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THE STRAYINGS OF SANDY 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 
 https://archive.org/details/strayingsofsandyOOcony 
 
 
The 
 
 Strayings of Sandy 
 
 BY 
 
 D. CONYERS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 ** THE BOY, SOME HORSES, AND A GIRL,” “PETER’S PEDIGREE,” “ THIS 
 THORN SIT,” “ CLOTH VerSUS SILK,” ETC* 
 
 SE VENTH EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 HUTCHINSON & CO. 
 
 PATERNOSTER ROW 
 
 1908 
 

 
 
 
 l 
 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAtfB 
 
 t HOW THE HEALTH OF MR. ACLAND REQUIRED 
 
 CONSIDERATION - - - - $ 
 
 II HOW THE REST-CURE PROGRESSED - - 1 8 
 
 III HOW RACING MAY NOT PROVE EXCITING - 30 
 
 IV THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SECOND CURE - 41 
 
 V AT BALLYMACSHANE CASTLE - - - 59 
 
 VI HOW A LAW-ABIDING BRITISH SUBJECT FOUND 
 
 HIMSELF INVOLVED IN STRANGE AFFAIRS - 72 
 
 VII TELLING OF THE WILD WEST COAST - - 97 
 
 VIII TELLING FURTHER OF THE COAST - 114 
 
 IX WHICH TELLS OF BUYING HORSES - - 143 
 
 X A WALK BY A LAKE AND AN UNDOUBTED THEFT 1 56 
 
 XI A FIRST DAY’S HUNTING - - - - 170 
 
 XII OF FURTHER FOX-CHASING AND DIVERS DOINGS 196 
 
 XIII OF SOME JEWELS AND A JACKDAW - - 217 
 
 XIV HOW ACLAND SAW AN OLD HOME AND WENT 
 
 TO A TEA-PARTY ■ 238 
 
 XV A FOG AND A MOON - 256 
 
 XVI HOW THE LAW WAS DEFIED - - 27 1 
 
 XVII TELLING OF A HUNT AND A MISTAKE - - 289 
 
 XVIII HOW SANDY MADE A GRAVE MISTAKE - - 297 
 
 XIX CONCERNING VARIOUS MATCHES - * 306 
 
 XX OF GRATITUDE AND OTHER THINGS - “321 
 
 XXI OF RUIN AND ITS EFFECT - » 341 
 
 XXII OF THE END OF THE CURE , » - 355 
 
THE STRAYINGS OF SANDY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 HOW THE HEALTH OF MR. ACLAND REQUIRED 
 CONSIDERATION 
 
 d< He eats — he has indigestion ; 
 
 He toils, and he may not stop.” 
 
 —Kipling. 
 
 Alexander Acland dabbed a tiny cut on his chin 
 with a piece of cotton-wool, looked at his reflection 
 in the glass, and sighed deeply. The reflecting 
 surface was unshaded and uncompromising ; it 
 returned an image clearly outlined by the searching 
 rays of a June sun. It was a man’s room ; no soft 
 muslin curtains, tinted blinds, and swathed frame 
 to soften the lines on the face which the mirror 
 duplicated. 
 
 Acland stared and sighed again, a sharp breath 
 of unrest and discontent. He looked ill ; his glass 
 said so, refusing denial. His cheeks were flabby 
 and leaden ; his blue eyes deeply sunken ; his 
 chins were doubling; there was too much fat on 
 his short, round figure; the lines below his waist 
 were convex. 
 
6 t£be Strasfnas ot SanDs 
 
 Acland was a neat man. He sighed again as he 
 manipulated the buttons of his waistcoat and noted 
 the strained wrinkles edging away from the button- 
 holes. He was weighed down by a sense of depres- 
 sion and lassitude ; by a hatred of the bright sun, 
 the cloudless sky ; by an inexplicable feeling which 
 created a weary animal desire to creep into some 
 corner, close his eyes, and rest for ever. 
 
 His daily round of business, his breakfast and 
 lunch and dinner, loomed before him as so many 
 demons, poking red-hot forks of unbearable routine 
 into his brain. 
 
 “ Phillips,” he called crossly. 
 
 “ Sir.” Phillips, after the manner of his kind, 
 appeared instantly and noiselessly. “ Sir,” said 
 Phillips, standing attentively. 
 
 “ Phillips,” said Acland querulously, “ look at 
 this suit.” Business man though he was, he per- 
 mitted himself the luxury of flannels before 
 luncheon. “ I really believe, Phillips, that Hart’s 
 eight-guinea suits were better value. This ” — he 
 
 pulled at the wrinkled waistcoat — “ this is losing 
 shape — disgracefully.” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir ! ” said Phillips, gently bored. 
 
 Breakfast just ready, sir.” 
 
 Acland took out a pencil, jotting down calculations. 
 
 “At the difference of a guinea how much extra 
 wear would repay. If a suit at eight-guineas 
 wears—” 
 
 Phillips could not say. A time-honoured catch 
 concerning a herring and a half for three half-pence 
 would obtrude itself, but was not advanceable. But 
 he certainly declared in favour of the eight-guinea 
 suits, as most suitable for a gentleman (they came 
 on to him). 
 
t)ealtb of fIDt\ Hcianb 
 
 7 
 
 Phillips.” Acland dropped the pencil. One 
 guinea — minus wear — would not work out. 
 “ Phillips, do I . . . look . . . very ill ? ” 
 
 Phillips ceased to be a valet and became human. 
 
 “ Well, you do, sir,” he said gently, watching his 
 master. 
 
 “ I feel . . . hanged . . . ill,” said Acland unhappily, 
 putting a pearl pin into his tie and going into his 
 dining-room. 
 
 Late June blazed in London; heavy sunshine 
 pouring down on wooden pavements and close 
 streets ; on dull, green trees. The window was open 
 — hot reek of baked wood, melting asphalte, and the 
 roar of Piccadilly drifted in across the boxes of 
 glaring geraniums and white marguerites. 
 
 Acland sniffed it with distaste, as he sat down to 
 breakfast — kidneys perched, plumply red, on toast ; 
 cold ham, a mushroom omelette ; white poached 
 eggs nestling in a nest of crisp bacon ; dark, clear 
 coffee ; a jug of cream ; half-a-dozen sauces. The 
 man ate languidly, from custom rather than desire, 
 smearing ham and kidneys with pepper and mustard, 
 soaking them in pungent sauce ; to get up after a 
 second cup of strong coffee unrefreshed and 
 wretched. Then, sighing again, he left his shady 
 room and passed down his quiet street ints 
 Piccadilly. 
 
 The glare and noise made him sick and dizzy. 
 He stood peevishly impatient, waiting for his 'bus, 
 the driver of which, knowing him, pulled close to the 
 pavement. As a rule, Acland enjoyed his drive ; but 
 to-day he sat with strained nerves, bating two girls 
 who called the day glorious ; he even forgot to get 
 off, and had to pay an extra penny, which savoured 
 of madness. Then he crawled back to his office, 
 
8 Ube StragttQs of Sanbg 
 
 endeavouring to care whether stocks rose or fell* 
 but it was all flat, hopeless, with a distaste of life 
 and a head like lighted lead ; so, having boxed the 
 office boy's ears, and called Mr. Jones, his head clerk, 
 several kinds of idiots, he went down and got into a 
 hansom, too weary to risk a 'bus. 
 
 “ 309 Harley Street,” he snapped out. 
 
 Now if Acland had gone as a stranger to the 
 specialist he drove to, Dr. Grattan would have looked 
 grave, prescribed Homburg, and Acland would 
 probably have died within a year or two; ending 
 his life's story instead of commencing it. As it 
 was, they had been at college together, and Grattan 
 had been best man at Acland's strange wedding. 
 So the sick man drove now to him, sighing still, 
 but more softly, as he was not thinking of himself. 
 
 Dr. Grattan was in, and would see him. Acland 
 shivered as he walked into the sombre room ; 
 doctors never take us cheerily ; then he assured 
 himself that he was merely bilious, and told his 
 friend so querulously. 
 
 “ A little quinine— bromide — I want some simple 
 stuff.” 
 
 Grattan listened quietly, he removed the flannel 
 coat ; tapped and poked and listened ; smote 
 Acland's fat chest with palpable disdain, and came 
 again to his left side, listening through strange black 
 instruments. 
 
 “ Bromides — quinine — I'm sorry, Alex,” he said ; 
 “ but you're in a thundering bad way.” 
 
 Acland sat down suddenly, one arm in his coat. 
 
 “ You've just come in time. Routine; money- 
 making ; pence-saving ; under-exercise and over- 
 eating. I know you. That's done it. Breakfast- 
 good coffee, ham, eggs, kidneys, mustard, sauces.’’ 
 
Dealtb of flDr. SclanO 
 
 9 
 
 Acland thought this savoured of magic. “Whisky 
 and soda, or port, at twelve ; lunch at the old place ; 
 steak, chop, pint of bitter ; sweet ; the stilton ; cup 
 of coffee, glass of port ; walk back to office, worry 
 over money. Go home, change, tea at club, walk 
 in Park, or Bridge — you’re a shocking player — 
 Good dinner, more Bridge ; supper. A man in hard 
 work might do all that, but your daily toddle won’t 
 suffice. Your brain’s strained ; your tummy’s 
 strained ; your heart’s giving it up, but — there’s a 
 hope for you.” 
 
 “ Homburg ? ” said Acland, now very white. 
 
 “Not at all ; it would merely bore you. Rest . . . 
 common-sense ... an interest in life . . . live in 
 the open air . . . take up a hobby. . . . Race — 
 shoot — hunt — yacht . . . you get sea-sick — couldn’t 
 do better. Leave business for a year. You’ve heaps 
 of money. Alex, take my advice — or — ” His face 
 grew gentle again. 
 
 Acland remarked slowly that he couldn’t see his 
 way to affording it. 
 
 Grattan almost brutally returned that in that 
 case Acland’s living would cost nothing. “I give 
 you eighteen months,’’ he said, “and I never heard 
 of a chap who could take his money with him. 
 One’s dead a long time, Alex, and destination is 
 uncertain.” 
 
 Acland frowned. He never missed church; even 
 taking a cab on wet days. He said so ; he grumbled ; 
 but remained to lunch, and took notes of the 
 physician’s directions. Money was sweet, but life 
 sweeter ; he knew he could afford the holiday. 
 
 The sun blazed as he drove away ; afraid now of 
 the odd flutter in his left side, which he had put 
 down to indigestion; afraid of the sudden baring 
 
fO 
 
 Uhc Strapinss of Sanbg 
 
 of Death’s teeth. . . . The advice was sound, but 
 •vhat was he to do? Shoot? — they would have to 
 drive fat geese for him. Hunt? race? What hobby 
 could he take up and fling his heart into ? He went 
 into his club. The Daily Mail fell open at the 
 Racing News; eager men behind him were studying 
 the tape, watching for a result. It came ; he heard a 
 jubilant outcry as they went off. 
 
 Racing? Here was a hobby where expenses 
 might be saved and great interest aroused. If a 
 horse won, apparently the owner received a certain 
 sum of money ; if it did not, you tried again. There 
 would be unlimited fresh air ; and, given a satisfactory 
 race-horse, no expenditure. 
 
 Acland laid the paper upon his knee, and Dame 
 Chance set down beside him Captain Partridge, 
 a prominent racing man and a slight acquaintance. 
 
 “ Partridge,” Acland hemmed diffidently. “ Part- 
 ridge, would you tell me how one buys a race- 
 horse ? ” 
 
 “ With a cheque,” observed Partridge, with 
 unkindly brevity. 
 
 “But this is important” Acland ignored the 
 snub, and tapped the Daily Mail “ I want one, you 
 see, as a rest-cure.” 
 
 “ What ? ” said Captain Partridge. “ What ! ! ” 
 
 “ Yes ; as a rest-cure. I am told that I am very ill. 
 If you could help me. . . . Forgive me . . .” 
 
 He plunged into hurried explanations of his case, 
 giving a full account of his breakdown, his ailments, 
 and his prospective cure. Surely a race-horse, a 
 satisfactory race-horse of one’s own, would provide 
 interest, amusement, and possible profit. Partridge 
 listened : he was kindly at heart, and he looked 
 at the city man’s sunken eyes and leaden cheeks 
 
tjealtb of ®t% Hclano 
 
 ii 
 
 with quick observance; hiding his smiles at this 
 new method of taking up the turf. 
 
 “And having bought the horse,” he inquired 
 mildly ; “ did Acland propose keeping it in his flat, 
 or in a tool-shed as Jaberjee’s Derby mare, with 
 exercise in the Park as training?” 
 
 He was sorry for his sarcasm when he saw the 
 little man’s disturbed face : these were details which 
 he was unable to cope with. 
 
 Partridge drummed his fingers on his knees. If 
 Acland really wanted to race, he might help him. 
 There was, he explained, the alternative of leasing a 
 horse, instead of buying it outright, and he could do 
 that for him. It came to the same thing without 
 the trouble. He could give him Crimson Rambler, 
 a useful handicap horse, with a tube in. “ He’s 
 won twice this year,” said the gentleman trainer. 
 “ I keep him, you see, and I can let you rny cottage 
 close to the stables, so that .you can take all the 
 interest you choose in him. See the other horses; 
 race as much as you like.” 
 
 The vision defined itself rosily ... it was clearly 
 fate : the path to racing was smoothed to him ; 
 he could be cured forthwith in this country cottage, 
 where he pictured rose-hung walls and a shady 
 garden. . . . Acland’s eyes grew bright, but habitual 
 caution advised questions. 
 
 “ It sounds very nice, and you are exceedingly 
 kind, Partridge,” he said. “ But,” he opened a 
 note-book, “ as a business man I should like to know 
 the approximate cost . . . why he, the animal, is 
 called the Crimson Rambler . . . and when he wears 
 a tube? ” 
 
 A spasm flickered over Captain Partridge’s face 
 as he replied that the horse was by Fiery Dawn out 
 
12 
 
 Uhc ©tracings of Sand® 
 
 of Runaway, and that he made a noise ... he 
 would win a few races.” 
 
 Acland patted his double chin ; this was far better 
 than the pursuit of yapping dogs and fleeing fox. 
 The keen air on the Downs, the watching of the 
 horses, the interest and quiet ; it was all he wanted 
 The shadow of death jogged his elbow, disturbing 
 lifelong economy. Almost before he was aware of 
 it — having been assured the horse would win a race — • 
 he had signed a short paper, setting forth that the 
 horse, Crimson Rambler, five years, by Fiery Dawn 
 e . . Runaway . . . was leased to him for the term of 
 one year, he to receive three-fourth of stakes and pay 
 all expenses. Having signed this and a cheque, he 
 arranged to go to Croxton on the following Friday 
 and see his new steed ; the cottage would be ready 
 for him. 
 
 “ I am really much obliged to you for smoothing 
 my path,” said Acland precisely, as he said 
 good-bye. 
 
 His light luncheon and plain tea had made him 
 feel better. He turned cheerfully in at Stanhope gate, 
 to walk up and down, already contemplating the 
 delights of winning races ; also the air of the Downs, 
 the rose-embowered cottage, the garden, the country 
 fruit and cream. . . . 
 
 What Eric Pritchard, who had listened open- 
 mouthed, said to his partner Partridge was this. 
 
 “ Has the old skin got a good race in him, Birdie ? 
 Whisky and soda, James, I want one, listening to 
 that little man. Will the Rambler bring him home 
 . . . eh ? . . .” 
 
 “Later on he undoubtedly will,” said Partridge 
 placidly. “ For the present, rest and quiet will suit 
 Mr. Acland’s health , . ” 
 
Dealtb of /Dr, Hclant> 13 
 
 Then he too had a drink, and allowed his 
 repressed merriment place. 
 
 Acland, carefully placing prospective winnings 
 against the expenses of the trip, finished his Park 
 toddle, told all his friends of his sad state of health, 
 and went back to his rooms, where he found several 
 letters awaiting him. One, carrying two halfpenny 
 stamps, put on upside-down, bore the postmark of 
 Ballymacshane. He took it up first, and opened it 
 slowly, with thoughtful eyes. Twice every year, 
 at Christmas and in June, his late wife’s second 
 cousin wrote to him, and he answered. Long letters 
 from Ireland ; short responses from England, but 
 recalling the days of his one brief romance. He 
 sat down now, looking at the blotted sheets, seeing 
 it all again. 
 
 It was June then too; he was a busy little man, 
 starting life ; his type-writing girl falling ill, he had 
 sent for another, and dictated letters to her, scarcely 
 looking at her. Then as he finished and took the 
 letters to look over, this new girl had handed him 
 a bundle of errors which made him gasp with 
 astonishment. Misplaced letters ; lack of stops ; 
 every error the novice knows. 
 
 “ I hope they are right,” she said. 
 
 Sharp remonstrance ; surprise at such grave in- 
 competence; a tirade, checked by an audible sniff 
 from the typist ... a slender maiden with chestnut 
 hair, deep-coloured eyes, and a mouth which would 
 laugh. It laughed now, mocking, brimming eyes ; 
 while she talked almost defiantly. “ He had dictated 
 so fast, she wanted time . . .” She suddenly dropped 
 her haughty head and sobbed aloud. Sympathy 
 
14 XTbe 5tra£itt0S ot 5ant>£ 
 
 was imperative: he was not a brute, tears were mopped 
 up with a white silk handkerchief, and the whole story 
 was poured out, losing a business morning. She 
 was Irish, a Miss Blundell : had run away from 
 difficulties at home to cut her way to fortune through 
 this great, cruel London. Had taken up this work, 
 and, after weeks of weary waiting, this chance to 
 come to his office had been given her. Now she 
 knew she had failed. She was not fit for work for 
 months. Kathleen Blundell rose bravely; but love 
 pranced on the hard, white keys and the little 
 romance began. The letters were recopied— she 
 came again ; working laboriously. The little man, 
 young then, found out how she had run away from an 
 importunate suitor ; flying so that her mother’s en- 
 treaties should not break her resolution down. How 
 she had struggled and hoped, and never dreamt of 
 going back, or acknowledging failure. Acland lost 
 his heart — he asked her to marry him and she 
 accepted him, liking him. But — here the tragedy 
 crept in : he did not dream of real poverty. He 
 waited for holiday-time for his wedding. Hot July 
 dragged on ; he, blind fool ! never asked her how she 
 lived, saw her soft skin grow more transparent, her 
 grey eyes bigger, and never thought of the Irish 
 pride which would not let her tell him or her people 
 that she starved. She always met him with a smile, 
 was always gay and brave, but suddenly, after a 
 long walk homewards, a tea-less afternoon, because 
 Acland had an appointment, she failed. Three days 
 later she was dead. She bade him a smiling good- 
 bye and went dinnerless to bed, never to get up 
 again. He could recall Grattan’s words as the young 
 doctor bent over her : 
 
 “ Starved to death” he said. “ Were you blind, 
 
iDeaitD of ®t\ Bciand is 
 
 Alex, not to see it ? No breakfast, no dinner ; dry 
 bread for lunch.” 
 
 But Kathleen laughed from her pillows ; imperious 
 to the last, defying death. She would have her way 
 —carry out her triumph ; write home to say she was 
 married and happy. Romance played a strange 
 game with this little man. His wedding was at a 
 death-bed ; bitter remorse his real bride. Her last 
 thoughts were for Ireland ; she whispered of it, 
 shaking her head at the nourishment she could 
 not take. Of her people, of Ballymacshane Castle 
 . . . Alex must write to Standish Blundell for her 
 photograph, taken on old Chieftan. 
 
 The wires were sent off, announcing her happiness ; 
 she talked of the future, declaring she must get well, 
 and was dead before nightfall ; starved where a word 
 would have saved her. 
 
 Acland buried his romance : living to turn himself 
 into a niggardly business machine ; but he wrote 
 for the photograph to Blundell, and the strange 
 friendship commenced. 
 
 Blundell replied in four blotted pages, lamenting 
 Kathleen, reviling one Sir Edmund Graves, who 
 pursued her till she fled. “ She would take her own 
 way and make her own way, she said, and was off 
 by the mail, third class, too, God help us ! And 
 never a word home till three days ago to say she was 
 married and happy — -the black retriever bit the 
 telegraph boy in the leg— I was at her place — and 
 now that she’s dead — I’ve a chestnut filly called 
 Kathleen, and Tom's daughter is after calling one 
 of the new setter pups Katty, and ’tis little we can 
 do now.” The letter finished by asking Acland over, 
 and was laid carefully away— docketed and numbered. 
 
 Christmas brought a turkey and five dozen eggs,— ^ 
 
1 6 XEbe Straff tigs of San&g 
 
 principally broken, — and so the correspondence went 
 on. 
 
 Opening this summer letter, Acland wondered 
 why he had not thought of Ireland, and of buying 
 a race-horse over there. Standish as usual filled four 
 untidy pages. He said the hay was saving and the 
 calves were up in price. He pressed the usual invita- 
 tion, setting forth that there was always a room and 
 a welcome. Why not come in winter ; he had a 
 whistling mare that couldn't fall. Did Alexandef 
 know of any fellow who wanted a pair to drive in 
 the Park, browns, sixteen hands, like as two peas, 
 except that one was a trifle higher than the other, 
 and a bit darker colour too, but you couldn’t have 
 everything. And if you didn't chance to meet a 
 motor you couldn’t stir them in the shafts. 
 
 Acland read without comprehension — he never 
 tried to pass on these equine paragons — but he wrote 
 now telling of all his ills, saying he was sorry he had 
 not tried Ireland, but setting forth the economy to a 
 poor man of leasing a Crimson Rambler which would 
 clear the expenses of the cure, especially as the 
 animal's rent had not been exorbitant. 
 
 He then weighed the letter with care, and called 
 Phillips, another person to be told. Phillips listened 
 with well-trained interest. Salestown Downs did 
 not appeal to him, but he preserved a semblance of 
 cheeriness and inquired as to domestic arrange- 
 ments : especially about a cook. This came with a 
 jar of actuality. Somehow Acland, accustomed to 
 London, had pictured the cottage complete — but 
 Phillips knew of a lady who could come at once. 
 
 “ I have rented an excellent animal, Phillips, one 
 which has already secured several races this year. 
 Extremely exciting and interesting, the pursuit of 
 
Ifoealtb of /DM% HcIanO 
 
 17 
 
 racing, Phillips, and remunerative. I perceive in this 
 paper horses entered for a race, value ^1,000. Take 
 this, Phillips,” and he handed the letter. 
 
 “ Certainly, sir. I have heard of race-horses as 
 , . . interesting, sir,” said Phillips woodenly. 
 
 He stood at the door in the gentle coolness, 
 looking down at seething Piccadilly. 
 
 “ The Croxton Stable,” he said, “ what waits 
 months for a ‘ coop.’ The old Rambler . . . top 
 weight in his races — leased to the master. Crums ! ” 
 Here he dropped the letter in the box and did not 
 know it was heavy with fate. 
 
 ) 
 
 d 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 HOW THE REST-CURE PROGRESSED 
 
 u Rest, traveller, rest . . . 
 
 Far from the haunts of men.” 
 
 —Wordsworth. 
 
 Acland was swept along on a wave of sudden 
 happenings. He had a long interview with his head 
 clerk, and only remembered as he walked by way of 
 Leicester Square to his club that Mr. Jones, instead 
 of appearing agitated by his prospective loss, had 
 assured Acland that it would make no difference to 
 him — a mere increase of answering letters. 
 
 The little man spun suddenly as this smote home: 
 he all but raised his umbrella to hail a hansom and 
 fly back to speak to Jones; but vacillating, jabbed 
 an unoffending old lady on the nose, and over- 
 whelmed by her remonstrances, walked on, deciding 
 it was merely his head clerk's stupidity. 
 
 Captain Partridge was a man of action; he said 
 the cottage was empty, the fresh air and the Crimson 
 Rambler ready, and he would meet Acland at early 
 exercise on Friday morning — so that he could see 
 the horse and commence the cure immediately. 
 
 He glanced away from direct questionings con- 
 cerning the exact amount which Crimson Rambler 
 would produce; and could not be pinned down to 
 naming the races the handicap horse was to win, 
 
 18 
 
19 
 
 Uow tbe fftestalure f»i , o0resse& 
 
 Instead, he would branch off into abstruse discus- 
 sions, which so puzzled Acland, that he forgot his 
 determination to know what sums of money he 
 was certain of, because he wished to write it down. 
 He scarcely seemed to have interviewed Grattan and 
 learned that he was really ill, before he found himself 
 landlord of a race-horse and a cottage ; and arrived 
 at Waterloo with a great deal of luggage, Phillips, 
 a new cook, and a bewildered mind. 
 
 June suns can sulk: yesterday a chill wind had 
 raised dust-swirls in the suburbs ; to-day it carried a 
 thin rain, churning up black mud on the pavements ; 
 blurring the glass as the train moved off to slip past 
 that grim sign of “ Necrop Start,” which reminds the 
 thoughtful traveller that one day he will commence 
 a journey which has no ending. 
 
 A ticket taken to an unknown destination, with 
 wave of farewell and sound of weeping on the dark 
 platform ; but the train which would bear him then 
 knew no way back. 
 
 As Acland saw the sign through rain-dimmed 
 panes he shivered, suddenly remembering that 
 this was no mere pleasure-trip, but a fight to the 
 finish with the Lord of all cemeteries. If the rest- 
 cure should fail? If his heart continued to flutter; 
 his head to ache: he might soon come that way 
 again, a still, silent passenger, to lie by Kathleen’s 
 side in the garden-like churchyard. 
 
 “Chtl” he said, opening a paper. “They ought 
 to keep that hang sign out of sight.” Having made 
 the remark to an empty carriage, and received no 
 response, he skimmed the paper, observing with a 
 consciousness of good omen that the Croxton Stable 
 had won two races, and then became absorbed by 
 a yellow-covered racing novel, in which the hero 
 
20 Zfte Stra^ngs of San&g 
 
 always owned some magnificent rat:e-horse, which was 
 unfairly drugged or pulled so as to prolong the interest, 
 and stir up rancour against the villain (who was always 
 a gentleman). And then eventually, the hero would 
 with this animal win the Ledger and the Duke of 
 York Stakes and a few small prizes. So that the 
 villain, who was always also a book-maker, was 
 ruined, and that the trainer's lovely daughter could 
 wear pink and blue halved in her hat, and rush into 
 the paddock to kiss the apprentice who rode, and 
 who had refused the bribe offered by the villain to 
 pull the horse opposite the stand, with a dread 
 promise of ruining him if he failed to do so. 
 
 It was very often Greek to Acland ; there were 
 niceties of weights and distances which he dwelt on 
 lightly ; but the great stakes delighted him ; he 
 turned to the end where the hero retires with the 
 modest winnings of ^150,000, and smiled. Crimson 
 Rambler, in a lesser way, would do the same for 
 him, and supposing he risked five or ten pounds at 
 ten to one, the percentage would be enormous. 
 
 Acland felt better, hope and change work wonders ; 
 the diet of weak tea and toast had already done him 
 good. The train ran past Fleet, and out into the clear 
 country. He put down the window, and receiving a 
 gust of rain in his face shut it speedily. Fresh air 
 must wait. 
 
 “ Croxton, sir,” said Phillips, opening the carnage 
 door. “ Station-master says the cottage is three 
 miles off, sir, but if it's not away we can get a 
 waggonette at the inn here.” 
 
 Phillips had only just alighted, yet he knew every- 
 thing. Acland got out, chilled and tired ; the wind 
 was colder here, the rain heavier, he occupied a little 
 hooded shelter in company with the cdok, % stern- 
 
21 
 
 tDovv tbe 1Rest>Gure ptoatesseb 
 
 faced lady with a great deal of small luggage, and 
 occupied it ill-humouredly, while Phillips went to 
 reconnoitre. A station without attendant flies had 
 been unforeseen. 
 
 Phillips found the waggonette, and returned trium- 
 phant to undertake the task of packing his master, 
 the cook, and the luggage into it. By the time he 
 had finished, even the portmanteau looked snappish ; 
 but Phillips mounted placidly to the box and bade 
 the man proceed. The driver did so ; down a chalky 
 precipice with a grinding jar of breaks which rasped 
 Acland’s overwrought nerves, and induced the cook 
 to observe “ Lawks ! ” loudly. They passed into a. 
 lane, rose-starred hedges bordering it ; they climbed 
 a hill, Acland and the cook striving painfully with 
 many sliding things, and still mounted, until they 
 turned on to the bleakness of the narrow road ; a 
 mere ribbon crossing the great grass bosom of the 
 Downs, Here the wind rose with nasty triumph, 
 whipping on the rain ; and the only person who 
 could possibly have enjoyed his first glimpse of this 
 new country was Phillips, snugly ensconced behind 
 an umbrella, with Acland’s dressing-case at his feet. 
 
 The road dipped and rose like the sea ; the cook 
 declared aloud that “ them dratted portmanagers had 
 not left a sound bone in her body,” and Acland 
 merely refrained further swearing because he was 
 afraid of his new domestic’s feelings. Then they 
 grated down a last long precipice ; bucked a hog- 
 backed bridge and found themselves in a nest 
 of quaint, tiled houses, a square church tower high 
 among them. Creepers clung to old walls ; the tiled 
 roofs were crimson and gold and grey even in that 
 light ; a small stream bubbled by the roadside. 
 
 Acland looked eagerly for his home; he saw a little 
 
Zhc Straslnga ot Sanoig 
 
 house speaking of comfort, and hoped, but they passed 
 it. They left the village and then stopped, being told 
 to get down and turn up a rough track, and so, on the 
 brow of a rise, they came to the cottage. It was 
 built of grey stone, hard and cold as forced charity, 
 splashes of red marking its doors and windows. It 
 had no garden at front or back. The red door 
 opened plump on to the uncompromising world ; the 
 back on to a maze of rabbit holes. It was scarcely 
 decent, this little house, in its unveiled nakedness ; 
 having the air of perpetually taking a bath without 
 towel of hedge or paling to wrap in as it dried. 
 
 Acland went up the track to the open door ; he 
 possessed an artistic soul, and the iron trap of 
 depression fell heavily on it. The grey, rough stone, 
 the door open to the rough fields, the falling rain and 
 rising wind ; death compassed comfortably seemed 
 a more desirable companion. 
 
 Phillips, after a slight argument, conducted the 
 bruised cook to the back door — he never made social 
 mistakes — where having stumbled into a rabbit hole, 
 her voice could be heard raised bitterly : “ Sitting up 
 like a dook no less while she—” but somehow the 
 voice trailed and died, and the first person to receive 
 a cup of hot tea was certainly Mr. Phillips. He only 
 waited to drink it before bringing some to Acland. 
 The sitting-room was a square well, the window shut, 
 the table-cloth a flowered atrocity, the chairs hard. 
 Acland tried three and raised a weary, drawn face. 
 
 t( Phillips,” he said, “ send a wire — no, a letter, to 
 order my large easy-chair. At once, Phillips.” 
 
 Phillips was human ; he found the post had left, 
 so wired, and charged the eightpence to brown 
 boot-polish. 
 
 Acland perched unhappily. His head ached ; he 
 
23 
 
 Ibow tbe iRestxiure progresses 
 
 was dead tired ; raw cold drifted in through the now 
 opened window ; the lamp smelt ; his breath hung 
 like a fog. He got into his overcoat, longing for the 
 hum of the streets, the jingle of the bells, the stamp 
 of sliding hoofs, the rumble of great ’buses, the purr 
 of motors. 
 
 The rest-cure began badly. Phillips having had 
 his tea and some fresh eggs, came in and made 
 things better. He lent his master his own deck- 
 chair, and a small fire soon dispelled the brooding 
 damp. 
 
 Dinner was not a success. One may be ordered 
 to live simply and yet desire good food. The 
 soup tasted of preserved tin ; the chops had been 
 alive yesterday ; and, judging by their native resis- 
 tance to knife and teeth, were evidently sulking at 
 their conversion from sheep to mutton. In fact, 
 Acland dined lightly off some strawberries, and 
 being weaker than he guessed, crouched over the 
 fire and refused to feel comforted. 
 
 The cook made a mince for Phillips, declaring the 
 “ mutting ” was like iron. 
 
 Acland went to bed, but not to sleep ; the quiet 
 kept him awake. As he tossed and tumbled he 
 found himself straining his ears for some sound to 
 break the silence. Once a cart rumbled on the road 
 — a horse’s footsteps echoed, and through it all, 
 maddeningly sweet, came the clink, clonk of the 
 sheep-bells. They would die to a distant tinkle, 
 and rise again, clink, clonk, distracting the nervous 
 little man. Then he fell into an uneasy sleep, and 
 seemed barely to have closed his eyes when Phillips 
 stood beside him. 
 
 “Five o’clock, sir,” said Phillips. “Just half a 
 mile to walk, sir. Captain Partridge arrived by a 
 
24 Ube Strings or 5att&E 
 
 late train last night, and I’ve made you a cup of tea 
 on a spirit-lamp. No fire, sir ; the cook regrets as 
 how the drat — the stove won't light, and there’s no 
 hot water.” 
 
 The cook, in fact, at that moment was a black 
 reminiscence of a woman, buried to the neck in a 
 subtle and uncompromising flue which appeared to 
 grow soot for the market, so largely did it yield. 
 
 “ She, in fact, says, sir ” — Phillips pinned up the 
 blind, the cord was broken — “ that the last servant 
 here must have been a drat — that is, not strictly 
 cleanly, and unless you’d take a cold bath, sir.” 
 
 “ Hang the cook ! I can’t take a cold bath — doctor’s 
 orders,” said Acland, and upset his tea. “ Hang the 
 cook, and the flue, and you, Phillips ! ” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir. You can just shave with this, sir,” 
 said Phillips pleasantly, proffering the hot water. 
 
 Acland dressed. He made some slight advances 
 on his person with cold water and a sponge, but his 
 clothes felt red - hot and stuffy, his shave was 
 inefficient, and it only needed a vision of a grey 
 and gusty morning to complete his discomfort. 
 
 “ 1 wonder, Phillips,” he said, “ if the sun ever 
 shines here ? ” 
 
 Phillips couldn’t say. He placed his master on 
 the path which led to the stables, but he regretted 
 that he was much too busy to accompany him. 
 The kitchen fire was now alight, and he may have 
 thought of his breakfast. 
 
 Acland walked, quickly for him, up the road, which 
 rose and fell with the regularity of ill-painted billows. 
 The air was raw and cold ; promise of rain in the 
 sullen, red dawning. But exercise warmed his blood, 
 the freshness of the virgin day cleared away his ill- 
 temper. Visions of the Crimson Rambler’s prowess 
 
25 
 
 t>ow tbe iRcst^Cure ptooresseD 
 
 came in rosy and pleasant array. The horse should 
 win races; race upon race, enough to pay for all this 
 extravagance. The fresh air, the going from race- 
 course to race-course, would completely cure him, and 
 he would return to city life not at all the poorer, and 
 strong as ever. 
 
 “ I shall walk more,” he thought ; “ take simpler 
 breakfasts, and, having acquired an interest in it, 
 always go to race meetings. Partridge will always 
 tell me something to bet on, so I shall make my 
 expenses.” Here he came upon the white gate 
 Phillips had told him of, and turned to the right 
 off the road. The avenue was gravelly and tiring ; 
 it was unfortunately so fenced that one had to walk 
 up, and Acland laboured visibly. Half-way up, how- 
 ever, he was hailed, and saw Captain Partridge, 
 unshaven and chilled-looking, beckoning to him from 
 a rise. 
 
 “ Horses out here,” he called ; “ come along ” 
 
 Acland broke into a trot, climbed the paling, got 
 winded and walked again, and going over the short, 
 springy grass, breasted the rise, his heart full of 
 excitement. He was not quite sure what he 
 expected Crimson Rambler to be like; but in the 
 depths of his mind was divided between the picture 
 of Ormonde on the club wall and the fast trotter 
 which Grattan drove in the Park. 
 
 “ Here they all are,” said Partridge ; “ we exercise 
 early.” 
 
 Acland looked, and saw a great many horses pacing 
 in wide circles. Some wore hoods and light rugs, and 
 some did not. Some cantered smartly on a wide track 
 beaten by their own feet ; but there was a sameness 
 and monotony about them which confused him. 
 
 He had come expecting fiery gallops, smacking 
 
*6 zbz Straginss of Sa nfcg 
 
 whips, dripping spurs, and an excitement which was 
 completely lacking. Moreover, where was his horse ? 
 
 “ That’s Vesta,” said Partridge, nodding towards a 
 raking, restless brown. “ He’ll pick up a race or two 
 yet, if they give him a chance. And that’s Cuckoo. 
 Won at Ascot, you may remember; fairly lost his 
 field. And that’s old Killaloe. They’ve smothered 
 him lately, but he’ll win again when he’s at the right 
 weight. And that’s Smoker ; entered for the 
 Cambridge — 7-8.” Here he smiled. 
 
 “ I should like to,” said Acland, uninterested by 
 these stars of the turf— “ to see my animal ; that 
 which I have rented.” 
 
 Partridge whistled. A stumpy little man on a pony 
 came swiftly, hailed a horse bestridden by a stunted 
 boy, and brought him up. 
 
 “This is Crimson Rambler, sir. Good ’orse; pleased 
 to hear you’ve leased him — he’ll do well later on.” 
 
 Acland perceived a very tall, by no means taking, 
 animal. There were certain points about the six- 
 year-old Rambler : deep girth, galloping quarters, 
 clean, strong hocks; but these were for a judge. 
 He was ugly, with a ewe neck and a coarse 
 whistler’s head. 
 
 “He is not — not— very —pretty,” said Acland 
 faintly. 
 
 Partridge admired the Downs. Carson, the trainer, 
 now off his pony, stared. 
 
 “ Rut a good old horse,” said Partridge, his voice 
 uneven. “ Stays and gallops, and is game as a 
 pebble. Isn’t that so, Carson?” 
 
 “Quite so, sir,” said Carson to Acland. “Won at 
 Gatwick, sir. Since then was fourth to King’s 
 Charmer, giving eight pounds, sir, creditable, and 
 we hope, sir . . 
 
2 ? 
 
 tbow the IRcsUCntc ptogreesefc 
 
 Here Partridge whispered, and the head man 
 stopped. Acland made a complete circuit of the 
 Crimson Rambler, narrowly escaping a kick, and 
 came to a horrified stop at his throat. 
 
 “ Good God ! ” he said ; “ it's open. Did he ? Eh ! 
 What ! ” Equine suicide being his first coherent 
 thought. 
 
 Carson, the trainer, said “ Gawd ! ” and leant against 
 the Rambler for support, 
 
 Partridge grunted “ Tube,” still unsteadily. 
 
 “ Makes a noise. Runs next week,” said the trainer, 
 recovering. 
 
 Acland smiled. Windsor was associated with 
 Royalty and a river ; it seemed a fit place to 
 score his first win and acquire that delirious interest 
 in racing which was to cure him. 
 
 “ Very nice,” he said briskly. “I trust a valuable 
 race.” 
 
 Partridge observed that Acland could see the horse 
 each morning, and suggested breakfast. He and 
 Carson, he said, were off North next day, to race 
 on Monday, but they’d be back by Thursday. 
 
 The sporting novels had led Acland to expect 
 rounds of beef and other delicacies dispensed by the 
 trainer’s pretty daughter ; the reality was an invita- 
 tion to walk a mile further to Partridge’s house. 
 Having no bicycle, he declined, and returned to 
 blackly flecked fried eggs and sooty tea. 
 
 Breakfast over, there was the cottage, the rest-cure, 
 and a dun pony with a wheeze, sent for him to ride. 
 The day was grey and dark ; in the distance one 
 could sea the sun, shone, but a dull murk hung over 
 the Downs. It was undoubtedly restful. Acland sat 
 at his door and counted a carrier’s van, two waggons, 
 and a motor all passing in an hour. He slept then ; 
 
28 
 
 ^be 5tra$M03 of Saitbg 
 
 and woke chilly to a modest lunch of chops and no 
 fruit. This over, he walked upon the Downs. Behind 
 the house they dipped to distant woods, in front 
 across the road and up a steep rise they stretched 
 immeasurable. Rise and fall, waves of stone-pocked, 
 coarse grass, dotted with flocks of sheep. Acland took 
 a walk across the grass until the greatness of land and 
 sky bit upon his nerves, and he hurried homewards to 
 his cottage among the rabbit burrows, with some 
 fresh notion of the puniness of mortality, and the 
 greatness of God and Mother - earth, touching his 
 city -dimmed brain. Your city man rules the 
 universe ; he is a great king in his network of 
 smoke-stained bricks and mortar. 'Buses and cabs 
 wait for his hiring ; trains run for him ; shops are 
 built for him ; and if anything offends his dignity he 
 writes to the papers and signs it “ An Aggrieved Tax- 
 payer.” But here, out in this unfenced land, one 
 man was a mere dot on the face of the earth, no 
 bigger than a wandering sheep, and not of so much 
 account ; a stranger might fall and die on those hills 
 and not be found for a month or more. 
 
 So he sat at the door of his cottage and made, to 
 cheer himself, abstruse calculations as to how much 
 he might win over Crimson Rambler. He would 
 have to put some money on the horse as well as his 
 hundred and fifty stakes. The day slipped to 
 evening, and evening to night, and Acland yawned 
 dismally. He missed London ; he missed his club ; 
 he got indigestion after tough mutton - chops, and 
 wished all sheep left alive. Yet he slept soundly, 
 used now to the musical clink, clonk in the sheep* 
 fold, and the soot having disappeared, his hot bath 
 was ready for him next morning. 
 
 But an after-breakfast visit to the stables was not 
 
29 
 
 tDow tbe iRest^Cure pvogresseo 
 
 interesting. Crimson Rambler was a mere vision of 
 a thin rug and thinner legs ; also, he was unsociable, 
 and chased Acland from his stable with bared teeth 
 and laid-back ears. 
 
 Acland felt aggrieved ; the stable-boy was not 
 communicative, and the day was again interminable — 
 an amble on the dun pony occupying the afternoon. 
 The sun shone, and the Downs were fair to see ; but a 
 sick man wears green spectacles, and his stretched 
 nerves quivered until they hurt. The boredom of 
 the big world, the nakedness of the cottage, were 
 more than inert facts ; they were becoming active 
 enemies. As for the sheep, he would almost have 
 paid for a Vickers' Maxim to shoot them with. 
 
 But all things end, and Thursday brought back 
 Captain Partridge and two friends. Acland was 
 even pleased to lose £ 2 at Bridge ; he played 
 indifferently ; he could bear the Downs when others 
 were with him, and his soul yearned for Windsor. 
 “ Except at Ascot I may say I have never been to a 
 race meeting," he observed, as he counted out one 
 sovereign, a half sovereign, and a quantity of small 
 silver ; it felt less like that. “ I feel sure it will be 
 delightful." Partridge, who had been his partner 
 and therefore a saddened man, remarked shortly that 
 to him it was more business than pleasure, and also 
 that why the dickens a chap with every suit guarded 
 should go spades with the score 0-26 was again 
 more than he could fathom. 
 
 “ It is quite exciting to me, the idea of winning a 
 race," went on Acland unheeding. “ Though I wish 
 he had not got that tube in. I should prefer a 
 complete horse — ” He bade them good-night and 
 heard the laughter in the room behind him. “ Cheery 
 souls — racing men — " said Alexander Acland, as he 
 plodded cottagewards. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 HOW RACING MAY NOT PROVE EXCITING 
 
 44 The flag is lowered. 4 They’re off. They come I ' 
 The squadron is sweeping on. 
 
 A sway in the crowd — a murmuring hum : 
 
 4 They’re here. They’re past. They’re gone ! ’ w 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 It is an excellent thing to rise with high hopes in the 
 morning. I have myself observed that to do so 
 courts a day’s disaster, but we have enjoyed the 
 exhilaration of the hopes, and must not grumble. On 
 a still summer’s morning, with the dew on the grass, 
 and the sun coming splendid from a bath of mist, it 
 is hard to realise that we are born to mischance. 
 
 Acland read unceasingly, seated outside his cottage 
 door ; read until he was steeped in the swish of silk, 
 the strained bodies of great horses, the hiss of whale- 
 bone, and bite of steel . . . the glory of rushing down 
 to lead in a winner. Very few of his hero’s horses 
 were engaged in handicaps ; occasionally in spare 
 moments they ran away with such little things as 
 Cambridgeshires and Lincolns, merely when the 
 weather was crisply glorious, and the trainer’s 
 daughter could attend. Acland dreamt of Windsor; 
 he was really bitten by the desire to win. He care- 
 fully noted the stakes against his weekly bills, and 
 finally started by an early train to see his horse run, 
 
 3 © 
 
Dow tracing mas not prove Excitfna 31 
 
 There was no glorious weather, the grey skies 
 massed and sulked and then wept unceasingly ; a 
 plashing, soaking rain. 
 
 The trains were dry and one hoped for amendment. 
 Filled with importance, Acland chattered to everyone 
 he could. He would like to have hung a badge, 
 stamped owner, on his collar. The Crimson Rambler, 
 he told them, to run this time in Captain Partridge’s 
 name, a most excellent animal — oh, yes, it is sure 
 to win. One man shook his head at the weights ; the 
 others, impressed and obliged, wrote “ C. Rambler ” on 
 cuffs and in pocket-books until Acland felt like a 
 public benefactor. Yes, racing was interesting, a 
 thing to live for, thought the little man, if only it 
 would not rain. 
 
 The importance received its first check at the 
 entrance, his assurance of ownership being coldly 
 received, so that he had to pay like some mere mortal 
 to get inside. The Windsor race-course lies low, the 
 sheets of rain were rapidly turning the course into a 
 slough ; the mud in the paddocks clung — Acland 
 found himself wandering, looking with rain-blinded 
 eyes for a friendly face, and finding none. A bell 
 clanged, numbers went up, and he got under cover to 
 see, in a bewildered way, horses come out ; gather 
 huddled at the starting-gate, dash off ; then as shouts 
 rose one came out far in front and cantered leisurely 
 home, the little monkey-like jockey peering back- 
 wards. Strange to say, it was the first race Acland 
 had ever seen, and it was not exciting. He went 
 down into the rain again and lighted on Partridge, 
 positively clinging to him as he asked questions. 
 Captain Partridge was abstracted, he vaguely pointed 
 out the Rambler’s whereabouts ; he said he was afraid 
 of the mud ; but he looked about him mysteriously 
 
32 
 
 T Ihc Strasincts ot Sanbg 
 
 and said a little on his horse — Slingstone — might be 
 a good investment — then he slipped away, vanishing 
 into inner sanctums where outsiders might not 
 penetrate. 
 
 So this was the absorbing pursuit. Acland 
 ploughed up the paddock and saw Crimson 
 Rambler’s hind legs ; he left again, now very wet, 
 looked at his card, and seeing Mr. Hall Vaines’ 
 Silkstones, decided Partridge had made a mistake, and 
 got into the stand. 
 
 It was ten minutes before the crowd of plunging, 
 chilled youngsters were started, and the wave of blurred 
 colour seemed to pour towards him ; he leant for- 
 ward excitedly, the wave broke and opened, the roar 
 rose high, a pink jacket slipped out, getting home 
 comfortably. 
 
 But again it lacked excitement ; until looking at 
 the numbers he saw that Silkstones had won. Acland 
 would have slapped himself, remembering suddenly 
 that of course Partridge was only trainer— the seven 
 sovereigns which he might have won embittered his 
 day. He was wet, cold, hungry, and very lonely ; 
 there seemed no place for him amid these crowds. 
 Then hope revived ; the Crimson Rambler was 
 saddled, and a small wizened youth awaited the ride 
 — Acland stood importantly, getting into most 
 people’s ways. He remarked happily that he would 
 be at the gate to lead him in. 
 
 “Better stay in the stand,” said Carson, adjusting 
 leaded cloths. “Very wet, sir; Rambler doesn’t like 
 mud ” — this in a whisper. 
 
 “ Such an exceedingly long-legged animal should 
 not sink far,” said Acland. “ Is it not, then, what 
 you call — fit — Carson?” 
 
 Carson was getting worried. 
 
t>o\v TRactm map not prove Esenina 33 
 
 As fit as required/’ he said shortly, knowing the 
 horse was reserved for later on. “ What’s that, sir ? 
 You want to know the orders, so as to direct the 
 boy.” And Acland smiled, imbued by sporting 
 novels. 
 
 Carson flung him a heated glance, then looking at 
 Acland’s white face, he relented. 
 
 “Tell him to wait on his horses and come through 
 when he can,” he said, hiding a smile. “ And don’t 
 you listen to a word the foolish blighter says,” he 
 whispered savagely to the boy. 
 
 Acland, having duly buzzed into the jockey’s ear 
 that he was to attend upon the animals and get 
 through when suitable, strode down the paddock, 
 rain forgotten. This was really racing — and owner- 
 ship — Crimson Rambler, with the monkey-like boy 
 perched upon him, was a fine animal. With visible 
 reluctance he extracted five pounds, and was laid 
 £40 to £$ with suspicious promptness. “Twos 
 Playbox. Threes Nabob/’ rose the hoarse cry from 
 the ring. “ Coining,” said Acland, going towards the 
 stand, a betting ticket in his hand. . . . The horses 
 were out; his heart beat quite fast. He watched a 
 blue-and-red jacket and big bay. Now they were 
 off, splashing through the mud ; a white jacket in 
 front ; the Rambler, striding easily, lying fourth. 
 Through rain-blurred glasses he watched — eagerly — 
 now they were round, coming on, whips out — this 
 was a race. The novels did not exaggerate. 
 
 Two horses, Nabob and Playbox, ran out, locked 
 together, stride for stride, amid a mighty wave of 
 sound . . . but where — where was Crimson Rambler? 
 Acland shouted, he waved impotent, entreating hands 
 at the boy ; the big horse was ploughing far behind, 
 apparently hopelessly beaten. The two horses strode 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 XTbe Straginas of 5an&£ 
 
 on neck by neck ; there was a rush, and the lightly 
 weighted Chief squeezed home by a head. 
 
 Not even placed. Acland sat down heavily. That 
 he did so on the lap of a fat old man who said : 
 “ My God ! hang it, sir, Pm not a sofa,” was of no 
 moment to him. He was a deceived and dejected 
 man. 
 
 Outside, in the rain he met Partridge, apparently 
 undisturbed. 
 
 “Didn’t win,” said that worthy, “in that mud. 
 Why, I told you he couldn’t. Of course, you didn’t 
 touch him — a fiver? — oh, that was nothing. — Silk- 
 stones was a nice thing for you. — Don’t look tragic 
 —the Rambler will do you well yet when he’s 
 properly treated. See you Sunday.” 
 
 See him Sunday — his horse had lost — he had 
 doubtless incurred many expenses ; he had flung 
 away five pounds, and no one cared — Carson smiled 
 —Partridge was indifferent — his overstretched nerves 
 were breaking, when he met Phillips and announced 
 his intention of going home. 
 
 “No train till five, sir,” said Phillips happily. “I 
 did that, sir, and also Silkstones — quite a coop. Fine 
 sport, sir.” 
 
 Acland looked round at it — -the dreary, sodden 
 paddock, the groups of drenched men, the complete 
 absence of interest in him — an owner of a race-horse. 
 He was aloof and alone; an unwanted unit in a 
 crowd. 
 
 “ Hang all racing, Phillips,” he said testily. 
 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips cheerily ; “ meet you 
 at the train, sir.” 
 
 Shivering and wretched, Acland waited at the 
 station, his feet growing lead-like, his head hot ; a 
 cup of tea his only refreshment Further* his return 
 
tiow IRacing ma$ not prove Bsctttng 35 
 
 journey was marred by the bitter glances of those he 
 had given the tip to coming down ; Fate ordaining 
 they should again be his fellow-travellers. 
 
 He slept ill; the next day was wet, the Downs 
 were mist-wreathed, limitless and grey. With an 
 agressive cold and bright red nose, Acland made 
 his way to the stables. Carson met him with 
 anxious inquiries, for Acland looked ill. The little 
 man put them aside. 
 
 “ Carson,” he said “ when does my horse run 
 again ? ” 
 
 “ Month’s time, sir— Gatwick — ” said Carson. 
 
 u And — will he win then, Carson ? ” 
 
 “ Can’t say sir.” Carson coughed dubiously, 
 knowing he would not. “ A little heavily weighted, 
 sir — he may win in September, sir.” 
 
 July — August — September — Downs fresh air — 
 sheep-bells, his horse running twice. Acland shivered 
 openly. 
 
 Carson, being a kindly man, promptly advised 
 whisky and bed — and for his own part produced 
 some excellent cherry brandy, “ For you look really 
 ill, sir,” he said “ overstrained and done up.” 
 
 Acland thanked him and drank— the glow lasted 
 for a minute, then the tramp back under weeping 
 skies put it out. There was the grey cottage, 
 squatting naked and unashamed among the rabbit 
 holes; behind it, the grey, limitless sky ; the billows 
 of the rain-swept Downs, to right and left the sheep- 
 bells clanked softly — clink, clonk — in maddening, 
 throaty music. July — August — September. Partridge 
 on Sundays. Crimson Rambler racing twice. A 
 murmur of voices ; the smell of dripping and toast 
 drifted from the kitchen. 
 
 “ Phillips!” Acland’s voice rang in hoarse shrillness 
 
36 Ube Stra^lnos of Sanb)? 
 
 Phillips appeared instantly. 
 
 “ Pack up, Phillips. Pm going back to London.** 
 
 “ For good, sir, or only you and I, and about the 
 cook ?...** 
 
 “ Pack her up, Phillips; pack everything. Pll catch 
 the 2.40 and have it out with Grattan . . .” Acland 
 was on the verge of hysterics. “ Pack the cook, 
 Phillips.** 
 
 “ Certainly, sir.** 
 
 Phillips slid to the kitchen; he first kissed the cook, 
 as he was never to see her again, then whisked the 
 kettle off the fire and upset boiling water on her feet. 
 
 “ Lemons,** he said, as her smirking squeak merged 
 into a yell — “lemons, cook; the master’s caught his 
 death of cold and were back to London. 2.40, we 
 follow on the 4.10.** 
 
 Here he flew to the sitting-room, mixing a cunning 
 brew. Its glow ran through a fevered, wretched 
 frame and did its work ; Acland could even smile 
 when the waggonette came — His last glimpse of 
 the cottage included a vision of the cook and Phillips 
 waltzing over the rabbit holes, then they drifted into 
 the peaceful little village, bucked over the bridge — 
 and Croxton lay behind. 
 
 The rest-cure had been a failure. A dejected, 
 shivering little man ran past Woking with a shudder 
 of active fear. 
 
 • • > • • * 
 
 Dr. Harold Grattan was drinking his tea. He 
 enjoyed the meal and took it in a drawing-room 
 bright with flowered chintz, sun blinds shading the 
 afternoon glare. It did not rain in London. 
 
 Grattan was pouring cream over piles of rosy 
 strawberries when the bell rang and he shoo£ his 
 head, hoping he was not to be called away for some 
 
©ow IRactno map not prove y&xclttm 37 
 
 urgent case. He heard his butler arguing, and then, 
 there dashed in upon him Alexander Acland, with 
 a feverish cold, a red nose, watering eyes and an 
 hysterical manner. 
 
 “ I would see you. Oh, Harry,” he said, “ I’ve 
 done a fortnight of it. Do I look better.” 
 
 Grattan pulled up the blind, a flood of sunlight 
 fell on a strained, white face. 
 
 “ You look a hang sight worse, old chap,” he said 
 pleasantly, “and you’ve lost weight. Fact is, if you 
 were a woman I should expect you to sit down and 
 cry.” 
 
 Acland sat down. He had been glad at first to 
 see sunshine, to hear the roar of London ; now the 
 shaded flower-scented air suddenly oppressed him. 
 The rattle of hoofs outside, the filtering light, the 
 old familiar noises of the streets were all threats of 
 doom. He was back among them — worse. 
 
 The vastness of the brooding Downs, the weary 
 boredom had all been in vain. He could have 
 screamed in his sudden helpless irritation against 
 his adviser. 
 
 “ For nothing. For nothing,” he said. 
 
 “ Steady on,” said the Doctor kindly. 4i Tell me, 
 old chap. . . .” 
 
 Sympathy broke the strain ; the wave of sorrows 
 rolled high in a spuming mass. Country air, dead 
 quiet, mutton - chops ; sheep - bells, early rising, 
 exercise, vast stretch of mighty downs, a Crimson 
 Rambler, Windsor, rabbits — all this he had taken 
 severally and collectively, day by day, hour by hour, 
 and he was worse. He ran on until the Doctor’s 
 sympathy melted to a grin — to unrestrained laughter. 
 Still, as he laughed, he rang sharply. 
 
 “ A cup of black coffee and a liqueur brandy 
 
38 
 
 T Ihc Stra^fnas ot Sanbg 
 
 quickly,” he said to the man. “ Oh ! I know 1 
 forbade it, Alex, but there are occasions when one 
 must use the biting dog’s hairs. This is one. Now 
 fook here, don't glare at me. Did I tell you to take 
 earth in a rabbit warren, damp at that, and rent a 
 Crimson Rambler from the cleverest stable in all 
 England. Job's patience is their motto. Report 
 says Partridge only whispers the coups into his own 
 left ear for fear the right might overhear. But he’s 
 straight ; your rose-bush will win a race for you . , , 
 when he's wanted to.'* 
 
 Acland commenced to babble about the prestige 
 of the turf, and was checked by the cup of brandied 
 coffee, his jangled nerves recovering as he drank. 
 
 “ But Pm worse,” he said piteously. “ After it all, 
 I was better here.” 
 
 “ Not actually worse.” Grattan made a strawberry 
 mash carefully. “ You must try again, Alex, and get 
 some value. Eschew Rabbits and Ramblers ; but go 
 back to your work and over-feeding, and you’ll spoil 
 a piece of Woking grass in eighteen months. Go to 
 some friends, or as paying guest ; hundreds of people 
 want one.” 
 
 Friends — visit. Acland considered. There was 
 the ever-open invitation to Ballymacshane Castle. 
 He might try that. In grudging tones he suggested 
 it 
 
 “ Ireland ! 79 Grattan rattled his teaspoon. “ The 
 very spot— fishing, shooting, hunting.” 
 
 “ But—” Acland came for strawberries. “ I do 
 not fish. I can't shoot or ride. If I were to go, I 
 feel certain I should have to buy a horse.” 
 
 Here he gave some particulars of his cousin-by- 
 marriage's letters. 
 
 “ Man, the very air's impregnated with the sport 
 
tt>ow TRacinQ map not prcwe Bjcfting 39 
 
 bacillus ; you'll catch it Of course you'll hunt ; 
 you'll be pounding along in the rear, and falling off 
 cheerfully by next December, able to speak to your 
 waistcoat’s last button with a clear conscience by 
 January. If you want to get well, go. 1 wish I 
 could come too. Leave fighting abstruse diseases, 
 and merely endeavour to live as long as I can 
 myself." 
 
 Very querulously Acland observed that his purse 
 was not bottomless, and was exceedingly offended 
 when Grattan remarked easily that the pit was, 
 spending several heated minutes in asking as to 
 whether this was a suggestion of his future 
 destination, and obtaining mere silence in response. 
 
 But he took more advice and another cup of 
 coffee, and knew when he said good-bye that the 
 winds of Fate would blow his craft upon the Irish 
 shore. No man wants to die. We cry to high 
 heaven for death, and it smiles pitifully, knowing 
 the fretted pigmy wants instead— life changed to its 
 liking. Brave men face the end bravely, perhaps not 
 realising it has come ; but very few, save those who 
 are unutterably weary, stretch greeting hands to the 
 cold king who claims all life as his subjects. 
 
 So Acland wrote a long letter suggesting himself 
 as a paying guest at Ballymacshane, discussing his 
 health, the horrors of Croxton, and his doctor's orders 
 at great length. 
 
 He waited then, enjoying London and its comforts, 
 yet strangely stifled by its exhausted air. 
 
 The reply reached him by return, the smudged 
 envelope having evidently been walked on by several 
 dogs. 
 
 44 Come over at once/' wrote Standish Blundell 
 
40 tThc Strait ngs of sanD» 
 
 “You may pay a trifle if you like, but I'd rathet 
 not. You'll get air and rest and company, and 
 that mare I spoke of will match you for the winter. 
 She's a mere suspicion of a whistler, but you could 
 tie the reins to her tail, and she'd finish a hunt. 
 There's a brown horse too, but you'll see for your- 
 self, and we go to the sea in August, so you'll be well 
 set-up. 
 
 “ I’ll meet you on Saturday at Cara Station ; it's a 
 trifle of a drive from there.” 
 
 Acland folded the letter. u Phillips,” he said, 
 “ Philips, we leave on Friday night for Ireland ” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips easily. Then taking 
 up the tray : “ Shall you require a cook, sir ? ” 
 
 Acland regarded his man suspiciously. 
 
 “ No, Phillips,” he said, “ I shall not ; but I believe 
 I shall require hunting-clothes, so must go out im- 
 mediately. Turn on my bath.” And he opened a 
 letter from Partridge, asking if he did not mean to 
 see his horse run at Gatwick, and adding that he was 
 surprised at the sudden flight — the cottage left abso- 
 lutely empty — also enclosing a bill for three weeks’ 
 training, and expenses to Windsor. “ And I really 
 wish all horses were gone to— the deuce, Phillips/ 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips, going out 
 
CHAPTER IV r 
 
 THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SECOND CUKE 
 
 64 And destiny, steadfast in trifles, 
 
 Is steadfast for better or worse.” 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 The Irish mail, a white, steam-driven eel, slipped out 
 of Euston, carrying Alexander Acland, unresigned 
 to Fate, in a corner of a second-class carriage, and 
 Phillips, his man, who had immediately found friends, 
 playing nap in another. The train roared through 
 a clear, starlit night. A passing flare and rumble in 
 tiny stations ; an important fretting personage at its 
 stoppages ; a thing watched from signal - boxes, 
 passed carefully from man to man along the 
 gleaming track, roaring into sleepy Chester, out along 
 the Welsh coast where guttering little wavelets 
 lapped the quiet shore, leapt shrieking at the mouth 
 of the tubular; stopping to turn out Acland, very 
 sleepy and cross, at Holyhead. 
 
 The Leinster received him, and cut her splendid 
 way across the moonlit sea ; rush of silvered foam 
 from the screw, the long white track of the moon 
 across the stretch of waters, the rise and fall of 
 channel waves . . . there had been a wind ... to 
 witch the watcher's soul. 
 
 Acland could not have watched if he would. The 
 mail boat cut through the choppy sea, quivered from 
 
 4 T 
 
42 Ube Stra viwqb of Santy? 
 
 stem to stern, rolling with a long and hideous 
 precision, and the little man was very ill indeed. 
 Ten minutes sufficed for his undoing. Phillips 
 
 considered the matter carefully, observed that the 
 steward was attentive, bade his master good-night 
 “ All second-class passengers,” he said, “ must go to 
 their own place there were times when Phillips 
 considered economy, it was three-and-sixpence. 
 
 Acland eyed him greenly ... he had spent 
 enough. Phillips vanished to sleep soundly, and 
 come with tea to a desolate wreck in the morning. 
 Soft dawn peered over grey Kingstown, but Acland 
 lay in his berth and reviled the world. He did not 
 go on by the early train, waiting till the last before 
 he staggered on deck to get his first glimpse of 
 Ireland. Jewelled, flashing waters ; dingy houses 
 clustering against a steep hill-side ; soft Irish voices 
 to hail him as he stepped ashore. He bought an 
 Irish paper and walked to the station. They ran up 
 past the stretch of the sunlit sea ; the tide full in, 
 the placid sea foaming softly to the edge of the 
 line. Alighting at Westland Row, to find they had 
 missed a connecting train, and were bidden by a 
 cheery porter to “dhrive on or the Kingsbridge 
 thrain would be surely left.” 
 
 Acland, inclined to remonstrate, was given no 
 time; but rushed sharply out and hurled with his 
 belongings on to two jarvey cars. 
 
 “ Dhrive on, Jarvey,” said the porter, ignoring a 
 furious tirade against inconvenience. “The gentleman 
 is anxious for the 9.36.” 
 
 “ Anxious for it.” Acland’s last peevish snap was 
 lost as he was whirled round ; his short legs sawing 
 the air, and the points of several things poking his 
 spine. 
 
T the Commencement of tbe SeconO Cure 43 
 
 Phillips remained to tip the porter. Acland 
 looked upon them as a disgracefully overpaid race, 
 binding Phillips down to the smallest of douceurs, 
 and his man, not being ungenerous, gave freely, and 
 put the extra pence down to polish or its fellows. 
 
 The Dublin jarvey horse has no rival ; the little 
 brown they drove sped forward at a dizzy speed ; 
 diving through traffic, catching the wheels in tram- 
 lines ; laying hold of her bit, and stepping out as 
 though she had never known care. 
 
 “ This,” said Mr. Acland, when he adjusted his 
 lost balance, and had jammed down his cap, “is an 
 exceedingly speedy animal. I trust he does not trip.” 
 
 His nervous soul leapt to a vision of how far he 
 would fly before he struck the stony streets. They 
 flashed round the corner into Dame Street as he 
 spoke. 
 
 “ Thrip, sthumble, fs it ? M The driver summed 
 Acland up with a contemptuous glance. “ Ye might 
 throt her down the sides of hell ; owt sisther to Rocky 
 she is, but she wint wrong.” 
 
 They sped down a hill, and turned on to the 
 Quays. Liffey, a hideous, slimy monster, crawled 
 foul-breathed on their right. Dredges gathering 
 filth from its polluted bed. The ugliest part of 
 Ireland's ugly capital lay before the stranger. He 
 shuddered at it, and was carried on, filled with a 
 growing dismay, to be galloped up a platform by 
 fiery porters and flung in headlong as the train 
 began to move. 
 
 The well-regulated Londoner was filled with the 
 sense of sudden and almost exhilarating adventure, 
 as the first jerk flung him into a priest's lap, and he 
 was carried forward to his destination. Ireland burst 
 on him a few miles further. Green pastured, lonely ; 
 
44 XTbe Stragfnos of 5a nt>$ 
 
 the distant hills still capped by the morning’s mist, 
 the new country stretched flatly at one side to a 
 distant horizon. The ragged fences, the dearth of 
 houses, the absence of English trimness, of office- 
 stamped English order struck sharply to Acland’s 
 cramped soul. Kathleen had come through this, 
 bidding it good-bye. 
 
 This was Erin, the restless, ever-discontented land. 
 A true woman, scarcely knowing what she wanted, 
 but always asking ; always dissatisfied with what she 
 got. Jealous of others’ gifts, ignoring her own, and 
 given twice as much as others to allay her peevish- 
 ness. Who, with a woman’s reckless fury at being 
 thwarted or ignored, could order murder or pillage to 
 appease her fancied jealous wrongs ; who could weep 
 for it five minutes later, heart-broken at her work. 
 Could stretch her hand out, smiling with grey, lonely 
 eyes, winning men to love her with all her whims 
 and failings, her sunshine and sweetness. Whose 
 sons never forget her ; whose lovers are true to their 
 lawless, childish love. A land which could lay 
 tendrils round a lonely soul, and draw it to her till it 
 came to rest under her soft skies. 
 
 The Englishman felt the witchery of it as he 
 looked out. The day darkened ; the hills were 
 misty purple against a dim background, their crests 
 shaded in thick vapour. A flat country now as they 
 roared through the great bog of Allen, rows of firs 
 gapping the edges ; brown peat stretching inter- 
 minably, melting to the dull skyline. The fields 
 where the bog paused were covered with blue-hued 
 rushes ; waving with sheen of yellow and golden 
 green as a gleam of sunshine touched them. 
 Feathery, ragged bog cotton starred the peat ; 
 heavy meadow-sweet bowed in the ditches. 
 
XTOe Commencement of tfoe Seconb Cure 45 
 
 The turf was piled in long, neat stacks, black, 
 brown, or red as they were old or new. A desolate 
 region ; patches of land which might have been 
 used, waste ; fields, easily drained, left sour and wet ; 
 cattle browsing among the rushes ; little thatched 
 cabins nestling in sheltered corners ; everywhere the 
 carelessness of Ireland ; the lack of greedy snatching 
 from the earth which makes her sons poor, and the 
 peace brooding over the green land which causes 
 those who know it to love it so dearly. So they ran 
 on, with chill patter of showers and gleam of sun on 
 the windows, until a growing vacuum, caused by the 
 night’s upheaval, ached in the place where Acland’s 
 breakfast should have rested. A luncheon-basket, 
 found by Phillips, appeased it ; tough chicken legs 
 and gritty butter being speedily overcome by a 
 whetted appetite, and Acland sniffed up the cool 
 west wind as he threw out the bones. There was a 
 kiss in its wooing, gentle breath. 
 
 They changed and changed again, until they 
 reached the bye-line which led to Cara, after an 
 hour’s dull waiting at Tulloun. A tourist would 
 have dashed out to see the town where Sarsfield 
 fought, and Cromwell battered, but Acland crouched 
 in the refreshment-room drinking tea, and cursing all 
 doctors and ill-health. London beckoned artificial 
 manicured fingers to the exile ; at thir hour she 
 shone, filling her parks ; offering arrp-chair« and 
 civilised food to deserving man. 
 
 The train was crowded. Folly had ordained their 
 arrival upon a market day. Old women with 
 baskets elbowed Acland to and fro as they 
 clamoured for lost parcels; big men, some cheei fully 
 drunk, lurched and smoked and spat, talking over 
 their day ; harassed ladies panted up and down 
 
46 
 
 Ube ©tracings of Sanbg 
 
 oppressed by important marketings which never 
 came; brothers and husbands watched unsympathet- 
 ically. Small boys detached themselves from the 
 crowd, arriving hurriedly, and yelling, “O’Hara's — 
 Mrs. Maguire," “Cassidy's — Mr. Bennett "—then, 
 being vituperated by everyone whose anxiety they 
 relieved, they disappeared, and the train started. 
 
 Acland travelling first, unwillingly — Phillips had 
 taken his ticket — was wedged in a crowded smoking 
 carriage, all the men talking loudly. “ A three-year- 
 old I got at Cahermee." This from a little red-headed 
 man. “ The finest mare you ever clapped eyes on, 
 she’s going to the show in— 
 
 “They doctored up the brute to sell, boiled his 
 leg off, he was on three, Cassidy found it out. You 
 can never trust those Clancy’s—" 
 
 “Turned a turtle with me, the brute, if we hadn’t 
 landed on a haycock I’d have been flat as ten 
 pancakes—" 
 
 Acland shrugged his shoulders. The air was 
 clearly infected with this microbe of sport; though 
 he considered that, novice as he was, he would not 
 have bought a horse on three legs. Horses, races, and 
 horses again ; tales of swindles and shows, of fillies 
 and colts, of banks and wall. He peered from the 
 carriage window at the small fences by the line. 
 Would he really find himself bestriding a four-legged 
 animal, cantering up to those obstacles and leaping 
 over ? He thought not. Horses were expensive ; 
 surely it was madness to risk injuries by flood and 
 field, across barriers built to check and not to be 
 crossed, when a wise legislature had laid down flat 
 high-roads. No ; if he ever did come out, he would 
 certainly remain on those highways. 
 
 “ Excuse me," the train stopped, and the red-headed 
 
tCbe Commencement of tbe Seconb Cure 47 
 
 man who had risen and was groping at the rack, 
 inverted a shower of small parcels upon the stranger’s 
 head — almonds (the paper gave way), preserved 
 cherries, some fine powder resembling rice-flour, tin 
 tacks, and three packages of hair-pins ; the latter 
 hopping off Acland’s head as hail from frozen ground, 
 and sliding green papered to his knees. “ Shockingly 
 sorry; so tiresome/’ the red-headed man commenced 
 to collect — “ the missus’s basket, and she does 
 gather things. Most sorry, sir ... more hair-pins ; 
 thankyo.” 
 
 “ Not at all,” said Acland politely, rescuing three 
 tin tacks from his collar and a preserved cherry from 
 his tie. “ These too/’ he observed, laying them in 
 the basket, and absently impaling the cherry on a 
 tack. 
 
 A young fellow flicked the rice-flour from 
 Acland’s shoulder, and suggested further search for 
 the tacks. 
 
 “ Hang dangerous/’ he said. u I tell you one went 
 up into my horse’s foot two years ago and I couldn’t 
 save him — tetanus — poor old brute ! You remember 
 the Chief.” 
 
 Everyone remembered the Chief ; they had remem- 
 bered the runs he had distinguished himself in, the 
 big piece of timber he had jumped at the back of 
 Malone’s farm . . . the water by Blake’s. 
 
 Acland, the tacks, and the groceries were 
 immediately forgotten. 
 
 “ Cara,” intoned a porter, the bump immediately 
 indicated the position of another lost tack, and 
 Acland’s yell of anguish was greeted with marked 
 sympathy. He got out ; bidden a cheery “ Good 
 evening” by his fellow-travellers. It was a small 
 wayside station, rain dripping on it incessantly, its 
 
48 
 
 Tfbe ©tracings of San&E 
 
 platform seething with returning wayfarers. No one 
 scanning the carriages for an arrival ; no rush as he 
 had pictured it of a merry, red-headed man to greet 
 him with shouts of too eager welcome ; no indication, 
 in fact, of welcome anywhere. The Englishman 
 made an unhappy way to shelter, Phillips descended 
 on the van, the porter only paid attention to friends, 
 and a heated guard rained parcels and curses from his 
 stronghold, until the platform was strewn with one, 
 and the train carried the others away. 
 
 Acland was just making up his mind that he had 
 been forgotten, and said so to Philips, when a tall 
 man in breeches and gaiters and a light overcoat 
 detached himself from the crowd about the parcels, 
 and looked carelessly round. He was lean and 
 weather-beaten, with a profoundly melancholy face ; 
 a long brown moustache hid his mouth ; sombre eyes 
 looked out under black brows. 
 
 “ Have you the fish, Patsy ? ” he asked, in slow, 
 unhappy tones. 
 
 The porter replied that he had. 
 
 “ An’ near your honour was to havin’ Lady 
 Mustally’s soles, she leppin’ like a hooked throat with 
 the temper. Dancin’ back she come to fetch them* 
 not content with that fine lump of a fish.” 
 
 "And the meal . . . and the meat . . . the hamper 
 from O’Hara’s — I think Pve nearly all.” He appeared 
 to ruminate ; then spied Phillips, who had just 
 collected his luggage, and was wrestling for his 
 rugs from a furious old woman, who declared ’twas 
 Katie’s dhress home from O’Dea’s. The lean man 
 nodded at the pile of leather cases. “ Did you see a 
 stranger, Patsy ? ” he inquired slowly. 
 
 Patsy, in audible tones, pointed out the “ fat little 
 gentleman beyant,” and the lean man looked. 
 
Cbe Commencement of tbe Second Cure 49 
 
 He came slowly up the wet platform without 
 apology for his delay. 
 
 “ How are you, Sandy,” he said, as if they had 
 parted an hour before, but his voice carried welcome. 
 “ Fd have looked for you, but I declare to goodness, 
 unless you turned guard yourself you wouldn't get 
 your own things on a Saturday for all tbe labels. 
 “ Are you tired ? ” 
 
 Acland, flushing, said that he was. 
 
 Sandy ! a name he had avoided all his life — a 
 name indicating his reddish hair. It grated on his 
 ears. Yet he felt it must be his fate — 
 
 Standish said they'd better be going on. He eyed 
 the pile of luggage, and said it was well he'd brought 
 the cart. Patsy, with a basket on his back and his 
 arms full, awaited orders. Acland came to the 
 station door, Patsy finding a finger for his ticket 
 A green dog-cart with a restless black horse, and a 
 luggage-cart drawn by an old, half-clipped, wheezy, 
 white mare awaited them. 
 
 Standish directed that the mutton, the beef, the 
 fish, and the jars of whisky were to go under the 
 seat, O'Hara's basket to be strapped on behind. 
 Acland, together with a good deal of meat wrapped 
 in newspaper, and a length of limp cod, wrapped in 
 nothing, commenced to pack in. 
 
 “ That's right,” said Standish gloomily ; “ we're 
 nearly ready.” 
 
 “ Phillips ? ” said Acland, looking at his man. 
 “ Phillips ? ” 
 
 “Your man ... oh he,” said Standish Blundell, 
 taking up the reins, “ comes with the luggage .’ 1 
 
 It was perhaps retribution for that drive to 
 Croxton. Phillips eyed the bags of meal and flour, 
 the bulging hampers ; he heard the old mare 
 
 P 
 
5° Ube Stra^fnas of Sattb? 
 
 wheeze, and his chill glance made the night look 
 warm. 
 
 Standish, nodding at the mare, said 'she didn’t 
 look like it, but she was once a good hunter. All 
 right,” he added, “ let him off.” 
 
 The black horse let himself off with t forward 
 plunge of haste, and backward drive of heels ; they 
 slid out the station gate, and seemed to poise high 
 above the horse on a steep hill Cara village, rows 
 of squallid dirty houses, with pleasant gleams of 
 firelight from their doors, clinging to the slope, 
 Acland was tired and cold, depressed by his greeting. 
 This was not the eager Irish welcome he had been 
 led to expect — which he had made up his mind to 
 repress by English stolidity. 
 
 “ Hold the horse a minute,” said Standish. “ I 
 must speak to Halliday.” 
 
 He jumped out, and Acland was left on the road, 
 looking down at the black’s wicked, laid-back ears, 
 and with the novelty of reins in his hands. He 
 found himself reiterating “ Woa, poor good fellow,” 
 with nervous persistency. 
 
 “ Did he wait for you ? ” inquired Standish mildly, 
 as he returned, followed by a boy with a parcel of 
 bread. “ I was wondering could you stop him if he 
 made off ? ” 
 
 Acland, with some bitterness, inquired if at that 
 rate it had been wise to leave the animal. 
 
 Standish getting up, eyed his guest with cheerless 
 wonder. 
 
 “ Hadn’t you the reins and a good whip ? ” he said. 
 “ What more could a man want ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! nothing,” said Acland tremulously, as the 
 black horse, wincing from a sharp lash, dashed 
 forward, the luggage-cart behind them was just 
 
TTbe Commencement of tbe Second Cute 51 
 
 crawling down the hill — Mr. Phillips sitting stonily 
 sheltered by an umbrella. It was a mile further on 
 before Acland realised that it was his. Their pro- 
 gress across a narrow bridge was accelerated by the 
 throb of a motor which whizzed up to Halliday’s on 
 the road behind them. 
 
 They turned to the left, skirting a river; it ran 
 willow-fringed and placid, golden shadows in its 
 depths ; rain flecks on its surface — then they left it, 
 going to the right on to a narrow, treeless road 
 stretching upwards to a range of bleakly towering 
 hills — the black horse trotted fast, but Acland was 
 painfully conscious of the whisky-jar bumping 
 against his feet ; he thought the parcel rubbing 
 against his left leg was the meat, and he knew 
 that a slimy softness at his left ankle was the 
 cod-fish. 
 
 Rain, soft and thick, fell incessantly, a dreary, 
 depressing drizzle ; the sky, tired of soaring, pressed 
 down to rest on the earth — they drove through the 
 flat, green country, fenced by banks, stretch upon 
 stretch of pasture ... a fox-hunter's heart would 
 have warmed to it . . . Acland merely thought it 
 ugly. . . . Lack of cultivation ; unthriftiness ; too 
 much grass ; the parrot cry he had read in the 
 newspapers. . . . He reiterated it now — with 
 suggestions for the swift furthering of prosperity in 
 Ireland. “ Cultivation,” he said precisely, . . grain, 
 home supplies. . . . Oh, to hold the reins, certainly." 
 Standish was lighting an enormous pipe ; he snapped 
 the bowl down and snatched the reins back. 
 
 “ More cultivation," proceeded Acland, 
 
 “ And how in the name of goodness could we be 
 dragging our heels through it if every field was a 
 ploughed garden ? ” stormed Standish Blundell, with 
 
$2 Ube Stra^nos of Sanbp 
 
 conclusive contempt. “Singing songs you should be 
 to see the green grass all round you.” 
 
 Alexander Acland had never felt further from 
 singing songs, but he ceased the discussion upon 
 agriculture. 
 
 The sadness of his late wife’s second cousin was 
 unbroken ; his voice was a dirge ; the lines on his 
 face were set in deepest melancholy. He talked on, 
 asking his chilled little guest questions, but he 
 never smiled. 
 
 Standish was sorry to hear of broken health . . . 
 it was about at the point that Acland missed his 
 umbrella . . . but the little man tried to forget the 
 rain as he plunged willingly into the tale of his ills 
 and his cure, the rabbits and Crimson Rambler. 
 
 Standish, listening with silent sympathy, flicked 
 the black. 
 
 “ He would be worth a fiver,” he said, “ that horse 
 , , . when they do loose him.” 
 
 To have enlarged on your health for ten minutes and 
 find that only the horse aroused interest was annoy- 
 ing. Acland smiled sourly, and felt he detested Ireland. 
 
 They turned again, winding through rain-washed 
 hedges under mist-hooded hills. To the left the 
 ground lay low ; there was meadow-sweet in the 
 ditches, and soft, pungent scented bog - mint. 
 Thatched cottages, crouched behind manure heaps ; 
 curly-headed children playing happily in the rain, 
 unheeded by careless mothers ; constant good 
 evenings from passing men ; occasional stoppages, 
 resented by the black, to ask for a sick cow, for 
 the bay colt that was hurt, and so the drive went on, 
 seemingly interminable. 
 
 “ How far do you count it ? ” Acland moved, 
 feeling his heel slide on the cq4. 
 
Ube Commencement of tbe Second Cure 53 
 
 Standish said it was a good ten miles — and Acland 
 wondered fretfully that his host had no motor. To 
 which Standish replied that they were the Devil’s 
 pups for cars, throwing you out where you’d least 
 expect it, and the conversation languished. To be 
 stimulated by the distant throb of a car coming 
 behind them, so that the black horse tried to get 
 the trap off the road into the ditch, and Standish, 
 jumping out, clung to his head, while Acland, rocked 
 amid a sea of parcels, held the reins and prayed. It 
 flashed past ; the driver looking round carelessly to 
 see if they were still intact. 
 
 “Like Graves’ chauffeur,” grumbled Standish, as he 
 got up. “Just a look and past, no matter what 
 you’re driving. Have done, you schemer. But 
 wasn’t there two in it? Graves is away.” 
 
 Acland had not looked, he had only eyes for the 
 ditches, and said so openly. 
 
 They drove on, sniffing a trail of petrol, along the 
 base of the hills, a high, ragged bank with a yawning 
 ditch fencing the road. 
 
 For the first time a flicker of what might have 
 been a smile touched Blundell’s face, 
 
 “ I killed a horse there,” he said. 
 
