The Eustace Diamonds

hill, and were again in a close country. A few low hedges seemed as nothing to Lizzie. She could see her cousin gallop over them ahead of her, as though they were nothing; and her own horse, as he came to them, seemed to do exactly the same. On a sudden they found themselves abreast with the huntsman. “There’s a biggish brook below there, my lord,” said he. Lizzie was charmed to hear it. Hitherto she had jumped all the big things so easily, that it was a pleasure to hear of them. “How are we to manage it?” asked Lord George. “It is rideable, my lord; but there’s a place about half a mile down. Let’s see how’ll they head. Drat it, my lord, they’ve turned up, and we must have it or go back to the road.” Morgan hurried on, showing that he meant to “have” it, as did also Lucinda. “Shall we go to the road?” said Lord George. “No, no!” said Lizzie. Lord George looked at her and at her horse, and then galloped after the huntsman and Lucinda. The horsey man with the well-bred screw was first over the brook. The little animal could take almost any amount of water, and his rider knew the spot. “He’ll do it like a bird,” he had said to Greystock, and Greystock had followed him. Mr. MacFarlane’s hired horse did do it like a bird. “I know him, sir,” said Carstairs. “Mr. Nappie gave £250 for him down in Northamptonshire last February;⁠—bought him of Mr. Percival. You know Mr. Percival, sir?” Frank knew neither Mr. Percival nor Mr. Nappie, and at this moment cared nothing for either of them. To him, at this moment, Mr. MacFarlane, of Buchanan Street, Glasgow, was the best friend he ever had.

Morgan, knowing well the horse he rode, dropped him into the brook, floundered and half swam through the mud and water, and scrambled out safely on the other side. “He wouldn’t have jumped it with me, if I’d asked him ever so,” he said afterwards. Lucinda rode at it, straight as an arrow, but her brute came to a dead balk, and, but that she sat well, would have thrown her into the stream. Lord George let Lizzie take the leap before he took it, knowing that, if there were misfortune, he might so best render help. To Lizzie it seemed as though the river were the blackest, and the deepest, and the broadest that ever ran. For a moment her heart quailed;⁠—but it was but for a moment. She shut her eyes, and gave the little horse his head. For a moment she thought that she was in the water. Her horse was almost upright on the bank, with his hind-feet down among the broken ground, and she was clinging to his neck. But she was light, and the beast made good his footing, and then she knew that she had done it. In that moment of the scramble her heart had been so near her mouth that she was almost choked. When she looked round, Lord George was already by her side. “You hardly gave him powder enough,” he said, “but still he did it beautifully. Good heavens! Miss Roanoke is in the river.” Lizzie looked back, and there, in truth, was Lucinda struggling with her horse in the water. They paused a moment, and then there were three or four men assisting her. “Come on,” said Lord George;⁠—“there are plenty to take her out, and we couldn’t get to her if we stayed.”

“I ought to stop,” said Lizzie.

“You couldn’t get back if you gave your eyes for it,” said Lord George. “She’s all right.” So instigated, Lizzie followed her leader up the hill, and in a minute was close upon Morgan’s heels.

The worst of doing a big thing out hunting is the fact that in nine cases out of ten they who don’t do it are as well off as they who do. If there were any penalty for riding round, or any mark given to those who had ridden straight⁠—so that justice might in some sort be done⁠—it would perhaps be better. When you have nearly broken your neck to get to hounds, or made your horse exert himself beyond his proper power, and then find yourself, within three minutes, overtaking the hindmost ruck of horsemen on a road because of some iniquitous turn that the fox has taken, the feeling is not pleasant. And some man who has not ridden at all, who never did ride at all, will ask you where you have been; and his smile will give you the lie in your teeth if you make any attempt to explain the facts. Let it be sufficient for you at such a moment to feel that you are not ashamed of yourself. Self-respect will support a man even in such misery as this.

The fox on this occasion, having crossed the river, had not left its bank, but had turned from his course up the stream, so that the leading spirits who had followed the hounds over the water came upon a crowd of riders on the road in a space something short of a mile. Mrs. Carbuncle, among others, was there, and had heard of Lucinda’s mishap. She said a word to Lord George in anger, and Lord George answered her. “We were over the river before it happened, and if we had given our eyes we couldn’t have got to her. Don’t you make a fool of yourself!” The last words were spoken in a whisper, but Lizzie’s sharp ears caught them.

“I was obliged to do what I was told,” said Lizzie apologetically.

“It will be all right, dear Lady Eustace. Sir Griffin is with her. I am so glad you are going so well.”

They were off again now, and the stupid fox absolutely went back across the river. But, whether on one side or on the other, his struggle for life was now in