Mike Fletcher by George Moore (summer reading list TXT) 📖

Enchanted With

This Country-Side,  And Seeing It Lent Itself To His Pleasure--In

Other Words,  That It Was Necessary To His State Of Mind--He Strove,

And With Insidious Inveiglements,  To Win It,  To Cajole It,  To Make It

Part And Parcel Of Himself. But Its People Were Reserved.

Instinctively Mike Attacked The Line And The Point Of Least

Resistance,  And The Point Of Least Resistance Lay About Three Miles

Distant. A Young Squire--A Young Man Of Large Property And An

Unimpeachable Position In The County--Lived There In A Handsome House

With His Three Sisters. His Life Consisted In Rabbit-Shooting And

Riding Out Every Morning To See His Sheep Upon The Downs. He Was The

Rare Man Who Does Not Desire Himself Other Than He Is. But Content,

Though An Unmixed Blessing To Its Possessor,  Is Not An Attractive

Quality,  And Mr. Dallas Stood Sorely In Need Of A Friend. He Loved

His Sisters,  But To Spend Every Evening In Their Society Was

Monotonous,  And He Felt,  And They Felt Still More Keenly,  That A Nice

Young Man Would Create An Interest That At Present Was Wanting In

Country Life. Mike Had Heard Of This Young Squire And His Sisters,

And Had Long Desired To Meet Him. But They Had Paid Their Yearly

Visit To Thornby Place,  And He Could Not Persuade John To Go To Holly

Park.

 

One Day Riding On The Downs,  Mike Inquired The Way To Henfield Of A

Young Man Who Passed Him Riding A Bay Horse. The Question Was

Answered Curtly--So Curtly That Mike Thought The Stranger Could Not

Be Led Into Conversation. In This He Was Mistaken,  And At The End Of

Half A Mile Felt He Had Succeeded In Interesting His Companion. As

They Descended Into The Weald,  Mike Told Him He Was Stopping At

Thornby Place,  And The Young Squire Told Him He Was Mr. Dallas. When

About To Part,  Mike Asked To Be Directed To The Nearest Inn,

Complaining That He Was Dying Of Thirst,  For He Wished To Give Mr.

Dallas An Excuse For Asking Him To His House. Mr. Dallas Availed

Himself Of The Excuse; And Mike Prayed That He Might Find The Ladies

At Home. They Were In The Drawing-Room. The Piano Was Played,  And

Amid Tea And Muffins,  Tennis Was Discussed,  Allusions Were Made To

Man's Inconstancy.

 

Mike Left No Uncertainty Regarding His Various Qualities. He Liked

Hunting As Much As Shooting,  And Having Regard For The Season Of The

Year,  He Laid Special Stress Upon His Love For,  And His Prowess In,

The Game Of Tennis. A Week Later He Received An Invitation To Tennis.

Henceforth He Rode Over Frequently To Holly Park. He Was Sometimes

Asked To Stay The Night,  And An Impression Was Gaining Ground There

That Life Was Pleasanter With Him Than Without Him.

 

When He Was Not There The Squire Missed The Morning Ride And The Game

Of Billiards In The Evening,  And The Companion To Whom He Could Speak

Of His Sheep And His Lambs. Mike Listened To The Little Troubles Of

Each Sister In The Back Garden,  Never Failing To Evince The

Profoundest Sympathy. He Was Surprised To Find That He Enjoyed These

Conversations Just As Much As A Metaphysical Disquisition With John

Norton. "I Am Not Pretending," He Often Said To Himself; "It Is Quite

True;" And Then He Added Philosophically,  "Were I Not Interested In

Them I Should Not Succeed In Interesting Them."

 

The Brother,  The Sisters,  The Servants,  Even The Lap-Dog Shared In

The Pleasure. The Maid-Servants Liked To Meet His Tall Figure In The

Passages; The Young Ladies Loved To Look Into His Tender Eyes When

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They Came In From Their Walk And Found Him In The Drawing-Room.