 Acland said : “ What a loss,” with intense 
 
 sympathy. 
 
 “ Loss, you might say so ; ” but the flicker dwelt 
 * A slashing five-year-old, with the power of 
 Hercules in his hind legs. We ran from Reshe 
 behind the hill, right up the valley ; hounds going 
 like smoke, and but four of us away. He breasted 
 the hill here with the hounds on to him, and our 
 horses fairly stood still at it. I got off and ran, 
 so that when I was at the top, the others were 
 crawling up, and a tail on the hunt like a woman’s 
 
54 
 
 Ube stra^tn^s ot Sant>£ 
 
 court dress. We came slap down here — I knew the 
 fox was making for the drain at Moloney’s, and knew, 
 too, this bank was a teaser, but we went at it.” 
 Standish pulled up the black, waving his whip about 
 that furious animal’s ears. “ Well, he was blown, 
 and anyhow, he missed his legs and broke his back, 
 poor brute ! so I could do nothing but get on, and we 
 ran into our fox in the fourth field below there.” 
 
 “ Get on, if your horse was dead ? ” gasped Acland, 
 struggling in the deep waters of the tale. 
 
 “ Faith, I took to my heels — what could I do ? — and 
 just below was Moloney’s old Jennett, and the boy 
 taking him in. Up with me — there were only gaps, 
 and I sailed along, giving the Jennett all I knew with 
 the crop. The master, and a few others that got up, 
 breaking their sides with laughter. I got the brush, 
 I tell you.” 
 
 “ But — how awful ! ” Acland felt certain now that 
 he would not leave the roads. u A horse killed. I 
 presume the skin is almost valueless. A horse gone 
 for nothing.” 
 
 Blundell looked at his relative by marriage. 
 
 “ Save us,” he said softly ; then after a pause : 
 51 The hunt was worth a horse, Sandy. We must 
 teach you something besides how to get well.” 
 
 His momentary excitement died out. 
 
 “ We’re here,” he said, as they arrived at a high 
 wall, and they turned in at open iron gates, the 
 avenue bordered by thick, well - kept laurels ; a 
 stagnant stretch of water was crossed by a wooden 
 bridge — they could not see the house — Standish 
 observing that they drew the laurels, they left 
 smooth avenue for crunching gravel and Bally- 
 macshane Castle was reached. 
 
 A tall, narrow house, plastered white; high, thin 
 
Cbe commencement or toe Secono Cure ss 
 
 windows pocketing the walls ; steep stone steps 
 leading up to an open door. But Castle . . , a plaster 
 turret poked unreasonably from one side, a damp 
 flag waving on it ; otherwise, Ballymacshane was 
 an extremely ordinary house — not even a pretty 
 one. A few flower - beds protected by piles of 
 thorns, were cut on the sloping turf beyond the 
 gravel ; several coops and wire-runs dotted between 
 them, a positive wave of yelping dogs poured out 
 as they came up, surrounding the trap. One, a red 
 setter nosing determinately at the fish ; streaking 
 Acland with muddy paws as he climbed down. A 
 lean man with a squint, who came for the horse, 
 induced some order — inquiring hastily for bandages 
 and sweet oil. Being appeased with two packages, 
 he lead the black away, and Standish turned. 
 “Down, Catty — down, Rep. You’re welcome here, 
 Sandy,” he said, “for little Kathleen’s sake. You 
 schemer!” Any further speech was checked by Catty 
 gently taking the cod by the tail, eyeing them with 
 liquid, appealing eyes and slashing her feathery tail 
 furtively. “The ruffian,” said Standish, “take the 
 cod, Mary Anne ; you can’t scold her.” 
 
 But he was welcome. Through his host’s unabated 
 gloom a note in the voice rang true. Cold, tired, 
 hungry, engulfed in dogs, Acland smiled as he came 
 in ; the solitude of the Downs was not before him. 
 
 The square hall was littered with many things ; old 
 sporting prints, whips, brushes, and foxes pates half 
 hid the dirty walls. A small billiard-table was piled 
 high with parcels, a packet of Spratt’s chicken food, 
 an open bag of dog - biscuits and two saucers of 
 milk, a pair of goloshes and a garden fork — another 
 pair of goloshes stood by the open door, a muddy 
 spade lying across them. 
 
5 * 
 
 ttbe Stra#nas of Sanfcs 
 
 A shrill voice cried to them to leave Lucy out as 
 she would hunt the tabby kitten, and they went to 
 the right into a long, narrow room. July though it 
 was, a wood fire blazed cheerily. 
 
 “Aunt Catty and Aunt Susie,” said Standish. 
 “ Here’s Sandy — Kathleen's husband.” 
 
 Two old ladies bobbed up from deep arm-chairs, 
 two gentle voices bade him welcome and called him 
 Sandy — the aunts sat far apart — some magnificent 
 blue Persians occupying the hearth-rug — a crowd of 
 kittens crawling across one arm-chair. 
 
 “Sit down; you are chilled” — Miss Susie pushed 
 him into her own chair — “ but do mind the chickens.* 
 
 A faint, sleepy twittering came from below the 
 chair — with pride Miss Susie moved some flannel 
 and showed him a nest of sleepy dots, cuddled close. 
 
 “If it were not for Catty’s cats,” she said, “I should 
 never lose one.” 
 
 Miss Catty returned the charge with a tale of a 
 cochin china cock and a now eyeless kitten — and 
 Standish inquired for dinner. It would be ready, he 
 was told by eight. 
 
 Acland regretted his inability to change ; Miss 
 Susie reproved Standish for leaving the man upon 
 the luggage-cart and showed Acland to his room . . . 
 a gloomy, rep-hung apartment, smelling of disuse. 
 To his intense surprise, Phillips stood at the table 
 laying out dress clothes. Had old Nancy then, 
 flown ? 
 
 " Motor car, sir,” said Phillips pleasantly, “ Met it 
 at Halliday’s and asked the chauffeur to bring me 
 on; in fact, I think we passed you on the way, 
 sir.” 
 
 “ Passed us ! Hang nearly upset us,” exploded 
 Acland angrily, thinking of the black’s frantic 
 
ti;be (Commencement of tbe Seconb Cure 57 
 
 plunges, of the rolling sea of parcels, the un- 
 guarded ditch yawning for its prey. 
 
 “Certainly, sir,” said Phillips, unmoved; “so I saw, 
 sir. Most enjoyable drive, a fine country, sir.” 
 
 Acland thought of his progress with whisky-jar 
 and cod, and said little ; it took all the refreshment 
 of changed clothes to calm his irritation. 
 
 The dining-room was large ; wax candles drowning 
 in a sea of gloom . . . the soup was watery : his 
 friend the cod's middle-cut, appeared in a spotted 
 veil of white sauce (the spots represented by flour 
 lumps). There were chops and chickens both 
 admirably cooked, Miss Susie giving him details, 
 as he ate the latter, of its parentage, childhood, 
 and being a cock, unhappily necessary death — the 
 potatoes were balls of flour instead of little lumps 
 of wax, and the fat green peas, a salad, ripe 
 strawberries and yellow cream were perfection. 
 
 The parlour-maid, named Mary Anne, smiled as 
 she waited, proffering items of suddenly remembered 
 gossip to the old ladies. A slight dignified pair, in 
 old-world dresses, with grey hair piled high, topped 
 by lace caps. If the food was plain they ate off 
 Worcester, a maze of blue and red and gold, and 
 the decanters were Waterford glass, their sharp 
 facets gleaming — the cats and dogs dined also 
 chumping noisily. 
 
 As the Miss Blundells left, Standish pushed the 
 port decanter towards his guest. 
 
 “ They've gone to spend the evening wrangling 
 over the cats and chickens ” he said sadly. “ What 
 do you say? After all, they can't ride, they don't 
 shoot — they might as well be fighting.” 
 
 Acland proffered no comment but took port, 
 knowing it was bad for him • . . they went into a 
 
s§ Zftc stra^tnQs or San&s 
 
 low* ceiled smoking-den, off the dining-room. Over 
 his pipe Standish peered hard at the Englisman’s 
 sandy hair, his round, clean-shaven face and mild 
 blue eyes. A face moulded by its work, anxious 
 lines below the eyes, puckered wrinkles at the 
 temples — the face of a man who had lived life's life 
 instead of his own ; who, with a strong sense of his 
 own importance, was with all a mere business 
 machine. Spending sleepless nights weighing the 
 chance of investments which should bring him an 
 income he never spent— a typical city-bred Briton, 
 cast suddenly into these strange waters. He raised 
 his eyes to find his host’s fixed upon him. Standish 
 took out his pipe. Acland attuned his face to the 
 expected sympathy. 
 
 “ I was wondering,” he said slowly “ what 
 Kathleen saw in you.” 
 
 A purple flood of shocked displeasure swamped 
 the yellow pallor of Acland’s cheeks. 
 
 “ And she liked you,” said Blundell, unconscious 
 of offence. “ She said so. If she’d been marrying 
 you just for a home she’d have written it to me- - 
 no, she wrote she’d met someone she could care for. 
 She, with Dick Moloney dying for her — and a Colonel 
 Maguire— and Ned Graves that she ran away from, 
 and myself, though I was but a cousin, still there was 
 the place and the horses here if they’d been a chance 
 of it ... Yet .. . who can judge a woman. She 
 liked you, Sandy, though, and we’ll like you and 
 make you well ... for you look uncommonly ill.” 
 
 Offence was impossible — Acland merely muttered, 
 and thought he would go to bed. 
 
 u Sleep well,” said Standish, “ and get up when 
 you like— there’s no law or order at Ballymacshane.’* 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 AT BALLYMACSHANE CASTLE 
 
 M Under yonder rise there’s a clump of trees, 
 
 The shadows look cool and broad.” 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 The pitching of steamers, the jolting of trains, the 
 long drive in the rain proved too much for an ailing 
 man. Acland slept fitfully, enduring one hideous 
 nightmare of the Miss Blundells wrangling, to wake 
 and find it was the grey Tom entertaining callers on 
 the roof. From that point he tossed and tumbled 
 with burning head and chilled feet, until the many- 
 voiced quiet of the country banished sleep for ever. 
 Cawing rooks, twitter of unpleasantly early birds, 
 cocks shrilling welcome to the dawning, wise hens 
 grating out their harsh warning of coming rain. 
 Acland groaned and tossed, feeling exceedingly ill, 
 then a heavy bang upon his door jarred him into 
 fuller consciousness. 
 
 “ The masther wants to know, sir i a diffident nose 
 
 rounded the door,— 1 ‘ whether you 7 ll go to the seven 
 or the twelve.” 
 
 The Englishman sat up furiously, ejaculating 
 45 What ? The seven or the twelve. What ! ** 
 
 “ Mass, sir. He goes early himself and the ladies 
 late.” 
 
 59 
 
§0 TEfoe StrapftiQS of San 
 
 “ Good Heavens ! ” said Acland, lying down 
 furiously. “ Pm not a Catholic/' 
 
 The diffident nose vanished, its owner muttering 
 apologies and regrets, and Phillips appeared with 
 tea. 
 
 The rep curtains reft asunder revealed a grey and 
 drizzling morn, but Phillip, seeing his master's face, 
 had no eyes for the view. He sped swiftly for 
 Standish. 
 
 Acland's first day at Ballymacshane was a dull, 
 fevered nightmare. His head ached, he felt very 
 sick, and he lay miserably supine, enduring visits of 
 unwished-for sympathy ... of Standish long and 
 sad, staring at him and murmuring, “ There now!" 
 unhappily; of Miss Susie with boiled eggs and Miss 
 Catty with beef-tea arriving together and wrangling 
 over his unhappy body ; of a heated argument at 
 the door concerning chicken broth, and Miss Susie's 
 tearful decision as to the death of an Orpington cock. 
 All this came and went with the fevered hours, until 
 his over-shaken being recovered, he was able to enjoy 
 tea and dry toast, and felt life was a thing to be 
 lived. 
 
 He slept dreamlessly ; to be awakened again by 
 the insistent cackle and caw of fowls below his 
 window, slurred over yesterday in his wretchedness. 
 A silver shaft of sunlight striking through the red 
 curtains made a quivering bar across the room. He 
 endured the cackling for a space, then tugged at 
 a dusty woollen tassle until Phillips appeared 
 hurriedly, explaining that he had expected his 
 master to sleep late. 
 
 “ Late’' — Acland pointed to the window — “ with 
 those fiends holding a concert below there. Stop 
 them, Phillips." 
 
Bt JSali^macsbane Castle ti 
 
 Phillips pulled back the curtains and unbarred the 
 shutters, a flood of sunshine, of fresh, rain-washed air 
 pouring into the room. He then leant out “ hoosh- 
 ing ” gravely, and having apparently received outside 
 assistance, presently withdrew a satisfied head. 
 
 “ Miss Susie's pet fowl, sir, I understand from the 
 dairymaid below, Ellen, sir, that directly Miss Susie 
 gets up she throws them food from her bedroom 
 windows, next to yours, sir.” 
 
 Acland might have been understood to confide 
 thunderously to the blankets that he wished Miss 
 Susie herself — The clatter began again. 
 
 “They have all returned, sir,” said Phillips cheer- 
 fully. “ A beautiful morning, sir.” 
 
 “ Chook, chook, cho-ook,” piped Miss Susie, from 
 the next window. “ Chook a-chookee, chooke-e-e, 
 chook.” 
 
 “Turn on my bath,” stormed Acland, flinging a 
 pink pyjamaed form from the four-poster. His 
 watch said seven. Late hours, after all, compared to 
 Croxton and the chill watching of the Crimson 
 Rambler. 
 
 “ No bath-room. Certainly, sir,” and Phillips 
 left. 
 
 Acland went to the window. He looked out 
 high over the tops of trees. Massed in soft* 
 gauziness, tender green and glowing copper, dark 
 firs, tassled larch, sycamores, broad-leaved, sturdy 
 elms branching widely, and over them to a great 
 stretch of pasture-land, flooded in golden light. 
 
 Beyond the billowing land a range of hills, too 
 clearly seen for settled weather ; shadow flecked by 
 passing clouds, they barred the blue distance. 
 
 A west wind blew, sporting with the world ; sweet 
 scent of mignonette and carnations drifted from 
 
62 
 
 Ebe ©tracings of ©attbs 
 
 the bush-veiled flower-beds. The pond was a long 
 ribbon of silver, stately swans on its still surface. 
 
 “Bath, sir, not very hot, sir,” observed Phillips, 
 with gentle encouragement. “Cook promises a 
 special kettle to-morrow, sir.” 
 
 Acland left the window to splash in soft, peat- 
 scented water, and having returned, feeling greatly 
 refreshed, to dry himself, to retire blushing to his 
 toes as he observed Aunt Susie feeding little 
 chickens upon the lawn. Clearly, an early house- 
 hold. Clatter of hoofs heralded the advent of 
 Standish, driving a horse in long reins, passing 
 on to the field beyond the hedge, with “ g* ups ” 
 and whip-flickings. Two cows stood outside the 
 paling, lowing impatiently. Acland, dressing by the 
 window, now observed Phillips, instead of returning 
 to his duties, coming out, cup in hand with the dairy- 
 maid, and drinking a quantity of foaming new milk 
 with evident pleasure. Further, the aggrieved master 
 beheld his man taking grave place upon a three- 
 legged stool and endeavouring to milk, spurred on 
 by merry giggles from the maid. The outraged cow 
 having immediately upset him by a well-directed 
 kick, he sprawled over backwards, but arose and 
 stood smiling in the sunshine, forgetting a now 
 fuming employer. 
 
 “ Dear me,” said Acland, with resignation, as he put 
 in his own links. 
 
 He found his way down to the hall ; the drawing- 
 room, he observed, was undusted and chaotic, and 
 the housemaid was moving chicken coops outside. 
 She dashed in now, smiling, announcing that her heart 
 was scalded from chickens. Having flicked some 
 dust from the tables to the ground with her apron ; 
 thrown two whips off a pile of coats on to the floor ; 
 
at Ballgmacsbane Castle 63 
 
 piled the Spratt’s chicken food on to a rat - trap ; 
 upset the cat’s milk, and muttered : “ There ye are 
 now, nate an’ dacent,” she ran off smiling to the 
 drawing-room, where she appeared to knock over 
 several chairs in her onslaught. 
 
 “ Dear me,” said Acland, again going out. 
 
 Phillips was returning to the yard carrying a pail 
 of milk and the stool. The air was a caress, the 
 world smelt washed and fresh. He was hailed from 
 the lawn, and found himself in the wet grass helping 
 Miss Susie to move her coops (the turf was pock- 
 marked with jaundiced trampled squares), and soon 
 was anxious as she, lest one of the wooden frames 
 should crush a fluffy, bright-eyed chick. In fact, he 
 only struck work when, going on to some boxes, he 
 was bidden to remove sitting hens from their nests 
 and give them a walk. Having been severely pecked 
 by one, and almost overturned by the flurried exit 
 of another, Acland left, answering an untimely call 
 from the stables. The yard was behind the house ; 
 a big square, whitewashed and neat ; rows of green 
 painted doors ; sound of chumping issuing from 
 them as one came nearer. 
 
 Standish, observing unhappily that he was glad to 
 see Sandy better, called him to the stable doors. 
 
 “ Three-year-olds,” he observed. “ Some going to 
 the show. You might see one you’d fancy. The 
 mare I’ve laid out for you is at grass, but I’ve some 
 nice ones here. Now, here’s a colt,” he swung a door 
 open to show a great slashing brown with tremendous 
 power behind, and all the coarseness of outline which 
 promised great things later on. 
 
 After the satin - coated, slim -legged racers, the 
 brown struck Acland with dismay, 
 
 “ He’s surely a very large animal,” he observed 
 
64 
 
 Zbc StraplttQs of 5att&$ 
 
 timidly, anxious to please. “ And what exceedingly 
 thick ankles and round feet. I am sure they must 
 support him excellently. ,, 
 
 Tom the groom muttered: “ Support; the Lord 
 protect us ! ” and leant against the wall. 
 
 The brown had his faults, and one was flat, heavy 
 feet. Standish flung a suspicious eye on his guest 
 and pushed him out, banging the stable door. 
 
 “ Here’s another, Holy Robin, we call him.” The 
 Irishman opened a further box. “ By St. Serf, and 
 the dam by the Warbler. He’d carry you and be 
 worth a bit of money next year.” 
 
 Holy Robin was a very bright chestnut, with 
 four white legs ; a light middle and doubtful 
 hocks. 
 
 “ He’ll gallop,” said Standish, “and he must jump. 
 I’ve had the irons on him as a mere precaution, but 
 he’ll stand. He’d do a day a week for you, and 
 perhaps pay for your season’s hunting.” 
 
 Acland smiled, but remembered the Crimson 
 Rambler and sighed. 
 
 “ And I’d let you have him for well— eighty,” said 
 Standish, with that sudden burst of loving-kindness 
 which is part of a horse coper’s outfit, and deceives 
 unwise mankind. 
 
 In his heart Blundell knew he would have jumped 
 at sixty with those doubtful hocks. 
 
 “That,” said Acland precisely, “is surely a large 
 sum, as he is not yet a trained hunter, and are not 
 the undulations on his hind legs what are spoken of 
 as a blemish ? ” 
 
 Here Tom, who had left his last door-post, fell 
 against another, muttering : “ God Almighty ! ” with 
 monotonous fluency. 
 
 “ I should require/’ said Acland, tempted by the 
 
Bt JBallsmacsbane Castle 65 
 
 glowing, smooth chestnut coat and the look of 
 heeding, “ something so gentle.” 
 
 “ He’s a lamb,” observed Standish gloomily. 
 
 Ellie, the dairymaid, passed with clattering, empty 
 cans ; the equine lamb, scared towards his stable roof, 
 came down, plunged up on all fours, and wheeling 
 round, flung his hoofs within an inch of Acland’s 
 nose. That gentleman, dashing for safety, carried 
 away Tom as he fled, and spun with the head groom 
 on the paved surface till they recovered balance. 
 
 “ Great Heavens!” said the Englishman, apologising 
 profusely. “Suppose an animal were to behave like 
 that when I was upon it?” 
 
 Standish eyed him with a melancholy consideration, 
 wondering what manner of man he had bidden to 
 his home; Acland returned to gaze at Holy Robin 
 with some admiration. 
 
 “ I should really like that animal,” he observed ; 
 “but as to riding him — ” 
 
 Tom burst in with hurried assurances concerning 
 training and the discretion which comes with age, 
 but Standish, now patting the white blazed nose 
 thrust out over the door, remarked “ that he thought, 
 after all, it would be a case of White Mary from the 
 luggage-cart, bellows to mend and all. . . .” 
 
 Here for the first time Acland saw Standish 
 Blundell laugh. A sudden twice-given bray of Haw 
 Haw, and then bitten off as his gloomy face settled 
 into its habitual lines. 
 
 “ Hey, Sandy ” — he smote the little man a reeling 
 blow on the shoulder — “ we’ll try to make a sportsman 
 of you. Man, when you’ve cut a few voluntaries 
 you’ll laugh at a buck jump. Didn’t Black Rod, 
 Tom, rear up outside there, and fall back with me 
 into the manure heap. God be praised it was there, 
 
66 
 
 Ttbe ©tracings of Sattbs 
 
 for if he'd passed it, I'd have been a pancake on 
 the stones, and my next ride in John Cleary's 
 hearse. There's the bell, Sandy. Oh, go easy, 
 
 Eliza." 
 
 Eliza was clattering a bell out of a back window 
 with feverish energy. 
 
 Robin, the lamb, made two complete circuits of 
 his box, and then leant against the wall in 
 cowed astonishment. There was assorted noises 
 of affrighted movements from other boxes. 
 
 “ Have done with it, Eliza," commanded Standish. 
 u Couldn't you run out to me and not be making 
 fliat clatter." 
 
 Eliza, remarking huffily that the least they might 
 do for a sthranger was to give the bell a wallop, 
 withdrew, and they went in. 
 
 The dining-room looked out on a box-edged 
 garden ; a little plot sacred from chickens and gay 
 with old-fashioned flowers. The big windows were 
 open ; scent of roses, stocks, and mignonette, of 
 drying grass from distant meadows drifted in. 
 Acland had learnt to hate his breakfast since he 
 might no longer whet a dulled appetite with hot 
 sauces and peppered kidneys. But he forgot this 
 now. Freshly caught trout ; brown hot loaves ; 
 golden Irish butter, really fresh eggs, honey ; tea, 
 thick with floating cream. What a difference to 
 that meagre table at Croxton, and the eternal quiet 
 of the Downs mouthing at the narrow windows. He 
 ate, and was even friendly to the clawing cats, 
 putting down his trout skeleton for the great blue 
 Persian with complete good-will, the fluffy brute 
 growling fiercely, tiger-hearted, as he crunched his 
 meal. The old ladies quarrelled gently: one of 
 Aunt Susie’s white leghorn chickens had died, and 
 
Bt ffiallEmacsbane Castle 67 
 
 Aunt Catty's blue Persian was accused of having 
 looked at it and terrified it to its end. 
 
 Counter-charge by Aunt Catty to the effect that 
 the Orpington hen and twelve chickens had got into 
 the garden and destroyed a whole seed-bed. Much 
 angry argument, and final departure of the two old 
 ladies to order dinner arm-in-arm, wrangling as they 
 went. 
 
 Standish was going off to some distant fields— he 
 apparently had a busy morning before him — to see 
 divers cows and calves, mares and foals, meadows 
 and men. 
 
 “ I’ll not take you, Sandy,” he said, rising from his 
 breakfast. “You’re not fit for a long walk. Stay 
 quiet outside, man ; get a little colour into your 
 pasty cheeks, and we’ll drive to Castleknock after 
 lunch. Nora Hartland’s dying to meet you, and 
 so’s little Evie — Kathleen’s cousins, in a way. We’ll 
 drive Bobs ; the black has a sore breast from the 
 hills.” Acland gave silent praise to a considerate 
 Heaven. “ So take your ease, Sandy.” The melan- 
 choly man had a kindly heart. “ I declare you’ve 
 circles round your eyes like a cinder-track. Go out 
 under the beech ; I’ll tell that man of yours to put 
 chairs. He’s a handy fellow.” 
 
 The kitchen was evidently underneath, for now 
 heated voices rose faintly. Aunt Catty wanted 
 ducks for dinner ; Aunt Susie roast-beef ; also, 
 Aunt Susie declared the cats had eaten the best 
 part of the cod, and then the voices died away. 
 
 Acland went out. There were wicker chairs under 
 the big beech ; the sunlight filtered through a 
 chequered softness. Lying back, tired now, Acland 
 could see one of the hay-fields ; machines tossing and 
 whirring ; men building little cocks of grass ; others, 
 
68 Ube Stra^inas of Sanbg 
 
 further off, raising up the higher things called “tram^ 
 cocks ; ” bubble of laughter and gossip, yet the work 
 going speedily. This was quiet, but not the deadly 
 brooding stillness of the Downs. 
 
 Aunt Susie flitted to and fro, cooing to various 
 families; once her voice rose in distress, and a fat 
 woman, clearly the cook, appearing, a hideous 
 surgical operation was wrought with a feather upon 
 a drooping brood. He could hear Aunt Susie 
 bewailing the advent of some fell thing called Pip. 
 
 The big cats strolled about, honourably avoiding 
 the chicks ; they hissed and spat at passing dogs, 
 but without enmity, merely from habit ; in fact, later, 
 the great blue Persian and the setter sat blinking in 
 the sunlight side by side, the dog’s fringed paw 
 thrust on either side of the cat. Horses came out; 
 he saw Holy Robin — now disguised in many 
 trappings, with an aggrieved head tied to his chest — 
 and other animals going up and down. Tom wai 
 always busy. 
 
 A high hedge stood to the right of the trees; it 
 was thick and impervious, but judging from constant 
 swishing of wet garments he divined it was a drying- 
 green, and thither Phillips, not yet understanding 
 the land’s geography, came with Ellie, the dairymaid 
 (who was also the under-housemaid and the 
 laundress), to help her with her work. 
 
 Following the dump of a laden basket, Acland 
 could hear her uplifted tones declaiming that the 
 world was too clane entirely, and she was three 
 hours and more “ possin’ and scrubbin’ for the life.” 
 Having admired the starching of Phillip’s shirt, 
 there came a pause, and she bade him leave. 
 
 His reply elicited a pleased squeak and a request 
 that he should give over for an English schamer, 
 
Bt JBallBmacsbane Castle 69 
 
 “An* let ye go, Mr. Phillips, if ye plaze,” Ellie 
 declared shrilly, “ an’ I goin’ to layout Miss Susies 
 dhrawers.” 
 
 Steps announced Phillips 1 most proper exit : he was 
 a modest man. Ellie remained, singing the “ Lost 
 Bard of Erin ” very much out of tune. 
 
 “The assurance of them sthiff-lipped English,” 
 she observed aloud — presumably to the par*aloons. 
 
 Acland, recalling the cook, remarked to Catty, the 
 red setter who had come to his feet, “ that he feared 
 Phillips was inclined to trifle.” 
 
 The morning waned, its moments broken by a 
 soda, milk, and a plate of strawberries, one brought 
 by each little aunt. He dozed, and woke blinking to 
 stare at a merry girl’s face peering at him through 
 the horses — grey-eyed, brown-haired, brimful of 
 mischief, red lips quivering saucily. 
 
 “ I didn’t think you’d wake. I came to peep at 
 you. Pm Evie Hartland.” She came into the shadow 
 dressed in a holland coat and dark habit skirt. “ I 
 rode over — we’re all anxious to see you — you know, 
 more especially Nora ; I hardly remember Kathleen. 
 They called that setter’s mother after her, you know, 
 when she died. Ah, I’m sorry,” she said, as Acland 
 sat up and she saw his face quiver. He put his hand 
 down touching the dog’s silky coat. rt I’m sorry,” 
 she repeated. “You see you’re a kind of cousin by 
 marriage. My grandfather married Kathleen’s 
 great aunt, or something like that, you know. And 
 we’re very glad to see you, and you must get well — ■ 
 you do look wretched.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” observed Acland gravely. 
 
 “London must be a horrid place if it makes one 
 so white.” Miss Evie Hartland had a ready tongue. 
 “ But oh, it must be fun. I envied Kathleen — theatres 
 
70 trfre Stealings or sant>2 
 
 and restaurants and driving everywhere in hansom 
 cabs — ” 
 
 “ I,” said A eland precisely, “ use ’buses — the saving 
 is simply enormous — I should say to a business man 
 like myself it must amount to quite £ 20 at the end 
 of the year.” 
 
 Then Evie suggested contemptuously that one had 
 to run after ’buses, and £20 would not even buy 
 a decent horse. 
 
 Acland gasped a little, staring at her. “ Great 
 fortunes/’ he said pompously, “ are made out of small 
 savings.” 
 
 “Take you three years to get a hunter out of it,” 
 said Evie cheerfully. “ I hope you’re not a screw, 
 Cousin Sandy. We all spend double our incomes 
 over here. Now, good-bye; we shall see you this 
 afternoon.” 
 
 She left whistling, the dogs running in her wake — 
 a clatter of hoofs and she was gone. 
 
 It was dawning on Alexander Acland that she 
 was perhaps the prettiest girl he had ever seen in 
 his life. 
 
 So being disturbed, he left his tree and pottered 
 about a mighty, w r alled garden w 7 ith a profusion of 
 gnarled, half-pruned trees, laden with fruit — plums 
 faintly spotted, cherries ripe and unripe, wealth of 
 apples, two gooseberry squares, beds of strawberries 
 groves of raspberries, monster plots of cabbages 
 unending drills of peas going to seed unpicked, 
 peaches leaning little green bodies against the sunny 
 southern wall ; great borders of flaming hollyhocks 
 and poker plants, neglected carnations, blooms of 
 roses, and four men working in desultory fashion 
 directed by a silver-headed and sour-faced old person 
 who did nothing, 
 
at JBallBtnacsbane Castle ?* 
 
 A great basket of picked peas was being handed 
 to a red-headed damsel of tender years. She like- 
 wise took three heads of cabbage under her arm and 
 a pile of lettuce into her apron, then she went away, 
 directing one Michael Dyer, not to be above recalling 
 the raspberries for the tart for dinner. Evidently a 
 kitchen-maid. 
 
 Acland gazed down the long vistas of the walks. 
 
 He observed that the garden might make a 
 positive fortune. It was large enough to supply 
 three households. 
 
 The gardener, with a glance of contempt, dis- 
 appeared grumbling into a grove of raspberries, and 
 Acland feeling a new peace with the world went 
 back to his chair. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 HOW A LAW-ABIDING BRITISH SUBJECT FOUND 
 HIMSELF INVOLVED IN STRANGE AFFAIRS 
 
 41 Dear me,” I exclaimed. “ What a place to be in ! ” 
 
 — Ingoldsby Legends. 
 
 “ WILL I carry the black horse to the gate, sir, n 
 inquired Tom, “ or will ye bate him from the dour? ” 
 
 Acland pricked his ears. He had breathed a 
 thanksgiving because the black was laid up. What 
 new danger was this ? 
 
 Standish, unmoved but thoughtful, decided that 
 Tommy and Martin Mead should come round with 
 their cart-whips and they’d start from the yard. 
 
 “ The little schemer won’t go until we get him past 
 the gate,” he said easily to Acland, “and, as we’re 
 not hurried to-day, we may as well master him.” 
 
 Acland said “ Certainly ! ” faintly. 
 
 Ten minutes later, ashamed to suggest his walking 
 down the avenue, he found himself upon one side 
 of a car, with Standish on the other, and a mitd- 
 looking bay with a hogged mane between the shafts, 
 two boys armed with whips waiting. 
 
 “ Go on,” said Standish, taking up the reins. 
 
 The bay went ... as far as the gate . . . then, 
 with a ducking swirl which any dancer might have 
 envied, he was round again and stood still. 
 
 72 
 
3Bdtteb Subject tn Strange Bffafts 73 
 
 Tom dashed him back, Standish smote, the carter’s 
 lashes fell like hail . . . Acland, clinging closely, 
 found himself involved in a whirl of whips and 
 bad language. They were urged through the gate, 
 past Aunt Susie, who callously remarked that she 
 hoped they would be careful not to come on to the 
 lawn ; down the steep hill, the bay ducking and 
 swerving, plunging from the punishment he 
 received. 
 
 As they came to the bridge across the narrowing 
 pond, he suddenly screamed with futile rage, reared 
 up, and flung himself upon the avenue, Acland’s 
 curving flight ended in a barberry bush. Standish, 
 better prepared, merely sprang off and contemplated 
 the quivering but triumphant horse. 
 
 “ So he thinks he has us beaten with that new 
 trick,” he said sadly, for the bay would not get up, 
 “ Does he? Run up Tommy and Patsy for bundles 
 of straw and some matches, and you, Sandy, come 
 out of that bush, you're like the goat in the desert 
 Put your foot on the step and be ready to jump 
 when we move him.” 
 
 Acland emerging, inquired hotly if Standish 
 really meant to go on with that demoniacal animal. 
 
 “ Do you think we'll pull the harness off him and 
 take him back to eat oats ? He’ll always go like a 
 sheep once he's outside the lodge gates. Oh* lie 
 there, my boy! I've a surprise for you,” For the 
 bay was positively smiling, believing he had 
 conquered. “ Look lively, Sandy, n said Standish 
 unsympathetically. 
 
 Acland came, but his looks were not lively* the 
 barberry bush had proved a very prickly haven. 
 
 He placed an unwilling foot near the car; Tommy 
 and Patsy doubled down behind bundles of straw, 
 
74 TTfte stra^mQs or san&£ 
 
 and in their wake streamed the cook, the kitchen- 
 maid, Eliza, and Phillips, all running hard, the cook 
 carrying an oil-can. 
 
 Standish arranged bundles of straw under the bay 
 horse, who now positively beamed at them ; the 
 cook was with difficulty restrained from using the 
 oil. There was a sudden flare of matches, a crack- 
 ling of dry straw, of little spurts of flame running 
 blue and pink. The bay horse reconsidered matters. 
 He arose, with a straining of leather and creaking 
 of bolts, and took the avenue at a mad gallop to 
 get anywhere, it mattered not where, away from 
 the fire demon which had awoke beneath him. 
 
 As they swung out the gate and turned left 
 handed, Standish, quite unmoved, spoke. 
 
 “ Will you take the reins, Sandy, while I light 
 my pipe ? ” he said. “ That fellow won’t lie down 
 again in a hurry ; he’s smouldering still.” 
 
 They drove down a narrow road to Ballymacshane 
 village. It was the Englishman’s first real glimpse 
 of Ireland. The squalid little houses clinging to 
 the steep hill-side, the children playing in the 
 centre of the road, the tiny shops. A butcher’s, 
 a square hole of stained horror, where a sheep 
 hung limply, a shining pool below him showing how 
 lately he had become mutton. Acland shuddered, 
 recalling eaten chops. The one grocer sold many 
 things, but principally whisky ; the other windows 
 had glass jars of cheap sweets, matches, soap, and 
 herrings piled dustily. 
 
 They slid through the uneven street, and then 
 climbed up, the road winding along the side of a 
 lowering hill ; gorse — a fox covert, Sandy was 
 informed — on its summit, coarse grass on its 
 unfenced sides. As they drove Standish told him 
 
British Surject in Strange Htfairs 75 
 
 about the Hartlands. Step-sisters, one twenty 
 years older then the other, but deeply attached, 
 living at Castleknock without a penny between 
 them, muddling from year to year no one knew how. 
 Then puffing his great pipe, Standish lapsed into 
 moody silence, sometimes raising his head as an 
 animal which scents prey to point out a fence he 
 had jumped, a line the hounds had run. 
 
 He pulled up the bay horse, looking down at a 
 thatched cottage nestling in a dip below them. 
 
 “ Michael Malone's mother died yesterday,” he 
 said. “ 1 must run down ; he stops a lot of the 
 country for me.” 
 
 So they bumped along a narrow lane, with 
 thorns reaching grasping fingers from either side, 
 and steep banks scraping the car, to the door of 
 a comfortable cottage ; a great manure heap close 
 to the front door, fowl disporting themselves 
 everywhere, and a big pig grunting in the sunshine. 
 Michael Malone, clearly pleased to see them, came 
 out, his easy grin striking no note of bereavement ; 
 old women passed in and out, their faces full of 
 happy interest. Standish got off the car and went 
 in, talking casually. From the inside of the house 
 came a shriller note of welcome, “ An' she makes 
 the fine corpse, yer honour . . . poor mamma.” 
 
 Acland gripped the reins loosely, wondering if 
 three days before he had really walked on the hot 
 pavements in London and believed it to be the 
 world. The two men returned, Malone walking 
 round to Acland. 
 
 “If yer honour would care to sthep in an’ see her, 
 an' have a taste of whisky with Misther Blundell.” 
 
 Horrified refusal was checked by a quick whisper 
 from Standish. 
 
?6 
 
 tCbe ©traumas of 5ant>£ 
 
 “ He must go ; it would give offence if he did not.* 
 So Acland, his spine crisping chilly, fell over the pig 
 and followed. 
 
 The kitchen was very tidy, with gleam of polished 
 brass and china from the high, wooden dresser ; the 
 old women whispered over a turf fire. Plates of 
 biscuits and a seed-cake were on the square table 
 flanked by decanters of whisky and thick tumblers. 
 
 Michael Malone’s sister arose, curtseying, bidding 
 the stranger welcome. “ Wouldn’t he take a look at 
 mamma ? The sweetest corpse he ever saw, for all 
 she suffered, bawling to the ind . . .” Here Miss 
 Malone wept. “’Twas the blow the jinnit dealt her, 
 whin he fell with the cart goin’ to Mass, an’ her new 
 puce dhress on an’ all.” 
 
 Through the open door they could see the four- 
 post bed, the waxen - faced dead woman, tall 
 candles burning at her head. Acland was pushed on. 
 The air of the room smelt damply close, the big bed 
 almost filling the whole space. The woman was laid 
 high ; a crucifix in her folded hands, a cruel black 
 mark on her forehead. The whitewashed walls were 
 hung with gaudy, crude pictures of saints. (( Poor 
 mamma ! an’ she with twenty chickens fat for 
 Wednesday’s market,” said her daughter sadly. 
 
 Something brushed Acland’s heels. A white duck, 
 quacking uneasily, looked up at the bed with bright, 
 uncomprehending eyes. 
 
 “ Mamma’s pet. The leg was broke on it, and she 
 minded it. ’Twas like a Christian to her, slheepin’ 
 in that basket. ’Tis callin’ her all day.” 
 
 Unconsciously, Miss Malone struck tragedy. 
 
 Acland backed out silently, leaving Standish to 
 speak. Malone had filled a brimming bumper and 
 would take no denial. Standish said he’d take his 
 
British Subject in Strange affairs 77 
 
 outside, but Acland drank meekly ; cheap, fiery stuff, 
 which made him gulp as it bit his throat. 
 
 He ate a biscuit, though it seemed indecent to 
 eat there in view of that waxen watcher, with the 
 duck quacking plaintively. Malone said proudly that 
 doubtless they didn’t get much whisky in England. 
 
 “Washy beer an’ clart ; things ye’d be at all day 
 an’ slheep sober. That touched ye, sir.” 
 
 “ It did,” said Acland, abandoning the smear of 
 sweetened plaster on his biscuit. 
 
 “That’s the sthuff,” said Malone proudly. “Ye’re 
 a quare lot there, I’m thinkin’, sir.” 
 
 Acland meant to reply, but the fiery spirit rushed 
 straight to his head. He went out dizzily, omitting to 
 defend his country. 
 
 “ Vitriol,” he gasped, as they drove off, brushing 
 fresh arrivals. “ How could you take me in, 
 Standish ? Vitriol ! ” 
 
 Standish explained that good whisky would give 
 no pleasure. “ I thought you’d take the hint to spill 
 it outside,” he said ; “ but instead you took the jorum 
 Faith, Sandy, I believe you’re drunk.” 
 
 Sandy was not at all sure that he was not. His 
 head throbbed : the landscape was blurred, and when 
 he contradicted Standish, he did it with a very 
 careful and disobedient tongue. 
 
 “You’ve got half an hour to get sober in,” said 
 Standish, unheeding petulant protestation. 
 
 They wheeled to the left, dipping downwards 
 under big trees, arching across the road, and in 
 at Castleknock. A hospitable structure, standing 
 permanently open on broken hinges, wooden bars a 
 few yards further up keeping the cattle in. 
 
 Castleknock was a rambling house, evidently 
 designed by the same architect as Ballymacshane. 
 
7 8 
 
 Z be Stra^iuGS of 5an&$ 
 
 The same flight of stone steps, the same descent to 
 basement ; bareness of white plaster and many 
 windows, some of them blind. There is a falseness 
 about blind windows. One thinks of sullen, house- 
 bound ghosts putting aside the walls and peering out 
 spitefully. Neglected flowers blossomed on the narrow 
 lawn ; unpruned roses, tangle of old carnations, 
 self-sown mignonette, poppies, blaze of crawling 
 nasturtiums. To the left, on an old croquet ground, 
 was the scar of horses lately rung. 
 
 Acland looked round curiously. He heard a shout 
 of welcome, a gust of voices sweeping from the 
 house, when something white fluttered across his 
 nose, and the bay horse plunged snorting away. 
 Acland, just preparing to get down, did so over- 
 hurriedly, sprawling upon hands and knees at a 
 woman's feet. 
 
 “ An' the wind to whip me cap from me/' came 
 in shrill staccato from above. 
 
 “ I never saw such a chap to fall off cars," said 
 Standish, returning quite undisturbed from a 
 plunging circuit of the flower-beds. “Mary Kate" — - 
 this to the repentant damsel who came for her cap— 
 “have you no hat-pins?" 
 
 Mary Kate, as she nailed the grimy cap to her 
 hair, averred that she had one, but the wind 
 whipped it out. 
 
 Acland got up slowly : even the Downs were 
 preferable to Standish’s driving animals. He saw 
 Evie smiling at him ; her sister, laughing openly, 
 a slender, grey-eyed woman, defying her forty odd 
 years with Irish recklessness, and behind them a 
 tall, slight man of about forty-five, with a lined 
 face, very jetty black hair, and a supercilious 
 expression. 
 
JBdtisb Subject fit Strattae Bffalts 79 
 
 “That's Sandy, Nora," said Standish, “He wasn't 
 tong going on his knees to you,” this with melancholy 
 iiumour. “ But I think 'twas Michael Malone's 
 whisky that sent him there. Are you sober yet, 
 Sandy?" 
 
 “Sober yet? There are limits to the bounds of 
 patience." 
 
 The little man spluttered like an over-boiling 
 kettle, denying the idea. He, Alexander Acland, 
 business man, to be accused of drunkenness on a 
 blazing summer afternoon, as he came to call upon 
 two ladies. He certainly had taken a little whisky, 
 but — 
 
 “ Oh, a cup of tea will set you right,” said Nora 
 sympathetically, quite accepting Standish’s view. 
 “ Standish might have warned you.” 
 
 “ Didn’t I tip him the wink to come out,” said 
 Standish, grinning sadly. “ He coughed as if you'd 
 hit him on the throat, and Michael pitying him for 
 a poor Englishman.” 
 
 Standish then departed with the bay, recounting 
 the happy tale of its burning as he went, and Acland 
 buzzed in futile misery. 
 
 “ If you would kindly understand ” — he grew inco- 
 herent as he mounted the steps — '“that I — I was never 
 such a — in such a state. I should not dream of it. 
 The horse swerved aside just as I was removing the 
 rug, and I am not accustomed to outside jaunting- 
 cars. It is most unfair. Perhaps next,” wailed 
 Sandy, sitting down, overcome, upon a hall chair, 
 “ he'll say that I was drunk when I fell into the 
 barberry bush after luncheon." 
 
 “ He — might,” said Miss Hartland thoughtfully, 
 biting at a rose-stem with her white teeth. “ He 
 might. Oh, look here!” she added. “ I hope that '* 7 
 
So Ube ©tracings of Sanbg 
 
 not the chair I left my cast on. I was fishing this 
 morning.” 
 
 The bound with which Acland rose disturbed his 
 furious protest 
 
 He entered the long, cool drawing-room sulkily, 
 thirsting for revenge upon the melancholy Standish, 
 Tea was ready, laid on a big table. Piles of small, 
 rosy strawberries and golden, old-fashioned rasp- 
 berries ; jugs of rich cream ; sugar and cream in 
 quaint old silver ; tea in plain brown earthenware, 
 and tasting as it never does in anything else. The 
 tall man, who came in silently, still stared at Acland 
 with unpleasant thoughtfulness. 
 
 “ Oh, you ; do you know each other? Sir Edmund 
 Graves, Mr. Acland,” said Evie Hartland care- 
 lessly. 
 
 Her step-sister flung her a quick look, for Aclanl 
 turned crimson, a sudden flood rushing to the rootl 
 of his sandy hair. Sir Edmund did not chang 
 colour, he had known, but he bowed very coldly 
 biting his lips under his clipped moustache. 
 
 Acland sat silent, forgetting his good manners, 
 This was the man Kathleen had run away from 
 who had pursued her unmercifully, combined with 
 her parents, until she had fled, bright-faced, brave- 
 hearted, to the cruel arms of the great city, and 
 there starved \ With the pang of regret which never 
 left him, he recalled her white, transparent skin ; the 
 big, blue eyes which had smiled to the end ; and 
 Grattan standing by her as she slept and died. 
 
 “ Starved to death. Alex. . . You can call it 
 any name you like. But it’s that. No nourishment; 
 too late now. Couldn’t you look at her, man. and 
 see?” 
 
 It might not have been altogether Graves’ fault, but 
 
3Brttisft Subject lit Strange Hffatre 3i 
 
 an unreasoning hatred of the thin, sneering face, 
 with its narrow forehead and selfish mouth, sprang 
 to life in the little Englishman’s heart. He, too, 
 bowed stiffly, oblivious of the fact that it was quite 
 two minutes since they had been introduced, and 
 Graves', turning, sat down by Evie. He did not 
 seem to be over, welcome but he sat on, laughing and 
 talking, using foolish compliments to delight foolish 
 youth, and finally carrying her off to the garden. 
 They passed the windows, the girl bareheaded, the 
 strong light finding no flaw in her fine skin — 
 the man bending over her. A flutter stirred 
 Acland's heart. She was so pretty, far too much 
 so for this man with the dyed hair. He mashed 
 strawberries upon old china, and sat eating and 
 talking, when a thundering ring aroused them. 
 It was followed by the opening of the door and 
 audible announcements from Mary Kate that Miss 
 Hartland was not in. Gone out for the day . . . 
 'Twas no use waitin'. 
 
 Miss Hartland looked uneasy, and slipped to the 
 drawing-room door just as the outer one went to 
 with a bang. 
 
 “ Who, Mary Kate ? " she whispered, a note of 
 alarm in her voice 
 
 “A young man from O'Neills, miss, with a note. 
 Knowing you wouldn't be in to him, I said so, 
 and down he sat on the stheps sayin' he’ll wait. If 
 ye'd go out the back way, miss." 
 
 Nora Hartland coloured. In tones which the 
 young man on the door-step must have heard she 
 spoke to Standish. 
 
 “ Hear that?" she cried. “I thought it might 
 be . . . the other. . . . I’ve bought oats and bran 
 and meat from the brute for twenty years, and 
 
 F 
 
82 Ube Stealings ot 5anb2 
 
 now he threatens to writ me for a miserable forty 
 pounds. This man Martin has put them up to 
 it. I’ll give them all something after the show ; 
 but . . .” She swung out with uplifted head, 
 Standish observing gloomily to Sandy that ’twas 
 very hard work to make two ends meet when one 
 of them was a foot too short. 
 
 Five minutes later a young man (who looked as 
 though he had been whipped) and Miss Hartland 
 walked together to the flower-plots talking amicably. 
 Having pulled him some roses and sent him to the 
 garden to eat fruit, she returned, flushed, with triumph 
 to announce O’Neill’s nephew was now a crushed 
 mouse. 
 
 “ Daring to press me,” she said royally, “ when 
 he knows he'll get a tenner in September.” 
 
 He business man sat horrified by it all. The 
 complete absence of any shame or desire to hide 
 dififiicuties was very new to him. 
 
 “ But,” he said unhappily, “ why not have paid 
 him ? ” 
 
 Miss Hartland intimated with brevity that she 
 was totally unable to. The soul of a man who had 
 never owed a penny was stricken. 
 
 “ Forgive me,” he said. “But then, why keep 
 horses ? ” 
 
 Nora stared at him blankly. 
 
 “ How on earth could I hunt without them ? 
 she queried, with simple directness. 
 
 The discordant bray of Standish’s sudden laugh 
 reft the air. 
 
 u D'ye think she could walk with hounds ? 9 
 he said contemptuously. 
 
 A flood of wise axioms were dammed by a bar 
 of sheer astonishment, Sandy Acland took a 
 
35ritfsb Subject tit Strange Effatrs s 3 
 
 spoonful of strawberries and gave up trying to 
 understand the Irish race. One might wrestle with 
 duns upon a door-step, but man must hunt or 
 die. 
 
 “In England,” he remarked, after a pause, “ we 
 look upon horses as most expensive things too 
 keep.” 
 
 “In Ireland,” said Miss Hartland, “ they keep us. 
 They float my nose above the flood. I’ve never 
 yet had my head up.” 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” said Acland, looking at the array 
 of cakes and the great jugs full of cream. 
 
 “ Oh, the cows give the cream,” said Nora easily, 
 answering his unspoken argument. “ The silver 
 is Evie’s.” 
 
 They went out then, Acland still deep in that 
 puzzle of Ireland which has baffled great statesmen, 
 and will baffle them, for men cannot reason with a 
 race of children. 
 
 Nora and Standish, oblivious of his company, fell 
 deep into the discussion of a certain writ : the bitter 
 wickedness of the shopman who refused to wait for 
 his money. Also, the extreme graveness of the 
 danger, owing to the presence in the stable of 
 the chestnut colt which might be seized for the 
 debt. The harness and the cows were away and 
 safe ; Mikey Carty was supposed to rent the fields. 
 Acland listened with a vague feeling of irritation. 
 
 The disgrace they ought to have felt, the grief of 
 having used goods which could not be paid for, was 
 completely absent. He knew nothing of the strong 
 old feudal instinct which reasoned that it was honour 
 for the tradesman to be dealt with, and the 
 settlement could await the pleasure of the lords of 
 the soil. 
 
84 TIfoe Strings of San&s 
 
 So talking, they went up a narrow walk and 
 under an arched doorway into a tangle of bygone 
 days. Flowers and fruit running riotously unkempt, 
 gnarled apple trees, strawberries long past work, 
 perennials struggling through a mass of weeds; here a 
 flare of red-hot poker or flimsy mass of Michaelmas 
 daisy ; rotting frames and skeleton greenhouses — a 
 wreck of what man had planned. Nora, used to it, 
 saw little wrong ; the stable-boys worked in it in the 
 summer, otherwise it stood idle. They dived under 
 boughs and brushed through tangles of gooseberries 
 until they reached a huge square of raspberries, 
 where the young man from O’Neill’s, now amber- 
 smeared, was stuffing happily. 
 
 He grinned sheepishly at Nora, full of apology 
 for the note he had brought with him. 
 
 “’Tis Martin sphurred me uncle on,” he said con- 
 fidentially. “ He’s huntin’ thim all, miss ; soon sorra 
 a one will buy a thing but they musht pay on the 
 nail. Didn’t he seize the widdy Cassidy’s cow lasht 
 week, and had her home, but the widdy paid. ’Tis 
 the talk of the town, miss, that ye had some words 
 with him, an’ he says he’ll besht ye yet. Indade, 
 'twas ye’re goin’ on to him made me uncle bitther. 
 In truth, miss, I heard as I come out . . .” O’Neill’s 
 nephew peered cautiously round, sidling nearer 
 among the raspberry canes, then, as he looked this 
 way and that for imaginary listeners, his mouth fell 
 open, he froze to a rapt horror, a fat yellow raspberry 
 half-way to his mouth. “ Jakus ! ” he muttered, 
 “’Twas the truth!” 
 
 Between the tangle of boughs and riot of bushes 
 they could see two men coming in at the arched 
 doorway, attended by Mary Kate, who insistently 
 but inconsistently assured them that the missus was 
 
jBtltisfo suDject itt strange affairs 85 
 
 out for the day to Dublin, gone to the river to fish — 
 all in loud and miserable tones. 
 
 “The bailiff's, miss,” hissed O'Neill's nephew 
 dramatically. “The new divil an' all.” 
 
 The pretty colour fled from Nora's cheeks; she 
 sprang swiftly aside, drawing them to the shelter of 
 an old arbour, now a mere tangle of honeysuckle. 
 
 “ The chestnut’s in the stable,” she groaned. “ Oh, 
 Standish ! They mustn't get him. I never thought 
 they would dare. Someone must run him away. 
 They may have men watching. Someone ride him 
 off. Not you, Standish. They wouldn't believe you, 
 but. . . .” She swung upon Acland, clasping her 
 hands about his arm. “You!” 
 
 The bailiff's, had paused looking about them. 
 
 “ You!” whispered Nora, crouching close. “You 
 run. Out the back door. Get him on, say he's 
 yours.” 
 
 “ But I— I . . ” 
 
 The mild and law-abiding Englishman had no 
 chance. He found himself protesting feebly, 
 swept away on a torrent of words. It bore upon 
 his swimming brain that he was to fly like the 
 winds — run as a hare — by currant bushes, at the back 
 of a beech hedge, through a plantation, over a sunk 
 fence to the stable; was to bid one James to clap 
 a saddle swiftly on an unknown chestnut, and having 
 got himself on to the saddle, was to ride it away 
 swearing it was his own. 
 
 Breaking the law, telling lies, who cared for these 
 things when a chestnut four-year-old, and it to win in 
 his class at the horse show, was in question. The 
 bailiffs, papers in their hands, came nearer. 
 
 “ Arra, come on ; don't be slheepin ! '' O'Neill's 
 nephew plucked his sleeve, sweeping him round, 
 
86 
 
 Ube Strapfngs or 5a 
 
 Alexander Acland of London, until a month ago 
 a creature of the mildest routine, found himself 
 sprinting, bent double past the currant bushes, 
 dashing erect, hedge - hidden, across a square of 
 cabbage, where green things rolled, snapping rottenly 
 beneath his feet ; scratched by thorns, slapped by 
 boughs, never given a moment. Out a low doorway, 
 plunging into the mazes of a larch plantation where 
 the light tassels whipped him, smelling pungently, 
 and ever urged to “ Hurry, let ye hurry. Tis 
 crawlin' ye are. Come on.” 
 
 The difficulties of the sunk fence yawned at his 
 feet, but almost ere he paused, he was tweaked 
 forward to an irresistible jump, to land amid a grove 
 of well-grown nettles. 
 
 “Didye sthumble?” said O’Neill’s nephew, observ- 
 ing the little man flat on his face, “Hurry on, I tell 
 ye ; hurry on.” 
 
 Breath was a mere memory to Acland as he 
 turned in at the stable gate, but O’Neill’s nephew, 
 speeding ahead, screamed loudly for James. Then 
 came mad exclamations from that henchman, part of 
 this daylight nightmare. “ Divil swcheeps ! ” and 
 “Be damns!” A frantic diving into hay-lofts, the 
 emerging of O’Neill’s nephew with a bridle, and the 
 leading forth of a great, lumping chestnut, with 
 tucked-down tail and laid-back ears. 
 
 Horror of law-breaking tingled in the panting little 
 man’s heart, and, to do him justice, rose high above 
 the fear which gripped him, as he saw this red equine 
 mountain, and knew he must clamber to its back. 
 “ They may tiot come here. There may be no need,” 
 he commenced to falter, temporising, as he en- 
 deavoured to refasten his collar. To this O’Neill’s 
 nephew scathingly replied that maybe he mightn’t 
 
JSrltlsb Subject tn strange malts 8? 
 
 die whe n the breath left him, and also revealed the 
 inborn criminal instinct by dashing water over the 
 chestnut's legs and then bestrewing them with 
 handfuls of dust. 
 
 ‘‘They'll be sure to come in/ he panted, t 'knowin > 
 the lady could nivir give up this horse." 
 
 Nemesis grasped Sandy’s leg ; he lighted on his 
 stomach upon a slippery saddle, dived for the over- 
 long stirrup, gripped the reins and sat up, a miserable 
 man, He was sitting there, still undecided, when 
 Miss Hartland, Standish, and the bailiffs walked in at 
 the gate. Nora's cheeks were poppy-coloured, her 
 head was high ; Standish slouched along looking 
 slightly more cheerful than usual. A frantic leg and 
 flapping coat-tail represented the headlong flight of 
 O’Neill’s nephew, who, not wishing to be reported to 
 his uncle, took covert in the hay-loft. 
 
 “Not gone yet?” said Nora, in her clear, sweet voice. 
 
 “ I was delayed," said Acland, taking the cue, 
 “ In fact . , . I . . . fell . . . among some bushes." 
 
 It was cruel of Standish to mutter : “ Drunk 
 again ! " as the little man made this gallant attempt 
 to explain away a flapping collar and scarlet cheeks, 
 but it may have been for the benefit of the bailiff. 
 
 “ Go down the back avenue," said Standish, with 
 meaning, “ and turn to the left, the way you rode 
 over. I’ll overtake you." 
 
 To move on anywhere meant that James would let 
 the reins go, and Acland would be at the mercy of 
 the fidgeting brute between his knees, already 
 contemplating buck jumps. 
 
 “ Lead him," he whispered softly in James's ears. 
 
 But the new bailiff shook his head. He had peered 
 about the empty yard and knew there was nothing 
 in it. He had come with express orders to seize a 
 
S8 Ube ©tracings or sant>£ 
 
 chestnut horse until the bill was paid, and he raised 
 a fretted face. This animal was a chestnut He 
 made some nasty remarks about the unaccountable 
 bareness of the stables, then strode across. 
 
 “Ye have a red horse that should pay us,” he said. 
 u This horse is of that colour.” 
 
 Nora shivered, seeing Sandy quail. Would he 
 yield to the law or lie for her as a true gentleman? 
 
 James jogged Acland’s heel. Looking down, he 
 saw the hard, goatee-bearded face of an Irishman 
 who has lost his best nature in America, who had 
 returned to do business, with all his own nation's 
 cunning to aid him. The spoilt product of two 
 countries put a hand on the horse’s bridle and 
 sneered openly. 
 
 “ This might be he,” said Haynes, the bailiff, 
 sharply. 
 
 “ How dare you touch my horse, sir ? ” flared Acland 
 superbly. Nora’s face brightening. “ I am Mr. 
 Acland of London,” he added pompously, “ and 
 have been calling on Miss Hartland, I am now 
 leaving.” 
 
 “Ridin’ back to London maybe?” queried the man 
 cunningly. 
 
 He was aware that the chestnut colt had come in 
 from grass, and though he could not swear to it 
 himself, Martin, his cousin and employer, who had 
 promised to follow him, knew it well. So he 
 hesitated to gain time, knowing that the law which 
 he served could be nasty to those who violated 
 the rights of ownership. 
 
 “Isn’t that Miss Hartland’s red colt they have ye 
 thrown up on ? ” he asked sullenly. “ Divil a sthep 
 ye’ll lave the yard till I know, or one comes that 
 knows. Misther Martin’s on his way here.” 
 
mittefo Subject in Strange Bffatrs 89 
 
 Nora started. Here was fresh danger. Martin 
 knew the horse well. Acland caught Noras eye, 
 and instantly found himself lying with a fluency 
 which astonished his own ears. He demanded right 
 to go home ; he stormed at the bailiff, but the man 
 hesitated, still holding the rein. It was a fairly well- 
 known fact, that if any of Miss Hartland’s creditors 
 did turn nasty, her neighbours immediately took all 
 her stock and swore to their being their own. 
 
 The distant rattle of a trap smote on their ears. 
 Standish came up to Acland, and, under cover of 
 adjusting a stirrup leather, urged him to leave. 
 
 The Irish-American held his ground stubbornly. 
 The dominant Saxon strain broke loose in Sandy. 
 
 “ Let go my horse, you man ! ” he shouted savagely, 
 but Hayes, listening for the approaching trap, bade 
 him be still. 
 
 “Ye won't go so aisy, sir^ he sneered. 
 
 Acland sat straight. A light of martyrdom shone 
 on his nettle-stung face. He would go. He would 
 be gone before this new-comer arrived. 
 
 “ Then I will go unaisy ! ” he thundered, with 
 unexpected retort. “Let go the horse, James." 
 
 James did so promptly, moreover, aided by a 
 hoarse whisper from Standish, he raised his foot and 
 kicked the chestnut hard upon the ribs. At the 
 same moment a handful of old iron, deftly aimed, 
 fell in strange hail from the door of the loft upon the 
 shining quarters. 
 
 The chestnut colt, nervous and half-trained, asked 
 for no more. He rose with a soaring plunge from the 
 kick, dashed forward at the stinging blows ; laid the 
 bailiff flat upon the yard ; cleared him as he lay 
 howling ; spurned the world with ready heels, and 
 bolted for his pastures, while flat upon his mane 
 
9 o ftfte stra^inss or san&g 
 
 terrified yet triumphant, crouched Alexander Acland, 
 finding breath for a faint “ Hang you ! Lie there,” 
 as he jumped the bailiff. The two disappeared at 
 fast gallop down the back avenue. 
 
 “ It’s the devil's long way to fall,” observed Standish 
 easily, as he ran ior his bay horse, adding that an 
 action for damages would be immediately instituted 
 by Mr. Acland if he happened to be found dead. 
 
 The bay, always ready to go home, tore off 
 cantering, James hopping on the step and shouting 
 comment— mixed with unheard directions. 
 
 “ He's off, Begob ! he’s there yet. Gather up the 
 reins, can’t ye, and sthop him. Gripes, but the grey 
 filly has him losht ! Here she comes helther- 
 skelther. He’s off No ; he’s out the gate. Bad 
 cess to the grey filly, Misther Standish, if she isn’t 
 over the bound fince and down to meet thim on the 
 road. That’ll finish it.” 
 
 It was certainly the grey filly who finished matters. 
 Acland had held on despairingly, all but gone, 
 when the grey filly, all mane and tail, and whinny, 
 tore up, and the chestnut swerved. He recovered, * 
 for the chestnut, naturally gentle, sobered to a 
 shattering trot, and was contemplating stopping 
 when the filly came again, snorting friendship 
 loudly. The chestnut plunged, and stopped dead 
 short, giving a ringing greeting; while Acland shot 
 out over his shoulder into the depths of a fortunately 
 muddy ditch. 
 
 “ God be praised we had the rain,” breathed James, 
 as he pulled the Englishman out. “ Were the ditch 
 dhry ye were cracked to bits with the shoot ye took. 
 God save ye, with no knowledge of horse-riding, to 
 mount as ye d id. God help us ! ” 
 
 He departed for wisps of grass, while Standish 
 
JBdtlsb Subject ttt Strange Hffairs 91 
 
 eyed his guest with silent thoughtfulness. Sandy 
 was plastered with mud ; he limped when he moved ; 
 he bled freely from a cut over the eye. A little 
 blood and mud make a great show. A sudden flash 
 of tragic joy lit Blundell's face. 
 
 “ Clap the chestnut into Dayly’s,” he commanded, 
 “ and come on, Sandy, before you're dry. Let the 
 blood run. We’ll teach this chap a lesson.” 
 
 He shoved the astonished little man on to the car, 
 talking earnestly as he did so, until a faint smile 
 showed under a mask of red-hued mud. 
 
 Miss Hartland, thoughtfully nibbling a twig, was 
 listening to the combined threats of the bailiff and 
 Martin, her creditor, when the car returned. Then 
 she screamed, genuinely frightened. Standish told 
 James to pull up ; with a gentle hand he plucked 
 Acland, very limp and bloody, from the seat, and 
 standing with an arm about the injured man, 
 commenced to hold forth. Nora had fled for female 
 aid. 
 
 “ A hundred pounds," said Blundell slowly, while 
 James now supported Acland at the other side, 
 “ won’t settle this. That's for damages, let alone the 
 horse and the probable death. Nothing less, before 
 Judge Maguire. A gentleman, calling on a lady, 
 is forcibly held ; his valuable horse struck and made 
 to bolt, the horse ruined, the gentleman — ” he 
 looked down at Sandy, who quivered — “ the 
 gentleman. Mary Kate,” he cried, “ bring the 
 brandy before it’s too late. It was nice doings on,” 
 said Standish, as he propped Sandy up. “Judge 
 Maguire would made short work of men who held 
 horses and then struck them,” and he proceeded to 
 tell the whole story from his point of view. 
 
 Martin wheeled upon his cousin and bailiff, who 
 
92 
 
 Ube ©tracings or sano# 
 
 with the fervour of truth, denied everything, and 
 poured out his story, to be contradicted by Standish 
 and snapped at by James until the fabric of his tale 
 was a mere fretted rag. Aghast, he swore he had 
 never struck the horse, which suddenly appeared to 
 go mad . . . and ran away. 
 
 “ There are those who will swear he was struck,” 
 said Standish heavily. “ I saw him spring from the 
 blow.” 
 
 “ An’ meself,” piped a voice from the hay-loft. 
 “ He was sthruck under the right axther. Til swear 
 to it.” 
 
 Sudden witnesses dropping from heaven, the 
 bailiff* lost heart and colour ; he commenced to 
 contradict himself, and not to feel sure of his own 
 existence. He sat down heavily on the edge of the 
 pump-trough and wished he had never been born. 
 Nora, attended by a grey-haired cook and Mary 
 Kate, came flying out with towels, a basin, and 
 whisky. Acland, prompted by Standish, wagged 
 his head and looked very ill indeed. Nora cried 
 out, the maids screamed, Tom groaned, Evie and Sir 
 Edmund coming in the gate, both joined in, t e 
 clamour rose like a flood-tide 
 
 Standish measured out whisky. “ Don’t wash him,” 
 he whispered to Nora, who, catching his eye, suddenly 
 dropped her sponge and buried her face in her 
 handkerchief. 
 
 Standish observed, as he ordered Acland not to 
 drink, that he had sent for a doctor and a vet. That 
 the strange horse, worth two hundred pounds, had 
 his hocks cut and back tendons hanging, and that 
 Mr. Acland, possessing a weak heart, was almost sure 
 to die. 
 
 At this point, Sir Edmund caused a diversion by 
 
JSritfst) Subject fn Strange Hffatrs 93 
 
 shoving Evie out of the yard, and the word “ drunk ” 
 wafted down the breeze. 
 
 Acland stirred, forgetting his weakness, the mud 
 covering his sudden flush. 
 
 “Die! Make him swallow, James, 1 ” said Standish 
 solemnly. “ The whisky's going to loss,” he added 
 to himself. 
 
 Martin muttering, knew himself a beaten man. 
 The clamour frightened him. His ally, the bailiff, 
 was a broken reed, crumpled up in a pump- 
 trough. Ill - temperedly, he swore he'd fight : he 
 darkly hinted at swindling ; but Acland suddenly 
 allowed his head to droop over his left shoulder* 
 and swaying, closed his eyes. The cook, with 
 a neigh of terror, dropped the basin on Mary 
 Kate's toes and commenced to pray. Mary Kate, 
 much injured, wept aloud ; and Clancy's nephew 
 screeched “ Glory ! ” from the hay-loft. The bailiff, 
 feeling the edge of the pump-trough, did not express 
 his collapse, slipped over it and sat in a pool of 
 water. 
 
 “ My God ! ” said Standish. “ He's nearly gone.” 
 
 Martin stormed feebly. Mountainous damages 
 loomed before his eyes. He kicked the supine 
 bailiff, and proffered compromise, while the cook 
 prayed through it all. 
 
 What Acland said when Standish whispered to 
 him, was : “ For God's sake stop the cook ! ” but 
 Standish translated it otherwise. Very gravely he 
 observed that Mr. Acland wished to be hard on no 
 man. He would probably die, but if Miss Hartland's 
 bill was receipted, he would forgive all and forego 
 the heavy claims he might exact. 
 
 None knew better than Martin that half his account 
 was fraudulent. Never was bill more quickly 
 
94 
 
 Ube ©tracings ot ©anbg 
 
 receipted, or stamp more fervently licked. He 
 thought he had escaped cheaply. He reft the damp 
 bailiff from the trough and drove him away. It was 
 subsequently reported that both men had black eyes 
 on arriving at Lisduff. 
 
 O'Neill’s nephew dashed down to shut the gates, 
 and Miss Hartland subsided, in her turn, on the pump- 
 trough, as Acland stood up smiling and demanded 
 a drink. He was exceedingly triumphant. The 
 cook feeling that good religion had been wasted, 
 retreated sulkily, bewailing the loss of her basia 
 “ Not another left to raise bread in,” she grunted 
 savagely. 
 
 “ Go and wash yourself, Sandy,” said Standish, 
 sadly and ungratefully, “ and don't drink any more. 
 There are worse than you on earth.” 
 
 Here Sir Edmund, who had kept Evie away, came 
 across. 
 
 “ Why don't you put the chap to bed ! ” he asked 
 disgustedly, unaware of what had happened. 
 
 This was too much. Acland faced the tall man, 
 asking in a very sober voice if Sir Edmund believed 
 him drunk. 
 
 “ Oh, no ! merely indisposed,” said the baronet 
 drily, as he lighted a cigarette. 
 
 His look held mud, blood, and torn garments up 
 to review. 
 
 “ It's very sad,” said Standish severely. “ Poor 
 man ! ” Then his sudden bray of laughter reft the 
 the air. “ Be Gad, Sandy ! ” he said, “ you never 
 knew what life was till you came to Ireland.” 
 
 Acland muttered, devoid of repartee ; but hatred 
 of the black-haired man lit his eyes. 
 
 Nora jumped up. 
 
 “ Sandy has been a treasure,” she flashed out 
 
Brftisb Subject tn Strange Bffatrs 95 
 
 M Why, even Standish couldn’t have lied more 
 perfectly.” 
 
 4 You’re out of that hunt, Ned,” said Standish, as 
 Acland was led away between the two ladies, and he 
 proceeded to tell the tale, interrupting it now and 
 again with the gusts of merriment which seemed 
 to positively reeve his sad face. 
 
 They left later, loaded with applause, Acland 
 ruminating on his day’s doings. The sun was sinking 
 through tinged clouds ; purple and grey, edged with 
 gentle rose. Higher up, dark bars floated in an 
 amber sky. 
 
 Acland was tired ; the flutter at his side reminded 
 him of his reason for coming over. They dropped 
 from the radiance of the dying sun into the shadow 
 of the hills, and ever by his side ran another shadow 
 grim and dark — the shadow of death, into which 
 all men must step. He had acted and laughed 
 during the afternoon ; but it sat beside him now. 
 If this cure should fail ... if he should grow worse 
 instead of better . . . then he had but a year of 
 life. Within twelve months . . . perhaps less, must 
 come that inevitable ending, which is anticipated 
 with bitter terror, met bravely at the last. His heart 
 fluttered, his cheeks grew whiter, his hands numb. 
 
 Struggling to forget he raised his head as they 
 drove up the long hill near Ballymacshane, and 
 peevishly asked Standish if there was no such thing 
 as law and order in Ireland. 
 
 “ The law of self-protection.” Standish looked 
 round at the note in the tired voice. “ Come now, 
 Sandy, did you ever enjoy anything more in your 
 life than worsting that cur? He did it for a piece 
 of spite, for he knew poor Nora would pay if she 
 could, as she always does*” 
 
9 6 
 
 XTbe Stra^tnQg of Sanbp 
 
 Acland shook his red head, pondering on the 
 waste of time which English statesmen endure as 
 they endeavour to govern Ireland. The now 
 amiable bay came smartly up to the door ; Aunt 
 Susie was out on the lawn bewailing a dead chicken. 
 She held the limp little thing in her hands It was 
 there again, the shadow of death. Acland tried to 
 get down, but the world span dizzily and sank 
 beneath his feet. 
 
 Standish ran to him. “Here, Aunt Susie,” he 
 cried. “ Leave the hens. Sandy’s fainting. Hi 
 there, Mary Anne ! call Phillips. We forget he 
 said as he held his little guest in his strong arms 
 with a woman’s gentleness, that he is really ill. 
 To-day was too much for him. Hang it ! ” he added, 
 as he gave Sandy to Phillips and ran for brandy 
 “Fancy, if it really did for him, and we’d let Martin 
 off like that.” 
 
 Acland endured an evening of semi-invalidism 
 and decided as he sat in the big arm-chair tha 
 it would be worth his while to add notes on Ireland 
 to the diary which he always kept. In time to come 
 the shadow had fled from the turf fire’s glow . . . 
 he might compile a most interesting book from his 
 personal experiences. It is satisfactory to note 
 that on the sale of the good chestnut, Miss Hartland 
 paid the man Martin all that she believed she owed 
 him. He left Lisduff that winter ; for the story 
 leaked out, and the town laughed the hard man 
 from his place. 
 
CHAPTER VO 
 
 TELLING OF THE WILD WEST COAST 
 
 “ But the red sun sank to his evening shroud 
 Where the Western billows are rolled, 
 
 Behind a curtain of sable cloud, 
 
 With a tinge of scarlet and gold.” 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 ACLAND felt better again next day, and wandered 
 out into the yard to peer in at Holy Robin, for the 
 colt had caught his eye. 
 
 “ If I could ride,” he said — Phillips hovered near 
 with an unwelcome milk and soda — “ I should like 
 that animal.” 
 
 Tom, thinking of those doubtful hocks, turned Holy 
 Robin round. 
 
 “ He might carry you well,” he said, “ whin he’s 
 thrained ; for he comes off gintle sthock. An’ ye’d 
 have a beauty.” 
 
 Phillips proffered the milk and soda with respectful 
 decision, Robin poking out a velvety nose to see 
 if it was good. 
 
 “ Whin ye come back,” said Tom, “ I’ll have a saint 
 med of him.” 
 
 “Come back?” queried Acland, startled. 
 
 Phillips explained. He had understood that his 
 master knew all about it. The whole family moved 
 to the sea. To Dunhaven, on the west coast. In fact, 
 
 97 G 
 
9 8 
 
 trbe Strainings of 5ant>$ 
 
 the old ladies were already packing. Acland, who 
 wanted nothing better than the quiet of Ballymacshane 
 shook his head and went to Standish. He found that 
 gentleman inspecting fat pigs and received information 
 of the news. 
 
 “ Oh, yes ; they are all off to Dunhaven ; Nora 
 and Evie and all Just the place for an invalid.” 
 
 Sandy’s faint had impressed Standish. In fact, 
 Dunhaven seemed a museum of delights, comprising 
 boating, fishing, bathing, shrimping, and all kinds of 
 things which might appeal to a non-sporting man in 
 doubtful health : the next place being America if he 
 fell over the cliffs. 
 
 Resistance was impossible. He had to go. The 
 house buzzed for a few days, unti he found himself 
 back at Cara Station, transported thither behind a 
 pair of reliable plough horses, with a packing of 
 baskets containing kittens, and other baskets con- 
 taining chickens. Acland took a second-class ticket, 
 but was thrust in first, with a careless assurance from 
 Standish that the gentleman would pay the difference 
 when the collector came. He responded to the 
 lecture from Sandy occasioned by the disbursement 
 of this extra money by saying that economy was 
 waste of time. 
 
 It was a journey of many changes, one at Tullow, 
 one again an hour later at Ennis, and then, crowded 
 into tiny carriages, they all gathered for lunch — a 
 closely-packed collection. A stroll along the plat- 
 form had revealed Phillips, instead of using his 
 second-class ticket, travelling third with the maids ; 
 his smile was uneasy when his master congratulated 
 him on economy. 
 
 They lunched merrily, with the interlude of an 
 escaped kitten and flock of fluffy nurslings falling 
 
trelllng of tbe WiR> mest Coast 99 
 
 upon Graves lap, as their tiny train ran into a wild 
 and desolate land. Crops of stones instead of grass ; 
 loose stone walls fencing the poor fields ; glimpses of 
 deep, wet glens and narrow streams, until the land 
 grew lonelier, stretching at either side inabrown-hued, 
 dark-pooled bog. 
 
 They stopped at a little busy station, a river 
 foaming close to it, to see the sea before them. A 
 great sheen of shimmering grey, Moher cliffs barring 
 the horizon, foam licking their dark feet. Sea such 
 as England knows not : no glimpses of piers and 
 band-stand, no gentle waves coming and going 
 decorously, but this great waste of untamed waters, 
 glorious in its majesty, heaving its might into huge 
 rollers, coming spuming at the jagged cliffs which 
 breasted and defied it ; thundering on the wide 
 bays, leaping at the rocks, a beast wild and unsubdued, 
 ever ready to leap into wrath. 
 
 Acland, a little jaded, peered out, saw the glimmer of 
 grey waters, and hoped there would not be too much 
 noise. He remarked that he detested the constant 
 playing of music and subsequent demands for money. 
 
 Standish’s laugh jarred their nerves ; Miss Susie 
 pointed gently across a stretch of boggy land to the 
 sea. “Nothing but rocks and sand,” she said, as 
 they ran between high banks, foxgloves clinging to 
 the moist sides. Further enlightenment was cut 
 short by their arrival. There is a porter at Dunhaven 
 Station, his name is Michael, and he figures in a well- 
 known song, but he is generally wanted to mend the 
 engine. When there is no train he has been known 
 to attend to passengers. He was certainly not to be 
 found now. Standish went to the van, which was 
 empty, forthe guard was alsowrestlingwith machinery, 
 and commenced to pull out things, Phillips, finding 
 
ioo ube Stealings of Sanbs 
 
 himself worsted in the encounter with several dozen 
 old women, suddenly remembered that he could not 
 find his master's dressing-case, and searched all the 
 carriages for it ; while Graves and Standish, attended 
 by a car-driver, found the piles of luggage — and 
 Standish, as he saw Phillips finally pick up the 
 dressing-case from the platform, said drily that he 
 was a man of resource. “ Certainly, sir ! ” said Phillips 
 modestly, carefully wrapping a rug round his master. 
 
 It was needed. Late July as it was, the wind cut 
 chilly. It rushed across the flat bogiand straight 
 from romping with that giant sea. It whooped at 
 them on the narrow road, and blew fine sand to them 
 grittily as they passed the humping coarse-grassed 
 sandhills. No fear of music here, nothing but a few 
 bleak little houses crouching on the edge of the cliff, 
 all well apart, like sulky children. Bare little places; 
 fenced about with whitewashed, flat-topped walls ; 
 the wind thrashing them hourly. Nothing to hear 
 but the crash and roll of the breakers, grinding 
 against the granite cliffs. 
 
 Desolation impersonined, yet splendid in its 
 loneliness ; a mighty sea god, brooding alone. 
 
 They wheeled off the road into a little bumping 
 lane, the sea crashing in front, an ugly two-storied 
 house at their left. 
 
 On Standish jogging his arm and asking what he 
 thought of Dunhaven, Acland shook his head. He 
 looked at the bare fields, the lonely roads, the waste 
 of heaving waters, and suggested that the Creator 
 must have had a little piece of the world over, and 
 dumped it down here as an afterthought, for He 
 couldn’t have intended to make such a place. Further 
 speech was cut short by the catching of the step in 
 the iron gate, and the interesting argument between 
 
XTellfn q of tbe MUD Meet Coast xoi 
 
 Standish and the driver as to whose fault it was, the 
 gate's or the driver’s, all possibility of getting off 
 being deferred until they were clear of the rusty iron 
 spikes. 
 
 “ Bedam to it for a gate ! me sthep’s desthryed,” 
 said Patsy, taking the last word, as they got clear, and 
 drove along a rutty, grass-grown track. 
 
 Memories of the Croxton cottage troubled Acland. 
 He came into a tiny room, bleak and bare as the sea 
 it overlooked ; with a permanent gale whining through 
 the narrow windows, both propped up with sea stones. 
 Miss Susie said it looked even worse than last year, 
 and immediately enlisted Patsy to feed her chickens 
 with oatmeal. 
 
 The place reeked of sea - damp ; it smelt musty ; 
 but no one seemed astonished at the bare wretched- 
 ness. The first alluring feature was the arrival of 
 Phillips and Ellie with a bundle of wood which the 
 maid called “ bog dale.” This bogwood flared to 
 match’s touch, and after a flood of smoke, which 
 Ellie pronounced due to “ thim divils of Daa’s in the 
 chimbley,’’ there was a fire such as only turf and 
 wood can supply, glowing and fragrant, cheerful, 
 yet not fierce. 
 
 Ellie announced that Mrs. Magee, who was Patsy’s 
 mother, had the “ kittle biled against thim, and a loaf 
 in the oven that would be in in two minutes.” She 
 then retired, attended by Phillips, v/ho was neglecting 
 his own work. 
 
 To sit down in the drawing-room at Seaview 
 Lodge, Dunhaven, is a difficulty. It it furnished with 
 wickers chairs from caravans, clearly meant for the 
 day when a month-old baby shall have learnt the art 
 of sitting up. It is further embellished with a 
 broken ottoman, a round table, and an unsafe sofa 
 
ro2 Ufoe Straptnos o t Sa 
 
 The Blundells brought a collection of deck-chairs, 
 but people who do not, suffer, as many could say. 
 Tea came on a rusty tray piled with small, thick 
 cups ; but it was Acland’s first meeting with a hot 
 soda loaf fresh from a turf oven. They ate this and 
 much plum-cake, and Acland, cheered, was ordered 
 to go with Standish to the shore, for the sea is a 
 monarch, requiring immediate attendance at its 
 ~ourt. It licked the low cliffs a hundred yards 
 from the house. A waste of wind-whipped waters, 
 now slipping backwards from the shore, leaving the 
 rocks uncovered, sucking, roaring, snarling ; crash of 
 heavy rollers ; plop of little wavelets. 
 
 A pallid gleam of gold showed Moher cliffs and 
 the distant Arran islands. The light was soon 
 covered ; the sea ran leaden against a stormy sky. 
 Grey clouds massed heavily, torn into jagged, humping 
 crags, dark before a furtive crimson. Looking out at 
 the sweep of the sandy bay, the ochre-hued hills 
 behind, it was hard to realise why mankind had 
 chosen Dunhaven as a health resort and built those 
 lonely houses. Five of them faced the bay, forlornly 
 breasting the eternal wind. It all belongs there to 
 one landlady, an old woman who queens it over her 
 tiny slice of earth, and considers the cold comforts 
 of fifty years before good enough for those she 
 condescends to let lodges to. 
 
 “ We’ll have rain,” said Standish, going down a 
 steep groove on to the the wet seaweed. “ See how 
 clear the isles are. It’s coming now.” 
 
