Chapter XX: A Little Leap

A man may be very nearly ruined and yet make few signs: Mr. Drewitt was close on the edge of the precipice, but still he uttered no cry. To have ridden through the gates, to have passed the porter’s lodge, to have reined in your horse and alighted at the beginning of the avenue, and to have walked beneath those over-arching trees up to the house, no person could have imagined the end so nigh at hand.

And yet Kincorth had virtually passed away from Archibald Drewitt and his family. He was only now waiting for the end—only—ah, me!

He was growing old, his health was broken, his hopes were gone, but still at times the cheery buoyant spirit of old would return to inspire him with fresh courage.

“When the boys grow up they will see to things,” he would mutter to himself. “Brian will be a great man yet, and Harold, God bless the boy, he may rise to anything he likes.”

So with ruin only waiting without to enter, involved beyond all hope of extrication, swamped with debt, harassed with duns, Archibald Drewitt still clung to the delusion that Kincorth would never pass away from him—that something would still turn up, that his creditors would give him time, that his sons would save the property, and do as well for themselves as Maxwell Drewitt had done for himself.

“You must make haste and be a man, Harold,” he was wont to say to his youngest born, and Harold would reply—

“I am a man now, father, what would you have me do?”

Over the broad avenue the trees bent their long branches; across the drive their arms met and intertwined. The place was lovelier than ever, for the timber had grown and grown during the twenty years, and the sunbeams had to steal their way through closer tracery of leaf and twig and bough to the grass beneath. The shrubs grew luxuriantly, the flowers were bright under the summer sky; the house itself looked gay and cheerful, with every window reflecting back the afternoon sunshine, and Maxwell Drewitt, as he walked up the ascent, felt already the pride of a possessor, and pointed out the beauties of Kincorth with a certain triumph which was intelligible enough, and sad enough, to Geoffry Pryor.

“You will be merciful, I hope,” he said in a low tone aside to Maxwell Drewitt, “in the hour of your strength.”

“Have I not said?” was the reply, and they all passed on together.

In an arm-chair placed on the lawn before the house, an old grey-haired man was seated so busily engaged in reading the newspaper that he took no heed of the approaching strangers.

“Is that your uncle, Mr. Drewitt?” inquired Mr. Pryor. “Can that be he?”

“That is he,” Maxwell answered. “Twenty years have done their work with him, have they not?”

Had they not indeed? Feeble, bent, emaciated, but still with the same old grace of manner, with the same frank heartiness as had won his young wife’s heart and kept her love through all those years fresh and green as ever, Archibald Drewitt rose to meet his visitors.

“You will scarcely recollect me, sir,” said Geoffry Pryor, holding out his hand, which the old man took cordially.

“I do not recollect you,” he answered, “but you are welcome, whoever you may be.”

“It is Mr. Pryor, uncle,” said Maxwell, “Mr. Pryor, who stood for Duranmore long ago; don’t you remember?”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Mr. Drewitt. “Yes, yes, you are coming over to buy Durrow, I hear: but have a care, sir, have a care. Ireland is not what it used to be. The old families are ruined, and the fresh owners are not gentlemen, and the people have acquired new-fangled notions, and the breed of horses is deteriorating, and our best tenants are gone to America. Ah! well, it was God’s will I suppose, and we ought not to grumble; but an old man finds such changes hard to bear. Won’t you come in, Mr. Pryor? Maxwell, show Mr. Pryor the way.”

But Geoffry Pryor declined Maxwell’s guidance, and remained behind with Mr. Drewitt, who walked feebly towards the house.

“I am not so young as I used to be,” he remarked, “and the famine was a terrible affliction to us owners of property as well as to the poor. I know it aged me a dozen years,” he said, taking Mr. Pryor’s proffered arm and leaning on it as he walked. “And so you are the young fellow who gave us so much trouble twenty years ago? Ah! the last election was a tame affair—there are no elections now like what there used to be.”

They were by this time in the drawing-room, and Mr. Pryor left his companion for a moment while he spoke to Mrs. Drewitt.

Would he have recognized her? Certainly not; and looking at her hair, which had threads of grey in it; at her eyes, which were not so bright as they had been; at her hands, which were plump no longer, but thin and worn; at her face, which was wrinkled and altered—Mr. Pryor turned coward for the moment, and wished he had never come back to Duranmore to see such changes as these.

