A Double Event

I OPENED my eyes at 8 o’clock on a bright morning in June, and found them fixed on my ball-dress. I looked at the clock; I saw I had exactly one hour in which to bathe, dress, breakfast, and get to Paddington.

Out of bed in an instant, I shouted for my maid. She had not been eight years with me for nothing. My habit, long coat, buff waistcoat, hat, boots, gloves, were all put out. I munched toast while she brushed my hair.

I always find that the double tie is the toilette trap in dressing for riding. Pulling up the centre under the chin, pinning down the sides, while keeping a straight line at the top of the turnover, is touch and go. It was June, however, — a month in which no one hunts but young ladies in fiction; and I need hardly say my tie was perfect. I pushed my arms into a covert coat, and, rushing downstairs, jumped into a hansom.

Hansoms are now as extinct as dueling or garrotting. No one can deny that they had every fault: you caught your dress getting in, you fell on your head getting out; if it rained, you were soaked, or if the window was down and the horse slipped, your head went through the glass. But it was a highly becoming conveyance, and generally went along quickly; unfortunately for me, this hansom went painfully slowly. I delayed it by poking my whip up through the trap-door and shouting, ‘Hurry up! I will give you five shillings more!’ I gave this up as the lash of the eager driver tingled over my face (another danger to which a hansom exposed you), and full of grim determination, — as the Ulstermen said in 1914, — I made up my mind that I would have to race for the train.

I was going to a famous horse-dealer in Swindon, to try hunters for myself, Ribblesdale, and other members of the family. Elaborate arrangements had been made for me to join my sister, Mrs. Graham Smith, later on in the afternoon, and to miss this train would not only have put the family about, but have cheated me of riding strange horses over strange fences — an amusement which made my spirits rise.

I ran into the station; my train was moving slowly out. A porter was standing in an open doorway of one of the compartments. I jumped onto the step, caught hold of his coat, shouted, ’Don’t shut the door,’ and as he stepped off, I stepped in. My gratitude knew no bounds. I threw the man ten shillings — if he had shut the door, or shown any fear, I should have been done. Trains move off with great dignity, and if travelers would move on — instead of crawling like rolling-stock — fewer trains would be lost.

Out of breath, but full of gladness, I looked at my top-boots and wondered how many of my friends wore loose boots with thick soles to them. Everyone has a different sort of vanity; mine went to my head, not to my feet: two pairs of stockings and loose boots were essential to my comfort out hunting.

Apropos of this, I must digress a little. The present Duke of Beaufort’s father once scolded me for wearing tight boots, —we were riding back to Badminton with the hounds on a cold evening, — and I assured him that they were so loose that if one of the hunt servants would pick up my boot, I could kick it into the road. He challenged me. I kicked my boot off with the greatest ease.

It was not my boots but my hats from Mr. Lock in St. James’s Street that I fancied. From the hoop to the hobble is not a more violent change than from the riding hats of 1893 to the riding hats of 1917. I see young ladies riding in the Row with very wide flat brims and no crowns to their hats. Rotten Row has always had a good many loose horses with riders on them, so perhaps it is not fair to judge from this. I dare say if I went back to Melton I would see men and women with crowns to their hats. But I must return to my train.

After arranging a pillow at my back and tucking a rug round me, I looked at my fellow travelers. A beautiful old man in a roomy blue overcoat sat reading near the window, with his hat off. He had a beard of black and silver, and curling black and silver hair, a fine studio head with onyx eyes, and a thin large aquiline nose. An unworldlylooking youth sat next to him, arranging papers and letters in elastic bands. The seat next to the young man was piled high with letters, documents, and papers of every description.

I watched with interest the awe with which the old gentleman inspired the young man. Every time there was a flaw in the packets the young man’s chin retreated further and his attitude became more servile.

For the first time I noticed labels on the windows at each side of the carriage. I said to myself, ‘Hullo! I am not in my right place. I must apologize for having thrust myself into this reserved carriage.’ How had I best begin? In my youth I called men ‘Sir’; this was peculiar to myself and by no means a fashion (I was born at a later period than The Fairchild Family).

I fidgeted about, with an occasional glance at the old man. Suddenly I caught his lively eye fixed on me.

‘I am sorry, sir, that I hurled myself into this carriage. I see it has been reserved for you; but missing this train would have been a serious matter to me.’

The Old Gentleman. — You need not apologize. I do not mind at all. I was afraid you might hurt yourself — what you did was very dangerous — you must never do it again. Why would it have been serious for you to have missed this train? [He said this in a grave tone, and added threateningly] What are you going to do?

