Satanella head "His next stride brought him on his head." (Page 133.) Satanella A Story of Punchestown By G.J. Whyte-Melville Author of "Holmby House," "The Gladiators," "Kate Coventry," &c., &c. Illustrated by Lucy E. Kemp-Welch London Ward, Lock & Co., Limited New York and Melbourne CONTENTS
SATANELLA THE BLACK MARE "She'll make a chaser annyhow!" The speaker was a rough-looking man in a frieze coat, with wide mouth, short nose, and grey, honest Irish eyes, that twinkled with humour on occasion, though clouded for the present by disappointment, not to say disgust, and with some reason. In his hand he held a broken strap, with broad and dingy buckle; at his feet, detached from shafts and wheels, lay the body of an ungainly vehicle, neither gig, dog-cart, nor outside car, but something of each, battered and splintered in a dozen places: while "foreaninst" him, as he called it, winced and fretted a young black mare, snorting, trembling, fractious, and terrified, with ears laid back, tail tucked down to her strong cowering quarters, and an obvious determination on the slightest alarm to kick herself clear of everything once more. At her head stood a ragged urchin of fourteen; although her eyes showed wild and red above the shabby blinkers, she rubbed her nose against the lad's waistcoat, and seemed to consider him the only friend she had left in the world. "Get on her back, Patsy," said the man. "Faix, she's a well-lepped wan, an' we'll take a hate out of her at Punchestown, with the blessin'!—Augh! See now, here's the young Captain! Ye're welcome, Captain! It's meself was proud when I see how ye cleaned them out last week on 'Garryowen.' Ye'll come in, and welcome, Captain. Go on in front now, and I'll show you the way!" So, while a slim, blue-eyed, young gentleman, with curled moustache, accompanied his entertainer into the house, Patsy took the mare to the stable, where he accoutred her in an ancient saddle, pulpy, weather-stained, with stirrups of most unequal length; proceeding thereafter to force a rusty snaffle into her mouth, with the tightest possible nose-band and a faded green and white front. These arrangements completed, he surveyed the whole, grinning and well-pleased. That the newcomer could only be a subaltern of Light Dragoons, was obvious from his trim equestrian appearance, his sleek, well-cropped head, the easy sit of his garments, also, perhaps, from an air of imperturbable good-humour and self-confidence, equal to any occasion that might present itself, social, moral, or physical. pleased "These arrangements completed, he surveyed the whole, grinning, and well pleased." Proof against "dandies of punch" and such hospitable provocatives, he soon deserted the parlour for the stable. "And how is the mare coming on?" said he standing in the doorway of that animal's dwelling, which she shared with a little cropped jackass, a Kerry cow, and a litter of pigs. "I always said she could gallop a bit, and they're the right sort to stay. But can she jump?" "The beautifullest ever ye see!" replied her enthusiastic owner. "She'll go whereiver a cat would follow a rat. If there's a harse in Connemara that 'ud charge on the sharp edge of a razor, there's the wan that can do't! Kick—stick and plasther! it's in their breed; and like th'ould mare before her, so long as you'd hould her, it's my belief she'd stay in the air!" The object of these praises had now emerged from her stall, and a very likely animal she looked; poor and angular indeed, with a loose neck and somewhat long ears, but in her lengthy frame, and large clean limbs, affording promise for the future of great beauty, no less than extraordinary power and speed. Her head was exceedingly characteristic, lean and taper, showing every vein and articulation beneath the glossy skin, with a wide scarlet nostril and flashing eye, suggestive of courage and resolution, not without a considerable leavening of temper. There are horses, and women too, that stick at nothing. To a bold rider, the former are invaluable, because with these it is possible to keep their mettle under control. "Hurry now, Patsy!" said the owner, as that little personage, diving for the stirrup, which he missed, looked imploringly to his full-grown companions for a "leg up." But it was not in the nature of our young officer, by name John Walters, known in his regiment as "Daisy," to behold an empty saddle at any time without longing to fill it. He had altered the stirrups, cocked up his left leg for a lift, and lit fairly in his seat, before the astonished filly could make any more vigorous protest than a lurch of her great strong back and whisk of her long tail. "Begorra! ye'll get it now!" said her owner, half to himself, half to the Kerry cow, on which discreet animal he thought it prudent to rivet his attention, distrusting alike the docility of his own filly, and the English man's equestrian skill. Over the rough paved yard, through the stone gap by the peat-stack, not the little cropped jackass himself could have behaved more soberly. But where the spring flowers were peeping in the turf enclosure beyond, and the upright bank blazed in its golden glory of gorse-bloom, the devilry of many ancestors seemed to pass with the keen mountain-air into the filly's mettle. Her first plunge of hilarity and insubordination would have unseated half the rough-riders that ever mishandled a charger in the school. Once—twice, she reached forward, with long, powerful plunges, shaking her ears, and dashing wildly at her bridle, till she got rein enough to stick her nose in the air, and break away at speed. A snaffle, with or without a nose-band, is scarcely the instrument by which a violent animal can be brought on its haunches at short notice; but Daisy was a consummate horseman, firm of seat and cool of temper, with a head that never failed him, even when debarred from the proper use of his hands. He could guide the mare, though incapable of controlling her. So he sent her at the highest place in the fence before him, and, fast as she was going, the active filly changed her stride on the bank with the accuracy of a goat, landing lightly