# The Dilemma/Chapter XLVI

CHAPTER XLVI.
Next morning Yorke, as an early man, was up before any of the family; and Miss Lucy, who was the first to come down, found him already in the dining-room reading the paper. Was it that some spirit of inner sympathy she had divined his thoughts of last night, or was it merely his fancy that he could detect, over and above her shyness, a certain consciousness of affinity, betrayed in a becoming little blush? But as they stood before the fire, hardly speaking, while the servants brought in breakfast, the children entered to create a diversion, soon to be followed by the others; and Mr. Peevor, who was evidently uneasy about something, began to make the conversational running, divided between particular inquiries after the amount of rest enjoyed by his guest, and the subject which oppressed him. "Don't you feel how chilly it is, Charlotte, my dear?" he said to his wife, as she took her place at the table a little later than the rest: "thermometer only fifty-five in the hall; it is really too bad of Johnson;" — and then it was explained to the guest that Johnson was the engineer engaged to look after the heating-apparatus, with a good salary, and strict orders to keep the temperature of the house exactly at sixty degrees. What ​was to become of them through the winter Mr. Peevor was sure he could not tell, if these mistakes were made before the frost began. But there was worse news behind. One of the gardener's children, it was reported, had a bad sore throat; the doctor had been sent for; and until he should pronounce whether or not it was scarlet fever, the family were enjoined on no account to visit the gardens. "You cannot be too careful," said Mr. Peevor, "about taking precautions against infection;" and perceiving some grapes on the table, he hastily ordered them to be removed. They had been picked by the gardener himself; and Mr. Peevor went on to relate a story he had heard, how the children of one of the noblest families in the land, whose country house was fully a mile from any other building, and drained regardless of expense, had caught a fever from eating grapes which had been gathered by a gardener whose children were ill of the complaint. "Truly we live in the midst of dangers," said Mr. Peevor in conclusion, and this pious sentiment was the nearest approach to family prayers manifest in the household. "Now be sure, Maria," he continued, turning to his eldest daughter, "that you give up your walk on the terrace for this morning; the drive in front of the house is quite dry and pleasant;" — and then he went on to explain to the guest that his eldest daughter used to be a district visitor in the parish, but that after the younger children were born he was obliged to ask her to give it up; there was always something or other going on in the cottages down in the village; and it really was not right to run the risk of bringing infection into the house. "Of course," he added, "I made it a point of increasing my subscriptions to the local charities, so no one can say 1 don't do my duty by the parish; but we must not neglect our duty to our own household."
Meanwhile, breakfast being ended, although but a small reduction had been made in the solid dishes and delicacies which covered the broad table, it was pronounced to be time to set out for the meet; and the ladies being all ready for starting, Miss Catherine attired in well-fitting riding-habit, which showed off her neat little figure to much advantage, with hair carefully braided up under a jaunty little hat, while the others had sat down in their walking-dresses, it only remained to put on gloves and wraps and to make a start. Yorke was invited to take a place beside Miss Lucy in the pony-carriage, while, Miss Cathy accompanied Mrs. Peevor and the two children in the close carriage. Miss Maria was to take her walk in front of the house; Mr. Peevor also did not accompany them. He would wait to see the doctor and hear his report. Driving in cold weather did not agree with him; and, besides, he should not be able to look at his luncheon if he did not take a good walk first. So after helping them to mount he took leave of them on the door-steps, giving his wife a parting injunction to keep the rugs well over the children, and to be sure to pull up the carriage windows as they passed by that bad drain in the village. Then, just as Lucy had told the groom to let go the ponies' heads, he called to her to stop, while he ran into the house to fetch a cigar-case for Yorke, which he insisted on his taking with him, lighting a fusee as he said so, although the latter protested that he had a case of his own; and when Yorke looked doubtfully at the young lady, her father said that Lucy would like the smell of his cigar above everything. The young lady smiled, as much as to say, "You see how amiable I am," and raised her whip, the groom jumped up behind; and the quick-trotting ponies soon shot ahead of the heavy landau.
Yorke sat silent for a minute or two, puffing his cigar, admiring the neatness with which his fair driver handled the reins; while the latter, having something to occupy her attention, seemed for the first time to be at ease in his company. Come now, he thought, there is one thing at any rate she can do well; and indeed the accomplishment, as he learnt afterwards from her father incidentally, was due to some driving-lesson's received from Mr. Skid, the celebrated professional whip who drove the Brighton coach.
