Pheasant was pressing her eyelids together to keep back the stinging tears. To herself she was saying — “You loved him so? Yet, since I can remember, you’ve never bothered your head about him. And when he died …” The tears pressed between her lids and ran down her cheeks.
Neither man noticed. Both were with gusto attacking the steaming stew set before them.
Renny was saying — “Now my young Wakefield begs for a pony and, on his birthday, I think I’ll get him one.”
Maurice said — “Well, if Wake enjoys it half as much as I enjoyed Jock … Lord, how I loved that pony!”
With the back of her hand Pheasant contrived to wipe away the tears. She put a bit of dumpling in her mouth and sat up straight. Now Renny Whiteoak’s penetrating gaze on her.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“I’ve never known you at a loss for them,” returned his friend.
“I believe this is a good one. You may remember, Maurice, that promising little mare I bought two months back. Well, I intend to enter her in the Horse Show for the Ladies’ Saddle Horse class. I need someone to ride her. Of course, Piers could, but I’d like someone who would give zip to the show. Look like a sylph on her. I believe you’re just that ticket, Pheasant.”
“Me? Why, I should be terrified.”
“She’s as gentle as a lamb. Perfect manners.”
“I don’t mean her. I mean the crowds.”
“Why, they’d love you. Come now. Say you’ll try.”
Maurice put in — “Pheasant can’t ride.”
“I’ve been riding all my life,” she exclaimed hotly.
“On old Jock!”
Renny said — “I’ll teach her. I’ll soon find out if she’s got it in her.”
“Want to do it, Pheasant?” asked Maurice.
“I’m still afraid but — I’d like to try.”
“Good,” said Renny. “Come back with me after lunch and I’ll find out if you’ve got it in you to ride in the Show.”
Maurice said — “She’s nervous.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. So are horses often. The very best.”
Her appetite was gone and, as soon as she could, she stole away and up to her room. The two men, drinking their coffee, did not notice her going till she was on the stairway. Then Renny called out:
“Will you change into your riding things as soon as possible, Pheasant? I must be getting along.”
“Yes, I will.” She darted up the stairs wishing she had a new pair of riding-breeches. Hers were shabby and had a tear on one knee. Would Piers be there, she wondered, and rather hoped he would not. It would be enough for her to face the mounting of a show horse under the eye of Renny Whiteoak, to be told by him, as she probably would be, that she was only fit to ride the little old pony.
As they drove to Jalna in his old mud-splashed car he talked reassuringly to her of the new mare, her gentleness, and of the schooling and riding of show horses. Scarcely ever had she been inside his gates. She knew only too well that her birth had broken off the engagement between her father and Meg Whiteoak. She felt a sad responsibility and at the same time a romantic pride in the thought of the shadow her coming had cast upon two lives. Jalna, to her, had an air of mystery, of elegance, and of abounding life.
The Clumber spaniel, Floss, stood with hind-legs on the back seat, fore-legs resting between Renny’s and Pheasant’s shoulders, and every now and again she would raise her head to lick him on the ear. Each time he would exclaim — “Down, Floss!” She would lift her lip in a sheepish grin, but never was she really rebuffed and soon would rise up for another kiss.
The car stopped in front of the open door of the stables and Scotchmere, the old weather-beaten, bow-legged groom, came out to meet them. He had a bottle of liniment in his hand which he occasionally shook in an absent-minded way, then raised to his nostrils and sniffed.
“This is Miss Vaughan,” Renny said, assisting Pheasant from the car. “I’m going to give her some lessons in riding.”
It was the first time in her life that she had been called Miss and she strove to appear dignified. But Scotchmere only grinned — “Oh, her and me’s acquainted. I once took a stone out of her pony’s shoe, didn’t I?”
Anyone who had done anything for Jock seemed a friend to Pheasant. She said — “Oh, yes, you were so kind.”
They went into the stable, clean and cool, almost empty, for the horses, with the exception of three, were out in paddock and field. One of these was a big bay gelding whose legs Scotchmere had been rubbing. The second was a mare which was that day expected to foal. She was in a loose box carpeted in clean straw but she was restless, walking nervously about, her large expectant eyes seeming to protrude from her stark head. When she saw Renny she uttered an anxious whicker. He called out:
“All right, old girl, I’ll be with you very soon.”
It was another loose box that he led Pheasant and opened the door.
“Here she is — Silken Lady,” he said, “and I expect you to fall in love with her.”
The mare stood eyeing them, not askance, but with a kind of elegant interest.
“Dare I come in?” asked Pheasant.
“Of course. She’s an angel for kindness. Will you dress her up, please, Scotchmere?”
Pheasant stroked the shining shoulder of the mare, who lowered her head as though in humility, while the lines of her neck remained proud. Scotchmere brought bridle and saddle, equipped her, and led her out, his thin bow-legs, ending in heavy boots, somehow not incongruous beside her beauty.
Pheasant forgot about Piers. All her being was concentrated upon the will to remain in that saddle. Now they were out of the stable into the bright late summer air, their feet on the sandy soil. The sound of thudding hooves came to them from the paddock.
