Victoria Holt - Kirkland Revels

by Kirkland Revels (lit)

  " I am sure he will. He's a tough little mongrel, I imagine, but hardly the dog to spend his days on a lady's velvet cushion."

  " He's my sort of dog," I replied.

  " You should feed him regularly and often."

  " It is what I intend to do. When I get him home I shall give him some warm milk a little at a time.

  The dog knew we were talking about him, but the effort of eating, together with the excitement, had been exhausting, and he lay very still. I wanted to get home as quickly as 19 possible and begin looking after him; but at the same time I was loath to say good-bye to the man. His melancholy expression, which I believed might well be habitual with him, had lifted when he had bargained for the dog and had presented him to me, and I was anxious to know what could have happened to a young man, who was clearly blessed with a goodly share of the comforts of life, to have produced that melancholy. I was curious about him, and it was stimulating to discover this curiosity in myself at the very time that I had acquired my interest in the dog. I was torn between two desires: I wanted to stay and learn more about the man, and at the same time I wanted to take the dog home and feed him.

  I knew, of course, that there must be no question what I did, for the dog was dangerously near death by starvation.

  " I must be going," I said.

  He nodded.

  "I'll carry him, shall I?" he replied; and without waiting for my reply, he helped me to mount. He gave me the dog to hold while he mounted; then he took the little creature from me and, tucking him under his arm, said:

  "Which way?"

  I showed him and we set out. In twenty minutes we had reached Glengreen, scarcely speaking on the way there. At the gates of Glen House we paused.

  " He's really yours," I said. " You paid for him."

  " Then I make a gift of him to you." His eyes smiled into mine. " But I shall retain rights in him. I shall want to know whether he lives or not. May I call and ask?"

  " Of course."

  "Tomorrow?"

  " If you wish."

  " And for whom shall I ask?"

  "For Miss Corder ... Catherine Corder."

  "Thank you. Miss Corder. Gabriel Rockwell will call on you tomorrow."

  Fanny was horrified by the presence of the dog. " Happen there'll be dog's hairs all over t'place. Happen we'll be finding whiskers in t'soup and fleas in our beds."

  I said nothing. I fed the dog myself . on bread and milk in small quantities, at intervals, all through the rest of the day and once in the night. I found a basket and I took him to my bedroom. It was the happiest night since my return, and I wondered why I never thought of asking for a dog when I was a child. Perhaps it was because I knew that Fanny would never have allowed me to have one. 20 What did it matter I had him now.

  He knew I was his friend right from the start. He lay in the basket too weak to move, but his eyes told me that he understood what I was doing was for his good. Those eyes, already loving, patiently followed me as I moved. I knew that he would be my friend as long as he lived.

  I wondered what to call him; he must have a name. I could not go on thinking of him as the gipsy's dog. Then I remembered that I had found him on a Friday and I thought: Hell be my Dog Friday. And from then he had his name.

  By the morning he was on the way to recovery. I waited for the coming of Gabriel for, now that my anxieties about the dog were over, I began to think more of the man who had shared the adventure. I was a little disappointed because he did not come in the morning, and I felt sad because I was afraid he might have forgotten us by now. I did want to say thank you to him, because I was sure Friday owed his life to his timely arrival.

  He came in the afternoon. It was three o'clock, and I was in my room with the dog when I heard the sound of horse's hoofs below. Friday's ears twitched and his tail moved as though he knew that the other one to whom he would be for ever grateful was near.

  I looked out of my window, standing well back so that he could not see me if he should chance to look up. He was certainly handsome but in a somewhat delicate way, not as we expected our men to be in Yorkshire.

  He had an aristocratic air. I had noticed this on the previous day but I had wondered whether I had imagined it because of the contrast he made with Friday's previous mistress.

  I went downstairs hastily because I did not want him to be ungraciously received.

  I was wearing a dark blue velvet afternoon dress my best because I was expecting him, and I had wound my plaits to form a coronet on the top of my head.

  I went out into the drive just as he came up. He swept off his hat in a manner which I knew would be called " daft" by Fanny, but I thought it elegant and the height of courtesy.

  " So you came!" I said. " Dog Friday will recover. I've christened him after the day on which he was found."

  He had dismounted and at that moment Mary appeared. I made her call one of the stable-boys to lead his horse round to the stable, and water and feed him. 21 " Come in," I said, and when Gabriel came into the hall, the house seemed brighter for his presence.

  " Let me take you up to the drawing-room," I said, " and I will ring for tea."

  He followed me up the stairs while I told him how I was treating Friday. " I shall bring him down to show you. You will see a great improvement."

  In the drawing-room I pulled back the curtains and drew up the Venetian blinds. Now it seemed more cheerful or perhaps that was due to Gabriel. When he sat in one of the arm-chairs, and smiled at me, I was conscious that in my blue velvet with my neatly plaited hair I looked very different from the girl in the riding-habit.

