenth century, so often fatal to art and antiquities. It stood a lonely and stately building, on the summit of a breezy hill, with two great tulip trees in front, one on each side of the drive, standing as sentinels, and adding a grace and dignity of their own to this sweet old world picture.

Vera and her husband were sitting in the oak panelled library. 'The coal strike is likely to continue,' Arthur remarked, looking up from his paper, 'As the men refuse to — ' then as Vera paid no attention, ' Did you hear, my dear ? ' he repeated, ' The coal strike — ' Vera's reply was somewhat inconsequent. ' And hope to spend the winter in Blankshire.' ' Eh ! what ! ' said the puzzled young man. ' A thousand pardons,' Vera answered. ' I was reading all my tiresome letters ; see here is one from Lady Wooley, asking me as usual to help her with some charity entertainment; she is always wanting me either to sing at a deaf and dumb asylum, or lend pictures to the blind, or read tracts to the occupants of Earlswood.' ' My dear,' said the Squire with a shocked ex pression, ' I think you should not make fun of Lady Wooley, she is such a good woman.' Vera made a little moue. ' Ah ! that's just it,' she sighed. ' She is a little too good for daily use ; she ought to be put away in lavender like a countrywoman's clothes, and only had out on Sundays with the bearsgrease and prayer books.

But here are two other letters, one from Florence Santerre, accepting for our dance on the 20th, and one from an old friend of mine, Captain Hulbert, I think you met him once or twice at my old home,' Vera said carelessly. ' He intends to hunt this winter in Blankshire, and wants to know if we can tell him of any good hunting stables in this neighbourhood.' ' Captain Hulbert ? Ah, yes ! ' said Arthur. ' Why not write and ask him to come here for a week or two, then he can look about for stables himself — but can you put him up ? We shall be having the house full for this dance next week.' ' Oh, we can easily find a corner for him, he is most useful on these occasions, and that rare thing now-a-days, an indefatigable dancer.' So the matter was arranged, and Vera, taking up her letters and nodding a good-night to Arthuri retired to her room.

Just a week later, on the afternoon of the 20th November, Vera was sitting resting after a long morning spent in arranging affairs for the dance, which was to take place that evening. One of her guests, Florence Santerre, the most modern of modern young women, had taken Ethelbert Jones, the greatest of poets (in his own imagination), for a long tramp into a neighbouring village, while Mr Tapeall, a rising solicitor and a college friend of Arthur's, with Major Loader, were out shooting with the Squire. Major Loader was a retired cavalry officer, now no longer in his first youth, but still an excellent man across country, and a deadly hand at the pheasants. He had always been credited with a great admiration for the fair sex, but had never yet committed himself to matrimony, having 'saved his brush,' as he described it in his sporting way, although on several occasions he had all but sue cumbed to the fascinating eyes of Marion Chadows, a young friend of Vera's. The ladies of the party, with the exception of Florence, were all in their rooms resting themselves till tea-time, in prepara tion for the exertions before them that evening.

Vera was one of those tall, fair, graceful women, who, although really fairly strong, always give one the appearance of fragility. Her soft brown hair was wound in a coronet round her small and dainty head, and she had the sweet grey eyes and tender, sensitive mouth which one so often reads of, but alas ! so seldom meets in real life. She had changed her morning dress for a dark crimson tea-gown, which set off to perfection her slender waist and tall, graceful figure. As she sat leaning back in an armchair drawn up near the fire, for the day was bitterly cold, the slight fatigue she felt gave a pen sive expression to a face naturally full of vivacity, disclosing each thought as it passed through her mind, and changeable as the sky on a typical April day. As she idly watched the flames, her thoughts reverted to Tennyson's Queen Guinevere, in the sweet story of 'Launcelot and Elaine,' that had roused her interest some nights ago, when even the monotonous tones of the careful Arthur could not rob the words of the human, lifebreathing Queen of their reality. ' Should I have liked to be Guinevere ?' she pon dered,' After all — she must have felt, in spite of her sorrow and regrets, that at least she had lived and loved.

