“Half an hour—is that all?” I exclaimed.
“Mr. Wisdon said you was to start easy,” said Sim gravely. “He said you ’adn’t ridden for some time, ‘Don’t you let Miss Dean start too sudden,’ he says to me. ‘She’ll be keen as mustard,’ he says, ‘but I trust you to see she doesn’t overdo it.’ So you see, Miss, I got to be careful.”
I felt the tears pricking my eyes—what a strange creature Garth was! He seemed to me to be two different men, the one kind and thoughtful and incredibly generous. The other cynical, coarse, and unbelievably cruel.
“Three o’clock then,” I said to Sim (I could not trust myself to say any more), and I came out of the dim stable into the white glare of the yard.
Chapter Five
“You’re a Stranger, Aren’t You?”
The first few weeks of my new life were difficult. So difficult that if it had been possible I would have given up the struggle and returned to London. But there was no return for me. I had taken on the job, and, however difficult it was, I was bound to carry on with it until Garth’s return. My chief difficulty was Clementina, she baffled me completely. I felt that I should never understand the child, that I should never win her confidence. She was always polite in a strange, unchildlike way but when I tried to approach her she withdrew, delicately but definitely into her shell. She took pains to make me understand that I was there on sufferance, that she bore with my vagaries because she had to. She showed me politely but firmly that I was quite unnecessary to her. I tried hard to interest her in games and pastimes which most children find absorbing, but without success. If I suggested a game, she played with me patiently, and, when it was over, returned to her book with visible relief. She read for hours without moving. I had never seen anybody so quiet, or so still. Sometimes I looked up from my own book and watched her as she read, it seemed unnatural for anybody to sit so still, doubly unnatural for a child. I began to wonder if she were ill or unhappy, perhaps she was lonely, perhaps she missed her parents. I decided that we must go about a little, the child must be amused. The flower-show was coming on—we would go to the flower-show together and see whether the grapes and the heavy-headed chrysanthemums which had been sent from the Manor had won the prizes they deserved. But Clementina refused to go to the flower-show, simply refused point-blank. I could not persuade her to go, and I had no intention of forcing her to go against her will. She was a strange child.
Every morning a young woman—Miss Milston by name—came from the village and gave Clementina her lessons. She appeared at the Manor on the stroke of nine, and left on the stroke of three. Clementina was not at all interested in her lessons; she bore them as she bore anything which had to be borne, without complaint. It seemed strange that Miss Milston could not make lessons interesting to a child who read with the intense concentration of Clementina. I had enjoyed my schooldays; Father had made lessons a pleasure, not a toil.
But Clementina was not my only difficulty by any means. The servants were slack and troublesome; they had been left to their own devices for so long that they resented any interference with their work. Any alterations which I wished to make in the daily regime were carried out with deliberate obtuseness. I began to think that I should really have to sack the lot, as Garth had cynically suggested. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but my present position was untenable. I was mistress of the house in name, but my authority was flouted, my orders made ridiculous.
One night after Clementina had gone to bed I went upstairs to the nursery and tackled Nanny on the subject. She was my one firm ally in the house; she had wanted me to come, it was to her interest that the house should run smoothly. She was sitting beside the nursery fire darning Clementina’s stockings, with her skirts turned back over her knees and a small gray shawl over her shoulders. She looked at me over her spectacles as I came in and made room for me by the fire. I wasted no time in preliminaries but laid my difficulties before her and asked her advice. “I suppose it is my inexperience,” I said rather sadly. “I’ve never had to run a house before, and I seem to put my foot into it whenever I try to make things easier.”
“You’re all right, Miss Char,” she said comfortingly. “It’s them that’s wrong. Spoiled and lazy, that’s what they are. They want somebody to take them in hand and chivvy them round. I’m glad you spoke because things aren’t right and never will be till you show them who’s master. One or two will have to go and the others will settle down. That’s my advice.”
“Which of them?” I asked.