 

To Touch Mike's Skin Was To Touch His Soul,  And Even The Yorkshire

Terrier Was Sensible Of Its Gentleness,  And Soon Preferred Of All

Places To Doze Under His Hand. Mike Came Into Dallas' Room In The

Morning When He Was Taking His Bath; He Hung Around The Young Ladies'

Rooms,  Speaking Through The Half-Open Doors; Then When The Doors Were

Open,  The Young Ladies Fled And Wrapped Themselves In Dressing-Gowns.

He Felt His Power; And By Insidious Intimations,  By Looks,  Words,

Projects For Pleasure,  Presents,  Practical Jokes,  Books,  And Talks

About Books,  He Proceeded Joyously In His Corruption Of The Entire

Household.

 

Naturally Mike Rode His Host's Horses,  And He Borrowed His Spurs,

Breeches,  Boots,  And Hunting-Whip. And When He Began To Realize What

An Excellent Pretext Hunting Is For Making Friends,  And Staying In

Country Houses,  He Bought A Couple Of Horses,  Which He Kept At Holly

Park Free Of Cost. He Had Long Since Put Aside His Poem And His

Trilogy,  And Now Thought Of Nothing But Shooting And Riding. He Could

Throw His Energies Into Anything,  From Writing A Poem To Playing

Chuck-Farthing.

 

The First Meet Of The Hounds Was At Thornby Place,  And In The Vain

Hope Of Marrying Her Son,  Mrs. Norton Had Invited The Young Girls Of

The Entire Country-Side. Lady Edith Downsdale Was Especially Included

In Her Designs; But John Instantly Vetoed Her Hopes By Asking Mike To

Take Lady Edith In To Lunch. She Stood Holding Her Habit; And Feeling

The Necessity Of Being Brilliant,  Mike Said,  Pointing To The Hounds

And Horses--

 

"How Strange It Is That That Is Of No Interest To The Artist! I

Suppose Because It Is Only Parade; Whereas A Bit Of Lane With A

Wind-Blown Hedge Is A Human Emotion,  And That Is Always Interesting."

 

Soon After,  A Fox Was Found In The Plantation That Rimmed The Lawn,

And Seeing That Lady Edith Was Watching Him,  Mike Risked A Fall Over

Some High Wattles; And This Was The Only Notice He Took Of Her Until

Late In The Afternoon,  Until All Hope Of Hunting Was Ended. A Fox Had

Been "Chopped" In Cover,  Another Had Been Miserably Coursed And

Killed In A Back Garden. He Strove To Make Himself Agreeable While

Riding With Her Along The Hillsides,  Watching The Huntsman Trying

Each Patch Of Gorse In The Coombes. She Seemed To Him Splendid And

Charming,  And He Wondered If He Could Love Her--Marry Her,  And Never

Grow Weary Of Her. But When The Hounds Found In A Large Wood Beneath

The Hills,  And Streamed Across The Meadows,  He Forgot Her,  And Making

His Horse Go In And Out He Fought For A Start. A Hundred And Fifty

Were Cantering Down A Steep Muddy Lane; A Horseman Who Had Come

Across The Field Strove To Open A Strong Farm-Gate. "It Is Locked,"

He Roared; "Jump." The Lane Was Steep And Greasy,  The Gate Was Four

Feet And A Half. Mike Rode At It. The Animal Dropped His Hind-Legs,

Mike Heard The Gate Rattle,  And A Little Ejaculatory Cry Come From

Those He Left Behind. It Was A Close Shave. Turning In His Saddle He

Saw The Immense Crowd Pressing About The Gate,  Which Could Not Be

Opened,  And He Knew Very Well That He Would Have The Hounds To

Himself For Many A Mile.

 

He Raced Alone Across The Misty Pasture Lands,  Full Of Winter Water

And Lingering Leaf; The Lofty Downs Like Sea Cliffs,  Appearing

Through Great White Masses Of Curling Vapour. And All The Episodes Of

That Day--The Great Ox Fences Which His Horse Flew,  Going Like A Bird

From Field To Field; The Awkward Stile,  The Various Brooks,--That One

Overgrown With Scrub Which His Horse Had Refused--Thrilled Him. And

When The Day Was Done,  As He Rode Through The Gathering Night,

Inquiring Out The Way Down Many A Deep And Wooded Lane,  Happiness

Sang Within Him,  And Like A Pure Animal He Enjoyed The Sensation Of

Life,  And He Intoxicated On The Thoughts Of The Friends That Would

Have Been His,  The Women And The Numberless Pleasures And Adventures

He Could Have Engaged In,  Were He Not Obliged To Earn Money,  Or Were

Not Led Away From Them "By His Accursed Literary Tastes."