She. — I am going to try horses for myself and my brother-in-law. What are you going to do?

Tie [very deliberately]. —I am going to save souls.

She. — You are sanguine!

He.— Don’t you believe in saving souls?

I confess I thought it a poignant pretension; but he was so bold and goodlooking that I did not want to appear unsympathetic.

She. — Yes, I know what you mean. Can’t say I have ever seen the process, though I have often heard of conversion. There is something morally vulgar to me in trying to get rapidly familiar with men’s souls.

He [indignantly]. — When you are dealing with the drunken and the depraved, you must not be morally aristocratic. You know nothing of real life — I have only to look at you to see that you are not only very young but extremely inexperienced. Look at me, young lady, and tell me truly. When have you seen souls flickering out for want of a little light? What do you know of the depravity that devastates whole districts? The world you know is not the real world at all! What sort of a world is yours? I do not suppose you have ever seen a pauper! Have you ever been to a workhouse? I don’t suppose you have ever seen a lunatic. Have you ever been to an asylum? I don’t suppose you have ever seen a convict. Have you ever been in a prison? Have you ever been into a public-house and seen men — yes, and women too — grappling and fighting in the sight of God before the eyes of man, stiff with drink?

He paused and after a reproachful look at me continued, ‘What do you know about drink? You have probably never seen drunkenness in your life.’

She.— Oh! haven’t I just! I am Scotch.

He [not listening]. — Fighting, not with their fists, young woman, but with their souls. The morally aristocratic won’t help us much here! What is wanted are workmen and workwomen. I am thinking of the next world — you are thinking of this. I can see you are fond of this world and its amusements — perhaps you are fashionable?

She. — Oh, dear, no!

He. — Who is your brother-in-law?

She. — Ribblesdale.

He. — What is your name?

She. — It won’t convey anything to you. I am quite uninteresting!

He.—On the contrary, you interest me. — Do you believe in Hell?

She [decidedly]. — No, nor do you.

Much surprised at this remark, he took off his coat and as he leaned forward, I saw ‘Salvation Army’ embroidered on his blue jersey. So this was General Booth! I had heard much of him and Mrs. Booth, I had had close personal experience of their work in my districts (Whitechapel and Wapping), but I did not want our conversation to be interrupted by any autobiography, so I went on rapidly, —

‘You think you do, but you don’t. Holding Hell over the heads of the drunken and depraved is playing down to the lowest side, even of these poor people. This is the weak part of your teaching: you excite fear, and a sort of spiritual fever.’

He.—If you were not a rich, idle, self-indulgent young lady, you would see that what you call spiritual fever I call spiritual hunger. This does not belong to the lowest side of humanity, but the highest. Spiritual torpor is Hell.

She. — If that is the kind of Hell you mean, I do believe in it. I have always thought Hell is within us — just as I think Heaven is, and as certainly as I think God is above us.

He. — There is a deal of nonsense in that kind of talk. Good is good, evil is evil, and God is God. Heaven is Heaven and Hell is Hell. Don’t be equivocal and ecclesiastical, but be frank with your faith. Don’t be sly, like the High Churchmen. I believe in Hell and I believe in Heaven. You say Heaven lies within us; does it only lie within us? Is there no destination — only the route?

She. — I did not mean that! You may as well say a corridor and Calvary are the same. Of course no one would go on walking or fighting if there was no goal, unless they were fools or saints; but fear of Hell is not a good incentive. Threats would have no effect upon me! I would much rather feel that my nature responded to love than to fear. Why worry about Hell? Heaven is the light to hold before your flickering souls. I can’t argue on theology. I feel like the child who was flying its kite high on a misty day. When they said, ‘Do you enjoy flying your kite when you can’t see it?’ the child said, ‘Oh! yes, I always feel it tugging at me.’

The old man liked this story. He said, ‘I was not talking of theology, I was only defending myself when you were saying my army does not appeal to the highest in human beings. I say it does. If you had what I call spiritual hunger and you call spiritual fever, you would not be wasting your time trying horses for your brother-in-law.’

Relieved at this departure from theology, and noticing a slight twinkling of his eye I said, —

’I see no great harm in trying horses for my brother-in-law.’

He. — What sort of man is Lord Ribblesdale?

She. — He’s a fine rider and a great judge of a horse.

He. —Is he a good man?

She.—One of the best! Now, general, what you want to know is how much field for conversion you can find in me and my family, and how to start about it. In practice conversion is extremely risky: it is like a practical joke. You can never know if the end is satisfactory; in conversation it is vain — making — It is not a good topic. It is ultimately dull, as it means different things to different men. Don’t let us talk about conversion — I want to know about your wife and your society.

