The rest of the field were just anywhere. It
was only a scratch sort of affair. Ashburnham was quite close to
the rails not five yards from us and I heard him saying to himself:
"Might just be done!" And he did it. Goodness! he swung that
pony round with all its four legs spread out, like a cat dropping off
a roof. . . .
Well, it was just that look that I noticed in his eyes: "It might," I
seem even now to hear him muttering to himself, "just be done."
I looked round over my shoulder and saw, tall, smiling brilliantly
and buoyant--Leonora. And, little and fair, and as radiant as the
track of sunlight along the sea--my wife.
That poor wretch! to think that he was at that moment in a perfect
devil of a fix, and there he was, saying at the back of his mind: "It
might just be done." It was like a chap in the middle of the
eruption of a volcano, saying that he might just manage to bolt
into the tumult and set fire to a haystack. Madness?
Predestination? Who the devil knows?
Mrs Ashburnham exhibited at that moment more gaiety than I have
ever since known her to show. There are certain classes of English
people--the nicer ones when they have been to many spas, who
seem to make a point of becoming much more than usually
animated when they are introduced to my compatriots.
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