But there were other changes, and not disagreeable ones either: there were the boys, unborn when he stood for Duranmore, tall, strong, and handsome; and there was Geraldine! I had better say at once that Mr. Pryor fell in love with the girl on the spot, and so save myself any lengthened description of his state of mind.

“Is not she pretty, uncle?” asked Mr. Gyton, the first opportunity he found of putting the question. “Is not she pretty?”

“Pretty!” echoed Mr. Pryor; “she is perfection.” And so I think Geraldine was; perfect in every womanly grace, in every womanly beauty, yet not so handsome as Harold, who never left Maxwell’s side for a moment, but stood beside his chair, talking to him, laughing with him, and evidently longing for the invitation which his cousin at last gave.

“You will come back with us to dinner? You can ride Trumpeter, and Dickson shall walk.”

“I have got my own horse, thank you,” returned the young king, with a grand air of proprietorship. “I can have the saddle put on Madcap in five minutes.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Maxwell Drewitt; “do you ride Madcap now?”

“Yes, my father says he is never likely to want her again. I say Max,” and here the boy lowered his voice to a whisper, “do you think he is so very bad?”

“Not a bit of it. His life is good enough for twenty years yet. If you are coming with us,” he added in a louder tone, “you had better tell them to bring round your horse. We did not know how ill you might be, sir” (this to his uncle), “and so left our nags at the lodge.”

“I am better to-day, thank God,” answered Mr. Drewitt, “much better. I have been ill, but it is nothing to signify, nothing.”

“I think, Harold, you ought not to go down to the Headlands this evening,” said Mrs. Drewitt, gently, as the boy passed her on his way out to the stables, “and I hope you will not in any case ride that hunter.”

“Pooh! Agnes,” exclaimed her husband, “what can that signify? Harold could ride any horse I ever saw, and the exercise will do him good.”

“But he will be out so late,” urged Mrs. Drewitt.

“You cannot get all boys to come home like young chickens at sundown,” said Maxwell, scornfully. “Go and get your horse, Harold. I am sure your mother is too wise a woman to wish to keep both her sons tied to her apron-strings.”

But still Harold hesitated.

“There is no danger, my dear, indeed there is not,” said Mr. Drewitt; and then his wife added, “You may go, Harold,” but she spoke the words with a sigh.

“Are you not coming with us too?” asked Mr. Pryor, addressing the elder brother.

“I have not been asked,” was the reply.

“But your cousin surely——”

“Does not want me,” interrupted Brian, and Mr. Pryor was silenced.

“You will come and dine with us?” said Mr. Drewitt to his visitor, holding Mr. Pryor’s hand almost affectionately in his own. “Agnes, my dear, these gentlemen will fix a day. It had best be soon, before I have another attack. You will see to it, Maxwell; you will let us know?”

“Yes, sir, I will let you know,” answered Maxwell; and then he muttered something about not thinking it had been so late, and that Lady Emmeline would be expecting them, as an excuse for hastening their departure.

“I will see you to your horses,” said Brian, gravely, taking up his hat; and while Harold went cantering off over the grass, the elder brother walked down the drive, talking to Mr. Pryor as he went.

As a matter of habit he felt the horses’ girths, as a matter of habit also he patted the horses’ necks, as a matter of courtesy he waited till each man was in his saddle, till Harold had joined the party and was expatiating in the most boastful manner concerning the fine points of the young mare he was riding; then Brian laid his hand on Maxwell’s rein and detained him for a moment.

“Well, Master Brian, and what can I do for you?” asked Maxwell, with a sneer.

“I want to know, sir,” and Brian’s hold of the rein grew tighter; “I want to know how you dare speak to my mother as you do.”

“You are ruffling up your feathers early, young gentleman,” retorted his cousin.

“Birds who have feathers have sometimes also spurs,” was the reply.

“When a bird’s spurs are too sharp to serve our purpose, we cut them,” answered Maxwell. “Let me pass, boy,” he added, angrily. “Let me rejoin my guests.”

“One second,” said Brian; but Maxwell wrenched his hand off the bridle, and striking his horse with his heel, for he wore no spurs, galloped on to overtake his companions.

“It does not matter now,” Brian said to himself, as he stood looking after his cousin; “I can wait.”