Renny said — “We’ll just see what the boys are up to. Then I’ll take you for a nice quiet ride.” He led the way to the paddock.
A lively scene was presented to them there.
For the first time Pheasant saw the brothers gathered together — Renny at her side, Eden lounging against the railing of the paddock talking with the groom Wright. She never would forget a walk she had in the woods with Eden, when she was a little girl. He had been so different from anyone she had ever known and for months she had hoarded in her mind those things he had said to her that had kindled her imagination. Oh, to know him better, now that she was older! To walk with him, as she had that day, holding his hand and trying to talk as he did. But now he gave her an absent-minded nod and his eyes returned to the horses which were being schooled in the paddock.
Renny said — “A couple of good ones. I expect great things of them at the Horse Show.”
How beautifully, she thought, they flew along the track and skimmed the barrier. The mare, Silken Lady, appeared to observe them with an appraising eye, as though she, if she had the chance, would do better. Pheasant saw that one of the horses was ridden by a stable-boy and the other by Piers.
Now he saw her and his face tightened, as though to deny the little amorous passage between them, but the next time he trotted past he looked her full in the eyes and she saw that he remembered. She glanced up at Renny to discover if he had seen the look Piers had given her but he saw only the horse as it took the next jump, saw the power in its hind-legs, how its tucked-in forelegs cleared the bar. He saw Piers shift his weight over the horse’s neck, how lightly he rose in the stirrups.
Renny grinned down at Pheasant. “A good pair. A good jump, eh?”
She hoped Piers would ride over to where they stood but instead he dismounted, did something to his horse’s girth, his back turned to her. Renny’s roan was now led out to him and Eden joined them, with little Wakefield clinging to his arm in an effort to draw him into a romp. Finch, lolling against the railing, gave Pheasant a shy smile. He looked no better than a stable-boy, she thought, with his torn shirt and a straw between his teeth. There they were, so many of them and she with not one brother.
/> “Now,” said Renny, “I’ll put you up.”
“Let me.” Eden came and helped her into the saddle. She was nervous and mounted clumsily.
“Don’t be anxious,” Eden said. “She’s a gentle creature. What’s all this about, anyhow?”
Renny’s bright glance swept over mare and girl. “They’re being schooled for the Show. Don’t you see how well they become each other?” He sprang into the saddle. The roan moved forward and the mare, with delicate condescension, followed.
Pheasant’s fear vanished. She had not known that a horse could move as did this, with such ease and grace. They moved sedately along the path. Were those left behind looking after them, she wondered, and held her body well, to make up for her clumsy mounting. They followed the bridle path through the woods, where the blackberries shone among the bushes and red squirrels were sampling the green acorns, and Michaelmas daisies showed when the sun found his way through the branches.
At last Renny judged that she was ready for a canter. Then her happiness made her want to sing. This soft thud of hooves made the sweetest music in her ears. She felt that Renny understood her and the mare understood her as she had never before been understood. But she wished Piers might have seen her.
“Now that you and Lady are acquainted,” said Renny, “we’ll call this the first lesson. Can you come tomorrow?”
“Oh, yes. I never have any engagements.”
“It won’t go on being easy, you know. There’ll be lots of hard work.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You’ll be a good rider — with training.” He gave her a swift appraising look, then went on — “You must come every day that weather permits. If I’m not here, Wright will look after you.”
When they returned past the paddock it was empty. An afternoon quiet had descended. Wright met them and took their horses. He said, in an undertone to Renny — “The mare’s foaling.”
Renny halted. “Goodbye, Pheasant.” He patted her shoulder. “Tomorrow, come in the morning. Run along now. You’ve been a good girl.”
The two men disappeared into the stable.
“Whew,” Pheasant whispered to herself. “This is the life.” Something was happening here every minute, she was sure.
Wakefield ran along the path to meet her. “Like pears?” he asked. “Here’s one. A bird’s pecked it but it’s still good.”
“Thanks.” She took the pear he offered and then asked — “Where are Piers and Finch?”
“Here’s Finch! Right here!” he cried.
Finch came from behind the pear tree. A derisive grin lighted his face that had a little while before worn a shy smile. He said — “Piers will be here in a jiffy. He’s gone up to put on a clean shirt and wash the smell of stable off him. He wants you to wait.”
These remarks, for some reason, sent little Wakefield into shouts of laughter. He danced along the path laughing. Pheasant, greatly embarrassed, asked — “Did Piers say that?”
“Sure,” laughed Finch. “He wants to look his prettiest for you.”
She stood on the path hesitating, not knowing what to believe, what to do. In front of her loomed the house, that house she never expected to enter, where lived Meg Whiteoak whom her father might have married, but for her. To her right was a path into the ravine. That way she could return home without the risk of meeting any of the Whiteoaks on the drive.
But now Piers came out of the house, wearing white trousers and a soft white shirt.
“Look at him,” Finch giggled. “Isn’t he sweet?”
Wakefield was suffocating with laughter. “Isn’t he sweet? Isn’t he sweet?”
Both fell silent as Piers strode near.
He gave a little start, as of surprise, to see Pheasant still there. He asked, with an indifferent air — “How did you get on?”