beyond, to scour away once more like a frightened deer. "You can jump!" said he, as she threw up the head that had been in its right place hardly an instant, while she steadied herself for the leap; "and I believe you're a flyer. But, by Jove! you're a rum one to steer!" She was quite out of his hand again, and laid herself down to her work with the vigour of a steam-engine. The daisy-sprinkled turf fleeted like falling water beneath those long, smooth, sweeping strides. They were careering over an open upland country, always slightly on the rise, till it grew to a bleak brown mountain far away under the western sky. The enclosures were small; but notwithstanding the many formidable banks and ditches with which it was intersected, the whole landscape wore that appearance of space and freedom so peculiar to Irish scenery, so pleasing to the sportsman's eye. "It looked like galloping," as they say, though no horse, without great jumping powers, could have gone two fields. It took a long Irish mile, at racing pace, to bring the mare to her bridle, and nothing but her unusual activity saved the rider from half-a-dozen rattling falls during his perilous experiment. She bent her neck at last, and gave to her bit in a potato-ground; nor, if he had resolved to buy her for the sake of her speed and stamina while she was running away with him, did he like her less, we may be sure, when they arrived at that mutual understanding, which links together so mysteriously the intelligences of the horse and its rider. Turning homewards, the pair seemed equally pleased with each other. She played gaily with the snaffle now, answering hand and heel cheerfully, desirous only of being ridden at the largest fences, a fancy in which he indulged her, nothing loth. Trotting up to four feet and a half of stone wall, round her own stable-yard, she slipped over it without an effort, and her owner, a discerning person enough, added fifty to her price on the spot. "She's a good sort," said the soldier, patting her reeking neck, as he slid to the ground; "but she's uncommon bad to steer when her monkey's up! Sound, you say, and rising four year old? I wonder how she's bred?" Such a question could not but entail a voluminous reply. Never, it appeared, in one strain, had been united the qualities of so many illustrious ancestors. Her pedigree seemed enriched with "all the blood of all the Howards," and her great-great-great-grandam was "Camilla by Trentham, out of Phantom, sister to Magistrate!" "An' now ye've bought her, Captain," said our friend in frieze, "ye've taken the best iver I bred, an' the best iver I seen. Av' I'd let her out o'my sight wanst at Ballinasloe, the Lord-Liftinint 'ud have been acrass her back, while I'm tellin' ye, an' him leadin' the hunt, up in Meath, or about the Fairy House and Kilrue. The spade wasn't soldered yet that would dig a ditch to hould her; and when them sort's tired, Captain, begorra! the very breeches 'ud be wore to rags betwixt your knees! You trust her, and you trust me! Wait till I tell ye now. There's only wan thing on this mortial earth she won't do for ye!" "And what's that?" asked the other, well pleased. "She'll not back a bill!" was the answer; "but if iver she schames with ye, renaging[1] or such like, by this book, I'll be ashamed to look a harse, or so much as a jackass in the face again!" So the mare was sent for; and Patsy, with a stud reduced to the donkey and the Kerry cow, shed bitter tears when she went away. FOOTNOTES:[1] Refusing. MISS DOUGLAS It is time to explain how the young black mare became linked with the fate of certain persons, whose fortunes and doings, good or bad, are related in this story. To that end the scene must be shifted, and laid in London—London, on a mild February morning, when even South Audley Street and its tributaries seemed to exhale a balmy fragrance from the breath of spring. In one of these, a window stood open on the drawing-room floor—so wide open that the baker, resting his burden on the area railings below, sniffed the perfume of hyacinths bursting their bulbs, and beat time with floury shoes to the notes of a wild and plaintive melody, wailing from the pianoforte within. Though a delicate little breakfast-service had not yet been removed from its spider-legged table, the performer at the instrument was already hatted and habited for a ride. Her whole heart, nevertheless, seemed to be in the tips of her fingers while she played, drawing from the keys such sighs of piteous plaint, such sobs of sweet seductive sorrow, as ravished the soul of the baker below, creating a strong desire to scale the window-sill, and peep into the room. Could he have executed such a feat, this is what he would have seen. A woman of twenty-five, tall, slim-waisted, with a wealth of blue-black hair, all made fast and coiled away beneath her riding-hat in shining folds, massive as a three-inch cable. A woman of graceful gestures, undulating like the serpent; of a shapely figure, denoting rather the graces of action, than the beauty of repose; lithe, self-reliant, full of latent energy, betraying in every movement an inborn pride, tameless though kept down, and incurable as Lucifer's before his fall. The white hands moving so deftly over the keys were strong and nervous, with large blue veins and taper fingers; such hands as denote a vigorous nature and a resolute will—such hands as strike without pity, and hold with tenacious grasp—such hands as many a lofty head has bowed its pride to kiss, and thought no shame. Lower and lower, she bent over them while she played—softer and softer sank and swelled, and died away, the sad suggestive notes, bursting at last into a peal and crash of harmony, through which there came a short quick gasp for breath like a sob. Then she shut the pianoforte with a bang, and walked to the glass over the fire-place. It reflected a strangely-fascinating face, so irregular of features that women sometimes called it "positively plain;" but on which the other sex felt neither better nor wiser men when they looked. The cheek-bones, chin, and jaws were prominent; the eyebrows, though arched, too