That winter I was staying with the Manners, as usual, and finding
myself late for a near meet cut across country. Larking is always
a stupid thing to do; horses that have never put a foot wrong
generally refuse the smallest fence and rather than upset them at
the beginning of the day you end by going through the gate, which
you had better have done at first.
I had a mare called Molly Bawn, given to me by my fiance, who was
the finest timber-jumper in Leicestershire, and, seeing the people
at the meet watching me as I approached, I could not resist, out
of pure swagger, jumping an enormous gate. I said to myself how
disgusted Peter would have been at my vulgarity! But at the same
time it put me in good spirits. Something, however, made me turn
round; I saw a man behind me, jumping the fence beside my gate;
and there was Peter Flower! He was in tearing spirits and told me
with eagerness how completely he had turned over a new leaf and
never intended doing this, that or the other again, as far the
most wonderful thing had happened to him that ever happened to any
one.
"I'm under a lucky star, Margie! By heavens I am! And the joy of
seeing you is SO GREAT that I won't allude to the gate, or Molly
Bawn, or you, or any thing ugly! Let us enjoy ourselves for once;
and for God's sake don't scold me. Are you glad to see me? Let me
look at you! Which do you love best, Molly Bawn or me? Don't
answer but listen."
He then proceeded to tell me how his debts had been paid by Sam
Lewis--the money-lender--through an unknown benefactor and how he
had begged Lewis to tell who it was, but that he had refused,
having taken his oath never to reveal the name.
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