He. —My wife was the most wonderful woman God ever made. This society was entirely her idea; it was her creation, not mine.

He spoke of her with deep feeling — of her amazing oratory and true goodness. I could only say what I had heard about her, and how much I admired him, his family, and his work. He was not very forthcoming, which disappointed me. I longed to know much more about himself and how the idea of the Salvation Army started, but he never pursued any subject for long; he was a restless listener. I asked him if his wife believed in Hell.

He [guardedly]. — I think she would have agreed with you about Hell. What is the name of your father?

She. — My father is called Charles Tennant; he makes chemicals in Glasgow and gold in the Mysore mines in India.

He. — You are Margot Tennant. I know all about you. (I felt inclined to say, ‘Oh! do you?’) Your father refused to give our army any money.

She. — I don’t think my father ever refused to give money to any one in his life. He knows the value of money too well not to give; he is a very happy man and suffers none of the apprehension, suspicion, and low temperature of the rich. My father would never understand your army and he hates noise.

He. — Noise!!

She.—Yes, you know your lassies thrum tea-trays for hours in the streets, and shout even on grass slopes where people play golf. The seventeenth hole at St. Andrews — on the road where your people parade — is a very ticklish hole; my father is irritable and highly strung —

He. — Are you?

She — Very; noise is physical pain to me. It does not take much to put you out when you are putting.

He [not listening, but watching me closely]. — Do you say your prayers ?

She: Always.

He: Would you like to pray now in this carriage?

She [gravely],—Certainly, if you would like to.

General Booth was unprepared for this answer. He had made up his mind that I was a fearless, frivolous female. He had been baulked in his scheme of conversion by a conversational digression and was anxious to return to the charge. For a moment neither of us spoke; then with a courteous movement of his hand to me he said, ‘Let us kneel and pray.’

The young lieutenant, the general, and I knelt down in a row, with our elbows on the opposite seats of the carriage. He opened by exhortation: Would God ‘bless and be near this our sister’? He was not censorious, but I noticed that he emphasized the word ‘quietness’ in quoting St. Paul: ‘In quietness and confidence lies our strength.’

He prayed erect upon his knees, with an upright head, throwing his long hair back. I shall never forget that prayer: I found myself not merely conforming, but acquiescing and praying. He was perfectly un-self-conscious; humble, without being self-centred; grateful, without being complacent; original and uneccentric; full of ideas, without being jumpy; reverent, imaginative, and, to me, deeply moving.

He finished and we all got up. I took his hand, pressed it with both of mine, and thanked him. I told him how much I had liked his prayer. We sat down in silence. He asked me what I had got in my writing-case. I took out books and a few photographs and trifles, and showed them to him. None of these interested him at all.

I always travel with a little leather commonplace book in which I have copied from the writings of many authors quotations concerning death and prayer. He took up the book and asked me to lend it to him. I did not want to do this, as I have never had much success in lending books to friends. There were a few empty pages, and I said, ‘You write something in my book for me; I cannot lend it to you; I have never shown this to any one.’

He did not give me back the book, but held it in his hand.

He.—I suppose when you get home you will make a good story of our talk and journey to-day.

She. — If you regret it I will tell no one, but otherwise I shall certainly tell my sister.

He [smiling]. — And the brother-inlaw?

She.—Yes, all of them — but I don’t know what you mean by ‘good story.’ If you mean that I think it funny to pray, you are completely out in your calculations.

He. — You haven’t often knelt in a train before, and prayed, have you?

She. —No, never. I generally say my prayers to myself, but I have often prayed out loud with my factory-girls, and never observed any of them take it amiss.

He. — Shall I ever see you again? Will you ride down Rotten Row in one of my Salvation bonnets?

She. — No. I think they are hideous. I can see that your converts have been very conventional people; you take it for granted that I am vain and worldly, and you want to startle me into loving God. I have always believed in the Salvation Army, and given money to it, but I don’t see that riding in your bonnet would bring in more souls or more subscriptions.

He. —It would be an advertisement.

She. — It would cover you, me, and your soldiers with ridicule.

He. — Christ did not mind being ridiculed.

She. — He would not have liked being advertised—Just write in my book, will you? I will give you my address so that you won’t forget me.

He wrote in silence. We were nearing Swindon station. I felt very sorry to part with my dear old new friend.

