He had been killed on the hunting-field, in the first burst, taking a double at the fly: not a surprising end for an intrepid and frequently reckless horseman. What did surprise his son was to discover that contrary to advice and entreaty he had been riding a green and headstrong young horse, never before tried in the field. Lord Lynton was a bruising rider, but not a fool; his heir, knowing the wild hurly-burly of a first burst with the Quorn or the Belvoir, concluded that he had ridden his young ‘un for a wager, and passed on to a maternal command to sell out instantly, and return to England, where his presence was most urgently needed.
The new Lord Lynton (but it was to be many weeks before he answered readily to any other title than Captain Deveril) could not find in his mother’s letter any reason why he should pursue a course so repugnant to himself. The letter from Lord Lynton’s man of business was less impassioned but more explicit. He read it twice before his brain was able to grasp its horrifying intelligence, and many times before he laid it before his Colonel.
No one could have been kinder; to no one else, indeed, could Adam Deveril have borne to have disclosed that letter. Colonel Colborne had read it, his countenance unmoved, and he had offered no unwanted sympathy. “You must go,” he had said. “I’ll grant you furlough immediately, to expedite the business, but you’ll sell out, of course.” Then, guessing the thoughts hidden behind Adam’s rigid countenance, he had added: “A year ago there might have been doubts which way your duty should have led you, but there are none now. We shall soon have Soult on the run in good earnest. I shan’t say you won’t be missed: you will be-damnably! — but your absence won’t affect the issue here. There’s no question about it, you know: you must go home to England.”