The Romance of a Steeplechase.
by W.B. Home-Gall.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #11 (Feb 1906).
Telling of the mighty issues that hung upon the result of a horse race.
A long, nervous, delicately-shaped head, terminating in a brace of daintily-dilated nostrils, slender neck, long, narrow body, muscular, well shaped legs, Flighty Miss seemed truly conscious of her charms as, with long, even strides, she good-naturedly consented to, rather than obeyed, the urging of the tiny stable-boy upon her back, and skimmed lightly over the turf at the foot of the balustraded walk before Drew Court.
"She'll do, Crooks; there is nothing in the Hunt can touch her," cried Sir Jaspar delightedly.
The dapper little figure in tight-fitting coat, breeches, and gaiters, touched his cap.
"You are right, Sir Jaspar, she is un-i-ky," he replied proudly, for had he not reared and trained Flighty Miss himself?
"I'll go further; she is the best animal that has ever followed the Uplandshire Hunt," continued Sir Jaspar Drew, emphasising the remark by striking the ferrule of his crutch-handled ebony stick upon the time-worn flagstones.
Crooks, stud-groom at the Court, glanced at the baronet.
"The best bar one, Sir Jaspar," he said, a note of anxiety in his voice.
The old man's features grew hard and stern as he replied:
"Bar none, Crooks. Wildfire and his master are to me as though they had never existed." Then, turning on his heel, he walked with the firm, upright carriage which made it difficult to believe that his shoulders bore the weight of eighty years, towards a paddock to the north of the old Court.
"The Drew pride! It never bends, it never breaks," muttered the stud-groom, as, touching his cap to his master's back, he moved thoughtfully towards the stable. With a brow as black as thunder Sir Jaspar reached the paddock, and, leaning over its gate, gazed thoughtfully at a horse, the very picture of a light-weight hunter, save that his coat was long and dull, his tail and mane untrimmed. Two years had flown since currycomb or brush last touched Wildfire's back, for Crooks alone dare enter his paddock.
His arms crossed over the topmost bar of the five-barred gate, Sir Jasper gazed intently upon the feeding animal, until the horse's shaggy coat seemed to glisten like silk, and on his back, clad in perfectly cut clothes, spotless breeches, well-fitting boots, sat the handsomest man and best fellow in Uplandshire. An almost unbearable longing brought a low, despairing moan from the baronet's trembling lips.
Aroused by the sound of his own voice, the old man started, the sorrow which had humanised his face vanished, his eyes glittered angrily, and his mouth closed in obstinate determination, as, turning from the gate, he moved with slow, stately steps towards the house.
Passing through the open hall doors he entered the library. There, sinking into a morocco-leather arm-chair, he leant his chin upon the crutch of his stick, and gazed intently before him, as he had done when his son, the nineteenth Jaspar Drew, had refused to restore the fortunes of their house with the money of a dowdy but immensely wealthy brewer's daughter, declaring that his heart was given to Letty Dalhousie, a neighbour's well-bred but penniless governess. With Sir Jaspar's curses ringing in his ears, the son had left the room determined that, come what might, he would never enter the doors of Drew Court again.
"Mr. Dawson would like to see you, Sir Jaspar, if convenient," announced a staid faced old butler, breaking in upon the baronet's unhappy daydream.
"Show him—no, not here—into the gun-room, Ellis," ordered the baronet, with a wave of his hand, and the butler departed, stopping to whisper to Mrs. Simmonds, the housekeeper, whom he met in the hall:
"Sir Jaspar is thinking of the young master again."
"Well, Dawson, made arrangements for the race, eh?" said Sir Jaspar, as he entered the gun-room a few minutes later.
"Yes, Sir Jaspar, I think everything is fixed," replied the visitor, a neighbouring squire with a perfect genius for arranging steeplechases. "I expect the feature of the day will be the match between yours and Captain Harker's nominations."
"Seen the Captain's horse?" asked Sir Jaspar.
"It is The Colonel, the bay with the white star he rode four seasons ago. He's been doing pretty useful amateur work in the Southern counties, I hear. How is Flighty Miss? Going strong?"
"In first-class condition. By the by, how is the betting?"
"Three to one on Captain Harker's nomination."
Sir Jaspar started like an old war-horse at a bugle-call.
"Is the country full of fools? Flighty Miss will run away from any horse Harker can bring against her, roan or grey, star or no star," he snorted angrily. "The fortunes of the Drews depend upon her getting home, too."
Shortly afterwards Dawson took his leave.