“Which do you think?” countered Nanny. “You see, Miss Char, it’s not a very nice job for me to say. But you tell me which you find troublesome and I’ll tell you if I agree.”
It was like Nanny to split hairs of etiquette in this way, and I could not help smiling. “I shall keep cook,” I began.
“Then you’ll never have no peace,” Nanny interrupted. “Mrs. ’arcourt may be smarmy to your face, but her tongue’s like an adder.”
She shut her lips tightly after this indictment and would say no more on the subject of Mrs. Harcourt’s tongue.
“And what about Lizzie?” I inquired timidly. Lizzie was the head housemaid; she had been at the Manor for years but I did not like her. She was tall and thin and angular with shifty eyes and a plausible manner.
“Lizzie talks to Clem,” said Nanny. “She ought to have gone long ago but she got round Mrs. Wisdon.”
“What does she talk to Clem about?”
“Things she hasn’t no business to discuss,” Nanny replied mysteriously.
After an hour’s talk I found that, if I wanted any peace and happiness at the Manor, I should have to dismiss four women. I was quite sick with fright at the prospect.
“Don’t you worry, Miss Char,” Nanny said, smoothing out the darns in Clementina’s stocking and admiring her handiwork. “Don’t you worry. It doesn’t do no good worrying over things—just sail in.”
I took Nanny’s advice and sailed in—it was less alarming than I had expected—and I spent several days in town engaging new maids.
These were my troubles. Perhaps you will think they were trivial, Clare, but, because of my inexperience, they worried me. My pleasures were in Hinkleton itself, in the country and the village. I looked up some of my old friends among the cottagers and found—for the most part—warm welcomes. It was for Father’s sake that they welcomed me, they had all loved him, and the older people liked to talk of the old days and to compare them with modern conditions. Most of them were agreed that in spite of old age pensions and picture-houses the old days were best; they deplored the degeneracy of the young, and motor-bicycles, and silk stockings and short hair for village maidens. But to me the young seemed anything but degenerate. I thought them pleasant and frank. The freedom, which the older folk objected to, was not a bad thing, for it brought in its train a wider outlook on life, and courage and independence. I took a Hinkleton girl as under-housemaid, and found in her a treasure. She was stronger than a town girl and her round, rosy cheeks pleased me when I saw her working about the house.
Clementina and I rode every day and I regained my seat and my confidence. Sim was pleased with me and very soon suggested that we should attend a meet at Edgemoor Farm, which was about five miles from Hinkleton.
“I think we’re all right now,” he said gravely, “and it’s always a good meet at Edgemoor.”
We rode over in the early morning; it was a glorious day, crisp and clear, with a pale yellow winter sun shining serenely in the pale blue sky. The wind was bracing, and a few white clouds raced each other before its breath. The horses seemed to know that something unusual was afoot, Black Knight sidled along like a crab, and even Brown Betty forgot her manners and shied at the brown leaves as they blew across the path.
The meet was at the farm itself, a long white straggling building on the edge of a hill with the moor sloping up from its encompassing fields to the skyline.
When we arrived they were already moving off to draw a likely looking spinney beyond the farm buildings. We joined the crowd and followed slowly. The hounds were well ahead—a seething mass of white and black and brown bodies and waving sterns. Ahead, also, were the hunt servants in their neat uniforms. There was a good sprinkling of pink among the crowd, and the horses were beautiful.