What a glorious love to have inspired ! What a creation, that devotion of Launcelot ! Well, well, I too have my pattern, Arthur, but perhaps it is just as well that I have never met ' Launcelot ; ' we women are weak, and Heaven knows — ' ' Captain Hulbert,' the butler announced at this moment, and the unexpected interruption to her thoughts brought a rosy tinge to Vera's usually pale cheeks. ' Delighted to see you,' she murmured, ' I'm afraid you found me daydreaming, a very pernicious habit, isn't it ? ' 'I was able to arrive earlier than I expected,' answered Captain Hulbert, gazing at her with un disguised admiration, then, — ' Can this be the little Vera I — Forgive me, Mrs Archdale, I was thinking of the old days while you still wore short skirts, when you used to come tearing down the avenue at your old home, with your long hair flying in the wind, and a pack of terriers at your heels.

Do you remember how Ethelbert Jones would always insist on calling you " Artemis " ? ' ' Ah ! ' said Vera laughing, ' How long ago that seems, I feel so grown up now. Ah ! what fun we used to have in those days, do you know I often long even now for another scamper with those dear terriers, but alas ! it would turn poor Arthur's hair white to see the dignified mistress of Foxlea Hall disporting herself in such a way, why, it's as much as I can do to make him give his consent to my hunting. 'By the bye,' she added, 'Mr Jones is staying here now, I am expecting him in every minute, what there is left of him after an afternoon's hard exercise, unsparingly administered by Miss Santerre. There ! I can hear their voices in the hall now, will you ring for tea, Captain Hulbert, please, and I will go and look up some of my guests, and we can all have a cosy time before the shooters come in and talk Birds, Birds, Birds with a capital B.' Five minutes later saw them all assembled in Vera's pretty drawing-room.

There were the twin daughters of a rich brewer who had recently been raised to the peerage under the title of Lord Hopgood. The girls were good, straightforward, homely creatures, and, as their father loved to sa}', ' with not a bit of nonsense about them.' There was also Marian Chadows, a young lady who dabbled in palmistry, but whose serious avoca tion was spiritualism. She had indeed marvellous gifts of the mystic order, and had she lived a century ago would doubtless have been burnt for a witch. Spirit writing and rapping, and the con juring up of visions to herself in a crystal, were everyday events to her. She was, in fact, a result of the modern craze for signs and wonders, indulged in chiefly by people who, not able to produce faith enough for the creeds and beliefs which satisfied their predecessors, yet swallow greedily the statements of half -hysterical mediums.

Florence Santerre, whom we have already mentioned, clad in a costume of the most manly tweed, was re citing at length her adventures in company with the Poet, who, poor man, must have had, as that young lady elegantly described it, ' a devil of a time.' She began by asking Vera if she didn't dote on bullfights, and, without waiting for an answer, pro ceeded to recount how that afternoon she and Mr Jones had seen a magnificent specimen of the bovine tribe, and how, fired by a desire to test her running powers, she had insisted on racing with her unfor tunate companion across the field where this really rather dangerous bull was kept. At first poor Ethelbert Jones had flatly declined, but, seeing the wilful girl already starting on her madcap career, the little poet, who, to do him justice, was no coward, gallantly followed suit.

As it turned out, it was fortunate for Florence that he did so, for, when she had nearly reached a place of safety, and was but a short way from a friendly gate, she stumbled and fell, and Mr Bull, who had been watching her pro gress with some disgust and impatience, evidently felt that this was his turn for some fun, and bellowing loudly, or, as Florence expressed it, 'Shrieking the battle cry of freedom,' he advanced at a quick canter, and ' In another minute I should have been exploring the upper regions,' remarked the young lady coolly, 'when, enter Hero, applause, please, from the gallery ! ' 'Oh! spare me, please,' interrupted Ethelbert Jones, 'I don't feel equal to Adelphic Orations. The plain fact of the matter was, I persuaded the beast by sundry wiles of my own, to retire from the fascination of Miss Santerre's company, and to direct his somewhat turbulent attention to my humble self, while the fair toreador made good her escape. 'I think you behaved most pluckily,' said Vera, 1 Florence, I am sure, must feel enormously grateful, though she always pretends to possess no such weaknesses as feelings.