thick; and for feminine beauty, the mouth too firm, in spite of its broad white teeth, and dark shade pencilled on the upper lip, in spite even of its saucy curl and bright bewildering smile. But when she lifted her flashing eyes fringed in their long black lashes, there was no more to be said. They seemed to blaze and soften, shine and swim, all in one glance that went straight to a man's heart and made him wince with a thrill akin to pain. Pale women protested she had too much colour, and vowed she painted: but no cosmetics ever yet concocted could have imitated her deep rich tints, glowing like those of the black-browed beauties one sees in Southern Europe, as if the blood ran crimson beneath her skin—as if she, too, had caught warmth and vitality from their generous climate and their sunny, smiling skies. When she blushed, it was like the glory of noonday; and she blushed now, while there came a trampling of hoofs in the street, a ring at the door-bell. The colour faded from her brow, nevertheless, before a man's step dwelt heavily on the staircase, and her visitor was ushered into the room as "General St. Josephs." "You are early, General," said she, giving him her hand with royal condescension; "early, but welcome, and—and—The horses will be round in five minutes—Have you had any breakfast? I am afraid my coffee is quite cold." General St. Josephs knew what it was to starve in the Crimea and broil in the Mutiny; had been shot at very often by guns of various calibres; had brought into discipline one of the worst-drilled regiments in the service, and was a distinguished officer, past forty years of age. What made his heart beat, and his hands turn cold? Why did the blood rush to his temples, while she gave him greeting? "Don't hurry, pray!" said he; "I can wait as long as you like. I'd wait the whole day for you, if that was all!" He spoke in a husky voice, as if his lips were dry. Perhaps that was the reason she seemed not to hear. Throwing the window wide open, she looked down the street. Taking more of that thoroughfare than was convenient by advancing lengthways, with many plunges and lashings out, and whiskings of her long square tail, a black mare with a side-saddle was gradually approaching the door. The groom who led her seemed not a little relieved when he got her to stand by the kerb-stone, patting her nose and whispering many expletives suggestive of composure and docility. This attendant, though gloved, booted, and belted for a ride, felt obviously that one such charge as he had taken in hand was enough. He meant to fetch his own horse from the stable as soon as his mistress was in the saddle. A staid person, out of livery, came to the door, looking up and down the street with the weary air of a man who resides chiefly in his pantry. He condescended to remark, however, that "Miss Douglas was a-comin' down, and the mare's coat had a polish on her same as if she'd been varnished." While the groom winked in reply, Miss Douglas appeared on the pavement; and the baker, delivering loaves three doors off, turned round to wonder and approve. "May I put you up?" said the General meekly, almost timidly. How different the tone, and yet it was the same voice that had heretofore rung out so firm and clear in stress of mortal danger, with its stirring order— "The Light Brigade will advance!" "No, thank you," said Miss Douglas coldly; "Tiger Tim does the heavy business. Now, Tim—one—two—three!" "Three" landed her lightly in the saddle, and the black mare stood like a sheep. One turn of her foot, one kick of her habit—Miss Douglas was established where she looked her best, felt her best, and liked best to be in the world. So she patted the black mare's neck, a caress her favourite acknowledged with such a bound as might have unseated Bellerophon; and followed by Tim, on a good-looking chestnut, rode off with her admiring General to the Park. Who is Miss Douglas? This was the question everybody asked, and answered too, for that matter, but not satisfactorily. Blanche Douglas—such was the misnomer of this black-browed lady—had been in London for two years, yet given no account of her antecedents, shown no vouchers for her identity. To cross-question her was not a pleasant undertaking, as certain venturous ladies found to their cost. They called her "The Black Douglas," indeed, out of spite, till a feminine wit and genius gave her the nickname of "Satanella;" and as Satanella she was henceforth known in all societies. After that people seemed more reassured, and discovered, or possibly invented for her, such histories as they considered satisfactory to themselves. She was the orphan, some said, of a speculative naval officer, who had married the cousin of a peer. Her father was drowned off Teneriffe; her mother died of a broken heart. The girl was brought up in a west-country school till she came of age; she had a thousand a year, and lived near South Audley Street with her aunt, a person of weak intellect, like many old women of both sexes. She was oddish herself, and rather bad style; but there was no harm in her! This was the good-natured version. The ill-natured one was the above travestied. The father had cut his throat; the mother ran away from him, and went mad; and the west-country school was a French convent. The aunt and the thousand a year were equally fabulous. She was loud, bold, horsy, more than queer, and where the money came from that kept the little house near South Audley Street and enabled her to carry on, goodness only knew! Still she held her own, and the old men fell in love with her. "My admirers," she told Mrs. Cullender, who told me, "are romantic—very, and rheumatic also, À faire pleurer. The combination, my dear, is touching, but exceedingly inconvenient." Mrs. Cullender further affirms that old Buxton would have married and made her a peeress, had she but held up her finger; and declares she saw Counsellor Cramp go down on his knees to her, falling forward on his hands, however, before he could get up again, and thus finishing his declaration, as it were, on all-fours! But she would have none of these, inclining rather to