The Little White Horse

by Elizabeth Goudge

  3

  The four of them went down the steps in the cliff together in the bright moonlight, and when they got to the bottom Maria mounted once more upon Wrolf and they crossed the clearing and came again into the pine-wood. Monsieur Cocq de Noir held his lantern high to light their way, but it shed only a fitful gleam upon the great darkness all about them. But Maria was not frightened of the darkness now, and not frightened any more of the tall man striding along beside her . . . Somehow she was coming rather to like Monsieur Cocq de Noir . . . He might be a wicked man, but he knew how to laugh and how to strike a bargain.

  Then her feeling of pleasure in this dawn of friendly feeling began to be swallowed up in anxiety, for they must be coming near to the pine-tree now and there was no lightening of the darkness all about them, no sign at all of what they had come to seek. She had, she thought now, taken leave of her boasted common sense when she had told that story about the white sea-horses which had brought Black William’s boat back from the sunset, and the one white horse which had pulled it up into the cave. It was, of course, just a fairy-tale that she had made up . . . Yet the funny part was that when she had told it to Robin and to Monsieur Cocq de Noir, she had believed it . . .

  Well, she didn’t believe it any more, and as they went on and on through the darkness her heart sank lower and lower, and if she had not been so strong-minded she would have cried because for the second time it was all going to end in failure. She did not know when she had felt so unhappy. And the darkness now was dense and so was the silence, and Monsieur Cocq de Noir’s lantern was flickering as though it meant to go out.

  And then suddenly it did go out, and it felt to Maria as though the darkness and silence had fallen down on their heads, smothering them. And Monsieur Cocq de Noir must have felt the same, or else he had barked his shin against a tree-trunk, for he began muttering angrily into his black beard, and though she could not hear what he was saying she had a strong feeling that it was all most uncomplimentary.

  Yet Wrolf kept steadily on.

  ‘If you were to take my hand,’ Maria said timidly to Monsieur Cocq de Noir, ‘I think you would be less likely to hit yourself against things, because Wrolf seems to be finding the way all right.’

  So he took her hand, but the grip of it was like a steel trap and did nothing to reassure her, and he still went on muttering angrily into his beard, and the darkness and silence seemed to get heavier and heavier. And then the great black cock, which had been riding all this time silently upon his master’s shoulder, suddenly crowed. It was not a crow of derision this time, it was that triumphant trumpet call with which cocks usher in a new day, and Maria remembered a saying she had heard somewhere, ‘The night is darkest towards the dawn.’

  ‘I believe the night is nearly over,’ she said to Monsieur Cocq de Noir.

  ‘The moment I can see my way I go straight home,’ he said nastily. ‘And I advise you to do the same, young lady, and to keep out of my way in future lest worse befall you. What induced me to come out on this wild-goose chase I cannot imagine. You must have infected me with your own moon madness. You must have —’

  He broke off abruptly, for something was happening in the woods. They could see the faint shapes of the trees about them and the outline of each other’s faces. And it was not only that the darkness was yielding, for the silence was broken too. Far off, faint and mysterious, they could hear the sound of the sea.

  ‘Wrolf must have brought us the wrong way,’ said Maria. ‘We must have come down to the seashore.’

  ‘No,’ said Monsieur Cocq de Noir. ‘The woods end before you come to the seashore. You can only hear the sea in the woods on windy nights, and there’s no breath of wind.’

  His voice sounded queer and husky, as though the great Monsieur Cocq de Noir were actually a little scared.

  But Maria did not feel scared, only awed. ‘Let’s stop and watch the dawn come,’ she said. ‘Stop, Wrolf. Look, oh look!’

  They were motionless as statues now, the girl and the lion and the man and the cock, as though turned to stone by the beauty of what they saw. To the east, where was the sunrise and the sea, light was stealing into the woods, like a milk-white mist, and as the light grew so did the sound of the sea grow too. And then it seemed as though the light was taking form.