But do tell me, Mr Jones, how you managed to escape yourself ? ' The little poet was always pleased when Vera manifested any interest in him. For years he had cherished an admiration and devotion which he styled, ' adoration of the Goddess Artemis,' as he persisted in calling Vera, and which she called ' Platonic friendship.' She had always been kind to the little man, had listened to his poems, and patiently endured the recital of his many love episodes with unknown damsels. It was one of his weaknesses to fancy girls in love with him, while he looked up to Vera as something immea surably above the ordinary race of womankind, treating her indeed to a respectful worship as his ideal of what a woman, or a goddess, as he fancifully called her, should be. Before he could reply to Vera's question, Florence broke in and described how, directly she got up again after her fall, she had ' done the best sprint she knew,' and, clamber ing over a friendly fence, had only then thought of her companion.

She first gazed in amazement at the sight that met her eyes the other side of the fence, and then went into peal after peal of laughter. 'While the poet stood,' she said, 'a volume of Rossetti's poems in his hand, and was proceeding to recite from " The Moonstar," in his most impressive and dramatic way, " Glorying, I gaze, and yield with glad goodwill To thee thy tribute." ' Mr Jones showed me the passage afterwards,' she added. 'The bull, puzzled at this strange turn of affairs, actually stood stock still staring at him, till my excessive mirth attracted his attention, and turning angrily to the direction of the sounds which so annoyed him, he galloped up to the fence which separated him from me, but which, how ever, was too large for him to jump, and there stood bellowing and stamping furiously, while Mr Ethelbert Jones, unmolested, quietly climbed the gate, and still holding his book in his hand, rejoined me, remarking, " Lady, I thank thee for thy loveliness, Because my lady is more lovely still.' I thought it rather an unkind remark, as I'm sure he spoke sarcastic' The waggonette containing the shooting party returned at this moment, and Vera was recalled to a sense of the lateness of the hour, and she and Florence and the other ladies left the room to dress for an early dinner, as the dance, as is usual in the country, was to begin in good time.

Vera was looking very sweet as she stood receiv ing her guests some hours later. She was robed in a soft white shimmering satin, with pearls round her fair neck and clustering in her sunny hair. She made a pretty enough picture standing in the beautiful old hall, which was brilliantly lighted, doing duty on this occasion as a ballroom. She had a gracious word of welcome for all, and it was not till every one had arrived, and she had found partners with indefatigable kindness for all the dull, heavy, or plain girls who would other wise have remained sadly as wallflowers the whole of the evening, that she permitted herself to accept Captain Hulbert's oft repeated request for a dance. Vera was a perfect dancer, light as thistledown. She seemed to float with the music as if she and it were kindred spirits.

Captain Hulbert, who was con sidered the best dancer in the regiment, whispered in her ear as they waltzed round together, ' At last, Mrs Archdale, I am rewarded. This is heaven indeed in exchange for the solid, very solid, earthly footsteps of my last partner.' Vera, her eyes all aglow with the delight of dancing, fired by the wild music of the Hungarian band, gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment. ' Let us dance the musicians down,' she said gaily, ' I feel to-night as if I could waltz for ever.' Captain Hulbert thought the music stopped all too soon, and, leading his partner to a seat in the recess of one of the old mullioned windows, was begging eagerly for another dance, when Arthur Archdale, wbo had been doing duty by some of his older guests, came up to Vera, saying, ' Hulloa Vera, I've been looking for you, you must let me have the next dance.' Vera, promising dutifully, he passed on, but she was soon surrounded by clamouring partners and her programme was filling up far too fast for Captain Hulbert's taste, who, begging the loan of it from Ethelbert Jones, who had just in scribed his name, quickly wrote his own initials L. H. against the four blank spaces left.