Returning to the hall, the baronet passed up the broad, oak-balustraded staircase to the picture-gallery, from the walls of which eighteen Jaspar Drews, from the original founder of the family, in doublet and hose, to the upright form of the present baronet, clad in the showy uniform of Her Majesty's Horse Guards, looked down upon him.
One other picture was there, but it was turned to the wall, and upon its face the light of day had not shone for two years.
"It is my only chance," said Sir Jaspar aloud, as though addressing the portraits. "I have to do it. Unless I can pay off the mortgage in six months Drew Court will be Drew Court but in name."
Few are the secrets hidden from the servants' hall, and barely a week had elapsed before Ellis whispered in awed, hushed tones to the stud-groom, that their master had staked the fortunes of his house upon Flighty Miss, backing her to an amount which would mean hopeless ruin if she lost.
All too quickly the day fixed on for the Uplandshire Steeplechases drew near, until at last but forty-eight hours intervened.
That morning Sir Jaspar called Crooks into the library, and intimated that he wished to see Flighty Miss exercised across country in some fields adjoining the park.
Crooks heard the order with scarce concealed dismay. The fear lest something should happen to the mare was a perfect horror to him, and for the first time in his life he ventured to remonstrate with his master.
Forty years' service with the baronet ought to have taught him that remonstrance would be worse than useless. He was barely allowed to utter a dozen words ere Sir Jaspar interrupted him with a fierce intimation that he would have his orders obeyed, and the stud-groom returned sadly to the stables.
A quarter of an hour later Sir Jaspar, mounted on a steady cob, rode by the side of Flighty Miss through the park, whilst Crooks, on a roan hack, brought up the rear.
As the old stud-groom saw how daintily Flighty Miss moved down the gravel drive, her feet seeming scarce to touch the ground, his spirits rose, and he shared his master's loudly expressed opinion that there was nothing born of horseflesh which could touch her, but, even as he spoke, he glanced across the park to the distant paddock in which Wildfire was confined, a hopeless and disgraced prisoner.
"Beg pardon, Sir Jaspar, I think there is one of them plaguey motors coming," he said, pressing to the baronet's side as the gates were reached.
But Sir Jaspar had not yet forgiven his stud-groom for daring to hold opinions differing from his own, and though he hated the "new-fangled, tin-pot creations," as he called them, with all the old-fashioned conservatism of his race, the obstinacy of his nature would not allow him to lend an ear to Crooks' warning, and he beckoned to the lodge-keeper to throw open the big iron gates.
"Go on, my lad, what are you stopping for?" he cried angrily, as Flighty Miss' rider checked his prancing steed.
"A motor, sir," explained the boy.
"What of that? She must get accustomed to the things," replied Sir Jaspar, and the boy, who held the baronet in wholesome awe, obeyed.
The next moment a loud, strident "toot! toot! toot!" disturbed the quietude of the sylvan scene. In a moment Flighty Miss wheeled round, then, as a huge red object flashed by, she took the bit in her teeth, and bolted.
In vain the stable-boy sawed at her mouth. The terrified mare dashed on at a terrific pace, heading straight for a low, sunken deer-fence which divided the grounds of the Court from the park.
This she skimmed over with the lightness of a bird, and Crooks, whose bigger horse had outdistanced Sir Jasper's cob, breathed a sigh of relief, checked ere it could find utterance by a sob of despair, as he saw the frenzied mare charge straight at the balustraded walk rising ten feet above the Italian garden, across which the mare had flown.
"Turn her, turn her, for Heaven's sake!" shouted Crooks, as somehow or other, how he never knew, his hack blundered over the deer-fence.
Ere the words had well left his lips the catastrophe was accomplished. He saw the mare crash with fearful force against the stonework, then rebound from the wall and lie, a huddled, writhing, kicking heap of horseflesh, upon a flower-bed. Galloping up he sprang from his horse, and hastened to the struggling animal's side.
A glance told him that Flighty Miss would never lead the Hunt again, and, remounting, he turned towards the Court.
"Where are you going, Crooks?" demanded Sir Jaspar.
Crooks stole a swift glance into his master's pallid, hard-set face.
"For a gun, sir," he said, almost below his breath, then turned swiftly aside, as the baronet wheeled his cob round, and, riding to the front door, slowly dismounted, and staggered, rather than walked, into the library, where, dropping into a chair before an old bureau, he assumed a listening attitude, until a loud, dull report rose from without, then a groan of hopeless despair burst from his lips.