men of firmer mould, and captivating especially the gallant defenders of their country by sea and land. Admirals are all susceptible more or less, and fickle as the winds they record in their log-books. So she scarcely allowed them to count in her score; but at one time she had seven general-officers on the list, with colonels and majors in proportion. Her last conquest was St. Josephs—a handsome man, and a proud, cold, reserved, deep-hearted, veiling under an icy demeanour a temper sensitive as a girl's. How many women would have delighted to lead such a captive up and down the Ride, and show him off as the keeper shows off his bear in its chain! How many would have paraded their sovereignty over this stern and quiet veteran, till their own hearts were gone, and they longed to change places with their victim, to serve where they had thought only to command! In February London begins to awake out of its winter sleep. Some of the great houses have already got their blinds up, and their doorsteps cleaned. Well-known faces are hurrying about the streets, and a few equestrians spot the Ride, like early flies crawling over a window-pane. The black mare lashed out at one of these with a violence that brought his heart into the soldier's mouth, executing thereafter some half-dozen long and dangerous plunges. Miss Douglas sat perfectly still, giving the animal plenty of rein; then administered one severe cut with a stiff riding-whip, that left its mark on the smooth shining skin; and, having thus asserted herself, made much of her favourite, as if she loved it all the better for its wilfulness. "I wish you wouldn't ride that brute!" said the General tenderly. "She'll get out of your hand some of these days, and then there'll be a smash!" "Not ride her!" answered Miss Douglas, opening her black eyes wide. "Not ride my own beautiful pet! General, I should deserve never to get into a side-saddle again!" "For the sake of your friends," urged the other, drawing very close with a pressure of the leg to his own horse's side; "for the sake of those who care for you; for—for—my sake—Miss Douglas!" His hand was almost on the mare's neck, his head bent towards its rider. If a man of his age can look "spoony," the General was at that moment a fit subject for ridicule to every Cornet in the Service. Laughing rather scornfully, with a turn of her wrist she put a couple of yards between them. "Not even for your sake, General, will I give up my darling. Do you think I have no heart?" His brow clouded. He looked very stern and sad, but gulped down whatever he was going to say, and asked instead, "Why are you so fond of that mare? She's handsome enough, no doubt, and she can go fast; but still, she is not the least what I call a lady's horse." "That's my secret," answered Miss Douglas playfully; "wouldn't you give the world to know?" She had a very winning way, when she chose, all the more taking from its contrast to her ordinary manner. He felt its influence now. "I believe I would give you the world if I had it, and not even ask for your secret in exchange," was his reply. "One more turn, Miss Douglas, I entreat you!" (for she was edging away as if for home.) "It is not near luncheon-time, and I was going to say—Miss Douglas—I was going to say—" "Don't say it now!" she exclaimed, with a shake of her bridle that brought the mare in two bounds close to the footway. "I must go and speak to him! I declare she knows him again. He's got a new umbrella. There he is!" "Who?" "Why! Daisy!" "D—n Daisy!" said the General, and rode moodily out of the Park. DAISY Mr. Walters piqued himself on his sang-froid. If the fractus orbis had gone, as he would have expressed it, "to blue smash," "impavidum ferient ruinÆ," he would have contemplated the predicament from a ludicrous rather than a perplexing point of view. Nevertheless, his eye grew brighter, and the colour deepened on his cheek, when Miss Douglas halted to lean over the rails and shake hands with him. He was very fond of the black mare, you see, and believed firmly in her superiority to her kind. "Oh! Daisy! I'm so glad to see you!" said Miss Douglas. "I never thought you'd be in London this open weather. I'm so much obliged to you, and you're the kindest person in the world; and—and—isn't she looking well?" "You're both looking well," answered Daisy gallantly; "I thought I couldn't miss you if I walked up this side of the Row and down the other." "Oh! Daisy! You didn't come on purpose!" exclaimed the lady, with rather a forced laugh, and symptoms of a blush. For answer, I am sorry to say, this young gentleman executed a solemn wink. The age of chivalry may or may not be on the wane, but woman-worshippers of to-day adopt a free-and-easy manner in expressing their adoration, little flattering to the shrines at which they bow. "Did you really want to see me?" continued Miss Douglas; "and why couldn't you call? I'd have ridden with you this morning if I'd known you were in town." "Got no quad.," answered the laconic Daisy. "And yet you lent me your mare!" said she. "Indeed, I can't think of keeping her; I'll return her at once. Oh! Daisy! you unselfish—" "Unselfish what?" "Goose!" replied the lady. "Now, when will you have her back? She's as quiet again as she used to be, and I do believe there isn't such another beauty in the world." "That's why I gave her to you," answered Daisy. "It's no question of lending; she's yours, just as much as this umbrella's mine. Beauty! I should think she was a beauty. I don't pay compliments, or I'd say—there's a pair of you! Now, look here, Miss Douglas, I might ask you to lend her to me for a month, perhaps, if I saw my way into a real good thing. I don't think I ever told you how I came to buy that mare, or what a clipper she is!" "Tell me now!" said Miss Douglas eagerly. "Let's move on; people stare so if one stops. You can speak the truth walking, I suppose, as well as standing still!" "It's truth I'm telling ye!" he answered, with a laugh. "I heard of that mare up in Roscommon when she was two years old. I was a year and a half trying to buy her; but I got her at last, for I'm not an impatient