The country they drove through was thickly sprinkled with neat-looking country houses, in well-kept grounds. Yorke asked who lived in one of these — the next, in fact, to "The Beeches." "Those are the Chattertons," said Miss Lucy; "very nice people, I believe," she continued in answer to another query, "but we don't know them;" — and when Yorke artlessly put the same question again, as they drove by another handsome estate, "The Rashleighs live there," she said, "but we don't know them either;" and any doubts which Yorke might have had whether Mr. Peevor was disposed to exclusiveness on the score of his riches, were disposed of by the saucy little look of mingled vexation and fun the young lady gave to her companion, ​as much as to say, "We don't know the people about here, and it is no good to try and conceal the fact; but it isn't our fault." After this Yorke put no more questions of the kind to the fair driver, though still puzzled to account for the evident social difficulty; and turned the conversation to other topics, praising the action of the well-bred, light-stepping ponies, and observing, as was natural, that it must be very pleasant driving such a nice turn-out about that pretty country and over such good roads. The young lady replied that she liked driving, but that one got very tired of driving about the country. She liked driving at Brighton better — there was always something to see. And something to be seen too, thought Yorke, casting a glance at the pretty charioteer, whose bright complexion looked all the better in the fresh morning air, albeit the rosy tint so becoming to the cheeks might with advantage have abstained from alighting on the tip of the little nose.
The place of meeting was soon reached, a public-house facing a small common, where the huntsmen and hounds and a dozen or so of horsemen had already arrived. There, too, was Miss Catherine's hunter in waiting, led by a groom in Mr. Peevor's very smart livery, mounted himself on a heavy cob, and beside them was a shabby-looking fellow from the Castleroyal stables, with the horse which had been sent out for Yorke, — a rather small, wire-drawn, but well-bred-looking animal, with very palpable scars about the knees, and not over clean saddle and bridle. On seeing his hunter, Yorke again repented of the idea of making his first appearance in such guise; but he was now committed to the thing, and having helped Miss Catherine on her arrival to mount, who, placing her little foot on his offered hand, sprang lightly into the saddle, he mounted in turn, and accompanied his partner after the hounds across the common to the nearest cover, for by this time a large field had collected, and the business of the day was beginning.
"I hope I shall be able to keep up with you," said Yorke to the young lady, but this little horse hardly looks like going;" and indeed the animal walked stiffly, with an action indicative of past work, and made one or two undeniable stumbles in their passage over the heath. "It is to be hoped I sha'n't meet any acquaintances here," he thought to himself; "certainly this is hardly the style of thing for a colonel of cavalry."
"Oh, that is Jumping Joseph," replied Miss Cathy; "he has been going with the Southbywestershires for the last four seasons. My brother Fred used to ride him when he was at home last year. He is a bit of a screw, of course, but he is a capital hunter, as you will find when he warms up a bit. Bytheday keeps none but goers, for the officers at Castleroyal are his chief customers, and must have something that will go, whatever the looks may be."
"He is a little small for the work, though, isn't he?" asked Yorke, oppressed with an introspective sense of the ridiculous, and still feeling a little nervous about his first appearance in public.
"Small horses are best for this country," replied Miss Cathy; "it is all in-and-out work, you know — two fields and a lane, and then two fields and another lane, and so on all day. Papa got me a big horse from Leicestershire when I began hunting, but I did not find him answer, and so I changed him for this little fellow, which suits me to a nicety." Miss Cathy's horse was a very handsome little bay, with both blood and power, but not much over fifteen hands high.
"But your groom's horse can hardly be suited even for this country," said Yorke, turning round to look at it; "he does not look much like going in and out of anything."
"Oh no," she replied; "papa likes William to come out with me, because he is so steady and never gets tipsy. William sticks to the lanes, and a good many of these gentlemen do the same," pointing with a wave of her hand towards the assembled field. "Besides, every field has a gate, you know, a providential circumstance in fox-hunting. Papa believes, I think, that I always keep close by William, and go through the gates too. If he had an idea what the thing is really like, he would never let me go out again, I am sure. Papa makes himself so anxious about things, you know.