 The purple rack of cloud crept higher, eating the 
 gleams of sunlight in its greedy mouth. The wide 
 bay is rock-hemmed, with creamy fretted froth at 
 either side, noising up and down like some striving, 
 restless beast, for it is not often calm at Dunhaven, 
 
Celling of tbe MUD West Coast 103 
 
 There are days of glaring heat with blue waters 
 reflecting a blue sky, when the rocks shimmer, and 
 the glare is hard to bear ; but the spirit of the 
 Atlantic heaves below the surface . . . the west 
 wind whispers it comes again to riot with its mighty 
 love. 
 
 The tide fell slowly, as though unwilling to leave 
 the cliff. Patsy, the driver, who was also a boatman, 
 came down to move up his light canoe, and to say, 
 “There’d be a hardenin' in the wind afore mornin\” 
 
 Standish followed the grumbling waves ; small 
 things now in the long reefs of rocks ; the whole 
 air teemed with salt. 
 
 “’Twill blow strength into you, Sandy,” he said 
 gloomily, flinging stones for the barking terriers. 
 
 Catty, the red setter, who had adopted Acland, 
 thrust a moist nose into his hand and said mutely 
 that she, too, would rather be at home. 
 
 They left the shore, wandering along the cliff- 
 edge. It was wilder this way; no houses, nothing 
 but small creeks, water-worn boulders, deep, dark 
 pools with tangle of weed in their depths. Sheep 
 cropped the short, sweet grass. Further, there was 
 a stretch of flat rocks, wet still, the sea breaking 
 greenly at the edge of the reef Lifeless ; no boats 
 on the waters ; no one on the rocks. Here the sea 
 is a conqueror, not a serf. One dreamt of the 
 towering Spanish ships, driven here ; laden with 
 pride of Spanish wealth and blood ; to grind to 
 powder on that relentless shore. Lifted on huge 
 rollers ; beaten down by spuming waves ; broken 
 and torn by jagged granite teeth. Dark corpses 
 strewn with the sea-wrack on the shore. They who 
 had sailed in their might to conquer the little land 
 of England, were mere toys in the hand of England’s 
 
io 4 Zht Stra^inQS of 5ant>2 
 
 guardian, flung against the shores of her sister isle, 
 Acland was oppressed by it all ; he was glad to go 
 home and see the fire-lit sitting-room. He took 
 kittens on his knee ; welcoming a spot where 
 humanity ruled and the west wind was shut out, 
 moaning sulkily. 
 
 Dinner seemed principally to consist of lobsters, 
 served cold in the shells (of which a red ruin was 
 carried out), and of mutton and crabs, the latter 
 dressed cunningly. Acland forgot his delicate 
 digestion, and excavated lobster with greedy 
 relish. 
 
 There was no going out after dinner: the stormy 
 clouds had spread ; the rain plashed down. So they 
 played Bridge, and Sir Edmund and Evie won, 
 because Standish’s habitual depression extended 
 that evening to invariable Spades, and his partner 
 paid unhappily, noting to the debit side in his 
 neat pocket-books. His bedroom had a sloping 
 roof, and the window was let into the floor, an 
 arrangement which resulted in a roaring draught 
 lifting the bed-clothes. The framework of the bed 
 was of wood ; so uneasy a structure that Acland 
 requested Phillips, who was placing a tin bath 
 in place, to decide as to its safety. Phillips 
 considered the bed might be slept in, and was then 
 peevishly asked by his master what he meant by 
 arranging baths overnight. 
 
 “To catch the water, sir,” said Phillips cheerfully. 
 “ Towels and sponges to deaden the drip, sir. Ellie 
 assures me that as this is the largest room, it is also 
 the wettest. Good-night, sir.” 
 
 Acland was tired ; he slept heavily, and it seemed 
 still night when Standish, very tall and melancholy, 
 appeared at his bedside. The eternal Dunhaven 
 
XTelUitG o t tbe WIUD West Coast 105 
 
 tempests raved outside the blindless windows : it was 
 grey mom, cold and cheerless. 
 
 “ What ! ” blinked Acland sleepily. 
 
 “Time for a dip,” said Standish despotically. 
 Acland sat up ; he caught a glimpse through the 
 floor of grey breakers, white-crested, and realised his 
 doom. At the sea people bathed. They combated 
 with those cold waters and called it pleasure. In 
 England, at broad noon, towed in a sand-strewn box 
 into smooth, warm water it was tolerable, but here — 
 A gleam of sunshine struck upwards through the 
 window. 
 
 “ Glorious morning ! ” said Standish. “ Oh, rouse 
 up, Sandy. Here’s Phillips.” 
 
 Acland rose. He donned the Dunhaven morning 
 costume of a great - coat and pyjamas, Standish 
 waiting clamorously below. 
 
 “ Phillips,” he said peevishly. “ Carry the towels. 
 Come with me. Hang the sea, Phillips.” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips, taking up his burden. 
 The reality exceeded all imaginings. A scramble 
 across fields with rude wind chilling drearily ; a final 
 descent down a steep place to the sea, where Standish 
 slipped and Acland fell. The bathing-place itself a 
 long tongue of rock running into a boisterous sea. 
 No shelter of discreet wheeled houses ; not even a 
 cave to dress in. There were several other pleasure- 
 seekers swimming in the grey depths or drying in 
 the arctic breeze. Standish put a stone on his over- 
 coat, revealed his lean, brown self to the morning, 
 and dived into the deep waters which ran at one side 
 of the rock. At the other, the breakers thundered 
 on the sand. Sir Edmund, who had met them, 
 followed suit ; but Acland, quoting his doctor, clung 
 to his coat and hovered unhappily. Standish came 
 
io6 Zhc Strastngs of Sandg 
 
 up, purple-faced, declaring it was lukewarm, and that 
 sea-water hurt no man. 
 
 “ Allow me, sir.” Phillips, secure in his warm suit, 
 removed his master’s coat. “ Now, sir,” and Acland 
 came pinkly from his pyjamas. 
 
 Acland declaring that it looked Arctic, as the breeze 
 swooped at his defenceless form, poised on the brink, 
 looking down at the dull waters, watching little cold 
 waves come smacking at the rock. 
 
 Standish climbed out, ready for another dive ; he 
 looked, a gleam lit his sombre eyes, and he lurched 
 awkwardly against the undecided man. Acland 
 screamed, and went down to the bitter sea, but as 
 he fell, he clutched at the nearest thing to him, 
 which happened to be his valet’s legs. For once 
 in his life Phillips lost his presence of mind ; 
 his howl, as he was dragged over the edge, was 
 worthy of any ordinary mortal. Pink, naked 
 master and blue - clad man clove the waves 
 together, sending up a splash of spray, and emerged, 
 both blowing frantically. Matters would even then 
 have been less complicated if they had not 
 happened to fall upon Graves, who was swimming 
 near, and involve him in their ruin. Phillips got 
 away, clambered up the rock like a sea-monkey, and 
 fled, dripping for home ; Acland, very much be- 
 wildered, and no swimmer, caught the infuriated 
 baronet by the hair and held him under while he 
 gasped himself. By the time two men came to the 
 rescue, Graves was half drowned, and his language 
 when he could speak, visibly rose the temperature. 
 
 “ Why — the— what — business had a man to come 
 into deep water who could not swim? You — 
 you — ” 
 
 Acland assured him in precise tones . . still 
 
UelUitG of tfte mm> Me st Coast 107 
 
 holding on as he did so . . . that his coming was 
 not premeditated : the wind had, In fact, suddenly 
 arisen and blown him there, thumping him behind, 
 also that he believed his victim to be Phillips. He 
 then scaled the rock, hurting his toes in the effort, 
 and cried for his man, his sea-bathing over. A blue 
 blur far off on the bay represented that faithful servitor, 
 so Acland had to dry himself with wet towels and to 
 listen to much abuse until they returned to breakfast. 
 It was not a convivial walk : Graves, who had dressed 
 on the rock, muttered unpleasing comments. Acland 
 wondered how he had been flung into the sea by the 
 sudden whirlwind. It had not agreed with him : his 
 complexion was pale purple, his limbs like lead, 
 and, Nora Hartland, seeing him, dived to the kitchen 
 and produced hot coffee hurriedly, rating Standish 
 as she did so. The shock of icy Atlantic waters 
 were not advisable to a breakfastless and delicate 
 man. 
 
 “In fact, you are a fool, Standish,” said Nora 
 severely. “You might have picked a dead man out 
 of the water.” 
 
 “We nearly did,” said Standish, penitent at heart, 
 but recounting the drowning of Graves with some 
 relish. “ Every time Ned came up he wanted to 
 curse so badly he couldn’t take a breath ; you’d hear 
 half a d — n in the bubbles, and then Sandy had him 
 down again. He was black in the face when we 
 pulled Sandy off him.” 
 
 “ Phillips,” called Acland severely, down the little 
 passage. 
 
 “ Sir,” said Phillips, instantly appearing in dry 
 clothes, Ellie, behind him, carrying a sopped bundle 
 of blue. 
 
 Dunhaven was at its best that morning. The rain 
 
108 XTbc Stra^fnos of Sanbs 
 
 had passed, a wild wind swept landwards. The sea 
 rose white-crested, running with the romping breeze ; 
 it dashed among pointed rocks, dragged seawards 
 unwilling as a naughty child, foaming and spuming, 
 waiting for the hour when wind and tide should 
 combine to let it come roaring high upon the patient 
 shore. The sun shone, colouring the rocks to 
 blotches of madder brown and yellow ; the sands of 
 the bay were a golden arc, hemmed round by blue, 
 save in one spot where Annan River runs out, staining 
 it as it comes with its burden from the bogs. 
 
 There was life in this sea world to-day. The 
 kelp-gatherers were busy with their long rakes as 
 they clawed in their clammy harvest with its red-hued 
 ribbons and tangle of smaller weed. Sure-footed 
 jennets drew carts out over the slippery flat rocks, 
 and the women and children tossed in their spoil 
 until it heaped high and odorous. There are no 
 poor at D unhaven, the sea gives generously. 
 
 Evie insisted on shrimping: she dived into pools 
 and filled a bag with the little transparent prey, 
 teaching Acland, who went with her, how to slip the 
 net along the ledges ; how to pursue the wily little 
 things as they darted backwards from the trap which 
 menaced them ; above all, how not to sit down 
 suddenly, which he did several times, betrayed by 
 heeled shoes. 
 
 They filled their bag, and then she led him out across 
 tumbling rocks, until they reached the high point 
 which showed at every tide. Here the wicked depths 
 of the sea seemed revealed. Great, sullen pools amass 
 with huge weed ; deep-hued slimy trails and stems 
 lurking in sullen, evil smoothness ; deep holes where 
 a man could drown, below black ledges ; and every- 
 where the constant whisper and movements of restless 
 
ZcIUwq of tfte TKHU& TRUest Coast 109 
 
 waters ; the boom and rush of the breakers outside, 
 never still there in the calmest weather. The sea 
 dimpling, heaving; apparently at rest; then the 
 sudden roller rising, swelling, coming towering on ; 
 sheen of translucent green through the spuming 
 xrest ; the swift rush ; the crash and grind of the 
 weight of water as it toppled to its foaming death ; 
 the gulp of the back-suck as it rushed out. 
 
 Standish was busy with a gaff, pulling kicking 
 squirming crabs and lobsters from mysterious holes, 
 and putting them into a sack, where they twisted and 
 writhed horribly. 
 
 Evie and Sandy went out as far as it was possible to, 
 walking on rocks which were only revealed at spring- 
 tide. It was as if some dormant monster opened its 
 mouth, revealing the terrors of its fangs, as the sea 
 mouthed sullen at either side, gleaming up at them, 
 lapping coldly, chained still by the falling tide. 
 
 11 Sluish.” 
 
 A wave rose suddenly, clutching at them, roaring 
 backwards greenly, and all the hidden waters behind 
 them trembled and murmured in response. Their 
 hour of exposure was over, the sea came back. 
 
 “ The tide has turned. See how it rushes in. It 
 is a spring tide, so we must go quickly.” 
 
 Evie walked back along the ledge, watching the 
 waves rush up. Already the deep pools stirred, the 
 snake-like seaweed uncoiled its feelers ; the breakers 
 rose. The monster was loose. 
 
 “ See!” Evie pointed to the narrow slip of rock they 
 crossed down o a channel of quiet water. “ They 
 call that the custom-gap ; for the sea takes its custom 
 there. The women come gathering dillusk, and some 
 stay too late ; there is no crossing by the bridge, so 
 they must wade, and gentle as that channel looks 
 
no Ube ©tracings of Sanbs 
 
 it runs like a race, if you lift a foot, the sea claims 
 you. It has claimed many in its time.” The tide 
 rose so quickly that in a few minutes the narrow 
 ledge they had gone out to was a spume of breaking 
 waters. Now as they stood low, the great, green waves 
 seemed rushing in upon them high over their heads, 
 crossing, meeting, with long foaming crests, roaring 
 back from slippery rocks, thundering threats at the 
 puny two. “ It frightens me,” Evie spoke, poising 
 her little body on a pointed rock “ It’s so vast out 
 there, Mr. Sandy. And we are so small, mere straws, 
 if one of those waves caught us. Such funny items 
 in a big world. Always wanting and never getting.” 
 
 “ You ought to get most things you want,” said 
 Acland, the compliment rendered gloomy by his 
 sixth fall. 
 
 He got up, the memory jarring unpleasantly. 
 
 u I don’t, then,” said Evie. “ At least- — I don’t 
 know.” 
 
 Her pretty eyes looked back towards the shore. 
 Standish, bearing a resemblance to the palmer whom 
 St. Nicholas relieved of his load in the desert by the 
 Red Sea, was going home. Nora Hartland and 
 Graves were seated on a rock. Between them and 
 land lay bright, sunny pools, sea anemones starring 
 them. 
 
 “ He’s afraid,” said Evie, suddenly getting up ; a 
 cloud of spray blew over them. “ He, Sir Edmund ; 
 he never comes out on the bridge; says its dangerous 
 with those breakers. Yet you came, whom he calls 
 a hen in the water. . . . Oh, I beg your pardon.” 
 
 Ai Don’t mention it,” said Acland, his polite tone 
 helfed by his purple colour. “Is it, then — you now, 
 Miss Evie ? rr 
 
 "Now?* said Evie, woman-like, offended. “ Oh, 
 
TTelUitQ of tbe TKIUlb TKHest Coast m 
 
 of course you mean your wife long ago. They were 
 boy and girl. Don’t be absurd, Sandy,” for Acland 
 cavilled at this. “ He must have been a boy once. 
 Yes, it’s me now. And he’s rich. I’ve a young 
 brother somewhere at a cheap school . . . and oh, 
 why have the v/rong people all the money ? ” 
 
 “ Other people are rich,” said Acland sharply, 
 still brooding over the title of hen. 
 
 Evie knowing his economical ways, eyed him 
 without suspicion. 
 
 “ I don’t meet them,” she said unhappily. 
 “ Everyone’s poor.’’ 
 
 Her pretty eyes gazed at him with a sweetness 
 which set his head spinning. She was very good 
 to look at. 
 
 “ I don’t think he likes you, you know,” said Evie, 
 as they went in, the tide snarling at their heels. 
 “ Perhaps because of Kathleen. She wouldn’t have 
 him, and wrote such a letter home about you.” 
 
 Sandy gritted his teeth. Somehow, he felt certain 
 that those letters were referred to now with sarcasm. 
 
 “ Money,” he said quietly, “ is a wonderful thing. 
 But, little Miss Evie, don’t let it drive you where 
 you don’t want to go. Suppose — ” he looked up shyly 
 — “ hundreds of pounds would be cheaply spent to 
 annoy Sir Edmund Graves. — If you really want any. 
 If you’re in trouble, will you promise to tell. . . , 
 Could you ? ” 
 
 “ I could,” she said, looking into his worn., kindly 
 face, and touching his hands with so much simple 
 trust and liking that, had he been wise, he would 
 have known that all his new little thrills were as 
 hopeless as a flat-bottomed boat struggling in the 
 sea by the bridge ; but they pleased him nevertheless. 
 
 He looked contentedly at Graves’ graceful length 
 
1 12 xrbe Stra^tnas of 5 a nt>£ 
 
 lying on the sun-warmed rocks, and heard with a 
 smile a sharp reproof for lingering so long upon the 
 treacherous point with a spring tide rising. 
 
 “ He who never ventures, never sees,” said Evie 
 gaily, with a glance at Sandy, but she allowed 
 herself to be carried off, leaving Nora to walk home 
 with her late companion. 
 
 As they gained the cliffs, they were astonished to 
 observe Phillips chasing shrimps in a pool, and an 
 admiring audience of one maid receiving the spoil. 
 They walked home across boggy fields, the shortest 
 way to the house. 
 
 Nora looked at Graves and Evie, shaking her 
 head. 
 
 “ I don't like it,” she said suddenly. “ Yet it's 
 money and position for the child instead of perpetual 
 poverty, and hunting the postman’s pony or some 
 four-year-old of Dayly’s. 
 
 “ He seems,” said Acland sharply, “ to prefer girls 
 who do not like him.” 
 
 “ Poor Kathleen ! She was scarcely civil to him. 
 Evie does not actually dislike him. If no one else 
 comes definitely forward, she may marry him. 
 Kathleen was different.” 
 
 Nora looked at Acland with young eyes unspoilt by 
 years. 
 
 Evie was exquisite ; but he found himself talking 
 to this gentle Irishwoman of his inmost affairs; of 
 that few weeks’ romance with its tragic end ; of many 
 things which lay stored on back-shelves in his mind. 
 For Nora had that rare gift of sympathy which 
 prompts confidence. 
 
 “ And Kathleen loved you,” she said softly, looking 
 at his pale face with searching eyes. “ I’ve got hei 
 letters still.” 
 
XCclUna of tbe MUD Meet Coast 113 
 
 The old remorse choked the little man ; he smiled 
 sadly, understanding the intentness of her gaze. 
 
 “ Do you, like Standish, wonder why? ” he queried, 
 a little wistfully, a new quiver on his lips. 
 
 “ No, I don’t/' she said quietly. “ I do not/’ she 
 repeated half to herself, as they crossed the white- 
 washed wall and came upon Aunts Susie and Catty 
 basking in the sun. A precious flock of chickens 
 scratched in sea gravel ; the blue kittens played by 
 the hay-stack, and the old ladies fought sleepily 
 about nothing when they woke up. Phillips, on being 
 asked about his morning musement, actually blushed. 
 To do him justice, he had started with milk and 
 soda, and had fallen heavily upon the rocks, when far 
 out, breaking the glass. 
 
 “ Met Ellie, sir,” he observed confusedly, “ fetching 
 sea-water for Miss Susie’s bath, sir. Liking it far 
 out, sir, and finding the net, sir, we engaged in 
 shrimping. Remarkably slippery rocks, sir,” he 
 added, presenting his master’s tonic. 
 
 Acland looked out of the window in the floor to 
 where Graves stood waiting for luncheon. 
 
 “ Like a hen in the water/’ he said, with thoughtful 
 bitterness. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 TELLING FURTHER OF THE COAST 
 
 / 
 
 u White steed of ocean that leap with a hollow wearisome 
 roar . . . 
 
 You come, and your crests are hoary with the foam of youi 
 countless years, 
 
 You break with a rainbow of glory through the spray of youi 
 glitter’ ng tears.” 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 EviE Hartland, though pressed, declined to make 
 any arrangements for the afternoon. She was not 
 tempted by the idea of a walk, by an invitation to 
 tea at the hotel, or the chance of playing tennis on 
 the ground by the cliff. No; Sandy wanted sand- 
 shoes ; he would really hurt himself upon the rocks, 
 and she would go to Dunhaven with him lest he 
 should be lost. Also, she wished to meet the 
 evening train, and get a parcel from home. Having 
 delighted Acland by this ultimatum, she went to the 
 window, taking undue interest in the movement of a 
 ragged gorsoon upon the road, and presently flying 
 out to meet him, saying she had got a message for 
 his mother. Evie disappeared round the wall, was 
 away for some minutes, and returned singing, call- 
 ing to Sandy to get ready. He did so happily ; 
 boring Phillips by insisting on the production of a 
 new grey suit, suitable for Henley, and rejecting 
 
Helling further of the Coast ns 
 
 three ties before he decided on a pale blue with 
 a pearl pin stuck in, Evie meanwhile clamouring 
 in the trap at the door, and sarcastically demand- 
 ing as he appeared if he was bound for Grafton 
 Street 
 
 It was one of the eight-guinea suits ; Acland, 
 seeing the dusty cushions of the governess cart, 
 regretted having put it on. He regretted it further 
 as he saw how close they went to the bog ditches ; 
 Evie did not appear to be looking at the road, but 
 allowed the pony to meander at will. 
 
 They had just grazed the rushy edge of a yawning 
 chasm, when the pony was suddenly pulled up, and 
 Evie, rather pink-cheeked but in very casual tones, 
 said “How d’ye do?” to a young man bending over a 
 bicycle. She inquired the reason of his being there 
 in rather aggrieved tones as though the road were a 
 private one. 
 
 The young man said that his bike was broken, 
 and he could not get on. It was annoying, as he 
 had most important things to fetch from the after- 
 noon train, and he glared at Acland unpleasantly. 
 “As there was no room, he’d walk.” 
 
 But Mr. Acland said there was heaps of room ; he 
 drew himself into a corner, and the tall young man, 
 now introduced as Mr. levers, got in, adjusting his 
 long legs with difficulty. He was a taking young 
 fellow, with blue eyes, yellow hair, the clear, golden 
 tan which goes with them, and a pleasant expression. 
 Acland was now allowed to drive, a proceeding which 
 eased his mind, for though no whip, be could steer 
 clear of the crumbling edges. Directed by back 
 ways, he brought them to the station, where Evie 
 remembered pressing business up a seemingly desolate 
 road, and, attended by Neill levers, disappeared. 
 
n6 zrbe Stra^nos of San&s 
 
 both saying they would return as soon as the train 
 came in. 
 
 It was overdue. A fringe of ragged, bare-footed 
 boys lined the edge of the low platform, swaying 
 their tangled heads forward to peer down the line. 
 One caused a thrill by a swift cry that “ she was 
 comm*,” to have his importance swept away as an 
 older child denounced Mikey for fool, ’twas only the 
 windmills sthirrin’ in the breeze. There was no 
 windmills ; yet Mikey slunk back abashed. 
 
 A mile away, the morning’s brightness gone, the 
 sea ran sullen beneath a storm-cloud coming black 
 from the horizon. Baaltard’s high cliff cut across 
 the grey sky, its horse-shoe mouth gaping clearly. 
 Behind it the distant Kerry hills rose faint and clear, 
 all signals heralding bad weather, storm-winds and 
 heavy rains. 
 
 Inland, the bare, treeless land humped bleakly ; 
 little whitewashed cabins dotted here and there ; 
 cold little homes, battered by the unceasing wind. 
 
 Acland shivered ; now that he was left alone, this 
 wild coast seemed a shade worse than the Downs. 
 He looked down the road for Evie, but she did not 
 come. The pony waited patiently outside, tied to a 
 cart. The Englishman commenced to watch his 
 fellows. The platform was crowded ; no one seemed 
 surprised because the train was late ; two men, tired 
 of waiting, sat down on the edge of the platform, 
 their feet on the rails. Michael, the porter, was 
 hammering something, doubtless with a view to 
 mending the engine. 
 
 Acland sat upon an empty soda-water case ; two 
 women, one young and voluble, the other grey- 
 hatred and patient, chattered just behind him, so 
 that he found himself listening to a long and 
 
trelling tuvtbec of tbe Coast 117 
 
 apparently endless tale concerning an erring horse 
 which forced its way out through a “ sthable windy.” 
 The story poured on with the velocity of a mountain 
 torrent in flood. “An’ no one’s fault, Mrs. Cassidy, 
 ma’am, who’d reason for the baste to slhip out. No 
 one to be blempt.” Patient Mrs. Cassidy interluding 
 with constant “No surelys,” and “ There now,” as was 
 merely polite. “’Twas this way: we put him in the 
 house with a bit of hay, and in the early mornin’, 
 Kate Reidy was in the yard bindin’ down to see to 
 somethin’, whin, hearin’ the commotion, she sees the 
 horse, his formosht legs out the windy and his hind- 
 mosht within, an’ with that, she lets a bawl out of her. 
 ‘ Maggie Malone’s horse is dead,’ says she, and with 
 that I looks from the dour, an’ I begins to roar and to 
 bawl, for there he was, his foremosht parts out and 
 the hindmosht within, an’ but for the few rocks 
 outside that supported his foremosht legs, he was 
 gutted. So I roared an’ I bawled, Mrs. Cassidy ; an’ 
 down ran the bye in his shirt, an’ the throuser in his 
 hand, an’ he stharted to bawl, an’ so we gother the 
 neighbours and got him out. But afther it all, we 
 found he was strangled in the foremosht leg, an’ to 
 tell ye thruly, whin he was tackled, he could scarcely 
 walk; so we got him a bit on the way, an’ says I 
 to Tom Thracy, says I : ‘ We must sthay at Ennisty- 
 mon, an’ where will we resht ? ’ an’ says he : ‘Up at 
 me cousin, Jim Thracy’s ; an’, says I : ‘Is it far?’ and 
 says he: ‘No; but quite convanient, up the boteen, 1 
 says he, ‘ and wesht by the red cow grazin’, an’ on a 
 taste,’ says he; an’ says I: ‘Won’t ye come too?’ but 
 says he, he had biziness in the sthreet, but I was to 
 go wesht by the red cow, an’ I couldn’t but find it, 
 says he, an’ says I — ” 
 
 It might have gone on all day, but a distant whistle 
 
n8 Ube forra^nQs or sa nt>s 
 
 cut it short. The small boys cheered ; the women 
 rail into the crowd ; the station-master fussed out 
 with the baton ; but the two men sat smoking 
 undisturbed, feet on the line, as the little train 
 panted up at a leisurely amble. Michael rushed for 
 engine, inquiring “ what was broke ? ” the carriages 
 spouted out a few tired passengers, who scrambled 
 for their own luggage ; the women mounted to the 
 van, and elbowed for their parcels from distant 
 Ennis. Then after a brief, but crowded interval, the 
 whistle hooted, and the small train rumbled off 
 across the dreary country to its destination. 
 
 Acland watched it all with unchecked fascination. 
 
 “ Marvellous ! ” he remarked, as he emerged from 
 the van with Neill levers. “ I could have taken 
 anything on earth I liked — -blue, meal, starch, and 
 no one to check me.” 
 
 Evie said with a smile, that honesty was the root 
 of Ireland’s poverty. Any of these people would 
 suffer agonies if they got hold of the wrong groceries. 
 They left the station then, driving into the one wide 
 street which made the town. Acland was taken to 
 the door of a small shop, and sent in to buy his shoes ; 
 the pony waited outside, for she and Neill walked on. 
 The little man entered, and, having discovered with 
 pain that the boot-store was also a public-house, was 
 led on to the shoe department two yards lower down, 
 and finally supplied with a pair of most indifferent 
 cloth sand-shoes, at a most exorbitant price. Re- 
 monstrance merely drawing down contempt, Acland 
 paid with protest, nothing but the still jarring memory 
 of the rocks inducing him to take them at all. Having 
 declined a glass of whisky, he was informed by a 
 waiting youth, who demanded pennies, that the 
 young lady had gone on by the bog road, and he 
 
Helling further of tbe Coast ns 
 
 was to follow. A trip to Dunhaven was proving 
 expensive. 
 
 He thumped the Iceland freely, and on reaching 
 the strip of desolate, ditch-fenced road, found Neill 
 and Evie, quite oblivious of a storm of wild rain, 
 sitting by a gate into a potato-field. But the girl 
 smiled so brightly at Acland, that he forgot to be 
 annoyed, and the bicycle, which could only have felt 
 faint, had made a surprising recovery, was trundled 
 out by Neill, and ridden swiftly away. 
 
 Acland still held the reins ; going warily between 
 the yawning ditches, depths of brown-hued water. 
 Evie, after a few minutes silence, pointed to a low, 
 thatched cottage, with its back to the sea. 
 
 “ They, the levers, live there,” she said. “ It’s the 
 biggest lodge here. He’ll be — that is, his father — will 
 be Lord Clandownes some day, if everyone dies all 
 right. His mother’s detestable, stuck up, fat, and 
 wants him to marry an heiress.” 
 
 “ Mr. levers is, then,” said Acland, “ going back to 
 Dunhaven ; is this his shortest way home ? ” 
 
 Evie, a little pink, said perhaps so, and as the 
 Iceland was whacked round the corner, they all but 
 drove over a fat pug-dog, trailing a strap at its lazy 
 heel. A stout, middle-aged lady, with whatever good 
 looks she had possessed buried in a mask of selfish 
 complacency, shrieked unhappily, and Acland pulled 
 up. A well-preserved man of fifty, very like Neill, 
 but without his hopeful expression, picked the dog 
 up and soothed it. 
 
 Various regrets necessitating conversation, Mrs. 
 levers — Evie had immediately called her by her 
 name — spoke. 
 
 “ We are waiting for Neill,” she said, rather 
 pointedly. “ He went out on his bicycle, an’ I 
 
t2o uftc Stra$ngs of SanD$ 
 
 heard took the bog road. Did you not pass 
 him ? ” 
 
 “ It was an exceeding fine evening for a ride,” said 
 Miss Evie pleasantly. “ No; we did not pass him,” 
 and she whipped the pony to an objecting gallop. 
 
 “ We didn’t,” she said indignantly, looking at 
 Sandy’s face. “ Don’t look idiotic ; I saw explanation 
 trembling on your lips. Why should I say anything 
 when Neill doesn’t want to go out walking with 
 them ? ” 
 
 “ Oh,” said Acland, “ I see. Well, naturally a boy 
 prefers faster exercise.” 
 
 “ Yes, naturally. But he’s not a boy/’ said Evie 
 sharply, grazing the gate-post. “Yes; I’ve got the 
 chicken food, Aunt Susie. Here it is.” 
 
 Then she went to her room and did not appear for 
 some time. The grass near the hall door was strewn 
 with drying serge garments, and a pleasant odour 
 from the kitchen promised hot cakes. 
 
 Dunhaven, however, did not please the man from 
 London. He could not be induced to hunt for crabs 
 at low tide. He was let off bathing ; but when, in 
 what Standish called a fiat calm, he was induced to 
 go out fishing, an hour’s ascent and descent of the 
 great Atlantic rollers reduced him to green ruin and 
 chicken-broth for twenty-four hours. 
 
 Phillips, on the contrary, took to it all cheerfully ; he 
 mastered the art of sitting straight in a canoe, and he 
 did not get sea-sick ; he learnt where and how to 
 rake out crabs ; in fact, he and Ellie were all but 
 drowned upon the bridge, and were obliged to return, 
 arm-in-arm, in a weak condition. He helped to draw 
 the net in the bay at night ; until even Standish 
 b-aid he was a really good servant. 
 
 Acland, who suffered from neglect, waj not sure 
 
zreiUttQ further ot tl 3 e Coast 121 
 
 that he agreed, though improving health made him 
 lenient. After Dunhaven’s cold winds had seriously 
 disturbed his liver, the keen, clear, salt-laden air did 
 him good. The flutter was generally absent ; he; was 
 genuinely hungry, and could enjoy grilled mackerel 
 but an hour caught; lobsters and crabs and mutton ; 
 plain food which he would have sneered at two 
 months before. The principal thorn in his life was 
 the weekly bill for Crimson Rambler, who had gone 
 amiss and was out of training. It made him posi- 
 tively stingy to think that he must endure it for ten 
 long months, and got him into the habit of grumbling; 
 constantly airing a poverty which was not really his. 
 
 The weather was unsettled, an unceasing wind 
 driving great rollers against the cliffs, along which he 
 took his daily walk. Coming across miniature bays 
 and bleak headlands, and one long chasm running 
 for a hundred yards inland, in which the tide 
 sucked groaningly, heaving in eternal shadows. 
 Oily, deep-hued waters, crossing and recrossing 
 in a hundred currents, deep and terrible. One 
 thought of a man’s fate if he fell down there, with 
 no one to aid him, clinging to the smooth, pre- 
 cipitous rocks, washed off by the heave ; watching 
 the green sport of the thunderous waves outside where 
 no man could swim ; helpless at low tide on the little 
 strip of stony beach, waiting for — for the inevitable 
 end. An eerie, horrible spot, yet fascinating in its 
 grimness, fenced round with high banks to keep out 
 cattle and sheep. 
 
 It was a cruel and pitiless coast, untamed; defying 
 mankind to bridle or subdue it. Heaving its crested 
 waves, knowing no boat dare back them ; snarling 
 always at the black cliffs where its power ended. 
 A wild beast, humanity’s enemy, ever ready to 
 
*22 Ube Stra^mas of 5 ant>£ 
 
 spring and devour. Purring sometimes, pretending 
 to be asleep in the sunshine, a blue and sparkling 
 sea, lapping the sands with gentle wavelets ; yet 
 deadliest as it crouches, for then the quicksands on 
 the bay move, and the undertow runs beneath the 
 smooth surface — the dragging, relentless current 
 which has taken so many bathers out to drown. 
 When the dead rise from the waters, Dunhaven 
 will show a long list of victims. 
 
 Strange people, too, the fishermen, afraid of the 
 sea monster, scarcely one of them who would lift 
 a finger to help even seeing a life being taken. If 
 you take from the sea, the sea will take from you, 
 they say, and pass on, letting the great jaws suck 
 down its prey. Once a man passed by a group of 
 girls shrieking on the shore, watching one of their 
 companions being slowly taken out, none of them 
 tall or strong enough to help her. He would not 
 meddle with the sea, so went on, to learn an hour 
 later, that his own sister had been drowned. 
 
 Acland, used to the decorous summer seas of 
 England, grew to know its fascination and its 
 fear, listening to stories from the old men of its 
 might and its revenges. How on those calm days- 
 when the strange murmur rose, the sea called, and 
 some must go ; it never cried in vain. How foolish 
 men had dashed in, saving strangers from death, and 
 had gone themselves a week later, claimed in recom- 
 pense. How in winter the waves lashed across the 
 road, and the foam flew like snow half a mile inland, 
 
 The Hartlands drove him to Fray, once a fishing 
 village, now a mere row of rotting, untenanted 
 houses, and showed him there the rock where, one 
 by one, the fishermen had met death, until there 
 were none left. Just beyond it was the puffing 
 
treumg turtber of tbe Coast 123 
 
 hole ; a magnificent siffleur , where the breakers 
 came towering in across the unsheltered sea, and 
 where, at half-tide, one could see rainbow-hued 
 spray, flashing high; beautiful to watch. 
 
 The Londoner admired it all ; grew better, and 
 learned to hate Sir Edmund Graves very heartily. 
 The hen in the water rankled, and it was followed 
 by covert sneers which were hard to bear. 
 
 Graves did most things well, he swam, he did not 
 get sick ; he was slim of body and long of limb ; yet 
 on his side was the knowledge that a girl had left 
 him, and accepted this little business man who 
 could do nothing, and was flabby and fat to look 
 at. So he sneered pleasantly : twitting Acland’s 
 economies, mocking with ready Irish tongue at 
 England and her ways : devoting himself to Evie, 
 and pushing Acland aside in a carelessly open way 
 when the girl would have stayed with him. There 
 was enmity, the stronger for being veiled, between 
 the two ; they measured swords, and it looked as 
 though the smaller man would never score a point 
 in the duel. Graves flung money about; sent for 
 Fuller’s sweets for Evie, gave to the ragged children 
 who helped them at their picnics. Acland counted 
 his halfpence and weighed his letters with unfailing 
 regularity. Yet, when they collected for a poor old 
 woman who broke her leg upon the rocks gathering 
 seaweed, he laid down five pounds by Sir Edmund’s 
 sovereign, without a thought of ostentation, and 
 Nora looked at him curiously. 
 
 “ It is not much to keep her for the winter,” he 
 said, in his precise way. 
 
 They had been at Dunhaven for about ten 
 days, when Standish commanded an expedition to 
 Dooloch Lake to catch trout. He borrowed a 
 
i 24 XTbc StragUtgs or San^g 
 
 bicycle for his unwilling cousin by marriage, provided 
 him with a fishing-rod, and resistance was useless. 
 
 Their start was a little marred by the cook’s 
 announcement that Miss Catty’s cats had the chicken 
 for the sandwiches mauled to rights, and further 
 inquiries as to whether she’d cut off the teeth-marks 
 and use it. 
 
 Having been summarily ordered not to, she took 
 a gloomy stand by the door, and said they must go 
 hungry. There was no chance of eggs till four 
 o’clock, all the last having been boiled for the young 
 dorkings, and was then removed by the old ladies, 
 who volunteered to drive for fresh provisions, and 
 declared they did not believe all they heard. This 
 having been arranged, Sandy Acland and Standish 
 started, it was a fine day, A bleak expanse of 
 tossing, white crested sea; long, jagged streaks of 
 cloud against a pallid sky. They rode round the 
 bay, where the sea licked, foaming, at a circle of 
 golden sand. Past the little dreary lodges perched 
 in front of the sand-hills ; over Anna River ; 
 running, brown-hued, to lose itself on the beach, 
 crossing the quaint, old bridge, carved with long 
 crosses, and then turning inland, climbing upwards, 
 ever upwards, to the severe detriment of Acland’s 
 short wind. The fields red purple with loosestrife, 
 the banks ablaze with golden flea-bane. 
 
 Standish suddenly lost his way ; the narrow roads 
 branched in many directions, and he forgot the 
 right one. He applied for aid to a very old man, 
 being propped upon his ass’s cart-shaft by a small 
 grandson, 
 
 “ The road to Dooloch?” yelled Standish, fear/ng 
 deaf ears, 
 
 “ Doo-loch ! ” It was a different word, rolled softly 
 
Celling further of tbe Coast 125 
 
 from the toothless mouth. “Dooloch! Let ye go 
 straight on until ye turn to the right, not up to 
 Mulloch, pass that an 5 carry on till ye laves the fust 
 road to the right, an' pasht Clancy’s Farm, then turn 
 left-handed, an' push on agin’, an’ thin turn straight 
 easht an’ ye’ll be there.” 
 
 “ Great heavens ! ” said Acland, weaving helpless 
 webs with his hands. “ What does it all mean ? ” 
 
 Standish remarked severely that it was as plain as 
 daylight that they were to turn off at the third next 
 cross, and then they could ask again, if it was 
 necessary. 
 
 Acland thought it would be necessary. 
 
 The road changed, heaving itself into short 
 mountains, up which Acland walked slowly, and 
 short abysses down which he slid, both breaks 
 jarring ; while his second cousin by marriage 
 whizzed far out of sight, with his feet upon the 
 coasters. 
 
 But they got to the lake at last ; slipping over the 
 last hump to see it rippling below them, cuddled into 
 the hollows between the dark hills. The air was 
 sweet with the scent of bog - my i tie, light clouds 
 flecked the sky, a soft breeze blew. Standish said 
 the day was made for fishing. 
 
 It took Acland a long time to get his things 
 together ; he had not fished since he was a boy. The 
 flies stuck all over him, the knots in the flimsy gut 
 came undone, but he did it at last, and finding one 
 of the wettest spots on the crumbling verge, perched 
 himself upon a stone and smote the waters, thinking 
 it all extreme humbug. The trout at Dooloch are 
 small ; but fortunately they are hungry and numerous. 
 Humbug, was it ? London, business, failing health, all 
 paled and died as the wet gut tightened, and he got 
 
126 troe Stra^tnoB of 5anb$ 
 
 his first bite. The small trout tugged, the fisherman 
 reached for his net, and dipped out a gasping fish. 
 Standish called out that he had better get a gaff, with 
 a bray of laughter, but Sandy heeded him not. It 
 was first blood ; he could catch fish. He flung the 
 net away, he whipped and chucked, and lost and 
 landed, with all a novice’s joy. Scrambling over 
 marshy ground to unhook his gasping catch, which 
 quivered on death-beds of bog-myrtle. Twice he 
 slipped from his stone, and sat down emphatically 
 amid a cloud of surprised spray ; once he lurched 
 forward and splashed to his knees, but the soft 
 wind touched his face, the breath of bog and 
 mountain was in his nostrils, the pile of little 
 bodies grew. In dealing death he forgot it, and 
 the grim shadow slipped from his side. 
 
 He was absorbed, casting awkwardly over a cat’s- 
 pawed spot, when he heard himself called, and turned 
 to see Evie Hartland, her pretty face alight ; further 
 back he saw Nora, Graves, and Neill levers unstrap- 
 ping baskets and lighting a fire. They had fetched 
 red turf from a cottage. 
 
 “ Oh ! ” Evie stared, wicked dimples about her 
 mouth. “You are muddy,” she said softly. 
 
 Acland rubbed his wet face and smiled. 
 
 “ It was such fun,” he said, half in apology, laying 
 down his rod. 
 
 " You look as if you had enjoyed it,” she said. 
 
 “ Enjoyed it is scarcely the word,” he replied f 
 admiring her. 
 
 She might have been a spirit of the mountains, 
 there was something so fresh about her. Her bright 
 hair and eyes and soft, childlike mouth. 
 
 "I did not know that levers was coming,” said 
 Sandy, wiping off mud. 
 
Zcllin q further of tbe Coast 127 
 
 “ Oh, yes ; he always meant to, when we arranged 
 it. He bicycled up with me.” She fingered some 
 coarse grass dubiously. “ It's rather funny, you know, 
 but I told him yesterday morning, and Sir Edmund 
 met him late last night, and told him we were all 
 going into Dunhaven instead. So if it had not been 
 for the cats and the chickens we should not have met 
 him at all. I can’t understand. Oh, here are the 
 aunts and your man.” 
 
 Phillips lashed the Iceland over the last hump, 
 the old ladies painfully holding a large basket in 
 its place, and looking very tired. 
 
 “ They told me as we passed them,” said Evie, 
 “ that Phillips could make the pony go so much 
 faster than they could, so they held the basket. 
 Phillips, as Standish says, is a man of recourse.” 
 
 Acland wondered, seeing Miss Catty descend, 
 shaking a stiff arm, if it could be so ; but Phillips 
 was already bearing the basket across, with a 
 benevolent and inscrutable face. 
 
 Nora had made the fire blaze; a frying-pan had 
 been borrowed and little trout were cooked. Any- 
 one who has never tried freshly-caught fish frizzled 
 over a turf fire, had better immediately go to 
 Dooloch and do so. There was no table-cloth, and 
 everyone cut their own slices off the pound of butter, 
 but they were much too hungry to be particular. 
 The only thing Acland avoided were chicken 
 sandwiches, which Miss Catty pressed on everyone 
 and said she had made herself. 
 
 “ And if it hadn’t been for the blessed cats,” said 
 Neill happily, from behind a chunk of soda loaf, 
 “ I’d never have met you, or have come to the 
 picnic. Graves says now he never said you weren’t 
 coming. Very stupid and deaf of me.” 
 
128 
 
 Ube ©tracings of 5anb£ 
 
 “Very,” said Miss Hartland drily, eating hard- 
 boiled eggs. “ Oh, very.” She looked at Graves 
 with a variety of expressions. “ Does he ” — she 
 dropped her voice — “ often tell you of Evie’s 
 movemevits ? ” 
 
 “Sometimes,” said Neill ingenuously, and blushing. 
 
 “ For the future,” said Nora Hartland, regarding 
 her portion of egg very intently. “ I should use 
 salt. When people want things themselves they 
 are not usually generous.” 
 
 “ Not usually . . .” Neill paused in astonishment, 
 holding his knife, which he had reached out for a 
 chunk of butter, poised above Sandy’s head. 
 “ Usually . . .” he repeated. 
 
 “ Open your eyes,” said Nora, in the same low voice. 
 
 “ Great Scott ! ” rasped out Neill, suddenly seeing. 
 And the butter dropped. Sandy had been eating 
 trout unconsciously. The sun had melted this 
 product of cream. After Sandy had made matters 
 much worse by grasping at the soft morsel on his 
 hair, and had spun round several times, using bad 
 language, Phillips came to the rescue with a spoon 
 and some grass, and the episode ended. 
 
 “ Make it grow, man,” said Graves pleasantly, 
 referring to the small thin spot, which Acland 
 believed invisible. “ It fell just on the right place.” 
 
 “It won’t dye it, at any rate,” observed Acland 
 acidly, his colour heightened. 
 
 “ Oh, dear, no, much the same shade,” said Graves, 
 quite undisturbed. “Eh, Miss Evie?” 
 
 “Gold is a very nice colour,” retorted Evie sharply, 
 but she looked, strange to say, at another fair head. 
 
 Neill, after some slight regrets, stared moodily at 
 his plate. 
 
 They left the remains of the feast to eat fruit sent 
 
Gelling fnrtber of tbe Coast 129 
 
 from Ballymacshane, and when Acland rose to get 
 his rod, he observed his man fishing on the opposite 
 side of the lake, which is some distance round. The 
 theory that sound is supposed to carry far across 
 water is evidently a fallacy, for, though Acland 
 shrieked himself hoarse, Phillips fished on without 
 raising his head. Acland did not care to walk, so 
 when Evie and Neill offered to carry the message, 
 he accepted. Unfortunately, they lost their way 
 and got into the hills by mistake ; so resigning 
 himself to an afternoon's idleness, he sat near Nora, 
 envying the deft way she handled her rod and threw 
 her line, so that the flies danced lightly on the 
 rippling surface, and little trout hurried up to death. 
 
 The old ladies dozed contentedly. Peace ruled 
 the world. Sir Edmund alone abandoned fishing, 
 and appeared to be annoyed. He looked round the 
 lake, shook his head, and came along to them, asking 
 why Neill and Evie had not come back. 
 
 “ They apparently / 7 said Acland, watching a trout 
 come at the fly, “ have lost their way. Certainly they 
 have never reached Phillips.” 
 
 “ Lost fiddlesticks,” muttered Graves crossly. 
 
 “ Or they have encountered a boggy and uncross- 
 able trench / 7 said Acland, still absorbed. “ Oh, got 
 him ! 77 with rapture, as the trout flashed and the gut 
 grew taut. “ As they have not got round / 7 he went 
 on, ripping the fly from the poor little jaws, 
 “ something must have occurred . 77 
 
 “ Hang fool of an English tradesman ! 77 said Graves 
 thunderously, as he walked off. 
 
 “ I wonder what he called me that time , 77 said 
 Acland. “ He was not pleased. He hates me, Miss 
 Nora . 77 The “Miss 77 was a sop to propriety, as he 
 had been forbidden to use the more formal Hartland. 
 
 i 
 
i3° TTbe Stra^lnas of SanM? 
 
 “ For memory’s sake,” said Nora, “ and also because 
 . . . Evie is so much with you.” Her troubled eyes 
 sought two dots on the hill-side, which she alone saw 
 — dots very close together in the shelter of a big 
 boulder. She believed that Sandy understood ; 
 whereas he saw nothing, looking on the friendship 
 as mere play between boy and girl. “ I’m afraid of 
 him, Sandy. He is cunning and strong ; he has 
 money, and he will wait on, until the child marries 
 him, and is miserable for all her life. It would be 
 such a nice world if the right people always married 
 each other. Only then . . . they could give up paying 
 parsons to preach, because no one would ever do 
 wrong. The very babies would breathe in such an 
 atmosphere of content as they grew up that goodness 
 would be mere nature to them.” 
 
 Acland lost this dissertation ; he had become 
 business-like and wished to know the exact amount 
 of Sir Edmund’s income. 
 
 “ At least two thousand a year — the pig ! ” said Miss 
 Hartland gloomily. 
 
 Alexander Acland wrote it in his pocket-book. 
 He knew that he could pick Graves’ income out of 
 his own and scarcely miss it ; but he did not say so. 
 Only that very morning, embittered by the arrival of 
 the Crimson Rambler’s account, which he had shown 
 miserably to Nora, he had quarrelled for quite ten 
 minutes with the postman because that worthy 
 demanded payment for a redirected letter. They 
 had all listened to this strife for twopence, and 
 also to Paddy’s departing remark that he couldn’t 
 do with “ thim skhinflints of English, that’d argy dhe 
 shell off a lobsther’s back for a pinny, let alone 
 delayin’ payin’ up the Land Act.” 
 
 So Nora never suspected him of the riches he 
 
UcIUwq further of the Coast 131 
 
 possessed ; pitying him rather as a man who could 
 not be poor without worrying. 
 
 Acland put his pocket-book away, and returned to 
 drink smoky tea and soda-cake smothered in butter 
 and strawberry jam— a food he would have relegated 
 to the nursery in London. He prepared without 
 alacrity for his twelve-mile ride, being exceedingly 
 tired. 
 
 At this point Phillips, absolutely desolated at the 
 accident of having taken his master's rod, arrived, 
 assuring everyone, with grave deference, that he had 
 believed it to be a spare one. Having added his 
 catch to the day's bag, he observed Acland’s white 
 face and considered. He would ride the bicycle 
 homewards, and Mr. Acland could drive the pony. 
 Phillips then left immediately, saying he would take 
 a long time to get home. He was fervently thanked ; 
 but later, when his master discovered that he had to 
 do most of the packing-up, to balance the baskets 
 and the fish and beat the pony, he was not so sure, 
 The drive was long and weary; constant, uneven 
 galumpetting of the Iceland upon the level, and 
 crawling up or down the hills. It took over two 
 hours to compass ; and it was very late when they 
 turned out by the bay, gleaming now in a clear 
 evening light, soft clouds floating on an amber 
 sky. The rocks lowering blackly ; white foam 
 licking them. 
 
 He was jarred and somewhat bruised, with a 
 delicate tracery of fish-scales on his trouser-leg, 
 when they reached Seaview. Phillips and Ellie 
 were taking the air upon the wall. The former 
 received his master with sympathy, but a visible 
 consciousness of gratitude due as he helped him 
 into his evening clothes. It was Acland's pleasure 
 
132 Ufoe Sttastngs of 
 
 to appear each evening correctly attired ; it was 
 also the dismay of Patsy’s mother as she wrestled 
 with the starching. 
 
 August waned wetly. Fine days were few. Sea- 
 view behaved like the rose of a watering-can — full 
 charged with water. It spouted. The dining-room 
 chimney was so stocked with “ daas’ ” nests that a 
 fire was impossible, so they ate dankly, between 
 weeping walls. Little lakes ran in under the doors ; 
 the roof leaked in unexpected places, chivying sleep 
 with heavy blobs on nose or cheek, dripping inces- 
 santly. The carpets smelt of bad seaweed, the chairs 
 like beds of moss. Cheeriness became a difficulty, 
 for the rooms were too small to sit in, and Standish 
 was the only one who seemed to enjoy going out and 
 getting wet through. 
 
 Acland wrestled with an umbrella which got 
 turned inside out, or he stayed in during the rain, 
 to get very stuffy and hot before a roaring fire. 
 The leghorn chickens had to be transported to the 
 kitchen, and tragedy ensued, the cook dropping a 
 saucepan upon one, and then rending the air with 
 her wails, for she adored Miss Susie. 
 
 “ An’ bad cess to the weather,” she wept, as she 
 burst upon them with the little flattened corpse. 
 “ Ye can’t turn round in the bit of a kitchen. There 
 was Ellie there, jokin’, an’ Hannah, an’ Misther 
 Phillips, like a lord, no less, ’atm’ lobsther with a fork 
 , , , an’ l didn’t know where I was. Someone hit 
 agin’ me, an’ the pot lepped from me hand on to the 
 innicint crayther,” 
 
 Here she wept sorely, 
 
 Miss Susie wept too, assuring them all that it was 
 a little hen which would have laid eggs, and there was 
 a funeral in the rain, with a soap-box as coffin, and 
 
UelUng further of toe Coast 133 
 
 Miss Susie in a waterproof, digging with a fire-shovel. 
 The tragedy passed, but it helped to deepen the 
 gloom. 
 
 There was the episode of Mrs. levers* call, so 
 exceedingly gracious that she was almost rude, and 
 the stately manners of the two old ladies as they 
 gave her tea, but refused to let her oust the kittens 
 from the big chair. Her uncertain perch upon one 
 of the wicker babies made her even more sweetly acid. 
 
 It ended as all things do, be they good or bad ; 
 even the most perfect happiness is marred by the 
 knowledge that as it comes it passes ; and the day 
 before they left they were asked to dinner by Graves 
 at the Dunhaven Hotel It was Seaview on a larger 
 scale — a gaunt, gloomy barrack, its long, lean face to 
 an unclipt meadow, its peeling back to the heaving 
 sea . . . with ghosts of dead furniture in the mouldy 
 rooms, and the waves reaching up over slippery, 
 slimy rocks into the windows. The view across the 
 bay was wild and fine ; the smells were gratis, 
 Dunhaven ideas of drainage not being advanced, 
 so that when the tide receded a foot or two the 
 smell rose unchecked ; and yet a fine building on 
 a splendid coast, if anyone had looked after it. 
 
 The smell greeted them heartily in Sir Edmund’s 
 sitting-room — a three-cornered little place, furnished 
 with a prehistoric book-case and three small chairs ; 
 also a table with a mouldy cloth. They crowded 
 about uncomfortably, and the falling sea clamoured 
 at the window. 
 
 Mrs. levers exclaimed faintly at the overpowering 
 odour, and when the windows were shut they stifled. 
 
 It was not a successful dinner-party. Sir Edmund 
 Graves knew his own reasons for bringing unfriendly 
 neighbours together. 
 
 4 
 
*34 
 
 Ufte Strapings of Sanog 
 
 Bvie Hartland was badly dressed, poverty stamped 
 on her faded silk blouse and skirt of a bygone age ; 
 for it is only in the penny novelette that the home- 
 made muslin ousts the confection from Worth or 
 Paquin. Mrs. levers was resplendent in handsome 
 silks. That may have been one reason. The tall, 
 thin man knew his world ; he saw the fine lady's 
 eyes light with disapproval on the pretty piece of 
 shabbiness. Next, Mrs. levers oppressed them all 
 by a bland patronage, the species of cooing friendli- 
 ness which arouses evil passion in the recipient. 
 She used it to Evie, and the foolish little girl, chafing 
 under it . . . scarlet as Neill’s mother told her sweetly 
 how she ought to pin a fichu across her blouse, and 
 make it quite up to date . . . turned all her worse 
 side outwards, and grew pert and prickly, making 
 silly, smart speeches and sharp retorts. This may 
 have been another reason. Neill eyed her unhappily, 
 but with a wistful and unchanged tenderness. A 
 look in his eyes said that things were going hardly 
 with him. 
 
 The party was foredoomed, and accident brought 
 grave-diggers to help to bury it. 
 
 Acland perched primly on the window-ledge, made 
 matters no better by alluding to the Dooloch picnic ; 
 for Mrs. levers, who had known nothing of it, swooped 
 on her son with the swiftness of a middle-aged hawk. 
 Why had she not been asked to this delightful party? 
 How was it that dear Neill had not mentioned it? 
 
 Neill, pink-cheeked, said he’d forgotten. Miss 
 Susie observed softly it was much too informal an affair 
 for Mrs. levers. Sir Edmund explained that Neill’s 
 presence was a mere accident/ and looking across, 
 was surprised to receive no telegraph of gratitude, 
 The boy held down a sulky head. 
 
ZelltiiQ further or tbe Coast 13s 
 
 Phillips, always cheerful, appeared at the door ; he 
 had come down to help. 
 
 “ Dinner, Sir Edmund,” he announced. “Regretable 
 large party just arrived, Sir Edmund ; Chawles quite 
 off his head, as the chickens are limited. He tells me 
 they are endeavouring to catch some, but — ” 
 
 “ That will do,” snapped Graves, adding in a 
 thunderous undertone : “ You idiot ! ” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips, ushering them forth. 
 
 Phillips had spoken painful truth. The long 
 dining-room was full of hungry tourists, their motor 
 cars standing at the door. The original dinner, 
 consisting of a small piece of boiled mutton and two 
 skinny chickens, was completely inadequate now. 
 The waiter carved. Phillips^who waited on his party, 
 altered the question of chicken or mutton to “ chicken- 
 bone or mutton turnip sauce,” and was careful, 
 recalling the “ idiot,” to lay a fragment of yellow skin 
 before the host. 
 
 “ Nothing more left, Sir Edmund,” he said. 
 “ Unexpected arrivals helped first, and exceedingly 
 hungry. In fact,” he looked at the flustered and 
 careering waiter, “Chawles is helping out some of 
 the come-back-bones now — Sir Edmund .” 1 
 
 This all in an audible aside. The chickens were 
 memories ; the boiled mutton had vanished as a 
 white-sauced dream ; and the whole hungry table 
 clamoured and grumbled. They cut chunks of 
 indifferent bread, and cursed Dunhaven and its food. 
 It was an unfortunate incident. Some fragments of 
 lobster procured by Phillips, and bare plates slightly 
 flavoured with rice-pudding, having ended the feast, 
 Mrs. levers, who was a heavy doeer, lapsed into 
 awful silence. 
 
 1 This happened. 
 
136 XL\k ©tracings of Sanb^ 
 
 Charles, called to be abused, apologised abjectly 
 “ He couldn't help it. There was never enough. He 
 was sad and sorry from it all. But the cook had two 
 Plymouth rocks cot to give to the tourists ; they were, 
 in fact, now boiling, and if his Lordship, Sir Edmund, 
 would but wait, they could catch the black-and-white 
 Hoodie cock for him.” 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” said the horrified Acland, as Charles 
 waited. 
 
 “ He's rooshtin’ on the wall outside now, sir," said 
 Charles, looking out. “ Timsy would have him like 
 a knife, and he’d be cooked in twenty minnits.” 
 
 Sir Edmund swore at the man heartily ; Mrs. 
 levers, who was endeavouring to assuage her hunger 
 with biscuits of the variety called cream - cracker, 
 which tasted of bad cheese and sea - damp, rose 
 majestically, saying it was unpardonable, and the 
 black-and-white cock was left to live. 
 
 They returned sadly to the sitting-room, leaving 
 the tourists waiting for the Plymouth rocks. A 
 bright young party ; who smiled at Mrs. levers’ face 
 of resigned tragedy. They, too, were hungry, but 
 they bore it. 
 
 The rain had stopped ; a sea mist loomed up, and 
 the evening was still and warm. The sea was 
 shrouded, but though there was not a breath of 
 wind, was running high. They could hear the 
 breakers booming on the rocks ; great waves rose 
 ghostly from the stillness. They sat out on the low, 
 whitewashed wall, drinking coffee-tinged hot water, 
 and underboiled milk, and crying out for biscuits. 
 Neill had gone to the little shop at the end of the 
 hotel, and came out with a box full, sitting by Evie 
 as she crunched them up. 
 
 The tell-tale age of her dress was hidden here in 
 
treiuna further of the Coast <37 
 
 the dusk ; but one could see her bright eyes and soft, 
 red mouth curling above strong, white teeth as she 
 ate. 
 
 Mrs. levers objected to sitting out, and was exceed- 
 ingly cross ; but she hid it with a mask of gracious- 
 ness, put down her coffee, and sought for some 
 pleasant subject . . . she was one of those women who 
 cringe to superior rank, and prick what they deem 
 inferior with verbal spikes, thinly veiled . . . she 
 sought, and found debts; talking of them to the 
 pretty owner of Castleknock, who eyed her with 
 calm comprehension, and remarked that she thought, 
 for her part, she would really be lonely without them. 
 
 Mrs. levers tossed her toupee expressively. She 
 could not understand it. She would rather live on 
 bread and cheese than owe money. Here, sweetly 
 condescending, wishing to include Acland in the 
 pleasure of her conversation she appealed to him. 
 
 “ Being in trade, Mr. ah — Acland,” she said 
 sweetly, “you must know how irksome and unfair 
 debts are. How fatal in the end to both parties. 
 How much happier dear Nora and little Evie would 
 be if they gave up hunting, and grew little flowers 
 for market, and kept hens, sold eggs ; all work they 
 could do themselves. I always say so. Now, do 
 help me, for tradespeople understand these things.” 
 
 The little man reddened. Your petty financier 
 does not call himself a trader. 
 
 He was quite sure of Mrs. levers’ opinion, but had 
 no intention of saying so. 
 
 “ From a tradesman’s point of view,” he said, with 
 ruffled feathers — “ that is, a shopman’s — groceries, or 
 that class of thing — your view is correct. A shop- 
 keeper’s point is the one you argue from. Of course 
 in large affairs — ” 
 
138 ©tracings of 9 an&£ 
 
 He was amazed to find himself the centre of 
 shocked eyes, to hear Standish vainly endeavouring 
 to turn his bray of laughter into a sneeze. To see 
 Graves looking furious, and Mrs. levers assume the 
 hue of a live lobster. 
 
 The silence that followed was poignant ; until 
 gentle Miss Catty broke it by rising to take her 
 leave, and to give dignified thanks for so pleasant an 
 evening. She knew it was early ; but she feared so 
 much that Sultan, the grey kitten, might not have 
 got his evening meal of fish. 
 
 Mrs. levers remained ; she bade the uncompre- 
 hending Acland so icy an adieu that he quailed 
 unhappily ; it was followed by an icier from his host. 
 Then directly they were out of earshot, Standish hit 
 him hard upon the shoulder and laughed unrestrainedly. 
 
 “ Did you know it, Sandy ? " he asked. “ I wouldn't 
 have missed the old cat's face for five pounds. 
 Advising Evie about her clothes and Nora about her 
 debts, and calling you a tradesman — and — " 
 
 “ Know what ? " said Acland, bewildered." 
 
 “ Why, that her father was Mulligan, the big grocer 
 in Dawson Street. That's where her money comes 
 from. And she knows we all know it, though she 
 tries to hide it. Well done, Sandy ! ” 
 
 “ It was exceeding rude," said the little man, 
 troubled. “ I trust she is assured that I did not 
 mean it.” 
 
 “ If you argued from here to America, you wouldn't 
 convince her of that," said Standish happily. “ You 
 won’t be asked to Droveen, my boy." 
 
 They walked on past Seaview, going down to the 
 cliffs. The shrouding mist veiled the restless sea, 
 but as they sat down enjoying the warmjth, they 
 could see monster waves rise suddenly, majestic in 
 
Veiling further of tbc Coast 139 
 
 that clinging stillness ; loom up, great walls of water, 
 magnified by uncertainty of outline, and crash down- 
 ward with a thunderous roar. There had evidently 
 been a storm far out at sea. The smaller waters 
 were uneasy ghosts, whispering timidly in creek and 
 channel, playing with the seaweed’s rustling fingers, 
 but outside, those huge sea-waves rose and fell off 
 the point, and the muffled, continual growl of surf came 
 through the veil of fog. 
 
 The wild west coast in a new mood, a mighty, 
 terrifying thing in its dim uneasiness. 
 
 Acland moved away from the others, watching it, 
 thinking what a man’s fate would be caught under 
 those walls of water ; flung upwards, carried on the 
 curving crest, carried on to be beaten down, stunned 
 to a smothering death. A puny, hopeless little land 
 insect if one of those monsters crept on him at the 
 point to-night. A voice spoke at Acland’s elbow — 
 Neill’s. He had slipped away from his people. 
 
 “A great sea and dead calm,” he said dreamily. 
 “ There’s something almost uncanny about it. How 
 those mountains rise out of the stillness.” 
 
 The other had gone down on the rock to be nearer 
 to the booming waves. 
 
 “ Acland,” said Neill suddenly, dropping his young 
 length upon the short grass. “Tell me, you’ve seen 
 a lot of the world. Do you always believe people ? ” 
 “I endeavour to make money, to strive with brother- 
 strivers,” said Acland, with dry precision. “ My 
 efforts would not go far if I did.” 
 
 “ But apart from money. That’s one branch of life, 
 and I’m sick of its name. I could be happy in a 
 cottage myself, with a couple of hunters in the pig-sty 
 - — I refer to other things. If someone pretended to be 
 a great friend — and yet — you found that whatever he 
 
Uhe ©tracings of Sattfcs 
 
 140 
 
 told you was generally wrong ? If they told you that 
 patience was your only game, when someone resents 
 patience ? If they insinuated every day that a certain 
 person was not a bit what they seemed to be, but 
 only wanted to get on, and marry money, and you 
 were not sure if it was true ? What then ? Would 
 you believe them ? ” 
 
 Acland was neither quick nor observant. He 
 failed to piece the puzzle, though he pitied Neill for 
 being involved in some love trouble, and gave kindly 
 advice. 
 
 “ I’d go straight to headquarters, my boy, if I 
 
 were you,” he said quietly. “ Second-hand tales and 
 
 hearsay have sent more men to the devil than any 
 
 listed crime. Find out. Write to the — person . . . 
 
 or see them and know for yourself. Half the troubles 
 
 * 
 
 of the world would fall if they were discussed. That’s 
 an older man’s advice. Some people delight in 
 making mischief. If it was that fellow, Graves,” 
 he added, with sudden heat, “ I wouldn’t believe a 
 word he said.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” said Neill, rising. “ I’ll take your 
 advice. I’ve been messing along blindly, not seeing 
 things. They’ve kept me at home, you see, and I’m 
 only a country bumpkin. But I begin to see now 
 where I stand.” 
 
 The others came up, Evie looked troubled, 
 lagging behind. A tremble in her voice spoke of 
 checked tears. 
 
 Standish said gloomily that he believed the devil 
 was boiling kettles and the steam was coming 
 through the sea. It was ghostly. One would not 
 have been surprised to see the rocks heave and slit, 
 and some mighty wave come sweeping, dooming 
 them, across to the land. 
 
TTelUitg further of tbe Coast hi 
 
 Neill fell back with Evie, talking earnestly ; they 
 did not come in. 
 
 Standish cried down the passage as he reached 
 the open hall door. 
 
 “Ellie” he said, “or Mary, bring up anything the 
 cats haven’t got at. And some cake and fruit and a 
 few lobsters. Some dinners make one very hungry.” 
 
 They bade good-bye to Dunhaven next day in a 
 pitiless rainfall. Sullen seas raging up against a 
 patter of paltry rain. Lash of mighty thunderous 
 waters, on rock and sand ... of little wind-driven 
 waters on a sodden land . . . the whole dull sky 
 moving up from the dark West to cross a mist-hidden 
 world. 
 
 “A strange place,” said Acland, looking back at 
 the black cliffs, the humping sand-hills, the stretch 
 of wide bay, yellow-hued from Annan’s flood ; the 
 little lonely houses, soon to be left to be battered, 
 blind-eyed and cold, by the rage of winter storms. 
 
 A dreary place to look for pleasure in ; exuding 
 damp inside and out ; yet with a fascination of its 
 own. So that those who go, go again, loving the 
 wildness of the cruel sea. 
 
 “ Certainly the queerest seaside resort I have 
 known,” said Acland, “ and perhaps the queerest 
 part of it was our dinner - party with the dinner 
 missing.” 
 
 This in low tones. 
 
 “ And you,” smiled Evie, who was radiant as a new 
 risen sun — “ you, Sandy, were the nicest thing at it.” 
 
 It was breathed in an undertone, with an accom- 
 paniment of grateful, shining eyes and smiling 
 mouth. It was enough to make wiser heads swim, 
 yet done in all innocence by Evie, whose eyes were 
 now glued to a certain long-thatched cottage, and 
 
142 TEbe ©tracings of 5 anD£ 
 
 who was principally thinking of the retort which 
 had routed Mrs. levers. 
 
 Michael said it was all right. The toy train 
 grunted and ran off through the dreary, treeless 
 land. Dunhaven vanished and was of the past 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 WHICH TELLS OF BUYING HORSES 
 
 “ The ways of a man with a maid be strange, but simple and 
 tame. 
 
 “To the ways of a man with a horse when buying or selling 
 the same.” 
 
 —Kipling. 
 
 When the Blundells returned from the sea, and the 
 whole world appeared to migrate to the horse show, 
 Acland did not care to go. There was no room to 
 be found for him in the crowded hotels, and the 
 prospect of uncertain lodgings did not appeal to 
 him. So he rested, kept company by the old ladies, 
 during a week of bright August sunshine, placidly 
 happy strolling about the gardens, or resting under 
 the 'beech tree, carefully studying sporting works as 
 he had once studied the racing novels, but this time 
 without enthusiasm. The idea of jumping large 
 obstacles on valuable horses was quite a different 
 thing to the once happy hope of rustling jackets 
 and singing whips, and the subsequent payments by 
 some race company of a substantial stake won by 
 his Crimson Rambler. The picture of the richest 
 Commoner’s first jump in “Ask Mamma ” pos- 
 sessed a distinct fascination. Acland studied it 
 constantly, and, like that sporting youth, felt certain 
 that he would “not sit on at the jumps.” To balance 
 
 i43 
 
144 
 
 XTbe Stagings of SanDg 
 
 this, he comforted himself with the idea that he did 
 not intend to jump at all ; he would always remain 
 upon the roads, and thus solve that difficulty. Poor 
 Sandy ! He little knew Standish Blundell and his 
 horses. 
 
 The little man took his fill of rest and fresh air, 
 and felt himself growing stronger daily. The morn- 
 ings were not hours of weariness, but comfortable 
 moments of laziness ; he saw the tired lines fade 
 from his face, and the flabby skin grow firmer and 
 clear, and was far from discontented. In fact, he 
 wrote to Grattan to say so, and as he forbore to use 
 more than one page on the subject of expense, the 
 doctor knew that this cure was a success. 
 
 Letters arrived telling of a marvellous show — of 
 Standish’s success with the brown four-year-old, and 
 failure to sell Holy Robin ; of the sale in the harness 
 classes of the flighty black, and of the fine price which 
 Nora had received for the chestnut saved by Sandy. 
 Then the travellers returned, Holy Robin with them, 
 and strings of long-coated, untrimmed hunters 
 commenced to fill the stables. 
 
 Sandy was drawn to the big chestnut’s box. He 
 was quite pleased to see the white face and long legs 
 safe back at Ballymacshane. He said so, stroking 
 the youngster’s velvety nose. The horse was very 
 taking with his size and shining bright coat. 
 
 “You’ll buy this one yet, sir,” said Tom, smiling. 
 “An’ whin you’re on him an’ off no one’ll catch 
 you.” 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” said Sandy, disturbed by a vision of 
 an endless flight through space. 
 
 “ He can gallop away from anythin’ we have,” 
 proceeded Tom, making matters plainer. “There 
 was never yit one of his breedin’ that couldn’t fly 
 
TSmiMcT) Ueils of Buying f3orscs ms 
 
 like the winds.” And Sandy felt relieved as he 
 understood. “ Indade, we’d race him if he’d sthand.” 
 Here Tom coughed to aver an indiscretion, and 
 Standish called opportunely : 
 
 “ I have her here for you, Sandy — Blackbird, 
 Come out and see her. You’d travel Ireland and 
 not find a mare to match you as this one will. She 
 can stay for ever — she can’t fall — and she’ll mind you 
 where you couldn’t mind her.” 
 
 Sandy emerged hastily to see this paragon. 
 Standish was holding the bridle of a long, low, 
 black mare, with great quarters and shoulders, well 
 rubbed up for her sex, deep girthed, and with a lean 
 head well set on. 
 
 " Did you ever see one more perfectly topped ? ” 
 said Standish enthusiastically. 
 
 He spoke correctly. Blackbird’s eight-year-old legs 
 were best ignored. She had been fired for curbs 
 and doubtful tendons, blistered for various splints. 
 Her joints were gummy and swollen, she dished in 
 front and brushed behind, and was a painful example 
 of a three-hundred-guinea animal put on to the wrong 
 stand. She had been bred to a farmer on the Cork 
 side, who had hunted her for a season and vainly 
 essayed to sell her, until Standish, noting her per- 
 formances, had come forward, and got her for an old 
 plough horse, a fiver, and a red setter pup — with ten 
 shillings back for luck. She had carried him brilli- 
 antly, received a fresh blistering all round, and was 
 now destined for Sandy. 
 
 “She makes a very slight noise,” said Standish, 
 “but it doesn’t stop her. She’s absolutely made for 
 you. — Here, get up on her.” 
 
 The mare was saddled. Sandy Acland, visibly 
 uneasy, mounted. He remembered the chestnut, 
 
 K 
 
146 TTfoe 5tra$tt0S of SattD^ 
 
 But Blackbird was full of grass and very lazy—* 
 she ambled round the yard, bending her lean neck 
 to the reins, turning and twisting, and shaking Sandy 
 sorely when she jogged, but the little man liked the 
 Drocess. 
 
 “ She appears docile,” he observed, having com- 
 passed a trot from the manure heap in the far yard. 
 “No doubt she would be very suitable to me to ride 
 on. Is she expensive ? 99 
 
 Standish, having allowed a variety of expressions 
 to illuminate his gloomy face, muttered : “ Heaven 
 deliver me from — bit off the obvious tail,” and 
 replied Sandy could have her for £$o — as she 
 stood — and she was the cheapest thing he’d ever 
 buy. 
 
 Acland slid to the ground, made the complete 
 circuit of Blackbird, which he always considered 
 horsey and discreet, observed that she appeared to 
 be a little gouty about her ankle-joints and would 
 be the better of some Knutnows Powders, if made 
 for horses, but proffered no dissent. 
 
 He did not understand horse-dealing — or that his 
 host would have taken £20 off with alacrity. 
 
 “ I will write you a cheque,” he observed. “After 
 all, I shall be careful not to injure her and can always 
 sell her again.” But a letter in his pocket recalled 
 his wrongs. “ What I do object to is having a horse 
 I can do nothing with,” he burst out. “The Crimson 
 Rambler, I have no doubt, would carry me here most 
 excellently.” 
 
 “ But he can’t jump,” said Standish, amazed. 
 
 “ He could go on the roads,” said Acland peevishly 
 “His keep is a positive drain upon my resources 
 the whole affair was a most hideous mistake.” 
 
 Standish said it was a bad thing to be poor. 
 
WLblcb Hells of mviHQ Dorses 147 
 
 then called forth Tom, consulting him as to a second 
 horse for Acland’s use. 
 
 The Englishman’s protests were cut short by a 
 sarcastic inquiry as to whether he meant to do three 
 days a week on one, and Tom considered it. 
 
 “There’s the grey cob, sir, quiet and gentle, but 
 she refuses her fences and wants driving over them. 
 Apt entirely to put you in on your head in a wather- 
 trinch.” 
 
 Acland, who was about to plead for the grey cob, 
 now refrained. 
 
 “ An’ the bay Hardgo colt, sir ; but sure, he’d pull 
 the arms from you for a mile or two.” 
 
 “ If I must have a second horse,” said Acland, “ and 
 thought I could ever manage him, I should like 
 here he blushed at his own audacity — “the Holy 
 Robin— the chestnut — ” 
 
 Tom burst into fervent promises of Robin’s docile- 
 ness. He’d engage to make him that gintale an’ aisy 
 that a man could shave above on his back. He’d 
 wallop the buck-jumps from him, and tie up his head, 
 and tache him to go in a circle, and countless other 
 things. 
 
 Standish fingered his black moustache doubtfully. 
 
 “I don’t want to hurt you, Sandy,” he said — “and 
 the horse is young. Still, Tom can do a lot, and if 
 you like him, take the two for ^ICO — the price of 
 one horse — not a figure I’d take from a stranger, I 
 can tell you — ” 
 
 Strictly true, for his highest offer at the show for 
 the chestnut had been £ 20 , as he knew the mare 
 was not marketable. Still the statement pleased 
 Acland, and was no lie. 
 
 “ And as for his hocks, they’ll never come against 
 him,” he added. 
 
i4« TTfoe ©tracings of Santiy 
 
 " Do you mean by his hocks,” queried Acland, 
 J ‘the knee-joints of his back legs there with the 
 marks upon them?” 
 
 “ I — oh, exactly,” said Standish, and Tom mur- 
 muring “ God save us alive! — knee-joints,” fled away 
 with Blackbird. 
 
 “ And they,” Sandy went to the other stables, 
 “ are they likely to give way ? ” 
 
 “ I don't really believe they will, Sandy,” said 
 Standish, honestly. “ I think it's conformation.” 
 
 The only thing this implied to Acland was 
 Bishops, so he let it alone. Phillips bore down with 
 milk and soda, and listened with interest to the 
 account of purchases. 
 
 “Very nice horse, Holy Robin, sir,” he observed; 
 “ exceedingly taking— threw the boy three times at 
 exercise yesterday. No doubt fresh after the show, 
 sir. Is now to bed; that is, Jimmy, the boy, sir. 
 Ellie has just taken him tea. And Blackbird — the 
 black mare with unusual legs, sir. Quite an aviary, 
 sir.” 
 
 Here Acland, disturbed by the accounts of Robin's 
 vagaries, desired Phillips to curb his leaning towards 
 wit. 
 
 “ Certainly, sir — -thank you, sir,” said Phillips, as 
 he took the tumbler and left. 
 
 He watched Robin tied up and strapped down, 
 being walked about the paddock, and remembered 
 that he was asked to Castleknock to see the new 
 horses and help to school them. Having mounted 
 the grey cob, a particularly lazy animal, which 
 stumbled as it went, he rode over there, with a 
 trustfully loose rein. 
 
 The big yard where he had encountered the bailiff 
 seemed to overflow with horses, Nora and Evie 
 
149 
 
 Mbfcb Hells of Buplno Worses 
 
 darting about among them, buckling straps and 
 adjusting bridles ; various long-tailed animals starting 
 about nervously in response. When the fat cob was 
 housed, the horses resolved themselves into three, all 
 very youthful and skittish. 
 
 They set forth, the groom leading one, Nora 
 another, Evie taking a light - middled grey mare 
 with a wild eye, and Acland discovering with 
 tempered pleasure that he was expected to use the 
 whip to all three. 
 
 As they walked fast up the narrow back avenue, 
 he listened patiently to a flood of terms conveying 
 nothing to him : of fine hocks and great shoulders ; 
 good bone and bad ; jumping quarters, quality and 
 substance. The shapes of the three youngsters were 
 discussed with a slurring of bad points, and hailing of 
 good, and a constant urging to the bewildered man 
 to run from one horse to another, and say what he 
 thought. Being wiser than usual he said nothing, 
 and was therefore hailed as a reticent judge. 
 
 Nora’s two were really fine animals ; the class 
 which cost, and run to money ; but even his 
 untutored eye noted the slim waist of Evie’s mare, 
 and her head and eyes. 
 
 “ Bought her from under a cart,” said Evie. “ Oh, 
 do mind, Sandy. Sandow may kick. She’s full of 
 breeding ; her mother was a thoroughbred and won 
 races. Oh, I’ve been saving for months, and I had 
 to give him an old set of harness even now to make 
 up, but she’ll just fly.” 
 
 Acland, dodging a sudden dash of the grey’s heels, 
 said he feared she was not very robust — he meant 
 not up to weight, but failed to express it. 
 
 Evie said indignantly that the mare would eat a 
 bin, and they left the road. The sun glinted hotly 
 
i 5° TTbe Stra^mgs of San&g 
 
 and the rushy pasture was long. Sandy breathed a 
 thanksgiving when they reached a low, broad bank, 
 and the schooling began. Nora's two took to it 
 kindly. After one snort of dismay, they jumped and 
 jumped again easily and lightly. Not so Dawn the 
 grey. She sidled and plunged and fretted, snatched 
 mouthfuls of grass off the bank, and finally, answer- 
 ing the whip, bundled into the ditch with a snort of 
 temper. Finding it cold she came out ... on the 
 side she had gone in at. 
 
 “ She's nervous," said Evie, straining on the 
 rope. 
 
 “ I think she is exceedingly ill-tempered," said the 
 now perspiring Sandy, as he pranced with his whip, 
 avoiding the lashing heels. 
 
 Evie considered the matter, and decided that 
 Sandy was no use with the whip. A moment later 
 he found himself at the end of the long rope, and 
 felt suddenly for those fishes at Dooloch. He 
 dangled, sore-handed, the mare using him at her 
 pleasure. Up and down, short rushes and long ; 
 shrieked at by Evie, who flailed without ceasing, 
 to keep a strain on, until suddenly the mare plunged 
 backwards. The sudden jerk flung Sandy down . . . 
 the rope paid out red-hot, but he reefed it and would 
 not let go, the fervour of a brave despair animating 
 him. There was a rush blinded progress on his face, 
 and then— the ditch. It was deep and moist, and he 
 took it head foremost. The rope slacked, there was 
 a yell- — a thud— and as Sandy thrust up his bramble- 
 crowned head, his appalled eyes were greeted by 
 the grey filly crouched just above him, her sliding, 
 unwilling hoofs within an inch of his face. His 
 shriek of horror hurried matters: she rose with a 
 snort of terror, and fortunately cleared him. Then, 
 
Mblcb 'Cells of Busing Iborses 151 
 
 black with sweat and trembling with rage, she stood 
 in the far field. 
 
 Sandy scrambled out, conscious now that Nora 
 Hartland, overcome by laughter, was leaning weakly 
 against one of the colts, and that Edmund Graves, 
 with a stick, was apparently the immediate cause oi 
 the mare’s sudden obedience. 
 
 “ Wasn’t that splendid ? We made her,” said Evie. 
 clearing the deep ditch with an easy spring. 
 
 Mr. Acland, as he picked out a few thorns, 
 inquired, with some natural asperity, what would 
 have happened if the mare had jumped into instead 
 of over the ditch. 
 
 “ I might exceedingly easily have been killed,” he 
 observed, as he lay down to look for his cap. 
 
 Nora Hartland decided that he very easily might, 
 and rated her step-sister for her wild behaviour. But 
 Evie was unabashed. 
 
 “Not let her jump,” she said, wide-eyed, “when 
 Sir Edmund just turned up with a big stick, and 
 fetched her a smack on the shoulder, that fairly 
 cowed her. Why, I’d have been mad not to hunt her 
 on with that chance.” 
 
 The remainder of the school lacked variety. The 
 grey mare curtsied and sulked. Evie tugged, and 
 the men smote at every fence until the lesson was 
 over, and even the owner felt damped. Dawn was 
 too clearly the owner of an nasty temper. She took 
 narrow banks on her chest, and wide banks on her 
 tummy ; reduced the only wall they met to ruin, and 
 came home, knocked up and exhausted, eyeing them 
 with unalloyed spite. 
 
 The two horses, now named respectively Sandow 
 and Killtown — the latter from its birthplace — were 
 cool and undisturbed ; the mare dripped as she 
 
T 52 tlbe Strasinos of SanDg 
 
 walked ; so, in fact, unused to violent exercise, did 
 Sandy Acland. He thought, with a gentle sigh oi 
 regret, of his usual holiday at Folkestone, his decorous 
 walks upon the breezy Leas, his conversations with 
 brother Londoners as to the future of cotton or 
 sugar — and the appalling mismanagement of the 
 Government. His tea at shops or winter-gardens \ 
 over-long dinners and rubber of Bridge, or second 
 stroll upon the Leas. But that was England and 
 past life, and this . . . this tramping across fields, 
 this clumping, pushed aside by young horses, up a 
 narrow back avenue, this bramble-pricked return was 
 now — Ireland — and he was not sure that he had 
 known life before. He resented and disliked it ; his 
 mental balance was upset ; yet he recognised some 
 unseen force which dragged his mind to these new 
 grooves, and made him cease to wonder at what 
 happened. 
 