We were nearing the spinney when a view halloo from one of the hunt servants announced the departure of a fox. I saw the red-brown body streak across a field to our left, and the next moment the pack burst from the spinney like a bombshell and streamed after him. Sim shouted that there was a gate lower down; we followed him, and the next moment we were galloping across a stubble field in a diagonal direction. This maneuver brought us into the first flight; the hounds were scarcely a hundred yards away. I saw a thick-set hedge coming to meet me and knew a moment of anxiety as I felt Brown Betty gather herself together for the jump…she went over like a bird, it was my first and last moment of anxiety that day. Away we went, Brown Betty pulling comfortably with excitement, her paces so easy that I scarcely knew she was galloping save for the pace and the whistle of the wind in my ears. Clementina was going well; she sat back in the saddle and rode with her hands down and her knees in. We sailed over a broad ditch and bore right, up the hill. The field had begun to string out now, for the pace was hot. A group of people who had guessed the line of the fox came cantering up a narrow lane and joined us. Hounds disappeared over a low wall; we followed. We were now on the open moor and the wind was keen. The hills rose gently upon our right; below, in the valley, lay the white farm-house and its scattered outbuildings. The moor was empty save for a few gorse bushes, and far away in front of us, a group of wind-riven trees. The fox was making for the sanctuary. I could see him well ahead of the pack, keeping his lead easily on the steep shoulder of the hill. Brown Betty needed no urging; she flew up the hill, Sim and Clementina were left behind. The short springy turf was delightful to ride on; I prayed that there were no rabbit holes. The pack was running silently, needing all their breath for the pace.
The group of trees for which the fox was making resolved itself into a small ravine with steep sides covered with brushwood. At the bottom a stream wandered among rocks. We pulled up here, and I, for one, was thankful for a few moments to breathe. The pace had been hot, and we had come all the way without a check. The hounds were clamoring wildly round the roots of an enormous oak tree which had been riven by lightning. It looked to me like a badger’s earth which the fox had used as a temporary sanctuary. I watched the scene with interest. The hunt servants leaped down among the hounds and examined the holes. A woman on a raking chestnut pushed past me, swearing like a trooper. “Why the hell can’t they stop the earths?” she demanded of nobody in particular. She was lean, and limbed like a man; her face was lined and weather-beaten, her eyes were glittering with excitement.
The huntsman whipped the hounds off the earth with some difficulty. They started to draw the cover higher up the stream. I was fascinated by the clever houndwork. One old hound in particular, a tall old warrior with a scarred head and a torn ear, was working hard. His questing nose missed no sod of earth where the scent might lie. Suddenly he gave a deep, bell-like cry and raced up the bank among the trees, his stern waving triumphantly in the air. The other hounds followed, taking up the scent; and confirming the good news. They sped away down the hill. The field followed. Brown Betty was stirred by the general excitement; she threw up her head and whinnied. Away we went. A wall rose before us, there was a gate in it, but the gate was already blocked; it was no time for gates. Clementina flashed past with Sim at her elbow—they were over the wall and away—I wondered where they had been for I had lost sight of them after the first jump. It was marvelous the way the child rode; she had no fear in her makeup, that was evident.
I pulled out a little—for I did not like jumping in a bunch—and so lost ground. Brown Betty took the wall in her stride. Hounds were already climbing the wall at the other side of the field. The woman on the raking chestnut passed me, Brown Betty shot forward and we ran neck and neck across the meadow. The fox was running upwind into a keen north wind, so cold that it cut my face like a lash of a whip.
“Follow me,” the woman cried. “There’s a duck-pond the other side of the wall.” I shouted, “Thank you,” drew back a little and followed her lead. She bore to the right. As we passed I saw a man rising from the duck-pond like a draggled crow. My guide waved her hand toward the dreadful sight and I shouted, “Thank you” again, more fervently than before.
I looked ahead and saw that hounds had checked, the ground was foiled with sheep. They scattered as we passed. The pace had been so hot that some of the horses were out of hand. “Keep back,” shouted the master. I quieted Brown Betty as best I could and looked round for Sim and Clementina, but they were nowhere to be seen.
“That’s a good-lookin’ mare,” said the woman who had saved me from the duck-pond. “She can go, too.”
We chatted amicably for a few minutes; she was eating sandwiches out of a battered old tin. Her strong white teeth went through the thick bread with enormous bites.