And you had but to see Brian Drewitt to feel sure he could wait from boyhood to manhood—from youth to age, till the hour of his revenge came.

Meantime Harold was leading the way towards Eversbeg. He could scarcely hold the chesnut to any reasonable pace, and, even as it was, the brute went dancing and curvetting about the road like a mad thing; and as she danced and kicked and curvetted, Harold turned round in his saddle, and laughed back at his companions for very pride and happiness.

“He rides splendidly,” said Mr. Gyton, whose equestrian performances were as nothing compared with those of this wild Irish lad.

“So he may,” answered Maxwell; “he rode from the time he walked or thereabouts, I think. I can remember seeing Harold riding his father’s hunters barebacked round the field when he was so little, a man had to lift him up to his seat. The boy never knew fear. I have found him many a time among the horses’ feet in the stable, hugging them, and they never put a hoof on him. That is what makes a man a rider. I’ll be bound now Harold could manage that devil just as well without saddle or stirrup, with nothing on her but a surcingle, and nothing in her mouth but a common bit. Harold!” he shouted, and Harold rode back, while the mare kicked her best and laid her ears flat on her neck because he would not give her her head and let her make for Kincorth as though she were running a race.

“Would you take the mare over that hedge and fence at the Headlands barebacked?”

For a moment the boy looked grave. He held the reins in one hand while he put the other behind him on the saddle, and so leaned round towards his cousin.

“It’s a stiff leap, Max,” he said.

“I know that. Do you think she is able for it? I should like to show those gentlemen what an Irish horse can do.”

“I should not like anything to happen to her, you know,” remarked Harold. “I only got her yesterday.”

“If anything happens to her you shall have Trumpeter,” said his cousin.

“It is not that—it is not that,” the boy said hesitatingly; “but I think she can do it, Max, don’t you?” and he brightened up.

“Do it—of course she can; but will you do it barebacked?”

“If Madcap can go over it, I can,” was the answer; but Geoffry Pryor broke in—

“I would not see you do it for any money if it be that ditch and hedge beyond the gardens; don’t attempt it, Harold. I am sure you could stick on, and I am sure the mare could take the leap; but still—”

“Still what?” demanded Harold.

“Accidents will happen,” was the reply, and the pair looked at each other for a moment, Harold manifestly wavering.

“So they may riding along the Queen’s highway,” said Maxwell.

“Do you really wish him to take such a leap?” Mr. Pryor inquired; and Maxwell answered coolly, “I do not like to see a boy a milksop.”

“I’m not a milksop, at any rate,” burst out Harold; “we’ll show them how we can take our fences, won’t we, old girl?” and the boy patted the mare’s neck, which she arched as consciously and proudly as though she knew what her rider said.

“Isn’t she a beauty—isn’t she, now?” Harold said, addressing Mr. Gyton. “My father was offered two hundred and fifty guineas for her the other day and would not take it. Think of that.”

“Have you found a gold mine anywhere about Kincorth?” asked Maxwell, sharply.

“Not that I know of; why do you ask?”

“I thought you must have done, when your father could refuse a sum like that for a horse.”

“He said he would rather I had her,” answered the lad; but the colour came into his cheeks, and unless Geoffry Pryor were greatly mistaken, the tears into his eyes, as he pulled Madcap to one side, and let Maxwell get on in front.

“I think the Irish are the strangest sort of people under the sun,” decided the lawyer; and he worked away at this puzzle of race and constitution and temperament till they arrived at the Headlands.

“Are you not going to see the leap?” asked Maxwell Drewitt, noticing that he turned to enter the house.

“Thank you, no,” he replied; “if anything happened to the boy, I could never look his mother in the face again.”

“Nonsense!” retorted Maxwell, “nothing can or will happen; he was only afraid of the mare; and if she should make a mess of it, without saddle or stirrups he is safe enough. Come along; he will take the fence anyhow now, and you may as well be there to see fair play.”

In his heart Geoffry Pryor wanted to see that leap taken; he wished to know if the boy would flinch—if his heart would fail.

This problem of weakness and strength, of timidity and courage, interested him immensely; and accordingly he suffered himself to be persuaded, and walked down with Maxwell to the field, where Harold was already cantering the mare up and down to quiet her for the leap.