 If Mr. Jones, his immaculate head clerk, could 
 have seen him as he slid into that ditch — could have 
 felt that pungest moment when the grey mare 
 crouched so close to him ! He fell back to Nora 
 as they came close to the road. Ireland makes light 
 of years ; pink-cheeked and smiling, she not only 
 looked young, but was young. After all, there are 
 some people who do not count age by their birthdays. 
 There are young men who never know youth, and 
 old men who never know age, but go smiling out 
 across the border with a boy’s enthusiasm fresh in 
 them. 
 
 “ Do you remember v — Nora pointed backwards to 
 the road — “ your ride upon the chestnut ? ” 
 
 Sandy shuddered. He did not think he was ever 
 likely to forget it. 
 
 “ That chestnut saved me,” she laughed. 44 1 knev? 
 
Mbicb Xlells of JBu^tno Ibovses 15.1 
 
 he would, and you saved him for me. You know ” — * 
 her eyes grew grave — “ if he had gone I could not 
 have hunted ; I should have existed here in a state 
 of semi-starvation. For if I could not make some 
 little show of riches, everyone would want to be 
 paid.” 
 
 “ You are very plucky/’ he said gently. He would 
 have substituted foolish a month before. 
 
 “ Oh, pull the devil’s tail without daring to let go. 
 Eternal striving. Eternal contriving. Small sops to 
 many varieties of shop-keeping cerberus. Oh, yes, 
 but ” — the golden sunshine picked out silver threads 
 in her soft hair — “ but sometimes, Sandy — Oh ! I 
 know it’s my life, and I must go on ; I could not 
 rust. Sometimes one gets tired and worse — lonely.” 
 
 He said nothing, looking at her with a new 
 sympathy. 
 
 “ Evie will marry soon. People say I’ve done her 
 heaps of harm keeping her here in this vagabond 
 house and life of mine. She has a little money, and 
 might have stayed with her father’s people. But she 
 likes it, and I am content. I want her to be rich ; I 
 want her to be happy ; they don’t always go together. 
 That light heart of hers will never suit Castletown- 
 Graves, and the title of ‘ My Lady.’ He’ll tyrannise 
 and weary her, and — I can’t stop it.” 
 
 Sandy, braving a snub, asked her suddenly why 
 she had never married. 
 
 “ Because — no one tempted me.” She met his 
 eyes with a curious look. “ Long ago there was 
 someone, but no money — no possibility — so it 
 dropped, and afterwards my few offers failed t6 
 please me. My troubles are my own ; I’ve never 
 felt inclined to sandwich them with other people’s 
 — to take up the burden of someone else’s life and 
 
iS4 
 
 Tine Stra^mgs of San&s 
 
 rear the children of some unloved man. So here 1 
 am — a soured old spinster — and sometimes — I’m 
 sorry. Common interests must draw one together. 
 Age has made me romantic and long for a helping 
 hand as I clamber downwards. We can run uphill 
 alone, in the sunlight . . . making daisy chains, eat- 
 ing fruit, playing thoughtlessly . . „ but on the shady 
 side the daisy’s dead, the trees bare; that certain gulf 
 of oblivion at the bottom ; limbs growing tired and 
 brains weary, we long for companionship — for a pal, 
 a lover and comrade rolled into one, instead of the 
 Sir Galahads and Lancelots we once dreamt of. 
 Someone simple and human ; perfect because it was 
 our own. Idle dreams, Sandy, and hopeless ones ; 
 but better to have the right to dream than to be 
 chained. My goodness ! ” she cried, with that sudden 
 change of voice and manner which is so essentially 
 Irish, “there’s Teddy in difficulties with that mare. 
 I’ll bet — I’ll bet ” — half to herself — “ he won’t hold 
 on.” 
 
 The grey mare, much soured, had suddenly 
 swerved, her thin nerves upset by the dogs. Sir 
 Edmund was leading her. He yelled, and the dogs 
 barked, and in a moment the grey was free, and 
 the swearing baronet rubbing his hand. The filly 
 was caught again speedily, stabled with evil words ; 
 but no one gave Graves sympathy for his reddened 
 palm. In fact, all that Nora Hartland said was: 
 “ You’d never have gone into that ditch ; ” and . . . 
 Acland enjoyed his tea. He felt that the bramble 
 scratches were atoned for. Evie waited on him, and 
 smiled at him until his brain swam with a wonder 
 which was almost wistful. Despite Graves’ black 
 looks, she followed him to the door, when the 
 unwilling grey cob came round. 
 
XKIlbtcb Qclls of 3Buptna Ifoorses 155 
 
 “ If you’ll be in to-morrow, I’ll ride over. We — * 
 might — walk down to the loch. You know the little 
 lake. It’s so pretty there.” 
 
 The little man, blushing, was sure that he would 
 be in. 
 
 “ Oh ! ” Evie pulled out a crumpled letter. " Yes, 
 I’m so glad — I’ll be over early.” She was very 
 breathless. “ And— Oh ! would you post that ? 
 it’s too late now here.’’ 
 
 She thrust a letter into his hand and fled, but Nora 
 came with him to the gate. 
 
 “ What a lecture I read you,” she said. “ You see 
 we are able to look down into the shadow now — 
 both you and I. Good-bye.” 
 
 The letter was addressed to Neill levers, Esq., in 
 an uneducated hand, which was certainly not Evie’s. 
 
 Possibly from the groom about a horse, thought 
 obtuse Sandy Acland, as he rode homewards. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 A WALK BY A LAKE AND AN UNDOUBTED THEFT 
 
 ci If she grow suddenly gracious? 
 
 Reflect is it all lor thee.” 
 
 — Kipling, 
 
 The lake Evie spoke of lay about three miles 
 from Rally macshane, a streak of grey water, rush- 
 fringed, crouched low amid surrounding hills. A 
 ruined castle, bleak and bare, hung over it, telling of 
 the days when a way had lain along Loch Neen’s 
 edge and the robbers had exacted toll on all who 
 passed. There was no other road then to the ford 
 of the river. It was not much to see, though beauti- 
 ful, as all Ireland is, with its softness of colouring 
 and gentle companionable loneliness. There were no 
 houses there ; nothing but grazing cattle and sheep 
 and the rustle of the wind among the bushes. Little 
 clouds busied themselves on a blue sky, their softness 
 reflected in the still waters. It was hot for early 
 September, and Acland asked diffidently for the 
 woolly Iceland pony, and felt glad because Standish 
 was away. The girl had arrived early, radiant in 
 white, and they departed, Acland seeing a halo of 
 romance and youth round the Iceland’s shaggy ears* 
 Evie was strangely silent ; she seemed to take an 
 unusual interest in the beauty of the landscape, and 
 
 156 
 
a Half! a Xafce 157 
 
 to look through space into some misty futurity as 
 they drove quietly along. They left the pony grazing 
 on someone’s field and descended to the edge of the 
 water It was very pretty and peaceful and still, 
 but somehow seemed scarcely worth a three-mile 
 drive to see. To the right a stretch of woods, the 
 edge of the levers’ home, Droveen. Evie Hartland 
 had come to see the lake, but she now gazed across 
 its waters and focussed her eyes on the trees. Then 
 she sighed, blushed, suddenly got up, and directing 
 Acland to unpack the basket, said she would take a 
 walk, and Catty the dog went with her. 
 
 Acland laid out several varieties of sandwiches 
 and a cake and awaited her return. When he looked 
 round the girl had disappeared from view. 
 
 The wind whispered in the rushes, the waters 
 rippled under a faint breeze ; but the early 
 September sun was exceedingly hot, and the ground 
 was hard. Presently the little man commenced to 
 get tired of it ; this was not the picnic of his dreams 
 The treeless expanse of ground was void of life- 
 four cows and some sheep excepted. He walked 
 along calling, make careful search behind several 
 high stones, wondering if Evie had fallen asleep, and 
 at last uneasily, if some accident could have befallen 
 her. Could she have slipped through the rushes 
 and walked deliberately into those placid waters? 
 Common - sense declared it impossible ; yet cold 
 chills of uneasiness ran races down his spine, and he 
 darted through an old arched door into the castle. 
 Here he found winding and decrepit stone stairs and 
 heard voices. He toiled upwards with difficulty, 
 for the steps wound round and round and were 
 broken in many places, and finally emerged breathless 
 upon the flat and still perfect top. Here, on the low 
 
158 ^ be Straff nos of £attfo£ 
 
 wall, sheltered by a buttress, lichens tinting its 
 greyness, sat Evie and Neill levers, deep in 
 conversation. 
 
 They watched him emerge with consternation. 
 Evie jumped up. 
 
 “I — Oh, I’m so sorry/ 1 she explained hastily. “ I 
 came up the old castle, and found Neill here, and I 
 began to talk. I’ve kept you waiting.” 
 
 Mr. Acland, thinking of the pangs of anxiety he 
 had suffered, said that she undoubtedly had. He 
 could not in the least understand how they had 
 failed to hear him call ; but he looked at them 
 without suspicion. 
 
 Neill went down for the luncheon. Evie, after a 
 moment, dreaded that he could not carry it by him- 
 self and insisted on Sandy's resting ; so he was again 
 left alone. He looked round the square of solid stone- 
 work, with its loopholes and buttresses, peered down 
 the broken stairway into strange, dungeon-like rooms, 
 with slits for windows, and thought of what life must 
 have been on that cramped place. Two rooms, no 
 doubt ; one on the ground, one above, and these 
 little holes where a man could not lie down ; winds 
 whistling through the slits, and the rough robbers 
 watching like human spiders for their prey. They 
 had lived and loved and died, savages as they were, 
 but their castle remained, and the stone rooms which 
 had echoed to the oaths of the pillagers and groans 
 of the pillaged was now peered into by modern men 
 and women ; products of the nineteenth century 
 which did its robbing so differently. He thought 
 of the robbers' astonishment if they woke up, and 
 trooping to the roof, saw him sitting there. The 
 country teemed with these old castles, some of 
 them big places with moat and courtyards, and 
 
H Walft b$ a Xafte 159 
 
 nearly all half battered away by Cromwell's soldiers 
 — wild times of old in this fair, green land. Sandy 
 Acland suddenly remembered that he was hungry, 
 and that half an hour is an indecorously long time 
 for two people to take to walk two hundred yards 
 and fetch some sandwiches. He was peering over 
 the wall when he heard them climbing up. Evie’s 
 face appeared through the little door. 
 
 “It was all my fault,” she said penitently. “You 
 see, Catty went off to the rushes and left me. Now 
 she’s eaten all the cake and most of the sandwiches 
 — indeed, the bottle of milk and the soda-water . . .” 
 “ Is just about all we’ve got,” finished Neill cheer- 
 fully, as he laid these items down. “ There are two 
 packets of sandwiches, but — ” 
 
 The two packets were rather draggled — in fact, no 
 one seemed to want them — and when Catty laid her 
 beautiful, unrepentant head on the warm stones and 
 thumped her wet, silken-fringed tail, she received the 
 remainder; which was not justice. There were still 
 some pears in the basket, so matters might have 
 been worse. 
 
 When these were eaten they went down. Catty 
 retreated herself into the rushes swishing up and 
 down. Evie and Neill found a dungeon which only 
 held two, and Sandy Acland, sitting on a very hard 
 stone in the sunshine, decided that picnics were a 
 mistake. He preferred luncheon at home. Of course, 
 if an unfortunate accident had not produced Neill 
 levers, it would have been different. As the two 
 came into the sunshine he was looking thoughtful. 
 
 “ Such a fascinating, dear dungeon,” Evie remarked, 
 with all youth’s callousness. “ Where they shut the 
 people up — no light, and a narrow door to go in by 
 You really must see it, Sandy.” 
 
i6o TTbe Strasinos of Sanb£ 
 
 Acland rose. 
 
 “We’ll wait for you,” said Evie, sitting down. 
 
 Acland returned to his stone, deliberately observing 
 that he might lose his way. He did not get up 
 again when Neill good-naturedly said he would take 
 him there. The little man was becoming soured by 
 circumstances. 
 
 Neill, who had to be home for tea, suggested a 
 stroll towards Droveen, to keep him company ; so 
 they walked round the narrow lake and up some 
 fields which bordered the woods. Here Neill left 
 them, with a last expression of surprise at having 
 found them by the lake. A narrow country road 
 divided the fields from the trees, which branched 
 coolly, flinging chequered shadows on the mossy 
 ground. 
 
 Evie, leaning on the low wall, told Acland that 
 they were quite close to Droveen. 
 
 “You can see the stables,” she said, pointing. 
 “ They’re a quarter of a mile from the house. It's 
 a great big place, only half kept up, of course, with 
 as much outward show as they can manage, and very 
 little behind it. They’re really rather poor ; even 
 when Neill’s uncle dies it will only be another large 
 house and no extra money.” 
 
 Acland remarked that Ireland was a strange 
 country, where people, who would have had a 
 modest villa and a bicycle in England, here, on the 
 same income, occupied country mansions and kept 
 hunters. 
 
 “ There,” said Evie tragically, “ Catty’s got in after 
 
 the rabbits.” 
 
 Catty was sweeping her handsome red person up 
 and down the glade in hot pursuit of flying bunnies. 
 She was exceedingly deaf when they called her, and 
 
B TKJlalft by a Xafte 161 
 
 pursuit being hopeless, they could only wait until 
 she was tired. 
 
 “ A nice look-out for me if the keepers come 
 along,” said Evie anxiously. “ I hope you’ve got 
 some money, Sandy.” 
 
 “ What for?” 
 
 “ Why, to pay them to be quiet, of course, and if 
 it’s Cripps, the head man, it will mean five 
 shillings.” 
 
 Acland immediately scrambled into the wood, 
 upsetting a good deal of the wall on to the road, 
 and gave a futile chase for a breathless five minutes, 
 to Catty’s secret amusement. He returned, much 
 irritated, to the road, and was just getting out 
 when a trap, driven at a furious pace, dashed round 
 the corner. The horse, which was blowing, came 
 suddenly upon the displaced stones, stumbled and 
 fell, struggling up again with a bleeding knee, and 
 limping painfully. 
 
 “Now we’ve done it,” cried Nora Hartland, 
 jumping out. “ He’s done for ; it’s Mikey Harly’s 
 old pony, and his knees don’t matter, they’ve been 
 down before, but he’s strained himself. Who on 
 earth put stones there? and I must get on. I must. 
 It's old Molly Bennett, Evie, in a fit, and I was going 
 for the doctor. She’ll be dead if he’s not there in an 
 hour.” 
 
 At this Evie became distracted. She wailed 
 round the injured horse and upbraided Sandy. It 
 appeared to be an important matter, and that Molly 
 Bennett was a family friend, one time nurse to 
 both girls. That she must not, could not, be 
 allowed to die, and yet how were they to bring 
 help. The placid, lazy Iceland pony was two 
 miles away. Nora sniffed and Evie railed, until 
 
 L 
 
i 6 2 Tibe Strapings of Sanfcs 
 
 Catty, thinking it more exciting than rabbits, came 
 up to look on. 
 
 “ What about — the levers ? ” queried Sandy 
 nervously. 
 
 A sudden flare of determination lit Evie’s eyes. 
 
 “ They never would, but they must,” she breathed. 
 a I’ll get something there from the coachman and 
 bring it back. Til put it into this trap. Come, 
 Sandy — ” and in a second she was tearing through 
 the cool shadows towards a square block of buildings 
 a short distance away — Acland trotting breathlessly 
 by her side — feeling certain that it would prove even 
 more expensive than Catty and the keepers. 
 
 But as they ran in through the open gate, silence 
 greeted them ; calls brought no answer. The wide, 
 square yard lay quiet under the golden sunlight, late 
 roses pink against the mellow walls. Rows of blistered 
 doors stood open, but no horses looked out. Evie 
 groaned ; Carthy was away, she dare not go to the 
 house. She darted from stable to stable, suddenly 
 crying out as a grey-white blazed head peered from 
 one and contemplated the invaders sleepily. The 
 horse backed, snorting as his door was flung open. 
 Then, in a tangle of hopeless remonstrance, Acland 
 found himself plundering an untidy harness-room, 
 returning with an old bridle, and helping to lead 
 a grey colt out into the yard. The animal was 
 exceedingly young, with the clean, unblemished legs 
 of an unworked horse and a long, unkempt coat. 
 
 Sandy Acland almost raved, very nearly wept as 
 the adventure proceeded. To take another man’s 
 horse, “to steal, to — ” but he found himself running 
 beside Evie as the grey ambled across the yard, for 
 the girl took no notice of him. 
 
 The colt was exceedingly amiable ; he allowed 
 
163 
 
 H mm bs a Xa fie 
 
 himself to be led over the field and through the 
 wood, and reduced the gap to deeper ruins with 
 childlike good-temper. 
 
 “ They’ve given you a horse. Oh, how splendid ! ” 
 Nora darted forward with the collar in her hands. 
 
 Acland remarked between set teeth that they had 
 been given nothing, but no one listened ; the still 
 docile grey was adorned with the pony’s harness. 
 
 “ It is even possible,” clamoured Acland, as he was 
 told to adjust the crupper, and stood staring at the 
 long grey tail, “that the animal has never been in 
 harness.” 
 
 Evie said that he would never learn younger; she 
 was busying herself with string and a broken trace. 
 Then, as Acland endeavoured to his work the grey 
 showed his first spirit; feeling his tail gently pulled, 
 he promptly kicked, “ hoisting,” donkey-fashion, 
 upsetting the astonished Acland on to the heap of 
 stones. Nora came to the crupper and said Sandy 
 was clumsy. There was no respite, a moment later 
 the harness was adjusted and the low trap pulled up 
 to the colt. It was a full size too small, scraping his 
 shaggy sides and swinging close to his long tail. 
 
 “ Sandy will go with you,” said Nora, “ I’ll take 
 the pony back.” 
 
 With a positive qualm of horror but ashamed to 
 resist, Sandy got in ; they sat on steep cushions, 
 looking up at a dusty back. The colt stood quietly, 
 showing no inclination to move. A gentle chuck 
 elected no response ; Nora tugged at the bridle, and 
 he slobbered and blew out over her sleeve with 
 childish friendliness. Precious time flew. Nora set 
 her mouth grimly ; jumping for a branch, she broke 
 one off. 
 
 “ We’ll beat him,” she said calmly. “ Sit still.” 
 
i 6 4 TTbe Stra^inos of Sattbp 
 
 Whack came the knobly stick upon the shaggy 
 sides. The grey neither plunged nor kicked, but he 
 fled from the pain ; found the suddenness of what 
 dangled at his heels, and hoping he could leave it, 
 broke into a gallop and bolted. 
 
 “ That’s all right,” cried Nora cheerily. “ Don’t 
 pull at the reins, Evie ; they’re rotten.” 
 
 The road was narrow and winding, skirting 
 Droveen wall. They tore along it madly, the trap 
 swinging, Acland remonstrating, dust flying in clouds. 
 They hovered over ditches, grazed heaps of stones, 
 and once induced an old woman to plunge off her 
 donkey-cart, and invoke all female saints to aid her 
 
 Evie sat still, giving her mind to mere guidance — 
 never attempting to pull hard on the mended reins. 
 The colt showed endurance ; he dashed on, hating 
 the horror at his heels ; they passed wide iron gates, 
 and got on to a broad, flat road ; the grey was 
 slackening speed, and Evie had happily remarked 
 that he was now trained, when they observed a car 
 coming soberly to meet them. 
 
 Evie looked. 
 
 “Mrs. levers!” she cried. “Hide me! Oh 
 Sandy, hide me — ” 
 
 Acland offered his straw hat hopelessly. The 
 bottom of the trap was too narrow to hold a child : 
 the colt had come to a lurching, frightened trot, 
 and showed signs of stopping. Desperation spurs 
 intellect. Evie wore thin, high-heeled shoes ; she 
 tore one off, and standing up, dealt the astounded 
 horse a series of sound blows with the heel, so that 
 he dashed on again, blowing loudly, getting from 
 side to side of the road in perilous fashion. He was 
 now black with sweat, and not immediately to be 
 recognised as grey. They bore down on the car at 
 
a Malft bn a Xafce 165 
 
 racing pace ; caught a glimpse of Mrs. levers’ face 
 set in outraged protest, of Graves’ thin legs flying 
 heavenward as they jarred the step, and heard a 
 “ Glory be” from the astonished Carthy — then they 
 were past — unrecognised — Evie unaware that in her 
 agitation she had continued to hammer the colt with 
 her brown shoe. 
 
 Murmuring “Thank Heaven! 5 ’ she sat down, giving 
 the shoe to Sandy, and endeavouring to put his hat 
 on her foot. 
 
 “ Oh, if they’d known him,” she said, “ I should 
 have gone back to the lake and drowned 
 myself.” 
 
 The colt now commenced to sidle and stop, and 
 would probably have smashed the trap if help had 
 not arrived. They were debating the chances of 
 turning a corner, when fate ordained that Dr. 
 Holmes himself should appear upon the way, driv- 
 ing his high dog-cart. Evie stopped the blown 
 youngster, and flung herself incoherently upon the 
 Doctor, babbling her tale of sickness and 
 adventure. She then put her foot on to the 
 
 step, and began to climb up. 
 
 “ But — what am I to do ? ” cried Acland, from the 
 grey colt’s head. 
 
 “You— I must get to see poor nurse. Oh, you — 
 take the straps off, and leave them there in the trap 
 — they’ll be quite safe — and then lead the horse 
 to the wood and wait for me ; we’il try to slip him 
 back.” 
 
 “ Good — good — God ! ” said Mr. Acland heavily. 
 
 He was left alone on the country roads with a 
 stolen grey horse ; with the task of removing that 
 frightened animal from the trap ; and further, of 
 walking with him back to the wood, and there being 
 
166 uhc stragfitas of 5 ant>& 
 
 probably discovered by some keeper or servant of 
 the levers’, and held up to public disgrace. 
 
 Evie waved him a smiling callous farewell ; and 
 when she was represented by a blur of dust he, 
 with resignation, commenced to pick at the buckle 
 of the harness, receiving an unlooked-for shock as 
 the brass part slipped with a clang to his feet, and 
 the grey horse plunged away on to the grass, trying 
 to bolt. It is at all times difficult to stand at a 
 horse’s head and unharness him at one and the 
 same time ; it is, in fact, rather impossible, and, 
 to any novice, the removal of harness is far from 
 simple. Acland felt a growing admiration for 
 the race of grooms, as he picked and pulled and 
 hacked with his penknife at knotted strings and 
 rusty buckles. Finally, believing that he had undone 
 the traces, he seized the colt by the head and 
 endeavoured to lead it out, that now outraged 
 animal coming with a snort of fear. Unfortunately, 
 having overlooked the final securing of the trace 
 with thick string, the unfortunate grey found him- 
 self still attached, and trap, horse, and man resolved 
 themselves into a complicated merry - go - round. 
 Just as Acland, clinging to the bridle, was about to 
 give it up, the patched shaft did so instead, dangling 
 at the colt’s side, slapping him in the ribs ; while the 
 trap fell with a clang on to the road. This simplified 
 matters ; the rest, with the aid of the penknife, was 
 fairly plain sailing, so that at last the broken trap 
 lay supine upon the road, covered with a tangle of 
 odd harness, and an astonished, grimy, resigned 
 Londoner found himself tramping along a dusty 
 road, leading the grey colt homewards. As he went 
 he looked back, wondering at a land where men get 
 sh^fc at from behind hedges, yet a set of badly. 
 
a Maife bg a Xafce 167 
 
 mended harness may be left unprotected with 
 complete safety. 
 
 Acland trudged and fumed, starting at every 
 sound. The horror of discovery peeped at him 
 from the dusty thorns ; there was agony in a distant 
 rumble of wheels ; in the sound of voices from the 
 fields. ... To the day of his death the little man 
 would not forget the creeping fear running down his 
 backbone as he tore at a jog-trot past the iron gates 
 of Droveen ... his guilty flush and subsequent 
 relief when he met two workmen, who passed him 
 without comment. They might have known the 
 horses ; might have asked questions . . . and he 
 knew he possessed no Irish resource ; no mastery 
 of graceful untruths to meet them with. 
 
 It was something to find himself under the shelter 
 of the high wall, away from those gaping gates ; he 
 went more easily, with less fear of Mrs. levers 
 descending upon him, and it was more than something 
 to see Evie, accompanied by a boy with a dog, coming 
 to meet him. Now, at least, he possessed companions 
 in crime. 
 
 Evie, who showed no sympathy, merely reproached 
 him for his delay. 
 
 “You were quite a long time,” she said severely. 
 “ How could you have taken such ages to slip off the 
 harness? Mikey is going on now to fetch it and the 
 trap.” 
 
 Acland — with some pleasure— explained that that 
 harness now lacked most of its string adjuncts, 
 and that the shaft was broken. He resigned the 
 colt’s bridle, and wiped his heated forehead. Mikey 
 received the news of the broken shaft with a total 
 lack of emotion. He said “ wishah ” now, and 
 suggested the return of the grey without further 
 
1 68 tlbe S tracings of Sanos 
 
 delay. There was no cessation of incident ; many 
 things were still to come. The grey horse was 
 led over the ruins into the wood, Mikey, who had 
 let his donkey go, went on to reconnoitre. There 
 was a convenient rick of hay near the stable gates, 
 and the colt was got to this unobserved. Here he 
 remained contentedly eating, while Mikey scouted. 
 He returned, flushed with excitement, to announce 
 that “Misther Calty was just running back the cyar, 
 and would surely be away to his tay in a minnit.” 
 
 Now, it lacks allurement for a law-abiding British 
 subject (who would trundle his bicycle after lighting- 
 up hour, if he had not got a match) to find himself 
 skulking behind a hay-stack, holding a stolen 
 horse. Acland held the reins, and heard the colt 
 chump hay until the grinding got on his strained 
 nerves. Evie peered from the side, and watched 
 feverishly for the approach of keepers. 
 
 “ And if anyone does appear?” said Sandy. 
 
 “ We must just loose the strap and let him go,” 
 she breathed. “ We can slip round the rick and into 
 the wood — they mayn’t see us.” 
 
 Mr. Acland lacked speech to make answer in — so 
 simple did this sound to town-bred, well-ordered ears. 
 
 But Mikey returned breathless. Carthy was away 
 to the big house for his tea, and advance might be 
 made. Mikey went alone. He announced his inten- 
 tion of saying he found the coit straying, should 
 discovery fall upon him. There was a breathless 
 five minutes, and the hasty return of Mikey with the 
 bridle, announcing complete success. 
 
 “ Divil a sight of a sowl,” he said ! “ so I strolled in 
 an’ left him, an' signs by, Miss Evie, the feet is fair 
 were from him.” 
 
 Evie gasped — of course, the colt was unshod— she 
 
i6g 
 
 a mm by a Xafce 
 
 thought of that thudding gallop on the hard road. 
 Mikey, who was absent of mind, kept the bridle as a 
 memento. 
 
 Now Mrs. Bennett recovered, and the Hartlands^ 
 relieved from anxiety, met Mrs. levers and her son 
 next day at a local garden-party. The great lady, 
 who was much perturbed, stopped to speak to them. 
 
 “Absolutely the most extraordinary thing,” she 
 burst out. “Mr. levers’ grey four-year-old, brought 
 in two days ago, was found in his stable last night 
 very hot and quite lame ; his feet absolutely hacked 
 to pieces. Yet Carthy knows that the horse never 
 left the stable-yard; yet he looked as if he had 
 been galloped.” 
 
 Mr. Acland observed moodily that nothing was 
 strange in Ireland. “ Perhaps the horse had been 
 galloped.” 
 
 “ Absolutely impossible ! ” decided Mrs. levers. 
 “ He was not out.” She turned to Evie, inquiring 
 what manner of animal they had met her driving 
 yesterday in such perilous fashion. “ Beating it with 
 your shoe,” she said, with shocked playfulness — “a 
 new purchase, perhaps ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, no,” said Evie, very meekly ; “ it was one— 
 I— borrowed for the afternoon.” 
 
 Here Neill caught her eye, and truth dawned on 
 him. They retreated to a shady corner, and judging 
 by his unbridled laughter he found confession 
 amusing. 
 
 But to this day Mrs. levers tells the mysterious 
 story of her husband’s grey colt 
 
CHAPTER Xi 
 
 A FIRST DAY’S HUNTING 
 
 u In the strife, when all courage is tested, and power — 
 
 From the meet on the hill-side, the horn-blast, the find.” 
 
 —Gordon 
 
 The training of Holy Robin was being proceeded 
 with. Tom most honestly endeavouring to reduce 
 the youngster to the lamb-like state he had pledged 
 himself to; but health, high spirits, and good old oats 
 were things to be reckoned with. Robin was a very 
 handsome horse ; his new owner eyed him with 
 complete approval. His satiny coat, well-set-on 
 head and tail, were things to charm the novice’s eye. 
 He even trusted himself upon the youngster’s back 
 in the paddock, with the safeguard of side reins 
 attached to the saddle, and Tom pacing near, Robin 
 conducting himself with great gravity and decorum. 
 Acland also attended sundry expeditions, during 
 which the chestnut, in company with other aspirants 
 to fame, curtsied and ducked before big banks, or 
 took them with an eagerness which elicited a “Good, 
 begob! his heart’s befour him,” from the enthusiastic 
 fom 
 
 They came and went ; but every fresh horse was a 
 treasure to the groom. 
 
H jfirst H)a^0 Dun ting n* 
 
 The Robin’s heart seemed almost too far “befour 
 him” to suit its owner. He chased it over narrow 
 banks with a fervency which was not reassuring, 
 honouring them with perfunctory flips of his heels, 
 and exceedingly often falling down. Acland 
 shuddered at the idea of riding such an animal, 
 though assured by Tom that “ the bigger they’d 
 lep, the safer they’d lep, and he’d rather see a horse 
 fall the right side than to make a nesht on any fince.” 
 The Englishman made mental reservations as to trying 
 these niceties until Robin should have learnt to keep 
 his heart in his body. To be accurate, he did not 
 want to jump fences at all, and the months before the 
 hunting had passed easily for him. Standish was 
 one of those men who care little for schooling, and 
 Acland’s complete ignorance passed unnoticed. He 
 rode forth on Blackbird, but kept to the road or one 
 of the big fields near the house, where he could 
 canter gently. There was, of course, cub-hunting, 
 an unearthly performance in the early dawning, 
 which Acland quite refused to attend, and then the 
 opening meet drew nigh and was upon them. To 
 Standish it seemed natural that all men must know 
 how to ride ; he did not approve of Sandy’s seat, 
 but knew well enough that many men who look 
 badly go hard, and had scarcely an idea that he 
 took forth a novice to his virgin-chase. 
 
 Acland had bought his hunting kit with due 
 economy. There were, he knew, extravagant 
 people, who exhibited sundry paper legs labelled 
 “ Duke of Dash,” and “ Marquis of Carbas,” and 
 other great men who made coats for the lights of 
 the hunting-fields. Acland passed them by,, 
 shrugging his shoulders at specialities, and went 
 instead to Day Brothers, who also scoffed at the 
 
i 72 Ube Stra£in03 of Sanb£ 
 
 places of repute, and promised him an entire outfit 
 for little more than a coat would have cost him if 
 he had paid for a name. 
 
 They had looked exceedingly well, he thought, 
 as he sat upon a saddle in the fitting-room. He was 
 justly proud of them, and saw them laid out upon 
 a chair in the early morning with a smile ; the meet 
 was no distance off, and Standish appeared to have 
 been up since the dawn. Once on, they became 
 doubtful. He knew something was not exactly 
 right ; his tie, despite Phillips efforts, resolved 
 itself into a white dumpling. He lost his temper 
 over his boots, which hurt his insteps and bagged 
 about his legs, and went down, disliking hunting. 
 Stand'sh, in well-worn pink, was eating hurriedly. 
 He advised just a few boiled eggs as the best things 
 in the world to hunt on, and then looked Sandy up 
 and down. 
 
 Acland went to get some bacon, and was uneasily 
 conscious of the scrutiny. 
 
 “ Very nice, aren’t they ? ” he said. w Mere 
 nonsense paying for a name. I assure you, 
 Standish, by going to Day Brothers for everything, 
 I saved at least six pounds.” 
 
 Standish said drily that it looked as if he had, 
 and took his four eggs sadly ; like many thin men, 
 he was a big breakfaster. He was quite good- 
 looking in his pink : his habitual mournfulness 
 almost in abeyance. 
 
 “ The brown mare will put me down,” he said 
 pleasantly. “ Nothing but the devil and a few 
 falls will make the fool change on her banks.” 
 
 Acland immediately shivered : he had forgotten 
 the fences. Miss Susie, who was attached to him, 
 immediately prescribed camphor dropped upon a 
 
a first H)a^s Ifcuntfno *73 
 
 lump of sugar, and despite remonstrances, went to 
 get it. 
 
 “ And there are seme nice razor-tops,” went on 
 Standish, growing even happier. “ Things to put 
 an old horse down, let alone a mad four-year-old. 
 I tell you, Sandy, you’re well off on a mare like 
 Blackbird ; there’s not much that will stop her.” 
 Acland shivered again , . . most unfortunately just 
 as Miss Susie came in, and he was quite unable to 
 escape the camphor. He ate it grittily, Standish 
 stamping at the door and got into his coat with 
 a horrid sensation of burning inside him. Grains 
 of camphory sugar disturbed his peace for some 
 miles. 
 
 A new cob was in the shafts, and they sped 
 forward rapidly, Standish explaining that he kept 
 the bay for nearer meets when they had time to 
 be late. Sandy, his words tasting of camphor, 
 replied that he thought he would ride the short 
 distances. The clouds lay low and grey, veiling 
 the mountain - crests ; the wind, moisture - laden, 
 blew softly across them. Hedges were still russet 
 and red with unfallen leaves, lush grass clinging 
 to their banks, late berries purpling on long stalks. 
 Standish, pointing to them, said the country would 
 be blind as jealously, and seemed to be pleased at 
 the prospect. 
 
 They turned to the left through the hills ; looking 
 down on a perfect valley, stretching unbroken to a 
 long belt of trees, two rivers creeping silver across it. 
 There were patches of bog and pools of water, but 
 scarcely a field of plough scarring the green ; gentle 
 rise and fall of grassland, fenced with banks and 
 walls — a fox-hunter’s dreamland : nothing to stop 
 hounds or horses. 
 
i74 fTbe £tra#ngs of Sattbs 
 
 Acland sat silent : the excitement which the 
 novelty of the start had conjured up died as he 
 studied the lines of fences. He certainly did not 
 mean to jump, but . . . supposing in going along there 
 was something unavoidable . . . what would happen ? 
 Would he remain upon Blackbird's back, or strike 
 the ground with a thud ? He shuddered once more, 
 causing Standish to remark that Susie was right 
 and Sandy was breeding a cold. They trotted fast 
 down the long slope, high banks at either side, the 
 scene in days to come of an adventurous moonrise. 
 There were signs of the chase . . . led horses ; 
 other traps . . . which they reached and passed. 
 
 “ He can go.” Standish flicked the roan’s back. 
 “ I got him very cheap, because I hear if he meets a 
 motor, he jumps the fence. He came from Galway, 
 where it’s mostly walls, and I thought if he hurt 
 himself against a few stiff places here he might 
 stop it.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” Acland devoured the road with feverish 
 eyes. “ And — suppose we— were to meet one ? ” 
 
 Standish measured the high bank with a contented 
 
 -ye* 
 
 “ He’d never cross that,” he said, “ unless we 
 happened to hit it at a gap.” He added that he 
 presumed Sandy was not nervous. 
 
 “ Oh, dear, no!” said the little man bitterly, looking 
 at a low wall, with a deep drop outside. “ Oh, dear, 
 no ! Not in the least.” 
 
 Standish said that was all right, and passed 
 another trap. They swung out on to a wider road, 
 going at a good ten miles an hour, and then turning 
 in at the gate, reached the meet. Their horses 
 waited for them in the shelter of a low wood, the 
 groom busy polishing with a duster. Higher up, 
 
ns 
 
 B Jflrst 2)a^s fronting 
 
 by a paling, the hounds were grouped ; the wide 
 lawn was dotted with horses and traps. Standish 
 got out, and Acland, holding the reins loosely, 
 looked about him. So this was hunting. This 
 mania which held young and old ; which made men 
 and women exceed their incomes ; go in debt to 
 their tailors, and forsaking all others, cleave unto 
 that and to that only ; which is also in the marriage 
 service, but less faithfully kept. This melee of 
 horses, some unpleasantly fresh ; this concourse of 
 human beings; all come out to watch that little 
 crowd of dogs smell out a fox. That was how the 
 London man was reasoning it out dreamily : warm in 
 the shelter of the trees, and wishing that he might 
 remain in the trap all day, seeing it all from there, 
 when Standish roused him. 
 
 “You might as well give up day-dreaming, Sandy, 
 and tighten the reins, 1 ” observed the tall man, as 
 he busied himself with the brown mare’s boots, 
 “because Graves’ motor is coming across.” 
 
 Acland ejaculated in sudden terror. Trying to 
 jump out so hurriedly that he caught his foot in 
 the rug and reins, and left the trap on his head, 
 hitting the earth just as the roan reared perfectly 
 straight, and would have bolted if Tom had not 
 caught him. But the swerve tweaked the reins and 
 upset Acland, again, just as he was endeavouring 
 to rise. As the shaken little man reached his feet 
 he smelt petrol, and saw Edmund Graves looking 
 down at him with profound disgust. Both the 
 Hartlands were in the car. 
 
 “ You might really see to the man,” observed 
 Graves audibly, to Standish, who had continued, 
 quite unmoved, to buckle on the felt boots. “At 
 this hour it’s indecent” 
 
r76 XTbe 5tra£ltt0s of Sanbs 
 
 “ On camphor and sugar too,” said Standish, quite 
 aloud, and fastening the last strap. “ Sandy, I am 
 ashamed of you. Go up to the house for some 
 soda-water.” 
 
 Some insinuations are almost past bearing. Acland 
 burst into heated but piteous queries as to whether 
 he was supposed to remain in the trap with a 
 begging and restive animal, he having merely 
 hastened to its head, to find his protestations falling 
 on empty air, and to be reminded of the day’s pursuits 
 by Tom grasping his leg and ordering him to get 
 up. 
 
 The whole cavalcade jogged onwards. Horses 
 squealing and kicking ; humping strong backs ; old 
 hunters doing it for the fun which they knew of, 
 youngsters for the sheer joy of life which bubbled in 
 their veins. Ahead, as Acland took up Blackbird’s 
 reins, he saw Standish sitting carelessly to the brown 
 mare’s plunges and Evie Hartland sawing her grey 
 filly’s mouth. 
 
 “She’s apt, sir,” said Tom, preparing to mount 
 Holy Robin, “ to take hold at her leps.” 
 
 Sandy Acland breathed a fervent mental prayer 
 that he might do the same, and nodded sapiently, 
 wondering what it meant in a horse. He then rode 
 off, sitting, as Tom remarked, “for all the world like 
 an unaisy sack. An’ the masther niver to tell him 
 that the owld mare has a mouth like a stheam-ingin, 
 an’ she goin’ to hounds. Faix, if he doesn’t let her 
 go, she will go,” said Tom, adjuring the Robin to be 
 quiet. “ Its himself ’ll get his sthomach full of 
 leppin’ afore night.” 
 
 Acland rode across the grass to a small gate 
 leading on to the road. Here he was jarred by an 
 unforeseen demand for half-a-crown, which he counted 
 
B first Da^s Ifounttna 17? 
 
 out in sixpences, unwillingly, while the hunt chafed 
 at his heels. 
 
 They jogged along a flat, narrow road, winding 
 between high banks, with such clatter of hoofs and 
 tongues, that Diogenes would have forgotten his tub 
 on this the opening day of the season — that is, if the 
 smutty old gentleman had hunted. The five months 
 lay in front ; those five months in which everyone’s 
 horses were to carry them perfectly, during which 
 every man meant to come out of covert on the right 
 side, and get that flying start which he had so often 
 missed ; in which all the foxes were to run straight, 
 all days to be scenting ones ; no water was to wet ; 
 no ground to bruise or injure ; no slippery bank 
 wrench sensitive tendons ; no wall prove hard enough 
 to give big knees. 
 
 Acland listened to it all as the people surged about 
 him, and comprehended very little. But he realised 
 that he was strange.y elated, and then he came along- 
 side Evie, whose grey was sidling, and reaching at 
 her bit, with ears laid back and tucked-down tail : 
 an illustration of peevishness. 
 
 “ She — Oh, hold up, Dawn. I’m really afraid she 
 is bad-tempered,” said Evie. Then, recovering her 
 small person from the mare’s mane. “ She tried to 
 bolt just now.” 
 
 AcUnd inquired if the mare had ever taken kindly 
 to jumping, and Evie shook a despondent head. 
 
 “ Oh, she does, sometimes,” she said grudgingly. 
 
 And of course she’ll be all right with hounds. 
 Heaps of young horses funk in cold blood.” Here 
 the mare let out, missing Blackbird by an inch. “ It 
 would be a hopeless thing for me if she fails and 
 won’t jump.” The girl used her whip angrily. “ I’ve 
 spent more than I’d got to buy her.” 
 
 M 
 
178 TIbe ©tracings of Sattb£ 
 
 Acland shook his head, and observed that he 
 thought horses were uncertain investments, subject 
 to many fluctuations, and also too much before the 
 public eye. Anything further was cut short by the 
 grey banging him into the hedge, where he got 
 severely scraped. 
 
 The little group of pied hounds left the road, 
 turning through a gate into a field. As the crowd of 
 horses commenced to gallop, Acland observed the 
 whip sitting to a jump, and his heart thumped. He 
 rode on very quietly, wondering what it was. 
 Originally a stony gap, it was reduced to ruins 
 before he got there, so he advanced gingerly, 
 and Blackbird fulfilled her character of perfection 
 by walking over. 
 
 They were then in the same field as the covert, a 
 little square of gorse enclosed by high banks, and the 
 stranger was privileged to see a pretty sight, but one 
 which puzzled him mightily. Half-a-dozen pink- 
 coated men left their horses and plunged in among 
 the gorse bushes, cracking their whips as they went ; 
 the hounds were held back fifty yards away. The 
 little man's eyes grew round. 
 
 “I understood,” he said to Miss Hartland, “that 
 the dogs were kept to search for the fox. Surely our 
 noses do not scent him so readily.” 
 
 Standish, close by, brayed suddenly. Nora, after 
 a moment’s pause, explained shakily that the covert 
 had been wired round so as to exterminate rabbits, 
 and therefore, though the fox, knowing of it, could 
 break, hounds would probably dash themselves 
 against the wire and stay inside it, so this 
 unusual order was the result. 
 
 Acland, who thought that it might have come to 
 his turn to thrust his way through prickly depths a 
 
179 
 
 a jfirst 2>as's fmntfng 
 
 smiled, allowed Blackbird to eat grass, and began to 
 think fox-hunting was a tranquil pursuit. 
 
 “ Tally ho ! ” yelled voices from the gorse. “ Go — 
 on — away — !” screeched someone else, and the whole 
 world appeared to go mad. Horses plunged, men 
 shouted ; the bevy of human hounds came pouring 
 out, shrieking profanely for their steeds. The master 
 endeavoured to let them mount, and the pack broke 
 away to the shouts in a maddened wave, out 
 through a gap, borne on by the press of horses. 
 Hounds were on it ; there was a yelp, a chorus, and 
 they were away on a red-hot scent close on their fox. 
 It v/as hurry-skurry, tranquillity abandoned. Standish 
 drove his brown mare out to the right, holding 
 her together in an iron grip, sending her along as she 
 tried to plunge. Acland watched dispassionately , 
 he was content to gallop on until he saw an unbroken 
 line of green bank in front, and then he decided to 
 go back to the road through the fields he had come 
 to, and jog along to see what happened. He was 
 much impressed by all the excitement, had even 
 shouted a little himself, crying joyously that the dogs 
 had found the trail ; but he had no intention of 
 going on. He pulled at the reins to get round, and 
 , . found he was mistaken ; Blackbird, who had 
 gone easily when her bridle was slack, took this as a 
 sign to take hold and quicken her pace, and did both 
 immediately. The thing upon her strong back 
 rocked and bumped strangely, but she meant to 
 carry it as near hounds as possible. The mare had 
 a mouth like iron when she chose. Acland found 
 that he could in a manner guide her, but she did not 
 mean to stop ; she dashed on, straight for that high 
 bank, while his heart pumped like a steam piston, 
 and ne used exceedingly bad language. It rose. 
 
1 8 o ftbe Stra^ings of San&s 
 
 high and unbending; his endeavours to turn were 
 now frustrated by horses to right and left, heels in 
 front went up in a sickening fashion, another horse 
 rolled back. 
 
 “ Great God ! ” said Alexander Acland, with 
 whimpering wrath, “and I must jump it. I must.” 
 He wreathed his hands in the mane. “ Great — 
 Oh-h ! ” 
 
 Blackbird dropped to a trot, crouched on her 
 powerful quarters, and rose. Acland rose with her, 
 gripping the mane as the good mare lighted on the 
 bank, next moment, with a sensation of being kicked 
 into the next world they went off. He lost both 
 stirrups in the downward swoop, and grovelled on 
 the beast’s neck, praying for help. She shook him 
 back, and strode away, until, with a certain sense 
 of elation, Acland realised that the fence lay behind 
 and he was still upon the back of the animal which 
 had jumped it; moreover, that he was very close to 
 the flying pack. 
 
 Uncheckable and untiring, the black mare galloped 
 on ; she whistled audibly, but she made no mistakes. 
 She played ball with her hapless rider over two banks 
 and a stone wall before he commenced to sit up and 
 imagine himself a horseman. He had not fallen off 
 or otherwise disgraced himself. He was almost 
 beside the hounds ; a glow such as he had never felt 
 before touched the town -bred man’s heart. There 
 was something in it, after all ; something in this 
 love of following yelping dogs across great and grim 
 obstacles ; across other men’s lands. The ripple and 
 swing of the mare’s muscles filled him with a sense 
 of dual life ; the pace, the rush of the air, restored his 
 battered nerves. He sat straight, endeavoured to 
 give up holding by the mane at the next fence. It 
 
B first Bag's fronting i8i 
 
 was, unfortunately a stick, which Blackbird bucked, 
 and he tried no further novelties, but gripped at 
 anything he could find. Hounds dwelt, foiled by 
 a circling flock of sheep ; he puffed breathlessly, 
 looking round him. Standish’s brown was plastered 
 with mud, her rider’s hat was a wreck. Nora 
 Hartland was close on her new bay, so was Neill 
 levers. Graves, several other people he knew nothing 
 of, and the person in the peaked cap, whom he 
 understood was what was known as an M.F.H. 
 
 Acland preened himself happily. 
 
 “ Well done, begob ! ” said a horseman beside him. 
 
 He responded with a gracious smile, and recognising 
 O'Neiirs nephew. 
 
 “ Well done, yer honour. Hadn’t ye the courage, an’ 
 you flightin’ into the air like a snhipe at ivery fince ? ” 
 
 Mr. Acland acknowledged the compliment with 
 some reserve. 
 
 “ So you’re there, Sandy,” said Standish, riding up, 
 “Well, isn’t the mare a treasure? I told you she 
 couldn’t go wrong.” 
 
 Acland, now beginning to feel a little bruised, 
 remarked that Blackbird had jumped the obstacles 
 most diligently, but he had found it impossible to 
 turn her round at the first one. 
 
 “ And what would you want to turn her round 
 for?” demanded Standish thunderously. “ Is it tail 
 foremost you wanted her to go ? ” 
 
 Hearing this, Acland said nothing further about 
 the road which he had intended to remain on. He 
 lived on his reputation, and trusted that they would 
 go no further. Not so. . . . Old Melody threw her 
 tongue ; young Faithful dashed past her; now Pansy 
 had it, now Patience ; eager, wistful faces, true noses 
 to the damp ground. A chorus of proclaiming voices 
 
582 uhc Stragings of Sanbg 
 
 That was it. Their prey had taken this line. They 
 were off again, running hard, and partly because he 
 was lost in the wild country, and partly because he 
 had to, Acland went behind them. The saddle was 
 growing to be such a painful memory of many bumps, 
 that he began to endeavour to balance himself like 
 the man immediately in front of him, with some 
 slight measure of success ; in fact, his seat over a 
 bank elicited a cry of “ Well sthuck, begob ! ” from 
 O’Neill’s nephew. “Ye’ll be on her back yit,” he 
 cried, with pleasant conviction. “An’ isn’t she the 
 great mare entirely with the reins an’ yerself 
 flappin’ on her.” 
 
 Acland found breath to snort. 
 
 “ Sit tight, Sandy, and send her along,” called 
 back Standish. “ There’s a big ditch in front.’’ 
 
 The novice’s courage ran out speedily. Green 
 fences were bad enough ; but water, wide and 
 muddy ; with a crisping chill he saw its yellow 
 gleam. Splash into it went the hounds, raising a 
 cloud of spray ; sail over it went the master ; crash 
 and slosh went a light grey, jumping short. Oh, it 
 was exceedingly wet, and there was no respite. He 
 saw Standish driving the brown at it with a cry and 
 a blow; a too flippant jumper, she took off too soon ; 
 landed short and slipped back, Standish scrambling 
 on to the far bank and tugging her up. 
 
 “ Drive on,” counselled O’Neill’s nephew. u Glory ! 
 but isn’t it terrible deep across.” 
 
 Blackbird “ drove on ” willingly ; but there are 
 occasions when even the best of horses want riding, 
 and this was one of them ; she shot out, but staggered 
 on landing. For one sickening moment, Acland, 
 clinging to her mane, saw the muddy swirl of the 
 current close to his left boot . . . then he knew he 
 
i»3 
 
 B jficst Stop's f>untUt0 
 
 was safe upon the bank, but drenched from head to 
 foot by the impact with which the steed of O’Neill’s 
 nephew had cloven the waters in the very centre of 
 the river. 
 
 “ Into a drhy pool she thought he was goin',” said 
 that worthy, as he stood neck-deep. “ The raison 
 why, because he ran wild on the bog lasht summer, 
 Bad schran to ye now, git across ! ” 
 
 Acland rode on, a thankful man, and was hailed 
 by Standish . . . there was another slight check . . . 
 to know why the Dickens he had ridden at water 
 with a loose rein, but tempering the reproof by a 
 rider that he had shown his sense in holding on 
 to the mane when the mare lost her legs. 
 
 Acland inquired with asperity what else he could 
 hold on to, there being no other long hair in front. 
 They galloped on. They had swung left-handed 
 from Ballin gorse, and were now rounding a humping 
 hill with an old castle perched upon its summit. 
 
 Here they checked ; hounds seemed hopelessly at 
 fault. There were two points a fox might have run 
 to — Ballyhale Woods to the right, or across a bog 
 beneath them to Garryleck. 
 
 Acland drew up in the shelter of a hedge and 
 rested. He was secretly pleased each time the 
 hounds stopped, though, despite his nerves, the 
 feeling of elation had grown as he came. He pulled 
 out his ample packet of sandwiches, and realised that 
 he was too tired to be hungry. Hounds poured 
 through the hedge, circling round him. The little 
 cockney smiled. He considered they were hard- 
 worked and painstaking, so threw them some pieces 
 of bread and meat with endearing words. 
 
 “ Good little dogs. Nice dogs,” said Sandy 
 pleasantly. “ Here, boys ! ” 
 
1 84 Uhc St ratings of Sanbg 
 
 They snapped at the food. One, Melody, put 
 muddy paws on his boots, reaching up for cold 
 beef. 
 
 “ You’ve got such pretty faces,” soliloquised Sandy, 
 opening another package. 
 
 There was no one upon his side of the hedge 
 except O’Neill’s nephew, who, dripping yellowly, 
 watched open-mouthed. Dick Gervase, the master 
 rode down the hedge. 
 
 “ I thought it might be this way,” he said. “ He 
 seems to have dropped into the earth. But — ” He 
 looked through the hedge. “ What the—” 
 
 For a moment speech deserted him. 
 
 “ Good little dogs. Oh ! there are too many now. 
 Very hungry, poor fellows,” said Acland, flinging 
 small pieces to the gathering crowd. 
 
 Then — “ What the - — are you doing ? ” he 
 
 thundered. 
 
 “ Making friends with your charming dogs,” said 
 Sandy graciously, rather flattered by this notice. 
 “They are exceedingly friendly, but also hungry. 
 No doubt if they had overtaken and eaten the fox 
 they — ” 
 
 Now the master of the Tullow hounds was pro- 
 verbially good-tempered — too much so, if anything — 
 but when a master of fox hounds, endeavouring to 
 hit off the line, sees his pack enticed with meat and 
 bread from their lawful work, he may reasonably feel 
 annoyed. The flood-gates of his bad language were 
 suddenly raised, and the tide which he let loose upon 
 the head of the surprised Sandy was one which no 
 man need have been ashamed of. By every god 
 and demon he cursed Acland for a knavish fool, a 
 hopeless idiot ; for a spoiler of sport, who should 
 never have been born, and having unfortunately 
 
a first 2 D ay’s Ibuntina 185 
 
 achieved that, should never have left hrs cradle, 
 save to find a coffin ; also cursing in the same 
 breath, which rendered it confusing, Rambler, 
 Reveller, Melody, and Gamble, for having eaten 
 beef sandwiches. 
 
 Sandy heard it imperfectly, and moving to the 
 gap, poked his puzzled face through. Gervase 
 having sent one of the whips round, was resting 
 exhausted. 
 
 ° I beg your pardon/’ said Sandy mildly, in his 
 clear, precise voice ; “ but I didn’t quite hear. I 
 fear I ... or the dogs have annoyed you. If you’d 
 kindly explain — ” 
 
 Here he caught the baleful eyes under the velvet 
 peak, and ceased to speak. 
 
 “ Explain,” said Gervase helplessly, “ explain ! 
 Did the fellow fall from heaven like manna ? ” 
 
 Self-control deserted the tried master ; he rocked 
 on his saddle, laughing helplessly. 
 
 Standish, riding up, explained with pain that the 
 offender was his cousin. 
 
 “Has he ever” — Gervase wiped his eyes — “ever 
 seen a hunt before?” 
 
 “ He has never seen anything but the pavements 
 of a town and the poodles in the park,” said Standish 
 bitterly, glaring across the hedge. 
 
 “ Then that explains it,” said Garvase, recovering 
 himself. “ And I believe that he has lost me my 
 fox. I wasted too much time cursing— while ho 
 made friends with my ‘ dogs’.” 
 
 He rode off explaining to Standish, who apologised 
 profusely. 
 
 Meanwhile, Acland had retreated from the hedge 
 to discuss the matter with O’Neill’s nephew. 
 
 “ He really seemed annoyed,” he said, “ and the 
 
1 86 xtbe Stvaptnas of Sanby 
 
 language — he could not have meant it for me — which 
 he used to the dumb animals was disgraceful.” 
 
 “ His eyes were leppin’ out of his head with the 
 rage” said O’Neill’s nephew thoughtfully. “I tell 
 ye, if the thorn bushes wasn’t betune ye, he had a 
 like to strhike ye.” 
 
 “If he’s not so sure of his dogs’ affections as to 
 allow others to notice them,” said Sandy sharply, 
 “ he had better take to pugs — on strings.” 
 
 “ Praises be the hivins above me,” said O’Neill’s 
 nephew, overcome. “ Himself — an poogs on strings.” 
 
 The fox was undoubtedly lost. A forward cast 
 failed ; they could do nothing to find the cunning 
 little quarry, who was, had they known it, had turned 
 sharply back and was now half-way to covert. They 
 passed down to the bog, trying uselessly there. Here 
 in this marsh on the edges of brown-hued water, 
 nestling amidst slimy green, people elected to live. 
 It was no man’s land at one time ; you paid nothing 
 for your cabin and patch of boggy garden. So the 
 poor work-people braved it, and the strangest little 
 dwelling - places were dotted about. Crooked, 
 crumbling places, sinking in the soft earth ; uneven 
 gables ; sagging thatched roofs, picturesquely 
 covered with grasses and lichens ; rotting walls— 
 houses where a self-respecting English pig might 
 have declined to get ready for his bacony im- 
 mortality . . . yet happy-faced children peered from 
 the open doors, and the women looked contented. 
 There were one or two places here which it really 
 seemed impossible to regard as habitations. One, a 
 mere hollow cairn, piled up, mud - plastered, with a 
 roof, perhaps six feet across, of thatch, and no chimney. 
 A mad woman had built it herself, Acland was told, 
 and lived there terrorising the bog, always sure of 
 
B first Ibutmng 187 
 
 her toll of meal and potatoes from the poor, who 
 feared her curses. 
 
 All this the stranger heard from a friendly native 
 as they slid down the steep incline to the road 
 edging the colony — heard and saw, with wide, 
 almost incredulous eyes, looking across the thickly- 
 housed patch. 
 
 Evie Hartland was on waiting for them. Sitting 
 on the dejected, but determined remnants of the 
 grey filly, now black with sweat and white with foam; 
 her light middle reduced to a mere suggestion, but 
 still obstinate. She would not jump. 
 
 “ I threw her over one small thing, and into 
 another,” wailed Evie, recounting her woes. “ I’ve 
 beaten her, and got every man I could to beat her, 
 and rattle stones in a hat at her, and yell at her, and I 
 tried coaxing, and getting off her, and there she 
 stayed. Everything may pass her for all she cares. 
 She won’t make a hunter.” Evie was young ; her lip 
 quivered ominously. “What am I to do?” she 
 went on, as they turned to jog to Ballyhale. “ I 
 can’t buy another, and I can’t leave the roads on 
 this one. It’s not hunting.” 
 
 O’Neill’s nephew, who, in the sympathetic manner of 
 the Irish, had listened, now came closer and broke in. 
 
 “ Is it narves she has, miss ? ” he inquired. “ Maybe 
 if ye were to sphin her down at them — ” 
 
 Evie, with some show of temper, observed that she 
 had “sphun” the grey three times round one field 
 and then down at a bank — vainly. The mare had 
 checked herself in the last stride. 
 
 “I wish to God ye had this one/’ said O’Neili's 
 nephew, with feeling. “Ye have but to show him 
 a fince, and he makes off for it, and however 
 venturesome he is, he niver’ll forget the legs.” 
 
1 88 Tfbe 5tra$tnfjs of San&s 
 
 On Acland making’ a remark concerning the river 
 this paragon had jumped into, the youth contempt- 
 uously replied that was a mere indiscretion, through 
 being used to drink in a dhry pond at home. 
 
 Evie turned gloomy eyes upon the horse — a very 
 good-looking liver chestnut, compact and strong, with 
 a certain amount of breeding, and perfect shoulders. 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “ Is he a very good jumper?" she asked wist- 
 fully. 
 
 “Good!” O’Neill’s nephew smote the chestnut 
 upon the neck. “ For walls they’re but childer to 
 him, an’ he’s so considerate he makes three halves 
 of ivery bank.” 
 
 Evie smiled faintly ; Acland, with his small 
 modicum of experience, commenced to do the thing 
 up in his head, and failed. 
 
 “An’ I wantin’ but £60 for him,” said O’Neill’s 
 nephew, dropping his voice to the silky persuasive- 
 ness of the seller. 
 
 Evie replied that now the grey had turned out so 
 badly, it might as well be six hundred ; but she 
 watched the chestnut as he trotted away, and she 
 sighed audibly. 
 
 “ A winter’s hunting on the roads,” she fumed. 
 “Oh, dear, why haven’t I got ^50!” 
 
 “£60,” corrected Sandy. 
 
 Evie, looking at him in mild surprise, asked if it 
 was the least bit likely that anyone would give what 
 a man asked. That, in horse-dealing, was understood. 
 
 “ Oh ! ” Sandy thought uneasily of the cheque he 
 had written out for Standish. “ I was not aware of 
 that,” he said. “Fox-hunting” — he wished he had 
 not to meet his saddle so often— “ fox-hunting is a 
 very, a very bumping pursuit, Miss Evie.” 
 
B first Way's Ibunting 189 
 
 Neill levers rode up, and Evie plunged afresh into 
 her tale of woe, riding on with him. They turned 
 in at the wide gates of Ballyhale ; and though Sandy 
 quite expected to see men descend and thrash their 
 way through the undergrowth, this time it was the 
 hounds ; his friends, Rambler, Melody and others, 
 dashing in, spreading and seeking among the laurels. 
 Now and then a foolish puppy yelled “ Rabbit, rabbit ” 
 shrilly, and then slunk off depressed at the rating 
 voices which checked him. 
 
 “ I thought,” said Sandy, who had got down and 
 stood by his mare’s head, “ that when hounds barked 
 it meant they had found a fox.” 
 
 Standish, who had come off to deliver a scolding to 
 his cousin by marriage, bit it off at this guileless 
 remark, and muttered “ Holy war ” instead. The 
 master, who stood near, commenced a fresh 
 outburst of laughter. 
 
 “ Like everything in this world, there’s a false 
 bark and a true one,” said Nora, smiling down at 
 Sandy. “Now, get up! We are going on.” 
 
 “You see we don’t count rabbits as fair game,” 
 said Gervase, blowing his horn badly. A sad note, 
 with the echo of good-bye in it. All partings are 
 desolate, even from a square of laurels. 
 
 “ I have heard, though, of people who made a 
 great deal of money on rabbits,” answered Sandy, 
 clambering painfully. “ No doubt you can trap and 
 sell a good many in these coverts to help to pay for 
 the expense of keeping so many places for foxes’ 
 burrows.” 
 
 “ Co-op hounds,” muttered Gervase, showing signs 
 of hysteria. “Oh, look here, Standish! You — whats 
 his name? . . . Acland. Haven’t you read books? 
 You might study jorrocks and not destroy my 
 
i9<> TTbe Strasfttas of San&s 
 
 wind.” His last note on the horn had oeen a 
 pitiful gurgle. 
 
 “ But I have/' Sandy brightened, and rode on. 
 “ Mr. Jorrocks was a grocer, who took a pack of 
 hounds, and always discovered where a fox had 
 gone to by imagining where he would have run 
 to himself. Do you do that ? ” 
 
 “Not sufficient brains. I depend upon my hounds’ 
 noses,” said Gervase, cantering off. 
 
 “You’ll be the death of us all, Sandy,” said Nora, 
 as the little man met his saddle with a painful 
 reminiscence of many bumps. “ But wasn’t it 
 splendid, worth everything. I am glad that I owe 
 for oats and everything else when I gallop across 
 country on a good horse. Pain has no part in it. 
 Black care’s a tailor and cuts a voluntary at the 
 first fence ; the wind laughs at the memory of 
 extravagance, and the summer gleams of common 
 sense. Thrust along ! Now they’ve got it. Here’s 
 a narrow bank in front, how will the youngster get 
 over it ? . . . Perfectly. He’s bold and he’s steady ; 
 he can jump timber, that was a big stick in the 
 last gap. Pie only wants a fall or two to make 
 him perfection and worth a fortune. So we go on. 
 Eat eternal rabbits and chickens for dinner. Owe 
 all you can, and pay when you must, but hunt, 
 Sandy, and you’ll never regret it. Didn’t it come 
 home to your very heart as you flew over those 
 fields?” 
 
 “ Do you know it did,” said Sandy, almost 
 diffidently. “ It seemed to wake some hitherto 
 unknown sense. If only ... it had not been . . . 
 so bumpy.” He shifted uneasily. 
 
 “ Oh, you’ll learn to sit still, and cut us all down 
 yet,” she said cheerily. “And you’ve got the mare to 
 
B jffrst Dag’s Duntlng t 9 i 
 
 do it on. But I do wish poor Evie had been more 
 fortunate. The grey is an impossibility. She won’t 
 ride any of mine, afraid of hurting them, poor child. 
 So now, for the sake of a little money, she must lose 
 her five months’ fun.” 
 
 Sandy considered. Hounds were drawing along 
 silently, there was nothing at home. O’Neill’s 
 nephew had just larked across one of the sunk 
 fences on the chestnut, and he saw Evie watching. 
 The next moment she tried to follow; the grey 
 plunging away with determined bad temper. 
 
 £50. It was a great sum in London : a 
 
 thing to look at three times ; but here mercantile 
 horizons grew misty . . . he thought on, twisting 
 new ideas in his mind. 
 
 The day waned to a disappointing end. A fox 
 found by the front gate at Ballyhale got into a hole 
 a mile away. They then drew a gorse covert close 
 by, and finding there, ran twisting round the rock- 
 strewn hills, jumping small fences, hounds hunting 
 on catchy scent, until, finally, he beat them by 
 jumping into a jutting ledge and lying there, looking 
 out anxiously, with hounds at fault within six feet 
 of his hiding-place. The light failed, and Gervase 
 gave it up. 
 
 “ Stuck within a few feet of us, very likely,” he 
 said, looking at the cairns. “The last man who saw 
 him said he was heat, but he can live for another 
 day.” 
 
 If the small, red brute peering out understood, he 
 must have heaved a sigh of relief, for he had break- 
 fasted heartily on one of Mrs. Anne Cassidy’s hens 
 and was exceedingly weary ; the questing wave 
 of death had been unpleasantly near as he had 
 toiled up the last slope. 
 
*9* tTbe ©tracings of 5an&s 
 
 Gervase lived at Ballyhale, and asked them all in 
 to tea. He was an ideal master, a pleasant-faced, 
 persuasive man, who could twist the country people 
 round his finger. Ride up to a glowering, gate 
 shutting farmer, and receive leave in a few minutes’ 
 space to gallop horse and all across the owner’s bed 
 should he feel so inclined. A thin, dark little man 
 a confirmed bachelor, who cared for nothing but 
 hunting and yachting in summer. 
 
 The grey day was closing in. Cloud battalions, 
 answering some bugle-call of storm weather, came 
 marching in unbroken line across the misty sky. The 
 light, woolly-edged cloudlets were swallowed and 
 hidden by bands of violet darkness. The wind 
 moaned ; the chill of the coming rain was in the air. 
 The master rode back with Sandy, but the little man, 
 feeling that his expressions were not happy, was 
 reticent, more inclined to question than to answer. 
 Tea, partaken of in the dining-room, with dishes of 
 poached eggs and buttered toast, was not the worst 
 part of the day. The men chattered and laughed, 
 jumping their fences over again; full of the many 
 foxes in one part of the country ; of the trapping 
 which made them scarce in another ; of one man’s 
 sins and another’s virtues ... as they bore on fox- 
 hunting . . . nothing else counts for much. And all, 
 even in abuse, full of tolerant good-nature, except 
 from Graves, who snapped out nowand then in some 
 bitter accusation, always with evidence of truth which 
 seemed to take no denial. Telling tales, as if 
 unwillingly, of a fox found in a trap on one man’s 
 land as he, Graves, walked through ; of a dead cub 
 with shot in him in another’s. There was bitterness 
 in his stories, and Sandy noticed how the men grew 
 uncomfortable and passed to something else, it 
 
B first H>as’a ftmntlna 193 
 
 pleased him, as he dallied with his fourth egg, to 
 think that Sir Edmund was not popular. 
 
 “ We'll be on the hills by Friday, by you,” said 
 Gervase, pouring out tea, and nodding at Standish. 
 
 “There are snares upon the hills,” said Sandy, 
 taking home-made strawberry jam. “ I was coming 
 from Castleknock last week, and just past the four 
 cross-road I was obliged to go into a loop wood 
 after Catty, the setter.” 
 
 “ Athgarvan,” said Standish. 
 
 The table listened attentively. Graves rose to go, 
 calling to the Hartlands. He also spoke suddenly 
 to Sandy, asking how he had enjoyed the day. 
 
 “ And it was full of traps,” said Sandy, seeing that 
 he commanded attention. “ In fact, several rabbits 
 were squealing piteously. I thought at first the dog 
 had killed them, but I led her out and saw quite nine 
 or ten. I did not think of it until now.” 
 
 Here he caught Graves’ eye, and rendered confused 
 by its bitter glare, he took another egg with his 
 jam. 
 
 “ Your wood, Graves,” said Gervase drily. “ Oh, 
 poachers, of course. You can warn your keepers.” 
 But the M.F.H.'s manner was remote as he said 
 good-bye to the now purple baronet. 
 
 “ Rates a half-broken chap like poor Hurst, and 
 does it himself,” burst out Standish. “ Well done, 
 Sandy. You can always tread on his toes. You 
 and Catty will give us a few extra foxes this year : 
 he’ll be afraid to do it now.” 
 
 “ Good-bye, Acland,” said Gervase, very gravely. 
 “It has given me the greatest pleasure to have met 
 you, though our introduction was stormy. I hope 
 you’ve come to stay.” 
 
 “ If I can learn to understand jumping, and can 
 
 N 
 
194 trbe Stra^inos ot sant>£ 
 
 keep fit, I trust that I have,” said Sandy hopefully, 
 as he followed Standish. 
 
 “ He may be an absolute fool, but there’s some- 
 thing good about the little chap,” said Gervase, re- 
 counting the tales of the hounds and the rabbits, 
 so that the two outside heard the roar of merriment 
 
 “ Laughing at me ? ” said Sandy, unhurt. 
 
 As they drove homewards behind the excited roan, 
 they passed their horse, and Sandy, seeing him, 
 suddenly recalled Holy Robin’s existence. 
 
 “ Why,” he said. “ I’ve never seen Tom and Robin 
 all day.” 
 
 “ ’Twould have been hard for you,” returned 
 Standish, “ for he spent the best part of it in the 
 river. Robin took off too soon, and in any case, it 
 was the wide part, where no horses could jump 
 it” 
 
 “ But what induced Tom to go to that part ? ” asked 
 Sandy angrily, thinking of his horse. 
 
 “ That,” said Standish, “ you’d better ask the Robin 
 and the hard side he has to his mouth.” 
 
 Sandy was silent for a long time. He had ex- 
 pected some slight praise of his prowess, and was 
 disappointed to find that it was looked upon as a 
 mere natural course of events ; also, that the mantle 
 of undying shame would have fallen upon him if he 
 succeeded in turning Blackbird back to the road. 
 
 “ Hunting,” he remarked, as he neared home — 
 “hunting is really a very extraordinary thing.” 
 
 “ I think,” said Standish, taking the avenue at a 
 gallop, “there are other things even more extra- 
 ordinary. Your glass might show you one, eh. 
 Sandy? You and your foxes’ burrows.” 
 
 His sudden bray of laughter brought Mary Anne 
 to the door. 
 
H jftrst Das’s ifonnttng 19s 
 
 “Very tired, sir?” asked Phillips, proffering the 
 boot-jack. “Very stiff, I feel sure, sir." 
 
 “ Exceedingly . . . bumped . . . Phillips,” said 
 Sandy, sitting down cautiously. “ There is a great 
 deal of bumping in hunting, Phillips, but it is a fine 
 sport.” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips, agreeing. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 OF FURTHER FOX-CHASING AND DIVERS DOINGS 
 
 44 I remember how merry a start we got, 
 
 When the red fox broke from the gorse, 
 
 In a country so deep, a scent so hot, 
 
 That the hound could outpace the horse.” 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 4i A LITTLE stiff, sir” said Phillips pleasantly, as he 
 helped Sandv to get up, and bent him with gentle 
 force into the hip-bath provided. 
 
 Sandy groaned ; he ached in every limb ; the 
 inside of his knees were raw ; he recalled the saddle 
 least when he stood. 
 
 “Very hot water and soda— that is, washing-soda, 
 sir, is recommended by Miss Catty,” said Phillips 
 taking up a can. 
 
 Acland nodded, but next moment escaped from 
 his tub with a yell of pain and fervent remarks to 
 the effect that he had been boiled alive. Phillips 
 had doused him with scalding water which had been 
 prepared to cure him. 
 
 Sandy chose the softest part of his bed, sat upon 
 it and swore. But as he grew easier and proceeded 
 with his toilet, Phillips heard many tales of the 
 wondrous jumps, the ditches, navigable streams, and 
 walls, and directly his breakfast was over, Sandy 
 
 196 
 
3 fox*Gbas lm anb SHvers Wouxqb 197 
 
 dragged himself to Blackbirds stable, armed with 
 carrots for his mare. 
 
 The black’s legs were swathed in bandages; she 
 moved stiffly, as she always did after a day’s hunting, 
 and Tom, coming in, informed Sandy that she had a 
 great welt on her behind the saddle, but that he’d 
 "thry to sthupe it down before Friday.” 
 
 “ She is a most wonderful animal,” said her master 
 fondly, feeling the velvety nose. “ The manner in 
 which she cleared that stream and got across those 
 banks was marvellous. I assure you, Tom, that I 
 took more exercise than she did.” 
 
 “ Which would account for the boom on her 
 back,” observed Tom thoughtfully. 
 
 “ But I am disappointed in the Robin,” said 
 Sandy, wondering how he had lived so long without 
 a horse of his own. “ I cannot countenance his 
 remaining for half a day in a muddy stream all 
 owing to his own carelessness.” 
 
 Tom, muttering something concerning hard 
 mouths, said the Robin was now sobered entirely. 
 He’d watch goin’ into foolish places for the future 
 and had been like a lamb after his bath. 
 
 “In fact ” — they moved on to the chestnut’s stable 
 — “ Mr. Acland could put a leg over him himself on 
 Friday, the hounds so near an’ all. ’T would be 
 practice for ye, sir, and he’ll be quite as gintle as a 
 tinker’s ass.” 
 
 Sandy contemplated the shining horse, patting his 
 nose softly, but feeling certain that he would never 
 dare to ride the lively animal in pursuit of those 
 flying hounds. If Tom could not manage him, what 
 could he do? Supposing he had trusted himself to 
 the mercies of the chestnut yesterday, and had spent 
 his day in the river? He suggested this, but Tom 
 
*gs tlbe ©tracings of SanDp 
 
 became reticent on the subject, and almost resentful 
 He gave the Robin a small quantity of sweet clover- 
 hay, and remarked that all things had to be larnt ; 
 even for death they'd mostly prepare you with a 
 sickness. Iveryone of the foxy breed was a bit 
 hasty at the commincemint. 
 
 He then stamped off to his other treasures, and 
 Sandy levered his aching joints back to an arm-chair 
 and feather cushions. 
 
 Standish invited him to come out schooling a new 
 filly, but Sandy declined. His powers of endurance 
 were limited ; he was really over-tired. So he 
 remained in his chair nursing Aunt Catty's cat, 
 while the old ladies flitted in and out, bickering 
 incessantly, and proscribing for his stiffness. 
 
 Aunt Catty told him that she had herself pre- 
 pared and brought up the brew of scalding water 
 and washing-soda which Phillips had poured over 
 him. 
 
 “ Nothing at all like it. In fact, I think I heard 
 you cry out as I passed,” said Miss Catty, who had 
 been listening to see if her remedy would be 
 accepted. 
 
 Sandy almost thought she might ; recalling his 
 roar of anguish, and the subsequent hue of his 
 skin. 
 
 Aunt Susie said she had sent the bottle of fish oil, 
 which he remembered that he had smelt and thrown 
 out of the window: he retrieved it guiltily next day 
 from the depths of a flower-bed. But they petted 
 and looked after him ; he was really knocked up ; 
 his heart shivered unpleasantly ; his body felt like 
 lead. Phillips brought chicken-broth, instead of milk 
 and soda at twelve, remarking that Miss Susie had 
 ordered it, as being more sustaining. It smelt 
 
ffox*Gbastnd anD Mvevs ttolngs 199 
 
 excellent, strewn in old-world fashion with dried 
 marigold leaves. 
 
 “ Directed that hen-soup would be more nourishing 
 for you to-day as you were so exhausted, sir,” said 
 Phillips, laying it down. 
 
 Acland took some, reproving his man for mis- 
 naming it, and thanked Aunt Susie, who arrived 
 smiling. 
 
 a The dun filly kicked my poor old dorking this 
 morning,” said Miss Susie tearfully, “ and broke its 
 back. I at once thought of you, Sandy, and she’s 
 been boiling ever since, poor dear.” 
 
 Sandy felt his appetite for chicken-broth dwindle ; 
 he nibbled at the slices of thin toast, and having 
 surreptitiously fed the Persian from his saucer, 
 directed Phillips to remove the cup. 
 
 “ You see it was hen-soup, sir,” said Phillips, with 
 respectful cheerfulness. “ That was why I said so, 
 sir. A very aged fowl, sir.” 
 
 “ Oh, go the devil, Phillips ! ” snapped Sandy, 
 below his breath. 
 
 “ Certainly, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Phillips, 
 taking the cup. 
 
 Aunt Susie went out for her new brood of chickens 
 to pick up the crumbs. She carried them in a box, 
 and perched them upon a newspaper ; little, bright- 
 eyed, friendly morsels of fluff — which the great cat 
 watched thoughtfully as they ran and cheeped— 
 driving his claws in his reverie deep into Sandy’s 
 legs. 
 
 Then the aunts left him alone. They were busy 
 old ladies, paying old-fashioned attention to house- 
 keeping, preserving various garden produces as the 
 seasons came round, making excellent liqueurs, 
 weighing out sugar and butter for cakes, darning 
 
<*oo trbe Stra^inos of Sanbg 
 
 house linen so that it looked like new ; always 
 pattering up and down stairs, in and out of the 
 gardens, rooting weeds as they passed ; trotting to 
 the hen-house, taking a daily list of the eggs. 
 
 The little man leant back. Cats, chickens, hem 
 soup, hunting, exhaustion, stiffness, soreness, yet, as 
 Alexander Acland crawled across for Jorrocks, he 
 felt that the world was a good place to keep alive in, 
 and he wondered what Friday would be like. 
 
 That grim shadow had dropped behind yesterday, 
 distanced by fleeting hounds. Sandy did not want 
 to die ; he felt life beat hard in his veins, notwith- 
 standing his tire. 
 
 He thought of London, wrapped in fogs — the 
 papers said so — of clubland and all its comforts in 
 these dark days : of Bridge played in the afternoons, 
 the big, luxurious rooms, the sense of being in the 
 world, and . . . He drew nearer to the fire of turf 
 and wood, and felt that this was better. Coal 
 warms ; but wood, singing and spluttering, is friend 
 and companion both. 
 
 Outside the moisture-laden clouds had massed, 
 and the rain fell in leaden sheets, driven by a wild 
 nor’wester. 
 
 It was a day on which aching limbs gave one a 
 pleasant right to rest, as it passed pleasantly to grey 
 dimness. The dripping arrival of Standish, and the 
 subsequent discussion of hounds and horses by that 
 worthy until bed-time. 
 
 Sometimes the four played whist, a dead -card 
 language which the old ladies delighted in. They 
 could not be taught Bridge with any success, never 
 losing the desire to rough on a no-trump declaration, 
 and invariably getting so confused by disappointment 
 that their play was tnenceforth eccentric. 
 
201 
 
 jfo^Gfoaslna anD Elvers doings 
 
 The week drifted wetly to Friday, when the wind 
 veered ; the leaden clouds scurried over the arc of 
 the horizon, and pearly vapours floated on a back- 
 ground of pallid blue. The sun shone when the 
 rep curtains were pulled back, and — this time 
 without a qualm — Sandy saw his hunting things 
 laid upon a chair. 
 
 “ Very fine morning, sir. Tom wishes to know if 
 you’ll ride Holy Robin, sir.” 
 
 “ Certainly not,” said Sandy, taking his tea. 
 
 “ Tom says that if not he must pad the saddle off 
 the mare’s back. The ground exceedingly soft, sir,” 
 said Phillips, softly persuasive. “ Robin’s a charming 
 horse to ride, sir.” 
 
 Sandy raised himself upon a pink-striped elbow. 
 Like most sandy-haired men, he always wore that 
 rosy colour when possible. He looked at his valet 
 with growing suspicion. Mr. Phillips’ trousers were 
 very shiny at the knees. 
 
 “ Phillips,” he said, “ may I ask if you have been 
 learning to ride?” 
 
 Phillips coughed apologetically. 
 
 “ Commenced on the old white mare, sir, and 
 showed aptitude, so Ell — that is, so I was informed. 
 And then, well, not exactly riding, sir ; merely 
 endeavouring to sit on in the paddock, sir. Shall 
 I inform Tom that you will ride the chestnut, sir?” 
 
 “No, Phillips, you will not,” said Sandy. “Tell 
 him to do something to the mare’s back.” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips, going out. 
 
 Blackbird’s “welt” was safely guarded, and they 
 j°gg e d to the meet, which was only a mile away; 
 Sandy secretly pleased at the absence of any unruly 
 driving horse. 
 
 It was a small meet, too far from Tullow for a 
 
so* Uftc Stragtngs or SanD# 
 
 crowd. They gathered at four cross-roads, and then 
 commenced to climb up the hill where Standish had 
 first pointed out the gorse covert 
 
 It was a wild, lonely place; the square of green gorse 
 bright against the rugged mountain, the earth strewn 
 with loose stones, intersected by narrow cattle-paths, 
 steep and bleak — a terrifying spot for an inex- 
 perienced fox-hunter. The flat, with its big fences, 
 had been bad enough : this was appalling. To ascend, 
 clinging to a mane ; to slide down, holding by the 
 back of the saddle, or to be swept along the side, 
 along one of those bridle tracks, seemed all equally 
 dangerous. Sandy crouched by the big bank which 
 guarded the covert, and prayed secretly for a blank 
 draw. But hounds were hardly in before a fox 
 slipped out, stealing away just beneath them — a 
 little red body loping along one of the paths, and 
 plainly to be seen. 
 
 The country people yelled themselves hoarse, and 
 this clear view destroyed Sandy's self-control. He 
 had never seen a fox break covert before. 
 
 He caught at Standish' s arm, crying : 
 
 “I — I see a fox— -a fox!” in a sibilant hiss of 
 wonder. “ A fox— the fox ! ” he repeated. “ I see 
 him — a fox ! ” 
 
 Standish, who was always damping, inquired 
 gloomily whether he thought he'd see a hyena 
 leave Templemore Hill, and Sandy's enthusiasm 
 dropped. Hounds poured out, a wave of light 
 against the sombre background, spreading out fan- 
 like, working busily ; then one had it, then another, 
 and they were away along a narrow track, made by 
 the cattle as they wander along the hill. It was 
 wide enough for hounds ; a mere treacherous ribbon 
 when the field took to it. Sandy, carried on by 
 
fo^Cbasino anD SHvers JDoxwq s 203 
 
 Blackbird, unable to follow those wiser spirits who 
 galloped up to the crest of the hill, found himself 
 cantering along in hideous jeopardy, with a sheer 
 fall at his left side and a sheer rise at his right. 
 He sat very still, and drew a sobbing breath of joy 
 when they turned upwards and ran along the 
 flattened top of the mountain. Here there were 
 stones, holes, and crumbling, awkward fences, but 
 at least there was something to fall on if misfortune 
 overtook one. 
 