fellow, you know, and I never lose sight of a thing I fancy I should like." "Watch and wait!" said the lady. "Yes, I watched and I waited," he continued, "till at last they gave me a ride. She'd had a good deal of fun with a sort of go-cart they tried to put her in; and when I saw her I think her owner was a little out of conceit with his venture. She was very poor and starved-looking,—not half the mare she is now; but she ran away with me for nearly two miles, and I found she could—just! So I bargained, and jawed, and bothered, though I gave a hatful of money for her all the same. When I got her home to barracks, I had her regularly broke and bitted; but she never was easy to ride, and she never will be!" For all comment, Miss Douglas drew the curb-rein through her fingers, while the mare bent willingly and gently to her hand. "Oh! I know they all go pleasant with you!" said Daisy. "Men and horses, you've the knack of bringing them to their bridles in a day! Well, I hunted her that season in Meath and Kildare; but somehow we never dropped into a run. At last one morning, late in the Spring, we turned out a deer in the Dublin country, and took him in exactly twenty-seven minutes. Then this child knew what its plaything was made of. Didn't I, old girl?" He patted the mare's neck, and her rider, whose eyes brightened with interest, laid hers on exactly the same spot when his hand was withdrawn. "You found her as good as she looks," said Miss Douglas. "Oh! Daisy! in that grass country it must have felt like being in heaven!" "I don't know about that," said the light dragoon; "but we were not very far off, sometimes, on the tops of those banks. However, I found nothing could touch her in jumping, or come near her for pace. Not a horse was within a mile of us for the last ten minutes; so I took her down to the Curragh—and—Miss Douglas, can you—can you keep a secret?" "Of course, I can," replied the lady. "What a question, Daisy, as if I wasn't much more like a man than a woman!" His face assumed an expression of solemnity befitting the communication he had to impart. His voice sank to a whisper, and he looked stealthily around, as if fearful of being overheard. "We tried her at seven pound against Robber-Chief, four Irish miles over a steeple-chase course. She gave the Chief seven pound, her year, and a beating. Why, it makes her as good as the Lamb!" Notwithstanding the gravity of such a topic, Miss Douglas laughed outright. "How like you, Daisy, to run away with an idea. It does not make her as good as The Lamb, because you once told me yourself that Robber-Chief never runs kindly in a trial. You see I don't forget things. But all the same, I daresay she's as good again, the darling, and I'm sure she's twice as good-looking!" "Now, don't you see, Miss Douglas?" proceeded Daisy, "I've been thinking you and I might do a good stroke of business if we stood in together. My idea is this. I enter her at Punchestown for the Great United Service Handicap. I send her down to be trained on the quiet at a place I know of, not fifteen miles from where we're standing now. Nobody can guess how she's bred, nor what she is. They mean to put crushing weights on all the public runners. She'll be very well in, I should say, at about eleven stone ten. I'll ride her myself, for I know the course, and I'm used to that country. If we win, you must have half the stakes, and you can back her, besides, for as much as you please. What do you say to it?" "I like the idea immensely!" answered Miss Douglas. "Only I don't quite understand about the weights and that— But, Daisy, are you sure it isn't dangerous? I mean for you. I've heard of such horrible accidents at those Irish steeple-chases." "I tell you she can't fall," answered this sanguine young sportsman; "and I hope I'm not likely to tumble off her!" Miss Douglas hesitated. "Couldn't I—" she said shyly; "couldn't I ride her in her gallops myself?" He laughed; but his face clouded over the next moment. "I ought not to have asked you," said he; "it seems so selfish to take away your favourite; but the truth is, Miss Douglas, I'm so awfully hard up that, unless I can land a good stake, it's all U—P with me!" "Why didn't you tell me?" exclaimed Miss Douglas; "Why didn't you—" Here she checked herself, and continued in rather a hard voice, "Of course, if you're in a fix, it must be got out of, with as little delay as possible. So take the mare, by all means; and another time, Daisy— Well, another time don't be so shy of asking your friend's advice. If I'd been your brother-officer, for instance, should I have seemed such a bad person to consult?" "By Jove, you're a trump!" he exclaimed impulsively, adding, in qualification of this outspoken sentiment, "I mean, you've so good a heart, you ought to have been a man!" She coloured with pleasure; but her face turned very grave and sad, while she replied, "I wish I had been! Don't you know what Tennyson says? Never mind, you don't read Tennyson very often, I dare say!" "I can't make out what fellows mean in poetry," answered Daisy. "But I like a good song if it's in English; and I like best of all to hear you play!" "Now, what on earth has that to do with it?" she asked impatiently. "We are talking about the mare. Send round for her to-morrow morning, and you can enter her at once. Has she got a name?" "It used to be The Dark Ladye," he answered, smiling rather mischievously, "out of compliment to you. But I've changed it now." "I ought to be very much flattered. And to what?" "To Satanella." She bit her lip, and tried to look vexed; but she couldn't be angry with Daisy, so laughed heartily as she waved him a good-bye, and cantered home. MRS. LUSHINGTON With all her independence of spirit, it cannot be supposed that Miss Douglas went to and fro in the world of London without a chaperon. On women, an immunity from supervision, and what we may call the freedom of the city, is conferred by matrimony alone. This franchise seems irrespective of age. A virgin of fifty gathers confidence under the wing of a bride nineteen years old, shooting her arrows with the more precision that she feels so