The hounds were still in confusion; it looked as if they had lost the scent for good. They spread out like a fan, working up the field toward a beech hedge on the other side. I drew to the shelter of a shepherd’s hut, for the wind was like ice and I was not surprised when I saw white snowflakes falling lightly through the air like feathers. They increased rapidly and soon it was snowing fast. I turned up my collar and moved closer into the shelter of the hut.
The snow stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the sun shone out on a world that looked as though it had been lightly powdered with sugar. The master had drawn the hounds off and was casting along the hedge. Suddenly there was a deep bay of triumph; the same battered old hound which had found before was onto the scent again. Away they went up the hill toward the ravine where the first fox had been lost and after them went the field. The powdering of snow was churned into slush by the passage of a hundred hoofs.
I had had almost enough for my first day, and I pulled out of the hunt, but Brown Betty was still keen; she bucked gently and sidled up the field pulling at her bit and champing impatiently.
“Sorry, old girl,” I said, patting her neck. “It’s bad luck on you, but it can’t be helped.”
I rode slowly across the field toward a gate and found myself in a narrow muddy lane which led at right angles up the hill and down to the farm. A girl was standing in the lane; she was covered with mud from head to foot and looked somewhat dazed.
“I say, have you seen my horse?” she inquired anxiously. “A bay with two white stockings—the brute fell with me and then bolted. I was stunned for the moment.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so—my head feels a bit queer.”
Just at that moment there was the snarling sound of a kill, it seemed to come from the direction of the ravine. The girl raised her head and listened.
“Blast that horse,” she said, “I haven’t missed a kill this season.”
I did not share her feelings. I had enjoyed the run immensely, but I had no wish to be in at the death. Fortunately I knew enough about the game to conceal such unworthy sentiments from my new acquaintance.
“Well, it’s over,” she said. “I suppose we had better make for the farm.”
We walked slowly down the hill together toward the farm-house from which we had started. Fortunately it was quite near, for the hunt had gone full circle. We talked, as we went along, in a friendly manner. She admired my mount, and cursed her own.
“You’re a stranger, aren’t you?” she inquired. “I know most of the regulars. I’m staying for the winter with my aunt, Lady Bournesworth—I suppose you know my uncle and aunt, they seem to know everybody.”
“Then I must be nobody,” I replied smiling. The girl amused me rather, she was s
o extremely naïve and her airs of a woman of the world were so transparent.
We had reached the farm by this time; the yard was cluttered with gleaming cars, some of them trying to turn under the direction of a farm boy who looked as if he knew more about farm-carts than motors.
“Talk of an angel,” said my companion suddenly. “There’s Aunt Anne in the Daimler, bless her heart! I’ll introduce you, shall I? She always wants to know everybody.”
She hurried across the yard and poked her head into the window of a huge, old-fashioned Daimler which had backed precariously into a manure heap. I had no wish to be introduced to Lady Bournesworth, but I could hardly refuse the honor, so I waited for a little while to see what would happen. The field straggled into the yard; little groups of people on foot or on horseback drifted down the hill, talking excitedly. The yard became unpleasantly congested; grooms ran hither and thither ducking under horses’ noses and avoiding their heels. I moved away from the vicinity of a meek-looking horse with a red ribbon on its tail.
“There you are, Miss!” said Sim’s voice, at my elbow. “I wondered where you ’ad got to—a beautiful kill, Miss.”
Clementina was just behind him; her shoulder was muddy, and her hat had vanished, but her eyes were bright with excitement. I saw that there was not much wrong with her and decided not to inquire about her muddy condition. I was beginning to know the child now—she hated a fuss.
“There’s nothing to wait for, is there?” she said, drawing back from the crowd. “We can go out the back way, can’t we, Sim?”
Sim agreed that we could. I glanced over at the Daimler and saw that it was maneuvering out of the gate in the opposite direction—Lady Bournesworth had evidently no desire to make my acquaintance. I was neither glad nor sorry. I followed Sim and Clementina down the back lane.
Chapter Six
A Sentence Overheard
The Young Clementina Page 13
