CHAPTER V

THROUGH THE MILL

"She was iron-sinewed and satin-skinned, Ribbed like a drum, and limbed like a deer, Fierce as the fire, and fleet as the wind, There was nothing she couldn't climb or clear; Rich lords had vexed me in vain to part, For their gold and silver, with Britomart."[2]

"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.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: From "The Romance of Britomart," not the least stirring of those spirited verses called "Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes," composed by the late A. Lindsey Gordon, and published at Melbourne, Australia, 1870.]