  It was still light, but within the light there were shapes moving that were made of yet brighter light; and the shapes were those of hundreds of galloping white horses with flowing manes and poised curved necks like the necks of the chessmen in the parlour, and bodies whose speed was the speed of light and whose substance seemed no more solid than that of the rainbow; and yet one could see their outline clear-cut against the night-dark background of the trees . . . They were the sea-horses galloping inland, as Old Parson had told Maria that they did, in that joyful earth-scamper of theirs that ushered in the dawn.

  They were nearly upon them now, and there was the roaring of the sea in their ears and blinding light in their eyes. Monsieur Cocq de Noir gave a cry of fear and shielded his head with his arm, but Maria, though she had to shut her eyes because of the brightness of the light, laughed aloud in delight. For she knew the galloping horses would not hurt them; they would just wash over them like light, or like the rainbow when one stands in the fields in the sun and the rain.

  And it happened like that. There was a moment of indescribable freshness and exhilaration, like a wave breaking over one’s head, and then the sea-sound died away in the distance and, opening their eyes, they saw again only the faint grey ghostly light that showed them no more than just the faint shapes of the trees and the outline of each other’s faces. The white horses had all gone . . . all except one.

  They saw him at the same moment, standing beneath the giant pine-tree to their right, with neck proudly arched, one delicate silver hoof raised, half turned away as though arrested in mid-flight. And then he, too, was gone, and there was nothing in the woods except the normal growing light of dawn.

  There was a very long silence, while they stood looking at the pine-tree, with the great gaping hole among its roots where the men had forced their way through the day before, sad and desolate because they both knew they would never again see the lovely thing that had just vanished. Then the black cock crowed again and the spell was broken. Maria sighed and stirred.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘You’ve won,’ said Monsieur Cocq de Noir. ‘Tomorrow I shall think this is a dream — but you’ve won and I will keep my word.’

  Maria took off the pearls and handed them to him. ‘These aren’t a dream,’ she said. ‘And it won’t be a dream when you come to Moonacre Manor tomorrow to make friends with us all. You will come, won’t you?’

  ‘Moon Maiden,’ said Monsieur Cocq de Noir. ‘I foresee that for the rest of my life I shall be obeying Your Highness’s commands. I will present myself at the manor-house tomorrow about the hour of five.’

  Then he bowed and left her, his black cock still on his shoulder, and Maria and Wrolf rode swiftly homewards in a wonderful dawn that changed from grey to silver, and from silver to gold, and blossomed as they came out of the pine-woods into one of those rosy dawns edged with saffron and amethyst that usher in the blue of a happy day.

  Wrolf carried Maria not to the formal garden again but to the door in the wall that led to the orchard, and here he stopped and shook himself as an indication that she should get off him. He was tired now, his shake said, he’d had enough of her on his back. She got off obediently, kissed him, and thanked him for all that he had done for her that night. He gave her a kindly look, a push towards the orchard door, and then went off on his own affairs.

  4

  Maria went into the orchard, where the sheep and lambs were still sleeping beneath the pink-and-white blossoming trees, with the morning dew sparkling like silver on their woolly backs, and through into the kitchen garden. She was, she discovered, very tired now, and ravenously hungry. As she walked down the path between the box hedges she though
t she had only two ideas in her head, breakfast and bed, but a sudden gleam of pink, like a banner flourished before her eyes, made her look up and planted a third idea between the bed and breakfast ones . . . The pink geraniums in the window of that room over the tunnel . . . she could see them more clearly than usual today, because that window, that had until now always been closed, had been flung wide open to the dawn.

  She stood still and looked up at them, and she found herself rejoicing in their beauty. After all, though pink was not her favourite colour, it was a colour and, as Sir Benjamin had said, all colour is of the sun, and good. And pink is the colour of dawn and sunset, the link between day and night. Sun and moon alike ought both to love pink, because when one is rising and the other setting they so often greet each other across an expanse of rosy sky.

  And then, to Maria’s astonishment, as she stood there looking up at the pink geraniums, an arm appeared holding a watering-can and a bright shower of silver drops descended upon the flowers. And there was no mistaking that long thin arm in its bright sleeve. It was Marmaduke Scarlet’s arm.

