pale while tightening his mind, that Joel remarked, “Ah, sir, you aren’t used to it, that’s how it is. I’s see lots and lots o’ joints out. I see a man with his eye pushed out once—that was a rum go as ever I see. You can’t have a bit o’ fun wi’out such sort o’ things. But it went in again. I’s swallowed three teeth mysen, as sure as I’m alive. Now, sirrey” (this was addressed to Primrose), “come alonk—you musn’t make believe as you can’t.”
Joel being clearly a low character, it is, happily, not necessary to say more of him to the refined reader, than that he helped Rex to get home with as little delay as possible. There was no alternative but to get home, though all the while he was in anxiety about Gwendolen, and more miserable in the thought that she, too, might have had an accident, than in the pain of his own bruises and the annoyance he was about to cause his father. He comforted himself about her by reflecting that every one would be anxious to take care of her, and that some acquaintance would be sure to conduct her home.
Mr. Gascoigne was already at home, and was writing letters in his study, when he was interrupted by seeing poor Rex come in with a face which was not the less handsome and ingratiating for being pale and a little distressed. He was secretly the favorite son, and a young portrait of the father; who, however, never treated him with any partiality—rather, with an extra rigor. Mr. Gascoigne having inquired of Anna, knew that Rex had gone with Gwendolen to the meet at the Three Barns.
“What is the matter?” he said hastily, not laying down his pen.
“I’m very sorry, sir; Primrose has fallen down and broken his knees.”
“Where have you been with him?” said Mr. Gascoigne, with a touch of severity. He rarely gave way to temper.
“To the Three Barns to see the hounds throw off.”
“And you were fool enough to follow?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t go at any fences, but the horse got his leg into a hole.”
“And you got hurt yourself, I hope, eh!”
“I got my shoulder put out, but a young blacksmith put it in again for me. I’m just a little battered, that’s all.”
“Well, sit down.”
“I’m very sorry about the horse, sir; I knew it would be a vexation to you.”
“And what has become of Gwendolen?” said Mr. Gascoigne, abruptly. Rex, who did not imagine that his father had made any inquiries about him, answered at first with a blush, which was the more remarkable for his previous paleness. Then he said, nervously—
“I am anxious to know—I should like to go or send at once to Offendene—but she rides so well, and I think she would keep up—there would most likely be many round her.”
“I suppose it was she who led you on, eh?” said Mr. Gascoigne, laying down his pen, leaning back in his chair, and looking at Rex with more marked examination.
“It was natural for her to want to go: she didn’t intend it beforehand—she was led away by the spirit of the thing. And, of course, I went when she went.”
Mr. Gascoigne left a brief interval of silence, and then said, with quiet irony,—“But now you observe, young gentleman, that you are not furnished with a horse which will enable you to play the squire to your cousin. You must give up that amusement. You have spoiled my nag for me, and that is enough mischief for one vacation. I shall beg you to get ready to start for Southampton to-morrow and join Stilfox, till you go up to Oxford with him. That will be good for your bruises as well as your studies.”
Poor Rex felt his heart swelling and comporting itself as if it had been no better than a girl’s.
“I hope you will not insist on my going immediately, sir.”
“Do you feel too ill?”
“No, not that—but—” here Rex bit his lips and felt the tears starting, to his great vexation; then he rallied and tried to say more firmly, “I want to go to Offendene, but I can go this evening.”
“I am going there myself. I can bring word about Gwendolen, if that is what you want.”
Rex broke down. He thought he discerned an intention fatal to his happiness, nay, his life. He was accustomed to believe in his father’s penetration, and to expect firmness. “Father, I can’t go away without telling her that I love her, and knowing that she loves me.”
Mr. Gascoigne was inwardly going through some self-rebuke for not being more wary, and was now really sorry for the lad; but every consideration was subordinate to that of using the wisest tactics in the case. He had quickly made up his mind and to answer the more quietly—
“My dear boy, you are too young to be taking momentous, decisive steps of that sort. This is a fancy which you have got into your head during an idle week or two: you must set to work at something and dismiss it. There is every reason against it. An engagement at your age would be totally rash and unjustifiable; and moreover, alliances between first cousins are undesirable. Make up your mind to a brief disappointment. Life is full of them. We have all got to be broken in; and this is a mild beginning for you.”
“No, not mild. I can’t bear it. I shall be good for nothing. I shouldn’t mind anything, if it were settled between us. I could do anything then,” said Rex, impetuously. “But it’s of no use to pretend that I will obey you. I can’t do it. If I said I would, I should be sure to break my word. I should see Gwendolen again.”
“Well, wait till to-morrow morning, that we may talk of the matter again—you will promise me that,” said Mr. Gascoigne, quietly; and Rex did not, could not refuse.
The rector did not even tell his wife that he had any other reason for going to Offendene that evening than his desire to ascertain that Gwendolen had got home safely. He found her more than safe—elated. Mr. Quallon, who had won the brush, had delivered the trophy to her, and she had brought it before her, fastened on the saddle; more than that, Lord Brackenshaw had conducted her home, and had shown himself delighted with her spirited riding. All this was told at once to her uncle, that he might see how well justified she had been in acting against his advice; and the prudential rector did feel himself in a slight difficulty, for at that moment he was particularly sensible that it was his niece’s serious interest to be well regarded by the Brackenshaws, and their opinion as to her following the hounds really touched the essence of his objection. However, he was not obliged to say anything immediately, for Mrs. Davilow followed up Gwendolen’s brief triumphant phrases with—
“Still, I do hope you will not do it again, Gwendolen. I should never have a moment’s quiet. Her father died by an accident, you know.”
Here Mrs. Davilow had turned away from Gwendolen, and looked at Mr. Gascoigne.
“Mamma, dear,” said Gwendolen, kissing her merrily, and passing over the question of the fears which Mrs. Davilow had meant to account for, “children don’t take after their parents in broken legs.”
Not one word had yet been said about Rex. In fact there had been no anxiety about him at Offendene. Gwendolen had observed to her mamma, “Oh, he must have been left far behind, and gone home in despair,” and it could not be denied that this was fortunate so far as it made way for Lord Brackenshaw’s bringing her home. But now Mr. Gascoigne said, with some emphasis, looking at Gwendolen—
“Well, the exploit has ended better for you than for Rex.”
“Yes, I dare say he had to make a terrible round. You have not taught Primrose to take the fences, uncle,” said Gwendolen, without the faintest shade of alarm in her looks and tone.
“Rex has had a fall,” said Mr. Gascoigne, curtly, throwing himself into an arm-chair resting his elbows and fitting his palms and fingers together, while he closed his lips and looked at Gwendolen, who said—
“Oh, poor fellow! he is not hurt, I hope?” with a correct look of anxiety such as elated mortals try to super-induce when their pulses are all the while quick