A Terrible Temptation (Fiscle Part 3) - Charles Reade (recommended ebook reader txt) 📗

Her Lord's Return,  With

An Anxiety Men Laugh At,  But Women Can Appreciate. It Was A Form Of

Quiet Suffering She Had Constantly Endured,  And Never Complained,  Nor

Even Mentioned The Subject To Sir Charles But Once,  And Then He

Pooh-Poohed Her Fancies.

 

The Hunt Had A Burst Of About Forty Minutes That Left Richard Bassett's

Cocktail In The Rear; And The Fox Got Into A Large Beech Wood With

Plenty Of Briars,  And Kept Dodging About It For Two Hours,  And Puzzled

The Scent Repeatedly.

 

Richard Bassett Elected Not To Go Winding In And Out Among Trees,  Risk

His Horse's Legs In Rabbit-Holes,  And Tire Him For Nothing. He Had Kept

For Years A Little Note Book He Called "Statistics Of Foxes," And That

Told Him An Old Dog-Fox Of Uncommon Strength,  If Dislodged From That

Particular Wood,  Would Slip Into Bellman's Coppice,  And If Driven Out

Of That Would Face The Music Again,  Would Take The Open Country For

Higham Gorse,  And Probably Be Killed Before He Got There; But Once

There A Regiment Of Scythes Might Cut Him Out,  But Bleeding,  Sneezing

Fox-Hounds Would Never Work Him Out At The Tail Of A Long Run.

 

So Richard Bassett Kept Out Of The Wood,  And Went Gently On To

Bellman's Coppice And Waited Outside.

 

His Book Proved An Oracle. After Two Hours' Dodging And Maneuvering The

Fox Came Out At The Very End Of Bellman's Coppice,  With Nothing Near

Him But Richard Bassett. Pug Gave Him The White Of His Eye In An Ugly

Leer,  And Headed Straight As A Crow For Higham Gorse.

 

Richard Bassett Blew His Horn,  Collected The Hunt,  And Laid The Dogs

On. Away They Went,  Close Together,  Thunder-Mouthed On The Hot Scent.

 

After A Three Miles' Gallop They Sighted The Fox For A Moment Just

Going Over The Crest Of A Rising Ground Two Furlongs Off. Then The

Hullabbaloo And Excitement Grew Furious,  And One Electric Fury Animated

Dogs,  Men,  And Horses. Another Mile,  And The Fox Ran In Sight Scarcely

A Furlong Off; But Many Of The Horses Were Distressed: The Bassetts,

However,  Kept Up,  One By His Horse Being Fresh,  The Other By His

Animal's Native Courage And Speed.

 

Then Came Some Meadows,  Bounded By A Thick Hedge,  And Succeeded By A

Plowed Field Of Unusual Size--Eighty Acres.

 

When The Fox Darted Into This Hedge The Hounds Were Yelling At His

Heels; The Hunt Burst Through The Thin Fence,  Expecting To See Them

Kill Close To It.

 

But The Wily Fox Had Other Resources At His Command Than Speed.

Appreciating His Peril,  He Doubled And Ran Sixty Yards Down The Ditch,

And The Impetuous Hounds Rushed Forward And Overran The Scent. They

Raved About To And Fro,  Till At Last One Of The Gentlemen Descried The

Fox Running Down A Double Furrow In The Middle Of The Field. He Had Got

Into This,  And So Made His Way More Smoothly Than His Four-Footed

Part 3 Chapter 14 Pg 118

Pursuers Could. The Dogs Were Laid On,  And Away They Went

Helter-Skelter.

 

At The End Of This Stiff Ground A Stiffish Leap Awaited Them; An Old

Quickset Had Been Cut Down,  And All The Elm-Trees That Grew In It,  And

A New Quickset Hedge Set On A High Bank With Double Ditches.

 

The Huntsman Had An Irish Horse That Laughed At This Fence; He Jumped

On To The Bank,  And Then Jumped Off It Into The Next Field.

 

Richard Bassett's Cocktail Came Up Slowly,  Rose High,  And Landed His

Forefeet In The Field,  And So Scrambled On.

 

Sir Charles Went At It Rather Rashly; His Horse,  Tried Hard By The

Fallow,  Caught His Heels Against The Edge Of The Bank,  And Went

Headlong Into The Other Ditch,  Throwing Sir Charles Over His Head Into

The Field. Unluckily Some Of The Trees Were Lying About,  And Sir

Charles's Head Struck One Of These In Falling; The Horse Blundered Out

Again,  And Galloped After The Hounds,  But The Rider Lay There

Motionless.

 

Nobody Stopped At First; The Pace Was Too Good To Inquire; But

Presently Richard Bassett,  Who Had Greeted The Accident With A Laugh,

Turned Round In His Saddle,  And Saw His Cousin Motionless,  And Two Or

Three Gentlemen Dismounting At The Place. These Were Newcomers. Then He

Resigned The Hunt,  And Rode Back.

 

Sir Charles's Cap Was Crushed In,  And There Was Blood On His White

Waistcoat; He Was Very Pale,  And Quite Insensible.

 

The Gentlemen Raised Him,  With Expressions Of Alarm And Kindly Concern,

And Inquired Of Each Other What Was Best To Be Done.

 

Richard Bassett Saw An Opportunity To Conciliate Opinion,  And Seized

It. "He Must Be Taken Home Directly," Said He. "We Must Carry Him To

That Farmhouse,  And Get A Cart For Him."