  ‘Marmaduke!’ called Maria softly. ‘Marmaduke!’

  The geraniums were parted and Marmaduke Scarlet’s rosy, bearded face looked out. He was nodding and smiling, and seemed delighted, but not surprised, to see her. ‘Young Mistress,’ he said, ‘I am about to partake of a light repast before going across to the manor-house to begin the labours of the day. Will you do me the honour of stepping up and sharing it with me?’

  ‘I’d love to, Marmaduke,’ said Maria, ‘for I’m dreadfully hungry. But how do I step up?’

  ‘Look behind the water-butt,’ said Marmaduke.

  Maria ran to the big green water-butt that on her very first day she had noticed to the left of the tunnel, and quite hidden behind it was a little green door in the wall, a door no larger than the one that led into her own little room in the tower. She lifted the latch and opened the door, and found herself facing a steep flight of narrow stone steps just suited to a very little person. She went up them, opened another door and found herself in the room of the pink geraniums.

  ‘Welcome, young Mistress, to my humble abode,’ said Marmaduke Scarlet.

  ‘So this is where you live, Marmaduke?’ cried Maria, her curiosity upon this point satisfied at last.

  ‘This is where I live when not engaged upon my domestic labours,’ said Marmaduke Scarlet.

  It was the oddest room Maria had ever seen, long and narrow like the tunnel below. At one end of it the window, with the pots of geraniums standing on the sill, stretched from wall to wall, and at the opposite end was Marmaduke’s little wooden truckle bed, neatly covered with a checked counterpane of scarlet and white. In the middle of the room was a little wooden table with two wooden three-legged stools standing before it, and they were all of the right size for a dwarf.

  The table was covered with a checked red-and-white tablecloth that matched the counterpane, and upon it was set a blue dish full of apples, a yellow jug of milk, a purple plate upon which were piled buttered scones, two green plates and two mugs to match. But what made Maria give a cry of astonishment was neither the deliciousness of the food nor the variety in colour of the china, but the appearance of the long north and south walls, for all along their length from floor to ceiling ran wooden shelves, and standing upon the shelves were pots and pots of salmon-pink geraniums.

  What with all those geraniums, and the colourful counterpane and tablecloth and china, and Marmaduke’s bright clothes, the room was such a blaze of colour that one would have been almost blinded by it had it not been that there was only the one window, and that so filled up by geraniums that the light filtered through a lattice-work of pink petals and entered the room considerably subdued, though very pink.

  ‘Oh, Marmaduke!’ cried Maria. ‘Are those the geraniums that Loveday Minette left behind when she went away?’

  ‘Cuttings from the original plants,’ said Marmaduke, motioning courteously that Maria should seat herself upon one of the stools.

  ‘So you love pink too?’ said Maria, sitting down.

  ‘Can’t abide it,’ said Marmaduke, seating himself opposite her and pouring milk into the two mugs. ‘But neither can I abide waste. No good cook can. So when at the time of that unfortunate disagreement twenty years ago my master bade me remove from the house by way of the door all those geranium plants which had not actually been cast forth by himself by way of the window, I did not throw them away, I brought them here. They might, I thought, one day come in useful.’

  Maria, munching away at apple and scones spread so thickly with yellow butter that there was almost as much butter as scone, suddenly had an idea. She was silent for a little, thinking it out.

  ‘Marmaduke,’ she said at last. ‘I think I know how they might come in useful. I think I have just had rather a bright idea.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, young Mistress,’ said Marmaduke courteously.

  ‘Marmaduke,’ said Maria, ‘could I have a tea-party tomorrow afternoon? A party for seven people?’

  ‘Certainly, young Mistress,’ said Marmaduke. ‘But if you wish Sir Benjamin to be with you, I doubt if you have chosen a suitable day. Tomorrow morning he rides to the market-town to sit on the Bench. He is a magistrate, you know.’

  ‘Won’t he be back by tea-time?’ asked Maria.

  ‘He is not usually back by tea-time,’ said Marmaduke. ‘The exhaustion of sitting on the Bench generally necessitates a subsequent visit to the local inn, a large meal and some refreshment of a liquid nature.’