The riders were now most of them assembled on the brow of a slight hill, while the hounds were working a copse on lower ground to the right, of which, from their position, they commanded a good view. The field was a large one, and Yorke could not help noticing that the young lady seemed to have scarcely any acquaintances amongst them. A few gentlemen had taken off their hats to her, but only one or two had come up to speak, and there seemed an absence of that cordiality and freemasonry which he had supposed to obtain among fox-hunting people. He had noticed the same thing while they ​were waiting on the road by the common before mounting. A good many ladies had come to the meet in their carriages, which however all drew up at a distance from the spot occupied by Mrs. Peevor's landau and Lucy's phaeton, so that the latter were thus isolated from the rest of the company; and although there was a constant movement of dismounted cavaliers to and fro between the little inn and the common, and exchange of greetings among the company generally, no one approached the spot where they were standing. Yorke thought how grim Braddon's dark face would have looked if he had been present to witness this treatment of his sister; and felt within himself a rising indignation against the company, mingled with sympathy for his companions, while wondering what crime Mr. Peevor could have committed to cause this social ostracism.
One person had indeed come up to speak, a stout man on a stout serviceable-looking horse, who took off his hat to Miss Cathy, saying, "Morning, miss; I hope I see you well, and your good family too. A pretty large meet to-day ain't there, and a good going morning, I think. Morning, sir; you have got a good nag there, I see; an old friend is Jumping Joe; there ain't a better little 'orse in the 'ole 'unt, for a light-weighted gent like you, and I don't care which is second. Just you try him at water, sir, if you get the chance, and then you'll see what he can do. Bytheday always keeps good 'orses, but Joseph's his best; he might have been a three-figure 'orse hover and hover again if it wasn't for them little marks. This is your first day out, is it, sir? Well, I hope we shall see you pretty often, now you've begun. I don't come out very often myself, 'aving my little business to attend to, but I always take a day whenever I can get it. Morning, miss, and 'oping they are well at 'ome;" and as the stranger, lifting his hat, moved away, the young lady explained to her companion, that he was a sporting tradesman of Castleroyal, who supplied "The Beeches" with groceries.
Presently the twang of the horn was heard in the wood below, and one or two hounds raisins their voices could be seen breaking through the covert, and making across up the opposite grass slope, soon to be followed by the whole pack. At this joyful signal, there was a general commotion amongst the cavalry. Several made for a conspicuous gap towards the left; a large number converged towards a gate on the right, and the remainder, including Miss Cathy, went straight down the hill towards the fence in front.
"They have found," she cried; "come along," and sticking her eye-glass into her eye, galloped off. At these stirring signs Jumping Joseph, who hitherto had been standing quietly with his head stuck out in front of him like a donkey's, as if hunting was the last thing in his thoughts, gave a sudden kick up behind, expressive of delight, and followed down the slope. Starting off in this way, Yorke was puzzled at first to know what was the etiquette of hunting with a lady. Ought he to give her the lead? Or should he ride side by side? Or should he let her go first and follow politely behind? While in doubt, however, on this point, Miss Cathy had settled it by having got the lead, and he had just time to notice how prettily she took the first fence in a fly — a small hedge with double ditch — when Joseph came up to it and cleared it in a business-like way which showed that he evidently knew what he was about, and satisfied his rider at once that there would be no need to look foolish on his back.
"The fences are awfully blind still," said Miss Cathy, turning round as he came up to her; "but it is a capital scenting-day, and the fox has taken a famous line. We are in for a good thing"
And truly there might have been a worse introduction to the sport; a short distance to cover, a fine day, a speedy find, and a good mount, for the ease with which the little horse went up the slope showed him to be in good wind; and the judicious way in which he took his second fence, at the top, a bank and ditch, indicated the experienced hunter.