I wish I could bring that summer scene before you, my reader, as Geoffry Pryor often recalled it to himself when he was back in London hard at work among his briefs.

There was the smooth, soft turf; there was the calm blue bay; there was the village of Eversbeg and the evening sun shining down upon it; there were the fast-growing trees Maxwell had planted, standing still and quiet in the rich, warm light; there was the house, covered with climbers and creepers, with ivy and honeysuckle, with roses and myrtles; there were the gardens, well sheltered from the north and east; and for foreground there was the hedge and ditch, over which Master Harold Drewitt purposed taking his new possession.

“Had not you better think twice about it, Harold?” asked Mr. Pryor, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder.

“We Irish,” said the lad, “leap twice before we think once,” and he flung himself out of the saddle and began to unbuckle the girths.

“Bring a cloth,” Maxwell ordered; but Harold said, “No, I would rather have her without. Never mind, Dickson.”

Then he took off his coat and waistcoat, and tossed his cap down beside them.

“Give me a hand, Max,” he said, and next minute was on Madcap’s back.

“Now, madam, show your breeding,” and he went at the leap full swing.

Anything more perfect than the boy’s riding Mr. Pryor had never seen. He sat that horse as though he were part of her, and yet there was no stiffness, no tightening of the bridle, no gripping of her sides with his knees: as easily as a bird on the wing goes through the air Harold flew past on Madcap; and as he neared the leap, Mr. Pryor involuntarily held his breath.

“Damn her!” said Maxwell Drewitt, heartily, for the mare refused the fence.

Once again Harold put her at it, and once again she swerved.

“Give me your whip, Max,” he cried, while Mr. Pryor implored him to give in.

“We see what you can do,” he went on, “and we will take what she can do for granted.”

“I must take her over now,” Harold answered.

“Why must you?” asked Mr. Pryor; but the boy was out of hearing.

“Because she would never be worth a curse again if he let her master him once,” Maxwell explained.

On they came for the third time, the sun shining on the chesnut’s glossy coat, and Harold’s black hair streaming in the wind caused by his own rapid passage through the air. On they came, the mare with her nostrils distended—with her eyes like fire—with her tail straight out behind her—with her hoofs, as she bounded along, scarcely touching the grass—the boy riding lightly and easily as ever, with his left hand low on her neck, with his right hand resting on his thigh, while he swept past the spectators. Then all in a moment he tightened his rein, struck her smartly with his feet, gave her one blow with the whip, and lifted her to the leap. The creature rose so high that Mr. Pryor thought she never could come down again; and as she rose she went, it seemed to him, straight through the air as though she were flying. Her forefeet were doubled under her, her hind quarters were stretched out almost on a level with her body, and she lighted on the grass on the other side the hedge as safely as though she had been a greyhound.

“I would not see that done again for fifty pounds,” exclaimed Mr. Pryor, while they walked into the next field, where Harold, dismounted already, was standing beside the mare.

“Bravo!” said Maxwell, clapping the boy on the back; “but you took too much out of her, less height would have done.”

“Just try to leap it yourself,” retorted the boy, and Mr. Pryor noticed that both horse and rider were reeking—that the mare was wet and trembling, and that the perspiration was standing in beads on Harold’s forehead.

“Will you take her back over it now?” asked Maxwell, but the lad answered—

“No, thank you. I never felt afraid before, and I never want to feel afraid again.”

He slipped his arm through the bridle, and walked Madcap half a dozen yards from the hedge, when he tossed the reins towards Mr. Waller.

“Take her quick,” he said, and before any one could reach him he threw up his hands in the air as if to steady himself, and fell all in a heap on the ground.

“He has more spirit than strength,” remarked Maxwell philosophically, but he knelt down, and, not without some show of tenderness, lifted the boy’s head and bade one of his men run in and get some whiskey.

“He will never make old bones,” added the owner of the Headlands, and there was something in his words and the way he spoke them that astonished Mr. Pryor.

“Is he fond of the lad?” thought the barrister, and he looked curiously at his host, who was still kneeling on the sward, and holding Harold’s head against his breast. “Is he really fond of the lad?” but there was nothing in Maxwell Drewitt’s expression to favour such a supposition.

He was looking out over the sea, as if he saw something of which Mr. Pryor knew nothing standing out against the horizon. And with his mind’s eye he did see something—Harold’s double—his own son.