He was ruined, hopelessly ruined, and the pride of the Drews had fallen.
"Beg pardon, sir."
Sir Jaspar looked up.
Crooks, unsummoned, unannounced, stood before him.
With an almost heroic effort Sir Jaspar stifled the misery which lay like a dead weight on his heart.
"Well, Crooks, what is it, my man?" he asked in low, emotionless tones, that stabbed the faithful servant to the heart.
"I was born on the estate, sir, I have worked on the estate all my life, I've been in your stables forty years, man and boy, may I ask one question, only one? And it ain't imperence, it ain't curiosity. I wouldn't have ventured to have done it, Sir Jaspar, but the circumstances are un-i-ky."
An almost imperceptible, but very sad smile hovered around the baronet's lips as his stud-groom's favourite word forced its way in, even at this time of misery and despair.
"Well, what is it, Crooks? Ask me what you like, I will reply."
"Flighty Miss, her being as she is, gone where many another good hoss has gone afore her, are you—I'd say, sir—will you lose everything?"
For the fraction of a second the old haughty spirit flashed from the baronet's eyes, then he laid his hand upon the brown and knobbly fingers which the agitated groom had unconsciously allowed to rest upon the arm of his chair.
"Everything, Crooks; home, honour—everything!" was the hopeless reply.
"No, no, Sir Jaspar, not everything. Cheer up, all may yet be well. You haven't entered Flighty Miss by name, have you, Sir Jaspar?"
"No, no, Crooks, by nomination. Sir Jaspar Drew's nomination against Captain Harker's nomination, that is how the contract ran."
"Thank ye, Sir Jaspar, that's all I wanted to know."
"Crooks, I absolutely forbid—" began the baronet, but the stud-groom had already left the room.
* * * * *
In a certain street leading out of a certain main thoroughfare in Central Norwood, there is a large gateway, bearing over its rounded arch the words:
"The Norwood Riding School."
It is evening. The big gates are closed. The two helpers, having fed, bedded down their horses, and made all snug for the night, have taken their departure, as a tall, handsome, though somewhat stern-faced young man opens a back door leading from the riding-school into the kitchen of a little house adjoining.
Passing through to a narrow hall he opens a door on the left, then stands gazing, with softened face and sad eyes, upon a picture well calculated to bring delight into a young husband's heart.
Crouched by the side of the fire, singing in a low, sweet voice to a sturdy youngster of about twelve months, is a sweet-faced, golden-haired girl, who looks up with a loving, anxious smile as her husband enters.
"Now, baby, you must lie still on the sofa whilst mumma gets daddy his dinner," she cried gaily, springing to her feet.
The little one clutched at her fingers, but she avoided the dimpled digits, and, moving swiftly to her husband, looked searchingly into his face.
She read there disappointment, anxiety, trouble, yet her face lightened with a heavenly smile as she raised her lips to his.
Suddenly, almost fiercely, he clasped her to his breast.
"Oh, Letty, Letty, why did I in my blind selfishness bring you te this?"
"To this?" asked Letty Drew, with a brave laugh, as she swept her hand round the cosy, tastefully-furnished room, and allowed it to rest for a moment on the laughing, crowing child, holding out his tiny hands to his father.
Again he strained her to his heart.
"My darling, how can I tell you! I have done my best. Nathan refuses to renew his bill, and—" He could not force himself to repeat what she already knew. After nearly two years' brave struggle against adversity, backed up by the Drew pride, which refused the cringing homage his clients believed their due from a mere riding-master, his affairs had gone from bad to worse, until at last ruin, hopeless ruin, was before them.
A loud summons at the door checked the loving words which sprang to the young wife's lips.
Jaspar Drew laughed harshly as he strode towards it.
"Come in! Your master has not lost much time!" he cried angrily. "I would have—"
"Master Jaspar, don't ye know me? It's old Crooks, the man as taught ye to ride, Master Jaspar, the only man—though all t'others would have laid down their lives for ye—as you honoured with your confidence."
"Crooks?" cried Jaspar, starting back. "Crooks!"—then the listening wife heard the same bitter laugh which had chilled her heart a few seconds before, as he added: "Why, old friend, I thought you had been the broker's man! Come in, come in; this is my wife, Crooks, and here—see the young rascal, crowing as if he had not all the troubles of life before him—my son, and heir to a goodly crop of judgment summonses."
"Servant, ma'am. I hain't had many kind thoughts on you, but now I sees ye I think Master Jaspar acted right," cried Crooks brokenly; then he knelt by the side of the couch, and the baby, taking to him at once, tugged with merciless violence at the iron-grey tufts of whiskers which ornamented either side of his wizened face.