  ‘I’ll ask him to come straight home from the Bench,’ said Maria, ‘and we’ll give him a large meal and lots of liquid refreshment here at home.’

  ‘Very well, young Mistress,’ said Marmaduke. ‘Mulled claret goes well with afternoon tea.’ And then laying down the apple at which he was daintily nibbling, and with the fire of inspiration suddenly lighting up his whole face, he fixed his bright eyes upon the north-west corner of the ceiling and murmured under his breath, ‘Plum cake. Saffron cake. Cherry cake. Iced fairy cakes. Éclairs. Gingerbread. Meringues. Syllabub. Almond fingers. Rock cakes. Chocolate drops. Parkin. Cream horns. Devonshire splits. Cornish pasty. Jam sandwiches. Lemon-curd sandwiches. Lettuce sandwiches. Cinnamon toast. Honey toast . . .’

  ‘But, surely, Marmaduke, seven people won’t eat all that!’ interrupted Maria.

  ‘I always like to be prepared for more guests than are actually expected,’ said Marmaduke. ‘Also I gathered from the tone of your voice that this tea-party was to be a great occasion, and great occasions need to be greatly celebrated. The mere suggestion of meanness, upon a great occasion, is much to be deprecated. The bodily sustenance of the inner man as well as the aesthetic satisfaction of the outward eye should be on a lavish scale.’

  Maria did not quite know what his last sentence meant, but she felt it had something to do with floral decoration, and it encouraged her to ask, ‘Please, Marmaduke, may I borrow all these geraniums to decorate the house for my party?’

  ‘Certainly, young Mistress,’ said Marmaduke.

  ‘Robin will help us carry the pots into the house,’ said Maria. ‘And, oh, Marmaduke, will you be seeing Robin today, when he comes to look after the sheep in the orchard? And if so, will you give him a letter from me?’

  For answer Marmaduke waddled across to his truckle bed, dived beneath it and came back carrying an ink-horn, a quill pen and a beautiful piece of parchment.

  ‘Dear Robin,’ Maria wrote. ‘Last night Wrolf took me to have a second try, and it was successful. I don’t think the Men from the Dark Woods will be wicked any more. Please forgive me, dear Robin, that I had to have the second try without you. I could not help it. And I could not have done it the second time if you had not helped me the first time. I cannot tell you about it in a letter, but I will tell you when I see you. I want to see you very badly, so please will you come to tea tomorrow? I would like you to be here at half past three. And please, Robin, will you ask Loved
ay to come tomorrow too, at half past four. Tell her she must come, please. If she does not come, then everything will be ruined. Tell her that. I know, of course, that she will not want to come into the house at that time of day, but if she will wait in the rose-garden I will come to her there. Tell her that tomorrow Sir Benjamin rides to the market-town to sit on the Bench. That will make her feel quite happy about coming. Oh, and please will you see Old Parson and tell him to come too, at a quarter past four. Dear Robin, you and Loveday must both come, and Old Parson too.’

  This letter Maria folded and gave to Marmaduke. Then she got up and curtsied and thanked him for the delicious little meal.

  ‘I trust it has not spoilt your appetite for breakfast?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Not in the least, thank you,’ Maria assured him.

  She went down the stairs and through the stable-yard and the formal garden to the house. She found as she looked at them that she was no longer afraid of the yew-tree men and cocks. It was as though some living evil in them had been withdrawn, and now they were not presences any more but just yew-trees clipped into amusing shapes.

  In the hall she met Sir Benjamin, just coming down. He gazed at her in astonishment, for with her white tired face, and the pine-needles sticking to her skirt, it was obvious that she had been having a night out, and he opened his mouth to ask her where in the world she had been. Then, looking at her with love and trust, he shut his mouth and held his peace, as though he knew.

  ‘I’m too sleepy to tell you today, Sir,’ she said. ‘But I’ll tell you some time soon . . . Please, Sir, may I have a small tea-party tomorrow? I want to ask Old Parson to tea. And will you come too? Dressed in your best?’