safe behind the shield of that tender, inexperienced matron. Why are these things so? Why do we dine at nightfall, go to bed at sunrise, and get up at noon? Why do we herd together in narrow staircases and inconvenient rooms at the hottest season of the year? If people bore us, why do we ask them to dinner? and suffer fools gladly, without ourselves being wise? I wonder if we shall ever know. Blanche Douglas accordingly, with more courage, resolution, and savoir faire, than nine men out of every ten, had placed herself under the tutelage of Mrs. Francis Lushington, a lady with a convenient husband, who, like the celebrated courtier, was never in the way nor out of the way. She talked about "Frank," as she called him, every ten minutes; but somehow they were seldom seen together, except once a week at afternoon church. That gentleman himself must either have been the steadiest of mortals, or the most cunning; his wife inclined to think him the latter. Mrs. Lushington knew everybody, and went everywhere. There was no particular reason why she should have attained popularity; but society had taken her up, and seemed in no hurry to set her down again. She was a little fair person, with pretty features and a soft pleading voice, very much dressed, very much painted; as good a foil as could be imagined to such a woman as Blanche Douglas. They were sitting together in the dining-room of the latter about half past two P.M. There never was such a lady for going out to luncheon as Mrs. Lushington. If you were asked to that pleasant meal at any house within a mile of Hyde Park Corner, it would have been a bad bet to take five to one about not meeting her. She was like a nice little luncheon herself. Not much of her; but what there was light, delicate, palatable, with a good deal of garnish. "And which is it to be, dear?" asked this lady of her hostess, finishing a glass of sherry with considerable enjoyment. "I know I shall have to congratulate one of them soon, and to send you a wedding-present; but it's no use talking about it, till I know which——" "Do you think it a wise thing to marry, Clara?" said the other in reply, fixing her black eyes solemnly on her friend's face. Mrs. Lushington pondered. "There's a good deal to be said on both sides," she answered; "and I haven't quite made up my mind what I should do if I were you. With me, you know, it was different. If I hadn't made a convenience of Frank, I should have been nursing my dreadful old aunt still. You are very independent as you are, and do no end of mischief. But, my dear, you won't last for ever. That's where we fair women have the pull. And then you've so many to choose from. Yes; I think if I were you, I would!" "And—You'll laugh at me, Clara, I feel," said Miss Douglas. "Do you think it's a good plan to marry a man one don't care for; I mean, who rather bores one than otherwise?" "I did, dear," was the reply; "but I don't know that I've found it answer." "It must be dreadful to see him all day long, and have to study his fancies. Breakfast with him, perhaps, every morning at nine o'clock." "Frank would go without breakfast often enough, if he couldn't make his own tea, and insisted on such early hours. No, dear, there are worse things than that. We have to be in the country when they want to shoot, and in the spring too sometimes, if they're fond of hunting. But, on the other hand, we married women have certain advantages. We can keep more flirtations going at once than you. Though, to be sure, I don't fancy the General would stand much of that! If ever I saw a white Othello, it's St. Josephs." "St. Josephs! Do you think I want to marry St. Josephs?" Could the General have overheard the tone in which his name was spoken, surely his honest heart would have felt very sore and sad. "Well, he wants to marry you!" was the reply; "and, upon my word, dear, the more I think of it, the more I am convinced you couldn't do better. He is rich enough, rather good-looking, and seems to know his own mind. What would you have?" "My dear, I couldn't!" "State your objections." "Well, in the first place, he's very fond of me." "That shows good taste; but it needn't stand in the way, for you may be sure it won't last." "But it will last, Clara, because I cannot care for him in return. My dear, if you knew what a brute I feel sometimes, when he goes away, looking so proud and unhappy, without ever saying an impatient word. Then I'm sorry for him, I own; but it's no use, and I only wish he would take up with somebody else. Don't you think you could help me? Clara, would you mind? It's uphill work, I know; but you've plenty of others, and it wouldn't tire you, as it does me!" Miss Douglas looked so pitiful, and so much in earnest, that her friend laughed outright. "I think I should like it very much," replied the latter, "though I've hardly room for another on the list. But if it's not to be the General, Blanche, we return to the previous question. Who is it?" "I don't think I shall ever marry at all," answered the younger lady, with a smothered sigh. "If I were a man, I certainly wouldn't; and why wasn't I a man? Why can't we be independent? go where we like, do what we like, and for that matter, choose the people we like?" "Then you would choose somebody?" "I didn't say so. No, Clara; the sort of person I should fancy would be sure never to care for me. His character must be so entirely different from mine, and though they say, contrasts generally agree, black and white, after all, only make a feeble kind of grey." "Whatever you do, dear," expostulated Mrs. Lushington, "don't go and fall in love with a boy! Of all follies on earth, that pays the worst. They are never the same two days together, and not one of them but thinks more of the horse he bought last Monday at Tattersalls, than the woman he 'spooned,' as they call it, last Saturday night at the Opera." Miss Douglas winced. "I cannot agree with you," said she, stooping to pick up her handkerchief; "I think men grow worse rather than better, the more they live in the world. I like people to be fresh, and earnest, and hopeful. Perhaps it is because I am none