"He's a Drew, sir, a true Drew, but there's a little of his mother in him," he said at last, rising, and taking Jaspar Drew's outstretched hand. Then his face suddenly grew grave. "Is it as bad as that with you, Master Jaspar?" he asked.
There was no need for Drew to inquire what the "that" was, when he remembered the words with which he had greeted his father's old stud-groom.
"Your first visit to the Norwood riding establishment will certainly be your last. To-night we can give you something to eat, and a bed to sleep upon; to-morrow we may have neither for ourselves," he replied.
Then a look of alarm, struggling with pride, swept over his face.
"But why are you here—my father?"
"Sir Jaspar is middlin', sir, only middlin'. Master Jaspar, you have to come home."
Letty clasped her hands in delight.
"He has sent for me, then?" cried Jaspar.
"Not 'zactly sent for you, Master Jaspar, but—that is to say—in fact, the circumstances are somewhat un-i-ky."
Jaspar's clouding face cleared, and he broke into a hearty, ringing laugh, such as his brave, uncomplaining wife had not heard for some time.
"The old word, Crooks, how dear, how homelike it sounds!" he declared.
"And the old mouth that utters it, Master Jaspar, the old heart that begs ye, that implores ye, that—if ye needs it—will go down on his knees to pray ye to come home, an' save the honour o' the old house."
"Crooks, I have sworn—" began Jaspar, when the old man interrupted him, saying quickly, almost fiercely:
"And what if you have? You needn't enter the house. All I wants ye to do is to come and ride Wildfire in the Hunt Steeplechase."
Jaspar looked at the old man in surprise, then an expression of eager anticipation flashed into his eyes, and Letty, who was watching her husband's face, knew that he longed to stride his favourite hunter once again, to bid adieu to the thankless striving for a bare livelihood which the riding-school did not provide, and take his proper place in the world.
But the look vanished as quickly as it had risen, and:
"Lor', he's the image of Sir Jaspar!" thought Crooks, as he saw the firm, determined mouth harden, and the steely glitter he knew so well flash from his eyes.
"I'd give much to feel Wildfire between my knees once more, Crooks," admitted Jaspar Drew, "but unless Sir Jaspar sends for us," and, putting his arm round his wife's waist, he drew her towards him, "we will face good and evil together, eh, old girl?"
Letty nestled closer to her husband, but even as she did so her eyes wandered to her boy.
"And so you may, and so you ought, Master Jaspar. It's better for husband and wife to fight the battles o' life side by side than to drift apart for want of a touch o' the spur or a pull o' the curb. But you'll come, Master Jaspar, won't you? Not because I asks ye, not for your father's sake, but to save the old place for that boy," pleaded Crooks, with the eloquence of a leal, true heart.
Then he gave a graphic account of how affairs stood at Drew Court.
And Jaspar Drew, stipulating only that he should not be brought in contact with his father, consented.
* * * * *
"Beg pardon, Sir Jaspar, your breakfast is getting cold," and the old butler, hardly less careworn and white-faced than his master, bent with familiar deference over the baronet's chair.
"Take it away, Ellis, take it away," said the baronet, and he rose abruptly from the table.
"What time is the steeplechase?" he demanded.
"I don't rightly know," fibbed the old man; then, as with something of his old spirit, the baronet turned a searching glance upon him, he added: "I believe eleven, Sir Jaspar."
"Ah! Ellis, we are both old men now, age has taught us much, but it has brought home to me a new rendering of the old text, 'the sins of the sons shall be visited upon the fathers.' By twelve the visitation will have fallen, and Drew Court will pass from the Drews for ever."
Two large tears rolled down the old butler's cheeks, he tried to speak, but words would not come, and Sir Jaspar walked slowly from the room.
His heart too full for words, Ellis followed to help his master on with his overcoat, and to hand him his stick and hat for his morning's walk, then from the hall door watched the bowed form hobble towards Wildfire's paddock. Suddenly he saw Sir Jaspar fall to the ground by the gate.
Crying loudly for assistance he rushed through the hall, and a minute later was dashing as quickly as his old legs would carry him to his master's assistance.
By the time he reached the fallen baronet a footman and a groom had overtaken him.
"Sir Jaspar—Sir Jaspar!" moaned the old man, lifting the white, stricken head to his knee.
Sir Jaspar's eyes opened, but only to close again the next moment.