Indifferently she returned — “Oh, all right.”
“Going on with the lessons?”
“I think so.”
He saw the pear in her hand. “Where did you get that?” he demanded, and took it from her. “It’s not fit to eat. It’s been pecked by the birds.” He threw it away. He turned to Finch. “Get some decent ones.”
Pheasant exclaimed — “Oh, that one was lovely. We haven’t any half so large.”
“These are the best in the countryside,” he returned, frowning. He continued to frown while Finch, with ridiculous alacrity, rushed to the tree and began to gather pears as though his life depended on it.
“Not so many, you lunatic!” shouted Piers.
Wakefield swarmed up the tree and hung there like a monkey. “Ripe pears!” he cried. “A kick apiece!”
Piers selected half-a-dozen from those Finch proffered. “I’ll carry them for you,” he said, and turned with dignity toward the ravine at Pheasant’s side.
“How are your uncles?” she asked, in a proper conversational tone.
“They’re fine, thanks.”
“And your grandmother?”
“Splendid considering her age.”
“It must be wonderful to have uncles and a grandmother.”
“I suppose it is.”
“And a sister and four brothers!”
“I could do without those two youngest.”
“Oh, don’t say that. What if anything happened to them?”
“Are you superstitious?”
Now she spoke like Mrs. Clinch. “Doom is always nears us.”
Piers began to wonder if he really liked her very much. He felt annoyed at himself for having changed into those white trousers. He felt a sudden fury at Finch for the laughter in his eyes. He felt ridiculous carrying the pears. He wanted to give them to her and have done with it.
They passed through the little wicket-gate at the bottom of the lawn and descended the path that led to the bridge. Whether to precede or follow he could not for a moment decide, so they wavered at the top of the path before she took the first steps downward. The stream was so low as to be almost hidden by the eager growth that hungered for its moisture. One of the cattails had burst and its soft down glistened in the deep shade of the ravine.
Pheasant pointed. “That’s where I saw the snake.”
“Ever been here since?”
“Yes.”
“See any more?”
“No. But once I saw you.”
He gave a little laugh, unaccountably pleased.
“Saw me?”
“Hm-hm.”
“What was I doing?”
“Just standing there on the bridge.”
“Looking like a fool, eh?”
“No. Looking — thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful, eh? Thoughts too deep for words, I guess.”
Now they were on the bridge. She asked — “Do you like poetry?”
“Gosh, no. You don’t, do you?”
She felt that she ought to say she didn’t but she was naturally truthful. “I don’t like many poems,” she said. “Only a few.”
“Well, of course, there are a few,” he conceded. “Like ‘The Revenge’ and ‘Horatius.’”
Her face lighted. “Oh, yes, I love them. They make me feel strong and brave.”
Now he liked her very much. “Let’s sit down for a bit,” he said. “It’s nice here and you could eat a pear.”
They sat on the bridge, their legs dangling. He laid the pears near her hand. He said — “Now you can begin.” They smiled into each other’s eyes.
“You have one too.”
“No, no, they’re for you.”
“Oh, please. I won’t, if you don’t. People look so disgusting eating fruit — juicy fruit.”
“Do they? I hadn’t thought of that.” He picked up the smallest pear and began to eat it with exaggerated daintiness, his little finger crooked.
“Do I look disgusting?” he asked.
She reddened. “I wish I hadn’t said that.”
“Do I look disgusting?” he insisted.
Driven, she answered — “You look — nice.”
Now they both were embarrassed and sat eating pears in silence till he said — “Let’s finish them. I’ll give you more tomorrow.”
Pheasant said — “I’m ravenous. I didn’t eat much lunch and — I’ve been so happy. It makes you hungry to enjoy yourself. Don’t you think so?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“I have often.”
“You think a lot, don’t you?”
She answered sedately — “Well, I have a good deal of time for thought. I’m not like you.”
Like a man of action he returned — “I’ve very little time for thought.” Then his sunburnt hand moved to hers and he added — “But I’ve thought a lot about you — since, you know when.”
They sat silent, holding hands.
After a time he wanted to free his hand but did not quite know how. If he drew his hand away, it might appear that he wanted to go. If he left it where it was…. She settled it for him by gently withdrawing hers.
She asked — “Does your brother Eden ever read his poetry to you?”
“Gosh, no. He and I have other things to talk of.”
“Oh.” She looked surprised and interested.
He had an almost irresistible desire to tell her all about the Indigo Lake Mine, but he conquered it and only said — “Eden has some quite good ideas. He and I are going to make a lot of money some day.”
“How wonderful.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s natural for a fellow to try to better himself while he’s young.”
“I suppose so. Mrs. Clinch says it’s wise to take time by the forelock.”
“You’re quite a one for proverbs, aren’t you?”
“Mrs. Clinch says there’d be a lot less misery in the world if people gave heed to them.”
Piers gave her a look of mingled amusement and severity. “Look here, you’re too young to always be quoting Mrs. Clinch.”
Suddenly coquettish, she demanded — “Whom should I quote? You?”
06 The Whiteoak Brothers Page 9