  " I'm glad you were able to save him," he said.

  " You did that."

  He looked pleased and I rang the bell, which was' almost immediately answered by Janet.

  She-stared at my visitor and, when I told her to bring tea, she looked as though I were asking for the moon.

  Five minutes later Fanny came in; she had an indignant air and I felt angry with her. She would have to realise that I was now mistress of the house.

  " So it's visitors," said Fanny ungraciously.

  " Yes, Fanny, we have a visitor. Pray see that tea is not long delayed."

  Fanny pursed her lips; I could see that she was trying to make some retort, but I turned my back on her and said to Gabriel: " I trust you did not have to ride far."

  " From the Black Hart Inn in Tomblersbury."

  I knew Tomblersbury. It was a small village, rather like our own, some five or six miles away. '" You are staying at the Black Hart?"

  " Yes, for a short while."

  " You must be on holiday."

  " You could call it that."

  "Your home is in Yorkshire, Mr. Rockwell? But I am asking too many questions."

  I was aware that Fanny had left the room. I could imagine her going to the kitchen or perhaps to my father's study. She would consider it most unseemly for me to entertain a gentle man alone. Let heri It was time she and my father under stood that the life I was called upon to live was not only exceedingly lonely but one unsuitable for a young lady of my education.

  "No," he replied, "please ask me as many questions a& you like. If I cannot answer them, I shall say so."

  " Where is your home, Mr. Rockwell?"

  " The house is called Kirkland Revels, and it is situated in the village or rather on the outskirts of the village of Kirkland Moorside."

  " Kirkland Revels! That sounds joyous."

  The expression which flitted across his face was enough to tell me that my remark made him uncomfortable. It had told me something else; he was not happy in his home life. Was that the reason for that moodiness of his? I ought to have curbed my curiosity regarding his private affairs but I found it exceedingly difficult to do so.

  I said quickly: " Kirkland Moorside ... is that far from here?"

  " Some thirty miles perhaps."

  "And you are on holiday in this district, and you were taking a ride on the moors when ..."

 
; " When our little adventure occurred. You cannot be more glad than I am that it happened."

  I felt reassured that the temporary awkwardness was past and I said: "

  If you will excuse me, I will bring Friday down to show you."

  When I returned with the dog, my father was in the room. I guessed Fanny had insisted on his joining us and that even he had 'been conscious of the proprieties. Gabriel was telling how we had acquired the dog and my father was being charming ; he listened attentively and I was pleased that he manifested an interest even though I did not believe h& really felt it.

  Friday in his basket, too weak to rise, made an effort to do so ; his pleasure was obvious at the sight of Gabriel, whose long, elegant fingers gently stroked the dog's ear.

  " He's fond of you," I said.

  " But you'll have first place in. his heart."

  " I saw him first," I reminded him. " I shall keep him with me always.

  Will you let me pay you what you gave the woman? "

  " I wouldn't hear of it," he told me.

  "I should like to feel that he is all mine."

  " So he is. A gift. But I admit to an interest. If I may. I shall call again to inquire after his health."

  " It is not a bad idea to have a dog in the house," said my 23 father, as he came to stand beside us and took down into the basket.

  We were standing thus when Mary brought in the tea wagon. There were hot crumpets as well as bread and butter and cakes; and as I sat 'behind the silver teapot, I thought this was my happiest afternoon since I had returned from France; I was as contented as I had been when Uncle Dick came home.

  I did not realise until later that this was because I now had something in the house which I could love. I had Friday. I did not think at this stage that I had Gabriel too. That came later.

  During the next two weeks Gabriel called regularly at Glen House; and at the end of that first week Friday was fully restored to health. His wounds had healed and good food regularly taken had done the rest.

  He slept in his basket in my room and followed me where- ever he could.

  I talked to him continuously. The house had changed; my life had changed because of him.

  He wanted to 'be not only my companion but my defender. There was adoration in those limpid eyes when they looked into mine. He remembered that he owed his life to me; and because he was the faithful sort, that was something he would never forget.

  We went for walks together--he and I. Only when I rode did I leave him behind, and when I returned he would fling himself at me in the sort of welcome I had only ever had from Uncle Dick.

  Then there was Gabriel.

  He continued to stay at the Black Hart. I wondered why. There was a lot I could not quite understand about Gabriel. There were times when he talked freely about himself, but even at such times I always had the impression that there was something he was holding back. I felt that he was on the verge of telling me, that he longed to tell me, and could never quite bring himself to do so; and that which he held back was some dark secret, perhaps something which he did not entirely understand himself.