"Why, what's become o' the hoss?" interrupted the groom, pointing towards Wildfire's empty paddock.
"Hang the horse! Take the gate off its hinges, and lay Sir Jaspar on it," ordered Ellis, and some ten minutes later he delivered his unconscious burden into the hands of Mrs. Simmonds, the housekeeper.
Then he hastened to the stables.
"Wright, go for the doctor," he cried. "Is Mr. Crooks in the stables?" he added, turning to an understrapper.
"No, Mr. Ellis, he has gone to the steeplechase," replied the man.
"Then go for him, he alone knows where Master Jaspar is." And the underling, conscious that he bore a message of life or death, hastened to saddle a horse.
The Uplandshire Steeplechases are always sure of a full field, for everyone was certain of a good day's racing, especially as there were no skilfully prepared water-jumps here—too often death-traps to the unwary rider—but each year a different course across country, such as the riders would have to face in an ordinary fox-hunt, was chosen.
On this occasion the start was from a meadow just outside Spinney Farm, some four miles from Drew Court.
The first item on the programme was the match between Sir Jaspar's nomination and Captain Harker's nomination.
"It'll be a walk over for you, Harker, I fancy. You know, I suppose, that Flighty Miss killed herself on Tuesday? Have you heard from Sir Jaspar!" asked the Master of the Foxhounds of Sir Jaspar's rival.
"I received a note from him mentioning the accident, and regretting that he must withdraw from the match, but early yesterday morning old Crooks rode over to say that Sir Jasper had found another horse," explained Captain Harker. "I naturally tried to pump him, but the old fellow was as close as a fish. Anyhow, I don't think it will be much of a match. Sir Jaspar hasn't a horse in his stables that will stand a chance against this old boy," and as he spoke he leant forward to stroke his mount's glossy neck.
"There's Wildfire?" suggested the Master of the Foxhounds.
Harker laughed.
"It would be murder to put anybody on that pulling beast," he declared. "There is only one man who could ride him, and he is most probably on the other side of the world. Hallo, what's up? Has His Majesty honoured the Uplandshire with his presence?" he inquired, as from the outskirts of the large crowd pouring into the meadow came round after round of hearty cheering.
The next moment the crowd parted to right and left, as a horseman, who sat his mount as though part of the gallant beast, cantered towards them.
"By Heaven, it's Jaspar Drew!" cried the Master of the Foxhounds.
"And on Wildfire too!" put in Captain Harker.
The next minute the man in question pulled up close to them.
"Morning, Villiers; morning, Harker," he said, nodding as though he had only left them the night before.
"Morning, Drew," was the response, both men feeling that it would be bad form to question or show surprise just then.
But Harker, as good a fellow as ever sat a hunter, could not help saying, as he grasped Drew's hand:
"By Jove, old chap, I have got a pot of money on this race, but I'll lose it with pleasure to see you amongst us once more."
Drew contented himself with a nodding acknowledgment, but his eyes told how greatly he appreciated the other's generous words, and the two cantered across the meadow to where a line of carriages and horsemen betokened the starting-point.
A few minutes later they were off, and though Wildfire's coat was rough, and his tail and mane showed traces of hasty trimming, all realised that they were in for an exciting combat.
As though cantering from one cover to the other after a blank draw, the rivals rode side by side across the meadow. Together they disappeared beyond the first jump, then moved swiftly across a stubble, a plough, another stubble, each taking it easy, and playing a waiting game. At the end of the first mile Captain Harker increased the pace, but Jaspar Drew, knowing that, save for a surreptitious canter the preceding night, and a trial spin that morning, his horse had not been exercised for many a long month, was content with the long, untiring stride Wildfire maintained, and it was not until, having negotiated a tall hedge and a wide ditch beyond, they turned their horses' heads homewards, that he began to ride.
By this time Captain Harker had secured a good lead.
"Now, old chap, do your best," said Drew, settling down in his saddle, and gently feeling his horse's mouth, as he touched his flanks with his unspurred heel.
Wildfire bounded forward like an arrow from a bow.
"Steady, old boy, steady!" remonstrated Drew, tightening his grasp of the rein, as they raced towards a timber fence, with a sloping drop on the other side.
His ears pricked forward, Wildfire seemed to take the tall fence in his stride, then as Drew, leaning forward, stroked his arching neck, he settled down for a mile of sheer racing.
When about half-a-mile from home Jaspar tightened his rein, for immediately in front of him rose a neatly-trimmed thorn fence, a throng of eager spectators on either side proclaiming the water-jump.