The country was just as Miss Cathy had described it, made up of small fields intersected by lanes and roads in every direction; so that although only a moderate proportion of the field took a straight line after the hounds, they were constantly being overtaken by equestrians who stuck to the lanes. Thus although the hunting might not be first-rate from a Leicestershire point of view, there was plenty of life and bustle, and for those who went straight, plenty of riding. Although the fields were small, they were mostly grass; no heavy rain had fallen to make the ground heavy ; and Joseph continued to prove quite equal to the occasion. He had not much of a mouth, which was to be accounted for by the fact that he carried a variety of riders during the season; but he understood his work thoroughly, picking his way so judiciously ​as to leave his rider little to do; and Yorke, satisfied now that he might have done worse than make his début in a strange country on a hack-hunter, felt all the delight of a first introduction to the sport of kings. They were not quite in the first flight, although well up; for the young lady rode coolly and without pressing forward, and Yorke could not deny himself the pleasure of watching his companion take her fences, and so rode a few paces behind her and on one side. He had never seen a lady leaping before. She was certainly made for a cavalry officer's wife, he said to himself more than once, as he watched his fair partner now flying a fence, now cleverly topping a bank, and now, with equal address, jumping in and out of a lane, her pale face showing an unwonted bloom from the exercise and excitement, while honest Joseph executed his share of the task with unswerving adroitness.
It was a splendid day for the majority of those out, and a capital specimen of what the thing was like for a man who had never hunted before. The scent, without being strong enough to make a speedy finish, was held without a check for some miles, and the large field which had managed to keep up gave unusual animation to the scene. But now a new phase came over the landscape, which became wilder and less enclosed. They were going down the slope of a large stretch of coarse pasture land, which rose again opposite to them. Yorke noticed that several of the riders ahead were streaming away to the right or left, only some three or four keeping the straight line just in front of them; nor did it need the straggling line of pollards along the foot of the incline to indicate the presence of water there must of course be a stream of some sort at the meeting of these two long grassy slopes, probably something big. He looked at his companion to see whether she would go on; but either she did not see the obstacle, for she was very short-sighted, and her eye-glass was now flying about behind her neck, or she intended to charge it, for the young lady held her course. It was evidently a stiff thing, for one of the three riders still ahead went in, and another refused, although the practicability of the jump was proved by the third horseman clearing it. For a moment Yorke hesitated for the young lady's sake; but excitement overcame the spirit of self-denial, and as it was evidently a time for discarding etiquette, putting on pace he pressed Joseph past his companion, and crammed him at the jump. The brook or watercourse was not so very wide after all, but the water ran deep, and judging from the appearance of the fallen rider just emerging, there must be a still further depth of muddy slush beneath the sluggish current; and the banks being rotten, and the take-off bad, the little horse did not do more than clear it, and Yorke turned round in some anxiety to see how his companion would fare.
Miss Cathy had pulled up at the brink.
"Horse refused?" said Yorke, pulling up, and coming back to the edge.
"Partly the horse, partly the rider," said she, looking in consternation at the obstacle.
"I think he would clear it all right," said Yorke, who, in all the excitement of the run was anxious to push on, "if you send him at it well." And the young lady thus hidden, taking a short canter round, galloped her horse up again to the brook, but again stopped short at the margin.
"I can't do it," she said, piteously, and looking quite pale; "pray go on, Colonel Yorke, and never mind me; you will be thrown out altogether if you stop here any longer."
But Yorke could not do this. William, the groom, had of course long ago lost sight of them; and all the field behind them had disappeared, having turned aside to find a bridge. The rider whose horse refused had galloped off to a place higher up. The man who went in, having got his horse out and mounted again, was riding slowly up the slopes, refreshing himself as he went with the contents of his flask; the hounds had become lost to view over the top of the hill; they two were left alone on opposite sides of the stream, and Yorke, still hot and excited, was fain to jump back again and rejoin the young lady, a much more ticklish proceeding than the first jump, since Joseph showed manifest disinclination to this retrograde movement.
He then proposed that they should try to find a better place where he might give her a lead over, but she had evidently lost heart.
"I can't think what has come over me," she said. "I feel as if nothing could make me face that ditch; but you will get thrown out of the hunt; please go on, Colonel Yorke, please do, and never mind me." But this of course was not to be thought of. Then Miss Cathy thought that by going round a certain line that she ​knew, they might manage to cut in to the run again, and accordingly they set off, following the example of the solitary horseman who had refused at first, along the line of the brook, till they came to a bridge nearly half a mile higher up; and thence they got into a lane and made for some cross-roads where Miss Cathy said they would be sure to get news. But when this point was reached no one there had seen the hounds. Thus the cast had proved a failure. In fact, Miss Cathy, although a huntress, had not really a much better eye for country than young ladies usually possess; and Yorke knew all the time they must be taking a bad line, but was too polite to say so. There was now nothing for it but to turn their horses' heads towards home, now about twelve miles off.
