‘No, I never saw him, not the old Squire—“t’owd Squire,” as they called him; but grandfather, he was thick with him, bein’ the oldest farmer in the dale an’ pretty nigh a gentleman hisself in those days; he was master of the ’ounds, d’ye see, when they was a trencher-fed pack—that was before Squire Heron took them over to t’ new kennels at The Ford.

‘Well, I done some pretty fair jumps myself at one time an’ another in t’ ring or steeple-chasin’, but ’twas nowt to what he done, not even when a mare I was ridin’ jumped over a wall an’ fifteen feet into t’ quarry t’ other side.

‘There’s a pretty tidy place at t’ bottom o’ that field’—pointing to a low-lying, marshy expanse on the left that rose at the end to a high bank—‘that he jumped one afternoon in cold blood which five out of six wouldn’t have touched in warm, but at t’ end of his time he was reckless—almost to touch on madness, so grandfather always said. But if ye’ll bide here three minutes till I’ve seen the mare looked to properly I’ll tell ye a tale of t’ Squire—same as grandfather told it me.’

So saying Jack Skelton cantered round to the farm, where he was now employed as horse-breaker and showyard rider, while I strolled down to view the leap at the end of the field till he was free to join me. I could see The Ford opposite to me as I walked along—a square keep flanked with castellated wings rising proudly amongst its trees beyond the winding river in a circle of fir-clad hills.

‘The old Squire’s’ daughter lived there now with her husband, who had taken her name on his marriage, but they were childless, and the ancient race of Herons seemed destined to become extinct.

Arrived at the bank I saw a formidable gulf open below me, with a soft and rotten landing on the further side, some fourteen feet across, the space between oozy with marsh mud and choked drains. ‘“All hope abandon ye who enter here,”’ I quoted aloud, just as Jack Skelton came up to me.

‘Ay,’ he chuckled, ‘it would be a job for a contractor to get a horse an’ man out o’ that, an’ after that I’ll lay odds but the laundry-maid would give her notice.

‘It was a great big, seventeen hands horse he had that he jumped it with—an ugly devil to look at, light roan in colour, but up to any weight an’ absolutely fearless. All ye had to do, as grandfather used to say, was to lay t’ reins on his neck, and straight across country he’d go like a bird.

‘He hadn’t always been such a fierce one to go, hadn’t t’ Squire, and what changed his temper was what I was goin’ to tell ye. ‘There was a woman in it, d’ye see, an’ that woman his wife. When first they was married no couple in broad Yorkshire was happier, as folk thought. She was a handsome lass and clever at book-larnin’ an’ suchlike, ambitious, too, like the clever ones usually are; but at first she was all for sport an’ huntin’, same as t’owd Squire, and where he went she mostly followed him, bein’ as well mounted as himself. As for t’owd Squire, he was t’ happiest man alive in those days—used to slap grandfather on t’ back an’ cry, after a steaming run, t’ fox’s mask in his hand ready to tie on to his missus’s saddle, “By ——, Skelton, but she’s the straightest woman rider in England, whether in or out o’ t’ shires.”

‘Yet for all that his happiness was short-lived, for after a son was born to him Mistress Heron seemed to lose heart for huntin’—her narves, she said, had gone wrong with her; but grandfather always upheld that she’d grown tired of her husband. She was a clever woman, as I said, an’ ambitious; an’ ’twas reported that she’d been forced to marry wi’ t’owd Squire by her mother in Lunnon town—he bein’ as rich as “Creases”—whilst the man she really favoured hadn’t a penny beyond what his wits might bring him in. For a bit the excitement of huntin’ had been enough for her, an’ spendin’ t’ Squire’s brass, t’ big house, an’ t’ novelty; but after t’ son was born she grew dissatisfied an’ took a dislike to her life. Consequence was that she took up with a young man called Cunliffe, that lived over at The Tower—right away on that hillside over there, about two miles west of us—ye can see it against trees from Heronsford easy.

‘The place had been bought by his father, who made money in trade at Ironopolis, an’ he’d just got himself elected into Parliament, an’ was like to get on at it, ’twas said, bein’ one of them ready-witted, oily-tongued chaps that never go quite straight, but gallop along t’ roads an’ sneak through gates, an’ then swagger on at t’ kill. Ay, there’s none “who-oops” an’ “tally-hos” louder than them.