He gave me back the book. I read what he had written: —

‘What is life for but to walk in harmony with God, to secure that disposition and character which will fit us for the enjoyments and employments and companionships of Heaven — and to spend and be spent for the temporal and eternal weal of this suffering world? - WILLIAM BOOTH.’

I shut my little book and put it in my bag.

He. — I am very glad to have met you: we will pray for each other, and meet soon.

He took my hand in both of his.

I told him I had loved his prayer and would never forget him; that he must come and see me, or if he wanted me, I would go and see him. We said goodbye, and remained friends till he died.

I was met at Swindon by the horsedealer in a buggy — a little man of mild eye, gentle voice, and full-blooded brogue. He talked of the horses he had got for me to see. I did not listen much; I wished I had been with the general, for our journey had been too short. I wanted to read again what he had written, but my bag was under a horse-cloth at my feet, and we went at such a pace that I felt that I could not open the bag without upsetting all the things; so I engaged in the following conversation:

‘Havoc is the one for you — a little short in the rib but a foine shoulther, and great stroide. I took him with the duke’s hounds over some rails in the corner, and not warn’ [‘one,’ which he pronounced as if it rhymed with tarn] ‘followed. There’s a bit of a gray mare you shall see in the ring; she goes a little quick at her fences, but — ’

She [rather snappily]. — I loathe a rusher!

The Dealer.—That she is not! [with great emphasis]. She has great courage. If you gave her the office she would jump into a conservatory — this is what you ’ll be wanting for the Leicestershire bottoms — there’ll be no gates there.

She. — You’re wrong; it’s the bestgated country in the world.

He. — And is that so? But it only takes one fall to kill you down there, and here no one is the worse for a roll or two.

She.—That is true. What else have you got for me to try? In your letter you recommend Dandelion.

He [with a melting eye]. — Sure and I did. He’s a beautiful horse — something to conjure with! — thoroughbred — all but in the book — full of proide and vanity! He is difficult to ride in the small enclosures; it’s the shires he is wanting. If he puts you down I’ll give him to you. I thought of entering him for the Grand National, but Lord Lonsdale said to me, ‘Racing will be the ruin of him.’

We were tearing down the road when he pulled up suddenly at a brick house set in laurels and surrounded by sheds and stables; I saw through the trees a large paddock with a tan ring and fancy fences.

He [throwing the reins to an ostler and taking his watch out of his pocket]. — Five miles in ten minutes, and only gave ten pound for you!

‘Liar!’ I said to myself, collecting my things.

We went into the loose boxes to look at the hunters. Bustling stablemen stripped one animal after the other in monotonous succession. I am always at a loss what to say on these occasions, so begged him to get his man as soon as possible to ride whatever was ready over the fences for me.

He. — It’s yourself shall choose; which shall it be?

She.—What about Dandelion?

He. —Oh! you shall ride him yourself with me later on, down the road.

She. — Down the road? You mean over the fences!

He. —Not just at first — you must feel him under you! Jim! bring the gray mare to the paddock — we ’ll walk on.

We walked down to the gate and into the field, Jim following on the gray. I could see that Jim was a fine rider — long stirrups, a loose easy seat, and brimless hat. The gray, so far from being a little mare, struck me as big, angular, and gawky. The moment her large feet touched the ring she shot off! Jim handled her well, but as she approached the first fence, which was small and bushy, she rushed at it like a bull at a flag, took off from her stomach, and, hardly rising at all, landed twenty feet the other side. The fence closed up behind her, and one might have supposed she had never touched it — in Leicestershire I knew the fence would either have been taken up by the roots or I would have been taken home on a hurdle. It was the same with every fence in the ring. Had it not been for Jim, who with gigantic strength and iron nerve forced her to rise from her quarters at the only two obstacles of any merit, they must have parted company.

‘Good Heavens!’ I said; ‘if she’s not a rusher I’ve never seen one! I hope you give Jim high wages!’

He. — Bless your soul, I would n’t give a curse for a horse who, with the one fence leapt, had n’t the next one challenged!

Although I was rather amused, I was by no means mollified by this; I felt it had been an unlucky show. The dealer quickly perceived what was in my mind. His voice was very tender, almost caressing, as he said, —

‘It’s summer, and the divils don’t get half enough exercise; I sell them off too quick! It’s meself that should look after them.’

She. — Really, it’s useless to show me this kind of animal! Let us see Comedy, the Havoc horse, or Dandelion. What about the great Dandelion?

He did not respond to this, but went on wondering how he could remove the evil impression that the gray had made on me.

‘Ah! if the mare had been fit you’d have had a foine ride this morning!’