The young lady was full of regrets for having lost Yorke his run, and reproaches of herself for her want of nerve; but something in her manner caused Yorke to ask himself suddenly whether this refusal of the brook was not a mere artifice. True, he had no reason to be vain of his success with women; still Mr. Peevor had been so extraordinarily outspoken in his hints the previous evening, that it really seemed as if he wanted to give him one of his daughters on any terms; and if so, what more natural than that the bold horsewoman should be told off for the soldier? And as this suspicion crossed his mind, Yorke became silent and reserved. But whatever might have been her designs, no one could be less of a coquette in her manner than the young lady; and as they plodded homeward, occasionally changing their walk for a slow trot, he learned a good deal more about the family from her unaffected conversation than her father had told him already. Mr. Peevor, it appeared, bought "The Beeches" about three years ago; before that he had a house in Kent, which he had purchased after selling a house at Harrow Weald. That was something like a hunting-country, observed Miss Cathy with enthusiasm, but he was too young to ride to hounds in those days. Yorke inferred from this account that Mr. Peevor must have business in London which involved his living in the neighbourhood; and indeed the young lady implied as much, although she said her father now seldom went up to town. This comfortable kind of life then had lasted for some years; and this easy buying and selling of houses, although involving a nomad sort of life, indicated the reckless mercantile adventurer as little as did Mr. Peevor's own fussy, kindly manner, and his fidgetiness about trifles. In fact, this frequent change of residence was perhaps another manifestation of the fidgets. The financial-impostor hypothesis might evidently be discarded. Still, what was the mysterious cause for this apparent social ostracism?
It was nearly four o'clock before they reached home. On riding up to the front door, Yorke was about to jump off and ring the bell, when Miss Cathy with some hesitation asked if he would mind coming round to the stables, the footman might perhaps not like to hold the horses; and accordingly they turned off in that direction. As they passed along the side of the house, the sound of childish laughter could be heard from the upper windows. "Lucy is playing with the children in the nursery," said Miss Cathy; "it is just their tea-time." Dismounting at the stables, they entered the house by the garden door, and finding no one in the hall, the young lady proposed that they should go to the dining-room where luncheon would be waiting for them; but Yorke, observing that it was too late for that meal, asked if they might not join the children at tea; and, following his companion up-stairs they surprised Miss Lucy in the children's play-room (a roomy and very comfortable apartment), giving Lottie a ride on her back, her dishevelled locks doing duty as reins, while Minnie, whip in hand, was driving them round the room. The young lady displayed some confusion at being thus discovered, and looked very pretty in her blushes; while the gentleman, noticing with satisfaction that the long tresses falling over her shoulders derived no aid from artificial adjuncts, thought her toilet had never appeared more becoming. Such an unfortunate ending they had had to a promising day, explained Miss Cathy in answer to her sister's inquiries about the run; Colonel Yorke's sport had been quite spoilt by her timidity; she was so vexed with herself about it; and Yorke, by way of consolation under her evident distress, declared they had had a capital run as it was, and that if they had gone on to the finish they might have had another half-dozen miles further to ride home. "I am sure I can feel for you, Cathy," said her sister. "How you can ride as you do is a perfect wonder. I should throw myself off in an agony of fright as soon as I came to the first hedge." Then the tea was brought, and Miss Lucy having first retired to make her hair neat, they sat down to do ​justice to the meal, there being still nearly four hours to wait for dinner, the children in great glee at having it in company. Yorke had not enjoyed any part of his visit so much before; the long ride had put him on confidential terms with Miss Cathy; her sister, having the children to talk and attend to, was less shy than she had hitherto appeared to the visitor; and when, somewhat later, Mrs. Peevor joined the party assembled round the cosy little table, she found them all in high spirits. And Mr. Peevor coining up-stairs afterwards, while naturally exercised in spirit at the guest having been brought into that humble apartment for the meal, could not repress his satisfaction at the pleasant footing in which he found him, and partook of tea and muffin placidly, sitting in the easy-chair which Lucy placed for him by the fire, and offering from time to time more or less desultory and inconsequential remarks about hunting.