The music beginning, Arthur came for Vera, and Captain Hulbert had to content himself with watching her as she tried to suit her steps to Arthur's, who had certainly never acquired the art of dancing. 'It's like chaining a butterfly to a bear,' muttered the Captain, as he marked Arthur's clumsy efforts to steer his unfortunate partner through, the B to him, very giddy mazes of the waltz. Vera, heroically enduring agonies, looked up and caught the Captain's looks of commiseration, and gave him a wistful little smile that went straight to his heart, while Arthur plodded patiently round, remarking at the end, 'There ! I think we got on beautifully, don't you, Vera ? ' The twins, meanwhile, had been in a state of per fect bliss, having danced every dance conscientiously, and were feeling on the best of terms with them selves and the world generally.

Ethelbert Jones was sitting with Marion in a dim corner of the conservatory, having just tripped gingerly round with her in a waltz. 'Pity me, Miss Chadows,' he was saying, 'I've just been dancing with a Miss Blogg, whom, I had been told, among other enormities, scraped miser ably on the fiddle. I asked her if she still practised that instrument diligently. " Oh ! dear no," she said, in a lofty tone, " I know the violin. I'm taking up the cello now." ' 'This is our dance, Miss Chadows,' interrupted the Major, and Marion rose languidly. She was a young woman who never hurried. She was a handsome girl, with dark hair and a fine pair of large dreamy eyes, that she knew how to use to advantage on occasions. ' I see this is a square dance,', she said, looking at her programme, * I really don't feel equal to putting you through the lancers, you know you never could remember any of the figures.' ' Let us sit it out here,' said the Major, nothing loth, pointing to some easy chairs in a corner, admirably adapted for the deep and mystical lore which he loved to hear from the fair devotee's lips. ' You must continue my conversion to spiritualism,' he remarked, ' and here we are free from all inter ruptions of a mundane nature.' ' I'm afraid you are a sad sceptic,' said Marion as she sank with studied grace into a chair, giving the Major a languishing glance from those impressive eyes of hers.

The Major, emboldened, replied, 'You must take me in hand, Marion.' The young lady affecting not to notice the use of her christian name, he went on, ' Such a fair teacher could not fail to convince. Now, I have a theory that the contact of hands has great influence in establishing a complete current of sympathy,' and, taking her not very unwilling hand in his, he added, ' don't you agree with me ? ' Marion admitted that some great authorities did indeed consider this to be the case. You perceive the Major was getting on — ' I know I shall make a fool of myself in a minute, he muttered to himself. Hang it all, she's a devilish fine girl, and why shouldn't I ? I don't believe she would want to keep a tight rein on me like some wives. Here goes ! ' A slight pause had ensued while these thoughts were running through the Major's mind, when Marion remarked with an innocent air, ' Can you feel the electricity yet, Major Loader ? ' 'Marion, darling,' the Major began, when voices were heard approaching them, and Marion, gently disengaging her hand, rose to her feet while the Major remarked ' curse them,' under his breath as Florence approached with her partner, a callow youth who seemed greatly smitten by her breezy charms.

She, with a soul above such follies, dis dained all sentiment on her own account, though, to do her justice, she]was always goodnatured to other people's weaknesses, and, seeing in a moment how matters stood, she said snappishly to her com panion, ' What on earth did you drag me here for, all among the caterpillars and earwigs ! ' straight way marching him out again. But the spell was broken, and Marion insisted on being taken back to the ball-room, so once more the Major, this time very unwillingly, 'saved his brush.'

Chapter II

' When the early dawn is stealing O'er the moorland edge revealing All the tender tints of morning Ere she flushes into day. Then beneath the window, shaking Bit and bridle, while she's waking, Stands a bonny steed caprisoned To bear my love away; By hill and holt to follow, Hound and horn, and huntsman's holloa. Follow ! Follow ! where they lure us ; Follow, follow as we may.' — Whytt Melville. It was a fine bright morning that followed the ball at Foxlea Hall, one of those mornings that raise the spirits of the most confirmed dyspeptic, and which cause the blood to course madly through the veins of the younger and more hopeful. There had been a sharp touch of frost in the night, but the sun was doing its best to disperse the mist, and little doubt was felt by even the most cautious, but that the frost would be well out of the ground by eleven o'clock.