‘T’owd Squire, on t’other hand, was one of t’ owd-fashioned sort, and said what he meant always, an’ clapped an oath on t’ back of it; hated Lunnon, an’ Lunnon ways, lived for huntin’ an’ shootin’ an’ country pursuits, an’ drank a bottle of port wine reg’lar every evenin’ to his own cheek. He wasn’t over well educated neither, havin’ all his life lived almost entirely at home; no scholar savin’ a vast knowledge of the stud-book, farriery, an’ horse-breedin’, which was a sort o’ larnin’ that Mistress Heron didn’t care a button about. Well, things went gradually askew between the two, she always wantin’ fresh company in t’ house, an’ him hatin’ society ways like poison.

‘Amongst others she took up with was this young Member o’ Parliament, Cunliffe, an’ often he would be over an’ dinin’ with them; he could sing a bit, an’ she was fond of t’ piano, an’ they would play on together in t’ drawing-room while t’ Squire sat over his mahog’ny passin’ t’ bottle round, talkin’ over t’ ’untin’, layin’ wagers with his own particular cronies of the red-faced, good-hearted, rough-tongued, fox-’untin’ Yorkshire style.

‘Well, t’owd Squire couldn’t stomach young Cunliffe at all; for in the first place he was a poor rider to ’ounds, never jumped owt if he could help it, was a mean chap with his brass, an’ had a supercilious way o’ talk about him that angered t’ Squire fearful. Add to this that he was always comin’ over to sweetheart his missus, an’ you can imagine how ill the two men would agree.

‘Well, one night they was sitting playin’ cards after dinner, an’ Mistress Heron was lookin’ on at them. T’ Squire was nowt of a scholar, as I said before, but he had a good head for cards, an’ loved to take t’ shekels off young Cunliffe, who hated losin’, but was generally the one who had to pay up.

‘It was a game they call Pickit they were playin’; grandfather told me—for in after days t’ Squire let out a good bit of his troubles to my grandfather, havin’ been playmates together, an’ grandfather bein’ a god-child o’ t’owd Squire’s father beside that—an’ Cunliffe bein’ flustered had forgot when it came to t’ last two cards—there bein’ a ticklish bit at stake—what had been played previously.

‘He looked this way and that, then all of a sudden he catches Mistress Heron’s eye, sees something in it that tells him somewhat, claps doon t’ right card an’ wins.

‘T’owd Squire, he keeps extraordinary quiet, just gives one swift look round under his eyelids at his wife standin’ there above him, an’ says softly, “Ye’ve a wonderful memory, Mr. Cunliffe,” says he, at which the other gets very red, an’ begins to talk of getting home. ‘“Mistress Heron and I,” says t’ Squire, “were talking on this afternoon about t’ private steeplechase we’re going to hold shortly in t’ Park here, an’ she was all for layin’ out t’ course for first two miles straight west till it almost touches Towers gates. ‘It will just take inside of ten minutes from t’ Ford,’ says she, ‘to Towers turn, and beautiful going all the way over grass with t’ big jump an’ t’ black beck in t’ middle of it.’ ‘Ay,’ says I, ‘and that will stop one or two that I know of—I’ll lay a monkey.’ ‘Not a bit of it,’ says she, ‘not a bit; an’ I’ll take evens with ye that everybody tries it.’

‘“Now, as Mistress Heron is going to ask ye to ride one of her nominations for her at the race, it might be helpful to ye to have a preliminary trial, an’ as t’ night is bright as day wi’ moonlight, perhaps ye’d like a ride home to-night across country, an’ I’ll lay ye double of what ye’ve won to-night that ye don’t get to your own gate-ends in, say, twelve minutes from t’ Ford’s paddock. An’ ye can have your pick o’ what’s in my stable,” adds t’ Squire, as he looks from one to t’ other of them, “while Mistress Heron an’ I will watch ye from t’ battlements an’ take time for ye; or, of course, if ye’re afraid,” he adds, as Cunliffe, hemming an’ hawing, says something about “not likin’ to take a horse out at that time o’ night,” an’ dwells heavy on the words, “we can send ye home in the landau, like a lady,” says t’ Squire.