 

Should He Marry One Of The Sisters? Ridiculous! But What Was There To

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Do? To-Day He Was Nearly Thirty; In Ten Years He Would Be A

Middle-Aged Man; And,  Alas! For He Felt In Him Manifold Resources,

Sufficient Were He To Live For Five Hundred Years. Must He Marry

Agnes? He Might If She Was A Peeress In Her Own Right! Or Should He

Win A Peerage For Himself By Some Great Poem,  Or By Some Great

Political Treachery? No,  No; He Wanted Nothing Better Than To Live

Always Strong And Joyous In This Corner Of Fair England; And To Be

Always Loved By Girls,  And To Be Always Talked Of By Them About Their

Tea-Tables. Oh,  For A Cup Of Tea And A Slice Of Warm Buttered Toast!

 

A Good Hour's Ride Yawned Between Him And Holly Park,  But By Crossing

The Downs It Might Be Reduced To Three-Quarters Of An Hour. He

Hesitated,  Fearing He Might Miss His Way In The Fog,  But The

Tea-Table Lured Him. He Resolved To Attempt It,  And Forced His Horse

Up A Slightly Indicated Path,  Which He Hoped Would Led Him To A

Certain Barn. High Above Him A Horseman,  Faint As The Shadow Of A

Bird,  Made His Way Cantering Briskly. Mike Strove To Overtake Him,

But Suddenly Missed Him: Behind Him The Pathway Was Disappearing.

 

Fearing He Might Have To Pass A Night On The Downs,  He Turned His

Horse's Head; But The Animal Was Obdurate,  And A Moment After He Was

Lost. He Said,  "Great Scott! Where Am I? Where Did This Ploughed

Field Come From? I Must Be Near The Dike." Then Thinking That He

Recognized The Headland,  He Rode In A Different Direction,  But Was

Stopped By A Paling And A Chalk-Pit,  And,  Riding Round It,  He Guessed

The Chalk-Pit Must Be Fifty Feet Deep. Strange White Patches,

Fabulous Hillocks,  And Distortions Of Ground Loomed Through The White

Darkness; And A Valley Opened On His Right So Steep That He Was

Afraid To Descend Into It. Very Soon Minutes Became Hours And Miles

Became Leagues.

 

"There's Nothing For It But To Lie Under A Furze-Bush." With Two

Pocket-Handkerchiefs He Tied His Horse's Fore-Legs Close Together,

And Sat Down And Lit A Cigar. The Furze-Patch Was Quite Hollow

Underneath And Almost Dry.

 

"It Is Nearly Full Moon," He Said; "Were It Not For That It Would Be

Pitch Dark. Good Lord! Thirteen Hours Of This; I Wish I Had Never

Been Born!"

 

He Had Not,  However,  Finished His First Cigar Before A Horse's Head

And Shoulders Pushed Through The Mist. Mike Sprang To His Feet.

 

"Can You Tell Me The Way Off These Infernal Downs?" He Cried. "Oh,  I

Beg Your Pardon,  Lady Edith."

 

"Oh,  Is That You,  Mr. Fletcher? I Have Lost My Way And My Groom Too.

I Am Awfully Frightened; I Missed Him Of A Sudden In The Fog. What

Shall I Do? Can You Tell Me The Way?"

 

"Indeed I Cannot; If I Knew The Way I Should Not Be Sitting Under

This Furze-Bush."

 

"What Shall We Do? I Must Get Home."

 

"It Is Very Terrible,  Lady Edith,  But I'm Afraid You Will Not Be Able

To Get Home Till The Fog Lifts."

 

"But I Must Get Home. I Must! I Must! What Will They Think? They'll

Be Sending Out To Look For Me. Won't You Come With Me,  Mr. Fletcher,

And Help Me To Find The Way?"

 

"I Will,  Of Course,  Do Anything You Like;