 A hill-hunt is better to watch than to take part 
 in. They ran from Templemore to Athgarvan and 
 back three times ; sometimes dipping to the small 
 fields on the left side of the mountain, always 
 running up again to the frowning top. The wise 
 men were content to circle slowly and watch hounds 
 as they came backwards and forwards ; even Black- 
 bird grew bored, and jogged along in a pleasant 
 fashion. A whirling mass of legs and bucking body 
 having revealed itself as Robin, with Tom clamped 
 to his back, made Sandy indignantly thankful. 
 Supposing he had been there when this began. 
 Tom could scarcely call the hill soft. 
 
 Now between Templemore and Ballymacshane run 
 three miles of the most perfect valley it can be a 
 fox-hunter’s fate to cross. It was deep to-day, with 
 silver pools of water glinting in the sunshine ; but 
 it was a line to dream of, with its flat grass fields and 
 easy, broad banks. Unfortunately, hill foxes love 
 their homes, and trust to their wits among their 
 native cairns, rather than make a bold dash for free- 
 dom across the open country. People yawned, 
 wishing the hunt over; but the unexpected happened. 
 There were two foxes in Templemore, and one, getting 
 tired of waiting, slipped off downwards, with no 
 
2o 4 Ube stra^tnos ot Saitbs 
 
 intention of being hunted, for he believed his brothei 
 had monopolised all that. Fox proposes ; man 
 disposes. This cub, screened in his thick gorse, 
 chose a foolish moment. His panting brother, now 
 getting very jaded, had just slipped back to covert ; 
 hounds, having run very fast over some rough ground, 
 were alone, and at fault, outside. As the fresh fox 
 slipped over the fence and out into the hill, he was 
 greeted by a storm of yells from the country people, 
 and by a sudden outburst of yowling which told him 
 he must stretch his limbs, or give up the joys of life 
 for ever more. 
 
 He streaked straight ahead, trusting to his speed ; 
 while down the slope, close on him, poured the pack : 
 bristles up, mute now, terrible ; every hound athirst 
 for blood. They had viewed their prey, and they 
 raced madly, close on it, cheered on by the country 
 people’s frantic shrieks. 
 
 In their wake, terrified, but quite irresponsible, 
 believing that all men must descend in a like manner, 
 thundered, slid, and scraped Acland and his black 
 mare. She had taken charge when the sudden 
 hubbub arose, and realising the futility of consulting 
 Sandy, took the shortest route to her beloved hounds. 
 That it was sheer down the side of a mountain was 
 nothing to her. Slipping, scrambling ; leaping from 
 tussock to path, and path to tussock, with uneven 
 bounds, her rider gripping the back of his saddle 
 and leaving the reins loose. 
 
 What had been a long climb upwards, seemed to 
 the half-frantic little man to be now compassed in 
 three bounds through space, until they alighted upon 
 a narrow, rutty lane, on to which Blackbird turned, 
 and knowing her way, galloped hard for the road by. 
 
 Then Acland took courage to raise his head and 
 
fo£*Cbasin<3 anb Severs Doings 205 
 
 look back. To realise ; as he did so, that he was first 
 away, that other horses were coming decorously by 
 various circuitous paths, and that he — he — was alone 
 with the hounds. Yet not with them, for they were 
 pouring across to his right, while his mare, snorting 
 with excitement, bore on to the left. 
 
 Between him and the road lay two narrow fields, 
 sloping steeply, and never ridden across ; for the 
 first was fenced by a high and unbreakable timber 
 gap, and the second by an appalling drop straight 
 on the hard road. Acland knew nothing of this. 
 The lust of the chase boiled in his veins ; hound’s 
 way was his way : his pale blood was on fire, and 
 there was no man near to warn him. He caught 
 up the reins, and with new-born authority, swung 
 Blackbird round, jumping off the lane along which 
 his wiser mount would have carried him. 
 
 “ The devil’s own thruster, though he sits like a 
 sick tailor,” said Gervase, as he swung into the 
 lane. “By Jove! I believe Graves is not going to 
 be outdone.” 
 
 Now Edmund Graves was one of the most jealous 
 men on earth. No good hunt was a pleasure to him 
 if any-one else had two inches the best of it. He 
 rode, not for sport, but against brother sportsmen 
 and measured his pleasure by his position. Given 
 a flying start quite alone, he lost all interest, if there, 
 because there was no one to pound. He watched 
 Sandy’s descent with thunderous eyes, and though 
 he knew of both stick and drop, he, too, turned off 
 the lane : he would have done so if the Styx lay in 
 front. So, bustling his good mare, he pushed hard 
 down the narrow field, just as Sandy, with loose 
 reins and a bumping seat, cantered easily at the 
 gap. It was a baulk of timber, high and stiff, secured 
 
206 uhc ©tracings of 5a nt>p 
 
 at either end with huge stones, and possibly with 
 wire, for the rest of the fence hung out this danger- 
 signal. It was out of trampled sticky mud on to a 
 worse landing, was four feet six high, and altogether 
 as untempting a spot as anyone could have looked 
 or wished for. To Sandy, it represented a fence and 
 nothing more ; he trusted to the mare and went at it 
 unabashed. Blackbird, best of hunters, measured the 
 obstacle, cocked her ears, felt the ground slip and 
 squelch beneath her feet, stopped dead-short, and with 
 a grunt, bucked high and clear, half a foot above the 
 top stick, giving a crooked lift of her strong quarters 
 as she did so. Sandy rocked at the stop, shot high 
 from the saddle at the bucking jump, and, finally 
 undone by the uplifted quarters, flew into the air, 
 to come bump against the mud, clawing at nothing, 
 and swearing helplessly. 
 
 “ Good . . . good gracious ! ” he squealed mildly, 
 feeling his intact limbs one by one. “ How 
 distressing.” 
 
 Blackbird, who was a lady, waited for him. 
 
 He looked up to see Graves' face glowering over 
 the timber; Sir Edward had charged it resolutely. 
 His mare swerved, but held in a grip of iron, slid 
 with her chest against the stick, and stayed there, 
 sulking. 
 
 “ I — believe I must have fallen off,” remarked 
 Sandy pleasantly, to the angry face. 
 
 “ Then, for God's sake — get up ! ” ejaculated 
 Graves balefully. “If I had got over, I should 
 have killed you, for you're just in the way; sitting 
 there like a hatching mud-lark. Move ; I’m 
 coming ! ” 
 
 “ I am not responsible for the spot I alight in,” 
 said Sandy irately, scrambling to- his feet. He was 
 
fo^Cbasing anb Dfpers Doings 207 
 
 very muddy. “ But I will leave it clear for you,” he 
 added, with dignity, as he caught Blackbird. 
 
 He clambered to his saddle and rode off, turning 
 his head to see Graves coming at the stick for the 
 second time, his whip up ; and to see the mare 
 baulk again determinately. 
 
 The short cut, notwithstanding the fall, had 
 brought Sandy first on to the road, He was 
 dismayed to see it gleaming quite six feet below the 
 hedge. He pulled at Blackbird, who was kindly 
 cautious, remembering her forelegs, but a friendly 
 countryman, indicating what he termed a soft place, 
 the scramble down was accomplished with success. 
 As he jumped a wide ditch at the far side, Sandy 
 realised that he had kept his start. Illness, money- 
 making, long years of routine, they fell away in those 
 happy, pungent moments, as he rocked and bumped 
 in his saddle, with knees wide and hand high, but 
 close to the pack. How they drove at it. Even 
 Sandy could appreciate that. Now the leadmg 
 hound hesitated, and the side hounds swung in. 
 There it was again. Rambler spoke, and wrested 
 the lead. Over the grass fields ; swishing through 
 pools of water ; tailing a little, for the pace was 
 terrific ; dashing ahead without a check ; silent, 
 blood-thirsty, determined ; wistful faces set ahead. 
 A great wave of life seeking death as their goal. 
 
 “Well done, man!” cried out Gervase, as he 
 swung his clean-bred chestnut past Acland at a level 
 ditch. “Well done, man! By Jingo! They’re 
 fluting. It’s a fair knock-out to slow horses, 
 They’re travelling to-day.” 
 
 “ Oh, they are ! They are smelling — perfectly,” 
 jerked out Sandy, in a breathless staccato ; hotly 
 jubilant, his face asdow. “ I cannot take my eyes 
 
2o8 uhc ©tracings of 5anb$ 
 
 from them. They have never once lost the 
 trail.” 
 
 “ God bless me ! ” said the master to himself. 
 
 “ We’ll make a saint of you, Sandy. Stick to it, 
 man ! Drive her along ! Don’t bucket like swing 
 boats.” 
 
 It was Standish now, riding out his brown four- 
 year-old. 
 
 Hounds dwelt for a welcome second ; it was 
 scarcely any more. 
 
 “ We’ll canonise you,” beamed Standish. “ Didn’t 
 Graves take the finest fall you ever saw at the timber, 
 straight into his top hat, and his mare got away 
 from him.” 
 
 “ How distressing and expensive ! ” gasped Sandy. 
 “ Oh, they are goin’ on. This — this is heaven, 
 Standish ! ” 
 
 The ground was deep and holding ; they splashed 
 through those silvery pools, and left them clay- 
 coloured in their wake. With that one semblance of 
 a check, they crossed the valley, and reached the 
 foot of the hills. Scent failed a little as they left the 
 grass and got into the heather ; they ran slowly up 
 the steep ascent, horses sobbing in distress. It was 
 stiffly fenced here with narrow, ditchless banks, to 
 be taken uphill by blown steeds. Dirty coats were 
 many before they jumped on to the road just below 
 Ballymacshane, and knew by the shouts upon the 
 hill that their fox was close before them. Then the 
 whole of Ballymacshane appeared to pour out up 
 the rough slope. The two old ladies, panting and 
 toddling ; one with the Persian beneath her arm . . . 
 Mary Ann, the cook, Ellie ... all running and 
 shrieking. The boys ; every workman in the place. 
 Horses appeared to be dragged from everywhere ; 
 
jfo^CbasiUQ an& Divers Dofnos 209 
 
 Standish’s cherished youngsters came flying out with 
 stable-helpers upon them, and their owner merely 
 smiled helplessly. The steward and the gardener, 
 riding barebacked, lashed the plough horses through 
 the heather. There was the old white mare, wheez- 
 ing hideously, ridden by another gardener ; the two 
 donkeys, which might have been left at home, since 
 their riders had to descend to drag them along. 
 
 Tom, upon Holy Robin, appeared at Sandy’s 
 side. 
 
 “ He jumped as if the devil was lodged inside 
 him,” he said, glowing. “Ye must get on him 
 yerself. Sure, such a jump I never saw as the 
 old mare thrun over the stick.” 
 
 Sandy, blushing, said he regretted his fall. 
 
 “ I might have fallen meself with the buck she 
 med,” said Tom, laying balm to wounded spirit. 
 “ May Moon took it with her knees, an’ turned 
 over. Begor, ye did well, sir — fust off an’ all.” 
 
 There might possibly be other things in the world. 
 But this, this was fame. Sandy was flushed crimson 
 as he topped the rise, surrounded by the wave of 
 followers from the house. The crowd of Blundell 
 retainers drove onwards happily. 
 
 “ Close afore ye,” yelled someone. u Bate out, an 
 the tail dhroopin’ off him.” 
 
 “ Exceedingly tired, sir. Will certainly be killed 
 and eaten, sir.” 
 
 “Phillips!” Sandy turned to his hitherto im- 
 maculate valet, who, with trousers rucked to the 
 knees, with scarlet face and capless head, was 
 thrashing the long-eared mule with a broken golf- 
 stick. “ Phillips, I am surprised at you,” said his 
 master, in hurt tones.” 
 
 M Certainly, sir,” said Phillips happily. Oh, we 
 
 o 
 
210 
 
 Zhc ©tracings of San6» 
 
 shall certainly catch him, sir,” and he drove the 
 mule on, ahead of his employer, using the stick 
 freely. 
 
 Their fox was dead-beat, and close in front of them. 
 They checked by a patch of wood. Here Tom got 
 off the Robin and on to one of the squealing youngsters 
 to give it a lesson. He directed the instant return of 
 the mule to the yard, but seeing Phillips’ face, said 
 he might mount the hot chestnut and follow at a 
 gentle trot. 
 
 Micky, the boy who had brought out the young 
 roan, immediately took the mule and pursued in the 
 rear. Phillips mounted Holy Robin with a dexterity 
 which awed Sandy, and they went on. The .maids 
 were taking short cuts, holding their petticoats very 
 high, and giggling loudly. 
 
 “ Tally ho ! ” said Sandy suddenly. 
 
 “ Where, sir?” shrieked the first whip, thundering 
 
 up. 
 
 “ What ? Oh, stop them ! ” cried the master. 
 
 For a high scream of anguish rent the air, and men 
 ^ot round the hounds to prevent the death of Miss 
 Catty’s blue Persian, which had leapt from her arms, 
 and was now streaking for shelter, his brush out- 
 stretched. 
 
 The cat having been viewed across the garden 
 wall, they dragged on, and just then Graves, with a 
 sullen face and ruined hat, arrived. His first business 
 being to approach Sandy, whom he now looked on 
 with bitter jealousy as a reckless but idiotic thruster. 
 
 Sandy, always polite, was foolish enough to proffer 
 sympathy* 
 
 “ I suppose all fences are alike to you,” growled the 
 baionet savagely* “Six feet of timber in a gap is 
 like a two-foot wall 53 
 
21 2 
 
 go&GtozinQ mti> SHvers E)oin<js 
 
 Sandy, explaining, suggested that one was timbeJ 
 and one stone, and was unaware of the open sneer. 
 
 “ Oh, it’s well you're on that mare.” Graves eyed 
 him suspiciously. 
 
 ** In that case I did not remain upon her,’’ said 
 Sandy humbly, recalling his voluntary. “ But why 
 not buy a more enterprising animal yourself, Graves ? 
 That one really never wished to jump ; she looked 
 quite afraid.” 
 
 Now Graves was riding a very celebrated mare, 
 whose one weak spot was timber. He gasped 
 heavily, bereft of speech. 
 
 “ Standish would sell you something,” went on 
 Sandy kindly. “ Look at the two which he gave 
 to me. It’s so expensive riding untaught horses. 
 Of course you can get your hat blocked, but even 
 that is sixpence. Now Standish, if you asked 
 him — ” 
 
 That gentleman, who had edged close to listen, 
 rent the air with his laughter, and hounds suddenly 
 went on, or unpleasantness might have ensued. 
 
 “ He can knock him every time,” murmured 
 Standish to himself, “and the best of it is, its 
 generally unconscious.” 
 
 Sandy, now complete master of his mount, 
 galloped on. The glory of the hunt was over ; they 
 ran hard for a mile among the heather, and then the 
 beaten fox saved his life by squeezing into an ill- 
 stopped hole, and lying there, heaving and panting, 
 but safe. 
 
 “ I’m sorry, Acland ” — Gervase got off to peer in — 
 “I’m sorry, Acland. You should certainly have had 
 the brush.” 
 
 Sandy looked at the baying, disappointed hounds ; 
 he looked back at the stretch of valley, golden under 
 
si 2 Ube S tracings of 5a nty? 
 
 the sun’s rays, its quiet pools silver once more, and 
 he shook his head. 
 
 “ I should have liked to stuff the tail,” he said ; 
 and then the face of the little man glowed as it had 
 never glowed before. “ If the fox was dead, he could 
 never run, and we could never come after him the 
 same way again.” 
 
 “ There's a great deal in that,” said Gervase 
 quietly, collecting his hounds and moving on to 
 the next draw. 
 
 This was on the hill. They found, to run through 
 tangled heather, up and down steep places, and in 
 and out of pools of water, which, in defiance of 
 construction, lay upon the mountain-tops ; it was a 
 tiresome hunt ; and Sandy, seeing that even Standish 
 watched more than followed, thought that he, too, 
 might puli up, and describe a limited radius as the 
 hounds circled from rise to rise. Now dipping 
 into a hollow ; now appearing far away, a tiny trail 
 of straining bodies dotted against the dark heather ; 
 always turning back to the covert they had started 
 from, as the fox dodged and circled. Some people 
 followed them grimly ; one hapless blur of grey, 
 facing a low bank, represented Evie Hartland, who 
 had come round by the road from Athgarvan. 
 
 Sandy's heart melted. She, too, loved hunting 
 (observe the adjective which he now mentally used) 
 
 - - - it was hard indeed that she should have to ride 
 this useless beast and try to make it go. 
 
 He mused, sitting in the shelter of some trees, 
 until Fate sent to him O’Neill’s nephew, mounted 
 upon the liver chestnut, and full of its wonderful 
 prowess. “ How he'd laid the heels, nate an' handy, 
 to the narrow banks ; that gintale, he wouldn't have 
 smashed eggs ; how he’d cleared ditches, flown walls! 
 
jfofi*<lba suxq an© SHvers Doinos 213 
 
 and generally distinguished himself. An* the 
 mouth of him light as a goose's pluckin',” declaimed 
 O’Neill's nephew, waving the thick, bleached reins of 
 his snaffle bridle. “ A regular horse for a lady or an 
 inexperienced huntsman,” Here O’Neill’s nephew 
 clearly meant to be personal. “ Faix, if poor Miss 
 Evie had him, she wouldn’t be left behind.” 
 
 Sixty pounds. A vast sum of money to a miserly 
 man. Acland rested his chin upon his hand. It 
 took him a long time to save so much ; it repre- 
 sented many second-class tickets, cutting down of 
 telegrams, under -tipped porters, scurries to catch 
 'buses ; “ and, glory be to God ! the mare is rowled 
 over,” exclaimed 0 ’Nei.H’s nephew dramatically. 
 
 A small group of men instantly rushed to Evie’s 
 rescue. She was picked up, evidently unhurt, and 
 remounted ; but they saw her ride away dejectedly 
 down the hill, and leave the hunt behind. 
 
 Acland put his lips together ; when he opened 
 them, it was to speak volubly. He was sufficiently 
 shrewd when he had anything to go on. He was 
 soon involved in a heated argument with the young 
 countryman ; out of which tangle they emerged, 
 mentally hand-in-hand, talking earnestly, now that 
 a price was agreed on. And a certain arrangement 
 was made, by which the chestnut horse was to be 
 handed over to Evie Hartland. The long-backed 
 grey, whose total value was about £10, was 
 to be taken in full exchange, on the plea of a 
 purchaser who wished for such an animal — the 
 inducement to the O’Neill’s nephew being a sur- 
 reptitious cheque for £40, which was never to be 
 spoken of or mentioned. 
 
 He swore the youth to secrecy, and went home- 
 ward ; but he trilled a little song as Blackbird picked 
 
2i4 XTbe ©tracings of San&s 
 
 her clever way down the steep path. It was sweet 
 to do good. He thought of the girl’s innocent 
 Pleasure ; her pride at selling the useless grey ; 
 her swift progress close beside him in future hunts 
 on that good horse. Life was not so bad a thing 
 to strive for. 
 
 Nora Hartland had praised him to-day, backed up 
 by Standish, who was secretly proud of his guest. 
 “ His heart’s in the right place, and his body soon 
 will be,” said Standish, who possessed the power of 
 paying compliments ill. 
 
 “ Who would have thought ; 1 said Nora, “when the 
 chestnut colt ran away with you down the avenue 
 that you were the makings of such a thruster? I’m 
 sure Edmund never dreamt then that you would 
 pound him at a stick.” 
 
 So Sandy sang. Nora was undoubtedly the nicest 
 woman he had even met ; one of those rare people 
 whose moods always seem to tune in with our own — 
 sad when we are sad, merry when we are merry; 
 sympathetic always. She never laughed at his silly 
 mistakes ; he could talk to her of hounds and horses, 
 and merely be put right in a gentle way. Then there 
 was Evie. Evie was the prettiest thing he had ever 
 seen, excepting long dead Kathleen, whose deserted 
 home lay below him in a belt of dark trees. He 
 could please Nora now by making Evie happy; see 
 them both smile when he went and found the 
 chestnut in the stable. They would ride hunts 
 together, thought the elated little man, as he 
 unlatched the paddock gate and rode into the 
 yard, the mare’s feet unheard on the grass. 
 
 u An’ a nice, gintle way ye took the Robin,” Tom 
 was exclaiming as Acland came in. “Beltin’ him 
 
3fo£*Cfoast \\q ano £>tm 4 6 Benitos 215 
 
 over the hill, Phillips, for all ye were worth ; an’ 
 he jaded an’ all/* 
 
 Phillips, who moved stiffly, shook his head. 
 
 “ Exceedingly headstrong animal, Tom, M he re- 
 marked urbanely. “ Would proceed at his own 
 pace, Tom, which is what you call the gallop. And 
 not at all tired — not at all. I brought him home 
 against his will, Tom.” 
 
 * Phillips ! ” thundered his master, close to him, 
 “ You had no business to ride at all.” 
 
 i( Certainly, sir. Help you down, sir,” said Phillips, 
 laintly pink. “ Enthralling sport, fox-hunting, sir.” 
 
 There was something almost appealingly human 
 in the valet’s eye. Acland unbent, and smiled as 
 he sfid into his man’s arms. 
 
 “Pm afraid it is, Phillips,” he said, as he went 
 in. 
 
 Luncheon, a truly Irish meal, consisting of a few 
 turkeys, two pieces of beef, cold hams, and other 
 small things, was laid in the dining-room and 
 attended to by a fast arriving crowd. The fat 
 cook was spending torrid moments in the kitchen 
 as she “slhapped” relays of hot cakes into her 
 oven and cursed all fox-hunters freely, yet enjoying 
 it all the time. 
 
 “ Not that much butther they’d see at Droveen,” 
 she was announcing just as Acland came past, and 
 she dabbed whole pats between the smoking hot 
 lightness. Mrs. Magee’s cakes were things to be 
 remembered. A crowd of grooms were gathered 
 round the long table, taking their share of the 
 baking. Between them, with unerring deftness, Mrs. 
 Magee beat eggs and swept in cream and sifted flour, 
 and was ready for another batch to follow this one, 
 “Save us, they’d ate the nation,” she said proudly, 
 
2 1 6 Ube Straptngs ot Sanb^ 
 
 bidding one Patsy take his head to one side while 
 she’d slash two eggs. 
 
 Upstairs the house hummed with merry voices. 
 The Hartlands were there, Evie’s pretty face the 
 only sad one among the crowd. She lamented 
 openly, bewailing her lost winter, wondering what 
 she could do. Sandy, dividing his attention between 
 turkeys and poached eggs, knew how nearly her 
 troubles were over. 
 
 “It breaks my heart to see the child fret,” Nora 
 said to him, and was surprised to see him smile — 
 hurt even, not knowing what he thought of — which 
 was that by making Evie happy he could make her 
 happy too. 
 
 Phillips, who expected a scolding, was unusually 
 attentive. The hot water was tempered to the exact 
 heat. He had laid out silk sox and several ties. 
 The Hartlands were staying to dinner, Standish 
 having sent home their horses, and a flotsam and 
 jetsam of clothes, remaining from other days, being 
 in the house. 
 
 “ Gold links or pearl, sir ? ” inquired Phillips, with 
 unusual thought, to his humming master. 
 
 “ Chestnut. Evie’s,” replied Sandy absently, 
 continuing his tuneful trill concerning a Star of 
 his soul. 
 
 “Certainly, sir. Gor LummeP 1 breathed Phillips 
 to the shirt-cuff in agitated staccato* 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 OF SOME JEWELS AND A JACKDAW 
 
 M Said, ‘ The devil must be in that little jackdaw ! 
 
 — Ingoldsby Legends . 
 
 STANDISH, wrestling with new gloves, said that he 
 would rather be boiled with a hundred eels. 
 
 The plough horses and the old waggonette were at 
 the door. Tom observed the world from beneath 
 the brim of a top hat, and was sheltered in a blue 
 livery coat Aunt Susie and Catty required the 
 services of Mary Kate to pin and tie and fix, as 
 they rustled about uneasily in their best clothes. 
 
 The immediate reason of this was an invitation to 
 Droveen Court, the Court, Evie had informed him, 
 having been tacked on by the present owner. It 
 appeared that it was a yearly festival, faithfully 
 observed ; an annual gracious condescending on the 
 part of Mrs. levers to all her country neighbours, 
 who invariably accepted. 
 
 “ Everyone goes in turn,” cooed Miss Susie, trying 
 to poke her veil off her flattened nose. “ It would be 
 quite singular to refuse.” Acland had refused at 
 first, heartily, his sensitive mind casting back to his 
 unintentioned bull’s-eyes concerning grocers ; but 
 later, hearing that the Hartlands were to be there, 
 he wavered, put on his best blue suit, and was ready 
 with the others. 
 
2 i 8 TTbe £ tracings of sanbs 
 
 Phillips was at the door of the carriage. He had 
 expressed a wish to come as second man ; stood 
 with mask-like face, only unbending to remark as 
 he came round to Tom that they might be late for 
 lunch. 
 
 “ PH leather the skhins from them,” said Tom 
 hopefully, starting the fat pair at an astonished 
 canter. 
 
 “ Herded up,” growled Standish, “ for three hours 
 of a lovely day ... it was pouring rain . . . with 
 a great hot lunch, all ornaments and nothing good, 
 and Mrs. levers talking down to her country 
 neighbours.” 
 
 She could never talk down to a Blundell, 
 Standish,” said Aunt Catty complacently. “ Good 
 gracious ! the garden tabby might as well think of 
 looking down upon my blue Persian.” 
 
 Droveen is a long, low house, slightly more 
 ornate than Castleknock or Ballymacshane, its front 
 windows level with the ground ; box-bordered flower- 
 beds grouping round them. The front was very 
 spick- and - span, yet there were side glimpses of 
 plasterless walls, unkempt grounds, and unclipt 
 laurels, which contradicted the imposing show. 
 
 Sandy was nervous, fearing he might be unwelcome 
 and turned over possible speeches of reconciliation, as 
 the waggonette drew up at the door. The Hartlands’ 
 dog-cart was just going round. 
 
 The hall was a fine one, hung with antlers and 
 heads, and good old prints ; but it smelt musty. 
 One’s breath was a fog in it ; a chair touched in 
 passing left a clammy memory. Stiffness, a sense 
 of fine manners and lack of home, settle on the 
 visitors as who comes into Droveen. This was 
 a visit of state ... no friendly interchange of 
 
©f some Jewels an& a Jacfcfcaw 219 
 
 courtesies . . . but an attendance upon a tvventith- 
 rate power. 
 
 “ The Misses Blundell, Mr. Blundell, ana Mr. 
 Lackland,” announced the butler sonorously. He 
 bore a strong family likeness to the coachman whom 
 Sandy and Evie had met upon the road ; in fact, the 
 former decided that they must be brothers. 
 
 Graves was also there. 
 
 The drawing-room was long and cold — the fire 
 burnt with the air of the stranger, the chintz-covered 
 chairs were arctic, the cushions lumps of ice. 
 Everything was handsome and uncomfortable and 
 carefully kept. 
 
 “ So pleased you could come to us.” Mrs. levers, 
 dismissing the Hartlands, rustled two steps to meet 
 them. She was resplendent in her own home — 
 creaky in black satin, webbed about with good lace, 
 sparkling with minor jewels — her toupee bearing the 
 stamp of London. Her cold eye fell happily upon 
 the two old ladies’ plain dresses ; upon the Hartlands’ 
 country-made coats and skirts. 
 
 “Ah! how d’ye do, Mr. A eland?” Her smile 
 
 was tinged with vinegar. “Oh, Nita, my dear, I 
 must introduce you — Miss Cropthorne,” etc. 
 
 Miss Cropthorne was almost more gorgeous than 
 her hostess. She presented to the eyes of the Tulloun 
 people the house-dress of a society young lady. It 
 was carried out in dull pink, with a very elaborate, 
 neckless lace blouse, and countless beads and jingles 
 wound round a long, brown throat. Nita Cropthorne 
 must have been very pretty before she grew worried. 
 Now there were hard lines between her eyebrows 
 and about her mouth, her powder could not conceal 
 a network of fine wrinkles, and her beautifully- 
 dressed red hair did not match her skin. She shook 
 
220 tlbe Stra^lnos or San&g 
 
 hands languidly, with a waft of Violette de Parme. 
 With her dull pink, her jingles, toys, and conscious 
 air of good looks, she made a distinct impression. 
 Sunny-faced Evie, in her cheap, limp tweed, felt the 
 bitter serpent jealousy about her heart. 
 
 “ So charming for Neill having Nita here.” 
 
 The pink young lady had rustled to the fire. Mrs. 
 levers was left with the Misses Blundell. 
 
 “ I met her last year— Lord de Sleer’s daughter — 
 so sweet, so pretty. Neill is most attracted. Very 
 suitable in all ways.” 
 
 At the fire Miss Cropthorne, in a fretful voice, was 
 discussing Bridge, she had immediately absorbed the 
 three men. 
 
 “ Fve had the most shocking poisonous luck all 
 this autumn — positively wicked. Go no trumps on 
 three suits and find eight of the fourth to your left — 
 double, of course — Oh, and in everything, its 
 really appalling, all one can lose nowadays. 
 
 Acland sympathised . . . remembering how luck 
 went with him. He was a player who never ventured, 
 and consequently seldom w r on. 
 
 Miss Cropthorne brightened visibly. 
 
 “ One, two three, four. We can play after luncheon f 
 Oh, we must; Pm dying for a game. Do, Mr. levers/' 
 She opened her big, black eyes at Neill, insisting on 
 a promise. “ I can make it right with your mother/' 
 she said. “ Oh, that will be quite delightful ; she 
 can’t or won’t play, so we never have a rubber.” 
 
 But Neill shook his head decidedly, he had other 
 games to play. Acland slipped away, back to Evie 
 and Nora. Mrs. levers commenced fresh intro- 
 ductions, this time of a clean-shaven, clever-looking 
 little man who was not quite at his ease. 
 
 “Mr Fielding, the lawyer” she explained. ^You 
 
221 
 
 ©f some Jewels att& a Jacftfcaw 
 
 see you’ve lighted on quite an exciting day. Nita 
 has been left a really handsome collection of jewels 
 by an aunt — and they were brought down to her 
 to-day. We might see them. Nita, my love, we 
 should like to see your jewels afterwards.” 
 
 “You're most welcome to!” Miss Cropthorne’s 
 voice was still pitched fretfully. “ They're very little 
 use to me, as I can’t afford to re-set them, but there’s 
 the big diamond to look at.” 
 
 “Nita’s father,” exclaimed Mrs. levers, “ is rather 
 strict with the child — only gives her an allowance — 
 and I fear she is a little extravagant — Oh, 
 luncheorl.” 
 
 They filed into the big dining-room, not quite so cold 
 as the drawing-room they left. It was resplendent 
 in crimson leather, stamped with the levers' crest. 
 Sundry coroneted pieces of plate stood on the 
 table, and their hostess called attention to them. 
 “ My brother-in-law’s,” she explained. “ He has lent 
 them to us — you see, he really wants so little as a 
 bachelor” 
 
 It was rather cruel of Standish to say so he didn’t 
 take them back since last year, and thus recall the 
 previous explanation, but Mrs. levers passed it over. 
 Luncheon was, as Standish prophesied, pretentious. 
 There was soup, and long-named entrees , and highly 
 ornamented meats, and nothing Acland thought half 
 as good as grilled chops and salad, and potatoes in 
 their jackets would have been at Ballymacshane. 
 Conversation hung a little, but Nita Cropthome 
 talked on, in her high - pitched voice, seldom 
 leaving her theme of Bridge. 
 
 “ Lost — lost. I don’t like to think of my luck at 
 the last week; I simply had to go away. There 
 were one or two people there who never lost. — Oh, 
 
222 Zbc Stta^inge of Sant>$ 
 
 never play Bridge, you innocent people ; 99 and she 
 smiled at Nora, who was eating a bad luncheon. 
 
 “ I often play.” Evie spoke bluntly, her Irish voice 
 very soft after the English girl’s. “ I very often win, 
 but my points are not ruinous. Threepence — I can't 
 afford more. It’s my limit.” 
 
 *•’ Oh, but you can lose fortunes at threepence — in 
 fact, that’s what we played at Storney, and last week 
 alone I lost fifty golden pounds.” 
 
 Evie, with twinkling eyes, observed that she meant 
 threepence a hundred. 
 
 “ A what? A hundred ! Oh!” 
 
 The English girl lost all interest. She drank two 
 or three whiskys-and-sodas until a flush of colour 
 made her pretty ; but she seemed thinking all the 
 time of some hidden worry, knitting her brows and 
 crumbling her bread. 
 
 The butler, aided by a somewhat clumsy maid, did 
 wonders with so large a party. They had reached 
 the stage of anaemic coffee when Mrs. levers 
 apologised for the absence of her footman. “ So 
 hard to keep in the country,” she said languidly, 
 “and we are really short.” 
 
 The windows, which were French, looked out on a 
 large croquet lawn — the hoops always in the ground. 
 
 “ A brown horse,” said Acland, who was opposite 
 the window, “ is grazing on the lawn. He has just 
 come. ’ 
 
 With a bound, the hitherto silent butler reached 
 the window. 
 
 “ The drivin’ mare,” he wailed, as he tore at the 
 fastening. “ She’ll twisht herself for life in the wires 
 down there. That’s Mikey Sheahan’s work. Isn’t it 
 what comes of lavin’ one’s job to a useless — ” The 
 remainder was lost as he skirted across the lawm 
 
©f some Jewels ano a Jacft&aw 223 
 
 holding out the coffee-tray as an imaginary sieve 
 and calling softly. 
 
 A silence fell upon the party. Mrs. levers was 
 purple. The interlude had not toned well with the 
 speech. Sandy no longer wondered at the strong 
 likeness of coachman to butler. 
 
 “ I have her cot, ma’am. Wait till I finds Mikey,” 
 announced triumphant tones from the croquet lawn, 
 and the butler disappeared with arms round about 
 the mares neck. Some specks upon the grass 
 represented the relics of the coffee-cups. 
 
 “ Shall we go back to the drawing-room?” said 
 Mrs. levers icily. “The man is fond of the horses 
 and really forgets himself.” 
 
 Breathing heavily, she ushered them out, returning 
 to the chill airs of the long room. The heavy dull- 
 ness which is so often the aftermath of a long 
 luncheon fell upon them. 
 
 Miss Susie and Miss Catty wanted a gentle sleep. 
 Standish, who had made the glasses ring by an ill- 
 timed “ Ha, ha ! ” when the horse had appeared, had 
 made signals as they left ; but one cannot in common 
 politeness run away directly one has eaten, so the 
 old ladies disposed themselves in hard chairs and 
 the younger people herded near the indifferent fire. 
 
 “ Rain, dulness” — the worried look was even more 
 apparent now that there were no men to smile at ; 
 Nita Cropthorne yawned. “ It’s very nice to stay at, 
 but I couldn’t live in Ireland.” 
 
 “ Oh, you wouldn’t like to ! ” 
 
 Evie raised a flushed face. Was it possible that 
 anyone could desire a better fate than life in this 
 green land ? Then the hope of living in that chill 
 house, with Neill to worship and adore — Evie loved 
 it all — even the cold chintz and damp air. Neill sat 
 
224 Ube ©tracings ot Sanbg 
 
 on one and breathed the other therefore both were 
 perfection. 
 
 “ I wouldn't for gold/' yawned Nita, who aspired 
 to far higher things than a barren Irish title — “that 
 is, unless one had heaps of money and could get 
 away all the year. You”— she glared down at the 
 slender, ill-dressed figure — “ you’d like it.” 
 
 “ I should never care to live anywhere else,” said 
 Evie. 
 
 “And I” — Nora smiled a little sadly — “I don’t 
 believe it matters where you live, as long as it’s with 
 someone you’re fond of. They, and not outside 
 surroundings, make the grass green and the skies 
 blue.” 
 
 “ And one’s spade hand look like no trumpers,” 
 interrupted Nita Cropthorne fretfully, and with 
 thinly-veiled unbelief. “Ah! here come the men. 
 I’m pining for a gamble.” 
 
 The men came from the dining-room, a little 
 cheered up now, by port and cigars. Distant sounds 
 of laughter had drifted to the women, for Neill’s 
 father unbent in his wife’s absence. 
 
 Miss Catty woke with a start. Miss Susie ceased 
 listening dreamily to Mrs. levers. Standish, getting 
 to the window, made frantic signals to both ; 
 nodding at the door, winking, and all rather openly. 
 
 But Mrs. levers remembered the jewels — she 
 would never lose an opportunity of display. “ They 
 must all see them, they were so lovely,” she cooed. 
 So there was a searching for keys and departure of 
 the silent Mr. Fielding for the box. Sandy sat down 
 next to Evie, who was bathed in gloom. A party 
 at Droveen made her feel her remoteness from Neill’s 
 life ; the difference between their show of affluence 
 and the grinding poverty of the Hartland home. 
 
®f some Jewels anD a JacftOaw 225 
 
 Mrs. levers was too sweetly condescending; with fat, 
 bejewelled fingers, she indicated the gulf between — 
 indicated and emphasised. The girl knew, as she 
 sat in the damp drawing-room, that she would never 
 be received there with Mrs. levers 1 consent. Wistfully 
 she dreamt of what it might be, knowing its im- 
 possibility. Evie believed she could win the stout, 
 pompous dame to liking her — for Neill's sake. 
 
 She passed from passive miseries to those acute f 
 as Sandy sat by her, asking what was the matter. 
 
 “ Everything's hopeless," she said aloud, afraid 
 that Mrs. levers might guess what she was fretting 
 for. “ I can't hunt, that brute of a grey thing won't 
 do anything. If only I could have bought O'Neill's 
 chestnut — but ^50— where am I to get £50? I'd 
 almost steal for it," she said petulantly, pleasantly 
 conscious of shocking her hostess, who said, “ Evie ! " 
 in tones of ice. 
 
 “ If instead of keeping horses you would take my 
 advice," she said reprovingly. “ Take up your 
 garden, sell its produce ; make lace — endeavour to 
 live suitably. Your grey was evidently an unfortunate 
 purchase." 
 
 ^Go to market with cabbages," suggested Evie, 
 with mirthless wit. “ I couldn't quite do that, Mrs. 
 levers, poor as we are." 
 
 Acland, thinking of his arrangement, smiled to 
 himself. 
 
 Mr. Fielding came back with a small, square 
 case. He laid it on a table near the window, and 
 opened it, lifting out the trays. It was full of old- 
 fashioned valuable things : good diamonds rimmed 
 round locks of hair, or plethoric, uninteresting topazes, 
 fringed gold lockets, set with rubies ; thick bracelets, 
 gemmed with splendid emeralds. Heavy, tasteless 
 
226 XTbe Stra^inos of Sanf>» 
 
 things, as offensive to modern taste as mahogony 
 sofas and crimson rep coverings. Some sets of rich 
 pearls, wreaths of flowers and buds ; and a clumsy 
 tiara. 
 
 Nita Cropthorne sniffed over them ; heaping the 
 jewels on to the table carelessly. 
 
 “Dull, stupid rubbish,” she said fretfully. ‘ Imagine 
 going out in fetters of that class. And I can’t even 
 sell them. Old Aunt Martha made heirlooms of 
 the things. But these,” she added, “ are really 
 good.” 
 
 Mr. Fielding, having carefully replaced the 
 brooches, laid some unset diamonds on the 
 faded, blue velvet of the top. Five — stones of 
 
 exceptional fire and purity — one very large and 
 beautifully-cut brilliant among them. They winked 
 and glittered on the velvet bed — fair things of light 
 — yet the devil’s best advocates. 
 
 “If I could even take that,” said Nita, pushing the 
 stones about. “ It’s worth two or three hundreds, 
 isn’t it, Mr. Fielding?” 
 
 “ Quite two,” he said. 
 
 “ One could pawn it so easily too,” said Nita 
 Cropthorne recklessly. “ Even a Jew would give 
 fifty, and no one could trace an unset stone.” 
 
 Mr. Fielding pressed his thin lips together, and 
 Evie sighed. 
 
 “ Fifty pounds,” she said. “ I could buy O’Neill’s 
 chestnut if I had it.” 
 
 “ If . . .” — Nita Cropthorne’s dark eyes lit 
 suddenly, she peered down into the box. 
 
 It was just at this point that the jackdaw chose to 
 fall down the chimney. What fate brought a jackdaw 
 out questing for his nest on a raw December day no 
 man could tell. The drawing-room chimney was 
 
©f some Jewels an& a Jacftfcaw 227 
 
 their sacred home from April outwards ; no fires 
 were ever lighted there after the first breath of spring ; 
 so perhaps this special daw came imbued by happy 
 memories, and remained held by temper and curiosity 
 until the smoke overpowered him. This is only 
 surmise. Whatever fate urged, he apparently fainted 
 or lost his balance, and came scuttering down the wide 
 chimney with an accompaniment of harsh, frantic 
 caw-ahs, ca ca caw-ahs, and beating wings, to roll 
 across the dim zone of indifferent fire and arrive in a 
 shower of soot, a new Jove upon the hearth-rug. His 
 arrival created a panic. Standish, observing gloomily 
 that the devil was surely coming down the chimney, 
 managed to overturn a small table and step backwards 
 on Mrs. levers foot at one and the same time. The 
 two old ladies shrieked hysterically, the girls screamed ; 
 Mrs. levers’ boomed a hoarse note of anguish, and 
 this and the crashing table, the sudden shower of 
 soot and flapping, scorched bird, upset everyone’s 
 nerves. 
 
 “ A daw and no devil,” observed Standish, with 
 unabated sorrow, as he picked up some china 
 remnants ; he never considered his hostess’s foot. 
 
 They gathered round the unfortunate bird. Mrs. 
 levers, limping painfully, rang the bell, that a man 
 might come to catch and kill it, but Miss Susie, with 
 a wild outcry — she loved all feathered things — caught 
 it to her best silk dress and carried it from the room 
 . . . the jackdaw squalling amazed protest, and never 
 expecting to see a wife or child again. They flocked 
 to the window to watch Miss Susie emerge upon the 
 steps, put her coal-black bird down, and stand 
 triumphant as, after a moment’s indecision, it spread 
 its wings and flew away, while its protectress rubbed 
 black streaks more evenly on to her face. Standish 
 
228 Ube Stra^nas of Sanbs 
 
 gathered soot up in a shovel ; the fire was a 
 blackened ruin. Mrs. levers having quite abandoned 
 all hopes of sympathy for her hurt foot, proceeded to 
 gather her broken china and indulge in the grating 
 amusement of trying to fit it together. Fortunately, 
 it was not valuable. 
 
 In the meantime, the box of jewels had been 
 absolutely forgotten. Mr. Fielding, who had fired 
 off a little fusillade of agitated “ My ! my ! mys ” 
 during the attack of the daw, now remembered his 
 charge with a start, and turned to see that the box 
 was shut, and Nita Cropthorne was just locking it. 
 
 “ I shut it up,” she said carelessly. u Just as well, 
 wasn't it, Mr. Fielding?” 
 
 “ Oh, quite,” he said, visibly relieved. “ It was 
 very thoughtful of you, Miss Cropthorne ; that un- 
 fortunate bird startled me so completely, that for 
 the moment I forgot all about the jewels — ” He 
 hesitated for a moment with his hand on the key. 
 “ Scarcely any need to go over them, I should think, 
 Miss Cropthorne ? they are all in.” 
 
 “ None, I should say,” she returned, yawning. 
 “The daw was the only stranger.” 
 
 Mr. Fielding put away the key, and was leaving 
 the room with his case, when Mrs. levers stopped 
 him. 
 
 “ As you've got the key the things are quite safe,” 
 she said. “ Do leave them there, Mr. Fielding. 
 Mrs. de Vere is coming over, and I promised to show 
 them to her.” 
 
 Nita Cropthorne objected — she said she hated 
 showing her things; she was rather fretful about it, 
 and gave in with so bad a grace that the case was 
 taken away. 
 
 Standish had collected his aunts; the waggonette 
 
®f some Jewels ant> a jacft&aw 229 
 
 came round and they bade good-bye to a slightly 
 sulky hostess . . . the drawing-room was powdered 
 with soot, and she still gritted a small Cupid’s broken 
 leg against the socket of his arm to see if it would fit. 
 But Nita would have none of it — she pined for 
 Bridge — she must have a game — Neill, Acland, Sir 
 Edmund, herself — they could play until quite late, 
 and as to getting back . . Acland resented the 
 idea of a three-mile walk in a pour of rain. Graves 
 could motor him home— -a little extra distance was 
 nothing on a motor. 
 
 Neill fumed visibly — he had, in fact, made a low- 
 toned arrangement with Evie, which included getting 
 over there for tea. Acland protested ; Mrs. levers 
 froze . . , vainly ♦ . t Miss Cropthorne would have 
 her way — if Neill would not play, Standish must, 
 and so it remained. 
 
 Evie Hartland, who was fidgeting visibly, breathed 
 a sudden sigh of relief and asked for their trap. 
 They were pressed to stay to watch the game, and 
 Nora, who took an interest in it, rather wanted to, 
 but Evie was determined to go. She faltered various 
 lame excuses concerning business at home, got pink 
 and white alternately, and aimed so clumsy a kick at 
 Nora that she made her step-sister jump with pain, 
 and betrayed the movement to everyone. 
 
 Standish, now bathed in deepest gloom, laid 
 curses upon Neill levers’ blond head. He got out of 
 his coat, packed the old ladies into the trap, and 
 stood glistening with raindrops as the card-table was 
 produced. 
 
 “ Neill is really busy/ his mother spoke for her 
 son. “ He told me this morning that he must leave 
 directly after lunch to see about a sheep at Jimmy 
 Macmahon’s.” 
 
230 tube Stragtngs of SanOp 
 
 “ He told me now a cow at Timmy Punches,” said 
 Standish unhappily. 
 
 Mrs. levers — Neill turned scarlet — said that no 
 doubt he had both animals to attend to; she 
 approved of this budding interest in farming. 
 Standish, observing that he thought Neill must be 
 buying for the Ark, sat down. But by this time 
 light had dawned on him, he had watched the 
 hurried departure of the Misses Hartland and he 
 smiled suddenly, creasing his lined face in unwonted 
 places. 
 
 “ And Neill” — he rose, going to the door — “ there’s 
 a fat pig I want you to see at Casey’s, and a she- 
 goat at Maguire’s, and two calves old Scarlon 
 has — Neill — ” 
 
 Here Neill said something which sounded like 
 “you be damned,” but couldn’t have been, as he was 
 a well brought up young fellow. 
 
 “And don’t get wet, Neill,” said Standish, looking 
 into the driving mist, “ and— don’t forget the dove — 
 Neill—” 
 
 Neill got upon his bicycle and shook his fist. 
 
 “What about a dove, Mr. Blundell?” asked Mrs. 
 levers, in stony majesty. 
 
 “ Why, for the Ark, of course,” observed Standish, 
 in some surprise, while his hostess sniffed. 
 
 A bully at heart, she knew she was afraid of him, 
 and also that she could not understand him. 
 
 They sat down to play cards — Standish was a fine 
 player ; Graves indifferent ; Nita Cropthorne reck- 
 less ; Acland bad ; but luck swayed and varied so 
 that no one lost or won very much. Nita was in 
 high spirits, her morning’s fretfulness had evaporated, 
 her cheeks burnt, and her eyes shone, and she was 
 exceedingly good to look at. Her hands were white, 
 
®f some Jewels an& a Jacftfcaw *3* 
 
 her nails manicured and polished pinkly. She was a 
 dainty product of civilisation ; yet she failed to dazzle 
 the people she had come amongst. The glare of the 
 footlights is garish to an eye which watches the sun 
 paint the West in amber, crimson, gold, and grey. 
 
 She won more than the others, and was as pleased 
 over it as a child. 
 
 “Luck — such luck ! ” she said, as she made a game 
 in no trumps. “ Yet last week, on what looked better 
 hands, I could do nothing, and there we played for 
 high stakes. It’s pure luck.” 
 
 “Or absence of anxiety,” said Acland shrewdly. 
 “ If you were playing for more than you could afford 
 to lose, it probably biassed your judgment. You 
 hesitated then where you risked to-night, simply 
 because it didn’t matter. I’ve seen it so often in 
 London,” he added plaintively, rather happy because 
 they didn’t despise his play. “Have done it myself.” 
 “ Shall we put it down now, then ? ” observed 
 Standish sadly — Acland was his partner. “ I think 
 you must be a bit anxious, Sandy.” 
 
 Sandy reddened and was silent, and the evening 
 drifted to tea-time, which they took cosily at their 
 card-table, drawn close to the now blazing fire. Mrs. 
 levers had left them, abandoning hope when Nita 
 began to smoke, instinct told her the next thing 
 would be the production of Standish’s pipe. “ How 
 fussy that little Hartland girl was.” Nita poured 
 out the tea, and Sandy thought, with a sigh, of the 
 thick, yellow cream which would have appeared at 
 Castleknock. He nibbled stale sponge-cake with a 
 chastened air. “ She wouldn’t wait a second, though 
 the other one wanted to.” 
 
 “Evie’s down on her luck these days,” said Standish, 
 giving his cake to a dog. “ She’s no horse to hunt” 
 
*3* TTbe Strains of Sant>$ 
 
 “ Oh, she spoke of that.'' 
 
 Nita rang the bell and asked for cream, waiving 
 aside a faint remonstrance concerning locked dairies. 
 
 “ Quarter a pound less butter/' said Standish sadly, 
 and the man-of-all-work fled with a grin. 
 
 “She spoke of that,” said Nita. “Wants £50 
 to buy some chestnut horse. Oh ! it's wretched 
 to want money. A pretty little creature, but 
 shockingly got up. 
 
 Mrs. levers came in, and was made room for. 
 
 “ Somebody will raise it for her, of course. Can’t 
 her sister ? ” said Nita, talking on. 
 
 Standish said emphatically that the Hartlands had 
 about as much chance of raising £50 as he would 
 have of diving round the chimney like the daw. 
 
 “You don’t realise poverty, Miss Cropthorne,” he 
 said. 
 
 “ Oh, don’t I ? ” she interposed, but he waived her 
 aside. 
 
 “ Poverty which can only have three new dresses 
 when it wants four, which must ask for extra money 
 for Bridge debts ; but real worrying poverty clinging 
 to one’s coat-tails, coming with the postman in the 
 morning, taking the light out of bright eyes and the 
 hope out of life. That’s what the Hartlands know, 
 though they glaze it over and dance on its head, and 
 feed it with little sops, so that it won’t eat them up.” 
 
 “ Shocking,” said Nita. “ Do anything for money, 
 I should think.” 
 
 She was plainly uninterested, while Graves 
 suggested that Standish grew poetical. 
 
 Mrs. levers glared at the arriving cream-jug. The 
 butler fled with a premonition of to-morrow’s rating 
 heavily on his soul. 
 
 “The scald to all misers/' he muttered, and was 
 
©f some Jewels ant> a Jacft&aw *33 
 
 nearly overturned in the frantic entrance of Mr. 
 Fielding carrying the jewel-case in his hands. 
 
 “ Miss Cropthorne,” he cried out, “ the diamond. 
 The big diamond has gone — has been stolen ! ” 
 
 “ What ! ” Nita shot to her feet, declaring it could 
 not be. “ It was in the box.” 
 
 Here she stopped, and they made a concerted rush 
 to look upon the floor. 
 
 “Was it in the box when you locked it up?” 
 queried Mr. Fielding hotly. 
 
 “ I don’t know. I presumed that it was ; I only 
 turned away for a moment to watch that unfortunate 
 bird." 
 
 “That sooty jackdaw attracted all our attentions. 
 It was unpardonable of me, but I really thought it 
 was the— ahem — an apparition. Now the diamond 
 has gone — ” 
 
 “ Fallen ! No one would have taken it ” said 
 Graves sharply. “ It’s impossible.” 
 
 “Miss Hartland — the young one— and I were by 
 the table when the bird came down. We looked, of 
 course, and cried out, and then when it was all over 
 I shut and locked up the box.” Nita got up from 
 the damp carpet and drummed her fingers on the 
 table. 
 
 “ It must be there. It must — ” 
 
 But it was not. They lifted out every tray, 
 opened every case ; the big, glistening stone was 
 not among the sets of jewels. 
 
 “ I opened the case to go over the things,” said 
 Fielding. “ They were in my charge. If I had only 
 done so down here.” 
 
 They stood silent. The diamond was not on the 
 floor. It had lain in the centre of the box ; even a 
 slight jar would not have tilted it out. It had been 
 
23* TLhc Stragfnos of 5 ant>s 
 
 there, winking its crystal purity, when the bird 
 commenced its descent. Sandy remembered that. 
 
 Then, as a clammy fog descends on the earth, 
 suspicion came, nebulous as the fog, chill and 
 hideous as its murk. Who wanted money? Who 
 had been near the jewel-case ? 
 
 “ I turned away, of course,” said Miss Cropthorne, 
 explaining elaborately. “ I wasn’t looking.” 
 
 The fog thickened. Mrs. levers drew in her hard 
 lips. Mr. Fielding’s face was openly troubled. He 
 searched on mechanically, rucking his trouser’s knees 
 as he crawled about the floor. 
 
 “ It must rest,” said Nita Cropthorne harshly. “ I 
 wont have anything done about it.” 
 
 She really looked troubled. 
 
 The lawyer, peering at them from a shadowy 
 corner, was of opinion that the matter did not rest 
 with Miss Cropthorne. The jewels were hers in 
 trust ; they were willed on to others in the event of 
 her not marrying or having children. 
 
 Here Miss Cropthorne blushed, and Sandy thought 
 the law chose its words ambiguously. 
 
 “ In fact, I don’t know where we stand,” said Mr. 
 Fielding, kneeing out to them at a rapid shuffle. 
 
 Standish saw it, Mrs. levers and her husband saw 
 it, Fielding and Graves saw it. Only Sandy would 
 have as soon thought of suspecting his own hands of 
 theft as bright Evie Hartland. The others pieced 
 things together. The girl longed for money ; had 
 been near the case, with everyone’s attention taken 
 from it. What was easier than to catch up the 
 diamond and then slip away ? 
 
 They hesitated, not knowing what to do. Mr. 
 Fielding urged instant procuring of police ; but it 
 was delicate. One cannot search and suspect guests 
 
Ot some Jewels anb a Jacftbaw 235 
 
 at a house. He saw it too, after a time, and muttered, 
 fuming. 
 
 “ I will do nothing. It must be found, 1 ” said Nita 
 again. “ It must be found, Mr. Fielding.” 
 
 “ The question is — where ? ” he answered crossly. 
 “ An unset diamond is almost impossible to trace.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” said Nita, and smiled suddenly. 
 
 “ It is of no particular cutting or colour. One 
 could walk into a jeweller’s, say it had fallen from a 
 ring, and sell it. It will take time to search for. It 
 would attract no suspicion if taken by a 1 — ” He 
 stopped, looking at Standish, afraid to finish. “ — By 
 a respectable person,” he concluded. 
 
 And all the time Nita Cropthorne’s cheeks glowed, 
 and her eyes flashed, as if the loss were nothing to 
 her. She bore it well — where another girl might 
 have been angry. Graves admired her for it, and 
 said so, before he went to agitate the bowels of his 
 dormant motor. Miss Cropthorne shrugged her broad 
 shoulders. 
 
 “ Can’t have a row here — among strangers,” she 
 said sweetly, but her eyes were expressive. 
 
 Mrs. levers talked fast; the cold suspicion grew as 
 a snowball. Who had wanted money . . . who had 
 been near the box ? She knew. 
 
 “ It’s mislaid” insisted Nita, peering absently 
 among the broken china. 
 
 Mr. Fielding, dusty and dirty, thought otherwise, 
 he muttered, as he continued his search. His thin 
 lips were hopeless. 
 
 The motor throbbed into life ; and they left 
 Droveen in a storm of pitiless, driving rain ; blurring 
 the powerful lamps and making progress dangerous. 
 
 Phillips, who had not gone back in the waggonette, 
 occupied the back seat with his master. 
 
*36 XT foe Stra^inos of Sait&s 
 
 “ Exceedingly dangerous, sir,” he remarked cheer- 
 fully, as the lights showed the black wall of dripping 
 night. 
 
 The gates came suddenly upon them, a narrow, 
 iron-guarded gap ; the road was only visible before 
 the circle the lamps glare. 
 
 “ Very,” said Sandy nervously, as they turned to 
 climb a long ascent, and the car throbbed in protest. 
 
 “ Exceedingly strange occurrence, sir,” said Phillips, 
 in lower tones. “ Most unpleasant for all of you 
 there, sir— the — suspicion — ” 
 
 “Go to the devil, Phillips,” said Acland, and 
 swallowed a mouthful of cold rain. 
 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips, raising his coat- 
 collar ; he had got a waterproof. 
 
 Graves steered nervously, wishing himself at home 
 He too spoke of the diamond. 
 
 “Awkward. Hanged awkward he growled, 
 knowing who would be suspected. “ Who could 
 have taken it, Standish ? ” 
 
 “None of us,” said Standish shortly. “Keep on 
 the road, man, and you’ll live the longer.” 
 
 An old woman in a cart bleated shrilly before the 
 car’s advance. They avoided her ; all but killed a 
 prowling goat, and nerve shaken, got forward. 
 
 “ I’m a poor man,” said Standish suddenly, “ but 
 I’d pay the value of the stone myself to see it back 
 in its box.” 
 
 Standish knew too by now. His gloomy, deep-set 
 eyes took in most things. Mrs. levers disliked him 
 because she knew he read her thoroughly — saw 
 through her mask of complacency down to the 
 spiteful self beneath. 
 
 “Why we ever go there to be poisoned by bad 
 food and drink, and be waited on by a poor devil of 
 
©f some Jewels atto a Jacft&aw 237 
 
 a coachman, and be patronised by a shopkeeper's 
 daughter, beats me. I do it to please the aunts. 
 What a night ! ” 
 
 A fresh burst of rain was upon them, whipped 
 forward by a roaring blast. The road wound 
 tortuously along the slope of the hill. 
 
 Graves steered absently, thinking deeply. Oppor- 
 tunity makes thieves and men. This might be his. 
 He might establish a right over Evie ; make her by 
 gratitude his to take when he chose. 
 
 So thinking he turned too sharply, went too fast at 
 the incline, and stuck handsomely in the gate at 
 Ballymacshane. Phillips and Acland fell upon each 
 other in a tangle of outraged humanity. Standish 
 got out hurriedly— on his shoulder — though he 
 always declared he jumped, and the 20 h.p. Panhard 
 buzzed in impotent wrath against the wall— its 
 machinery much damaged and shaken. It remained 
 at the gate a wreck, while they went wetly up the 
 avenue, and Graves stayed for the night. 
 
 “ Terribly poor house, sir, Droveen,” observed 
 Phillips, clasping Sandy's links. “A chop each for 
 dinner, and one short, as I was not expected." 
 
 “Very unfortunate, Phillips," said his master, with 
 sympathy. 
 
 “ Very — for the butler, sir. He was last, sir," said 
 Mr. Phillips gravely. “ Everything counted, sir, 
 down to the helpings at table. Cooks always 
 leaving, sir, unable to cope with it. Your tonic, 
 sir." 
 
 “ Oh, do be quiet about people's houses, Phillips," 
 said Sandy, gulping quinine. “ Can’t have unlimited 
 waste everywhere. Don’t talk ! ” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir ; very bitter. Induces faces, sir. 
 Thank you, sir," said Phillips urbanely* 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 HOW ACLAND SAW AN OLD HOME AND WENT 
 TO A TEA-PARTY 
 
 “ Feel sharply, hear plainly, see clearly, 
 
 Past days with their joys and their pain. ,J 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 For a man of the world and a shrewd dealer in 
 stocks and shares, Sandy Acland was singularly 
 obtuse. He enlarged on the story of the lost 
 diamonds to the Misses Blundell, who, on their part, 
 were sure some draught or passing shock had swept 
 them from the box on to the floor, and none of them 
 dreamt of Evie being suspected. She was one of the 
 Blundell’s blood ; a lady, and a guest. 
 
 “ Pm sure they’d like to think I did it,” chuckled 
 Sandy pleasantly, “ at least Mrs, levers would. The 
 woman ought to have been the queen of small state, 
 rather than a mere country squire’s wife, with a desire 
 to appear rich.” 
 
 Acland could speak sharply upon some subjects ; 
 his complete ignorance of horse-flesh led him into 
 mirth-making error, but he could study humanity of 
 Helen levers’ type and apprise it at its true value. 
 In some way, he associated her with Kathleen’s per- 
 secution— Mrs. levers had been her mother’s great 
 friend, though a younger woman than Mrs. Blundell" 
 
 238 
 
tbow Eclanfc went to a Ueanparts 2 39 
 
 and not without foundation, he imagined advice given 
 and received. 
 
 Mrs. levers will be Lady Clandounes,” said 
 Graves pompously, not approving of this depreciation 
 of county magnates. 
 
 “ She will then possibly burst, like the frog in the 
 fable,” suggested Sandy. “ I've eaten her lunch, but I 
 refuse to like her.” 
 
 Sir Edmund Graves snorted haughtily. He did 
 not approve of the language from a mere little London 
 business person. Titles were things to be revered in 
 their place. 
 
 “ Mr. Acland is pleased to be severe,” he remarked 
 sharply. “ No doubt he comes from such high society 
 that we seem very small people. He is careful in 
 Ireland that he may launch out in London.” 
 This a hit at the Englishman's miserly ways, his 
 weighing of doubtful letters, applications for darning 
 of socks, cheerfully done by Miss Catty. 
 
 “ I was speaking of humanity, not society,” returned 
 Sandy quietly. “ One is reality, the other a name.” 
 
 “ Fair hit,” said Slandish, with enjoyment. 
 
 “You might make a coal-heaver Lord de Charbon,” 
 went on the little man thoughtfully, “but you couldn’t 
 give him decent hands and feet, or a look of breeding. 
 I spoke without thinking of Mrs. levers' future niche 
 in the peerage.” 
 
 Graves snorted again; it was monotonous, and not 
 convincing ; but he could not think of anything else 
 to do. Sandy Acland on a horse or in a trap was a 
 fool to be laughed at ; but as a man who chose to 
 argue, he was more than a match for the stay-at- 
 home Irishman. A life in London may leave one 
 ignorant of fox-hunting, but it tends to enlarge one's 
 view of life. 
 
2 40 XTbe Strangs of SattOs 
 
 Sandy looked up from the depth of the comfortable 
 chair which Miss Blundell had bestowed on him as 
 his own. They lavished affection on their polite 
 little guest. Graves* features were clearly outlined, 
 the light full on them. A mean, narrow face, with 
 hard eyes and a thin mouth. 
 
 Kathleen, always Kathleen — the thought ran in 
 Sandy’s head — there was no bond because they had 
 loved the same woman. This man, young then, his 
 hair unflecked with grey — had pursued her — urged 
 her — unwilling — to marry him, thinking only of his 
 own desire. Until, bright-faced, impulsive, brooking 
 no shadow of displeasure or coercion, she had fled 
 to her death; to starve — rather than own herself 
 beaten. Bitter memory to the man who might have 
 saved her. 
 
 Now Graves desired again — and the girl was 
 unwilling. Did resistance charm him, when so many 
 women would have asked nothing better than to be 
 “ My Lady Graves,” and twist their plastic emotions 
 into love for a good-looking and rich man ? So many 
 women can call up affection at will. No ; he must 
 needs lay his choice on finer natures, who construed 
 love humanly and therefore sadly ; who weighed no 
 comfortable life and titled husband in the balance 
 against the aching throb of loving hearts, the ever- 
 present fear of loss ; the cup of pure bliss with its 
 bitter dregs, which those who can really feel know 
 for their doom and their crown. 
 
 Standish turned the conversation to hunting, and 
 the two men bickered through dinner ; though 
 Graves was now the batter and Sandy the ball. For, 
 to the covert hits concerning tailors — the sneers at 
 ignorance — the little man had no response. He 
 listened uncomprehending to floods of unnecessary 
 
Ifoow Bclanfc went to a TTea*»lPatt^ 24' 
 
 technicalities, and fidgeted, sighing ; realising that 
 silence was his part amid these tales of horse and 
 hound. 
 
 Standish, who quite appreciated the cause of 
 sudden flow of driving and casting, and concerning 
 hounds ; of laminitis and tetanus concerning horses, 
 gave a sudden dry opinion that a new book, “ Graves 
 upon the Horse,” should certainly be written, and 
 winked with unconcealed contortion at Sandy. 
 
 “Faith, now, Sandy had better tell you how he 
 buys stocks and shares,” said Standish, the observant, 
 mustering a grin. “ There are Bulls and Bears in it, 
 I know — for I’ve seen the stories in the sixpenny 
 magazines — kept in cages, I suppose, in the Stock 
 Exchange.” 
 
 Sandy gave a shocked “ Dear me ! ’ and suddenly 
 remembered that he had omitted to wire an im- 
 portant reply to Mr. Jones, his clerk. Clearly Ireland 
 was not condusive to business regularity. He 
 immediately summoned Phillips, directing that 
 worthy to be at Ballymacshane Post Office before 
 eight, and inscribed a cypher on the paper with 
 much contrition. If Mr. Jones had waited they had 
 probably lost several hundred pounds; if Mr. Jones 
 had not waited he had taken too much on himself. 
 
 Hit — goose — five — apple — wild-fowl. Sir Edmund 
 took it up. “ How extraordinary.” 
 
 “ Most distressing to Miss Punch, sir, at Ballymac- 
 shane. In last, which was ‘Give goose pears.’ I could 
 scarcely persuade her not to alter it. She said ’twas 
 '-ah — agin nather an’ the divil’s waste entirely, 
 sir.” 
 
 “ Phillips ! ” reproved Sandy, as he took a neat 
 copy in his pocket-book. “ Apple is thousand,” he 
 said to Graves. “Five the figure.” 
 
 Q 
 
242 Uhc StraEfnas of 5ant>$ 
 
 “ Hit means, then — ? ” asked Graves. 
 
 “ In our present code, sell. Give is buy. Goose 
 stands for a certain affair on the market. We re- 
 arrange the code frequently, and each keep a key. — 
 Have this in time, Phillips, and be careful to warn 
 Miss Punch the alteration of a word might spell 
 disaster.” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir. Miss Punch, sir, thinks we wire 
 too much about geese at present, sir. She says they 
 are only five shillings a couple here, without tele- 
 graphing to London, and fruit feeding thim, sir.” 
 Mr. Phillips’ careful rendering of the Irish words in 
 his own accent was rather delightful. “ In fact, she 
 is sending her aunt with two couples, sir — ” 
 
 “Oh, go away, Phillips — sixpence,” said Acland, 
 engrossed in figures. 
 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips, leaving. 
 
 Graves’ face was thoughtful. He saw Acland in 
 another light — a precise, careful little person who 
 risked thousands on a deal. 
 
 “ Telegram for you, sir,” said Mr. Phillips, returning. 
 “ Miss Punch brought it herself.” 
 
 Acland read and his face cleared. It was to the 
 effect that Mr. Jones had feared to wait. He had 
 sold and realised something handsome. Acland 
 noted it down. This was excellent ; but he 
 objected to Mr. Jones doing such very big deals 
 without advice. A long communication full of geese 
 and fruit lay on the table. 
 
 Acland wrote another wire, tearing up the previous 
 one. “ The answer,” he said, counting out ninepence 
 regretfully. He had just made ;£i,ooo. 
 
 “ Miss Punch has brought a goose, sir. She hopes 
 you’ll keep it and save expense.” Phillips delivered 
 the message gravely 
 
iftow Bclanfc went to a XTea^attB 243 
 
 “Tell her to go to the dickens, Phillips , 1 ” snapped 
 Acland. 
 
 Phillips was leaving when Standish produced half* 
 a-crown. 
 
 “ Tell Miss Punch Mr. Acland’s obliged,” he said 
 gloomily, “ especially as pears are threepence each in 
 London.” 
 
 They left the dining-room and went to Standish’s 
 room. Graves, saying he had dropped his handker- 
 chief, went back to the dining-room. He found it, 
 and swept the torn slips of paper from the table, 
 piecing them together. 
 
 “Might be useful,” he said slowly. “One never 
 knows.” 
 
 . . • • • • • 
 
 Graves, having lain on his back in the mud and 
 sworn mightily, was able to retreat in the morning on 
 the resuscitated Panhard. It presented the battered 
 appearance of a man who had been doing a few 
 rounds without the gloves ; but it slid away 
 pleasantly. 
 
 Yesterday’s rain had passed ; feathery clouds sailed 
 softly in a sky of washed-out blue ; the fields were 
 soddenly wet ; silver pools lay in every hollow. 
 Sandy Acland had dedicated the day to an expedi- 
 tion — that of seeing Kathleen's birthplace, Glencarron 
 — a now deserted house ; he was going there with Nora 
 Hartland. Evie was a thing to be kept for merry 
 moments ; Nora someone to turn to when the heart 
 was sad. He called for her, driving the sedate Ice- 
 land, and they drove off together from Castleknock 
 gate under a soft flare of winter sun. 
 
 “Evie has gone to Cork for the day.” Nora pro- 
 ceeded at intervals to administer business-like whacks 
 to the shaggy pony. “ She fled off this morning — 
 
M4 ftfoe Stra^nos of Sanog 
 
 poor child ” — Nora sighed a little as she spoke — “ and 
 O’Neill’s nephew is at the house with his chestnut 
 declaring he means to sell it to her. I told him it 
 was useless — vainly. He has his own ways, he says.” 
 
 Acland blushed and jogged the pony’s mouth. 
 
 “ And what an upset at Droveen ! A messenger 
 came over to ask us about the stone. Of course we 
 knew nothing. Neill was there — his tale of pigs 
 and sheep all betrayed — and was annoyed at being 
 found at Castleknock.” 
 
 Sandy told all he knew about the missing jewel ; 
 dismissing all probable theories as impossible. 
 
 u It fell down,” he said, “or Miss Cropthorne picked 
 it up and let it fall when the daw came.” There they 
 dropped the subject. Nita Cropthorne’s jewels did 
 not touch them. 
 
 The road dipped into a valley, crossed an arm of the 
 hills, and turned to Glencarron gates. Rusted, melan- 
 choly things, rooted deep into the grass-grown track. 
 The laurels branched almost across the avenue. It 
 was dark and neglected— a record of the past. The 
 house lies high, guarded from the lawn by a swing 
 gate. Inside this it was more melancholy still. 
 Weed-grown flower-beds ; unclipt shrubs ; spiky 
 mummies of long-lived perennials nosing up through 
 the grass ; a damp, green sweep ; shuttered blind 
 windows. To the right terraces dip, once shaven 
 and smooth, now occupied by peaceful sheep which 
 Catty’s “ wou.gh ” sent into huddled terror. 
 
 Standing, Acland peopled it with Kathleen — ever 
 bright-faced, sunny-haired, flying over those terraces, 
 riding up by the swing gate, stooping to open 
 it ! peeping from open windows ; always high- 
 spirited, even in the face of trouble . . . Graves, 
 young then, but tall and lean, cast a shadow 
 
ft>ow Hclaut) went to a Hea*ipattg 345 
 
 across the picture — Kathleen’s mother welcoming 
 him, and then he saw the end. The girl’s last 
 
 drive down to the station, with proud eyes and 
 
 aching heart, as she fled from it all, to make 
 her fortune and defy them. Her fortune ; 
 
 poor, foolish, big - hearted child, with her tiny 
 
 borrowed capital sewn up inside her dress, and 
 death, had she known it, holding out welcoming 
 hands. 
 
 The little man’s eyes were dark as he looked 
 round ; but it was a dead and gentle grief. A little 
 wraith to lift upon one’s knee in the twilight, 
 dropping soft tears upon its head, until the lights 
 came, and one turned to creamy tea and hot, buttered 
 toast. No reality, grim and grave, to stalk beside 
 us in sunshine and storm, to curb us with a twitch of 
 agony after a moment’s forgetfulness ; to haunt our 
 pillows, pitiless for the hard gasp sobs and bitter 
 tears which daylight must not see ; and lay gripping 
 leaden hands about our hearts as we wake to the 
 pain of another day. The hopeless, hidden grief, 
 which gnaws and saps, and often kills its victim, 
 who, happy at the thought of release, stretches worn 
 hands to the death which must give peace. 
 
 Nora, watching him, knew it for a dead sorrow 
 but spoke now and again, helping his vision of the 
 past. 
 
 “ Kathleen’s favourite seat ” — a mossy, now rotten 
 bench — “ I’ve seen her there, all her glorious hair 
 ablaze in the sunshine. Kathleen’s room,” she 
 pointed to a crazy shutter. 
 
 Sandy’s eyes were wet as he left the place, coming 
 down to the swing gate. He stood ; the winter light 
 clear on his saddened face, thin now and growing 
 brown, the petty lines of routine smoothing out. It 
 
246 Tlbe stragings of Sanbg 
 
 was a kind face, and Nora watched him closely 
 Length of limb, the art and grace of horsemanship 
 are not everything. 
 
 “ I — I can understand Kathleen,” she said, very 
 softly ; and as the accent was not complimentary, 
 it was perhaps fortunate that the little man did not 
 hear. 
 
 “ He teased her — worried her,” he burst out. 
 “ Were they actually unkind to her, Miss 
 Nora ? ” 
 
 “ It was unkindness to her ; they never understood 
 her. They were very angry with the child, unable 
 to understand how she could turn away from 
 Castletown Graves ; and Sir Edmund pressed her 
 unmercifully. They sold her hunter ; tried to make 
 her feel poverty ; said she must do it, and she, 
 Kathleen — -I was here — she stormed out at them, 
 went off to Standish, and left, shaking the dust of 
 the place off her feet. Her mother never understood 
 her. Both women, you say. A canal, crawling 
 decorously between its made banks, a beast of 
 burden to man’s will ; a rippling, tearing river, 
 flashing over rapids, pouring swift into its depths ; 
 a thing of light and shade, self-willed and irresistible; 
 they, too, are both water, but apart as moon and 
 earth. Kathleen died — of want — and then — her 
 mother, knowing it, never recovered the knowledge, 
 but died herself, heart-broken. Lack of under- 
 standing, Sandy, is at the bottom of most of our 
 troubles. If Nature studied Nature, if those who 
 could give happiness to others would do so, what 
 a world it would be. We’d have the Millenium 
 half-penny circular in a month — fully advertised.” 
 
 She spoke the last words lightly, but her eyes 
 were sad. She was so pretty standing there, her 
 
iftow Bclano went to a trea=B>artE 247 
 
 shabby coat and hard cap unable to mar the soft 
 outlines of her face, the brightness of grey eyes 
 which had never grown old, the contour of a profile 
 which defied the years. Nora Hartland would grow 
 grey and infirm, but youth would dance with her to 
 the end. 
 
 Acland sighed. Evie was distractingly pretty — 
 she openly favoured him — but — if it were otherwise. 
 If it were Nora, what a friend and companion, what 
 peace and love might be given to a man whom she 
 might care for. 
 
 The Iceland was whipped unwillingly homewards. 
 They found Standish awaiting them. 
 
 “The house is humming at Droveen,” he said. 
 “ It’s the most unfortunate thing. The last time 
 I’ll take luncheon there. Where’s Evie ? ” 
 
 “ Gone to Cork,” said Nora, as she poured out tea. 
 
 “ Why ? ” 
 
 “ Don’t bellow at me, Standish. She wouldn’t say 
 why — some business of her own. She was in very 
 low spirits starting. Why ? Oh, I don’t know. 
 She stole a badly-needed sovereign from me and 
 caught an early train.” 
 
 Standish grunted over his tea, his forehead 
 knitted ; the straws at Droveen had shown but 
 too plainly how the wind blew. They suspected 
 the girl. Nita Cropthorne was the most unmoved; 
 she seemed more pleased than pained at her loss. 
 Mr. levers looked darkly ; Mr. Fielding shrugged 
 angry shoulders, and nothing was done. 
 
 “What a day she chose for it,” snapped out 
 Standish angrily. 
 
 “An exceedingly fine day,” said Sandy reprovingly. 
 “No rain or wind.” 
 
 Standish, biting a heavily-buttered cake, remarked 
 
248 Uhc Stagings of Sanbg 
 
 that some people couldn't see beyond their own 
 noses, and that was a restricted line. 
 
 This was a distinct disparagement of a snub 
 feature, so Sandy reddened and took some more 
 tea, knowing resentment to be in vain. He drove 
 back with his lazy pony, still unsuspecting ; to spend 
 his evening reading, for Standish was buried in 
 thought, and declined conversation. 
 
 There was another party next day, a gathering 
 at a local parson's, to which they were bidden. 
 Standish would not go ; Miss Susie had a cold, 
 and Miss Catty stayed with her; so Sandy lurched 
 gently in the empty waggonette until he picked up 
 the Hartlands, whom they were taking. The thing 
 was called a book tea, Sandy having consulted 
 Standish, who suggested a soaped bath - sponge, 
 and could get no further, was racked by doubt, 
 and finally gave it up. 
 
 Evie wrestled with an elaborate collection of small 
 sacks inscribed with various groceries. Nora carried 
 two flags in her hat, and wore a superior smile — 
 daring all men to guess. 
 
 “ It is childish," said Sandy, in his precise way. 
 “ It is so very palpably under two Flags — ” 
 
 But he tasted the joys of giving before they left 
 Castleknock. Evie, a radiant vision of youth, 
 positively danced upon the steps. 
 
 “ The chestnut," she said. “ I've got the chestnut 
 O’Neill's nephew came over, and he swopped, Sandy, 
 for the mare. Took her away ; said he had a buyer 
 for her ‘ likes,' so there I am now with the chestnut 
 to ride on Friday, I knew that grey mare was worth 
 money." 
 
 She pivouetted agilely upon one heel, nearly 
 upsetting Nora, who remonstrated with feeling, and 
 
Dow Bclanb went to a Ueasff>at*ti5 245 
 
 they started, Evie prattling of her horse. It was a 
 dream ; a gift from the fairies. Who could have 
 imagined the grey mare being worth so much ? The 
 chestnut was even sound ; a month old certificate 
 clearing possible ailments. 
 
 Evie wore a cheap hat, and her one best coat and 
 skirt ; but she was a vision of absolute radiance 
 against the background of the sombre day. 
 
 The parson’s house was already full to overflowing; 
 a wave of voices poured from the congested doorway ; 
 a reek of hot, tea-stricken air hit them hard as they 
 passed into the hall. Sandy abandoned the contest 
 from the very commencement : he was content to 
 hold a small card in his hand ; but he never dreamt of 
 the familiarity of peering at strange ladies’ shoulders 
 — could have slain a mild curate who lifted with a 
 lingering touch each packet of Evie’s groceries, and 
 then, unmoved by her nearness, decided peevishly 
 that books upon trade were not permissible. This 
 youthful parson carried a bulky Mudie catalogue, 
 and sweated hard for the plated match-box which 
 constituted first prize. Old ladies queried ; young 
 ones giggled ; the air was thick with literature. 
 
 Thick too, as aspirants realised their failures, with 
 the tale of the lost diamonds. It circled from group 
 to group ; gathered momentum as it sped. 
 
 Evie, moving merrily, guessing unwisely, was 
 suddenly aware of something strange. People looked 
 at her, whispering as she passed. Friendly faces 
 were cold ; once her outstretched hand was ignored. 
 Looking through the crowd at the beginning she had 
 met Mrs. levers. Nita’s mother was never gushing, 
 but to-day she took the semblance of a silk-clad 
 iceberg as she towered above a heedless little 
 boat. 
 
250 tTbe Strayiitgs or 5 anb\? 
 
 They paused. Miss Cropthorne’s somewhat 
 haggard beauty was framed by a great hat, and 
 toned by powder — she spoke to Evie. 
 
 “ Never found the diamond,” she said. “ Tell me, 
 you were near it with me as I put it back. Didn’t 
 you see it again ? ” 
 
 Evie shook her head. 
 
 “No-o,” she answered. “I remember now I 
 glanced in again just before you shut the box, and 
 did not notice the big stone. Before that, one always 
 saw it blaze.” 
 
 “Very curious.” Nita yawned. “I’m off to 
 London to-morrow. I’ve business there.” 
 
 Her dark eyes flashed as she spoke ; clearly the 
 loss had not troubled her. 
 
 Mrs. levers listened with a grim face. 
 
 Neill was close to her. To him, Evie bufst out in 
 her joy, telling of the chestnut. 
 
 “ Such a beauty ! ” she said. “ I never dreamt of 
 such luck.” 
 
 Mrs. levers swung round ; she was talking to a 
 hawk-nosed, hatched-faced woman, a local magnate 
 with a bitter tongue. 
 
 “ You got the chestnut. I thought,” she said, in 
 her superior way, “ that you were unable to buy a 
 horse, Evelyn.” 
 
 “ I didn’t buy him. I hadn’t a penny. O’Neill 
 swopped him for the grey.” 
 
 “ For the grey. A wild, worthless brute ! ” 
 
 The story sounded lame as the mare had been. 
 O’Neill’s nephew was not a fool. Sandy, standing 
 by, smiled to himself, wondering how much they 
 would believe. Evie looked on it as a mere tribute 
 to her good judgment in buying the grey filly. 
 
 Mrs. levers said nothing, but her chill eyes flashed 
 
Ifoow BclanD went to a ftea^ip arty 251 
 
 sudden understanding. Neill — they had not been 
 able to make their hints plain to Neill — came nearer 
 to Evie. 
 
 “ You're like a ray of sunshine to-day,” he said, his 
 head bent close to the groceries, his fingers touching 
 them. “ Whither away yesterday so early?” he 
 asked aloud. “You looked troubled.” 
 
 “ To Cork,” said Evie, and blushed suddenly. 
 
 “You went to Cork yesterday.” 
 
 “ To — get — a tooth stopped,” the girl said, and 
 somehow the lie was palpable. 
 