of these myself, that I rather appreciate boys." Mrs. Lushington clapped her hands. "The very thing!" she exclaimed. "He's made on purpose for you. You ought to know Daisy!" Miss Douglas drew herself up. "I do know Mr. Walters," she answered coldly; "if you mean him. I believe he is called Daisy in his regiment and by his very particular friends." "You know him! and you didn't tell me!" replied the other gaily. "Never mind. Then, of course you're devoted to him. I am; we all are. He's so cheery, so imperturbable, and what I like him best for, is, that he has no more heart than—than—well, than I have myself. There!" Miss Douglas was on her guard now. The appropriative faculty, strong in feminine nature as the maternal instinct, and somewhat akin to it, was fully aroused. Only in London, no doubt, would it have been possible for two such intimates to be ignorant of each other's predilections; but even here it struck Blanche there was something suspicious in her friend's astonishment, something not quite sincere in her enthusiasm and her praise. So she became exceedingly polite and affectionate, as a fencer goes through a series of courteous salutes, while proposing to himself the honour of running his adversary through the brisket. "You make yourself out worse than you are, Clara," said she; "it's lucky I know you so well. Indeed, you mustn't go yet. You always run away before I've said half my say. You'll be sure to come again very soon though. Promise, dear. What a love of a carriage!" It was, indeed, a very pretty Victoria that stopped at the door—fragile, costly, delicate, like a piece of porcelain on wheels—and very pretty Mrs. Lushington looked therein, as she drove away. She had turned the corner of the street some minutes before Miss Douglas left the window. Passing a mirror, that lady caught the reflection of her own face, and stopped, smiling, but not in mirth. "They may well call you Satanella," she said; "and yet I could have been so good—so good!" THROUGH THE MILL "She was iron-sinewed and satin-skinned, "It describes your mare exactly, and how the gifted, ill-fated author would have liked a ride on such a flyer as Satanella." The speaker's voice shook, and the cigar quivered between his lips while they pronounced that ill-omened name. "She's better than common, General," was the reply. "Just look at her crest. They're the right sort, when they train on like that!" General St. Josephs and Daisy Walters were standing on a breezy upland common, commanding one of the fairest landscapes in England, backed by a curtain of dusky smoke from the great metropolis, skirting two-thirds of the horizon. There was heather at their feet; and a sportsman set down in that spot from the skies might have expected to flush a black-cock rather than to hail a Hansom cab at only two hours' distance from its regular stand in Pall Mall. The black mare, stripped for a gallop, stood ten yards off in the glow of a morning sun. That Daisy meant to give her "a spin," was obvious from the texture of his nether garments, and the stiff silver-mounted whip in his hand. He had met St. Josephs the night before in the smoking-room of a military club, and, entertaining a profound respect for that veteran, had taken him into his counsels concerning the preparations and performances of the black mare. Daisy was prudent, but not cunning. The elder man's experience, he considered, might be useful, and so asked frankly for his advice. The General cared as little for steeple-chasing as for marbles or prisoners'-base, but in the present instance felt a morbid attraction towards the young officer and his venture, because he associated the black mare with certain rides, that dwelt strangely on his memory, and of which he treasured every incident with painful accuracy, sometimes almost wishing they had never been. There is a disease, from which, like small-pox, immunity can only be purchased by taking it as often as possible in its mildest form. To contract it sooner or later, seems the lot of humanity, and St. Josephs had been no exception to the general rule that ordains men and women shall inflict on each other certain injuries and annoyances, none the less vexatious because flagrantly imaginary and unreal. The General had loved in his youth, more than once it may be, with the ardour and tenacity of his character; but these follies were now things of the past. In some out-of-the-way corner, perhaps, he preserved a knot of ribbon, a scrap of writing, or a photograph with its hair dressed as before the flood. He could lay his hand on such memorials, no doubt; but he never looked at them now, just as he ignored certain sights and sounds, voices, tones, perfumes, that made him wince like a finger on a raw wound. To save his life, he would not have admitted that the breath of a fresh spring morning depressed his spirits more than a sirocco, that he would rather listen to the pipes of a Highland regiment in a mess-room than to a certain strain of Donizetti, the softest, the saddest, the sweetest of that gifted composer—softer, sweeter, sadder to him, that it was an echo from the past. Among the advantages of growing old, of which there are more than people usually imagine, none is greater than the repose of mind which comes with advancing years—from fatigue, indeed, rather than satisfaction, but still repose. It is not for the young to bask in the sun, to sit over the fire, to look forward to dinner as the pleasantest part of the day. These must be always in action, even in their dreams; but at and after middle age comes the pleasure of the ruminating animals, the quiet comfort of content. An elderly gentleman, whose liver has outlasted his heart, is not so much to be pitied after all. Yet must he take exceeding care not to leave go of the rock he clings to, like an oyster, that he may drift back into the fatal flood of sentiment he ought to have baffled, once for all. If he does, assuredly his last state will be worse than his first. Very sweet will be the taste of the well-remembered dram, not so intoxicating as of yore to the seasoned brain; but none the less a stimulant of the senses, a