Glorious! The brown horse went too fast at that first fence and Winton called back: "Steady, Gyp! Steady him!" But she couldn't;and it didn't matter. Grass, three fields of grass! Oh, what a lovely fox--going so straight! And each time the brown horse rose, she thought: "Perfect! I CAN ride! Oh, I am happy!" And she hoped her father and the young man were looking. There was no feeling in the world like this, with a leader like Dad, hounds moving free, good going, and the field distanced. Better than dancing; better--yes, better than listening to music. If one could spend one's life galloping, sailing over fences; if it would never stop! The new horse was a darling, though he DID pull.
She crossed the next fence level with the young man, whose low chestnut mare moved with a stealthy action. His hat was crammed down now, and his face very determined, but his lips still had something of that smile. Gyp thought: "He's got a good seat--very strong, only he looks like 'thrusting.' Nobody rides like Dad--so beautifully quiet!" Indeed, Winton's seat on a horse was perfection, all done with such a minimum expenditure. The hounds swung round in a curve. Now she was with them, really with them!
What a pace--cracking! No fox could stand this long!
And suddenly she caught sight of him, barely a field ahead, scurrying desperately, brush down; and the thought flashed through her: 'Oh! don't let's catch you. Go on, fox; go on! Get away!'
Were they really all after that little hunted red thing--a hundred great creatures, horses and men and women and dogs, and only that one little fox! But then came another fence, and quickly another, and she lost feelings of shame and pity in the exultation of flying over them. A minute later the fox went to earth within a few hundred yards of the leading hound, and she was glad. She had been in at deaths before--horrid! But it had been a lovely gallop.
And, breathless, smiling rapturously, she wondered whether she could mop her face before the field came up, without that young man noticing.
She could see him talking to her father, and taking out a wisp of a handkerchief that smelled of cyclamen, she had a good scrub round.
When she rode up, the young man raised his hat, and looking full at her said: "You did go!" His voice, rather high-pitched, had in it a spice of pleasant laziness. Gyp made him an ironical little bow, and murmured: "My new horse, you mean." He broke again into that irrepressible smile, but, all the same, she knew that he admired her. And she kept thinking: 'Where HAVE I seen someone like him?'
They had two more runs, but nothing like that first gallop. Nor did she again see the young man, whose name--it seemed--was Summerhay, son of a certain Lady Summerhay at Widrington, ten miles from Mildenham.
All that long, silent jog home with Winton in fading daylight, she felt very happy--saturated with air and elation. The trees and fields, the hay-stacks, gates, and ponds beside the lanes grew dim;lights came up in the cottage windows; the air smelled sweet of wood smoke. And, for the first time all day, she thought of Fiorsen, thought of him almost longingly. If he could be there in the cosy old drawing-room, to play to her while she lay back--drowsing, dreaming by the fire in the scent of burning cedar logs--the Mozart minuet, or that little heart-catching tune of Poise, played the first time she heard him, or a dozen other of the things he played unaccompanied! That would be the most lovely ending to this lovely day. Just the glow and warmth wanting, to make all perfect--the glow and warmth of music and adoration!
And touching the mare with her heel, she sighed. To indulge fancies about music and Fiorsen was safe here, far away from him;she even thought she would not mind if he were to behave again as he had under the birch-trees in the rain at Wiesbaden. It was so good to be adored. Her old mare, ridden now six years, began the series of contented snuffles that signified she smelt home. Here was the last turn, and the loom of the short beech-tree avenue to the house--the old manor-house, comfortable, roomy, rather dark, with wide shallow stairs. Ah, she was tired; and it was drizzling now. She would be nicely stiff to-morrow. In the light coming from the open door she saw Markey standing; and while fishing from her pocket the usual lumps of sugar, heard him say: "Mr. Fiorsen, sir--gentleman from Wiesbaden--to see you."Her heart thumped. What did this mean? Why had he come? How had he dared? How could he have been so treacherous to her? Ah, but he was ignorant, of course, that she had not told her father. Averitable judgment on her! She ran straight in and up the stairs.
The voice of Betty, "Your bath's ready, Miss Gyp," roused her. And crying, "Oh, Betty darling, bring me up my tea!" she ran into the bathroom. She was safe there; and in the delicious heat of the bath faced the situation better.
There could be only one meaning. He had come to ask for her. And, suddenly, she took comfort. Better so; there would be no more secrecy from Dad! And he would stand between her and Fiorsen if--if she decided not to marry him. The thought staggered her. Had she, without knowing it, got so far as this? Yes, and further. It was all no good; Fiorsen would never accept refusal, even if she gave it! But, did she want to refuse?
She loved hot baths, but had never stayed in one so long. Life was so easy there, and so difficult outside. Betty's knock forced her to get out at last, and let her in with tea and the message. Would Miss Gyp please to go down when she was ready?
VI