 She looked more pleased with the result than 
 anyone has a right to be with the outcome 
 of half an hour under soft, torturing fingers, 
 the gritting, nerve-shattering horror of the whirling 
 wheel and subsequent gulps of tepid water. 
 Her eyes sparkled as with some pleasant re- 
 collection. Mrs. levers' glance met Mrs. de Vere’s 
 almost instinctively ; cruel understanding in both. 
 So the tale was whispered on until Evie, lacking all 
 understanding, felt this cold wave of fog, and met 
 with the gloom which puzzled her. Books lost 
 interest to the gossips who love to rend a reputation 
 in beak and claw. The ignored hand was palpable; 
 it left Evie red-cheeked and amazed. She drew into 
 a corner alone, letting the chatterers, flushed by hot 
 tea and lack of air, drift by. Nita Cropthorne sailed 
 about, radiant in deep cream ; dazzling county eyes 
 with last year’s London finery. Her red hair waved 
 about her face in set waves and curls, her long, lace- 
 collared throat was hung with beads and pearls; 
 magnificent sables on her shoulders. She was so 
 fine in all her elaborated claims to beauty, so com- 
 plete in her assertion to the right, that one passed by 
 the items . . . wrinkles, and brown, powdered skin, 
 
*3* Ttbe Stra^inQS of San&s 
 
 , . . and merely recognised the gorgeous whole 
 Only Sandy, accustomed to the type day by day, 
 failed to feel impressed. The London girl moved 
 her rustling silks, shrugging wide shoulders at the 
 questioning eager prize-seekers. 
 
 “ I — oh, I’m nothing/’ she drawled at the dazzled 
 curate, who buried his nose in the scented laces. 
 “ I’ve no brains for competition,” and flashed dark 
 eyes on him, making him forget the match-box. 
 
 Graves came up. Nita, in her high drawl, told 
 him she was off to town. Her spirits were high. 
 She shot out bright-edged speeches happily. 
 
 Poor Evie, from her corner, looked straight into a 
 long glass. It reflected her coat and skirt, stamped 
 immediately with the brand of county making; her 
 one silk blouse, getting a little faded. Her ill-poised 
 cheap hat, her badly puffed out hair. The image was 
 flanked by the town girl in her cream and sables, 
 with the flash of jewels and droop of costly plumes. 
 Neill was thrown with one, he saw the other by 
 stealth; the demon of bitter jealousy gripped Evie 
 by the throat, stifling her, hurting her horribly. She 
 saw significance in Neill’s way of handing Miss 
 Cropthorne’s tea and chocolate cakes (the icing was 
 melted), in the raising of the dark eyes to his, the 
 sensuous turn of the long throat. Tricks so old that 
 they came by instinct; Nita Cropthorne knew her 
 world too well to miss a moment’s opportunity. 
 Soft hearts are fertile ground for a few crops of 
 minor presents ; theatre and luncheon tickets, even 
 if one never dreamt of marrying their possessor. 
 Stiff girls did not have good times. So though 
 Neill, so far as she knew, was never likely to produce 
 anything she wanted ; she sowed this wealth of her 
 fascination lavishly, and Evie watched and suffered. 
 
#>ow Sclant) went to a TTea^parts 253 
 
 She came from her corner, going to tea with Sandy, 
 drinking the weak stuff unwillingly, and letting 
 jealousy embitter her slice of cake. It died a second 
 later; Neill discovered a thirst for more tea, he left 
 Miss Cropthorne and came to her, unaware of 
 offence. This death of a new-born pain made room 
 for the fog of that sleeping coldness. A little band- 
 boxy girl came in, standing close to them. A trim 
 and well-seasoned maiden, with red, tip-tilted nose 
 and vinegar mouth. Evie greeted her carelessly ; 
 they were neighbours and friends. Carrie Bevans 
 flushed ; she turned away ; she pursued with 
 absorbing interest a certain cake at the far end of 
 the table, ignoring Evie. The girl flushed hotly — it 
 — they — she bit the complaint off and buried its 
 bitterness, wondering what she had done ; what story 
 some friend had manufactured about her. A guilty 
 conscience spoke of the stolen horse ; pricks of sweet 
 memory of meetings with Neill ; absolutely puzzled, 
 she let it alone and watched the sudden buzz of the 
 adjudication. Humanity loves to strive and gain, 
 from prizes at book teas, to a V.C. snatched from 
 red-handed war. The competitors crowded, arguing 
 and quarrelling — the long-nosed curate came to them 
 in high dudgeon, reproached Evie for her vagueness. 
 
 Nora, pink-cheeked and laughing, came across. 
 
 “ Disqualified , : ” she said mournfully. “ Because 
 when everyone said I was under Two Flags, I 
 told them I was Misunderstood. As for Evie, it 
 would take a wise man to make Many Cargoes out 
 of her bundle of coffee and sugar, coal and butter.” 
 
 It was a very vapid amusement, and its best part 
 the ending. Fresh air whooped at them with polite 
 contempt as they reached the waggonette. Graves' 
 motor buzzed among the horses, and he offered to 
 
254 trbe Strings of Satt&s 
 
 take Evie home. She had detected the note of 
 coldness even in her hostess's good-bye. 
 
 “ No, thank you.” Evie, dispirited, made her way 
 to the waggonette. 
 
 “And look here, Evie' —his thin face bent close 
 to hers— “ if there's trouble, why not come to me ? " 
 
 “ There is no trouble, and I don't understand any 
 of you,” said Evie fretfully, getting in by Nora. 
 “ Come, Sandy." 
 
 She turned, as women will, to her hurt, directly 
 they started. Nita, in a dark fur coat, had been on 
 the steps as they left. 
 
 “ How — how lovely she looks in those clothes," 
 said shabby Evie, buttoning her old mackintosh. 
 
 Sandy expressed an apt but improper retort and 
 remarked in his precise way that “ Miss Cropthorne 
 had been, no doubt, extremely pretty ten years ago. 
 At present she is like her dress — a little passe? he 
 said, unaware of the blissful gratitude he was earning. 
 
 “ She’s ten years younger than I am," said Nora 
 bluntly. 
 
 “You have not lived her life," said Acland. “ Late 
 hours, constant excitement, artificial sleep. The years 
 might be the other way, Miss Nora. She looks 
 gorgeous here. I’ve seen her in town ; she is nothing 
 to notice." 
 
 It was enough to make Evie gush at him ; her face 
 soft in the dimness, her voice a caress. Nita was no 
 siren then, but a London girl of passable good looks. 
 Although a nice woman will not pick a possible rival 
 to pieces, she will kiss the hand which does it for her. 
 In all the sweetness which was poured upon him — 
 the ready-tongued Irish flattery which is so perfect 
 that it arms guised as truth — could Sandy be blamed 
 for seeing falsely? Nora sat aloof; Evie close to 
 
Dow HclanE* went to a TTeaHpartg 255 
 
 him, her pretty face turned up to his. His £40, 
 carefully noted in his cheque-book as drawn to M. 
 O’Neill for self, seemed nothing to him. He drove 
 home with a brain which would whirl, and the Misses 
 Hartland watched him go. 
 
 “ Evie, you — you’re trying to turn the little man’s 
 head,” said Nora sharply. 
 
 “At his age! Impossible!” returned Evie, with 
 the intolerace of twenty. “ Besides, he was in love 
 with Kathleen.” 
 
 “ And so was Edmund Graves.” 
 
 “ Nora,” said Evie, abandoning the argument, 
 “what law have I transgressed? Two or three 
 people wouldn’t speak to me to-day. What can I 
 have done ? ” 
 
 “ Some madcap freak,” said Nora. “ Pulling 
 country propriety’s nose — I can’t think, Evie. Shut 
 out the night.” 
 
 “ Who cares. I’ll hunt and jump on Friday,” 
 trilled Evie, to the unsympathetic hall door. A 
 rheumatic person who groaned as it came to. “ And 
 keep near Neill,” sang her heart, to her sympathetic 
 self. 
 
 “ Who cares,” she repeated, slamming the door. 
 “ There’s a pheasant for dinner. Tim was out shooting 
 near Droveen.” 
 
 But she went in wondering what it meant. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 A FOG AND A MOON 
 
 4i I remember the snort and the stag-like bound 
 Of the steed six lengths to the fore.” 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 Tom wishes to know, sir, if you won’t ride Robin 
 to-day? ” 
 
 I shall not,” said Acland briefly. 
 
 His voice was acquiring a new note of decision, to 
 be used with emphasis in conjunction with the Robin, 
 “Tom says, sir, he regrets he cannot do so himself, 
 as he is obliged to take the new brown mare after 
 hounds to-day. Mr. Blundell wishes it.” Phillips 
 fidgeted. “Says it is exceedingly bad for Robin, 
 sir, not to get as much hunting exercise as possible 
 to reduce his high spirits, sir. ‘Leppin’ out of his 
 skhin entirely/ Tom says he was yesterday.” 
 Acland grunted, not over-well pleased. The Robin 
 was very beautiful to look at ; but he was not the 
 class of animal which a timid man wishes to ride 
 The humping strong back and tucked-down tail, the 
 latter revolving itself into a whirl of swishing hail 
 when the horse plunged, were not tempting. 
 
 “ Some boy must ride him,” said the Robin’s ownei 
 thoughtfully, 
 
 Mr. Phillips laid down a bath-towel with great 
 
 256 
 
B foQ an& a moon 257 
 
 precision, he topped the fat sponge with a cake of 
 soap set exactly in the middle, then he spoke : 
 
 “ I could ride him to the meet, sir, if you 
 wished,” he said diffidently. “ Merely as exercise 
 and to accustom him to the excitement of seeing 
 hounds.” 
 
 “ Phillips ! ” said Acland, sitting up in bed. “ Are 
 you mad ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir,” said Phillips, with urbane confusion. 
 “ You ride him ? How the — the — ” 
 
 “ Exactly, sir ; on his back, sir,” said Phillips 
 hastily. “ Quite in the ordinary way, sir. Mr. 
 Blundell, sir, has given me an old breeches, sir.” 
 Acland sat up petrified. He stroked his shaven 
 upper lip, and regarded his pattern valet with amazed 
 eyes. Phillips — poised upon the wild young chestnut 
 riding to the meet, arrayed in Standish’s old clothes. 
 Phillips — the immaculate and immovable, in all 
 human probability bucked off and lying in the mud. 
 Phillips — who, had his master known, always took 
 hansoms on wet days in town, and evened their 
 charges over hair-polish and laces. 
 
 “You can— go — to the devil,” was upon Acland’s 
 lips, but he checked it. Phillips presented the 
 appearance of a naughty child asking for sweets. 
 
 “ You can go, Phillips,” he said, almost tragically. 
 “ I presume it’s your own neck, Phillips ; but I 
 expect you to mind my horse.” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir ; thank you, sir,” said Phillips, 
 relapsing into valet-like gravity. But he got out- 
 side to run downstairs at such a pace that he all but 
 upset Standish, who was the earliest of risers. 
 “ Deeply regret it, sir,” said Phillips, breathing hard ; 
 * but Pve got leave to hunt, sir, in your breeches, sir, 
 on the Holy Robin, sir,” and he vanished. 
 
 R 
 
258 xrbe StragiitQs of Sanfcg 
 
 “Nero's Egyptian grandmother, 1 ” observed Standish, 
 using classical history over-freely. “ What next ? ” 
 
 He and Sandy were driving ; the “ next” was the 
 triumphal start of Mr. Phillips (watched from a back 
 window by his master) in breeches two sizes too large, 
 a pair of Tom's gaiters, an immaculately neat blue 
 coat and waistcoat, and a villainous old tweed cap. 
 Ellie, the kitchen-maid, stuffed sandwiches into his 
 pockets, telling him in a high voice that he looked 
 grand entirely ; and she had the breast of the chicken 
 cut up for him, for when ’twas rin through the mincer, 
 the masther and Mr. Acland wouldn’t never mind the 
 differ of the legs. The cook appeared with hard- 
 boiled eggs. Clearly, Phillips was a favourite. 
 Blackbird came dottering out on her stiff joints, Tom 
 appeared on a snorting, wild-eyed mare, and the 
 Robin elected to leave the yard at a head-and-tail-in- 
 air prance ; exceeding showy, but not disturbing. 
 
 “ Great Heavens ! ” said Acland, going down to his 
 breakfast. “ Great Heavens ! How has the man 
 learnt to do it? Sitting there,” he told Standish, 
 “ perfectly at his ease, even when the animal bounded 
 quite high. While I—” he shook a retrospective head, 
 recalling his own dismay when Blackbird shied 
 mildly. 
 
 He got into his coat and the trap in a glow ol 
 anticipation, nevertheless ; the love of hunting now 
 deep in him. Hopes of another triumph sparkled in 
 his eyes. He would get away first once more ; charge 
 large obstacles — they were all the same to Blackbird 
 —and hear the flower of the hunt thudding in his wake 
 Not quite so easy a thing to do as Sandy Acland 
 imagined — especially in Ireland. 
 
 The meet was on a narrow road, a belt of thick 
 trees running at one side, and of unkempt laurels at 
 
25Q 
 
 B ifog an& a /llboon 
 
 the other. It was very still, and a white mist clung 
 clammily, beading the laurel leaves, chilling fingers 
 and feet ; making distances interminable and vision 
 vague. Phillips on the now excited, foam-flecked 
 Robin, disappeared into the crowd as they came up, 
 and proceeding which puzzled his master, but made 
 Tom smile. The face of the world was changed 
 down here No lines of fences, solid and green, or 
 lace of boughs and thorn ; but wall upon wall ; loose 
 grey lines, crossing and recrossing the poor, light 
 land. Sometimes the stones cropped through the 
 surface, a scarring, unwelcome eruption. There was 
 not a tree in sight except those they had met at the 
 start. The land ran humping and bare to the grey 
 horizon. 
 
 Mount Hilyard was blank, no foxes lying in the 
 woods ; but they found in a clump of gorse outside ; a 
 little dark-green patch deep in a hollow between two 
 hills. Blackbird pricked her ears at the first note ; she 
 tore her head from her rider’s hands, when a small red 
 object slipped up the far slope, and the echoes were 
 woke by the chorus behind him. Acland would 
 have sat down to ride if he had known how ; as it 
 was, he chirruped cheerfully in the manner of maiden 
 ladies who drive themselves, and set to work to get 
 as near the now flying pack as he could. They were 
 pouring up the field close on their fox. But scent, 
 that most mysterious of things, was catchy and bad ; 
 the little red fox was a cunning wight, who twisted 
 and swung, looking for the holes he knew of. 
 Hounds flashed over it just across the road, not a 
 quarter of a mile from where they started ; and 
 Acland, who had not been as far in front as he 
 desired, thought it a favourable opportunity to jump 
 the wall of the road, and land in the middle of them 
 
2<*o TEbe Strasinas of Sanbg 
 
 Judging by the sudden flood of language which 
 rolled high over the fence, and overwhelmed him, he 
 appeared to have done wrong. He turned a mild 
 and puzzled face of inquiry, wondering what it 
 could be. Last day he had been applauded because 
 he bad been nearest to the pack. To-day he had 
 endeavoured to show an apparently hesitating field 
 that the wall off the road was nothing : he was 
 cursed for it. 
 
 “ I simply wished to be near the dogs,” he observed, 
 with dignity, when Gervase stopped to take breath. 
 
 “Pressing them. Jump on them! You — you 
 London—” 
 
 “ Stockbroker,” prompted Acland kindly. 
 
 A good deal of laughter drowned the master's bad 
 language, and Mr. Acland rode apart with dignity, 
 considering the ways of fox-hunting. 
 
 “ Yo-ii ! ” yelled someone to the right. u He’s into 
 covert again.” 
 
 He was not, however, into covert, but twisting and 
 turning outside it ; crossing a small, close country, 
 with low stone walls, and trappy, overgrown ditches, 
 and nothing to stop anyone. The novice to it all 
 found himself engulfed at beaten-down gaps among 
 a crowd of people, pushing frantically because there 
 was no hurry. He was conscious of jumping too 
 close to the horses in front, and also that sundry 
 men on woolly youngsters jumped a great deal too 
 close to him. There was no peace and no progression; 
 and a never-ending difficulty with the fly fences. 
 Blackbird went fast at them, checked herself, and 
 bucked over ; so did Acland, gripping the back of 
 the saddle, and learning to dread the thump with 
 which he met the pigskin as they landed. It was a 
 tiresome hunt, as they doubled and checked and 
 
a 3fos anO a /Iftoott 261 
 
 galloped, now into the domain, scent better under 
 the trees, and leaving it again, and into another wood 
 with a hideous obstacle of wall and ditch out of it, 
 over which Acland’s legs flapped wide, and nothing 
 but Blackbird's extreme consideration could have 
 kept him on. Then it ended at an unstopped hole 
 with a sigh of relief from more than one man. So 
 far Acland had not seen Phillips and the chestnut, 
 but believed them to have remained decorously upon 
 the road, as he had intended to direct Phillips to do 
 As they jogged along the narrow, lonely roads to 
 the next draw, he looked round for his horse and 
 man, and observed them, both looking extremely 
 hot, in the rear. He drew back to inquire about the 
 Robin. 
 
 “ He is covered with perspiration, Phillips, 1 ” said 
 Acland reprovingly. 
 
 “ Certainly, sir ; warm day, sir,” said Phillips 
 happily. “ Exceedingly fretful horse when you 
 restrain him, sir.” 
 
 “Be sure to remain where you have been,” said 
 Acland, as he rode on. “ It will eventually sober 
 Robin.” 
 
 “ Probably, sir,” observed Phillips, who had jumped 
 everything he could find. Robin’s already swelling 
 knee bearing testimony to the hardness of one wall. 
 
 As they turned the corner to Scanlans Wood, a 
 big square of trees, Acland’s face brightened up ; 
 seeing Evie on her chestnut, her eyes alight with 
 happiness. 
 
 “ She had thought the first draw too far,” she 
 said, “so had met them there. The chestnut was 
 perfection.” 
 
 But even there, nodding to the crowd, she was 
 conscious of the same breath of coldness; people 
 
202 ube Stagings of San&s 
 
 looked at her, whispered, and rode by talking 
 earnestly. The men grave ; the women speaking in 
 low tones, shaking puzzled heads. 
 
 She walked, checking her horse, letting people 
 pass, until she heard Neill’s voice as he rode up. 
 His face was troubled too ; the woman he was with 
 looked across at Evie, on her new horse ; twisted her 
 mouth a little, and rode on, as if ill pleased. 
 
 “ Isn’t he a dream ? ” Evie touched the chestnut 
 with her heel, showing him off. “ Isn’t he a dream, 
 Neill?” 
 
 “A nice horse and a valuable one,” Neill levers 
 said. “ How did you get him, Evie? You’ve never 
 told me ” — this rather eagerly. 
 
 “ But I did,” she said, wide-eyed. " I told you— * 
 we exchanged.” 
 
 “ Oh, that” — he looked grave — “ that was humbug, 
 of course. I wish you’d tell me, Evie. I’d like to 
 know ; I want to.” 
 
 “ I have told you. I’ve just told you again. The 
 boy had some buyer for the grey mare, and he took 
 her and gave me this.” 
 
 Neill said nothing more, but his face drooped as 
 a man confronted by some hopeless barrier. The 
 flaw of coldness seemed to slip into his manner. 
 Only for a moment ; love may grieve, but it cannot 
 doubt. 
 
 “ I do wish you’d tell me for my ow r n satisfaction,” 
 he said again. “ It would — would save so many 
 things, Evie.” 
 
 She flashed at him petulantly, ill pleased. “ He 
 seemed to have got this upon the brain.” So they 
 turned into the wood to meet O’Neill’s nephew riding 
 a rough, powerful bay, which plunged and shied at 
 the crowd. 
 
263 
 
 B f 00 ant> a tfOoon 
 
 “ New, he’s to it,” said the youth cheerfully. “ His 
 first day from the plough. I but bought him 
 yestherday afther I soult the chestnut.” 
 
 The words drifted plain and clear to Neill levers 
 as he rode by. Drifted to others, who looked at 
 their friends with understanding. If Evie had 
 merely exchanged, where could O’Neill’s nephew 
 have got the money to buy this fine colt, 
 unless . . . 
 
 He checked his horse. “ Have you sold the grey 
 mare?” Neill asked. 
 
 “ An’ she round her sthall on but two legs, and the 
 third half off,” said 0‘Neiirs nephew contemptuously. 
 He was quite forgetting his promise of secrecy. 
 “The two fetlocks foremost strained on her, and 
 she draggin’ the hock afther her. I will be two 
 months ...” Here he caught sight of Acland, 
 remembered his promises to be discreet, and blushed 
 a painful poppy colour. “That is,” he said, stumbling 
 over his words, “ I might have her soult any day, 
 when she’d mind on me.” 
 
 Neill levers rode on, unhappily. Why would not 
 Evie tell him where she had got the money, so that 
 he might refute these creeping tales which turned 
 about her? Where could either Hartland gather 
 fifty pounds to buy a horse with ? His mother 
 talked of it freely. Nita Cropthorne had left ; but 
 it was the country’s titbit of scandal, and they 
 chewed it ; some distastefully, some with manifest 
 disbelief, some with enjoyment. Who had taken 
 the big diamond ? Mr. Fielding had set police on 
 the track, despite Miss Corpthorne’s refusal to 
 move ; he said the diamond belonged to posterity, 
 not to her. Neill looked away down the long 
 wood, grass sides, branching and crossing, tangle 
 
264 ftfoe StvaginQB of 5ant>$ 
 
 of moss and lush ferns among the bushes below ; 
 of lacing boughs above. Scent of rotting heaped 
 leaves; so lately fallen. Autumn’s melancholy tale 
 of death still upon them, and all nebulous in the 
 swirls of mist ; but the feeling of coldness grew, 
 chill and bitter, and the girl, not understanding, 
 felt it. 
 
 Acland was now full of determination; as appar- 
 ently you might not jump in amongst the pack when 
 it stood beneath a wall ; it meant you must hurry 
 greatly so as to be with them when they started. 
 He was considering all this when hounds opened, 
 someone tallied a fox ; the quiet wood was alive 
 with the thunderous thud of iron-shod hoofs, the 
 sound of voices, the rush of straining horses. 
 
 The horn tooted sharply from a distance. People 
 divided, going in strings right, left, and straight on. 
 One man cried he was for Mount Hilyard, another 
 that it was for Southville, Acland chose the left, and 
 it was wrong ; they turned, fleeting through the fog, 
 to gallop at length into a big field and see no hounds. 
 People loomed gigantic, hurrying in front. The fog 
 thickened to a woolly whiteness, blurring the distance; 
 fences rose suddenly from nowhere. 
 
 Bad luck is as importunate as an over-fond woman 
 —once there, she remains, putting her arms round 
 your neck at unsuitable moments. She mounted 
 behind Acland, and he found himself pounding with 
 a hopeless throng ; climbing mountainous double 
 walls, dropping from them bumpily, flying smaller 
 places, splashing through fords, and never seeing a 
 hound throughout it all. Country men directed and 
 misdirected, until he joined a string who galloped for 
 Durra gorse, and arrived at the square patch to see 
 the scar of horses’ hoofs, the ruin of stones, and hear 
 
B ffoQ anfc a /! 5 oon 265 
 
 nounds had gone through and back to where they 
 had started from. 
 
 Acland was with a string of strangers — soldiers 
 from Tuiloun, who knew little of the country, and 
 generally relied on hard riding to keep them near 
 hounds. They swore now freely, furious, with a 
 readiness and sympathy which established friendship. 
 The road was the quickest way back, but they would 
 have none of it ; so they jumped, a flock of lost sheep, 
 into the fields Acland, carried on by Blackbird’s 
 rush, found himself first. His courage was waning ; 
 the field was barred by a particularly forbidding wall 
 with a man perched upon it. 
 
 “ They’re back, runnin’ like the divil himself! ” the 
 watcher called at them excitedly. “ An’ ye left here 
 now ? What was at ye at all ? ” 
 
 Acland, riding up, inquired as to the further side 
 of the wall ; it rose out of the white mist and the 
 fog-swallowed certainty. The man, who came to 
 Ballymacshane, knew him. 
 
 “ What’s beyant, is it ? The sorra a ha’porth but 
 the level field, and a fine safe fall to it. Arrah, if ye 
 have the convaniancy, Misther Acland, let ye come 
 at it.” 
 
 The shame of being called by name tingled in the 
 little man’s ears through the chill swirl of the mist. 
 
 He had the “ convaniancy.” He loosed Blackbird, 
 and they sprang into the white coldness of uncertainty 
 to soar downwards over a seven-foot drop. 
 
 “ Glory ! ” yelled the man, as Blackbird sailed in 
 air. “ Sit back. Success to ye all ! ” as the Tuiloun 
 soldiers took it in line, their horses flying it. 
 
 “ Great God ! a precipice,” sobbed Acland in his 
 fright, rocking and clutching. 
 
 “ Sthick on,” said the friendly voice, just as the 
 
266 
 
 Uhc Stra^fnas or San&g 
 
 green field rose solidly. “ Howld on, I tell ye. 
 Glory, ye’re over ! ” 
 
 That incident over, they groped on again, still lost 
 and unhappy. Other shapes loomed out of the mist, 
 one coming close to Blackbird and going gallantly at 
 a high wall. Acland was not sure if he could doubt 
 his own eyes, or if the long-tailed, large horse was his 
 own Holy Robin, with Phillips upon his back. 
 
 “ Phillips ! ” he cried, in amazement. “ Phillips, 
 what brings you HERE ? ’ said his master. 
 
 “ Cursed . . . that is very bad luck, sir.” Phillips 
 eased Robin, who was going like a lamb. “ Missed 
 hounds in the mist half a mile back. Most unfor- 
 tunate, sir ; close to them all day. Hope to catch 
 them, sir.” 
 
 The valet’s tie was loose, one of Tom’s gaiters 
 depended on a single button; but there beamed upon 
 his face an unvaletlike enjoyment, and he cantered 
 at the next wall, and sat it with an ease which stung 
 Acland with envy. Phillips did not wait. The 
 chestnut’s great stride ate up all the ground ; he 
 kept ahead, and was lost in the swirling dimness. 
 
 Acland was bereft of words. Whatever the man 
 did, his master found no hounds. They gave in, and 
 pulled to a walk, giving it up as hopeless. There 
 were four soldiers, brothers in misfortune, and home 
 seemed their one hope. 
 
 “ Back to Durra.” 
 
 The senior, Major Hill, a man now suffering from 
 shortness of temper, suggested this shortly. 
 
 Standish had told him to meet him at Durra, so 
 Acland rode with them, by devious twisting ways, 
 to the village — a pretty place built on either side 
 of a wide road ; little thatched cottages, covered 
 with creepers ; slated houses of two imposing 
 
U ffoQ anD a /Do on 267 
 
 storeys, tiny shops — prosperous-looking, with none 
 of Ireland s squalidness or poverty. 
 
 Standish had just arrived ; the hunt had ended 
 where they found, the fog stopping them. 
 
 They went into the little hotel, Standish directing 
 them. 
 
 “ To the right,” he said, and Acland turned 
 into a small room occupied by two ladies in 
 habits. 
 
 They were having tea at a square table. One, a 
 pretty girl whom Acland had noticed out, raised 
 her head. She poised the tea-pot in her hands, 
 and stared at them. 
 
 “ Have some tea?” she asked, rather awkwardly. 
 
 Acland thought it was friendly of a stranger, and 
 accepted. 
 
 “ Or something stronger ? ” 
 
 This was almost familiar. Hill, still depressed by 
 his missed hunt, got to the bell. 
 
 “ Oh, no — Tea,” he said snappily, as the maid 
 answered. “ And eggs, lightly boiled and poached, 
 for five.” 
 
 Acland had got his tea ; there was no more. At 
 Oonagh all tea-pots were shared, so the others waited 
 and grumbled. Food was short ; one subaltern took 
 out his uneaten sandwiches, making bitter comments 
 on the Durra Arms. They fell upon the eggs, too 
 ill-humoured to appreciate the strangely thoughtful 
 kindness of the small lady, who rang and ordered 
 toast, and handed butter, apologising for shortcomings 
 sweetly. 
 
 “ Exceedingly niggardly,” said Acland, as he 
 emptied the toast-dish and then ate eggs. 
 
 Standish pushed the door open, blocking it with 
 his lean length of limb. 
 
268 uhc Stra^inas of SanD^ 
 
 “ Hullo, Mrs. Rupert ! so you’ve got this room this 
 year. What a tea-party you’ve had here.” 
 
 Mrs. Rupert observed with twinkling eyes that it 
 was rather a discontented one, and not quite pleased 
 with her, and the flood-tides of horror poured crimson 
 to Acland’s ears. They had ordered and grumbled 
 in a lady’s private room, even taking her own tea-pot 
 from her hands. 
 
 Major Hill lost his presence of mind and 
 endeavoured to sup his tea with his egg - spoon, 
 pausing transfixed with a spoonful half-way. The 
 unhappy youth who had produced his sandwiches 
 put the remnants in the toast-dish, and covered them, 
 with what purpose he could scarcely have explained ; 
 one bolted horror-stricken. A silence thick and chill 
 as the fog outside fell upon them. 
 
 “ A very dissatisfied party, taking no notice of their 
 hostess,” said the lady demurely. 
 
 Here, observing their confusion and its various 
 results, she laughed long and unrestrainedly, and 
 their own merriment presently shook the room. 
 She pressed more tea upon them, hospitably, 
 and advised eggs, boiled lightly, as an accompani- 
 ment. Acland alone failed to be comforted ; the 
 mild decorum of his life had never been so out- 
 raged. Standish called them a nice set of wolves with 
 undisturbed gloom, and took his own tea pleasantly. 
 
 “ I have never,” said the little Englishman, having 
 got outside, as he raised a stiff joint towards the step, 
 “ been so exceedingly uncomfortable in my life.” 
 
 “ Well, now,” said Standish, “ allow the roan cob 
 to proceed at a gallop. Didn’t you go into the room 
 all strangers and come out friends ? ” 
 
 On consideration Acland was obliged to say that 
 they had. 
 
269 
 
 H fog anO a flfooon 
 
 “ And what more could you want ? " said the 
 Irishman equably, blind to the horror of the occur- 
 rence. “ Sit tight, Sandy ; there’s a motor coming 
 over the hill.” 
 
 There was. The night had cleared, the fog had 
 slipped away ; they drove through a still darkness, 
 broken now by the sudden glare of the great acety- 
 lene as they rushed upon them. The roan pony 
 quivered with horror, beating the air with his fore 
 legs. Standish and Acland caught his head and got 
 him to earth, and by holding and threatening got the 
 shivering brute past the car. It had been pulled up, 
 but the buzzing and the lights goaded the genuinely 
 terrified roan to madness. He shivered and sweated, 
 and had to be walked for half a mile, plunging at 
 every noise ; then they got up again, and the drive 
 proceeded quietly ; but Standish said it would go 
 badly with them if they met another. 
 
 The night was still and calm, a blue sky 
 floating peacefully, lit by faint lamps of stars. 
 Standish remarked that they had no need of lights, 
 for it would be clear as day when the moon rose. 
 
 That happened speedily. 
 
 They drove up a long slope, the road beyond 
 them cut through high banks, disappearing as it 
 looped the hill. As Standish spoke the full moon 
 rose above this point, clear and round a great globe of 
 light serenely shining just above the road. The roan 
 saw its gleam above him, gave a sob of exquisite 
 terror, and chaos descended. 
 
 • t • • • • % 
 
 When Standish and Sandy arrived very late for 
 dinner in Biddy O’Mahony’s jennet-cart, the subdued 
 roan led behind, they told the story with some 
 sadness, and a good deal of force. 
 
2?o z\k Strastnos of San&s 
 
 Miss Susie, revolving about them like a human fly- 
 wheel, and pitying their muddy condition, could not 
 see what the moon had to do with it. 
 
 “ Oh, nothing,” said Standish drily, plastering a cut 
 finger. “ But, you see, directly the roan saw it rise 
 over the hill, he took it for another motor, and 
 lepped the wall off the road. It was a six-foot 
 drop, and the shafts broke . . . besides, ’twas boggy 
 and stony.” 
 
 Standish then stood upon the door-step declaring 
 that it was all fright, and he’d half a mind to buy a 
 motor and train the cob. 
 
 The pony was perhaps worth forty pounds. 
 
 Acland, very battered and dirty, climbed to his 
 room and the ministrations of Phillips, musing with 
 distraught mind upon the ways of Ireland and her 
 sons. 
 
 “ The only good part of it is,” Standish’s melan- 
 choly voice rang out from the hall, “that Sandy’s 
 coat is clean split down the back. Pie must buy 
 another.” 
 
 Acland snorted with hopeless asperity, and torgot 
 to scold Phillips or inquire for Robin. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HOW THE LAW WAS DEFIED 
 
 55 . . . the dreams were scattered 
 As chaff is tossed by the wind — 
 
 The faith has been rudely shattered 
 That listened with credence blind. 
 
 “Ah, me ! we believe in evil, 
 
 Where once we believed in good, 
 
 The world, the flesh, and the devil 
 Are easily understood.” 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 ACLAND put down the Irish Times with a jerk. 
 
 “ The whole thing/’ he said, in his precise way, “is 
 so absolutely absurd, except for an undue desire 
 for hounds and horses, I cannot see myself, nor can 
 any sensible man, of the lawlessness of Ireland. 
 They appear to me to be a most well-conducted 
 race.” 
 
 Standish suggested that a letter to the Times might 
 be written about it on Sandy’s return. It would be all 
 convincing, and immediately bring about Home 
 Rule — but there was a suspicious dryness in his 
 accent. 
 
 Horses pawed at the door. Sandy was about to 
 trust himself upon that tall animal, Holy Robin, and 
 ride with Standish to see a young horse in the wild 
 country beyond the hills. Mr. Phillips, bubbling with 
 polite advice, which he dared not give, hovered upon 
 
 271 
 
272 TTbe Stagings of Sanbg 
 
 the doorstep as his master mounted, and they paced 
 out in the softness of a grey December morning — 
 moan of rain in the gentle wind, drive of light clouds 
 across a pallid sky. 
 
 “ If you lived where we are going to to-day, you 
 might not talk so much about law,” said Standish 
 thoughtfully. ‘‘Jog along, Sandy ; we've twelve miles 
 to go.” 
 
 Twelve elastic Irish miles, stretching interminably, 
 taking them deeper and deeper into a wild, sparsely 
 populated land. Here and there tiny cabins crouch- 
 ing squalidly ; people who stared without greeting 
 as they passed, now and again a ruin, grey stones 
 and rotting thatch piled by the roadside, touched 
 now with Time's softening wand. 
 
 " The Devlyn estate,” Standish said. “ They 
 battered those houses down with the ram, and flung 
 the people out to starve ; they peopled the place with 
 police and emergency men, and brought all the 
 majesty of the law to bend these peasants, yet 
 twenty years after, look at it. Fences down ; rough, 
 half-grazed grass; no sign of life or alleviation. 
 Twenty years hence no man will take it unless the 
 old owners go back,” said Standish. “ Small pieces 
 are used up ; the bulk is as you see. A strange 
 people and obstinate — these law-abiding Irish. 
 Hearts have broken here, and men turned to mere 
 animals. Seen their children want — thirsting for 
 blood down here as they starved ; there’ ve been shots 
 fired and lives taken from behind these hedges we're 
 passing. Devlyn is a hard man, and the countryside 
 has never got over it. They're sullen and ready to 
 rise at any minute, full now of this new Land Act, but 
 Devlyn won’t sell. Here we are — and something's 
 up too,” he added. 
 
Ibow tbe OLaw was Defies 
 
 273 
 
 Men were drifting past them ; coming in knots of 
 twos and threes with sticks and pitchforks in their 
 hands, and converging across the fields in one 
 direction. They turned into a substantial-looking 
 farm-house, skirted the inevitable manure heap, and 
 were greeted by the horse’s owner, who immediately 
 proffered tea and eggs and whisky after their ride. 
 The colt was a fine one. Standish plunged almost 
 happily into the mazes of the deal, wrangling and 
 disparaging, and occasionally getting up to jog the 
 horse across a field, after which exercise he returned 
 fresh to the contest, as an Atlas who had touched earth. 
 
 Sandy was slightly bored ; he wandered several 
 times round the manure heap; decided the brown 
 was very like all other horses, and then went on to 
 the road, following Standish, who had varied his jog 
 by going that way. Here they encountered a fat 
 man, on a wheezy chestnut cob, who pulled up and 
 gave greeting. 
 
 Standish looked at him with interest. “ Business, 
 Magee ? ” he queried. 
 
 “Mrs. Sheenane, sir, won’t pay these two years, 
 because she says she’ll buy or nothin’. I’m warned 
 there’ll be trouble. An unfortunate case, entirely, 
 Misther Standish, for she’s there, an’ her people before 
 her for generations. But I must do me duty.’’ 
 
 Sandy was violently interested. He queried 
 excitedly, gathering that Magee was the bailiff 
 about to serve writs of eviction on one or two small 
 farmers, and on a Mrs. Bridget Sheenane. This was 
 a new sight. Sandy, wishing to add it to his notes, 
 asked if he might not go to see. Standish said there 
 was no reason against it, so the now placid Robin 
 being produced, Sandy mounted and rode. The way 
 lay at first through boycotted farms, stretching 
 
274 X£be ©tracings of Sait&E 
 
 drearily on either side, the fences flat, the coarse, 
 uncropped grass, waving in the breeze. Then they 
 turned down a narrow road, twisting through a bog, 
 and saw on a rise of ground the cottage of Mrs. 
 Sheenane — a thatched building with long piles of 
 turf and snug ricks of hay at the back. 
 
 “ A warm woman who could pay three times over, ,, 
 said Magee crossly. “ But she won’t. I knew it. 
 Look there,” he muttered. 
 
 Mrs. Sheenane’s house was not unguarded ; a 
 crowd gathered like black crows on the rise behind 
 it, moving uneasily — all with something in their 
 hands. As the riders appeared, they were hailed 
 with a sudden blare of discordant horns and beat of 
 drums which sent Robin on to his hind legs. Then 
 their silence broke into a deep murmuring. 
 
 Mrs. Sheenane herself waving a tin can appeared 
 in her doorway. Magee drew rein. 
 
 “ Come on and serve ye’re writ, ye vilyans,” she 
 shrilled, high above the ominous murmur. “Come 
 on ; let ye~— ” 
 
 The face of His Majesty’s bailiff blanched from its 
 habitual purple, until it looked like a stale, broad 
 bean. 
 
 “ The law,” he said, going forward, eyeing Mrs. 
 Sheenane and the road behind him impartially. “ I 
 must carry it out, Mrs. Sheenane.” 
 
 “ Fine ye’re law looks ! ” yelled his opponent. 
 “ Here let ye keep him, all of ye.” 
 
 The drums beat, and the horns blared, the crowd 
 spread, stealthily moving in a grim half-moon of 
 lowering faces and clutched weapons. 
 
 “ By the Mother of God, if I goes up, I think they 
 mane mischief,” burst out Magee, in an awed whisper, 
 beads of perspiration trickling down his face, while 
 
ifoow tbe Xaw was ©efieb 275 
 
 Mrs. Sheenane, dancing, bade him come on with his 
 writs. 
 
 “ They mane — murther ! Come on, sir ! ” cried 
 Magee, and wheeling, fled, not a moment too soon. 
 
 The crowd yelled. Behind them, on the hill, the 
 clatter broke out, drumming and tooting. Robin 
 with a plunge which almost threw his rider, turned 
 also, and Sandy found himself involved in frantic 
 flight. The crowd of men came on, shouting, waving 
 pitchforks and sticks, leaping the bog ditches, closing 
 in on the bailiff and his companion 
 
 It seemed an easy task to distance the running 
 men, but it was not. The road wound tortuously ; 
 the pursuers skimmed across country, and were 
 almost upon them at the first turn, one, in fact, being 
 near enough to fling a stick at Robin’s legs. The 
 big horse could easily have forged ahead, but Sandy 
 would not leave the bleating bailiff, even if he had 
 known the road. Magee talked incessantly as he 
 rode, wailing out details concerning death at a 
 pitchfork’s end, and subsequent burying in bog-holes, 
 which made Sandy’s blood run cold. 
 
 He on his part advised reason, yet fled unchecked. 
 A man in a nightmare. It was 1906 in a well- 
 ruled country, yet they fled for their lives before 
 a screaming mob, and death clattered at their heels. 
 
 “ Clancy’s Cross,” cried the bailiff ; “ they’ll cut us 
 off there. We with a mile to go, and they with but 
 a quarter.” 
 
 He pointed to the crowd now racing in one 
 direction. 
 
 Sandy saw it. Behind them was the bog, before 
 them the narrow road coming out where these 
 demons would meet them. 
 
 u We must jump ” he said. 
 
276 Ube Stra^ngs of 5ani>» 
 
 Fear clutching him, he turned Holy Robin at the 
 fence off the road. Robin asked for nothing better. 
 He soared over the bank, his rider’s knees flying 
 wide, and strode up the field, pursued by Magee, 
 whose cob was no mean performer. The jump 
 was greeted by an enraged roar from the running 
 men. 
 
 Robin fenced brilliantly and impetuously; Sandy 
 held his breath at each obstacle. If the chestnut 
 were to fall and get away, what would happen to a 
 most innocent spectator? Would protest avail before 
 that whooping advance? Reason said “Yes,” and 
 Ireland said “ No.” 
 
 The land lay low. They were splashed with mud 
 and torn by brambles as they reached Clancy’s 
 Cross, and finally distanced their pursuers . 1 
 
 To Standish, who had just bought the horse, and 
 was going into the best parlour for hot bread, vile 
 whisky, tea and boiled eggs, there arrived a mud- 
 bespattered, gasping man, glancing over his shoulder 
 for the many-weaponed death he had left behind 
 him. 
 
 Close to him galloped Magee, yelling murder as 
 he came, breathing out the terror of his tale to 
 Standish, and galloping on as fast as the yellow 
 cob would go, knowing no peace until he reached 
 the police barracks a mile farther. Sandy fell, 
 rather than got off Robin, landing on the manure 
 heap, and followed Standish into the house. 
 
 “Black murder,” he declaimed — “murder. Standish; 
 they meant to kill us.” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t be surprised if they did, They might 
 have done it too, with their blood up. Not much of 
 you two foxes if the hounds had come up,” said 
 1 True, from report in Irish Times , 28th April, 1906. 
 
tfjow toe xaw was H)eSet) 
 
 277 
 
 Standish, equably drinking tea. It was etiquette 
 to leave them along to eat. “ Will you write to 
 the Times about our law-abiding now, Sandy ?” 
 
 “ I will not,” replied the Londoner, shuddering. 
 
 “And yet, 'twas half sport to them,” said Standish 
 mildly; “as much for hunting as anything, with 
 you and Maguire, the foxes. It will be a good thing; 
 if they don't recognise you on the way home.” 
 
 Sandy thought this unkind. 
 
 Next day marked the event of one of the runs of 
 the season, and several other more important things. 
 They met at four cross-roads, and went to draw a 
 patch of low-lying gorse, couching in a wild stretch 
 of boggy land ; a dark, dreary little place, sheltered 
 by hills. But it held : there was a chorus in covert, 
 crackling of and parting of gorse as hounds leapt 
 through, rising and falling, little ships in a prickly, 
 deep-hued sea. He broke slap through the waiting 
 field, away by a clump of cottages. Hounds poured 
 out, flashed wide, and were away, mute on a breast- 
 high scent. Bristles up, heads down, every nerve 
 thirsting for blood. A wave of straining bodies and 
 eager, wistful faces, they fleeted across the field on 
 the trail, swift as misfortune, true as sorrow. It was 
 a fair start across an open country ; but the cottages 
 spelt disaster to more than half the field. Gates were 
 locked, timber too high to jump ; Sandy, thanks to 
 Blackbird declining to take the apparent short cut, 
 got a start. The run from Achgarra had been a 
 hunt, but this was a sportsman's dream of perfection. 
 
 Straight away across low - lying fields, hounds 
 driving ahead, running at a speed which took a fast 
 horse to live with them. No fear of jumping on them 
 now, but sit down and ride hard for a glimpse of their 
 Vanishing sterns. High, green banks looming and 
 
2/8 e»e strasmas oe Sanbg 
 
 left behind ; perfect fences with no hint of ^ire or 
 hedge. The rush of air in heated faces ; the ripple of 
 strong muscles, shoulders cutting the air in front as 
 the good horse strides along. Prop and steady at 
 a narrow bank ; swing at a wide ditch ; fly over a stone 
 wall. The London blood was afire with it all ; the 
 perfect joy without the fear of loss or parting which 
 mars our stronger happiness. This comes and is 
 perfection, and dies to be born again, freshly perfect, 
 a thing to live for, to be glad one has known. The 
 good black mare strode on, lathered a little, but going 
 free and strong, shooting far over the high banks, yet 
 careful of her little unskilled rider, whose face was 
 alight as he went 
 
 The first fields lay low, and were silver-sheeted by 
 water. They swished through it, not without disaster, 
 for a ditch overflowed its banks, and horses galloped 
 in, and splashing mightily, dark riders arising in Venus 
 like from the tide. 
 
 Ahead were Gervase, O’Neill’s nephew-— -his new 
 purchase going well, and Standish on a thorough- 
 bred, a young one, but jumping perfectly, striding on 
 while other horses sobbed. At one fence a horse 
 came down, missed its kick, and staggering, fell to 
 rise no more, its back broken. Looking back, one 
 could see the dark blot lying still, and the pink-coated 
 owner standing beside, touching the dead head softly. 
 No bitterer parting than that of a man and his horse 
 — true friend and gallant beast. 
 
 They ran up hill on to lighter land, a relief to 
 blown horses, but the pace was unchecked. Still 
 hounds raced ahead, mute and unhesitating. Behind 
 them, wide-scattered, came the tail which had lost its 
 start, a tail of a mile or more, for there was no time* 
 to look or pick places. 
 
fjow tbe Xaw was Bcfieb 
 
 279 
 
 * He’s gone there,” Gervase spoke to Standish, 
 pointing to a ruined castle on a hillside. 
 
 They galloped down a long field, coming to a wide 
 Government drain, impossible to clear, but negotiable 
 by jumping against the far bank and climbing up. 
 Now one of the most disconcerting things in the 
 world is to jump against a slope ; all support of 
 horse appears to vanish suddenly as one lands. 
 
 Acland knew nothing of this ; he came at it 
 loose reined and undaunted, with an idea that no 
 drain was disturbing. Blackbird poised ; she shot 
 out with all the strength of her great quarters, land- 
 ing high on the steep slope. Sandy Acland took the 
 shock with an astounded “ Oh ! ” the mare's hind- 
 quarter seemed to vanish, his legs flew wide, and he 
 came handsomely back clean over her right side. 
 Blackbird went on, she considered she was only 
 required to wait in the next field. Acland struck 
 the bank, turned over, clutched at nothing, turned 
 over again, not overfast, but gathering momentum, 
 seeing in every roll the muddy waters below 
 him growing nearer and nearer. 
 
 He had seen them five times, to a cheery chorus 
 from the lookers-on, of well turned, well rolled, when 
 they rose to meet him, and he emerged, dripping, to 
 see some twenty people staring on the bank and 
 laughing unrestrained. The fox was to ground in 
 the next field. As he proceeded up the bank on all 
 fours, he observed Evie Hartland on the chestnut 
 among them. He wrung his coat out with some 
 ill-humour ; it was new, and had been very 
 expensive. 
 
 But the memory of those four unchecked miles was 
 death to bad temper. Wet and ridiculous, Sandy’s 
 heart glowed, and he petted Blackbird. Let them 
 
28o ftbe Stra^inos of Sanbs 
 
 laugh if they like ; they had not seen hounds as they 
 raced over those green fields. 
 
 Alexander Acland, despite his ignorance, knew 
 himself to be a sportsman. He wiped some mud 
 from his hair, and felt there was nothing like hunting ; 
 no country like Ireland, no people like these laughter- 
 loving race which rode near him and called him 
 teetotum. 
 
 The chestnut horse had carried Evie excellently, 
 in a stern chase, far behind hounds ; but other things 
 than the lack of start troubled the girl as she came 
 up. That same strange breath of coldness, chilling 
 from unsuspected places ; curious looks, whispers as 
 she passed by, and Neill— Neill not anxious to keep 
 near her ; not turning his head with a whispered 
 “ Come along ! ” but sweeping on, and leaving her in 
 the crowd about the cottages, apparently without a 
 thought ; showing a gloomy, unhappy profile now as 
 she arrived, pausing to offer a sandwich with a 
 sudden wistfulness which she failed to understand. 
 The girl's head sank, her throat hurt her, not 
 knowing what happened. A woman in love delights 
 in self-torture; she made up her story quickly: 
 Neill was going to marry someone, Miss Cropthorne, 
 probably, and was afraid to break it to her. So, 
 smarting with misery, she was irresponsive to his 
 gentle words, shook her head at his proffered sand- 
 wich, and rode away with her head up, when her 
 heart yearned for him and grieved at his hurt face. 
 A woman's way, since Eve stole apples and was 
 meanly blamed by her spouse. I’m sure they sulked 
 afterwards outside the gates of Eden. 
 
 No man must expect two very good hunts in one 
 day. How often, after a splendid morning gallop, one 
 stays out, riding uselessly from covert to covert, and 
 
iftow tfte Xaw was 2)ef!eb 
 
 281 
 
 then going home, ungratefully dubs the day “ poor ; 
 a nice little spin early,” thus branding a hunt, which, 
 ridden in the evening, would have sent us home 
 glowing and chattering, vowing hounds had never 
 run so hard or so straight. Horses are fresher in the 
 morning ; one enjoys it more at the time, but the 
 afternoon runs are those handed down to posterity. 
 Just as to mankind the last piece of sorrow or 
 happiness overshadows its once superior companions. 
 Humanity lives in the present and futurity; poor 
 memory can do but little against its rude rivals of 
 flesh and phantasy. 
 
 So the day of this great hunt ended disappointingly; 
 the next covert, a patch of gorse on a hillside, was 
 blank Barryveen held, and they galloped round 
 and round the big domain until the horses were 
 tired and men swore. They wasted the day there in 
 long circles, and little bursts away beyond the walls, 
 antil, as O’NeiH’s nephew remarked : “ They cot wan 
 lad an' ate him,” and then it was too late to do any 
 more. Dark was cringing below the trees, white 
 mist-wraiths rose swirling in the hollows ; purple 
 lights peered over the rim of the hills, mourning the 
 dying day. 
 
 The hounds worried fox-bones with gory jaws, and 
 were happy ; from their point of view it had been a 
 most satisfactory chase ; far more so than the hunt 
 in the morning, ending in hungry disappointment. 
 
 Barryveen was a long, red house ; a rambling, 
 comfortable place, with unlimited supplies of tea, 
 toast, and eggs ready for hunters. 
 
 Evie Hartland, now very tired, put the chestnut in 
 the stable, and came round. She did not notice that 
 she had not been asked in : Lady Barry was a friend 
 of hers, always glad to see her. She came alone 
 
Ubc Strasfngs of Sanog 
 
 through the big, square hall, hung with heads of shot 
 beasts from many lands ; and great, rugged elks’ horns 
 unearthed from the bogs ; a wood fire was reflected 
 cheerily in the oaken floor. Hungry men filled the 
 dining-room, clattering and chattering ; able to attack 
 rounds of beef and fat white turkeys and pink hams 
 at half-past four in the afternoon. Evie went on to 
 the gentler trinkle of tea -cups; babble of shrilly 
 voices coming from the drawing-room. She pushed 
 the door open, going in unannounced. A dozen 
 people were gathered round the fire drinking tea : 
 they did not hear her. Mrs. levers was standing by 
 the tea-table speaking to Lady Barry, a tall, imposing 
 woman with a weak, pleasant face. 
 
 “ It really seems the only solution — otherwise, why 
 did she fly off the next day ? Where did the money 
 come from to buy — ? ” 
 
 “Miss Hartland! Oh, how do ye do?” said her 
 ladyship quietly. 
 
 Evie heard the words without understanding, but 
 she saw her hostess’s face, saw the hand upheld for 
 silence, felt the sudden hush. One must be courteous 
 in one’s own house — yet plainly courtesy and nothing 
 more prompted the gentle greeting. Mrs. levers, 
 leaving the tea-table, passed by with a coldly given 
 bow. 
 
 “Tea, Miss Hartland?” said Lady Barry — then in 
 suddenly sympathetic tones : “ How tired you look.” 
 
 Evie took her tea, sitting aloof away from the 
 cheering fire and chattering women. From one, in 
 half tones, she heard Miss Cropthorne’s name. 
 “ Where did she get the money ? ” As fog rolls up 
 at the sun’s touch, her brain cleared, and she knew — 
 the horror of it numbing her hands, making her sit 
 with beating, terrified heart and blanched cheeks. 
 
ft »oW the %a\v wag SDefted 283 
 
 They suspected her of having stolen the diamond ; 
 of having slipped out the stone, pawned or sold it, 
 and bought O'Neill's horse with the money. They 
 — Neill's mother thought this vile thing of her; Neill 
 himself. She remembered now that he had asked her 
 to tell him how she had paid for the horse. He had 
 pleaded, and she had given the only answer she knew 
 of, which she still believed to be the truth. Neill 
 suspected her also. The walls of the long drawing- 
 room closed in upon her, the old-fashioned carpet 
 was a sea beneath her feet — yet she sat still and gave 
 £io sign — she would not faint and have a horde of 
 human vultures cluster above her dead reputation. 
 Bitterness is not measured by hours ; in those brief 
 minutes the cruel flood drowned the girl's soul, leaving 
 its jetsam of a dead hope and a marred youth, as it 
 abated a little, and she could think — 
 
 They were all talking, she thought — all looking 
 covertly at her — the thief. 
 
 “ I don’t believe it, and I won't — Oh ! ” 
 
 The men paused at the door; they too were 
 talking of her. 
 
 “ More tea, Miss Evie ? ” Lord Barry's voice, close 
 to her, now speaking to her. “ More tea ? Why, 
 you’ve not taken this" — she gulped it down, cold, 
 bitter stuff — the frank kindliness bringing sudden 
 tears. 
 
 They were discussing her everywhere apparently. 
 Lady Barry, sorry for the girl, rose then and sat 
 beside her ; she was her husband's echo— an ever 
 appreciative reflection of his opinions, and seeing 
 him kind to Evie immediately thought the whole 
 thing a fabrication. 
 
 Evie rose quietly, making some excuse about 
 her waiting horse and went out. She knew the 
 
s 8 4 xcbe StrapMfls of Sanfcg 
 
 sudden buzz of voices behind spoke of her. She 
 was almost appalled by the tragedy which had burst 
 upon her — appalled and angry with the impotence 
 which is the hardest anger to bear. A tearing demon 
 rending its creator with poisoned claws. 
 
 They suspected her of being a thief; not a 
 great sinner, for even in sin greatness has its own 
 value, but a mere petty pilferer. A girl who would 
 stoop to the meanness of slipping away those lost 
 diamonds and selling them, that she might buy a horse. 
 
 Nora had gone home ; she was alone in the dusk ; 
 dimness mouthing at her, the trees lacing softly ; a 
 fretted arch of bare boughs spanning the red gleam 
 in the sky. 
 
 It was cold and dreary ; the chestnut went lame, 
 brushing on a hind leg ; great tears gathered and ran 
 down Evie’s cheeks ; sobs rent her, and through it all 
 that bitterness of anger dried the tears ere they were 
 shed. 
 
 That they dared — dared— 
 
 A horse clattered behind her — she turned to see 
 O’Neill’s nephew jogging rapidly, and blessed the 
 gloom which hid her tear-stained cheeks. 
 
 “ Didn’t he carry you well, miss ; wasn’t it a fair 
 trate to see him leppin’ ?” 
 
 The boy was justly proud of his power of training. 
 
 “And the grey?’’ asked Evie suddenly. “You 
 have not sold her — or have you ? ” 
 
 “Sold her?” But O’Neill’s nephew remembered 
 his promises and past blunders; he did not mean to 
 err again. “ Well, not yit,” he remarked, lying fluently. 
 “ But haven’t I the buyer for her, as I told ye. He’s 
 only waitin’ on the bit ov a tintherness she has to 
 pass over. Sure, how could I let ye have the chestnut 
 If I hadn’t one to take the mare ? ” 
 
f>ow tbe Xavv was E)effe& 
 
 285 
 
 It seemed indisputable. It was as she thought. 
 Yet they doubted, had not believed her, cried Evie’s 
 sore, angry heart. If some man was a fool and 
 wished to pay so much for her, a useless grey mare, 
 was she — Evie — to blame ? 
 
 “ Who wants her ? ” she asked, anxious for this 
 evidence. 
 
 O’Neill’s nephew blushed and gained time by 
 calling his horse a “ wicked sthumbler.” Then, having 
 severely punished the animal for an unmade mistake, 
 he was ready. 
 
 “ A friend of me own, miss. One Misther Harty 
 from Dublin,” he said, with dignity, and then observing 
 that he must be shortenin’ the road an’ get on, he 
 hastened away. 
 
 A little further she overtook Sandy, who was 
 riding homewards with Tom. A slight cold made 
 him careful ; he had declined to sit in a hot room 
 and then come out into the cool evening air. The 
 girl called to him, so that he turned and waited for 
 her. He was balm to her wounded spirits, for she 
 felt that he did not think or know this thing : he was 
 too transparent to have hidden it. She welcomed him 
 as she always did, looking on him as friend beyond 
 the compass of sex. As an old man — everything 
 beyond forty is old to twenty — who admired her in 
 a friendly way. So she smiled at him with a half- 
 pitiful gaiety : a gleam in her pretty eyes which 
 would have deceived a wiser man. 
 
 ‘*Tired?” he asked, seeing her wan face below the 
 hard hat-brim. 
 
 “ Tired? Yes, very, Sandy. Tired of life . , . of 
 , . . everything.” 
 
 “ Oh, Miss Evie ! ” He was shocked by the tragic 
 bitterness of her tone. 
 
286 trbe Strasinos of Sanb£ 
 
 The shadows rose from the gloomy hedges and 
 crept out across the world ; the evening darkened 
 fast ; confidence was in the air. Birds twittered 
 sleepily, fluttering on their perches ; the lost sun still 
 stained the gloomy sky. 
 
 “ Why,” he bent closer to her. “ Look here ! we made 
 a compact once, you and I, that I was to help you if 
 could, or if you wanted it. Won’t you let me? Once, 
 long ago, Miss Evie, when I was young and thought- 
 less . . . there was someone then I might have 
 helped and saved ; but blind, I stood aside, and never 
 saw death creeping up. For the sake of the woman 
 I lost then, I see more clearly ; my eyes brightened 
 by undying remorse.” 
 
 She knew that he spoke of Kathleen, and listened 
 with bent head. 
 
 “So let me help you now. Won’t you? If it’s 
 money, anything that I can do.” 
 
 The girl thought his face the kindest she had ever 
 seen, as it bent to her in the twilight. Plain, perhaps, 
 but with so much feeling in the blue eyes ; in the 
 firm, sensitive mouth ; that girl as she was, too young 
 to analyse, she saw it 
 
 “ Oh, Sandy ! you are good, but you . . . can- 
 not,” she said. A lump rose in her throat, hurting 
 her. She could not tell him, it seemed so shameful 
 “You cannot help me. It is not money.” 
 
 “Has anyone, then, vexed you? Neill? Sir 
 Edmund ? ” 
 
 “Neill.” All her hurt pride and anger burst out 
 against the man, as a woman’s will against the man 
 she loved. Although at a touch from his hand, a 
 kind word from his lips, it would have melted, mere 
 futile hoar-frost before the sun’s rays, she felt now 
 that she hated him because he had dared to think 
 
■flxnv tbe Xaw was SJeffeD 
 
 287 
 
 this thing of her — had at least, if he had not 
 actually thought it, asked her questions, doubted 
 her. “Neill. He has no power to vex me, Sandy/ 1 
 she said, with an elaborate contempt which would 
 have betrayed her to a wiser man. “ I — I —oh, I 
 detest him.” 
 
 Foolish Sandy, believing her ; not versed enough 
 in the ways of women to know what this meant. 
 
 “ Certainly not Neill, and as for Edmund Graves, 
 he worries me by his quiet insistence, dumb, and 
 therefore harder to combat, that one day I shall 
 marry him. He comes over to Castleknock ; mono- 
 polises me whenever he can ; drives us out in the 
 motor, which is very hard to resist, and dangles his 
 riches everlastingly before me” 
 
 “His riches 1” Sandy sniffed. “My dear child, 
 he is not rich.” 
 
 “ Not rich ? ” She stared wide-eyed at him. a He 
 is opulent. Two thousand a year, and a big place. 
 Is not that riches ? ” 
 
 “ We should not call it so in London,” he said 
 drily, almost tempted to tell her of her own unspent 
 income — two thousand a year is nothing. 
 
 “ So you see, Sandy, there is nothing you can do 
 for me” — her voice was drooping sadly — “though 
 it is very good of you to ask me.” The rattle of 
 wheels and sound of quick trotting echoed behind 
 them. “ Here is Standish,” she said. “ Now you 
 go, and I ride home alone ; I branch off* here.” 
 
 Standish’s arrival reminded her of the warm room 
 she had left, the bitter agony of her discovery ; and 
 the pain swept over her again in overwhelming flood. 
 It was too hard, too cruel, that anyone should dare 
 to believe this of her. 
 
 “ There is only one way you could help me, 
 
288 
 
 Ubc Staminas o t Sanbg 
 
 Sandy,” she said, with trembling lips and childish, 
 breaking voice, “ and that — I don’t want to tell you 
 of—” 
 
 Standish, reining up the roan cob, interrupted, 
 calling Sandy to hurry. 
 
 “ I — might be able to, Miss Evie ” 
 
 The failing light veiled the flood of crimson which 
 rose to his cheeks. He thought that he understood. 
 She liked him, wanted him to rescue her by marrying 
 her, and thus be secure from worries. If she detested 
 Neill and was afraid of Graves, it must be that. 
 
 “ I might be able to,” he half-whispered, his own 
 voice shaking now. 
 
 And though the vision of her beauty made his 
 senses spin, though the glimpse of her drooping 
 face and dark eyes through the dusk was a sweet 
 one, it was not with unmixed bliss that he struggled 
 into his warm coat, with the roan dancing an equine 
 step executed entirely on hind legs, and Standish 
 remonstrating sadly concerning tardiness. 
 
 “ Get in, man,” he urged. “ The pony’s off his 
 head with cold.” 
 
 It was too clear that the roan was prepared to 
 at any unforeseen motor or moon ; in fact, a bicycle 
 lamp might have upset him 
 
 They called out good-night to the girl, who was 
 turning to the right down a narrow road ; her horse 
 hobbling painfully. 
 
 “ Good-night ! ” The voice that came from the 
 shadows echoed with a half-checked sob. 
 
 “ She . . . Miss Evie is not in good spirits.” Sandy 
 spoke thoughtfully, burrowing chilled fingers into 
 lined gloves. 
 
 “ No, but in the devil’s own bad ones,” said 
 Standish grimly, for he knew the reason. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 TELLING OF A HUNT AND A MISTAKE 
 
 u With mistletoe round me, and holly, 
 
 Scarlet and green at Yule. ,, 
 
 —Gordon, 
 
 Christmas at Ballymacshane was no mere episode 
 of an extra prayer-meeting or reminder of amounts 
 due. It was heralded by the reduction of the plough 
 horses to extreme emaciation as they toiled to and 
 fro to the station ; by ever-increasing collections of 
 brown paper parcels containing presents, and by the 
 murder of countless turkeys which hung gibbetted 
 in the hay barn. Sandy found himself carried away 
 by the current ; against his will he shuggled in the 
 thronged shops and bought lace collarettes and 
 muslin ties for the maids — his purchases directed by 
 Aunt Catty — and sundry other things, all exceed- 
 ingly useless, for Phillips and Tom. He knew then 
 that presents must be purchased for the two old 
 ladies ; but here economy triumphed ; he wrote to 
 London, buying them each a brooch, one a cat and 
 one a hen, which convulsed them with delight. The 
 present mania was contagious ; at one counter they 
 happened on Phillips, plunged in deep thought over 
 several gaudy scarves and silken handkerchiefs. He 
 blushed when he saw them. 
 
 There was no escaping festivity or hoping for quiel 
 
 289 t 
 
2go XTbe Stra^ngs of 5ant>$ 
 
 There was a long hour’s work distributing a one-time 
 cow in small, gory parcels of beef to pleased work- 
 men’s wives, from the sirloin for the steward, down to 
 the hock for old Larry O’Brien — these accompanied 
 by bundles of tea and sugar — hailed with blessings, 
 which, if fulfilled, would have impoverished Heaven. 
 
 There was a chilly expedition on Christmas morn- 
 ing, undertaken alone by Acland, to the damp church 
 in the village, now broken out in an eruption of 
 slightly soiled cotton wool, with darker moss letters 
 sprawling over it in various peaces and joys ; the 
 service rendered more varied by the fact that the 
 parson’s daughter, despite warners, had wooled and 
 texted the stove-pipe, and on a sudden smouldering 
 during the epistle, the parson flew to the rescue, 
 combating danger with a coal-scoop, amid admiring 
 plaudits from his congregation of ten. 
 
 There was the giving of the presents : Acland, who 
 was a neat man, finding himself the possessor of a 
 crimson-spotted tie and very bright yellow dogskin 
 gloves, with strict injunctions to wear both at church, 
 which he did (and felt pleased when the stove 
 engrossed attention), and there was a mighty dinner, 
 to which the Hartlands were bidden. 
 
 They drove over early, Nora gay and merry, in the 
 teeth of several pressing debts, but Evie quiet and 
 depressed, her eyelids suspiciously red. Christmas 
 brought no joy to Evie Hartiand. She was holding 
 sorrow hard to her ; riding aloof out hunting, speak- 
 ing to no one except Sandy — refusing to see Neill 
 when, sorry for her white face, he called. It was a 
 fortnight now since she had learnt why people stared 
 at her. 
 
 Sandy was dazzled — carried away by her prettiness 
 and desire for his company. He was rich ; there was 
 
TLcllitiQ of a Ibunt anO a /HMstafte 291 
 
 no reason why he should not take a nice house in 
 town, come over for the winter’s hunting, and give 
 his wife a happy life. With unwonted generosity 
 he had a present for each — neat hunting - crops 
 initialled no difference between them save that Nora’s 
 bore the two letters N. H., and Evie’s solely E. 
 Forethought on the part of a business man. Yet at 
 dinner and after, it was Nora he talked to, Nora to 
 whom he told all his rules of hunting ; his regret as 
 to the cost ; the horror of that weekly bill for the 
 keep of the race-horse Crimson Rambler, now losing 
 over hurdles. 
 
 “ Miss Evie looks sad.” He watched the girl’s 
 pure young profile, the glint of her hair in the 
 lamplight, the pathetic droop of her pretty mouth. 
 
 “ Something has gone wrong, and she won’t tell 
 me,” Nora said sadly. “ Edmund is always over 
 now ; perhaps she thinks she must marry him 
 because he’s rich.” 
 
 " Rich ! ” snorted the man who grumbled at the 
 half-crown capping, yet breathed contempt on a 
 couple of thousand a year, 
 
 Evie looked up ; her lips smiled seeing them watch 
 her, but her eyes shone with the wet glimmer of tears. 
 
 “ I do all I can,” said Nora in low tones ; “ and the 
 world’s not worth living in if one can’t make people 
 we love happy. If any man or woman, Sandy, has 
 the power to make another life happier, they ought 
 to do it, and I think it will be counted up to them at 
 the last.” 
 
 “ They ought,” said Sandy, very quietly, his mind 
 made up. 
 
 If the girl was showing him she wanted rescue 
 from an unwanted admirer, and from life here, it was 
 not for him to stand back. 
 
292 Ube 5tra$n(j9 of SanDg 
 
 St. Stephen's Day was a holiday of many diversions. 
 There were to be races at Tulloun, but Standish, who 
 hated racing, persuaded the master to have a sur- 
 reptitious bye-day on the hills, and rattle the foxes 
 until they left the thick covert. 
 
 So they met at the road below Knockane Hill, its 
 crest lowering above them. Six in all, for the meet 
 had been kept a secret, and they rode along 
 chuckling at the thought of a possible run across 
 the valley. 
 
 But — it was St. Stephen's Day. Now there abode 
 round the village of Durra and Ballymacshane a 
 collection of harriers, or animals called harriers. 
 Blear - eyed, crooked - legged, rough - coated little 
 brutes, collected at times, and taken out to pursue 
 hares, which they did nobly. They were not fast 
 or beautiful, but their noses were undisputable. 
 
 Hounds were scarcely in covert when a fox went 
 away, taking the lower side of the hill, dodging from 
 clump of gorse to shelter of rocks, and very pleased 
 to find that scent on the bare, stony ground was 
 faint ; but as they galloped round a spur of the 
 hills, they came suddenly upon a complete muster of 
 the Durra and Ballymacshane foot harriers, engaged 
 in looking for hares, with a crowd of excited followers 
 and a master ; the latter’s status made apparent by 
 a tin horn which emitted a rusty screech as he 
 blew it. 
 
 Gervase pulled up perplexed, quite unprepared ; he 
 did not want to spoil these men’s holiday, and he 
 certainly did not want the sudden wave of harriers 
 which dashed to join his own hounds, and commenced 
 to help them to puzzle out the line. He was, in fact, 
 about to turn back when the harrier master spoke 
 diffidently. He was a tall young fellow, with immense 
 
Celling of a Ifount anJ> a fBMstafre 293 
 
 boots, and several old stockings wound with string, 
 doing duty for gaiters. 
 
 Patrick O’Halleran ranged by his fellow- master, 
 and proffered his suggestion if the Major would allow 
 their dogs to hunt on with his own, it would be an 
 honour ever remembered by Duna and Ballymacshane 
 — they were off on it now, and ’twould be the quare 
 fox that would lave them. 
 
 As he spoke, a Ballymacshane harrier threw up 
 his head with a long-drawn yowl ; the others flocked 
 to him, and fifty couple of hounds poured on across 
 the slanting ground with a variety of musical notes. 
 
 Refusal would only have given pain, as Gervase 
 remarked ruefully to Standish ; it was as good to 
 make the best of it, and with a wild cheer from the 
 men on foot, they dashed on. The foxhounds surged 
 ahead eager and fast, behind them in a noisy plodding 
 trail ran the harriers, every nose on the line, every 
 tongue yowling freely — over hedges and rocks 
 poured the men on foot ; shouting happily, taking 
 short cuts, panting noisily, and enjoying themselves 
 as they had never hoped to. 
 
 The fox turned and twisted, trusting to his wits 
 and a bad scent. He had succeeded by these 
 tactics so often that he loped on carelessly, sure of 
 escape. 
 
 But yowl, yowl came the music on his trail : they 
 ran into the valley, when Patrick O’Halleran, seeing 
 his pack left far behind, tried to get them to him 
 with his horn. He had seen the fox go up the hill 
 again, and was rewarded by just disobedience. The 
 harriers came out to hunt, not to be lifted ; they 
 toiled on diligently, hunting every yard of it, made 
 their slow circle, and came yapping and yowling 
 upon the checked foxhounds who had over run 
 
294 tEbe Stra^inas of Sanbp 
 
 in on a road and were spread out baffled by the 
 cold scent. 
 
 You ow ow. 
 
 “ Hark to Sphinster,” said O’Halleran. “ She has 
 it. Sphinster, plainly the mother of several families 
 — spoke again— the hard, dry road did not baffle 
 her. 
 
 “And Dhrummer. Yoi dhrummer boy. Yup — 
 ow,” said Drummer leisurely and undisturbed — he 
 turned under this wall — flash came the highly bred 
 foxhounds to the note and away again, leaving 
 Sphinster toiling in their rear. Scrambling, tearing, 
 shouting, the men appeared, scratched and blown, 
 dashing through hedges, rolling over banks, falling 
 against rocks. Now Mickey Murphy saw him, and 
 rent the air with his yells ; getting most of the fox- 
 hounds off the line. Now Davy Walsh got a view 
 and hallooed wildly — the hill fox was getting very 
 tired ; this yowl, yowl, was more than he had 
 bargained for. 
 
 Patient and untiring, the harriers crawled on, 
 never lifting their heads as their swifter companions 
 dashed by them, turning when the fox had turned, 
 had they not hunted hares, unpuzzled by cold rocks 
 and hard roads until the end came. The fox jumped 
 up, dead - beat, out of a clump of thorn, and fifty 
 couple of hounds poured in upon him with a merciful 
 swiftness. 
 
 I fear the harriers came off second-best in the 
 struggle for food, but the more cunning got their 
 little share, and chewed it pleasantly to the 
 accompanying plaudits of their many owners. 
 
 “Not a dog of them all like Sphinster, and he so old, 
 haven’t he a colley pup, sir, year ago, that’s tending 
 Walsh’s sheep now. Spotty— still young — he’s the 
 
TLcIUwq of a Ifount and a /liMstane 2 95 
 
 dog — look at him in at the fox as cool as he'd 
 sthale mate. Did ye see Dhrummer now, when the 
 county dogs were fair puzzled ; hasn’t he the nose 
 on him, and no mistake ? He’d thrack the devil 
 himself, Dhrummer would, an’ an old Danny, 
 that never hurries,” and so on, until the hounds 
 gathered together, and, a little jaded by their long 
 hunt, sat down upon the hillside, lean, wistful, fox- 
 hound faces, and pointed harriers’ noses, side by 
 side in undisturbed amity. 
 
 Sandy thought it an excellent arrangement : he 
 suggested that it should be made public, to show the 
 good feeling in the country. Gervase observed him 
 with a doubtful glance, giving Standish urgent 
 instructions as to the latter’s suppression if it was 
 written. 
 
 The Master of the Harriers drew near, the foxes’ 
 brush stuck into his hat-band, a pleased grin on his 
 face. 
 
 “’Twas the fine hunt, entirely,” he observed. “And 
 now, yer honour, if ye be quite finished, I think 
 we’ll divide the dogs.” 
 
 Gervase looked at the pack, and wrestled with a 
 sudden agony of laughter. 
 
 “ Let ye go,” commanded Patrick O’Halleran, 
 palpably a born organiser, “ with all the dogs to the 
 wrong side in the thorn hedge, and when ye’re there, 
 hidden, for they’ll have a wish now for the horses . . . 
 I’ll bugle and me own dogs’ll come to me.” 
 
 Gervase said nothing : meekly he directed his 
 whips, meekly he rode through a gap in the hedge, 
 fifty couple of hounds, and animals called hounds, 
 pattering about him. 
 
 The horn blew with a rusty, tinny twang, again 
 and again, until all the Sphinsters, Beautys, Spots, and 
 
296 XCbe sttasfngs or Sano^ 
 
 Drummers trailed off to its note, and the rival hunts 
 looked at each other across a low bush of thorns. 
 
 “ An’ pleased we’d be to help ye to kill a fox any 
 day,” beamed O’Halleran, as he directed his field to 
 secure his pack, each man his own dog. “ Any day, 
 sir; maybe near Droveen some time — when there’d 
 be sthrangers out.” 
 
 “ Oh, thank you ! Good God ! ” said the master of 
 the foxhounds helplessly. 
 
 He was about to ride off when the Master of the 
 Harriers, elated by all this camaraderie , stayed him. 
 “ Should the whole pack be too much, they would 
 be only too pleased to ‘ lind ’ either Sphinster or 
 Dhrummer, the two stars of the chase, for any meet 
 at all.” 
 
 “ And they are capable,” said Gervase, as he rode 
 down hill, and gave sudden way to his mirth, “of 
 bringing that old bitch in a lead to some meet, and 
 offering her to me before either Blake or Purpert 
 (neighbouring masters), with a reminder of how she 
 killed the fox for me at Knockane.” 
 
 Now this is a completely true story, let who will 
 credit it, and it happened upon SU Stephen’s Dav 
 1905. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 HOW SANDY MADE A GRAVE MISTAKE 
 
 ‘ f No tangle’s so tangled it cannot improve, 
 If the lover has brains,” 
 
 -—Kipling. 
 
 Evie HARTLAND, tired of her own company, tired 
 of the fire she had loved to sit and dream over, of the 
 soft wind and rains she had loved to go out in, tired 
 of everything and unable to sit still, had taken to 
 long walks. She was growing thinner, losing the 
 fresh prettiness, and gaining a beauty of pale cheeks 
 and big eyes, which replaced it 
 
 She had not gone to the St. Stephen’s Day Hunt, 
 but went out along the hills to Athgarvan, walking 
 on one of the narrow tracks through the heather, 
 until tired by a strong wind, and the rough, uneven 
 mountain, she turned downwards to the road, and 
 sat in the shelter of Athgarvan’s fir trees, glad to 
 rest and get out of the blast. She could see across 
 the road here — look to Droveen, lying low in a 
 clump of trees ... to Ballymacshane, with the flag 
 which the old ladies insisted on, flying from the 
 turret; to her own home, just visible and above her, 
 fringed by the belt of larches to Graves’ house, the 
 house he wanted to take her to. Castleknock repre 
 sented the gliding years of a wild child; a careless girl 
 
 Life took her early by the throat, forcing her with 
 
 297 
 
298 Uhc Strafitnfls of Sant>2 
 
 cruel hands to look into its relentless eyes. Would 
 she ever, growing careless about everything, accept 
 this lean, good-looking man as her husband, and live 
 behind the larches as My Lady. It appealed to a 
 sore heart. She would be a person of weight. Mrs. 
 levers could no longer patronise her. Neill — the 
 word brought a breath of cleansing wind, sweeping 
 mean thoughts before it — unless Neill married, and 
 she was too young to realise the full torture of this, 
 could she meet him as a mere friend ? 
 
 Her little dog, a nondescript, brown-eyed mongrel, 
 looked up and barked. Evie raised her eyes to see 
 Graves striding along the road. A tall, narrow 
 figure, clear against the grey sky. 
 
 “Evie,” he said, stopping in astonishment. “Not 
 hunting?” 
 
 “No. I’m keeping my horse for to-morrow,” she 
 said listlessly. 
 
 He noted her dejected attitude, the dull note in 
 her voice, the new hollows in her white cheeks ; a 
 denser man would have recognised mental suffering. 
 
 “You look ill,” he said kindly, and she smiled at 
 him with eyes that thought of tears. He might then, 
 if he chose, have made her at least his friend for life, 
 but he was one of those men who, having lighted on 
 an idea, pursue it to the death. He guessed that she 
 knew now why people were cold to her ; in his own 
 mind he was not sure whether wrongly or no, and he 
 believed he saw a delicate way to establishing a 
 claim upon the girl's gratitude, one which might be 
 enduring. “ Evie,” he said softly. She started 
 nervously, fearing sentiment. “ Evie, you know I 
 see you're worried. About that new horse of yours. 
 Everyone wants to know how you got him.” 
 
 “ Yes*— she raisea ner eyes to ais, a curious light 
 
foow San&s ma J>e a Grave /fiMstake 295 
 
 in tliem, the nostrils quivering — “ I know they 
 do” 
 
 “ Then, don’t let them — say — Let people think I 
 bought him for you — that I gave him to you. It will 
 stop everything.” 
 
 “ Stop what ? What do you mean ? Besides, it 
 would be a lie ” — she shot the word out royally — 
 “a lie which no one would believe. How well it 
 would sound. Oh, by the way, I did not exchange 
 that mare as I said. Sir Edmund gave me the chest- 
 nut. And why — WHY should I say this thing ? ” 
 She knew why only too well, but would not let him 
 see it, faced him, a slim young fury, flashing hot 
 wrath. “ I exchanged the horse. It was true , per- 
 fectly true. Is there any reason why it should not 
 be so ? ” 
 
 “ Because it’s nonsense, on its face,” he snapped 
 out, afraid to explain further, angry because she had 
 taken up this attitude. “ That’s why.” 
 
 The girl’s heart beat in her throat. Whatever 
 chance Graves possessed died in that tense moment. 
 He too believed her a thief. He proffered this idea 
 that she — guiltless — might “ clear herself.” 
 
 “ It is childish of you to take it like this. You 
 might have come to a friend. I must help you out 
 somehow if you won’t help yourself. Look here, 
 Evie.” 
 
 “ Oh, good-night ” she said. “ Don’t help me by 
 burdening yourself with a misspent generosity,” and 
 able to bear no more she went away swiftly. 
 
 Turning her head at a bend in the road, she saw 
 Graves walking on, and she sank down again on the 
 bank, sobbing helplessly now. What had she done 
 that Fate should single her out? Why? The 
 pitiful question the gods must weary of if they 
 
300 Zhc ©tracings of San&y 
 
 listen at all to the poor, complaining earth mites as 
 they weary in their brief span of life. The gods are 
 immortal. If they do listen, perhaps they cannot 
 understand what it is to have one life and waste 
 that ; see youth pass, and age come, and never know 
 happiness. 
 
 Evie sobbed on until the sound of hoofs roused 
 her. She sat up, forcing back her tears, and dabbing 
 her eyes with a soaked pocket-handkerchief, twisting 
 her mouth to a smile. 
 
 A tenor voice trilled softly. Someone was happy 
 then, and sang. Evie resented it. A dark nose 
 came round the bend, and she saw Acland on 
 Blackbird, the reins flapping trustfully on the 
 mare’s neck. 
 
 “ Miss Evie,” he cried, “ I was coming to call. 
 Standish said it would not injure Blackbird if I 
 asked for a coverlet.” 
 
 “ Was it a good day ? ” Evie s voice wobbled. 
 
 “ An excellent day. There were a pack of harriers, 
 and we amalgamated and worked a combine ; hunted 
 and overtook — Why, what’s the matter ? ” 
 
 Evie turned her head away. He could hear 
 something about horses — suspicion — the chestnut. 
 
 He grew pink. What was wrong about the 
 chestnut ? She was so pretty. He watched the 
 lines of her rounded cheek, the beauty of her slender 
 form. She was the prettiest thing he had ever seen, 
 and he could not analyse the feeling which told him 
 she lacked an indefinite something that someone else 
 possessed. 
 
 “ And — there’s no one to help.” She looked up at 
 him, childishly piteous, with brimming eyes. 
 
 Sandy drew a quick breath. He could help. He 
 was ricli ; could give her many things — chestnut 
 
Ifoow San&s ma 5 e a Ora ve /IDtstafte 301 
 
 horses, pretty clothes, and if she wished for it, 
 expected him. She had singled him out He got 
 down and came near her, leaving his mare. 
 
 “ Miss Evie,” he said, “ don’t fret. Let me help. 
 Pve thought for some time that you showed you 
 liked — ” 
 
 “Oh, I do,” she shot out, thinking of Neill. “Of 
 course you’ve seen it, Sandy. I’m so glad you know.” 
 
 He paled, for he had hardly expected so open an 
 avowal. He would ask her now, he must, but there 
 was a sigh at the heart of this modern Perseus as 
 he came to look at Andromeda. Her beauty 
 enthralled him, made his head reel. He stooped, 
 taking her small, sun-browned hands. 
 
 “ And — and — ” Evie’s face worked. She spoke 
 quickly in uneven tones. “ Oh, Sandy, I can’t bear 
 kindness. They suspect me of having stolen the 
 diamond, of having gone to Cork to sell it. And I 
 went to see about my eye ; one hurt me. I was 
 afraid it might be wrong. My mother was half- 
 blind. But they believe I bought the chestnut 
 with the money. Everyone does ; Mr. levers and 
 Neill. I know it. Why, Edmund Graves came here 
 now, telling me I may use his name and say he gave 
 it me.” 
 