restorative for the frame. Clutching the cup to drain perennial youth, he will empty it to the dregs, till the old sot reels, and the grey hairs fall dishonoured in the dust. If follies perpetrated for women could be counted like runs in a cricket match, I do believe the men above forty would get the score. "Let me see her gallop," said the General, with a wistful look at the mare, "and I will tell you what I think." He too was a fine horseman; but he sighed to reflect he could no longer vault on horseback like Daisy, nor embody himself at once with the animal he bestrode, as did that young and supple light dragoon. "I never saw a better," said the old officer to himself, as the young one, sitting close into his saddle, set the mare going at three-quarter speed. "And if she's only half as good as her rider, the Irishmen will have a job to keep the stakes on their side of the Channel this time! Ah, well. It's no use, we can't hold our own with the young ones, and I suppose we ought not to wish we could!" The General fell into a very common mistake. We are apt to think women set a high price on the qualities we value in each other, forgetting that as their opinions are chiefly reflected from our own, it is to be talked about, no matter why, that constitutes merit in their eyes. What do they care for a light hand, a firm seat, a vigorous frame, or a keen intellect except in so far as these confer notoriety on their possessor? To be celebrated is enough. If for his virtues, well. If for his vices, better. Even the meekest of them have a strong notion of improving a sinner, and incline to the black sheep rather than all the white innocents of the fold. In the meantime, Daisy felt thoroughly in his element, enjoying it as a duck enjoys immersion in the gutter. Free goer as she was, the mare possessed also an elasticity rare even amongst animals of the highest class; but which, when he has once felt it, no horseman can mistrust or mistake. As Daisy tightened his hold on her head, and increased her speed, he experienced in all its force that exquisite sense of motion which, I imagine, is the peculiar pleasure enjoyed by the birds of the air. Round the common they came, and past the General once more, diverging from their previous direction so as to bring into the track such a fence as they would have to encounter in their Irish contest. It was a high and perpendicular bank, narrow at the top, with a grip on the taking off, and a wide ditch on the landing side. Anything but a tempting obstacle to face at great speed. Though she had gone three miles very fast, the mare seemed fresh and full of vigour, pulling, indeed, so hard that Daisy needed all his skill to control and keep her in his hand. Approaching the leap, he urged her with voice and limbs. They came at it, racing pace. "Oh, you tailor!" muttered the General, holding his breath, in fear of a hideous fall. "I'm wrong!" he added, the next moment. "Beautifully done, and beautifully ridden!" Even at her utmost speed, the mare sprang upright into the air, like a deer, kicked the farther face of the bank with such lightning quickness that the stroke was almost imperceptible; and, flying far beyond the ditch, seemed rather to have gained than lost ground in this interruption to her stride. Away she went again! Over two more fences, done at the same head-long pace, round the corner of a high black hedge, down into the hollow, up the opposite rise, and so back into the straight, where Daisy, smiling pleasantly, and much heightened in colour, executed an imaginary finish, with his hands down. "I've not seen such a goer for years," observed the General, as her jockey dismounted, and two stable lads scraped a little lather from the mare. "But she seems to take a deal of riding: and I think she is almost too free at her fences, even for a steeple-chaser." "I'm delighted to hear you say so," was the answer. "That's where we shall win. When I had her first she was rather cautious; but I hurried and bustled her till I got her temper up, and she puts on the steam now as if she was going to jump into next week. I believe she'd do the great double at Punchestown in her stride!" The older man shook his head. "She has capital forelegs," said he; "but I saw just such another break its neck last year at Lincoln. When they're so free you must catch hold like grim death; for, by Jove, if they overjump themselves at that pace, they're not much use when they get up again!" "That would be hard lines," said Daisy, lighting a cigar. "It's the only good thing I ever had in my life, and it must not boil over. If you come to that, I'd rather she broke my neck than hers. If anything went wrong with Satanella I could never face Blanche Douglas again!" "Blanche Douglas!" The General winced. It was not his habit to call young ladies by their Christian names; and to talk familiarly of this one seemed a desecration indeed. "I should hope Miss Douglas will never ride that animal now," said he, looking very stiff and haughty—"throaty," Daisy called it, in describing the scene afterwards. "Not ride her?" replied the young gentleman. "You can't know much of Satanella, General, if you suppose she wouldn't ride anything—ah, or do anything, if you only told her not! She's a trump of a girl, I admit; but, my eyes, she's a rum one! Why, if there wasn't a law or something against it, I'm blessed if I don't think she'd ride at Punchestown herself—boots and breeches—silk jacket—make all the running, and win as she liked! That's her form, General, you may take my word for it!" St. Josephs positively stood aghast. Could he believe his ears? Silk jacket! Boots and breeches! And this was the woman he delighted to honour. To have annihilated his flippant young acquaintance on the spot would have given him intense satisfaction, but he was obliged to content himself with contemptuous silence and sundry glances of scorn. His displeasure, however, seemed quite lost on Daisy, who conversed freely all the way back to town, and took leave of his indignant senior with unimpaired affability when they arrived. |
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