‘Not I! My only chance would be if she was tired, and then she’d lay me out for dead.’

‘Is it the gray mare you mean? She would not. I ’d gladly be in prison for the stealing of her! Jim’s not a rider like yourself; I would n’t take two hundred for her. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do — I ’ll get her fit and give you a mount with the duke, and you can break her neck and I’ll say never a word!’

‘She’ll break mine, and then neither of us will be in a position to argue. Let us see Dandelion.’

He bustled off to bring out the favorite. I stood on the stone block and saw two men bringing out Dandelion — one leading him, and the other walking by his side with a towel over his arm.

Dandelion was, I must say, a most fascinating horse — to look at; dark chestnut, his coat shining like the back of a violin; a short back, loose elbows, and not a blemish anywhere. Something in his appearance reminded me of a Disraeli novel — the quivering nostril of his little nose, the rather vindictive roving eye. He looked like a brilliant adventurer. If this horse was all that he said, both my fortune and the dealer’s were made.

I watched him coming toward me; his walk was resolute and elastic. Something moved in the laurels, and he stopped at once. I could see that he was terribly observant; the second ostler instantly clutched the other rein close to the bit, Dandelion pointed his toes and danced up to the block at an impossible angle for me to mount.

The Dealer. —Begorra! Bad luck to it! he is fresh too. Now, boys, steady! steady with the cloth!

This mysterious, almost clerical expression mystified me for a moment; a third stable-boy came out, and, winking rapidly at one of his com panions, assisted with great energy in holding a towel round Dandelion’s restless head, covering his eyes. The horse, quivering all over, was gently pushed to the block. My heart sank. Why did the ostler wink? Why had I come at all? Why get out at Swindon when I might have gone on to Wales with General Booth? My old friend was right. I was a rich, self-indulgent young lady — I was doing exactly what I liked. (Was I?) This would never do; it was high time to show some spirit.

She. — What is all this paraphernalia about, pray?

He [persuasively].—You never liked a quiet one now, did you? Dandelion is high-strung — he is over-bred and never could endure the block.

She. — But you said I was to mount off the block. Very well, I don’t mind; take the towel off his eyes and put me up from the ground.

He. —Bless your soul, you ’re on him but for the putting of your foot out.

I stood perfectly still on the block.

Ostler [soothingly]. — It’s all right, lady! You need n’t be frightened.

She [indignantly]. — I am not frightened, but Dandelion is!

He [with forced animation]. — Bless your soul! Is it Dandelion that would be frightened? It would take a new Heaven and a new Hell to scare him.

With great boldness he stroked the only part of the horse’s neck that was uncovered, saying soothingly, —

‘There, there! Come, come! You’re a g-r-a-t-e horse, are n’t you!’

I put my foot into the stirrup. Suddenly changing from coozle to caution, the dealer shouted, —

‘Steady! Steady, boys! Let go.’

I was up; the three men burst away like squibs as Dandelion flung the towel to the earth with an ugly upward jerk of the head. After that we did not seem to get into position: I could not feel his mouth; Dandelion’s head was reposing on my chest like a camel’s. Great Heavens! He had a swivel neck! Why had I never noticed this? I felt a mixture of irascibility and apprehension creeping into my blood, as the dealer and I rode off side by side down the road in perfect silence.

Dandelion dropped his head. Feeling happier, I said with the courage of a hard funker, ‘No one can try a horse on the road; let us gallop round the fences in the paddock.’

‘There is foine grass by the side of the road further on. Let us start steady — it’s very hot.’

I kept my eye on him. He was watching Dandelion with a look of intense anxiety; his face was shining like the blest with perspiration, but he said nothing. We walked on side by side at a studied pace, when suddenly I felt Dandelion’s quarters rise and his forelegs hit the ground with uncalled-for violence. The reins hung in festoons; he rolled his head toward my chin, and after hearing a great cry as of one in pain a long, long way off, followed by the roar of a donkey engine in my brain, I knew no more —

When I ‘came to,’ figures and furniture seemed to nod and throb around me. A thunderstorm was going on with the windows shut — a perpetual wail of ‘Holy Virgin! say you’re not dead!’ was mixed up with a good deal of blurr and bustle.

When I regained complete consciousness, I found myself in the dealer’s parlor with hot-water bottles all round me, the dealer, the doctor, and the district nurse talking to each other, and the stable boys peeping in at the windows.

The Doctor. — Megrims, you call it?

The Dealer [very subdued]. — Sure, that is right, sir.

We never quite knew who was the hero of the good story.