 “ D — n him ! Oh, but they can’t, they couldn’t ! ” 
 burst out Acland, yet suddenly knew it was true, and 
 saw many things clearly. 
 
 “To clear myself by a lie. Acknowledge myself a 
 thief. Owe so much to him that I must marry him.” 
 
 Acland muttered imprecations ; she gave him no 
 time to speak. At least, it was in his power to take 
 her from all her troubles. 
 
 “And Neill — Neill thinks it. He begged me to 
 tell him how I got the horse, and I knew nothing 
 
302 zhc 5tra#n0s ot 5 ant>g 
 
 but the truth. Neill’s left me, doesn’t come near me^ 
 and oh, I wish I was dead ! ” sobbed poor Evie, with 
 the youthful fervour of one who is particularly anxious 
 to live. 
 
 Have you ever seen a child’s house of cards tumble 
 from an elaborate, pointed building to a sudden flat 
 nothingness? So Sandy’s mental structure fell; but 
 made of stronger things, it seemed to rain about his 
 ears and stun him. Fool, he dubbed himself, and fool 
 again ! looking back and recalling a dozen incidents 
 which ought to have shown him the truth. The 
 meeting by the lake and the drives at Dunhaven ; 
 Nora’s hints — but above all he was thankful. Evie 
 by her sudden outburst, had saved him from the folly 
 he contemplated. How she would have stared in 
 astonishment — laughed perhaps. He buried the 
 hope without rancour, with no thought for himself. 
 Only sorrow for the child’s sorrow, chiding for him- 
 self. This pretty, quivering thing loved Neill. 
 Youth to youth, as it should be. Sandy felt her 
 loveliness with a new sense of loss as the girl, 
 looking at him, talked on. 
 
 It was impossible at any time, because Neill was 
 poor and must marry money — he had said he would ; 
 but they had been happy ; content to live in the 
 present and hope for the mysterious something 
 which might arrive from nowhere. Now it was all 
 in ruins. She would always hate anyone who had 
 ever dreamt of this horror ; always like Sandy 
 because he never imagined it. All this and more 
 Evie poured out, sitting on the damp bank and 
 weeping bitterly. Acland sat down beside her ; 
 everything merged in the desire to comfort this 
 poor little girl he had dreamed of loving. Loving ! 
 He was not old ; but he knew by Evie’s complete 
 
•ffijow Sanfcs nta&e a (Brave fllMstafce 303 
 
 confidence that she thought him so. Twenty looks 
 to forty-five as a dim and distant port, which, when 
 reached, means mere stagnation, without hopes or 
 fears. Happy twenty ; smiling through its miseries ; 
 never knowing grief in its fulness as those do who 
 encounter it hand-in-hand with the hopelessness of 
 age! Young, we meet sorrow; but sorrow cannot 
 stay with us. Its grey gloom flies from our tem- 
 pestuous joys and woes. Older, it comes to stay — 
 a grim, unwelcome guest ; telling us in bitterest 
 moods to look at the little shadows we had once 
 taken for its sombre substance; shutting windows 
 and doors on poor, little, smiling hope. All the 
 youth of the world calls for the kindly sprite. He 
 must go to them and leave those whose hour is 
 past. They, wanting him most, must shut him out 
 
 Evie sobbed on ; Sandy, conscious of awkwardness, 
 patting her hands, trying clumsily to help her. Then 
 he spoke. 
 
 “Miss Evie,” he said, “you exaggerate. I don’t 
 think people could honestly believe such a thing, and 
 for the chestnut” — he stammered — “it was I ... I 
 arranged it.” 
 
 “You — you !” she cried. “Why?” 
 
 “ I thought you wanted him.” He hung his head 
 and blushed like a chidden child. “You had nothing 
 else. I must tell it now. They all know I’m a fool 
 about horses. I can say I took a fancy to the grey 
 and was afraid of Standish, so bought her in that 
 way.” 
 
 “ Oh, Sandy ! ” The girl laid impulsive hands on 
 his. “Was there ever anyone so kind, so true a 
 friend ? ” 
 
 “Your friend to eternity, Miss Evie,” he said, and 
 said good-bye to foolish hopes as he kissed her small 
 
3©4 Ube ©trashes of 5 an&$ 
 
 brown hands. “And if — if you had money ” — he 
 thought deeply — “it would be allowed then. Mr. 
 levers would not mind.” 
 
 “If the skies fall,” said Evie gloomily. “Who 
 would give me money? Besides, I can never for- 
 give Neill, if he — suspected me himself; he — ” 
 
 At this point Neill levers drove round the corner 
 in his pony-cart. Two people perched on a bank 
 on a chill, wintry afternoon, lends itself to the 
 suspicion of a romantic assignation, Mr. levers, with 
 a face of thunder, would have driven past ; but 
 Blackbird, with womanly sympathy, put herself 
 across the road and stopped him. Neill remarked 
 in biting tones that it was exceedingly fine weather 
 for sitting out, and asked Acland to remove his black 
 mare. 
 
 Sandy did not do so ; he recognised jealousy, and 
 leaving Evie, said sharply that some people were 
 exceedingly stupid, and that on his way home from 
 hunting he had happened to meet Miss Evie. Neill, 
 now thunderous to clapping point, said he observed 
 that, and tried to flick Blackbird out of his way— a 
 liberty which she resented by all but braining the 
 pony. 
 
 Sandy went up to the trap and put his hands upon 
 it, so that it would upset him if it went on. He fronted 
 the boy’s lowering sullenness, and spoke in low tones, 
 with an eloquence which surprised him. “ Some 
 people,” he said, “ were not only stupid, but idiots.” 
 For the first time he had found out how suspicion 
 had fallen about the diamond. With some confusion 
 he confessed his share in the matter, thrusting his 
 cheque-book, which he always carried, under Neill 
 levers’ nose: “ H. O’Neill — one chestnut horse, 
 £40 : not for self. How he had come along to find 
 
ibow Sait&£ rna&e a ©rave /HMstafte 30s 
 
 the girl crying, unprotected from this awful slander ; 
 a prey to titled harpies, who offered themselves as 
 sponsors for the horse’s gift. 
 
 “Crying her eyes out because you — you were un- 
 kind to her — you young sweep. She told you the 
 truth as far as she knew it. You who ought to thank 
 Heaven because she’s not engaged to Graves now.” 
 
 Here Sandy, forgetting all his own sorrows, drew 
 Blackbird to a stone and hastily mounted, ignoring 
 Evie’s faint prayers that he should wait for her. She 
 wished to walk back with him. As Sandy jogged 
 the mare on, he observed that Neill was already out 
 of his cart. Sandy found Nora was at home, and 
 they had tea together ; her sympathy touching his 
 hurts with kindly hand. 
 
 It was a little later when Evie, exceedingly meek, 
 arrived with Neill in the pony-cart ; her cheeks now 
 matching her eyelids. He and Nora discussed 
 Evie’s future with almost parental interest. 
 
 “ A clear case,” said Miss Hartland, as she saw him 
 off, “ of want [of money spoiling two lives, and no 
 fairy godmother to step forward and wave her wand. 
 Ten, twenty thousand pounds, a mere nothing to 
 many people, yet these two must be apart without it.” 
 
 “ No,” said Acland thoughtfully ; “ or even a 
 godfather.” 
 
 He rode home, tired and chilled, a rainbow phantasy 
 clouded over for ever ; yet he ate a good dinner, and 
 sat long silent— “ Jorrocks ” on his knee, its pages 
 unturned* He was thinking very deeply. 
 
 V 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 CONCERNING VARIOUS MATCHES 
 
 “ Is nothing real but confusion ; 
 
 Is nothing certain save death? 
 
 Gilt baubles we grasp at blindly, 
 
 Would turn in our hands to dross ; 
 
 ’Tis a fate less cruel than kindly, 
 
 Denies the gain and the loss.” 
 
 —Gordon. 
 
 Sandy rode alone to hunt next day, taking Robin 
 Standish had arisen in the early dawning to sell 
 cattle at a fair. It was another stone-wall meet ; the 
 day was grey and still. Directed from Durra, he rode 
 towards a great wood where the hounds were to be. 
 Not a soul on the road ; loneliness personified. A 
 grey and limitless country ; grey skies far and dim, 
 dipping to a grey horizon. A pattern of grey, loose 
 walls, some fringed with little thorns, running in grey 
 tangles across the fields ; quiet on all sides, no sign 
 of life save browsing sheep and cattle. The land 
 seemed oversized, boundless. A wood two fields 
 away looked as though half-an-hour’s riding would 
 not reach it. The trees of Moylish were misty and 
 dark, a sombre mass of gloom. Rudyard Kipling 
 writes of the weariness of an unprofitable dawning, 
 the weariness of the day struck deep to Acland’s 
 heart. It frightened him in its limitless loneliness 
 
Concerning iDarious flRatcbes 
 
 The fulfilling of mere life ; the wideness of the misty 
 world, awed his little soul. The many days of his 
 saving, orderly life, his petty desires to make sixpences 
 do for shillings, his secret joy in his riches, his own 
 importance in the town across the seas, slipped from 
 him as a loose cloak. He rode naked through the 
 greyness, and was chilled and afraid. The woods 
 grew no nearer ; the ride was boundless as the day. 
 The road dipped downwards to a network of cross- 
 roads, when a man’s voice spoke across the stillness. 
 Sandy was clothed again, alive ; he raised his head 
 as the human note struck warm to his lonely soul. 
 Only tinkers, ragged, cold, driving a cart with two 
 donkeys hitched to it. They were grey too, and 
 pinched and very worn ; but one man, looking up 
 bade the rider a cheery good-morning. “ A fine, still 
 day,” he said, and shivered. Acland’s hand slid to 
 his pocket, touching money, his chastened heart 
 wishing to give. His fingers felt a shilling, and 
 fingered it doubtfully, old custom searching on for 
 sixpence, then the grey fog rolled up, dark Moylish 
 Wood receded. He threw the shilling and another. 
 “ Get a drink,” he said abruptly. 
 
 He rode away thinking. He, Alexander Acland, 
 had wasted money on a worthless vagrant and advised 
 promiscuous drinking ; so deeply had this new land 
 and her wooing ways altered his orderly mind. Yet 
 the tinker’s thanks echoed warm in his wake, and ere 
 he could despond again he cantered on, overtaking 
 other riders to Moylish. 
 
 He had other things to think of, too, that morning, 
 for a letter had arrived from Captain Partridge 
 announcing the fact that the Crimson Rambler 
 would win a big hurdle race on the following 
 Saturday. “You can stick a bit on,” said that 
 
so8 xrbe Stra^tngs of San&s 
 
 worthy ; “ but of course I can only rely upon you! 
 absolute silence to others.” 
 
 Acland, with much trepidation, was thinking of 
 putting on £10, but he handed the letter to Standish, 
 forgetting secrecy, and to his intense dismay 
 found himself involved in a wild plunge of fifty, of 
 which Standish was to get a fourth. Standish had 
 immediately written to a friend to put it on next 
 day: there was no getting out of it. This had 
 worried him ; now it, too, fell away, driven forth 
 by that lonely fog. What was £50 to him? 
 What if he did lose it ? with no one to come after 
 him. Fifty, or fifty thousand ; in his heart he knew 
 he could afford either, and not materially miss it. 
 For he was a very rich man ; his years of economy 
 had resulted in an ever-growing income. Dividends 
 unspent, and invested until they grew and increased 
 and multiplied, and the unobtrusive, stingy, little 
 person riding Robin to the meet was owner of a 
 quarter of a million in solid, well-invested cash — a 
 sum which might have been doubled if he had some- 
 times risked a loss ; but he had always moved warily, 
 content with small safe profits, when other men, 
 risking the chance of ruin, soared into sudden 
 millionaires, and more than occasionally fell down 
 again, unable to stop speculating. They asked 
 Acland’s opinion then, knowing how often the little 
 man was right ; how he could lay his finger on some 
 weak spot in a gloriously glittering dream of gold, 
 and point stolidly to some safer thing where a man 
 might make shillings instead of millions. 
 
 Twenty thousand . . . thirty thousand pounds . . . 
 he would not miss it. He scamped telegrams, went 
 to unfashionable tailors, took 'buses instead of 
 hansoms, and yet could sell out so many thousands 
 
Concerning Various batches 3°9 
 
 and never miss their unspent interest. There was no 
 fairy godmother to make two young people happy, 
 but a fairy godfather ; a little, unromantic Londoner, 
 with death jogging his elbow, might do it. Sandy 
 had been worried yesterday ; the old flutter came at 
 his heart, and he knew he was not cured. He could 
 ride, but he could not walk far. Although each day 
 seemed to make him stronger, there were hours when 
 the old faintness seized him ; when he sat cold and 
 helpless with leaden hands and feet, feeling the floor 
 slip away, letting him down into a black numbness 
 until roused by the faithful Phillips. 
 
 “Now, sir, dose of heart-bottle, sir; that's right- 
 thank you, sir,” as the strong stimulant gripped his 
 master and made him alive. 
 
 He would not miss the money ; they turned into 
 the big wood and he saw Evie, Neill riding doggedly 
 by her side, daring his mother's glances. 
 
 If Evie were an heiress. Someone who could live 
 in her own house on her own money. Sandy rubbed 
 his bewildered head and believed the fog must have 
 numbed his brains. 
 
 Any man or woman who goes to Moylish knows 
 what to expect. There are endless foxes, and one 
 pounds after them through endless woods ; up and 
 down narrow rides, branches swishing in one’s face ; 
 clattering on stony cart-tracks, sinking in soft earth, 
 winding about trees ; completely losing the hounds 
 and waiting at the main earth until a fox comes up 
 to try it. On a fine day it is the wiser part to stay 
 there altogether, and let the chase rave round one, 
 saving a horse for a better chance later. This 
 morning, as the fog lifted, it was mild as summer, 
 sun striking down through the trees. Keen spirits 
 bustled after the hounds in the hope of that phantom 
 
3 io ^be Stva^tnas of Sant>2 
 
 break-away which had never occurred ; the Moylish 
 foxes were old-fashioned country folk, living in their 
 own domain. Others gathered near the earth, letting 
 their horses crop scanty grass ; Graves and Acland 
 and Nora Hartland among them. Neill and Evie 
 were conspicuously apart, under the shade of a great 
 beech. Graves rode a fidgety, raking thoroughbred, 
 qualifying it for a cup which he wanted to win, but 
 with small intention of ever taking it off the flat 
 himself. It was a long, leggy brown, showing more 
 quality than stamina, and its owner was vastly 
 pleased with him. Patting the thoroughbred’s neck, 
 talked of the races he would win. 
 
 Now Acland, with his mind’s eye yet filled with 
 Captain Partridge’s string, failed to be pleased. 
 
 “Not such a horse in the county/’ said Graves 
 proudly. 
 
 Acland, mentally comparing the brown with 
 Taran telle, the probable winner of next year’s 
 Derby, shook a doubtful head. 
 
 “ He does not appear to me to be large enough or 
 strong enough,” he said, in his precise way. 
 
 Graves, always ready for battle, and irritated by 
 this new friendship of Neill and Evie, observed that 
 he did not know Mr. Acland was a great judge of 
 race-horses. 
 
 “ I have seen some,” said Acland sharply ; “ several 
 — at a training stable. Exceedingly fine race-horses. 
 Your animal appears small in comparison.” 
 
 The etiquette of horse-flesh should have taught 
 him that whatever he thought of Dark Boy, the 
 thoroughbred, he should have admired the horse ; 
 but Acland knew none of these niceties. His heart 
 was hot against Graves, and his blundering, palpably 
 interested offer to Evie, concerning the chestnut 
 
concerning Dartous flbatcbes 311 
 
 Sir Edmund snorted crossly. He was in a bad 
 temper. 
 
 “I’ll gallop him three miles on the flat ^100 a 
 side against any horse in the county,” he said. 
 “ And May Moon over the country same distance. 
 Make it £200 against anything of yours, Acland,” 
 with a sneer. 
 
 Would he ! What about that noble animal, the 
 Crimson Rambler, able to win races in England in 
 good company. Standish had told him it was a big 
 race with good horses in. Anything of his ? He 
 had a perfect right to the Rambler. 
 
 “ Will you take me, Acland,” sneered Graves, 
 “ as you don’t admire my horse ? ” He saw Evie look 
 round. “ I’ll double the stakes against anything you 
 can start. Owners up, you know.” 
 
 “ Against anything I can start ! Make it five 
 hundred ! ” thundered Sandy, with the same 
 unexpected outburst that had worsted the bailiff. 
 
 “ Oh, look here, you know. Are you sober ? ’’ 
 queried the baronet, in genuine astonishment. 
 
 Sandy would have made it a thousand now. Was 
 the memory of Michael Malone’s whisky to haunt 
 him for ever ? He observed with great dignity that 
 he believed he was not drunk, and he meant the 
 wager. 
 
 He did not care now what it cost him ; his blood 
 boiled. Against Dark Boy and May Moon. The 
 latter across country, remember that. 
 
 “Yes,” said Sandy, “ on this chestnut or Blackbird. 
 I -understand ; ” but his heart bumped. 
 
 To ride this unknown Holy Robin across three 
 miles of fields and jumps ; to sit those mighty 
 bounds ; run the risk of many falls ; to hold the 
 pulling youngster, and compete against that brilliant 
 
sit Ube Straginas of Sanbg 
 
 hunter, May Moon, Graves* best mount ; timber hei 
 one failing. Yet had the ride been across the great, 
 banked-up thorns at Aintree, the flat race down 
 Holborn, Sandy would not have flinched. Graves’ 
 sneering face was a sharp, rowelled spur, goading 
 him on. Amusement, contempt, astonished disbelie/ 
 flitting there in turn over the thin features. 
 
 He hated this good - looking man. Whatever 
 happened to Robin he could compass his downfall 
 with Crimson Rambler, and he would do it. A man 
 who could stoop to make mischief between a man 
 and a maid deserved anything. 
 
 “Well, if May Moon breaks her back you may 
 get home across country, but the idea of the flat 
 race is childish ! ” said Graves. 
 
 Other people gathered, laughing. 
 
 “ I’ll have a side bet of fifty I beat you on the 
 flat,” flashed out the little man stoutly. 
 
 “ On Blackbird,” whistled Graves. 
 
 “ I have other animals,” said Acland quietly. 
 
 Graves poised his pencil above a page of his 
 note-book. 
 
 “ You’re not to buy,” he said; “that’s understood. 
 The match is against your present possessions. 
 Anything you’ve a right to ride now.” 
 
 Acland coloured. 
 
 “ I shall race you with my own horses,” he said, 
 “engaging not to buy anything for the purpose. Is 
 that sufficient ? I will not specialise the animals’ 
 names.” 
 
 Graves said it was, and laughed aloud. Blackbird 
 against May Moon, Robin against his thoroughbred ; 
 both ludicrous certainties for him. 
 
 They wrote out the agreement there and then. 
 A match of three miles over a country, the course to 
 
Concerning IDarions flfiatcbea vs 
 
 be chosen by a committee, to be followed by a second 
 two miles on the flat, between horses at present the 
 property of A. Acland and E. Graves. ^200 a side 
 in each case, and a side bet of an even £s° on the 
 flat race. 
 
 The Hunt gathered, laughing, as Graves told them. 
 The Englishman was mad or not sober — this Graves’ 
 suggestion. Sir Edmund, blindly unconscious of a 
 distant Crimson Rambler, spent the money already. 
 He wanted a new car ; it would help to buy it. 
 
 Acland sat still ; so preoccupied that he chastised 
 Robin for attempting to move, and was all but 
 thrown by the answering plunge. 
 
 “ He thinks I’m afraid — that I’ll never start,” he 
 fumed to Nora. 
 
 “ He’ll fall off,” chuckled Graves to a friend. 
 
 “ Fall off,” said Sandy furiously. “ I’ll beat him» 
 I’ll beat him if Tom has to tie me on.” 
 
 That was all very well, jump races depended on 
 were the fortune of war, but Nora shook her head 
 at Blackbird. 
 
 “ It’s madness, Sandy,” she said kindly — “ absolute 
 madness; and not as if you could afford to lose, either. 
 How can you think of racing Blackbird against that 
 race-horse? Why, if he jumps well, he’s going to 
 Punchestown.” 
 
 Acland smiled ; his faith was deep-rooted in the 
 Crimson Rambler. He rode with Nora through the 
 wood, keeping the horses warm, paying little 
 attention to the chorus which swelled and died as 
 hounds came near or passed on. 
 
 “ It will make you so poor — Sandy,” Nora said, 
 with kindly sympathy. “ I don’t know how you 
 could.” 
 
 Acland laughed softly. 
 
3 14 Ube St values of Sano» 
 
 “ I can afford it,” he said. “ It’s an outburst of 
 extravagance, gratification of a personal dislike. I 
 hate the man, Nora.” 
 
 The sun glinted through the trees, lacquering the 
 moss with silver ; hounds drew near them, and the 
 hunted fox, having given his usual look at the main 
 earth, slipped off again, getting tired of fox-hunting. 
 
 Nora watched the quivering bars of light, saw the 
 hounds come and go. 
 
 “ Edmund reciprocates,” she said drily. “ You took, 
 indirectly, one woman away, and now most directly, 
 having acted as peacemaker, you are taking another. 
 I was beginning to believe his chance a strong one 
 last week. Something went wrong with Evie.” 
 
 “You did not know, then? Nor did I,” he said, 
 and told her. 
 
 He had not had time last night. If Nora could 
 have slain Mrs. levers with fiery words, that lady 
 must have dropped, stricken to death from her car. 
 It was upon Nora’s mind to rush upon her, and deal 
 justice with a hunting crop, but Acland stopped her. 
 That, he said, was his part, he had originated the 
 mystery of the chestnut horse, and he must clear it 
 up to-morrow, perhaps that evening, if they went 
 into Moylish. 
 
 “ I seem to have dropped suddenly into life, 
 coming over here,” he said, as they paced along. 
 “ London was mere routine — I shall have a great 
 deal to look back to.” His voice saddened. 
 
 Evie and Neill were still standing together, 
 oblivious of chilled steeds. He would have much to 
 look back to, and yet — he could almost have shaken 
 his mental self; despite fluttered heart and vanity, 
 he did not feel unhappy. 
 
 “You will not come back, then?” 
 
Concerning Uarious fl&atcbes 315 
 
 Nora’s grey eyes were firm on the sunlit moss ; 
 her voice was indifferent, yet curiously strained. 
 
 “ One never knows — London claims one. I shall 
 drop into its ways again, go to the office — make 
 money — I shall want it — go to parties — saunter in 
 the Park and live on, until T break down once more : 
 I — it was touch and go.” 
 
 ‘ If I were you,” said Nora, in the same voice, “ I 
 should abandon money-making, and make the cure 
 permanent — there are better things than mere money, 
 Sandy. 
 
 He looked at her pretty, unlined face, with its 
 clear, Irish skin, and deep, grey eyes. . . . What a 
 life’s companion some man had missed in this 
 feckless, extravagant woman. 
 
 “ Yet supposing you had married and been poor 
 in the ordinary sordid way. Australian meat, 
 margarine, and hashes ; instead of horses and writs, 
 would you have liked it, Nora?” 
 
 “ No ; I must be poor my own way,” she said 
 quietly. “ But so very little would make me rich. I 
 could have taken the man of my heart to Castleknock 
 and made him happy on a very few hundreds a year.” 
 She raised her eyes suddenly — their brightness was 
 gone, and her lonely soul looked through their clear 
 windows. “ It would have been something to have 
 made someone happy before one’s call comes,” she 
 added, her voice soft. “ Come, Sandy — they’ve killed 
 or put him to ground.” 
 
 It was to ground ; Moylish holes are innumerable 
 and unstoppable. They left the great place there, 
 drawing another covert outside and running back 
 again into the woods — there was only one small 
 jump, over which Holy Robin soared swiftly as a 
 driven grouse, to the immense discomfiture of his 
 
3 i 6 ztbe ©tracings of Sant>g 
 
 rider. Three miles upon this animal — Acland 
 shivered unhappily, wondering whether Robin’s fall 
 at a bank or his over a stone wall would first occur. 
 But he kept it all to himself, and smiled stoutly at 
 the muttered comments he heard about him. Graves 
 had told the story of the matches to everyone. 
 
 He went round, declining to risk Dark Boy’s fet- 
 locks over the gap. The little Cockney was a fool, 
 and more ; no doubt because Blackbird had once 
 been first in a slow hunt he imagined her a race- 
 horse. They laughed openly, some chaffing Acland, 
 but he said nothing. Tom had assured him that 
 Robin could outstrip the four winds of heaven, and 
 was bred from winners of many races. Crimson 
 Rambler he felt sure of. They went in, as he had 
 hoped, at Moylish. Mrs. levers was already there, 
 roasting over a huge wood fire ; she was alone and 
 defenceless by her tea-cups, while the others trooped 
 to cold meat and poached eggs— things not eaten 
 decorously in a drawing-room. 
 
 To her came Sandy Acland, abandoning the 
 delights of a merry party, and stood by the fire; 
 Mrs. levers, with the politeness of a levelled pistol, 
 giving him tea. He was nervous, but he meant to 
 see it through. 
 
 “Cream and sugar,” he said slowly; “two lumps.” 
 But he passed his cup irresolutely. “ I did not come 
 to drink tea ; I came to see you — alone.” 
 
 Mrs. levers raised an outraged yet bridling 
 face. 
 
 “ To see and speak to you. There has been 
 mischief done — a base suspicion set afloat and kept 
 afloat by you. Now don’t be silly. You cannot be 
 inhuman, and I mean you to hear me. Is it not true 
 to start with, that no diamond was sold in Cork ? ” 
 
Concerning War ions Rarefies 317 
 
 Mrs. levers believed it was. That all inquiry had 
 proved this. 
 
 “ Wait. More, that poor Evie went to an oculist 
 there, afraid of one of her eyes, and returned, beaming, 
 finding it was nothing. We can prove that. Come. 
 Mrs. levers, listen ! ” 
 
 He told the episode of the chestnut horse, and this 
 matter made clear by direct evidence — he put the 
 injustice of it all clearly. He grew eloquent. He 
 forgot that a well-filled tea-cup is not the best 
 thing to emphasise speech with, and as he talked 
 on, the unhappy lady he spoke to dodged and 
 winced from an unceasing sprinkle of hot liquid, 
 mopping it with unwonted patience from cloak and 
 face. 
 
 “You started it. I cannot blame you. But it is 
 for you to make reparation,” he said sternly. “Be 
 civil to the girl — show your suspicions are at rest — 
 the flock of sheep will follow ; theft is a bitter word, 
 and — and— there is an attachment between your son 
 and Evie — if she were not poor — had a little money 
 — a few thousands — ” 
 
 Custom made him temporise then. 
 
 “ Neill's wife must have £30,000. It's a barren 
 title — a big place.” Mrs. levers spoke firmly. 
 “That, or less and position. I am sorry about 
 Evie, Mr. Acland— I really am, but the rest is folly.” 
 
 He said nothing more then, thinking; but wrapped 
 as she was in swathings of complacency, the fat 
 woman was not inhuman. She was sorry for the 
 stone she had set rolling ; seeing now that the girl 
 was wholly innocent, had been cruelly wronged. So 
 much she promised with contrition, frowning at the 
 rest — no nonsense between those two — her son and 
 the girl. 
 
3is Ube Stra^tttgs of Sattb£ 
 
 Having finally upset a great deal of tea, Acland 
 imagining he had drunk it, poured out more. 
 
 “ It is for you to refute this base suspicion,” he 
 said sternly — a very Shylock exacting his pound of 
 flesh. “ Smaller things have ruined a life. Scandals 
 are like cancers, hard to cure.” 
 
 He was a fat little Bayard towering over a silken- 
 clad foe. The tea -bedewed lady considered the 
 question, and the party from the dining-room came 
 in ; Evie last, shy among these friends who had 
 suspected her, her sweet mouth drooping, her eyes 
 sad. Neill believed and knew, but others did not. 
 The fog of coldness clung to her, and she was 
 afraid. The word “thief” blotted out her sunshine. 
 Mrs. levers looked up. 
 
 “You are cold, Evie ; sit by me,” she said, in meek 
 tones. “ Have you had tea, child ? ” Evie’s heart 
 thumped ; a flood of scarlet stained her cheeks. 
 “And why did you never tell us, dear, that Mr. 
 Acland gave you that nice chestnut for Christmas ? 
 Giving out silly tales as you did about an exchange. 
 Fortunately O’Neill told people. You have not been 
 near us since the wretched day when the jackdaw 
 upset the diamonds. And I hope your eyes are well 
 — so you went to Cork to get them seen to, didn’t 
 you, the day after the unfortunate affair ? ” 
 
 Her voice was purposely clear. Married men took 
 glad notes for their wives ; Evie was a favourite. 
 Women who had snubbed her flushed repentantly. 
 Mrs. levers had spread the tale; evidently she 
 wanted to contradict it. A flood of happiness 
 poured across Evie’s heart ; her tea was nectar. 
 
 Acland, remembering Holy Robin, rose to go. He 
 squeezed Mrs. levers’ hand, clambered on to his 
 tall steed and jogged home alone through the 
 
Concerning Various flfcatcbes 319 
 
 stillness. But not lonely now — the happiness of the 
 two lives flitted with him through the grey dusk. He 
 had done something, he must do more. The power 
 of money was his, and he would use it. The sweet 
 face of the girl rose before him, and he grieved, but 
 not sorely — she had not been for him. Loneliness 
 was his portion, till he slept and was at rest. 
 
 Diffidently he broke the news to Tom, to be 
 acclaimed by the groom as a hero. 
 
 “ If ye can but remain above, ye have it won,” he 
 declared, “ for May Moon is the devil’s own 
 lepper, but no galloper at all. She won’t bate 
 
 this horse.” 
 
 Acland timidly proffered a query as to Robin’s 
 remaining above. 
 
 “ An’ we won’t school the sowl from him till he 
 larns his work, sir. Put yerself above on him and 
 ride him over the narry bank near Droveen till he’s 
 tired of failin’.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” said Acland, failing to hail the prospect 
 with joy. 
 
 “ Never fear, sir, he’ll be turned out as fit as hands 
 can make him . . . and maybe May Moon I’ll be 
 huntin’ him home — but for the other — ” Tom held 
 a drink up to Robin with one hand and scratched 
 his head with the other. “’Twas a queer match for 
 the black mare, sir.” 
 
 “ It will be — when I race her ” said Acland, 
 going in. 
 
 Standish having just asked if there was no hospital 
 for incurables to give money to, abandoned grumbling 
 as Sandy explained. 
 
 “ Sandy — you’re a treasure,” he said, with a solemn 
 gravity. “If you can but sit on, you have him 
 fairly boxed.” 
 
320 Gbe Stra^tnos of Saitbs 
 
 “ It is on the flat,” said Acland, with indignant 
 dignity. 
 
 “ If you can only stick on,” repeated Standish< 
 “ We’ll tie your legs under the saddle, Sandy.” 
 
 “ Hitt ! ” said Acland, going to dress. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 OF GRATITUDE AND OTHER THINGS 
 
 “ They’re neck and neck, they’re head and head ; 
 They’re stroke for stroke in the running ; 
 
 The whalebone whistles, the steel is red, 
 
 No shirking as yet or shunning. 
 
 The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.” 
 
 —Gordon, 
 
 Telegrams, 
 
 “Shall not send horse. Are you mad ? Reply paid. 
 —Partridge.” 
 
 * Am not. Request use of Rambler as per letter.” 
 —From Acland, Ballymacshane,to Partridge, Croxton. 
 
 “ Halfpenny over, Phillips; most annoying.” This 
 from Acland, 
 
 “You are mad, but suppose must humour you. 
 Will arrange. If anything happens to horse hold 
 you responsible. Horse won to-day. Eights.” — 
 
 From Partridge, Croxton. 
 
 “What an exceedingly extravagant telegram,” 
 said Acland. “ No answer, Phillips, I shall write 
 and save fivepence.” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir ” said Phillips, going out, 
 
 321 
 
 x 
 
322 uh e Strastnos of SattOg 
 
 Standish advised the horse coming over in good 
 time, so as to get over his sea-sickness, and Acland 
 duly wrote “ that he expected the Rambler to be sent 
 at latest on 17th, so as to have quite recovered from 
 the journey on the 31st. He did not know if Yanitas 
 would be of use. He wished a good, careful man to 
 be also forwarded ; one who would understand the 
 animal’s requisite rations, exercise, and housing. No 
 harm should come to the Crimson Rambler, and he” 
 — here Acland waved his pen and wrote blackly — 
 il didn’t care what it cost if he beat Sir Edmund 
 Graves’ Dark Boy. A leggy and weakly-looking 
 animal which I feel confident cannot overtake the 
 Rambler in his gallop. I am most pleased to hear 
 of the animal’s present success, and trust the stakes 
 were adequate. He has been a heavy expense. 
 Then he was his truly, “ A. Acland.” 
 
 To this came a reply by telegram : 
 
 “ Still think you dotty. Never mind ; lick the 
 other fellow. Horse leaves 17th, via Waterford, 
 insured. Boy in charge. — Partridge.” 
 
 Standish having won £80, hastened away to 
 buy a horse. He knew a slashing, fine three- 
 year -old, but which he had not seen his way to 
 affording. He also gave Miss Catty a Persian 
 kitten and Miss Susie a sitting of eggs. Acland put 
 Lis £300 away with good care, giving Phillips and 
 Tom £ 8 , each — they had clamoured for a sovereign 
 on — and regretfully noting this depletion. 
 
 It was a week without hunting. Blackbird was 
 coughing, and even if he had wished to, Tom would 
 not have allowed Robin to be taken out. Acland 
 could always ride him a school when he desired, but 
 
®f (Sratitu&e att& otber TEbinos 323 
 
 hunting was too dangerous. The match was the 
 theme of conversation, from old aunts to kitchen 
 boys at Ballymacshane. Acland, perched on Robin, 
 took daily exercise over the low fences in the paddock, 
 full of hopes that he might learn to stay on, but 
 doubtful to the point of despair. The days were 
 dark and lowering, snow sheltering behind a bitter, 
 south-east wind, and he was not so well. Business 
 matters worried him ; he could not make up his 
 mind to trust to Mr. Jones. The head clerk wrote, 
 advising great buying in certain shares. Acland, too 
 far away to see for himself, was uncertain. The 
 shares dwelt, wavered, and began to creep up, evi- 
 dently bolstered by some big syndicate. To buy 
 was wise ; to know when the bubble would be 
 pricked, and when to sell out, was another thing. 
 But he allowed Mr. Jones to invest, despite his own 
 opinion, and became the possessor of more shares 
 than he cared for. They crept up. Wires flashed 
 too and fro, absolutely bewildering Miss Punch as 
 she wrote them out, and the strain affected the little 
 man’s health. He could not eat. The dull, heavy 
 feeling crept back ; it was a distinct warning that he 
 must not meddle in business — that his cure was far 
 from complete. 
 
 He walked in the big garden, sheltered from the 
 driving wind, a sheaf of telegrams in his hand. 
 Shares were rising steadily, excellently ; there was 
 no cause for anxiety. Better make a larger profit. 
 So said Mr. Jones. Acland shook his head ; he 
 might give away thirty thousand, but to lose on 
 speculation broke his heart. His careful methods 
 had kept him clear of loss. He thought on walking 
 up and down, worrying his head until half the good 
 of his Irish rest-cure was swept away. 
 
$2 4 TTbe Stta^lngs of SanD£ 
 
 The whole county of Tulloun — that is, the sporting 
 portion of it — talked of nothing but the impending 
 match. They roared over it out hunting ; they 
 shrugged shoulders, and imagined reasons, and 
 imitated Sandy’s bumping seat and over - high 
 hands. He was a good little fellow ; he went well, 
 but he was a foolish man, daring to challenge one of 
 their crack riders to two matches, and for substantial 
 sums. Robin, the big, raking chestnut, might possibly 
 wear down May Moon, but Blackbird . . . the old 
 whistling mare, pulled out against a thoroughbred for 
 three miles on the flat. No one thought of any- 
 thing except Blackbird — Graves sneered openly, 
 the hunt chuckled, Standish preserved his own 
 counsel, and gravely agreed with Graves’ suggestion 
 that Sandy must of course have been drunk. 
 “ Terrible fellow,” he said. “ Even camphor or 
 sugar does for him.” And here he burst into one 
 of his disturbing roars of laughter, and rode away. 
 Must have been drunk ! Men stared at Sandy 
 Acland with his exceedingly sober, rather pallid 
 face. But it explained the matter. 
 
 In the meantime, heralded by a wire from Captain 
 Partridge, which set forth at a halfpenny per word 
 that Acland was a hanged fool, and horse had left 
 via Waterford, there arrived at Ballymacshane that 
 slightly aged but fine handicap horse, the Crimson 
 Rambler, ridden by a wizened boy of uncertain 
 years ; who sniffed with suspicion at all things Irish, 
 locked his steed’s door in Tom’s face, told the head 
 groom that his straw was damp and his oats musty, 
 his bran bad, and then succumbing to an unknown 
 influence, was sworn friend to them all by bed-time, 
 going arm-in-arm with Tom to bid the Rambler 
 good-night. 
 
©f ©ratttuhe a nb other XTbinos 325 
 
 When he heard of the match, he slapped his 
 shrunken thighs with enjoyment. The old Rambler 
 was to win two fairly big handicaps in the spring ; 
 coming back to flat racing, now they found he was 
 all right. When he saw Acland next morning exer- 
 cising Robin, his jaw fell, and he ceased to smile. 
 This was another matter. As to keeping quiet, that 
 was his trade ; the only thing he was ever instructed 
 to tell were lies intended to spread. 
 
 But of course it leaked out that there was a new 
 horse at Ballymacshane. Ellie told her sister at 
 Droveen, the yard-boy told his cousin, it drifted at 
 length to the ears Gf Sir Edmund Graves, and he 
 sped, petrol driven, to Ballymacshane to find out the 
 truth. 
 
 Acland and Standish were in, surrounded by a 
 crowd of callers ; they received him pleasantly. The 
 match itself was fixed for the next day, Friday, and 
 Acland had worked himself into a ferment of 
 nervousness. Robin did not inspire confidence. 
 Graves came striding in, his lean face set crossly. 
 
 “ What's this about a new horse ? ” he snarled 
 sharply. “ It was specially stipulated you were not 
 to buy one. Is it yours or Standish’s ? ” 
 
 “ I've bought nothing,” said Acland mildly. “ I 
 agreed to run one which I owned then, and intend 
 to do so.” 
 
 Graves subsided relieved. It would then be old 
 Blackbird and Robin, one for each race. He had 
 driven into the yard on his arrival and endeavoured 
 to gather information, vainly, of course. Tom was 
 invisible, the English boy hidden ; the youth who 
 answered him knew nothing of horses. 
 
 “ Some fool’s tales, I s’pose,” said Graves. “ It’s a 
 mad affair. I’ll let you off now, Acland, for half 
 
326 z be Stra^tnos of Sans# 
 
 forfeit. You know you must have been mad to 
 think of it.” 
 
 “ Or drunk,” said Standish sombrely, “ Sad thing, 
 Sandy.” 
 
 “ Standish,” said Acland immediately at white 
 heat. “ At eleven in the morning ? ” 
 
 “ All the sadder,” said Standish. “ Oh, don't 
 iaugh.” This to the chuckling audience ; while 
 Acland, pent by impotent anger, reduced the fire 
 to ruins. 
 
 They had tea. How their forefathers would have 
 breathed contempt to see half-a-dozen men enjoying 
 tea and buttered toast — -and they gave Sandy so 
 much shrewd advice, such kindly warnings, that he 
 wondered how many pieces he would be brought 
 home in. Phillips came in with a telegram. 
 
 Acland read it anxiously ; his face growing pale, 
 and his heart thumping ominously. He wrote his 
 answer quickly. 
 
 “At once, Phillips,” he said shortly. “This is 
 important.” 
 
 “ PH run him down in my motor, I’m just off,” 
 said Graves, getting up. His mind was at rest about 
 the horse, and he did not want to stay. Or shall 
 I send it for you ? ” 
 
 “Phillips had better do so, thank you,” said 
 Acland, biting his fingers, a habit of his when 
 worried. “This is very important.” 
 
 It told of the fluctuation of this last deal. He 
 wanted to communicate with Mr. Jones, but as that 
 worthy would probably have gone home, he could not 
 hope for an answer before the morning. The whole 
 thing worried him ; the slightest anxiety brought 
 back all the old symptoms of brain fag and nervous 
 exhaustion. 
 
@f ©vatttu&e anD otbetr XTbinfls 327 
 
 The day of the match was auspicious : the wind 
 passed, and a fair, blue sky smiled softly. No 
 showers, an almost balmy temperature. One of 
 Ireland’s coy glances, after a week of black looks. 
 Sunshine glinted on the network of bare branches 
 in the valley, yet no more unhappy man than Sandy 
 Acland ever got into his morning tub, and then 
 explored the depths of Neill levers’ pink coat. 
 The coat was not a fit ; the little man saw himself 
 immersed in wrinkling billows of bright- coloured 
 cloth, and he came down ill-pleased. His inclination 
 was to toy with tea and toast ; but Standish advised 
 two boiled eggs, and Sandy had to eat them. This 
 treatment, combined with a moderately strong peg 
 before they started behind the plough horses, partly 
 restored him. They drove off cheerfully ; orders left 
 for any telegrams to be despatched to the course. 
 Robin had gone on, and Crimson Rambler was to 
 follow. 
 
 A committee of four had chosen the three miles 
 over a fair hunting country. It was flagged here 
 and there to guide them at turning-points ; they 
 were to ride to a white farm-house, round it and 
 come home, finishing up a long field where the 
 whole country seemed to have gathered. Traps, 
 motors ; a crowd of country people. Acland shivered, 
 quite objecting to so much notoriety. 
 
 For the two miles on the flat some fences had been 
 levelled, making a fair course which they had to go 
 round twice. May Moon was a compact, well-bred 
 hunter, but so far as condition went the chestnut 
 Robin showed more muscle and bloom — Tom made 
 few mistakes about horses — May Moon had done no 
 preparation, yet Graves looking on the race as a gift. 
 Dark Lad, on the contrary, was rather too finely 
 
328 XLl )c of San&fi 
 
 drawn, and looked as if he might have been spared 
 some of his gallops. 
 
 The horses came up — Graves looking at Robin. 
 
 “ I thought you’d chance him on the flat,” he said, 
 “ and try the mare across the leps. You’re a brave 
 man, Acland.” 
 
 Sandy smiled. He knew of the surprise now 
 pacing from Ballymacshane. But his last shred of 
 support seemed to leave him when Tom placed him 
 in the saddle, and let the bridle go. He was 
 desolately alone, perched upon this overfresh steed. 
 
 “ Kape a howlt of his head,” entreated the groom, 
 “ and for God’s sake, sthick to him. Be mane or 
 saddle or bridle, but remain above on him. Oh, 
 Jakers! ye vilyin.” 
 
 This, as Holy Robin soared skywards in an agile 
 buck, and Acland bowed, wide-legged, to the red 
 mane. 
 
 Graves, now mounted, smiled. He was an ideal 
 horseman. Long, lean, sitting close to his powerful 
 mare, his hands low. Yet he was a rough man on 
 an untrained horse; his horses were obliged to go 
 his way, and the result was often disaster. They 
 were a complete contrast as they walked on. 
 
 “ Sthick to him/’ wailed Tom. “ Ye have but a 
 snaffle, so ye can’t knock him.” 
 
 At this moment Crimson Rambler, sedate and 
 rather bored, was ridden up, and Acland smiled 
 through his sadness, as wizened boy got down to 
 watch. 
 
 They were ranged up, facing a low bank. 
 
 14 Go ! ” said Gervase, who started them. 
 
 May Moon slipped off* at a smart canter. Robin 
 plunged, raked his head away, and darted past her 
 like a whirlwind. The first bank was low and broad ; 
 
©f ©ratitube anb otber UMuqs 3*9 
 
 fortunately the chestnut found time to deliver an 
 absent flick with a hind leg, and so escaped disaster. 
 Then finding himself quite unchecked and alone, he 
 grew quieter, and dropped to a lopping, aimless canter. 
 May Moon, held together, striding easily along, over- 
 took and passed him. Sandy remembered Tom’s 
 orders, which were to follow the mare, and trust to 
 the chestnut’s turn of speed at the finish. So he 
 hauled hard at the bridle, and did it literally, going 
 on May Moon’s heels in a most disturbing fashion ; 
 bucketing up and down to the somewhat sprawling 
 gallop of a weak-hocked horse. They encountered 
 two easy banks, which Robin cleared handsomely, all 
 but landing on his leader. So far it seemed any 
 man’s race. Sir Edmund, going a little fast to 
 escape being jumped on, knew that without accidents 
 it was his. He shrugged his thin shoulders, turning 
 to watch Sandy’s horsemanship. But matters were 
 not to proceed so smoothly. Standish had remem- 
 bered May Moon’s peculiarity, and had arranged the 
 course so that they encountered a long hedge, with a 
 stiff baulk of timber secured in the gap — the thin 
 spots in the carefully mended. Graves swore sud- 
 denly ; the stick was thick, but he hoped the “ d — n 
 Cockney” might smash it, so he checked his mare. 
 Sandy, finding himself forging ahead, saw the 
 obstacle, and as he galloped loose-reined towards 
 it, wondered if Robin would do it well. He was 
 answered a second later by the chestnut taking 
 it with his knees and turning over handsomely, 
 and surprised by the subsequent arrival of Graves, 
 a stride behind, also upon his head. The brown 
 had refused, answered deep scoring spurs, and 
 turned over. It sobered Robin, and it blew May 
 Moon. Graves jumped to his feet, delayed by a 
 
33° tfbe Strapinas of 5 ant>s 
 
 dropped whip. Acland, finding a stone, was but 
 little later, and they galloped on, both rather battered 
 and side by side, Graves growling furiously “ that he 
 could not think why they had been brought that 
 way.” 
 
 “ I really do not know,” answered Sandy, puffing. 
 “ At least it was fortunate that we both succumbed/ 
 and was surprised by his opponent’s glare. 
 
 Every big fence had its fringe of commenting, 
 cheering onlookers, and one or two followed on 
 horseback. The cottage was close now, and the race 
 half-over. Sandy, having been forbidden by his rival 
 to follow so close, was to Graves right, about half a 
 length behind ; the chestnut striding easily and 
 jumping brilliantly, if unsafely. He was quick on 
 his legs as a rabbit. They swung round the house, 
 and came down at a broad stream with boggy lake 
 ofif and landing. Robin, who dreaded water, rushed 
 at it like an express train, and stopped dead, swerving 
 aside; shooting his rider over his head, to follow 
 immediately himself ; for the mare, unable to avoid 
 him, struck him broadside on, and all four wallowed 
 in the muddy little river, which was deep. 
 
 “ Heavin save us, and they all swhimmin’ like 
 ducks ! ” yelled suddenly appearing spectators 
 flashing to the rescue ; dragging horses and men 
 to land, shrieking hot sympathy. Acland and 
 May Moon were first out, and despite the mud- 
 choked man’s protests, they flung him on to the 
 dripping, snorting mare, and started him with a 
 whack — a second later presenting, with all hopes 
 of gratitude, Robin to Sir Edmund, who was now 
 covered with slime and incoherent from rage. 
 “ Aisy, aisy ; sure, ye couldn’t help failin’,” they 
 said sympathetically. 
 
©f (Bratitube ant> otbec TTbings 33 1 
 
 “ Cockney ! tailor ! fool ! ” were the mud-flavoured 
 words sent in Sandy’s wake as Graves danced 
 upon the bank ; thrust Robin aside, and cursed 
 everything that had ever drawn breath. He would 
 not take the most obvious course, which was to have 
 mounted Robin and pursued. His own mare, driven 
 wild by the thumps and shouts, had careered for half 
 a field before the little Englishman, who had no 
 stirrups, could stop her. 
 
 “ An’ what are ye off for ? ” shrieked an offended 
 helper, when Sandy slid to the ground and trotted 
 back with the mare. 
 
 He thought it was unkind of Graves to snatch the 
 bridle and mount without a word. 
 
 “An’ whin ye might be home,” reproached O’Neill’s 
 nephew, running up with the chestnut. “ Up with ye. 
 Success ! An’ couldn’t ye ride her it on anyways ? ” 
 said a wrinkled old man crossly. “ Wouldn’t he take 
 ye as well?” 
 
 May Moon was half a field in front, but not going 
 easily. Robin, now the fresher of the two, caught her 
 up and pounded close behind her, yet the odds laid 
 by the spectators were five to one on the Baronet. 
 They were screamed from fence and hill, and 
 wafted down to them. Acland sat up, clenched his 
 teeth, and made some semblance of holding his 
 horse together. He did not mean to be beaten if he 
 could help it, nor was he hopeless ; so far his disasters 
 had included his rival, and he felt that if he could do 
 Robin justice, he might still win. They were getting 
 close to the finish. Graves looking back, smiled. He 
 knew he could not get every inch out of a horse, and 
 that the Cockney, as he dubbed him, would lose his 
 head, bucket in the saddle, drop his reins and use his 
 whip, and generally spoil any chance he might possess. 
 
332 Ube Straginoa ot Sanbg 
 
 Then, as guided by flags, they jumped into a flat 
 rushy field, the smile died, and was wiped away by a 
 muttered curse. Timber again; a low, easy gap at the 
 end of the fence, which was wired. The field to their 
 left was a treacherous place full of slimy bog-holes, 
 and in any case he must keep within the flags. He 
 took his mare by the head, drove home his spurs, and 
 rammed her at the stick, guessing shrewdly who had 
 arranged this fence as he did so. But the brown was 
 blown and soured, she hated timber, dreaded another 
 fall ; she swerved suddenly across the low wall, going 
 hard for a few strides before her rider got her in 
 hand, and then, paif 1 she was wallowing to her girths 
 in a soufflet of peat and water. Sandy followed 
 without hesitation ; originality in horse-racing was 
 not his metier . He took the same hole a few yards 
 from his opponent, but with little comment, believing 
 it to be part of the game. 
 
 “ Very soft going,” he remarked pleasantly, as the 
 tired horses heaved and strained. 
 
 Graves' reply was to the effect that of all the some- 
 thing somethings this was the somethingest. More- 
 over, it all being due to a something cousin of 
 Acland’s, he wished some something fools would 
 keep their mouths shut, or get drowned and be 
 obliged to. 
 
 He struggled out of the hole and stood on a patch 
 of firm ground, a dripping, gloomy figure. Should 
 he go back, chancing the timber and the inevitable 
 return wallow through the first morass — or on, 
 chancing the bog-holes ? There were safe passages 
 in the field, and he might light on them. Sandy 
 waited with unabated politeness for his decision. 
 
 Graves studied the green patches, the brown 
 gleams of water ; he would go on. He put spurs 
 
©f Gratitude an& otfcer XTblngs 333 
 
 to May Moon, choosing a firm-looking way, and 
 immediately clove the depths of another morass, as 
 immediately followed by Sandy who kept within a 
 few feet, riding dutifully to Tom’s orders. If bog- 
 holes were included in cross country races, he felt he 
 must merely endure them. 
 
 It was not betting now, but laughter which floated 
 from the hill, as the two struggled on, their horses 
 gasping and straining ; while behind O’Neill’s nephew, 
 who had left his horse and was skimming round the 
 safe edges like a sand-piper . . . shrieked unheeded 
 advice and warned them of unfathomable abysses. 
 
 “ Keep left — for God’s sake, keep left. There’s a 
 hole there that waters hell. Didn’t me aunt’s cow go 
 down once and we couldn’t get even a thrace of 
 her horns — Oh, ye’re in it agin, near the very 
 
 sphot.” 
 
 Side by side, yard by yard, foot by foot, the rival 
 men came on ; wallowing their way, churning brown 
 slime, squirting up muddy water, driving their 
 exhausted, sobbing steeds to further effort. Some- 
 times the poor brutes stood still, unable to fight their 
 way through the mass of earth and water which 
 sucked at their aching limbs. 
 
 So still onwards, one silent, one rumbling bitter 
 curses, until they got through the last hole and 
 reached the rim of soft but sound-like grass bordering 
 the swamp. Unfortunately, it was fenced by a fair, 
 sized ditch, with an uncertain, muddy-looking bottom. 
 The horses faced it exhausted, unable to jump ; they 
 panted and trembled, their necks white with foam. 
 
 Presently, urged by whip and spur. May Moon 
 simply walked into the ditch, and was pulled out by 
 her master, while Robin, younger and more ambitious, 
 jumped it with a weary grunt. The way was now 
 
334 
 
 tTbe 5tra$tt0S of San&s 
 
 clear, they had to swing to the right, and get into the 
 run home, which had lain beyond the stick. 
 
 “An exceedingly strange place to bring us through,” 
 said Sandy reproachfully, kicking Robin into a 
 canter. 
 
 “ To bring us through ! ” The world must for a 
 space have been bereft of bitterness, so much of it 
 lay in the glance Graves shot at his rival. “ I wish 
 to God I’d been born a fool,” he snapped, as he on his 
 part commenced to hold his mare together, and try to 
 gallop on. 
 
 Sandy made no reply, he was too busy ; galloping 
 was a thing of the past. The horses’ necks were 
 stretched painfully, they moved stiffly ; their breath 
 came in piteous sobs ; they compassed a feeble, 
 rocking canter, while yells of laughter and encourage- 
 ment urged the riders to effort. The crowd, ever 
 helpful, closed in, whacking the poor brutes’ quarters 
 with sticks and hats ; running beside them with 
 comments and advice. 
 
 With spur and whip, his face set savagely, Graves 
 drove May Moon half a length ahead. Robin 
 responding to a frantic thump from O’Neill’s nephew 
 stole it back, and drew level. The horses staggered 
 as they went, they were only trotting now. 
 
 The trot died to a jog — the powers of the best 
 hunters are limited — the jog to a walk, and they kept 
 nose to nose. 
 
 Whenever Graves’ horsemanship wrested six foot 
 or so, O’Neill’s nephew running behind saw that 
 Robin drew level. 
 
 Riding, whipping, spurring, they walked past the 
 post, past the judge — who was sitting upon the ground 
 doubled up by helpless merriment, past other men 
 who laughed and mopped their eyes and laughed 
 
33 3 
 
 ®f (Sratltube an& otber ZTbtnQs 
 
 again, and then the hapless steeds stopped, and 
 the men, mud-besmeared, battered, glared at each 
 other. 
 
 “ I was first,” said Graves. 
 
 “Ye was not,” contradicted O’Neill’s nephew, with 
 emphasis. “ I’ll swhear I pulled the horse’s head out 
 pasht ye at the posht.” 
 
 His last resource had been to haul Holy Robin by 
 the bridle with his left hand, while he smote the 
 chestnut under the stomach with his right. Two of 
 Graves’ tenants, inspired by shilling bets, were 
 hammering May Moon with their hats. 
 
 For fully two minutes, Mr. Gervase, now lying flat, 
 resisted all inquiries as to his decision, then getting 
 up, he murmured something which resembled dead 
 heat, and sat down again, pointing with a trembling 
 finger to the timber gap. 
 
 “ What does that mean ? ” asked Sandy eagerly. 
 
 “ Run it all over again. In any case, you’re both 
 disqualified, wrong course,” said the master unevenly. 
 
 Sir Edmund Graves was understood to remark that 
 ne would rather be eaten by his satanic majesty than 
 go back, but he did not put it so prettily. 
 
 “ What took ye to the bog-holes ? ” inquired Tom, 
 as he sponged out Robin’s nostrils, and hoped the 
 horse might not die. “ Why couldn’t ye come on 
 straight, with the race in ye’re fist ? ” 
 
 “ Didn’t you tell me to follow him ? ” said Sandy 
 plaintively. “ I did it throughout.” 
 
 “ An’ nothing but a low sthick forninst ye,” 
 muttered Tom helplessly. “ There’s some ye’d waste 
 breath tryin’ to talk sinse to.” 
 
 “The finest race ever ye see,” cried O’Neill’s 
 nephew. “They upsettin’ ache other each minnit 
 with the dinth of jealousy. Sure, one wouldn’t ever 
 
336 ftbe Strauss of Sanb£ 
 
 let the other into the bog-holes without he’d be there 
 too/’ 
 
 Amid roaring cheers Sandy reached the shelter of 
 a waggonette, where, aided by Phillips and an open 
 umbrella, he managed to change ; a neighbouring 
 farmer supplying clothes. 
 
 “Very distressing, sir,” said Phillips, laying the 
 soaked bundle down. “Now, had I been upon the 
 Robin, sir — ” 
 
 “ Phillips ! ” rasped out his master irritably. 
 
 “Allow me to dry your hair, sir,” said Phillips, 
 changing the subject. 
 
 The flat race was yet to be run. Acland, now 
 arrayed in tweed breeches and gaiters and a pink 
 racing-jacket, emerged from his dressing-room, and 
 saw with pleasure the quiet pacing to and fro of 
 Crimson Rambler, whose wizened attendant had 
 almost succumbed from merriment. His pleasure 
 damped by one thing ... he knew they would not 
 believe the tale in England. 
 
 Sir Edmund Graves, still in his soaked boots and 
 breeches, but wearing a borrowed tweed coat, saw the 
 big horse with the tube in his throat and stopped. 
 
 “What horse is that?” he queried sharply, struck 
 with sudden suspicion. 
 
 “ Mr. Acland’s Crimson Rambler, sir,” replied the 
 boy. 
 
 “ Won two weeks ago at Lewes. Excellent animal, 
 Sir Edmund,” put in Phillips, who had come 
 down. 
 
 Sir Edmund stammered, implied cheating, raved 
 at everyone English, and doubted the whole affair. 
 The wizened boy, evidently following instructions, 
 produced a paper. 
 
 “Mr. A. Acland’s Crimson Rambler. Bv Fiery 
 
©f ©ratitube attb otbec Gbit/s 337 
 
 Dawn . . . Rosebush,” Graves turned blankly on 
 to Sandy. 
 
 “ It was deceit, if not open cheating,” he stormed, 
 “ How was I to know you owned a race-horse ? ” 
 
 “ My ownership of the animal,” observed Sandy 
 mildly, “was the immediate reason of my taking 
 your challenge.” 
 
 “ Oh, was it ? ” said Graves limply. “ Was it ? ” 
 
 “ Not drunkenness, as you imagined,” perused 
 Acland placedly. “ I may be a Cockney and a 
 tailor, but I was not likely to compete with horses 
 of ordinary speed against a racing animal.” 
 
 Graves said nothing. He did not even snort — it 
 seemed inadequate. 
 
 They were then started, and when Sandy had dis- 
 covered that a race-horse’s powers of pulling quite 
 eclipse a hunter’s, and learnt how to control the big 
 horse, he knew the race was over. Dark Lad, going 
 greenly, did his best ; but the old horse when let go 
 simply galloped away from him and won by ten 
 lengths. This time the cheers were genuine, and 
 Sandy, white from excitement and fatigue, took a. 
 long drink gladly. 
 
 “ Exceedingly profitable,” he said happily, and was 
 handed a sheaf of telegrams. 
 
 He tore them open anxiously. Far away as he 
 was, he had judged correctly. The shares were 
 trembling, would sink like lead, and Mr. Jones must 
 clear immediately. 
 
 “ Hit. Rapid. All chickens corn,” he wrote. 
 Translated, it read: “Sell immediately all shares in 
 Gravelot mine.” 
 
 Graves saw him looking about. The messenger 
 had gone away. 
 
 “ I pass Ballymacshane,” he said, not wanting to 
 
 v 
 
33 * 
 
 XL be ©tracings ot 5an&$ 
 
 appear angry. “ J’l) send that for you . . . Pm going 
 now — too wet to stay.” 
 
 “ Oh, if you would,” said Acland relieved, giving 
 him the piece of paper and sixpence. “ It’s very 
 important. Can you read it?” he said, repeating 
 the wire. 
 
 His writing was neat and plain. Graves said 
 he could. Sandy was very tired ; his head thumped, 
 and he wanted to go home ; but various carriages 
 distributed hot and welcome tea, and he found him- 
 self led to the car from Droveen — a pathetic little 
 figure perched on a stone close by representing Evie, 
 who had refused all other invitations, and was not 
 asked when she wanted to be. Mrs. levers had 
 really kept her word, and the breath of suspicion 
 had passed by, but she would do no more. The 
 stout lady was very excited as Neill brought Sandy 
 up. 
 
 “ Only fancy,” she said, “ the diamond — Nita took 
 it herself — pledged it. . . . It was traced, and she’s 
 quite amused— says we made an absurd fuss— and 
 she won’t give back the money. 
 
 Fuss! Sandy looked down the hill at the forlorn 
 figure in grey— the fuss had closely approached a 
 tragedy. Neill had left them, seeking for fresh 
 victims ; so he took the situation by the hand and 
 spoke his mind plainly— the stout lady listening 
 with surprising meekness — so far as her limited 
 generosity allowed her she was sorry. 
 
 “ I regret it,” she said. “ I really regret my 
 suspicions, Mr. Acland — but after all, it is over 
 now.” 
 
 Sandy looked down the hill. He saw Evie’s golf- 
 capped head turn, watching Neill . . . something 
 pathetic in the droop of the small figure touched 
 
®t tfratitube anb other ftbtngs 339 
 
 him, sweeping away the last grains of caution. His 
 mind let itself go. Whatever happened these two 
 should be happy. He commenced to talk rapidly, 
 earnestly, with a certain shyness, setting out his 
 plan. If Mrs. levers gave her consent to the 
 marriage, he, Sandy Acland, being a very rich man, 
 would endow Miss Hartland with ^30,000, invested 
 at fair interest in safe security. It would make her, 
 in a small way, an heiress. 
 
 Mrs. levers alternately flushed and paled — over- 
 come by surprise she subsided helplessly upon the 
 tea-basket which crunched beneath her weight with 
 a crackling despair. When rescued from a ruin of 
 cakes and cups she called Sandy an idiot, and as 
 she again showed signs of collapse, he led her to a 
 stone. 
 
 Here, supported by the boulder’s chilly solidity, 
 she began to consider the question, interlarding 
 her thoughts with ejaculations, in which the word 
 fool was almost gruesomely monotonous. 
 
 But she thought — Evie would not be poor. A 
 bird in the hand, better worth holding than Nita 
 Cropthorne and others, in uncertain bushes. She 
 stammered, asking with quick petulance why, as he 
 cared so much, he did not marry the girl himself, 
 and then, seeing him flush, was woman enough to 
 be sorry. 
 
 But on sifting it out she had no real objections : she 
 was swept from her feet. Neill was coming slowly 
 up the hill. 
 
 She rose majestically. “ You are, without excep- 
 tion,” she said, “the most foolish man l have ever 
 met in my life ; but if this is really true, I will give 
 my consent.” 
 
 Sandy drew a deep breath of sheer content. 
 
34° tTbc Stra^litcjs of Satt&E 
 
 “ Then begin,” he said, quietly nodding towards 
 Evie. 
 
 “ Neill.” Mrs. levers pointed almost tragically 
 down the hill. “ Fetch Evie here ; I think we’ll go 
 home. But I think you a fool,” she said to Sandy, 
 with tragic emphasis. 
 
 The little figure rose, the sweet, grey eyes had lost 
 their sadness as the girl came up the slope. We can 
 all live for a moment, in the happy present, when 
 with someone we love. Sandy saw her face and was 
 rewarded. Humanity, after all, was more than red 
 gold. Evie’s future was assured. 
 
 “ Your health, Sandy, my boy,” said Standish that 
 night over a beaded bumper of champagne. “ Yours 
 and Holy Robin’s and Crimson Rambler’s, for I’ve 
 won £ 20 , You’re a better man than ever we took 
 you for, and if you couldn’t win it by staying 
 on, you did by falling off, and what more would you 
 do.” 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 OF RUIN AND ITS EFFECT 
 
 ** Gold was good, we hoped to hold it, 
 
 And to-day we know the fulness of our gain.” 
 
 —Kipling. 
 
 Sir Edmund Graves, clammily wet beneath a dry 
 tweed crust, sped homewards towards Ballymacshane. 
 He was about as angry as it is possible for an ill- 
 tempered man to be without breaking down and 
 showing the world his fury — Sandy Acland, whom 
 he had taken for a fool, had outwitted and defeated 
 him. The £250 which he now owed weighed little 
 in comparison to this. He could not ride; but he 
 was shrewd in his way, this little Englishman — and 
 what charm induced pretty Evie Hartland to trot by 
 his side, smile at him, and reserve cold looks for so 
 eminently fascinating a person as Edmund Graves. 
 He put Neill levers on one side as mere boy and 
 girl folly. It would never be allowed, or come to 
 anything. He swept onwards in a cold fury of 
 impotent passion. The God of animals ordained 
 that he drove machinery ; a snorting implacable 
 demon, and not some willing, great-hearted horse to 
 wince from cruel lash and bit. It always helps rage 
 to hurt something. The animal instinct to snarl and 
 bite and claw may not be permitted ; so man 
 revenges his spleen on some docile tamed horse, or 
 
 34i 
 
342 ube Straptngs of San&s 
 
 faithful dog. Graves dashed the big car at the hills, 
 hurled round corners and braked suddenly and 
 roughly, until the Panhard throbbed resentfully as a 
 thing alive. 
 
 They clambered up the steep hillside at Bally- 
 macshane and waited on the level outside the post 
 office. He swung in sharply ; Miss Punch, apple- 
 cheeked and buxom, oily black curls tight on her 
 forehead, and a silly simper on her fat lips, moved 
 from behind a pile of cheap bacon to the railing 
 making the post office, and smiled at him. Graves 
 pushed in the wire ; he had thrust it into an inner 
 pocket and it was smudged and crumbled. 
 
 “ An’ have ye both the matches won, Sir 
 Edmund?” said Miss Punch coquetishly. “I suppose 
 he scarcely saw ye finish.” 
 
 Fresh fuel on active fury — Graves fidgeted, 
 snarling. The whole countryside would discuss 
 him ; mock him as a man outridden and outwitted. 
 The finish at a walk ; the hack canter victory of 
 Crimson Rambler, would keep the hunting - field 
 laughing for a month. 
 
 “ Another of the English gintleman’s,” said Miss 
 Punch, sucking her pencil, frowning at the big words. 
 “’Tis a queer farm he must have with all his geese 
 and his doin’s. I can’t make out the fusht word,” 
 she said, passing it back, then observing Sir Edmund’s 
 muddy under-strata, screamed aloud : “ Did ye fall ? 
 
 Sure, ye’re drowned. Don’t say he beshted ye,” piped 
 Miss Punch. 
 
 Sir Edmund grunted angrily, making no reply. 
 The writing was very blurred. The first word 
 might be either “ hit ” or give.” 
 
 Graves raised his head — he remembered the cypher. 
 Hit was sell; give, buy — knew the word to be hit, 
 
©f TRuln an& its Effect 
 
 343 
 
 fOr Sandy had said so, but, he owed the little Cockney 
 one ; supposing he paid the debt by allowing the 
 wrong word to flash to London. Give him a little 
 bother, and gull his parsimonious soul by some slight 
 loss. His lips tightened, and he delayed. 
 
 Don't say he beshted ye,” said Miss Punch, “ an' 
 he, they say, like a bird perched above on a horse.” 
 
 “ It’s — give — or hit,” said Graves undecisively. 
 
 Miss Punch retrieved the paper. 
 
 “ Then 'tis give, of course,” she said. “ That's plain 
 — Give rapid all chickens corn. How could it be hit 
 It must be a quare sort of a woman he keeps, that 
 wouldn't give the craythers a bit without a tellygram.” 
 She retreated to an inner room, to flash the 
 message to distant England, and Graves went out 
 He smiled a little. Acland would fuss and fidget — 
 forget the joy of winning his race in some trumpery 
 loss. Graves believed that the little man could never 
 bring himself to large speculations. A man who 
 weighed letters could not risk more than tenners 
 He set the car going ; swooping onwards swiftly, 
 and smiled as he went. He would have his way 
 with Evie, insist on an answer, arrange so that 
 hitherto obliging people would cease to be so, and 
 hamper Nora until matters closed in at Castleknock, 
 Time must help him, and he would whip the grey- 
 beard to greater speed— so he ran homewards, and 
 knew nothing of a white-faced weary man who drank 
 smoked tea, and twisted destiny in his slight fingers 
 — painting a future with brushes of gay colours, hi: 
 own grey and hopeless. 
 
 A heart which beat in dull thumps, blue lips and 
 a drawn face, were Sandy’s portion next morning 
 Excitement and over-fatigue had been too much for 
 him. He lay awake all night, magnifying danger 
 
344 ttbe StragUtgs of sanby 
 
 fearing loss — certain that Jones would sell badly; 
 railing his own weakness in ever having been drawn 
 into the affair. 
 
 Standish was off to some farm. Sandy crawled 
 out to his favourite walk in the garden, accompanied 
 as usual by cats and dogs. The blue Persian 
 marching in front, banner tail uplifted, pretending 
 to everyone that the walk was his idea, and he 
 followed no man. Catty, liquid-eyed, silken-fringed, 
 rollicking from side to side ; two kittens and a white 
 terrier coming in dubious friendship. A high wind 
 soared outside, but he took shelter in the empty 
 greenhouse, the sun shone out when the black clouds 
 let it be. He strolled up and down, and then sat in 
 the warmth under the glass, his head bent, thinking. 
 
 For years he had slipped from day to day, from 
 hour to hour, monotonously and regularly as a clock 
 records time ; now in a few short months, incident 
 upon incident had crowded upon him. Life’s gods 
 and terrors — illness — death — cure — love — loss — a 
 sudden broadening of ideas — a glimpse into deeper 
 things ; a taste by proxy of youth’s sorrow and 
 perfect joy ; disappointment to himself, heartache, old 
 strands parted, old customs dead. 
 
 In a month, he would go back again, return to his 
 neat rooms, his daily work ; a lonely man walking 
 down the slope of age, and these bright-faced, im- 
 provident Irish people, who had changed the world 
 for him, would be a memory. 
 
 If he could stay here — never go back — live im* 
 providently as they did, happy from day to day ; 
 human kittens and puppies rejoicing in sufficient 
 food, sunshine, and play ; with no cankering anxiety 
 of ever gathering an income; no difficulties as to 
 Investments, for there would be nothing to invest 
 
<M tRufit ant> its Effect 34s 
 
 Live so, with someone with him, a companion to the 
 end. 
 
 The shares were in the house, transferred to Evie ; 
 only awaiting her signature — he had done that before 
 he spoke — £30,000 — his no longer, and he wondered 
 if he was a little mad. 
 
 “ Sandy, Aunt Catty said you were not well. 
 Edmund motored me over. He came to see Evie, 
 but she is at Droveen — they took her back there last 
 jiight. Edmund is cross as sticks.” 
 
 It was Nora, pretty and warm, even on this bitter 
 fiay — her perfect health defying pinching winds, her 
 hands deep in the pockets of a shabby ulster. 
 
 “ Telegram, sir,” said Phillips, following her. 
 
 Sandy took it, glancing at the contents. Trans- 
 lated, it said : “ Shares falling 27 — serious — do you 
 understand that ? ” Apparently the estimable Mr. 
 Jones was a little stupid. They would not lose, but 
 he had done well in selling. Sandy mentally patted 
 himself upon the back. He was cleverer away than 
 they were on the spot. 
 
 “ Act on my wire. I foresaw this fall,” he wrote 
 in cypher, and gave it to Phillips. 
 
 “You do look ill, Sandy,” said Nora. “Surely 
 you ought not to worry over stupid business.” 
 
 “ I’d have the world worrying my financial bones if 
 I didn’t,” he said. “ Yes ; I feel ill.” He met her 
 eyes, his own a little piteous. “You see the cures 
 may have failed ; it will perhaps be a permanent rest 
 at Woking after all.” 
 
 It was a poor little joke, poorly attempted. 
 
 “ The cure ought not to include steeplechases and 
 attention to business,” she said gravely, “or I am 
 no doctor.” Perching on one of the stages, now 
 crumbling with dry rot, she looked at him, swinging 
 
346 uhc Sttaginas ot 5anD» 
 
 slender, ill-shod feet. His depression died ; he grew 
 cheerful with that sense of restful companionship 
 which her presence brought. Evie had been a vision, 
 a mist-wraith wrought by his own denseness, but this 
 bright woman was reality, and he watched her 
 wistfully. 
 
 “ Abandon Woking,” she said softly. “ Make a 
 certainty of disturbing long-buried bones in the 
 churchyard in the village. Stay here for ever.” 
 
 The sun shone, warming them. It was his own 
 Idea ; he sat down, considering it. No more London 
 and routine , 1 no mind-wearing anxiety, but this quiet, 
 green country from year to year. Golden, gentle 
 summers, full of nothing — trips to the scenes of his 
 toils, then a far-off city of delights ; mild, horse-filled 
 autumns ; genial, merry winters, with Blackbirds, 
 Holy Robins, and their successors ; and so until the 
 end, and he slept among the crowded dead on the 
 wind-swept hillside, instead of in an expensive plot 
 in the grimly - beautiful garden at Woking. It 
 tempted and appealed. He had money enough — no 
 need to work. But one thing was lacking; his blue 
 eyes studied Nora’s bright face ; then he sighed. No 
 woman would care to marry him, a foolish little 
 business man — a tailor on horseback— a thing to be 
 mocked at for silly speeches and mean ways. 
 
 “Couldn’t you manage it, Sandy?” Nora’s voice 
 cooed like a wood-pigeon in May. “ It takes so little 
 to live here. You can’t be so very poor ; we — might 
 make you happy, Sandy.” 
 
 Then, as they sat silent, there burst upon them a 
 feminine cyclone ; tearing along the path, rushing 
 into the greenhouse, almost sweeping Sandy from 
 his feet. 
 
 “ Oh, Sandy — You dear — you dear ! Oh, how 
 
©f IRutn ant> its Effect 
 
 347 
 
 could you? I can’t take it, and yet I — oh, I can’t 
 say no. Yesterday I saw no hope — to-day I’m not 
 on earth but in heaven. Are you really so rich, 
 Sandy ? I stayed at Droveen last night. Mrs. 
 levers told me what you’d done. Yes ; Neill’s here 
 too. Here he is — ” 
 
 The girl was almost hysterical ; she ran to Nora, 
 clinging to her, talking incoherently. Mrs. levers 
 had told her of Sandy’s gift ; had accepted her with 
 lame graciousness ; and Evie forgot every slight and 
 snub. She was rich as they counted riches. They 
 could take a house and live happily — with hunters 
 and trappers — no pinch of poverty. 
 
 She danced about him, until he tasted for the 
 second time the almost perfect joy of giving. 
 
 What would this radiant rainbow of girlhood ever 
 have been to him ? He who had dreamt she cared, 
 and wanted him to come forward. Her fit mate, 
 boyishly happy, awkwardly grateful, was by her side. 
 They would find life together, dive to his depths, 
 float on its sparkling shallows, always side by side. 
 He was so glad that no one knew his folly, that he 
 with his set bachelor ways, his ailments and tonics, 
 and milks and sodas, had imagined she could marry 
 him. 
 
 The two flitted away for a minute into the cold 
 outside. Nora, still on the stage, but very quiet now, 
 looked at him gravely. 
 
 “ What is this, Sandy ? . . . Thirty thousand 
 pounds . . . ! a mad freak of philanthropy which 
 we cannot allow, or a gift which you can afford.” 
 
 “ Can easily afford,” he replied quietly. 
 
 “You cheated me then,” she said, astonished and 
 evidently ill-pleased : “I — I — thought you were poor.” 
 
 “A poor heart, Miss Nora,” he said, with gentle 
 
348 trbe Stvastngs of Santn? 
 
 depression; “a rich man. You feared Graves with 
 his little income 1 I could buy and sell him and not 
 miss the money; but poor” — he dissected himself 
 mercilessly — “ because I am habitually mean, 
 habitually a miser.” 
 
 “ Mean — miserly — for shame, Sandy 1 Look at 
 those two and repeat it.” 
 
 “ Money I don’t miss — shares from which the 
 interest merely accumulates. That is my generosity 
 — and it was a wrench even then. Don’t laud me 
 for unpossessed gifts. Oh, another wire, Phillips ! — 
 business hails me on this morning.” 
 
 He tore it up, believing it wanted no answer. It 
 said the shares still fell — 24 now — and was from 
 Jones. He did not want these minute details, but 
 rather an assurance that he had got clear. 
 
 “ And as for taking it ” — he nodded towards the 
 two among the bare apple trees — “they must take 
 it.” 
 
 They seemed ready to — the dining-room rang with 
 their silly jokes. They waited on Sandy themselves. 
 Milk and soda? Evie mixed it and shot Phillips in 
 the eye with the soda-water, necessitating his pained 
 retreat. “ Gor lummne ! ” he said outside the door, 
 as he summoned Ellie. 
 
 “ Salad ? ” Neill helped it and dropped the 
 dressing on Sandy’s sleeve. But who could blame 
 them? Not Acland. He said, “Very careless of 
 you,” to his faithful servitor on his return, and 
 allowed Miss Catty to rub in the grease with her 
 pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 The two brought sunshine to the now gloomy day, 
 spread it over hot chops and cold beef, until Miss 
 Catty, who was sentimental, wiped her eyes with the 
 oil -and -vinegar -soaked pocket-handkerchief, and 
 
©f lRutn an£> Its Effect 349 
 
 finding it unpleasant, immediately quarrelled with 
 Miss Susie. 
 
 Standish and Graves were late, having walked 
 some distance to see a young horse. 
 
 The lovers went out after luncheon, absolutely 
 happy, oblivious of damp greyness, the whip of a 
 snow-laden wind ; to them it was soft June and gay 
 sunshine — our hearts make weather as our companions 
 make our world. 
 
 “ It makes one feel young to see those two.” 
 
 Acland stood in the littered hall, all the wrappings 
 of the Christmas presents piled high in a dusty heap. 
 
 “The elixir of youth.” Nora smiled, but her eyes 
 were sad. “ The Alchemists of old mocked the world, 
 and while fools paid gold for flagons of harmless 
 tinted waters — they meant love. It knows no limit 
 of age. One sees white-haired people smile at each 
 other as sweetly as boy and girl and fret if Darby 
 is late for tea, or Joan misses five minutes of the 
 morning walk. Don’t you feel like a fairy god- 
 mother, fraudulent man ? ” 
 
 Fraudulent ! He shivered. 
 
 “Does the word remind you of your business ?’* 
 she said mischievously. 
 
 “ Rather of the world,” he answered, noting his last 
 wire in his pocket-book. 
 
 “ Telegram, sir,” said Phillips, coming in. “ In 
 fact, three, sir. Miss Punch had no one to send 
 before.” 
 
 He opened them anxiously. They repeated the 
 same note — Jones did not understand — the shares 
 were falling, falling— -24 ; 22 \ ; 18; i6£. A sudden 
 flash of anxiety touched Acland. Could there have 
 been a mistake ? Could ? — he grew pale and catch- 
 ing up a cap, ran to the door. He must see Miss 
 
35° TTbe Straginss of 5 anb$ 
 
 Punch immediately. Graves’ motor stood at the 
 door. He eyed it with desire, wishing he could 
 drive; but he ran on. The high wind met him, 
 buffeting his tired little body and sweeping his 
 breath away with clutching, icy fingers — the road 
 to the village seemed endless. 
 
 Then a motor coughed behind him ; he saw 
 Phillips in the Panhard, driving with great ease — 
 Nora smiling in the back seat, a coat in her hands. 
 
 Phillips said he could drive, so we came on. Put 
 this on, Sandy.” 
 
 The car licked up the remaining half-mile with a 
 fiery tongue, and checked, throbbing, before Miss 
 Punch’s house. She was ensconced as a grocer 
 selling tea, but left a patient customer, and came 
 smirking to Sandy’s imperious call. The wire Sir 
 Edmund sent ! Oh, she had a note made, but she 
 recalled it because they argued over the first word. 
 
 “ Give— it was— which was the only sinse — give 
 rapid— Holy heaven ! was it wrong ? * 
 
 The stuffy shop, with its combined smell of bacon 
 and tea and candles, spun round, rocking ominously. 
 Acland held by the railing, his face white. He had 
 wired to Jones to buy up all this mine as the thing 
 commenced to fall — had confirmed the order to-day. 
 No wonder Jones sent records of the hourly slump. 
 He wondered dimly that so determined a buying had 
 not checked the fall ; it was apparently too rotten. 
 London’s financial day was over ; by Monday 
 morning he would be a ruined man. Holders 
 would have jumped to sell. Possibly, nay, pro- 
 bably, by now he controlled every available share 
 In the great swindle. 
 
 He could think, though the shop rocked. 
 
 M A wakeness he has, like me Aunt Mary Anne's 
 
®f IRwfn atto its Effect 351 
 
 cousin took in chapel* Wather, Miss Punch, me 
 dear, an' whisky, the crayther.” 
 
 The women buzzed about him, proffering kindly 
 help. A thick tumbler full of tepid water chinked 
 against his teeth. But he pulled himself together, 
 telling them he was all right. Every farthing he 
 possessed would go in this loss. A millionaire here ; 
 a small man in big speculations such as this. He 
 wired to Jones, writing with numbed fingers, know- 
 ing too well what the answer would be. No dream 
 of Utopian rest now, but a start again from the 
 bottofn, with neither health or energy. Jones would 
 probably have gone home to that villa in Surbiton, 
 where he lived the blameless, lifeless life of a city 
 clerk. He would receive no answer— that evening. 
 
 “ I’m afeared ” — Miss Punch's simper had given 
 way ; she forgot herself for the moment — “ ye didn't 
 mane to feed the craythers after all, sir. I asked Sir 
 Edmund, and he said 'twas one or th’ other.” 
 
 “ No ; I didn’t mean to feed them,” said Acland 
 with dry lips, “ and— Sir Edmund knew it.” 
 
 He went out then. Nora sprang up with a quick 
 exclamation. His face was mottled, blue and yellow 
 white, his breath uneven. 
 
 “ Is it much too late to get to England to-day ? " 
 he said dully. 
 
 “Impossible,” she said. “You can drive in to- 
 morrow — catch a midday, slow train. Oh ! what’s 
 wrong, Sandy.” 
 
 “ Bad news,” he answered, getting in : “ To-morrow 
 will do as well. I could do nothing until Monday. 
 No use to spend Sunday there hearing the 
 worst.” 
 