As Harker, some twenty yards ahead, flew over the fence, Jaspar was pleased to see a fountain of mud and water fly up wards, for it told him that The Colonel had jumped short, a sure sign that the pace was beginning to tell upon him.
Then a loud cheer broke from the crowd, as, with a twist of his wrist, a slight pressure of his knees, Jaspar Drew lifted Wildfire over the fence, and a good two feet beyond the water.
On he sped towards the meadow from which they had started, now filled with an eager, cheering, and excited crowd.
Straining every nerve Captain Harker urged on his steed, and Jaspar Drew saw, but without dismay, The Colonel once more drawing away from him.
But he knew Wildfire's capabilities, and although he took the last fence a good length behind his adversary, had now no doubt as to the result.
"Now, old boy, if you haven't lost your cunning, we have him!" cried Jaspar, touching Wildfire with his heels.
Then a loud roar burst from the crowd, as Wildfire's outstretched head drew level with the other's girth, then with his withers, then, when a hundred yards from the winning post, they raced neck and neck.
For the first time Jaspar touched his horse with his whip.
Nobly Wildfire responded, bounded forward, and passed the winning-post half-a length ahead of The Colonel.
As Jaspar pulled in his steed Crooks elbowed his way through the cheering and excited crowd.
The cheery greeting died on Drew's lips.
"What is the matter, Crooks?" he demanded anxiously, as the stud-groom laid a trembling hand on his knee.
"To the Court, Master Jaspar—your father is dying!" gasped Crooks.
"Dying!"
"Yes, he fell down in a fit this morning. Elis sent to me for your address."
Jaspar Drew waited to hear no more.
"Out of the way there, out of the way!" he cried, almost savagely, as he turned his horse's head in the direction from which he had just come, for beyond a line of thickly wooded country on his left lay Drew Court.
Almost before the astounded crowd could realise that the man they had idolised and lost was leaving them without a word, he had disappeared over an adjoining hedge. Hedge, ditch, gate, stile, water, and hurdle he negotiated in rapid succession, until Wildfire, gallant beast though he was, began to show symptoms of distress.
At last the towers and gables of Drew Court appeared through a break in the trees, with only a high brick wall between them.
To go round by the entrance gates would mean the loss of several precious minutes, so, without a moment's hesitation, Drew put his horse at the fearful jump.
A thorough racehorse is probably the pluckiest animal on four legs. Worn-out though he was, Wildfire accepted the challenge, and despite the anxiety which filled his heart, Jaspar experienced a thrill of delight as he felt those iron sinews drawn together beneath him.
The next moment the gallant beast had risen to the jump, cleared it, and was galloping towards the Court.
A minute later Jaspar Drew had flung himself off his panting horse at the Court door.
"Where is he?" he demanded of Ellis, who, white-faced, met him in the hall.
"We put him on a couch in the library, sir," and the young heir to Drew Court entered the room where he had heard the sentence which had driven him, an outcast, from the home of his fathers.
But he recked not of that. His whole heart went out to the pale, lined, and wrinkled-face looking so eagerly towards him. Springing forward, he thrust his arm beneath the old man's head, crying, in choking accents:
"Father—father!"
"Jaspar, my boy!"
It was all they said, these two who had parted in anger, to nurse that anger through two long years.
Jaspar glanced anxiously at the grey-haired old family physician, who stood at the foot of the baronet's couch, and there was a glad light in his eyes which brought a responding gladness into the son's heart.
It was almost with the old, hearty ring that, intercepting the glances, Sir Jaspar cried:
"You young dog, you have been riding Wildfire?"
"Yes, dad, I had to, you see. If fathers will plunge recklessly, sons must do their best to extricate them from their difficulties," laughed Jaspar.
"And you pulled it off?"
With every word the baronet spoke his voice grew stronger, and the doctor, turning, actually winked at Mrs. Simmonds, who was hovering near the door.
"Of course I did, dad, I came on purpose," was his boyish response.
A silence fell between the two, during which the doctor, Crooks, Ellis, and Mrs. Simmonds crept from the room.
Slowly the old man's fingers closed round his son's. A strange, half-earnest, half-quizzical smile hovered on his lips.
"I didn't send for you, Jaspar, you know," he whispered. But the son's strong, nervous grasp tightened over the wasted fingers, and the four old people listening in the hall outside the library door, looked at each other and smiled, as Jaspar's bright, ringing laughter echoed and re-echoed through the home of his ancestors.