‘“If Mr. Cunliffe accepts your proposal to ride a horse for me in the steeplechase,” interrupts Mistress Heron scornfully, “that is of itself sufficient to falsify your insinuation.”

‘“I shall be only too proud,” cries Cunliffe at once, with a bow, “to ride for Mistress Heron.”

‘“Ay,” says t’ Squire, “an’ t’ night before a message will doubtless come to say that Mr. Cunliffe has suddenly been called away on important political business, an’ he’s much grieved to forego a pleasure he had been so much looking forward to.”

‘“You’ve said quite enough, sir,” cries Cunliffe, red an’ passionate; “kindly have your horse saddled—t’ light-roan one for choice; for I take your wager an’ will ride your horse home this night.”

‘T’ Squire goes out to t’ stable himself, gives his orders, an’ in fifteen minutes’ time t’ horse is round at t’ door.

‘“Ye’ll be wantin’ a switch likely,” says t’ Squire, as he shows him downstairs, “an’ if ye’ll come into t’ gun-room here, ye can take your pick o’ crops, or cuttin’ whips, or what ye will.”

‘T’ room was dark, an’ Cunliffe, he bumps up against a small pail o’ something an’ upsets it on his trousers and all over t’ floor before t’ Squire gets a candle lighted.

‘“Never mind, never mind that,” says t’ Squire cheerily, “it’s just nowt to matter; it’s just for to try my hounds with to-morrow, an’ shouldn’t have been there. See, there’s t’ whip-stand; take your choice,” says he.

‘Cunliffe, he takes a cuttin’ whip, an’ jumps on t’ horse without more ado, an’ goes out into t’ paddock with t’ stud groom, who is to show him where to start from when t’ Squire shouts “off” from the roof of the house.

‘A minute or two later t’ Squire shows himself on t’ battlements, and Mistress Heron’s there too, to see the sport.

‘“Are ye ready?” rings out t’ Squire’s voice.

‘“Yes,” comes back t’ answer.

‘“Then off!” he shouts down and drops t’ handkerchief.

‘Away he goes at a full gallop straight across t’ wide-spreading west park-land, then draws rein a moment as he approaches t’ haha with a drop of five feet or so, perhaps. Just as he pulls up there comes a faint “you-yowin’,” as of hounds upon a scent, from around t’ corner of t’ house. ‘“Whatever’s that?” cries Mistress Heron quickly, as she catches the sound of it.

‘“Why, it’s t’ hounds,” cries t’ Squire, with a stabbing laugh. I thowt it might help him t’ jump t’ black beck an’ win his wager to have t’ hounds after him, an’ so it will, for there’s a bit aniseed sprinkled on Gamecock’s fetlock bandages, an’ Cunliffe’s stepped into some himself.”

‘“’Tis the deed of a savage!” says my lady, and with a proud contempt of him she steps away from his side as far as t’ battlements will permit.

‘Away go t’ hounds wi’ riotous music hot upon t’ scent; on, forrard on they go, right over t’ haha and up and across t’ pasture beyond, at t’ end of which, and beside t’ beck, Cunliffe was galloping up an’ down trying to find an easier place. It appears he hadn’t, in his excitement, taken notice of t’ hounds giving tongue, or looked behind him, but all of a sudden he perceives it, and halting his horse stockstill, looks behind him. Then it seemed to flash upon him what’s up, and he forces back t’ horse some twenty yards or so—first hounds racing towards him about hundred yards behind—rams in t’ spurs, cuts him with t’ whip, and claps him at it. Gamecock tries it bravely, and leaping high into the air just lands on t’ further bank, but short a bit, and on t’ soft edge, and pecks forward badly on his head, sending Cunliffe somersaulting over like a shot rabbit.

‘“T’ bet’s won!” shouts the Squire, marking t’ horse pick himself up before his rider and gallop away by himself over t’ far field; “t’ damned cockney cannot ride at all.”

‘“Yes, you’ve won your bet,” replies my lady, gathering her skirts together and holding them close as she passes him by, “but possibly you may have lost remembrance that you were born a gentleman,” and with that she proudly turns her back and sweeps away down t’ stairs.