 He bore himself pluckily, trying to talk, but his 
 heart hammered in his ears ; his hands were clammy, 
 
35 * ftbe 5tra#!t08 of 5 anfc» 
 
 The world they rushed through receded dimly, and 
 leaden weights were laid about his feet. 
 
 Ruin ! The speculation had been gigantic. There 
 was no getting away from it, no creeping round 
 sheltered corners. It would absorb his life’s savings. 
 The thing was a pricked bubble, a panic. He knew 
 from a letter that morning. He had bought at 
 yesterday’s high prices ; he must sell out. Sell ! 
 What fool would buy ? 
 
 The car swung in at the gate, and halted before its 
 irate owner, now waiting upon the doorstep, his thin 
 face purple. 
 
 “ Knew exactly how to drive, Sir Edmund,” 
 apologised Phillips. “ Mr. Acland exceedingly 
 hurried and indisposed.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” Sir Edmund forgot the car. “ Ah ! any 
 mistake — Acland ? ” 
 
 “ One of yours.” Sandy looked at him, saw him 
 flinch. Graves’ face changed guiltily, and the little 
 man knew. “One of yours,” he repeated. “ I read 
 the wire which you took for me yesterday over to 
 you. It was important A mistake which may ruin 
 me,” he finished. 
 
 “ Ruin ! ” Graves shrugged his shoulders, turning 
 to Nora. “ He’s lost a tenner, no doubt He is the 
 meanest-spirited—” 
 
 But Nora was gone. 
 
 Mrs. levers, portly and befurred, was in the 
 drawing-room ; she crossed to meet Sandy, speaking 
 quickly. 
 
 “ I’ve done as you said,” she whispered. She was 
 the type of woman who whispers. “ But are you sure 
 there’s no mistake? Neill must marry money.” 
 
 Acland stared at her. £ 30 , 000 — a fortune to him 
 now, and out of reach of claimants. He had £$,000 
 
©f IRuin att& its Effect 
 
 353 
 
 settled on him by his father, now probably his whole 
 fortune. They could not blame him if he changed 
 his mind, or, at least, halved the sum. He hesitated, 
 but a door clanged ; merry voices sounded in the 
 hall. Then he looked up steadily ; whatever 
 happened, he would cheat the grasp-all misery of 
 two young lives. 
 
 “ I assure you,” he said, “that Miss Evie is the 
 owner of ^30,000. Fortunately I transferred it to 
 her some days ago. She is independent— Neill 
 the luckiest of men.” 
 
 Graves hearing, spoke sharply. 
 
 “What's that ? '' he asked. “ Where is Evie ? ” 
 
 Edmund Graves had done one or two mean things, 
 and the God of just dealings raised his hand and 
 struck. Mrs. levers, ignoring the months which were 
 past — the open secret of Graves' own suit, rustled 
 across and spoke. “ Thirty thousand, just as a gift 
 Eccentric. Fabulously rich, quite a fairy tale,” she 
 pattered quickly, rather thinking she had done it 
 herself. 
 
 Graves listened, lines deepening in his narrow 
 face. “Rich. This little, mean Cockney, who counted 
 pence and wrote on post-cards and saved in every 
 minor way. They had been enemies from the 
 commencement, had measured swords, with odds of 
 a hundred to one on the taller man ; and yet the 
 other, clumsy, no fighter, almost ridiculous, had scored 
 each point and thrust, claimed the applause and 
 bowed a victor. And though Graves did not guess 
 it then, a stricken victor, bleeding from a cruel wound 
 and triumphing over a greater opponent— self. He 
 was glad he had sent the wrong wire now. Evie 
 would have been assuredly his, if this fool had not 
 meddled. 
 
 & 
 
354 Ube Stra^inas of Sanbs 
 
 “Very charming, quite a romance ; unable to gain 
 himself, he endows a younger man. You're sure/ 1 
 Sir Edmund thrust once more, though knowing it to 
 be a mean stroke and hopeless, “ that he was clear 
 when he settled it — quite — sober." 
 
 The word reached Acland as a whip might, 
 rousing him. He walked across, a better actor than 
 he had believed himself to be, some papers in his 
 hand — his feet leaden — chill hands drawing him 
 downwards. 
 
 “ Keep these, Standish,” he said. “You're trustee, 
 you see ; yes, Mrs levers, whatever happens, Evie 
 has her fortune and her future. A very little thing 
 to me now— for — ” 
 
 The groping hands caught him, the people round 
 him receded, growing dim, all the mighty waters of 
 the world roared in his ears, and he sank down, down 
 to nothingness. 
 
 “ Telegraph for his own man, he's very bad. A 
 mental shock,” said little Dr. Magee, looking gravely 
 
 at the unconscious man. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 OF THE END OF THE CURE 
 
 “ Our life is rounded with a sleep ” 
 
 — The Tempest. 
 
 RUSTLE of quiet watchers round a still form, soft 
 sunshine filtering through lowered blinds. 
 
 “ Phillips — where am I ? — lift me.” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir.” And Phillips was scarcely aware 
 that as he said it he sobbed. 
 
 For two days Acland had lain unconscious, 
 raving, sometimes babbling of his loss, then of Evie, 
 of Sir Edmund's mistake, and back again to Jones 
 and the mine and the futility of hope. Hovering 
 with failing heart very close to the border over which 
 there is no recrossing. 
 
 He woke to see things dimly; a sensation of 
 people growing gradually into a picture — of Standish 
 appearing from nowhere, to growl, ‘‘Cheer up, Sandy !” 
 in gloomy tones, and appearing to suffer from cold, 
 for he blew his nose — of someone half-seen slipping 
 out, and of the sunshine striking a quivering bar of 
 dust across the blazing fire. 
 
 He woke gradually, wondering where he was, how 
 he had left the hall and come up here ? Then by 
 degrees — blest mortal who has not felt it — blurred 
 senses clearing, of the knowledge of active trouble, 
 the sudden, dull weight of the misfortune mercy had 
 
 355 
 
35<s Uhc ©tracings of 5 an&$ 
 
 allowed us to forget crushing us roughly with cruel 
 
 grip. 
 
 “ How long have I been here ? ” He stared at the 
 sunlight “ It must be Sunday morning. Phillips — 
 my things — I must catch the mail — I must get over 
 to see to things/’ his voice trailed weakly. 
 
 Grattan’s figure grew into the picture suddenly. 
 
 “ Never saw such a chap to overdo things, Alex,” 
 he said easily. “ First you rested with the rabbits 
 and the sheep, next you fit in steeplechases, love- 
 affairs, and all kinds of unhealthy things. Eat this, 
 and don’t worry.” 
 
 He thrust a spoonful of jelly between unwilling lips. 
 
 From somewhere, seemingly a long way off, Miss 
 Susie spoke. 
 
 “The Brahma hen, but you’re welcome to her, 
 Sandy, she was four years old.” 
 
 “ I must get up, write, wire ; I must be in London 
 by Monday.” 
 
 This was Tuesday. 
 
 “ I tell you, you mustn’t worry ; you must sleep.” 
 
 Grattan bent over the restless man, and gave him 
 something to drink. It was dark and bitter; but 
 after a few minutes the picture blurred again, peace 
 crept up softly, wrapping tortured senses in her 
 grey folds. Acland slept quietly. 
 
 “It’s been touch and go,” said Grattan; “ but I 
 think he’ll do now. He has overdone it, and there 
 has been a great shock. The Deep Rand mine has 
 absolutely smashed, and from his mutterings he 
 appears to be concerned in it. It wasn’t like Alex, 
 for he is very shrewd. If he doesn’t collapse now, 
 we’ll pull him through. Of course, if he insists on 
 going back to London, I’ll wash my hands of it 
 He’ll be dead in six months.” 
 
®f tbe Bub of tbe Cure 
 
 357 
 
 Peace dwelt with the troubled man for some 
 hours ; he woke too weak to think, ate more 
 concentrated Brahma, and slept again until next 
 morning. 
 
 “ Touch and go, Alex my friend,” said Grattan, 
 coming to see him. Phillips had slept on the wide 
 rep-covered sofa. “You try yourself a bit highly; 
 if your general health had not greatly improved, 
 •.you’d be gone now. Yes, you may get up and look 
 into your affairs if you like. It will probably worry 
 you less than thinking of them. I am fascinated 
 with this home of yours, and sorry I must leave 
 to-day. Don’t thank me, old chap ; every life gained 
 is a throw to death for me in our never - ending 
 wrestle.” 
 
 Acland got up, swaying on unsteady feet, gaining 
 strength as he dressed. Then fortified by eggs and 
 milk, he crept out to the garden, ensconced by Phillips 
 in the greenhouse, with rugs and cushions and a table 
 for his letters. 
 
 It was Wednesday morning. Hope lay dead 
 behind him. His papers told him of the gigantic 
 bubble, its bursting, and the day’s panic ; of men 
 rushing to sell, but no word, curiously, of his mad 
 buying. It was another fraud, worked to make 
 someone’s fortune, more carefully planned and 
 elaborate than usual, thus further reaching. He 
 read bitterly, laying his neat books on the table, 
 writing careful calculations. . . . He was a ruined 
 man. 
 
 Phillips came with hot broth and slips of toast. 
 His expression was uneasy, because he purposed 
 telling his master that he contemplated matrimony, 
 that his hitherto catholic taste had crystallised into 
 one love. Hope led him to think that Acland might 
 
35S 
 
 TTbe Stra^tnQS of Sanbs 
 
 remain in Ireland, retaining him, with Ellie disposed 
 somewhere — and if not, Elbe’s grey eyes were upon 
 a public-house in Tulloun, and Phillips thought he 
 might hire out horses. 
 
 “ Thank you.” Acland looked at the broth. 
 ‘‘Which now, Phillips?” he asked, smiling faintly. 
 
 “ Speckled cock chicken, sir ; breeding uncertain, 
 therefore no particular sorrow, sir.” 
 
 Phillips laid down the broth and cleared his 
 throat. 
 
 <f Phillips ”— Acland docketed and dated telegrams 
 carefully with languid fingers — “ you — you must look 
 out for another place.” 
 
 “ Sir ! Have I offended you ? ” said Phillips, in 
 astonishment. 
 
 “ I shan’t require a man now,” and Acland, after 
 a pause, explained his ruin. “ I must start again in 
 some small way, but I’ll see you get a good place, 
 Phillips — and there must be no word of this here — 
 no one must know.” 
 
 Phillips proffered sympathy — then shyly he con- 
 fided his hopes concerning Ellie, and hers concerning 
 the public-house, and both as to matrimony. 
 
 a Indefinitely postponed now, sir,” he finished 
 quietly. 
 
 “Postponed. Why, it will suit very well,” said 
 Acland. 
 
 Phillips stood stiffly. 
 
 “ Beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t wish to leave. 
 I venture to suggest you would do badly without 
 help, sir — I — I — can stay extremely cheaply — save it 
 in folding your clothes, sir— but — I couldn’t leave you 
 now, sir.” 
 
 The sun shone outside, so it could not have been 
 rain on the glass which blurred Acland’s sight. The 
 
©f the EnD of fbe Cute 
 
 359 
 
 god money, worshipped by him for nearly thirty 
 years — even his valet, a merely suave, perfectly 
 trained machine, could despise it. 
 
 “ Phillips — I — can’t — Oh, go to the devil, 
 
 Phillips,” grated Acland huskily. 
 
 “Certainly, sir. Decline to leave you , sir,” said 
 Phillips, and fled. 
 
 A faint wind stirred outside, rustling the 
 branches ; the earth was bare and brown, but in the 
 sheltered warmth green noses peered up, bulbs, 
 telling the earth waked to her spring . . . the hills 
 towered above the high walls bleak and black, 
 frowning down on him. He left the telegrams ; 
 sitting with loosely clasped hands looking out. 
 Smutty streets and close rooms would soon be his 
 portion. 
 
 Nora Hartland came out to him, she had met 
 Phillips returning in much grief and had been 
 implored by him to go to the master. 
 
 “ Oh, Sandy,” she said, “ what a fright you gave us 
 all — and what are you worrying over there ? ” 
 
 “ Can you keep a secret ? ” he said — and told her. 
 
 “ But,” she said quickly, “ even if it is so bad, 
 there is the ^30,000 you gave to Evie — she can’t take 
 it now.” 
 
 Sandy supped his chicken-broth. Yes, this money 
 was riches enough in itself to start on — but — he 
 thought of sudden ruin which would be worse than 
 his own. 
 
 “Nora,” he said, “will you give me your 
 promise. Evie must not know. I may have some 
 money — not be so deeply hit — in any case, I shall 
 leave here this week — still as a millionaire. Promise 
 me. 
 
 She stood looking intently at him. The others 
 
3 6° TLhc StragtnQS of 5ant>£ 
 
 called him mean, had laughed at his foolish, saving 
 ways — would call him mean still and never know. 
 
 “I — promise — ” she said at last. “For I believe 
 you would rather I did so.” 
 
 “ And don't look tragic — ” he smiled at her. “ I 
 have brains — friends — I shall work up again — I was 
 thinking of staying here altogether, but it was not 
 to be.” 
 
 “Keep him,” Grattan had said. “Work to him 
 will mean breakdown and death. Get him out of 
 business. He’s drawn a thread too tightly.” 
 
 “ Stay here, Sandy. So little suffices here,” she 
 said softly. 
 
 “ I meant to take a house. I even thought that 
 perhaps — as I was rich — someone — might keep me 
 company ” — his eyes meeting hers were wistful as 
 the setters at his feet. 
 
 “Like you for your money — no, for yourself, 
 Sandy — for yourself.” 
 
 “ Oh, you — they couldn’t,” he said. 
 
 She came close to him, pleading. 
 
 “ See! my godmother has left me a little legacy — 
 come to Castleknock. It’s me — I know it’s me. For 
 a time I thought it was Evie, but lately I’ve known 
 it wasn’t. We could be true companions, Sandy. 
 So little will do.” 
 
 There came suddenly to a lonely heart — peace. 
 He knew he could let the world go, for someone 
 cared for him. He had thought his money might 
 make him acceptable, and here was bright-faced 
 Nora pleading to a pauper. 
 
 “ Oh — I am too content to stay—” he said, and 
 took her hands in his. “ They’ll laugh at you,” he 
 added. “ I’m only a middle-aged, miserly duffer.” 
 
 They saw as much happiness as Neill and Evie as 
 
©f tbe i£n£> of tbe Cure 
 
 361 
 
 they looked out across the bare garden. Hope 
 perched on bare apple boughs — alighted beside them 
 on rotting greenhouse stages. 
 
 He went on with his telegrams then, saying he 
 wanted to get it over, laughing at the miser he must 
 pose as in futurity to keep Evie in the dark. 
 
 One lay beneath the pile, running in cypher as the 
 other : “ Couldn’t act on your orders in face of panic 
 — writing — ” the date was Saturday, despatched at 
 12.30. 
 
 Writing — with a gasp Acland turned to his letters, 
 searching for one addressed by his clerk. It was 
 there. Mr. Jones grumbled and regretted, but was 
 firm. He really couldn’t do it. In fact, before 
 receiving the second wire he had sold. He awaited 
 dismissal patiently, but reminded his employer that 
 it would have “been sheer madness.” 
 
 Acland was weak, the world began to flare and 
 rock again ; the remains of the chicken-broth flung 
 in his face by Phillips, who had come for the tray, 
 revived him. 
 
 “ I v — Phillips doubled for the doctor — “ I, Nora ? 
 You were willing to take a poor man with two 
 hundred a year.” 
 
 “ Riches — paid quarterly,” she said stoutly. 
 
 “ I’m a fraud. I’ve lost nothing — Jones never 
 acted on my instructions. I’m exceedingly rich 
 after all.” He gave her the letter, and stood up, 
 holding by her, for his brain reeled. 
 
 The arrival of Phillips and Grattan with brandy, of 
 Aunt Catty with salts, and Aunt Susie with feathers 
 and matches, brought them back to everyday life. 
 Sandy was treated to a little of everything, put back 
 in his chair. But happiness is a skilled doctor : the 
 flutter at his heart died away, and after a few minutes, 
 
362 ZTbe ©tracings of SanDs 
 
 he unfolded the story of his supposed ruin and its 
 inaccuracy, and was perhaps the happiest little man 
 in the world. 
 
 Then, this time shyly, with age dropping away and 
 youth springing up in a new well of joy, he told them 
 the rest of the tale, Nora, hanging her pretty head, 
 standing beside. The wave of congratulation was 
 trying, since it included many kisses. Then with 
 much tact Aunt Catty swept the party away, and he 
 and Nora were left alone. 
 
 Wistfully happy, looking out across the dark world 
 — grudging the lost years a little, wishing them back 
 again — humanity always wants a little more than it 
 gets. Nora also thought she would regret the 
 
 bailiffs. 
 
 “ Phillips.” Sandy spoke to his man before lunch. 
 “ I find I shall not have to part with you — you know 
 the circumstances — but if you wish, Phillips, you 
 shall have that house you spoke of for a wedding 
 present, and Holy Robin to start your stud.” 
 
 “ I should prefer to remain with you, sir,” said 
 Phillips firmly. “ Plenty of houses at Castleknock, 
 sir. And — ” Phillips coughed — “ should be proud to 
 exercise Robin — at all near meets, sir.” 
 
 “Very well, Phillips.” Sandy spoke quietly. 
 “And — send these wires — one unfortunately is 
 sixpence-halfpenny. Here’s the money.” 
 
 “ Certainly, sir. Thank you, sir.” Phillips spoke 
 woodenly, but his face was very human ... his eyes 
 shone. 
 
 Sandy Acland, his strayings over : a rest - cure 
 lying permanently in front of him, went down to 
 luncheon. 
 
 THE END 
 
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 are for sale, each copy numbered and signed. 
 
 A large proportion of the copies available having already been ordered in 
 advance it is desirable that early application should be made for the remain- 
 ing copies , as priority will be given according to dates of orders. 
 
 I 
 
Mandalay 
 
 and other Cities of Burma 
 
 By V. C. SCOTT O’CONNOR 
 
 Author of “ The Silken Hast,” etc. 
 
 In one handsome volume , 400 pages, super royal 8 vo, cloth richly gilt 
 
 and gilt top, 21 s. net 
 
 With 8 coloured plates and about 200 other illustrations ; the 
 whole printed on fine art paper 
 
 In this work the author aims at interesting his readers in Burma’s 
 past history. The whole story of a country and a people as fascinating 
 as any in the world, is told here in a manner thoroughly befitting the 
 subject ; with a light, accurate touch, and in prose that is at once 
 limpid and full of feeling and colour. The volume is illustrated with 
 coloured plates from paintings by Saya Chon, a native Burmese artist, 
 and from the beautiful originals of Mr. J. R. Middleton ; besides which 
 there are about 200 pictures mostly from photographs specially taken 
 by the author, who knows the country so thoroughly that his book is 
 not only unusually informative, but is inspired with the sympathy of 
 intimate acquaintance. 
 
 Clubs and Clubmen 
 
 By Major ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 
 
 Author of “The Rome Express,” etc., etc. 
 
 In demy 8 vo, cloth gilt and gilt top, 10 s. 6d. net 
 
 This is a very comprehensive work written by one who has special 
 knowledge of his subject. Major Griffiths deals with clubs of all sorts 
 that have existed during the last two or three centuries, including not 
 only the famous early gambling clubs, such as “ Nells,” “ White’s,” 
 ‘‘The Cocoa Tree,” and “ Almacks,” but also all the well known 
 service, sporting, social and political clubs, and those connected with 
 literature, art and the drama. He describes the life of the clubs and 
 tells of the celebrated men and women who frequented or were 
 associated with them, while innumerable anecdotes brighten his pages. 
 Interesting chapters are also given on the administration of clubs, club 
 ways and club treasures, the whole work forming a complete and 
 interesting record which every clubman should read and afterwards 
 place on his bookshelf. 
 
 2 
 
A most interesting and important 
 volume of Recollections 
 
 Passages from the 
 
 Past 
 
 By His Grace the DUKE OF ARGYLL 
 
 Author of “ A Trip to the Tropics,” etc. 
 
 In two volumes , demy 8 vo, buckram gilt and gilt top , 24s. net 
 
 With two photogravure frontispieces ; numerous illustrations, 
 many from the author’s own drawings, and 
 several facsimile letters from 
 celebrated men. 
 
 In this work the Duke of Argyll (so many years Marquis of Lome) 
 relates the history of his distinguished career, and records his 
 recollections of the remarkable people with whom he has come ih 
 contact. His reminiscences extend back to his Eton and Cambridge 
 days and to early visits to the Continent. The account of his Canadian 
 experiences — while he was Governor General of the Dominion — 
 naturally occupy an important position in the work. Some of the most 
 interesting pages in the book are devoted to the author’s views on our 
 policy in Uganda. As an author, poet and musician, the Duke has met 
 most of the leading literary men, painters and composers of his day, and 
 he has a great many stories to tell of them. The Duke of Argyll is a 
 delightful raconteur , and these volumes abound in excellent anecdotes. 
 Among the illustrations will be found some interesting pictures from the 
 author's pencil, as well as a number of portraits and views. 
 
 3 
 
A magnificent volume of travel and sport in Africa 
 with wonderful pictures from photographs 
 from life of the fauna of the 
 country. 
 
 In Wildest Africa 
 
 By C. G. SCHILLINGS 
 
 Author of “ With Flashlight and Rifle in Equatorial East Africa” 
 
 Translated by FREDERIC WHYTE 
 
 In two volumes , super royal 8 vo , cloth gilt and gilt top , 24s • net 
 
 Printed throughout on the finest English art paper 
 
 With about 300 Illustrations direct from the author’s flashlight 
 and other photographs 
 
 In his recent book, “With Flashlight and Rifle,” Herr Schillings 
 won for himself a name throughout the world as the author of a 
 most stirring book of sport* and adventure in Equatorial East Africa. 
 This new book will be found in every way as interesting as his 
 former work, which made such a sensation both in Europe and 
 America. “A Vanishing Feature of the Veit” is the title of one 
 of the chapters in Herr Schillings’s new book — a chapter dealing 
 with giraffes. But it is not merely the giraffe that is vanishing ; 
 the entire wild life of Equatorial Africa is doomed to the same 
 extinction that has overcome that of Cape Colony, unless, indeed, 
 our author’s “ cry of warning ” — given in this work as in its pre- 
 decessor — should prove more efficacious than he himself has ever 
 hoped. Failing recourse on the part of the authorities to very 
 stringent measures for the protection of African w T ild life, lions, 
 elephants, rhinoceroses, hippopotami, buffaloes, and antelopes will 
 soon have vanished from the Dark Continent. This certainly con- 
 tributes in n© small degree to the fascination of Herr Schillings’s 
 pages. 
 
 4 
 
The Life and Work of a Great Traveller 
 
 George Grenfell 
 and the Congo 
 
 By Sir HARRY JOHNSTON, G.C.M.Q., K.C.B., etc. 
 
 Author of 
 
 " The Uganda Protectorate ” (4th thousand), “ Liberia : the Negro Republic in West 
 
 Africa,” etc. 
 
 With over 300 Illustrations and several Maps 
 In two volumes , royal 8vo , cloth gilt and gilt top , 30s. net 
 
 The late Rev. George Grenfell, who died just a year ago on the 
 Upper Congo, was, after Stanley, the leading explorer of the Congo 
 Basin : he also explored the Cameroons thirty years ago. He was 
 a gold medalist of the Royal Geographical and a member of many other 
 learned societies, which have acknowledged his achievements as an 
 explorer. Sir Harry Johnston is specially qualified to write on the life 
 and work of Mr. Grenfell, whom he met some years ago on the Congo, 
 as he has been a Consul in the regions where the late explorer’s mission 
 was at work, besides which he has had much to do as an official 
 with the Baptist mission in the Cameroons. The diaries and papers of 
 Mr. Grenfell have been placed in Sir Harry Johnston’s hands ; he has 
 also been entrusted with all the information that the Missionary Society 
 could obtain from the stores of information of Mr. Grenfell and of his 
 colleagues on the Congo. Sir Harry has therefore been able to produce 
 a comprehensive work on that little-known region. Mr. Grenfell was an 
 expert photographer ; of the illustrations in the book at least 250 of them 
 will be from Mr. Grenfell’s beautiful pictures, besides which there will 
 be contributions from other sources. 
 
 This book contains a careful summing up of recent evidence for and 
 againt the Congo Free State, together with some interesting and never 
 before published remarks on the same from the diaries of Mr. Grenfell. 
 The growing interest in the future of the Congo Free State is likely to 
 attract considerable attention to this book with its beautiful and novel 
 illustrations and its first hand evidence on the subject. 
 
 5 
 
In the Strange South Seas 
 
 By BEATRICE GRIMSHAW 
 
 Author of “ From Fiji to the Cannibal Islands*” etc. 
 
 In demy 8i>o, buckram gilt and gilt top , 16s. net 
 
 With 56 illustrations on art paper principally from the author’s 
 
 photographs 
 
 This record of a woman’s experiences in the South Seas is of the 
 greatest interest. Miss Grimshaw writes well, is a close observer and 
 an intrepid traveller. The bulk of her book deals with the Islands of 
 the Southern Seas much less known than Samoa, where however, she 
 spent some time. Indeed so remote are some of them that in Miss 
 Grimshaw they saw their first white woman visitor. Amongst the 
 islands visited, in some of which Miss Grimshaw made a lengthened 
 stay, were Tahiti, Tonga (Friendly Islands), Niud (Savage Island), 
 Raratonga, Atiu, Mangaia, Penrhyn and its Leper Island, Aitutaki 
 Mauke, Manuwai (Hervey Island), Mitiaro, Rakahanga, Malden (the 
 guano island), and Manihiki. The marvellous hot lakes and geysers 
 of New Zealand also attracted the author and some space is devoted to 
 them, whilst her life on the schooner “Duchess” provides excellent 
 material, and is not the least interesting part of the work. The author’s 
 description of the life, customs and habits of the natives are not only 
 graphic but also marked by an acute perception, and the whole book 
 with its freshness of a woman’s impressions makes admirable reading. 
 
 The Love Letters of 
 Mary Wotlstonecraft 
 
 With an introduction by Roger Ingpen. 
 
 Reprinted from the First Edition. 
 
 In small crown 8vo, 35. 6d« net 
 
 Beautifully printed on antiaue paper, and with photogravure 
 
 portrait 
 
 These love letters of an Irish woman first saw the light in the 
 author’s posthumous works, edited by her husband, William Godwin. 
 They were not written for publication, and as such they must be regarded 
 as the most passionate, pathetic love letters that have ever been printed. 
 
 6 
 
The Annals of a great, noble family 
 
 The House of Howard 
 
 By the late GERALD BRENAN 
 
 Author of “A History of the House of Percy” 
 
 AND 
 
 EDWARD PHILLIPS STATHAM 
 (Retired Commander R.N.) 
 
 Author of “The Story of the Britannia” 
 
 In two volumes, demy Qvo, buckram gilt and gilt top , 24s. net 
 
 With 2 photogravure frontispieces and 32 portraits and illustrations 
 
 on art paper. 
 
 The great race of Howard has stood at the head of England’s 
 nobility for centuries, and on the whole, has held that proud position 
 worthily and well. Little excuse need be offered, therefore, for placing 
 before the English people the first complete history of what may be 
 justly termed the principal native house. The present work is far from 
 being modelled upon the lines usually followed by family chronicles, 
 which, with their voluminious genealogical and heraldic details, their 
 pages bristling with needless notes and references, their dearth of 
 interesting narrative, and their vast granaries of appended information, 
 seemed fitted for the perusal of the antiquary, or the private gratification 
 of the family most concerned rather than for the entertainment of 
 a busy outside world. There are very many readers of history who do 
 not happen to have been born either heralds or Howards, and who, 
 while desirous of learning the true story of this singularly illustrious 
 race, and what it has done to make or mar the fortunes of the nation, 
 have neither time nor inclination to pursue those objects through such 
 deep and wide morasses of erudition. The authors have endeavoured to 
 write the story of the Howards in a fashion suited to such tastes. The 
 magnitude of the subject, even when divested of unnecessary trappings, 
 has been their chief obstacle, for the Howard family tree is a true 
 Britsh oak, widespreading, and of many sturdy branches. Within 
 the limits at their disposal they have striven to produce a brief but 
 faithful account of the rise and progress of an honoured name, setting 
 forth, without fear or favour, the darker as well as the lighter pages 
 of the chronicle. 
 
 The two volumes are illustrated with a large number of portraits 
 from original paintings chiefly in possession of the various member? 
 of the Howard family. 
 
 7 
 
Mr. H. Noel Williams’s new biographical work 
 
 A Princess of Intrigue : 
 
 Madame de Longueville and her Times 
 By H. NOEL WILLIAMS 
 
 Author of “ Five Fair Sisters,” etc. 
 
 In 2 vols ., demy 8vo , cloth gilt and gilt top , 24s. net 
 
 With 32 full-page illustrations and photogravure frontispieces 
 
 In this work, Mr. Noel Williams, whose charming book, “Five 
 Fair Sisters,” met with so well-deserved a success, traces the eventful 
 career of the beautiful and accomplished Anne Genevieve de Bourbon, 
 Duchesse de Longueville, daughter of Henri de Bourbon, Prince 
 de Conde, and sister of the great Conde. The period — the last years 
 of Louis XIlI’s reign and the early part of that of le Grand Monarque 
 — is one of the most fascinating in French history. Mazarin, the 
 great Conde, Cardinal de Retz, the Due de la Rochefoucauld, 
 Turenne, the beautiful Duchesse de Ch&tillon and de Montbazon, 
 the intriguing Madame de Chevieux, in fact nearly all the great 
 figures of that time play a part in the story, and are presented with 
 picturesque understanding. Madame de Longueville’s early years, 
 her responsibility for the fatal duel between Maurice de Coligny and 
 the Due de Guise, her visit to the Congress of Munster, her passionate 
 attachment to La Rochefoucauld, to further whose interests she 
 engaged in the intrigue against Mazarin and the Court, her 
 adventurous career during the W ars of the Fronde, her conversion, 
 and her protection of the Jansenists and Port Royal, are dealt with 
 in a highly attractive manner, and the book is one which cannot fail 
 to appeal strongly to both the student of history and the general 
 reader. 
 
 8 
 
The Amateur Motorist 
 
 By MAX PEMBERTON 
 
 Motoring Editor of the “ Sphere." 
 
 In demy 8 vo, cloth gilt and gilt top , 12s. 6d. net 
 
 With a large number of illustrations 
 
 This is a comprehensive work upon the pastime of Motoring, and is 
 chiefly addressed to the amateur. It is the result of ten years 
 experience with many makes of cars. Those who own and those who 
 desire to own a car will be wise to peruse it. Mr. Pemberton recites 
 many of his own adventures upon the road. He tells the amateur how 
 to buy and sell a car, how to look after it, how to drive it. He gives 
 sound advice about touring abroad and incidentally glances at the cars 
 of some of the leading makers. The whole work will be profusely 
 illustrated. It will also contain much pleasant reminiscence. Among 
 other subjects Mr. Pemberton will discuss : — 
 
 The Motorist of Yesterday 
 
 The Purchase of a Car 
 
 Chauffeurs 
 
 The Care of the Car 
 
 The Sale of the Car 
 
 Luggage and Luggage Carrying 
 
 France 
 
 Italy 
 
 The English Inn 
 The Motor Bicycle 
 Motor Maxims 
 
 The Motorist of Tomorrow 
 The Driving of the Car 
 The Upkeep of the Car 
 Some Cars of our Own Time 
 The Body of the Car 
 Touring Abroad 
 Germany 
 
 Touring in England 
 The Small Car 
 The Tri-Car 
 The Motor Clubs 
 
 New edition of a Golfing Manual by the Open Ladies’ 
 
 Champion of 1907. 
 
 Ladies’ Golf 
 
 By MAY HEZLET 
 
 Open Ladies’ Champion, 1899, 1902 and 1907 
 With 33 illustrations from instantaneous photographs 
 In cloth , richly gilt , 6s. net. 
 
 To this edition the Author has added a long supplemental chapter bringing 
 the book down-to-date. 
 
 9 
 
Lord Craven and 
 the Queen of Hearts 
 
 By NORREYS CORNELL 
 
 In two vols., demy Svo., cloth gilt and gilt top , 24s. net . 
 
 With numerous Illustrations. 
 
 This is the story of William, Earl of Craven, and Elizabeth, Queen 
 of Bohemia, the daughter of the Scots’ King, James the First of 
 England. She was born the year that first saw the ‘Taming of the 
 Shrew,” he, the English tailor’s son, entered the world between the 
 first and the second part of “ Don Quixote.” She saw her father 
 ascend the English throne, her brother lose it, and her nephew juggled 
 back to it ; her lover (for, contented or not, Craven was her lover) lived 
 so long that he saw not only her father on that throne, but yet lingered 
 on the stage when her nephew’s son-in-law filled it, and it was clear 
 that her own grandson would follow him ; had he survived a few more 
 months he might have hailed the grandson as despot of Hanover. 
 Elizabeth had less in common with her grandson, George the First, 
 than with her grandmother, Mary Stuart. Only too faithfully did she 
 fulfil Ben Jonson’s prophecy that she 
 
 “ might call 
 
 The world to war and make it hazard a \1 
 Its valour for her beauty,” 
 
 for if the thirty years’ war can be laid to any one person’s charge 
 Elizabeth must bear it. Of all the paladins, princely and noble, who 
 hazarded their valour for her beauty but one survived her, faithful Will 
 Craven, who, more than a generation after her death, yet lived in the 
 days he had loved and fought for the Queen of Hearts. 
 
 By the late Lady Arabella Romilly 
 
 The Coming Dawn 
 
 and other Poems 
 
 by LADY ARABELLA ROMILLY 
 
 In large crown 8vo, bound in half buckram , with photogravure 
 
 frontispiece , 6s. net 
 
 This collected edition of Lady Arabella Romilly’s poems will be 
 welcomed by many who have become familiar with her poetry in the 
 “ Lady’s Realm,” “ Westminster Gazette” and other periodicals. 
 
 10 
 
Pcrdita 
 
 A Romance in Biography 
 
 By STANLEY V. MAKOWER 
 
 Author of “The Mirror of Music,” “ Cecilia,” etc. 
 
 In one volume , demy 8 v 0 j cloth gilt and gilt top , 16 s. net . 
 
 Fully illustrated with Portraits. 
 
 A romantic narrative of the career of Mary Robinson, the beautiful 
 and ill-starred lady whose portraits in the Wallace collection excite the 
 curiosity and sympathy of numerous visitors to the famous gallery. 
 Married while still a child — she passed through all the vicissitudes of 
 wealth, poverty, obscurity, and brilliant but fatal recognition as an 
 actress, drawing upon herself the attention of the fashionable world at 
 Ranelagh and Vauxhall. After the birth of a daughter, and a period of 
 distress in a debtors’ prison, she appeared as Juliet, and later as Perdita, 
 when her beauty and talents won for her the affections of the Heir 
 Apparent. “ Prince Florizel ” (as the unruly son of George III was 
 called) loved, cheated and deserted her, and her last days were saddened 
 by disease and misfortune. “ Perdita” wrote plays, poems, novels and 
 her own memoirs. She not only possessed considerable literary gifts, 
 but she was warmly admired by Fox, Sheridan, Garrick, Reynolds, 
 Romney, and many others among the great figures in English history 
 during the last half of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 The Standard Operas 
 
 By GEORGE P. UPTON 
 
 A new and much enlarged edition of a work that has run through 
 
 many earlier editions 
 
 In small crown Svo 500 pages, 5 s. net 
 With 150 portrait illustrations 
 
 An earlier book by Mr. Upton with the above title, has been 
 recognised for some time past as the best existing guide to the Operas. 
 This new edition has been so much enlarged as to render it a new work, 
 while the addition of so large a number of illustrations greatly enhance 
 the value and interest of the book. 
 
 IT 
 
“ A fascinating volume. To find out how absorbing the 
 book is, it is necessary to take it up and begin to read. After 
 that there is but one stopping place— the last page.” 
 
 Nearest the Pole 
 
 By Commander R. E. PEARY 
 
 Author of “Northward over the Great Ice” 
 
 With an introduction by President Rooseveldt, and with 90 
 illustrations from a collection of 1,200 of the 
 Author’s photographs, and with 
 coloured plate, maps, &c. 
 
 In crown 4 to, buckram , gilt and gilt top , £1 is. net 
 
 A book which should be in every library, school and home. 
 WHAT THE PRESS SAYS: 
 
 “ Profoundly interesting. The volume is finely illustrated with 
 photographs of exceptional interest and merit. It will long remain a 
 Polar classic.” — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 “ Before its amazing interest and absolute sincerity of purpose the 
 most sensational fiction must hide its diminished head.” 
 
 — Illustrated London News. 
 
 “ A tale of indomitable endeavour, of alertness by day and night. 
 The thrilling story is illustrated by a number of vivid photographs 
 admirably reproduced.” — Punch. 
 
 29th YEAR OF ISSUE. 
 
 The Year’s Art, 1908 
 
 Compiled by A. C. R. CARTER 
 
 A concise Epitome of all matters relating to the Arts of Painting, Sculpture, 
 Engraving and Architecture, and to Schools of Design, which have 
 occurred during the year 1907, together with information 
 respecting the events of the year 1908. 
 
 In crown 8 vo, cloth, 550 pages of letterpress, with full-page 
 illustrations. 3 s. 6 d. net. 
 
 “Absolutely indispensable to all who are interested in art. It is 
 in fact, the artist’s Whitaker.” — Tribune. 
 
 12 
 
Queen Anne and her Court 
 
 By P. F. WILLIAM RYAN 
 
 In demy 8 vo, cloth gilt and gilt top, with many illustrations , 16s. net 
 
 The tragedy of the emotions that made up the life of Anne Stuart 
 and which hurried her to an early grave will be depicted in this 
 biography. All the children of James II were born to a heritage of 
 sorrow ; but none suffered as did Anne, and her cross was not the less 
 crushing because one half of its burden was the weight of her own 
 transgressions, while the other half was made up of a long series of 
 domestic misfortunes whose bitterness can only be fully realised by 
 those who themselves have wept by the graves of their children. 
 Political and religious problems must have their place in a biography 
 of Anne. But in a study that would reveal the heart of the woman 
 herself, the personages who touched more or less intimately the circle 
 of her life are more illuminating than political theories or religious 
 tenets. The Princess was what she was because all the belles and 
 beaux, the soldiers and the statesmen, the parsons and the priests 
 of her day were what they were. If only giants in intellect can rise 
 above the cross of mental vision engendered by environment then the 
 Princess Anne never had a chance and censure of her deficiencies 
 must ever melt into pity. She will be seen in these pages a gay and 
 irresponsible maid at the court of Charles II, a consumnate actress 
 at the court of James II. Anne’s marriage was fruitful in every 
 disappointment that could wither the heart of a woman. The history 
 of those long years consecrated to motherhood is a history of tears. 
 But the darkest chapter of every human story has its contrast of light 
 relief. It was so in Anne’s relations with her friends and favourites, 
 and this comedy, lost alas! upon the Queen, will emerge in these pages. 
 The history of Anne as a queen is a story that touches so many points 
 of human interest that literature has far from exhausted its riches, 
 and a biography that aims at throwing into relief the perplexities and 
 desolation of a woman whose diadem was an emblem of mourning 
 needs no other apology than a faithful pourtrayal. 
 
 The Allen Raine Birthday Booh 
 
 Choice thoughts for every day in the year extracted 
 from the Novels of this famous Author 
 
 In crown 1 6mo, cloth gilt , daintily printed, is. 6d. 
 also in various leather bindings 
 
 With original drawings pourtraying the heroines of the Novels 
 
 %* Allen Raine’s novels have become so immensely popular that this 
 little book is sure of a very wide welcome among her hundreds of 
 thousands of readers. 
 
 13 
 
A book of vital interest 
 
 Baby Toilers 
 
 By OLIVE CHRISTIAN MALVERY 
 
 (Mrs. Archibald Mackirdy) 
 
 Author of “The Soul Market.” 
 
 In crown 8vo } cloth , 2s, 6d. net 
 
 Mrs. Archibald Mackirdy has, in “ Baby Toilers,” produced a book 
 which in vital interest may almost be said to outrival the book that has 
 made such a sensation in Great Britain and America. From Royalty 
 and the Prime Minister and the poor themselves “The Soul Market ” 
 received the most profound attention. It has been reviewed favourably 
 by almost the entire British Press. “ Baby Toilers ” will reach a public 
 in deep sympathy with the heart and work of the writer, and if it induces 
 some practical reform in existing conditions, its mission will have been 
 more fruitful even than that of “The Soul Market,” which, among 
 other things, has inspired a scheme for providing a decent and cheap 
 night’s shelter to homeless women and girls in London. 
 
 “ ENGLAND’S OWN JUNGLE.” 
 
 Fourth large edition now on sale 
 
 The Soul Market 
 
 By OLIVE CHRISTIAN MALVERY 
 
 (Mrs. Archibald Mackirdy) 
 
 Author of ‘‘ The Heart of Things,” “ With Our Aliens at Home and Abroad,” 
 “The Fool’s Devotion,” etc. 
 
 In crown 8vo , cloth gilt } 6s. 
 
 With Illustrations. 
 
 Some Extracts from Opinions of the Press : 
 
 “ Her book is more interesting than any novel, for there are life- 
 stories on every page. It is like a novelist’s sketch book — full of 
 suggestive incidents and outlines of characters, anecdotes, epigrams, 
 out-of-the-way-facts. Humour and pity, tragedy and mirth, tread in 
 each other’s steps. I prophesy that it will be read and talked about a 
 great deal.” — Evening News. 
 
 One cannot lay down this book without realising in some degree 
 what its compilation must have cost the author. Feelings of wonder, 
 admiration, and gratitude surge alternately through the mind as the 
 experiences of the writer become revealed. . . . Her book is full of 
 
 pathos, humour, and tragedy. Strange stories are told, strange lives 
 are revealed, and terrible social sores are remorselessly laid bare. But 
 it is a book that must be read and pondered over ; a book that will surely 
 make for social reform.” — The Graphic. 
 
 14 
 
A new and important Biography of Napoleon 
 
 Napoleon 
 
 By Dr. MAX LENZ 
 
 Translated from the German by FREDERIC WHYTE 
 
 In demy 8vo, buckram gilt and gilt top , 16s. net 
 
 With about 50 portraits and other illustrations printed on art paper, 
 also with maps and facsimiles of autographs 
 
 Dr. Max Lenz demolishes several accepted legends in this brilliant 
 study of Napoleon’s character and career. One of the most notable 
 features of his work is the way in which he depicts the early mental 
 development of the young Corsican. Napoleon himself in his St. Helena 
 memoirs makes Toulon the starting point, as it were, and most of 
 his biographers have followed suit. Dr. Lenz demonstrates that it 
 was but one great step forward in an existence already full of eventful 
 activity. He throws much new light on what may be termed Napoleon’s 
 “First Phase.” But the chief value of the book is that it provides 
 a complete key to the whole tangled story of the Napoleonic period. 
 Dr. Lenz shows how each campaign fits into the general scheme of 
 Napoleon’s rise and fall, while he succeeds in keeping the personal 
 element in the foreground and in presenting a most vivid picture of 
 the man. A leading German critic has classed this book with Lord 
 Rosebery’s well-known monograph, as one of the most striking con- 
 tributions to Napoleonic literature made in our time. 
 
 Gamble Gold 
 
 By His Honour JUDGE PARRY 
 
 Author of “The Scarlet Herring,” “Katawampus, 
 
 “ Butterscotia,” etc. 
 
 In square crown 8vo, cloth richly gilt , 6s. 
 
 With 41 illustrations by HAKBY FURNIS3 
 
 “ Gamble Gold ” follows on the lines of the author’s well known 
 fairy books, “Katawampus,” “Butterscotia,” “The First Book of 
 Krab,” and “ The Scarlet Herring.” As a well known critic said of one 
 of them, “ the Judge has a sly and mischievous way of tickling the fancy 
 of grown-up people, and knows well the hearts of boys and girls.” The 
 hero of the book is “Gamble Gold of the gay green woods,” sung of 
 in an old Robin Hood ballad. Who and what he was no learned man 
 can say, and the author has imagined him as an ideal small boy, who 
 deserves to become a hero to all children and mothers, and to turn men 
 who still have the hearts of little children. As in the former books, the 
 children’s old friend Krab, the cave man, is again the presiding genius 
 of the story. 
 
 15 
 
Uniform with “Birds of the Countryside ” 
 
 Wild Fruits of the 
 Countryside 
 
 By F. EDWARD HULME, F.L.S., F.S.A., etc. 
 
 Vice-President of the Selborne Society 
 Author of 
 
 “Familiar Wild Flowers,” “Butterflies and Moths of the Countryside ” 
 
 etc., etc. 
 
 In cloth , richly gilt x 5), rounded corners , 5s. net 
 
 With 36 coloured plates by the Author, and 25 illustrations from 
 photographs on art paper 
 
 A very useful and interesting little book descriptive of the wild 
 fruits that one finds in the hedges and woods of the countryside. The 
 author of this volume is well-known as a naturalist whose style is easy 
 and clear, and at the same time strictly accurate. Professor Hulme 
 has illustrated the book with 36 coloured plates from his own water- 
 colour drawings, and there are besides 25 reproductions from photo- 
 graphs in black and white. 
 
 A second large edition has been immediately required of 
 Mr. Finn’s handy book for lovers of Bird Life 
 
 Birds of the Countryside 
 
 By FRANK FINN, B.A., F.Z.S., etc. 
 
 Late Deputy Superintendent , Indian Museum , Calcutta 
 Author of 
 
 “ Fancy Pheasants,” “ Fancy Water Fowl,” “ Garden and Aviary Birds 
 of India,” “The Birds of Calcutta,” etc. 
 
 In cloth richly gilt , (7J x 5), rounded corners , 5 s. net 
 With 12 Coloured Plates 
 
 118 Illustrations from photographs printed on Art Paper and numerous 
 
 Outline Drawings 
 
 A popular account of our common British Birds, their haunts, 
 and their habits, has long been a desideratum. Mr. Frank Finn, whose 
 knowledge of birds and bird life is exceedingly wide, has supplied this 
 want with his conveniently shaped but well packed volume which will 
 enable people to identify the birds that they see. 
 
 16 
 
The World’ s Birds 
 
 By FRANK FINN, B.A., F.Z.S., etc. 
 
 Author of “ Birds of the Countryside,” etc. 
 
 A simple and popular classification of the birds of the World 
 In crown 8vo, cloth gilt and gilt top , 5s. net 
 
 With numerous illustrations from photographs and drawings 
 
 In this work will be found set forth a classification of all existing 
 birds in their natural families, and information of practical and 
 scientific interest concerning these given in a concise form. 
 
 Thus, under each family will be found notes on the general size, 
 prevailing colouration, appearance of eggs and young, note, food, 
 economic uses, &c., of the family as a whole. The geographical range 
 of each family will be dealt with, and the best known members of it be 
 mentioned and briefly characterized, so that anyone studying the work 
 will be able to acquire a good general idea of the familiar birds of the 
 world, scientifically classified. 
 
 Technicalities are strictly avoided, and the work is rendered more 
 instructive by photographic illustrations from living specimens, and by 
 outline drawings illustrating details of structure. It will altogether 
 be a complete and very handy book of reference, whether for scientific 
 ornithologists or amateurs. 
 
 Uniform with “Birds of the Countryside” 
 
 Pets and How to 
 Treat Them 
 
 By FRANK FINN, B.A., F.Z.S., etc. 
 
 Author of “ Birds of the Countryside,” etc. 
 
 In cloth gilt (7J x 5), 5s. net 
 
 With a large number of illustrations from photographs 
 and 12 coloured plates 
 
 This is a small volume, similar in size and style to the author’s 
 “ Birds of the Countryside,” and like this, is copiously illustrated with 
 photographs from living specimens and with coloured plates. 
 
 It contains short and popularly written accounts of the various 
 animals commonly kept as pets, together with practical directions for 
 their treatment, and includes both domestic animals, such as canaries 
 and guinea-pigs, and such wild species, whether British or foreign, as 
 are commonly to be met with in captivity. The range of the work is 
 very wide, extending from monkeys to fish, and it should supply a want 
 long felt by people interested in keeping living animals, who are often 
 at a loss as to which are the most easily procurable and desirable 
 species, and are also unaware of the ease with which many kinds may 
 be maintained by any amateur. 
 
 17 
 
A Charming Book for all Lovers of the Country 
 
 Wild Life Stories 
 
 By S . L. BENSUSAN 
 
 Author of “A Countryside Chronicle.” 
 
 In crown 8vo , cloth gilt, 6s. 
 
 The author of this book, who has spent the greater part of his life 
 in rural surroundings, not only in England and Scotland, but along the 
 shores of Southern Europe and North Africa, says in his preface “that 
 the older I grow, the more convinced I become that there are more 
 mental developments in the lives of birds and beasts than are dreamt of 
 in our philosophy. I have lived among the birds and beasts I write 
 about, and feel that their life story may be interpreted, and that any 
 interpretation is better than none. This belief must serve as my justifi- 
 cation for putting forward these stories in a form in which developments 
 in the lives of wild creatures are presented in the now popular form. 
 A very definite truth of which I am convinced is that, almost without 
 exception, bird, beast and even fish are only too pleased to be friendly 
 if we will but give them a chance. There is hardly any living creature 
 in the world that refuses to respond to kindness with affection, and if 
 we would but develop the friendliest possible relations with the life 
 around us, in a few generations most wild birds would be as tame as the 
 pigeons that cluster round the tourists on the Piazza of San Marco in 
 Venice, and we could say of the greater part of the world’s fauna that a 
 little child might lead them.” 
 
 A popular, accurate, and concise work 
 
 The World's Peoples 
 
 By Dr. A. H. KEANE 
 
 Author of “ Anthropology,” “ Man : Past and Present ” 
 
 In large crown 8 vo, cloth gilt and gilt top , 6s. net 
 
 Printed throughout on fine paper, with 200 illustrations 
 reproduced from original photos from life 
 
 This is an entirely new book which comprises a clearly written 
 description of the races of the world, by one of the greatest living 
 anthropologists. 
 
 The volume is written in a style that will interest the general 
 reader, while the student will find it of real practical utility. The 
 illustrations comprise a remarkable series of photographs from life, 
 none of which are to be found in “ The Living Races of Mankind.” 
 
 1 8 
 
Popular edition 
 
 Tasty Entrees 
 
 A Collection of Recipes 
 
 By Miss Co L. HOWLAND 
 
 Diplom6e of the National School of Cookery 
 In crown 8vo, cloth , is. 
 
 These recipes are all simple, and the directions are given as plainly 
 as possible, both with a view to make selection easy, and to ensure 
 satisfactory results on the part of the cook who has a fair knowledge of 
 her duties. 
 
 AN IMMEDIATE SUCCESS. Translated into almost every 
 
 European language. 
 
 Now complete in two volumes, cloth gilt and gilt edges, 
 2 is. net, and in various leather bindings. 
 
 THE LIVING RACES OF MANKIND 
 
 BY EMINENT SPECIALISTS 
 
 A popular illustrated account of the Customs, Habits, Pursuits, Feasts 
 and Ceremonies of the Races of Mankind throughout the world. 
 
 800 Photographs from Life, 25 Coloured Plates, and also Maps 
 
 Some of 
 
 R. LYDEKKER, F.R.S. 
 
 Sir HARRY JOHNSTON, G.C.M.G., 
 K.C.B., etc. 
 
 PRINCE ROLAND BONAPARTE 
 Dr. R. W. SHUFELDT 
 Professor LONGFORD 
 H.E. LORD CURZON 
 Dr. A. H. KE1NE 
 Professor PETRUCCI 
 
 the contributors : 
 
 PRINCE GAGARINE 
 
 H.E. Sir EVERARD IM THURN, K.C.M.G. 
 H. N. HUTCHINSON, B.A., F.R.G.S. 
 
 A. H. SAVAGE-LANDOR 
 Vice-Admiral Sir WILLIAM ACLAND, 
 Bart., C.V.O. 
 
 Admiral Sir CYPRIAN BRIDGE, G.C.B. 
 The late Sir HUGH LOW, G.C.M.G. 
 
 H. LING ROTH 
 
 The complete Work in two volumes, now ready, in demy quarto 
 
 Handsome cloth gilt and gilt edges 
 
 Half green French Morocco gilt and gilt edges 
 Half rich red Persian Morocco gilt and gilt edges... 
 Full rich red Persian Morocco gilt and gilt edges ... 
 
 i os. 6d. net 
 i is. 66 . ,, 
 i2s. 6d. ,, 
 15s. od. ,, 
 
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 19 
 
TWO VOLUMES. NOW READY 
 
 “THE DEATH KNELL OF THE OLD-FASHIONED 
 NATURAL HISTORY.” 
 
 A superbly illustrated work in 2 vols., cloth gilt and gilt 
 edges, 2 is. net, and in various leather bindings. 
 
 THE 
 
 LIVING ANIMALS OF THE WOULD 
 
 Edited by CHARLES J. CORNISH, M.A., F.Z.S. 
 
 With 25 coloured plates and 1210 illustrations from photographs 
 printed throughout on the finest art paper. 
 
 This work comprises an absolutely unique and almost priceless collection of 
 
 photographs of 
 
 BEASTS, BIRDS, FISHES, REPTILES, INSECTS, Etc. 
 
 Assisted by the following Eminent Specialists 
 
 R. LYDEKKER, F.R.S. 
 
 R. BOWDLER SHARPE, LL.D. 
 
 W. F. KIRBY, F.L.S. 
 
 F. C. SELOUS 
 
 Sir HERBERT MAXWELL, F.R.S. 
 
 F. G. AFLALO, F.Z.S. 
 LOUIS WAIN 
 C. H. LANE F.Z.S. 
 
 W. SAVILLE-KENT, F.Z.S, 
 THEODORE WOOD, 
 
 and others. 
 
 Many of the photographs have been taken in the wilds of Africa, the Australian 
 bush, and the Indian jungle, amid the natural surroundings of the different animals 
 in their native haunts. 
 
 The importance of using nothing but photographs as illustrations cannot be too 
 strongly impressed upon all students of Natural History. However carefully an 
 artist may draw, and however carefully a wood-engraver-may copy, there can never 
 be the same accuracy of detail which it is possible to obtain in a photograph. 
 Lovers of animals will therefore now have an opportunity of securing a complete 
 Natural History, illustrated entirely by photographs. The swimming fish, the 
 flying bird, the leaping salmon, the crawling reptile and insect — these, as well as the 
 larger animals, will all be reproduced accurately. In short. “ The Living Animals 
 of the World ” can only be described as the Standard Work on Natural History 
 
 20 
 
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 1 DARWIN’S ORIGIN OF SPECIES. With diagram and portrait, and with note by 
 
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 Theory since 1859, and also glossary. 488 pages. 
 
 2 BRET HARTE’S TALES OF THE ARGONAUTS, AND VERSE. 423 pages. 
 
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 4 WATERTON’S WANDERINGS IN SOUTH AMERICA. With sketch map, notes, 
 
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 illustrations. 259 pages. 
 
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 11 THE SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE. In Latin and English. The 
 
 English Version by Philip Francis. The Latin text based on that of 
 Muller’s is edited by Mr. W. H. D. Rouse, formerly Fellow of Christ’s 
 College, Cambridge who has also added an index of names. 
 
 12 CHARLES DICKENS’S CHRISTMAS BOOKS. 
 
 13 HAMILTON’S MEMOIRS OF THE COUNT DE GRAMMONT. 
 
 14 SHERIDAN’S COMPLETE PLAYS. 
 
 15 GOLDSMITH’S VICAR OF WAKEFIELD and l In one 
 
 ADDISON AND STEELE’S SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY ) volume 
 
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 17 THE POEMS OF RICHARD LOVELACE. 
 
 18 DORAN’S MONARCHS RETIRED FROM BUSINESS. Vol. I. 
 
 19 DORAN’S MONARCHS RETIRED FROM BUSINESS. Vol. II. 
 
 20 THOMAS A KEMPIS’S OF THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. With a Preface by 
 
 the Rev. George Tyrrell, S.J. 
 
 21 THACKERAY’S HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 22 DELITZSCH’S JEWISH ARTIZAN LIFE IN THE TIME OF CHRIST. The 
 
 translation made expressly for this edition. 
 
 23 CHARLES DICKENS’S PICKWICK PAPERS. Vol. I. 
 
 24 CHARLES DICKENS’S PICKWICK PAPERS: Vol. II. 
 
 25 THE ODES OF HORACE. In Latin and English. The English Version by 
 
 Philip Francis. The Latin text based on that of Muller’s. Edited by 
 Mr. W. H. D. Rouse, formerly Fellow of Christ’s College, Cambridge, who 
 has added an index of names. 
 
 26 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES’S AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 
 
 27 MISS MITFORD’S TALES OF OUR VILLAGE. (First Series.) 
 
 28 MICHAEL FARADAY’S CHEMICAL HISTORY OF A CANDLE. With Illustrations 
 
 29 BUNYAN’S PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. 
 
 30 CHARLES DICKENS’S TALE OF TWO CITIES and ) In one 
 
 WILKIE COLLINS’S A ROGUE’S LIFE. f volume 
 
 31 BURNEY’S HISTORY OF THE BUCCANEERS OF AMERICA. 
 
 21 
 
The Library of Standard Biographies 
 
 Each with frontispiece portrait, newly edited with notes, 
 chronological table and index. 
 
 320 — 540 pp. in foolscap 8t >0. cloth gilt , is. net per volume. 
 Limp leather , richly gilt and gilt top , 2s. net per volume. 
 
 The PALL MALL GAZETTE says: “Messrs. Hutchinson’s ‘Library of Standard 
 Biographies’ is the cheapest and best venture at popularising good biographies that has 
 yet been attempted. The publishers, printers and binders are all to be congratulated 
 on an excellent enterprise.” 
 
 The Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte 
 
 From the French of F. de Bourrienne 
 Abridged and Edited by Edgar Sanderson 
 
 The Life of John Wesley 
 
 By Robert Southey 
 
 Abridged and Edited by Arthur Reynolds 
 The Life of Oliver Goldsmith 
 
 By John Forster 
 
 Abridged and Edited by Roger Ingpen 
 The Life of Nelson 
 
 By Robert Southey 
 Edited by A. D. Power 
 
 The Life of Robert Burns 
 
 By John Gibson Lockhart 
 Abridged and Edited by J, M. Sloan 
 
 The Life of Queen Elizabeth 
 
 By Agnes Strickland. 
 
 Abridged and Edited by I. A. Taylor 
 
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 By John Gibson Lockhart 
 Abridged and Edited by J. M, Sloan 
 
 The Life of Wellington 
 
 By W. H. Maxwell 
 
 Abridged and Edited by Rev. L. T. Dodd 
 
 The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin 
 
 To which is added Jared Sparks’s con- 
 tinuation. Edited by Edgar Sanderson. 
 
 The Life of Thomas Arnold, D.D. 
 
 By Arthur Penrhyn Stanley. 
 
 Abridged and Edited by Arthur Reynolds 
 
 The Early Life of Goethe 
 
 Books I. — IX. of the Autobiography 
 Edited by W. von Knoblauch 
 
 The Life of Oliver Cromwell 
 
 By Thomas^Carlyle 
 
 Abridged and Edited by Edgar Sanderson 
 
 The Life of Samuel Johnson 
 
 By James Boswell 
 
 Abridged and Edited by Roger Ingpen 
 
 Memoirs oi Benvenuto Cellini 
 
 Written s v himself, and translated by 
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 Memoirs of Marie Antoinette 
 
 By Madame Campan. 
 
 With biographical notice of Madame 
 Campan by F. Barriere 
 
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 per volume. In limp leather , gilt and gilt top, 2 s. Gd. net 
 
 By HENRY FIELDING 
 
 The History of Tom Jones. 2 vols. Mr. Jonathan Wild, and a Journey from 
 
 The Adventures of Joseph Andrews. 1 vol. this World to the next. 1 vol. 
 
 The History of Amelia. 2 vols. 
 
 By TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 The Adventures of Roderick Random. 
 
 1 vol. 
 
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 Fathom. 1 vol. 
 
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 tures of an Atom. 1 v ol. 
 
 The Novels of LAURENCE STERNE complete in One Volume 
 
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 With illustrations by George Cruikshank 
 Both unabridged and comprising together 762 pages. 
 
 22 
 
New Books edited by Mr. Alfred H. Miles. 
 
 The 51st and 52nd Volumes of the 52 Series 
 
 Each in large crown 8vo., handsome cloth gilt and gilt edges 
 with illustrations, 5s. 
 
 52 EXCELSIOR STORIES for Girls 
 
 By 
 
 Alice F. Jackson, Evelyn Everett-Green, Nora Ryeman, 
 H. J. A. Hervey, Lucy E. Jackson, J. Kendrick Bangs, and 
 other writers. 
 
 52 EXCELSIOR STORIES for Boys 
 
 By 
 
 G. Manville Fenn, H. A. J. Hervey, Charles E. Pearce, 
 Grace Stebbings, Lieut-Col. Cuthell, Phil. More, C. G. D. 
 Roberts, and other writers. 
 
 This is the fifty-second volume of the “Fifty-two Series.” In the preface to 
 this issue the editor says — “ It seems but a few months since the first issues of the 
 * Fifty-two Series ’ were offered to the public, and now there are fifty-two volumes, 
 containing two thousand and seven hundred and four stories, all in print, all selling 
 and circulating all over the world. No series of the kind ever before attained to such 
 widespread and continued popularity ; no books for young people were ever in more 
 constant requisition at the public libraries. The editor cherishes the belief that 
 this continued popularity is due to the fact that the stories he has brought together 
 touch deeper than the mere fashion of the hour, and so lay hold upon the natural 
 instincts and human sympathies which are not of an age but for all time.” 
 
 THE PLATFORM RECITERS 
 
 Edited by A. H. MILES. 
 
 This Series is issued to provide a library of high-class prose and poetical pieces 
 for recitation from copyright sources. Printed in large, clear type, well leaded for 
 platform use. 
 
 Each volume in a new binding, crown 8vo., cloth, is. 
 
 8. The Smoking Concert Reciter, A selection of prose and verse suitable 
 for smoking concerts, containing humorous readings and recitations by 
 Henry Lloyd and other well known writers. 
 
 7. The Overton Reciter. Character sketches for recitation. By Robert 
 Oyerton, Author of “ A Round Dozen,” “Queer Fish,” etc. 
 
 6. The Browning Reciter. New and revised edition. By Robert Browning 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Adelaide Procter, W. S. Gilbert, etc. 
 
 1. Modern Humour. By J. M. Barrie, Jerome K. Jerome, Mark Twain, Max 
 
 Adeler, Arthur Sketchley, etc. 
 
 2. The Dickens Reciter. Selections from the works of Charles Dickens for 
 
 reading and recitation. 
 
 3. The Ladies' Reciter. A selection of pieces specially suitable for reading 
 
 and recitation by ladies* 
 
 4 . The New Sunday-School Reciter. A selection of pieces specially 
 
 suitable for reading or recitation at Sunday-school gatherings. 
 
 6. The New Temperance Reciter. By George Macdonald, G. R. Sims, 
 Robert Buchanan, etc. 
 
 23 
 
A Companion volume to “True Stories of Girl Heroines.” 
 and “The Bravest Deed 1 ever knew.” 
 
 A BOOK OF HEROES-Boys & Men 
 
 A record of the past, and an inspiration for the future. 
 
 By ALFRED H. MILES 
 
 With Illustrations. 
 
 In crown 8 vo., cloth gilt , 5s. 
 
 This book, while recording the careers of our National Heroes, 
 Royal, Military, Naval, and Civil, gives numerous illustrations of Boy 
 Heroism and Moral Courage all over the world. It is an ideal book for 
 boys. 
 
 Miles’s STANDARD ELOCUTIONIST 
 
 Edited by ALFRED H. MILES 
 
 Strongly bound in half-leather , 3s. 6d. 
 
 Special binding for presents and prizes, gilt , 3s. 6d. 
 
 Comprising an Essay on the Principles of Elocution, or Public 
 Speaking, and the Selection, Study, and Delivery of Recitations by 
 ALFRED H. MILES, Editor of “The Poets and Poetry of the 
 Century,” “ The Aldine Speaker,” “ The Ai Reciters,” etc. A Popular 
 Treatise on the Anatomy, Physiology, and Hygiene of the Vocal 
 Organs, by LENNOX BROWNE, F.R.C.S., Senior Surgeon of the 
 Central Throat and Ear Hospital ; Surgeon and Aural Surgeon to the 
 Royal Society of Musicians; Author of “The Throat and its Diseases,” 
 “ Medical Hints on the Singing Voice,” etc. A Chapter on the Art of 
 introducing Musical Accompaniments into Elocutionary Recitals, by 
 CLIFFORD HARRISON, Author of “In Hours of Leisure,” “Stray 
 Records,” etc., and upwards of Five Hundred Pieces, forming ft 
 Graduated Series for Study, selected from the best Authors. 
 
 “THE MAGAZINE DE LUXE.” 
 
 The Lady’s Realm 
 
 6d. net Monthly 
 
 “The Lady’s Realm ” is devoted to the interest of the cultured 
 gentlewoman. The contributors are from amongst the most prominent 
 men and women in Society, Literature, and Art. 
 
 THE LADY'S REALM is always entertaining*, 
 Brightly Written, and Superbly Illustrated 
 
 “The Lady’s Realm has been rising while most of the illustrated 
 magazines have been falling in quality alike in letterpress and 
 illustrations. The January number fully entitles it to rank among the 
 first of our monthly magazines.” — Review of Reviews , January, 1907. 
 
 24 
 
New and Cheaper Editions of some 
 
 Popular Volumes of FAIRY TALES 
 
 Each in square 8vo, cloth gilt and gilt edges , 3s. 6d. 
 
 The Golden Fairy Book 
 
 With no illustrations by H. R. Millar 
 
 The Silver Fairy Book 
 
 With 84 illustrations by H. R. Millar 
 
 The Ruby Fairy Book 
 
 With 78 illustrations by H. R. Millar 
 
 The Diamond Fairy Book 
 
 With 83 illustrations by H. R. Millar 
 
 The above volumes are made up of stories gathered from all parts 
 of the world and written by some of the most popular modern writers. 
 
 The Dew Babies 
 
 By Helen Broadbent, with 72 illustrations by W. T. Whitehead 
 
 A New Series of 
 
 Prize and Gift Books 
 
 Each in imperial 16 mo, handsome cloth gilt , with illustrations on 
 
 plate paper , 2 s. 6d. 
 
 Heroes of our day 
 
 England’s Sea Victories 
 
 How the British Won India 
 
 In Africa with the Union Jack 
 
 Warriors of Britain 
 
 With Wellington in the Battle Smoke 
 
 Famous Frigate Actions 
 
 Walter Richards 
 C. R. Low 
 
 W. PlMBLETT 
 W. PlMBLETT 
 
 Walter Richards 
 
 W. PlMBLETT 
 C, R. Low 
 
 By ANNIE 
 
 Wyndham’s Daughter 
 A Victory Won 
 A Bitter Debt 
 Elizabeth Glen, M.B. 
 
 A Stormy Voyager 
 
 S. SWAN 
 
 Mrs. Keith-Hamilton, M.B. 
 A Son of Erin 
 An American Woman 
 The Ne’er do Weel 
 The Burden Bearers 
 
 Memories of Margaret Grainger, Schoolmistress 
 
 25 
 
New Volumes of 
 
 HUTCHINSON’S SELECT NOVELS 
 
 Uniform edition, each volume in cr. 8vo, handsome cloth gilt, 
 
 3s. 6d. each . 
 
 LOVE THE TYRANT .. Charles Garvice 
 QUEEN OF THE RUSHES Allen Raine 
 THALASSA Mrs. Baillie Reynolds 
 
 Clearly and well printed from new type on good paper. 
 
 HUTCHINSON’S NEW 6d. NOVELS 
 
 130 The Great White Hand 
 
 125 The Danvers Jewels 
 
 149 Shipmates in Sunshine 
 
 126 A Life’s Assize 
 
 138 Aunt Phipps 
 
 118 Dr. Luttrell’s First Patient ... 
 
 150 Made in His Image 
 
 116 The Jesters 
 
 120 The Sacred Nugget 
 
 140 The Wood End 
 
 134 PaulKelver 
 
 128 For Ever and Ever 
 
 114 Reparation 
 
 122 Love, the Tyrant 
 
 124 Evelyn’s Story 
 
 131 Her Grace’s Secret 
 
 132 The Rose of Life 
 
 127 The Rich Husband 
 
 139 Double Harness 
 
 135 A Corner of the West 
 
 143 Sir Charles Danvers 
 
 142 Kiddy 
 
 137 The One Who Looked On ... 
 
 112 When Greek Meets Greek ... 
 
 141 The Man Who Won 
 
 ill The Gambler 
 
 133 A Bitter Debt 
 
 115 The Silent Woman 
 
 29 The Greatest Gift 
 
 113 Kate of Kate Hall... 
 
 145 The House of Riddles 
 
 119 A Son of Gad 
 
 121 The House of White Shadows 
 
 136 The Yellow Van 
 
 123 Linked by Fate 
 
 147 Starvecrow Farm 
 
 117 Queen of the Rushes 
 
 148 The White Causeway 
 
 149 Heart to Heart 
 
 J. E. Muddock 
 Mary Cholmondeley 
 F. Frankfort Moore 
 Mrs. J. H. Riddell 
 Tom Gallon 
 Rosa N. Carey 
 Guy Thorne 
 “ Rita” 
 
 B. L. Farjeon 
 
 J. E. Buckrose 
 
 Jerome K. Jerome 
 
 Florence Marryat 
 
 Adeline Sergeant 
 
 Charles Garvice 
 
 Emma Jane VVorboise 
 
 Violet Tweed ale 
 
 Miss M. E. Braddon 
 
 Mrs. J. H. Riddell 
 
 Anthony Hope 
 
 Edith Henrietta Fowler 
 
 Mary Cholmondeley 
 
 Tom Gallon 
 
 F. F. Montresor 
 
 Joseph Hatton 
 
 Mrs. Baillie Reynolds 
 
 Mrs. Katherine Cecil Thurston 
 
 Annie S. Swan 
 
 “Rita” 
 
 A. W. Marchmont 
 
 Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler and 
 A. L. Felkin 
 Dorothea Gerard 
 J. A. Steuart 
 
 B. L. Farjeon 
 Richard Whiteing 
 Charles Garvice 
 Stanley Weyman 
 Allen Raine 
 
 F. Frankfort Moore 
 Charles Garvice 
 
 26 
 
HUTCHINSON 81 CO.’S 
 
 NEW 6s. NOVELS 
 
 Each in crown 8vo, cloth 
 
 Fair Margaret 
 
 By H. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 Author of “ She,” “ King Solomon’s Mines,” etc. 
 
 With 15 illustrations by J, R. SKELTON 
 
 ( Mr. Rider Haggard’s new historical story, “ Fair Margaret,” carries 
 the reader back to the stirring times of Ferdinand and Isabella and our 
 own King Henry VII. Fair Margaret is a bewitching English maid, 
 whose continued adventures in England and Spain will excite the utmost 
 interest to the end of the romance. There is plenty of fighting and 
 hair-breadth escapes on sea and land, and the whole book is in the 
 author’s most popular vein. 
 
 The Stumbling Block 
 
 By JUSTUS MILES FORMAN 
 
 Author of “A Garden of Lies,” etc. 
 
 This is an uncommon story, told in an uncommon way. It has an 
 individuality of its own. The story begins in a delightful little American 
 township. The hero, David, has obtained some recognition as an author. 
 He is separated from his affinity, for it is feared she will be a millstone 
 for him. He weds the wrong woman, who becomes his stumbling block, 
 and she knows it. David recognises in his old love the right mate, 
 Her attitude is fine, and she helps him. The wife also rises to her best 
 self, and the end leaves one with the feeling that David will regain his 
 first love in a good way. But the point of the story is that they all rise 
 in the trial. 
 
 27 
 
New 6s. Novels 
 
 The Marriage Lease 
 
 The Story of a Social Experiment 
 
 By F. FRANKFORT MOORE 
 
 Author of “ I Forbid the Banns,” “ A Jessamy Bride,” e^c. 
 
 “ The book is a jeu desprit. Mr. Frankfort Moore has written a 
 pungent, and, at times, brilliant satire on the fiction which pictures 
 the blessings of free unions, and the miseries of connubial bondage. 
 A delicate situation is handled with infinite delicacy by this clever 
 writer. The story is facetious, witty and daring, and should knock on 
 the head a good deal of the neurotic nonsense that emanates from a 
 certain type of the modern novel.” — Scotsman. 
 
 A Great Renunciation 
 
 By Dr. HELEN BOURCKIER 
 
 Author of “The Ranee’s Rubies ” 
 
 The scene of this story is laid in an old chateau in Brittany. It is 
 concerned with the mysterious doings of a party of English and Russian 
 people who are the guests of the French owner of the chateau. The 
 mingling of nationalities is most interesting in this group, which might 
 be a pleasure party, but is in reality met together for the purpose of 
 secret and dangerous schemes. The very attractive and well-studied 
 character of the young Russian heroine, Olga Mitchersky, might be 
 drawn from life, and is placed in effective contrast with that of the 
 English girl, her cousin. There is a deep pathos in the renunciation of 
 love and happiness by one of the characters, which gives its title to the 
 book. 
 
 The Ungoverned Moment 
 
 By ELLEN ADA SMITH 
 
 Author of “ The Fulfilling of the Law ” 
 
 In this entirely original and charming novel, the author has made a 
 great advance on her book, “The Fulfilling of the Law,” which was 
 unusually well received. It grows in interest as it proceeds, it rings 
 true, and it reads well. Betty Kent has literary aspirations. She is 
 snubbed by Singleton, an editor, and is afterwards reduced to desperate 
 straits. Knowing her state, an unscrupulous man tries to bribe her to 
 disclose a secret concerning Singleton’s anonymous authorship of certain 
 books, but at the last moment Betty decides that the river is better 
 than betraying a trust. She is rescued by Singleton, who thereafter 
 dominates her life. There is a distinctly individual quality about this 
 story, and it reads like a bit of real life. 
 
 2 r 
 
New 6s. Novels 
 
 A Strange Land 
 
 By FELIX RYARK 
 
 This is not in any way an ordinary piece of fiction ; it is a dream- 
 story — fanciful, poetic, dainty, with a charm all its own, which will be 
 i appreciated by all lovers of beautiful writing and attract attention 
 ( because it contains new ideas with a bearing on philosophical subjects 
 in which the intelligent public is at present much interested. It is a 
 strange tale told in English which has distinction and charm. Denis 
 Maine plays the violin superbly ; he travels far and wide — a lonely soul. 
 In Cambodia he falls ill, and one day, walking by the tropic shore, he 
 finds a boat, enters it, and drifts out to sea. He plays strange 
 melodies, a mist arises, and with this he sails to find a wonderful 
 country where beautiful music is dreaded, for it is fateful. Here Denis 
 stays awhile with a highly developed people, and returning regrets the 
 loss the fair girl he had found with them. 
 
 A Vain Thing 
 
 By GUY THORNE 
 
 Author of “ When it was Dark,” “ Made in His Image,” etc. 
 
 In this novel Mr. Guy Thorne breaks entirely new ground. It 
 touches a subject of national importance, in which almost everyone is 
 interested, that of sport of various kinds, but more especially football 
 and boxing. The position of sport to-day and its influence on character 
 is dealt with, and the spiritual as well as the moral value of sport is 
 insisted on. The writer is fully qualified for his task, his descriptions of 
 sporting events are vivid and told largely from personal experience, and 
 they are accurate. But first and foremost the author gives a really 
 dramatic and stirring novel, full of interest and without the flavour of 
 tract or pamphlet ; his incidents point the moral. It has an excellent 
 plot, and the love interest — which is pivotal and not episodic — is shared 
 by a Society girl and a board-school mistress, and is unusually strong. 
 Of its principal characters, one is an athlete, who makes sport his aim 
 and end in life, and whose career from beginning to end is traced with 
 detail and realism : another, an athlete who uses sport as a splendid and 
 helpful thing. Two classes of society are also interwoven in the 
 intricacies of the plot — the young gladiators of the aristocracy fusing 
 with the low class professional. It is confidentially anticipated that this 
 book, on what is a dominating force in modern life, will make an 
 immensely wide appeal. 
 
New 6s, Novels 
 
 The Gold in the Gutter 
 
 By CHARLES GARVICE 
 
 Author of “ Love Decides,” etc. 
 
 The story describes two sides of life as seen by a young, aristocratic, 
 Radical Member of Parliament. The book, however, is in no sense 
 political. As in all Mr. Garvice’s tales there is a strong vein of 
 sentiment, and it is hard to say whose fortunes are the most 
 interesting to follow — those of Lady Edith Chesterleigh and the 
 aristocratic circle to which Clive Harvey belongs by birth, or those 
 of Mina and her humble friends : the Gold in the Gutter, to whom he 
 is led by his democratic sympathies. The struggle between the two 
 girls for the love of Clive Harvey is of absorbing interest ; and the 
 sayings of Tibby, the quaint cockney, are almost Dickensian in their 
 humour and fidelity to life. 
 
 Stolen Banns 
 
 By L. WINSTANLEY. 
 
 Author of “A Flash of the Will,” etc. 
 
 The scenes of this story are laid in Yorkshire. Frances lives with 
 her invalid widowed mother in a cottage, but she is well bred on her 
 father’s side. There is something of the Puritan and something of the 
 poet in her. She is wanted by more than one man, but Selby would 
 sacrifice his soul to win her. He is clever, passionate, and masterful, 
 bending the will of every man to his. Selby uses all his power to 
 force Frances to engage herself to him, and her mother is on his side; 
 but she firmly refuses. Then at church she hears the banns of their 
 marriage read. She is furious and seeks the Vicar, who brings about 
 an understanding, and Frances in the end submits, Their married life 
 is a misery, for Selby tries to “break her in.” Ultimately, after she 
 has left him and he realises what he has lost, comes a reconciliation. 
 
 A NEW VOLUME OF IRISH STORIES 
 
 Irish Neighbours 
 
 By JANE BARLOW 
 
 Author of “ Irish Idylls,” etc. 
 
 In crown 8vo. cloth gilt , 6 
 
 A new series of Irish stories by the well-known novelist of Irish 
 life, whose fascinating “ Bogland Studies ” and other works have a 
 universal reputation. 
 
 30 
 
New 6s. Novels 
 
 Superfluous Sisters 
 
 By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN 
 
 Author of “ The Secret of Wold Hall,” “ Married in Haste,” etc. 
 
 A good readable story in Miss Everett-Green’s best vein. The 
 characters of the sisters are drawn in a natural and convincing manner. 
 Peggy, who gets into trouble, but who manages to come out of her 
 difficulties successfully, is perhaps the most interesting of the four 
 sisters, although she and Lady Eileen really share the honours in this 
 brightly written story. 
 
 Judy— and the Philosophers 
 
 By TOM GALLON 
 
 Author of “ Tatterley,” etc. 
 
 This new novel deals with a little comedy of courtship and young 
 love. It concerns the doings of a very young couple indeed — very poor 
 and very recklessly in love — who are the victims of a plot between two 
 elderly curmudgeons, their guardians. The elderly ones have been 
 disappointed in love and in matrimony years before, and they determine 
 that, the better to prove their theory that love and matrimony are the 
 greatest mistakes possible in a badly arranged world, these young 
 people shall go through the mill themselves, and shall emerge from it 
 in the end as soured and seared as are these men of a bitter experience. 
 How they set about it, and how in the most natural way the lovers turn 
 the tables upon them, the story unfolds. 
 
 Famtela 
 
 By G. B. BURGIN 
 
 Author of “ Peggy the Pilgrim,” “The Shutters of Silence,” etc. 
 
 Mr. Burgin’s recent books have been English ones, but, in obedience 
 to the request of the admirers of his “ Four Corners ” series, he has 
 written a story showing the effect of heredity on a young Canadian who 
 is a habitant by the mother’s side. The young man becomes a presby- 
 terian minister, and his first charge is opposite his mother’s beloved 
 cottage, the L’Ange Guardienne of his dreams. Step by step, the call 
 of the blood reaches him, and then he meets “ Fanuela,” the beautiful 
 habitant girl, who is called after a little Canadian bird, ‘ ‘ Fan-u-e-la, ’ ’ and 
 gradually leads him through a very beautiful love story to “ the white- 
 walled city, the city of L’Ange Guardienne.” 
 
 3i 
 
New 6s. Novels 
 
 Raoul, Gentleman of Fortune 
 
 By H. C. BAILEY 
 
 Author of “ Springtime,” etc. 
 
 With 8 full-page illustrations , including coloured frontispiece , 
 
 by Alec C. Ball 
 
 This is a story of character and adventure. Its hero is a French 
 lad bred by an Italian mercenary in the Duke of Alva’s wars with 
 Holland. He has his part to play in many of the great movements of that 
 famous struggle. In the relief of Leyden, by the drowning of the 
 countryside, in the assassination of William the Silent, and in Parma’s 
 great siege of Antwerp, Raoul had his share. But the book, which is 
 based on his autobiography, is also much concerned to display his 
 character, and outside the bounds of history, in adventures fantastic, 
 grim, and humorous we find him revealing himself as a good deal less 
 than a saint, but a very human man with a highly individual outlook on 
 life. 
 
 Under the Thatch 
 
 By ALLEN RAINE 
 
 Author of “A Welsh Singer,” “Torn Sails,” etc. 
 
 The subject of Allen Raine’s new novel is founded on an event of 
 real life that has come under the author’s notice. The book differs from 
 its predecessors in that its scene is not laid! on the coast, but that it deals 
 with the life of a quiet woodland valley. The action of the story takes 
 place partly under the thatch of a rustic mill and partly in an old country 
 house, where the heroine, impelled by deep pity for her mother, commits 
 a crime which afterwards brings into her life the inevitable consequences 
 of a wrong action, even though unintentionally and almost unconsciously 
 committed. 
 
 Whosoever Loveth 
 
 Being the Secret of a Lady’s Maid 
 By Win, Le QUEUX 
 
 Author of “The Under Secretary,” “ The Gamblers,” etc. 
 
 “ As was to be expected from his former exploits in fiction, Mr. 
 William Le Queux has no sooner opened his new work than he has 
 plunged the reader into a profound mystery . . . Light, terse, and 
 pointed in its dialogue, and clever in the presentation and manipulation 
 of the conventional melodramatic types of character, the book easily 
 fascinates by the steady intensity of its ever varied, ever culminating 
 action. It is as good as anything its author has done, and is sure to 
 be widely read.” — Scotsman. 
 
 A. C. Fowler , Printer, Moorfields , E.C.