 

He Helped Carry Him Accordingly. The Farmer Lent Them A Cart,  With

Straw,  And They Laid The Insensible Baronet Gently On It,  Richard

Bassett Supporting His Head. "Gentlemen," Said He,  Rather Pompously,

"At Such A Moment Everything But The Tie Of Kindred Is Forgotten."

Which Resounding Sentiment Was Warmly Applauded By The Honest Squires.

 

They Took Him Slowly And Carefully Toward Huntercombe,  Distant About

Two Miles From The Scene Of The Accident.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This 18th November Lady Bassett Passed Much As Usual With Her On

Hunting Days. She Was Quietly Patient Till The Afternoon,  And Then

Restless,  And Could Not Settle Down In Any Part Of The House Till She

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Got To A Little Room On The First Floor,  With A Bay-Window Commanding

The Country Over Which Sir Charles Was Hunting. In This She Sat,  With

Her Head Against One Of The Mullions,  And Eyed The Country-Side As Far

As She Could See.

 

Presently She Heard A Rustle,  And There Was Mary Wells Standing And

Looking At Her With Evident Emotion.

 

"What Is The Matter,  Mary?" Said Lady Bassett.

 

"Oh,  My Lady!" Said Mary. And She Trembled,  And Her Hands Worked.

 

Lady Bassett Started Up With Alarm Painted In Her Countenance.

 

"My Lady,  There's Something Wrong In The Hunting Field."

 

"Sir Charles!"

 

"An Accident,  They Say."

 

Lady Bassett Put Her Hand To Her Heart With A Faint Cry. Mary Wells Ran

To Her.

 

"Come With Me Directly!" Cried Lady Bassett. She Snatched Up Her

Bonnet,  And In Another Minute She And Mary Wells Were On Their Road To

The Village,  Questioning Every Body They Met.

 

But Nobody They Questioned Could Tell Them Anything. The Stable-Boy,

Who Had Told The Report In The Kitchen Of Huntercombe,  Said He Had It

From A Gentleman's Groom,  Riding By As He Stood At The Gates.

 

The Ill News Thus Flung In At The Gate By One Passing Rapidly By Was

Not Confirmed By Any Further Report,  And Lady Bassett Began To Hope It

Was False.

 

But A Terrible Confirmation Came At Last.

 

In The Outskirts Of The Village Mistress And Servant Encountered A

Sorrowful Procession: The Cart Itself,  Followed By Five Gentlemen On

Horseback,  Pacing Slowly,  And Downcast As At A Funeral.

 

In The Cart Sir Charles Bassett,  Splashed All Over With Mud,  And His

White Waistcoat Bloody,  Lay With His Head Upon Richard Bassett's Knee.

His Hair Was Wet With Blood,  Some Of Which Had Trickled Down His Cheek

And Dried. Even Richard's Buckskins Were Slightly Stained With It.

 

At That Sight Lady Bassett Uttered A Scream,  Which Those Who Heard It

Never Forgot,  And Flung Herself,  Heaven Knows How,  Into The Cart; But

She Got There,  And Soon Had That Bleeding Head On Her Bosom. She Took

No Notice Of Richard Bassett,  But She Got Sir Charles Away From Him,

And The Cart Took Her,  Embracing Him Tenderly,  And Kissing His Hurt

Head,  And Moaning Over Him,  All Through The Village To Huntercombe

Hall.

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Four Years Ago They Passed Through The Same Village In A

Carriage-And-Four--Bells Pealing,  Rustics Shouting--To Take Possession

Of Huntercombe,  And Fill It With Pledges Of Their Great And Happy Love;

And As They Flashed Past The Heir At Law Shrank Hopeless Into His

Little Cottage. Now,  How Changed The Pageant!--A Farmer's Cart,  A

Splashed And Bleeding And Senseless Form In It,  Supported By A

Childless,  Despairing Woman,  One Weeping Attendant Walking At The Side,

And,  Among The Gentlemen Pacing Slowly Behind,  The Heir At Law,  With

His Head Lowered In That Decent Affectation Of Regret Which All Heirs

Can Put On To Hide The Indecent Complacency Within.

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At The Steps Of Huntercombe Hall The Servants Streamed Out,  And

Relieved The Strangers Of The Sorrowful Load. Sir Charles Was Carried

Into The Hall,  And Richard Bassett Turned Away,  With One Triumphant

Flash Of His Eye,  Quickly Suppressed,  And Walked With Impenetrable

Countenance And Studied Demeanor Into Highmore House.

 

Even Here He Did Not Throw Off The Mask. It Peeled Off By Degrees. He

Began By Telling His Wife,  Gravely Enough,  Sir Charles Had Met With A

Severe Fall,  And He Had Attended To Him And Taken Him Home.

 

"Ah,  I Am Glad You Did That,  Richard," Said Mrs. Bassett. "And Is He

Very Badly Hurt?"

 

"I Am Afraid He Will Hardly Get Over It. He Never Spoke. He Just

Groaned When They Took Him Down From The Cart At Huntercombe."

 

"Poor Lady Bassett!"

 

"Ay,  It Will Be A Bad Job For Her. Jane!"

 

"Yes,  Dear."

 

"There Is A Providence In It. The Fall Would Never Have Killed Him; But

His Head Struck A Tree Upon The Ground; And That Tree Was One Of The

Very Elms He Had Just Cut Down To Rob Our Boy."

 

"Indeed?"

 

"Yes; He Was Felling The Very Hedgerow Timber,  And This Was One Of The

Old Elms In A Hedge. He Must Have Done It Out Of Spite,  For Elm-Wood

Fetches No Price; It Is Good For Nothing I Know Of,  Except Coffins.

Well,  He Has Cut Down _His."_