‘Well, t’ hounds couldn’t get across t’ beck, and t’ Squire’s first whip was ready wi’ t’ horn to fetch them back again; so Cunliffe was safe enough, but sorely damaged an’ bruised, an’ ’twas a full week before he left his house, when straight he goes abroad on foreign travel.

‘Things gradually went on from bad to worse twixt t’ Squire and Mistress Heron after that night’s play; she used to lament for Lunnon an’ its fashions, an’ on t’ last night of all she set t’owd Squire’s blood blazin’ by sneerin’ at “country yokels” and their drunken ways.

‘“Why, damn t’ ——!” cries he, quite forgetting himself, and using a word more suitable to t’ kennels than t’ drawing-room, “ain’t we been here since King Alfred? An’ what can ye want more than that?”

‘Swift as fire she answers him, “One might wish that they were gentlemen,” says she, an’ cold an’ contemptuous she walks past him out of the drawing-room and up into her own room, where she orders her maid to pack up for her at once, an’ ’tis but an hour later when she drives away in t’ carriage an’ never sees t’owd place again.

‘Well, they separate by law, an’ shortly after, when t’ bairn comes to live with his father, Mistress Heron gets much taken up with one of those father parsons, famous as a preacher in Lunnon at that time.

‘Finally, she goes into a sort of retirement and becomes head of a sisterhood shortly, which gets to be very famous for its Good Samaritan sort of deeds.

‘Grandfather used to say that whatever she took up she would be sworn to do better than anybody else. “Fox-’untin’ she learnt clever in six months’ time, an’ if ye can larn that ye can larn owt,” says he.

‘As for t’owd Squire, he hunts harder than ever he had done before; an’ nowt, positively nowt, can stop him across country, nor liquor stagger him, so that many thought he was heartier an’ happier than ever he had been before.

‘His son, as he grew up, was a bit trouble to him, certainly, as he was a wild lad—just like himself, but with a touch of his mother’s pride, so that it was just as well when he went into t’ army an’ was sent to t’ Indies.

‘Well, time sped on, and t’owd Squire’s hair was turnin’ gray, when news came that his wife—Sister Eva, as they called her—had died suddenly in her retreat or convent.

‘Up goes t’ Squire to Lunnon without a word, an’ when the chief mourners—all of them ladies of t’ sisterhood, in their white dresses—were liftin’ up t’ coffin ropes to carry it to t’ graveside, an’ ancient gentleman, clad in a queer, long, bottle-green tail-coat, with a high stock and beaver hat on t’ back of his head, comes forward an’ quietly takes hold of t’ head ropes.

‘T’ sisters remonstrate with him, and ask him who he is. “Mesdames,” says he, “I was her unworthy husband,” and he doffs his hat as he speaks, and without another word spoken helps to carry her to her grave. ‘’Twas said that they were t’ same clothes he had worn on his wedding-day.

‘It would be some months after this that my grandfather was dinin’ with t’owd Squire, after t’ opening meet of t’ season.

‘“Here’s to fox-huntin’!” cries he, after t’ cloth was removed; an’ a bit later he rises solemnly in his chair, an’ he says, “And here’s to a saint in heaven!” an’ as he drinks it down grandfather sees a tear tricklin’ on his cheek.

‘Little by little he tells him all about t’ quarrel and what had completed it: “And she was right, by G——!” cries t’ Squire at the end of it, “as she always was, though I was too proud to say so then; and now it’s too late, for she’s a saint in heaven.”

‘That was the only time he spoke of her; but for all that, grandfather said it was clear that he was just broken-hearted, was t’ poor owd Squire, even though five minutes after he was challenging him to ride for a fiver when ’ounds should find on t’ morrow’s mornin’. ‘T’owd Squire never went better in his life, they said, than he did that day; but just at t’ close of it his horse made a mistake over some timber, and he came a cropper in a ploughed field, with his horse on top of him, and had three of his ribs broken.

‘It was a baddish fall; but though the doctors pulled him through he never got the better of it, and was taken away before t’ season was out; and he was glad to go, was poor owd Squire, for he said he believed she had forgiven him, but he couldn’t rest till he knew for certain.’