“I give you fair warning,” Felix had said, “if I do not spare my own neck, you cannot expect me to spare your horse’s legs.”
“You may do your worst,” Staveley had answered. “If you give him his head, and let him have his own way, he won’t come to grief, whatever you may do.”
On their road to Monkton Grange, which was but three miles from Noningsby, Peregrine Orme had ridden by the side of Miss Staveley, thinking more of her than of the affairs of the hunt, prominent as they were generally in his thoughts. How should he do it, and when, and in what way should he commence the deed? He had an idea that it might be better for him if he could engender some closer intimacy between himself and Madeline before he absolutely asked the fatal question; but the closer intimacy did not seem to produce itself readily. He had, in truth, known Madeline Staveley for many years, almost since they were children together; but lately, during these Christmas holidays especially, there had not been between them that close conversational alliance which so often facilitates such an overture as that which Peregrine was now desirous of making. And, worse again, he had seen that there was such close conversational alliance between Madeline and Felix Graham. He did not on that account dislike the young barrister, or call him, even within his own breast, a snob or an ass. He knew well that he was neither the one nor the other; but he knew as well that he could be no fit match for Miss Staveley, and, to tell the truth, he did not suspect that either Graham or Miss Staveley would think of such a thing. It was not jealousy that tormented him, so much as a diffidence in his own resources. He made small attempts which did not succeed, and therefore he determined that he would at once make a grand attempt. He would create himself an opportunity before he left Noningsby, and would do it even today on horseback, if he could find sufficient opportunity. In taking a determined step like that, he knew that he would not lack the courage.
“Do you mean to ride today,” he said to Madeline, as they were approaching the bottom of the Grange avenue. For the last half-mile he had been thinking what he would say to her, and thinking in vain; and now, at the last moment, he could summon no words to his assistance more potent for his purpose than these.
“If you mean by riding, Mr. Orme, going across the fields with you and the Miss Tristrams, certainly not. I should come to grief, as you call it, at the first ditch.”
“And that is just what I shall do,” said Felix Graham, who was at her other side.
“Then, if you take my advice, you’ll remain with us in the wood, and act as squire of dames. What on earth would Marian do if aught but good was to befall you?”
“Dear Marian! She gave me a special commission to bring her the fox’s tail. Foxes’ tails are just like ladies.”
“Thank you, Mr. Graham. I’ve heard you make some pretty compliments, and that is about the prettiest.”
“A faint heart will never win either the one or the other, Miss Staveley.”
“Oh, ah, yes. That will do very well. Under these circumstances I will accept the comparison.”
All of which very innocent conversation was overheard by Peregrine Orme, riding on the other side of Miss Staveley’s horse. And why not? Neither Graham nor Miss Staveley had any objection. But how was it that he could not join in and take his share in it? He had made one little attempt at conversation, and that having failed he remained perfectly silent till they reached the large circle at the head of the avenue. “It’s no use, this sort of thing,” he said to himself. “I must do it at a blow, if I do it at all;” and then he rode away to the master of the hounds.
As our party arrived at the open space the Miss Tristrams were stepping out of their carriage, and they came up to shake hands with Miss Staveley.
“I am so glad to see you,” said the eldest; “it is so nice to have some ladies out besides ourselves.”
“Do keep up with us,” said the second. “It’s a very open country about here, and anybody can ride it.” And then Miss Furnival was introduced to them. “Does your horse jump, Miss Furnival?”
“I really do not know,” said Sophia; “but I sincerely trust that if he does, he will refrain today.”
“Don’t say so,” said the eldest sportswoman. “If you’ll only begin it will come as easy to you as going along the road;” and then, not being able to spare more of these idle moments, they both went off to their horses, walking as though their habits were no impediments to them, and in half a minute they were seated.
“What is Harriet on today?” asked Staveley of a constant member of the hunt. Now Harriet was the eldest Miss Tristram.
“A little brown mare she got last week. That was a terrible brush we had on Friday. You weren’t out, I think. We killed in the open, just at the edge of Rotherham Common. Harriet was one of the few that was up, and I don’t think the chestnut horse will be the better of it this season.”
“That was the horse she got from Griggs?”
“Yes; she gave a hundred and fifty for him; and I’m told he was as nearly done on Friday as any animal you ever put your eyes on. They say Harriet cried when she got home.” Now the gentleman who was talking about Harriet on this occasion was one with whom she would no more have sat down to table than with her own groom.
But though Harriet may have cried when she got home on