  We had become great friends. My father seemed to like him--at least he made no protests about his constant visits, The servants had grown used to him, and even Fanny, as long as we were properly chaperoned, made no complaints. 24 At the end of the first week he had said that soon he would be going home; but at the end of the second he was still with us.

  I had a feeling that he was deceiving himself in some way, that he was promising himself that he would go home, and then making excuses not to.

  I did not ask him questions about his home even though I longed to learn more about him. This was something else I had learned. At school I had often been made uneasy by searching questions about my home; I had determined not to inflict the same discomfort on others. I would never probe, but always wait to be told.

  So we talked about me, for Gabriel had no such reticence where I was concerned, and strangely enough, with him I did not mind. I told him about Uncle Dick who had always been a kind of hero to me, and I made him see Uncle Dick with his sparkling greenish eyes and black 'beard.

  Gabriel said once when I had talked of my uncle: " You and he must be somewhat alike."

  " There is a strong resemblance, I believe."

  " He sounds like the sort of person who is determined to get the most out of life. I mean, he would act without first weighing up the consequences. Tell me, are you like that?"

  " Perhaps I am."

  He smiled. " I believe you are," he said; and there came into his eyes what I can only describe as a far-away look, by which I mean that he was seeing me, not as we were together at that moment, 'but in some other place, in some other situation.

  I thought he was about to speak, but he remained silent and I did not press him, for I was already beginning to feel that too much probing, too many questions, disturbed him. I must wait, I knew intuitively, for him to tell me without prompting.

  But I had discovered that there was something unusual about Gabriel, and that should have warned me not to allow myself to become too deeply involved. I had been so lonely;

  I found the atmosphere of my home so depressing; I longed for a friend of my own age; and the strangeness of Gabriel enthralled me.

  So I refused to see any danger signals and we continued to meet.

  We liked to ride on to the moors, tether our horses and stretch ourselves out in the shelter of a boulder, looking up an the sky, our arms behind our heads, talking in a dreamy, desultory way.

  Fanny would have considered this the height of impropriety, but I was determined to adhere to no conventions ; I knew this attitude delighted Gabriel and I learned later why it did so.

  Each day I would ride out and meet him at some agreed spot because I could not bear the sly glances Fanny gave him when he called at the house. In our small and sheltered community it was not possible to meet a young man daily without causing a certain amount of speculation.

  I often wondered, during the early period of our acquaintance, whether Gabriel was aware of this; I also wondered whether he felt as embarrassed about it as I did.

  I had not heard from Dilys for some weeks, so I supposed she was too immersed in her own affairs to have time to write. I did feel, however, that now I could write to her because I had something to tell her. I explained about our finding the dog, and how fond I had become of him; but what I really wanted to talk about was Gabriel. My affection for Friday was uncomplicated, but I could not quite understand my feelings for Gabriel.

  He interested me, and I looked forward to our meetings with something more than the pleasure of a lonely girl who has at last found a friend;

  I realised that this was because I was constantly expecting some revelation which would startle me. There was certainly an air of mystery about Gabriel and I believed that again and again he was on the verge of con ding some secret which he longed to share with me and could not quite bring himself to do so. I had a conviction that he, like my father, was in need of comfort ; and while my father repulsed me, Gabriel, when the time came, would welcome my desire to share whatever it was that was troubling him.

  It was impossible, of course, to confide all this to the lighthearted Dilys, particularly when I was not at all sure of it myself. So I wrote a chatty, superficial letter, and felt pleased become something had happened to me which was worthy to be written about.

  It was three weeks after we met when Gabriel seemed to come to a decision; and the day he began to talk to me about his home marked a change in our relationship.

  We were lying stretched out on the moor and he pulled up handfuls of grass as he talked to me. 26 .

  " I am sure I should find it attractive. It's very old, is it not? Old houses have always been absorbingly interesting to me."

  He nodded, and again there was that far-away look in his eyes.

  " Revels," I murmured. " It's such a lovely name. It sounds as though the people who named it were de
termined to have a great deal of fun there."

  He laughed mirthlessly, and there was a brief silence before he began to speak; then it was as though he were reciting a piece he had learned by heart.

  " It was built in the middle of the sixteenth century. When Kirkland Abbey was dissolved, it was given to my ancestors. They took stones from the Abbey and with them built a house. Because it was used as a house in which to make merry ... I must have had very merry ancestors it was called Kirk- land Revels in contrast to Kirkland Abbey."

  " So the stones which built your house were once those of an ancient abbey?"

  " Tons and tons of stone," he murmured. " There's still much of the old Abbey in existence. When I stand on my balcony I can look across to those grey and ancient arches. In certain lights you can imagine that they are not merely ruins ... in fact it is difficult to believe they are. Then you can almost see the monks in their habits moving silently among the stones."