The meet was at Quorndon Hall, the seat of the Master, Squire Carstairs, a man about twenty eight, lately married to a young and charming wife, who well maintained the traditions of the Carstairs family for kindness and hospitality to rich and poor alike. Carstairs himself was a typical country squire, fair-haired, fresh-faced, broad-shouldered, a keen sportsman, and excellent master of hounds, working hard, winter and summer, to keep up both hounds and country to that pitch of excellence which it had enjoyed for many generations. Quondon Hall was only a couple of miles from the Archdales. Breakfast therefore was not ordered until half-past ten that the laziest might have a chance of sleeping off the exertions of the previous night. Squire Archdale himself, good man, had break fasted long ago and gone off for a tramp round his home farm and a chat with his bailiff, before dressing for hunting.

Punctually as the clock struck the half-hour, Mrs Archdale appeared in the dining-room, looking in her neat hat and well-cut habit, with her hair gathered back and securely and tirmly braided, as pretty a picture of a sportswoman as one's eyes would care to rest upon ; and so thought Captain Hulbert as he entered the room a moment after wards, attired in all the panoply us the chase, the well-cut scarlet coat, white leathers and top boots setting off to advantage his keen sunburnt face and slight well-made figure. 'Good morning, Captain Hulbert,' said Vera, ' I hope you had a good night's, or rather, good morning's rest, for I don't think any of us were in bed before four o'clock, and I heard stealthy foot steps creeping up from the smoking room long after that hour.' ' Oh ! we all turned in about five, I believe, at any rate, I did,' replied Captain Hulbert. ' By Jove, you don't look much the worse for your exertions,' he went on admiringly, 'you evidently mean to show us the way to-day.' 'I don't know about showing you the way, Captain Hulbert ; but I do know that I feel quite a different woman when riding Ladybird through a good run.

One seems to forget all the worries and troubles of life, all the mistakes one has made, and the bitter regrets they entail, at all events for the time.' At this moment Florence Santerre and one or two others entered the room, all laughing and chatting. 'I wonder what she means,' thought Hulbert, as he went to the sideboard to get Miss Chadows some cold pheasant, ' about the mistakes one has made and the regrets they entail. Can she have married the wrong man or what ? Archdale seems a fairly good sort, perhaps a little too good, bores her, shouldn't wonder. Well ! all I know is, that she is the most interesting woman I ever saw, and I mean to find out all about her history since we last met ' At this moment the butler came in to say that the horses had come round, and there was a general scurry.

Archdale, who in the meantime had got into his hunting things, came up to his wife, his mind full of his Berkshire pigs, and his badly put on hunting stock looking like a poultice round his neck, causing a mild inquiry from his wife as to whether he had cut his throat that morning in shaving. ra o Meanwhile, Captain Hulbert, whose own horses had not arrived, went out into the hall to have a look at the horse that had been lent him for the day by his host, and couldn't fail to admire the points and beauty of the animal he was going to ride. Kismet was a dark brown horse, standing 153, with large flat legs, long muscular shoulders well thrown back, a lean thoroughbred neck and head, and a game wild eye that evidently meant facing anything at any pace so long as hounds were running. 'I do hope we shall have some fun together to-day,' he thought, ' I never saw a better lookino horse in my life.' At this moment the waggonette which was to take the non-ridiug contingent to the meet came round, so he got on his horse and rode down the drive after Vera, Archdale, and the Poet, who were walking their horses slowly on in front.

The short two miles were soon traversed, and they arrived at the meet just as James Hailey rode up with his pack, both horses and hounds looking in the pink of condition and fit to run for their lives. It was a pretty enough scene, the sunlight gleaming on the satin coats of the horses, and the scarlet coats of the riders, dotted here and there, contrasting well with the green grass and beautiful autumn tints of the leaves, which still lingered on the trees in the park. ' What chance of a run to-day ? ' inquired a well known sportsman of Hailey. 'Waal sir, I think there will be a scent. The day's softening wonderful and will turn to rain before night, I expect, still a funny thing is scent, them days as seem likeliest, very often turn out the most unlikeliest.' At this moment Carstairs, who was always the soul of punctuality, having given the usual five minutes for loiterers, rode up to Hailey, and having given his orders, hounds moved off to covert.