of relief.
“I see no difference.”
Then, doubly to reassure herself, a fantastic idea seized Bertha to dress as though she were going to a great ball; she wished to see herself to all advantage. She chose the most splendid gown she had, and took out her jewels. The Leys had sold every vestige of their old magnificence, but their diamonds, with characteristic obstinacy, they had invariably declined to part with; and they lay aside, year after year unused, the stones in their old settings, dulled with dust and neglect. The moisture still in Bertha’s hair was an excuse to do it capriciously, and she placed in it the beautiful tiara which her grandmother had worn in the Regency. On her shoulders she wore two ornaments exquisitely set in gold-work, purloined by a great-uncle in the Peninsular War from the saint of a Spanish church. She slipped a string of pearls round her neck, bracelets on her arms, and fastened a glistening row of stars to her bosom. Knowing she had beautiful hands, Bertha disdained to wear rings, but now she covered her fingers with diamonds and emeralds and sapphires.
Finally she stood before the looking-glass, and gave a laugh of pleasure. She was not old yet.
But when she sailed into the drawing-room, Edward jumped up in surprise.
“Good Lord!” he cried. “What on earth’s up! Have we got people coming to dinner?”
“My dear, if we had, I should not have dressed like this.”
“You’re got up as if the Prince of Wales were coming. And I’m only in knickerbockers. It’s not our wedding-day?”
“No.”
“Then I should like to know why you’ve dressed yourself up like that.”
“I thought it would please you,” she said, smiling.
“I wish you’d told me—I’d have dressed too. Are you sure no one’s coming?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well, I think I ought to dress. It would look so queer if some one turned up.”
“If any one does, I promise you I’ll fly.”
They went in to dinner, Edward feeling very uncomfortable, and keeping his ear alert for the front-door bell. They ate their soup, and then were set on the table—the remains of a cold leg of mutton and mashed potatoes. Bertha looked for a moment blankly, and then, leaning back, burst into peal upon peal of laughter.
“Good Lord, what is the matter now?” asked Edward.
Nothing is more annoying than to have people violently hilarious over a joke that you cannot see.
Bertha held her sides and tried to speak.
“I’ve just remembered that I told the servants they might go out to-night, there’s a circus at Blackstable; and I said we’d just eat up the odds and ends.”
“I don’t see any joke in that.”
And really there was none, but Bertha laughed again immoderately.
“I suppose there are some pickles,” said Edward.
Bertha repressed her gaiety and began to eat.
“That is my whole life,” she murmured under her breath, “to eat cold mutton and mashed potatoes in a ball-dress and all my diamonds.”
Chapter XXXV
But in the winter of that very year Edward, while hunting, had an accident. For years he had made a practice of riding unmanageable horses, and he never heard of a vicious beast without wishing to try it. He knew that he was a fine rider, and since he was never shy of parading his powers, nor loath to taunt others on the score of inferior skill or courage, he preferred difficult animals. It gratified him to see people point to him and say, “There’s a good rider:” and his best joke with some person on a horse that pulled or refused, was to cry: “You don’t seem friends with your gee; would you like to try mine?” And then, touching its sides with his spurs, he set it prancing. He was merciless with the cautious hunters who looked for low parts of a hedge or tried to get through a gate instead of over it; and when any one said a jump was dangerous, Edward with a laugh promptly went for it, shouting as he did so—
“I wouldn’t try it if I were you. You might fall off.”
He had just bought a roan for a mere song, because it jumped uncertainly, and had a trick of swinging a fore-leg as it rose. He took it out on the earliest opportunity, and the first two hedges and a ditch the horse cleared easily. Edward thought that once again he had got for almost nothing a hunter that merely wanted riding properly to behave like a lamb. They rode on, and came to a post and rail fence.
“Now, my beauty, this’ll show what you’re made of.”
He took the horse up in a canter, and pressed his legs; the horse did not rise, but swerved round suddenly.
“No, you don’t,” said Edward, taking him back.
He dug his spurs in, and the horse cantered up, and refused again. This time Edward grew angry. Arthur Branderton came flying by, and having many old scores to pay, laughed loudly.
“Why don’t you get down and walk over?” he shouted, as he passed Edward and took the jump.
“I’ll either get over or break my neck,” said Edward, setting his teeth.
But he did neither. He set the roan at the jump for the fourth time, hitting him with his crop; the beast rose, and then letting the fore-leg swing, came down with a crash.
Edward fell heavily, and for a minute was stunned. When he recovered consciousness, he found some one pouring brandy down his neck.
“Is the horse hurt?” he asked, not thinking of himself.
“No; he’s all right. How d’you feel?”
A young surgeon was in the field, and rode up. “What’s the matter? Any one injured?”
“No,” said Edward, struggling to his feet, somewhat annoyed at the exhibition he thought he was making of himself. “One would think none of you fellows had ever seen a man come down before. I’ve seen most of you come off often enough.”
He walked up to the horse, and put his foot in the stirrup.
“You’d better go home, Craddock,” said the surgeon. “I expect you’re a bit shaken up.”
“Go home be damned. Confound!” As he tried to mount, Edward felt a pain at the top of his chest. “I believe I’ve broken something.”
The surgeon went up and helped him off with his coat. He twisted Edward’s arm.
“Does that hurt?”
“A bit.”
“You’ve broken your collar-bone,”
