Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
He was unconscious that anyone had approached him till he felt a quiver run through the flesh of the colt. Then he moved his gaze from between its alert ears and saw a slender hand, a forefinger marked by needle pricks into which the stains of farm work had penetrated, slide along Gallant’s side. It touched him on the knee.
He looked down then into Lulu’s suntanned aquiline face.
She returned the look boldly, armed by what they had in their past meeting. She smiled and said — “I was about this way and I thought I’d drop in to see you.”
Seeing her face thus slanting up at him from below, he felt a sudden quiver in his flesh, comparable to what the colt had felt at her touch, but with the added agitation of their remembered embraces.
There was more severity than sensuality, however, in his look as he replied — “You came at a bad time. I’m schooling the colt for the Show.”
She ignored his first remark and exclaimed — “My, but he’ll be a fine jumper! I wish I might see him. Do you think you could send me a ticket?”
“I don’t want you to be looking on,” he said sullenly. “You might put me off my form.”
She laughed daringly. “Me put you off! Never! I’d put you on! Just when the other fellas might be winning you’d suddenly see me staring at you with all my eyes and you’d clear every barrier like a bird. Come on, say you’ll send me a ticket!”
“All right,” he answered, still sullenly. “I’ll send you a ticket. What’s your surname? I have never heard it.”
“Address it to Mrs. Lulu Lepard…. How do you like the name? Does it suit me?”
“It’s the Missus I’m thinking of,” he replied “I didn’t know you’d been married.”
“Oh, I’ve been married! More than once, too, though not at that little church on the knoll, where your folks go.”
“Is your husband living?”
“Don’t ask me about any man but yourself! You are the only one I care about. I thought I was dead to men — dead and buried to them — till you came along.” She began to stroke the glossy leather of his riding boot.
He looked down at her, frowning. He put down his hand and touched the back of her tanned neck, then drew it away.
“What’s the matter?” she said. “Don’t you like me any more? Look how I like you! I’d let you rip my breast open with this spur, if you wanted.” She lifted his foot and pressed the spurred heel to her breast. It tore the thin cotton of her dress and made a deep scratch on the white flesh beneath.
“Don’t!” he cried fiercely, and drew his foot away. Then the hardness went out of his face and it was tormented into lines of desire that took all its boyishness from it. “Lulu,” he murmured, “my girl — my Lulu — what shall we do?” His hand sought her breast and he touched the mark made by the spur.
He saw her face darken with anger as she stared at someone approaching. It was Scotchmere, disconsolate after his fruitless search.
“Send him away!” she whispered. “Send him off to his stable! Think of the quietness here! Send him away!”
Scotchmere plodded on toward them, filled with resentment as he discovered her there, for, as he loved horses, so, in proportion, he hated women, with the one exception of old Mrs. Whiteoak.
Renny’s vision blurred. Before his eyes he saw dark, unknown groves and the dim figures of Lulu and himself.
“Ye’re gettin’ on fine with the jumpin’ aren’t ye?” sneered Scotchmere. “Has the colt gone slack, or is it you?” He came and jerked the colt’s bridle and it flung up its head and showed its teeth at him. “Come now — come now — would you bite at me? But perhaps you’re just sick and tired of standin’ slack.”
“Do you let this stableman order you about?” asked Lulu.
Scotchmere retorted — “We’ve got our work cut out for us, Mrs. Whoever-you-are.” But, though he would not say her name, he showed plainly that he recognized her. He began to tighten a strap of the stirrup, muttering to himself.
Renny sat between the two, motionless, but when Scotchmere’s light eyes gave him a piercing look his lips framed the words, “Don’t go.”
Scotchmere straightened himself and said — “Well, now, shall we get to work? If you want to see some fine high jumpin’, missus, you’ll see it here. This young gentleman is the ridin’est critter I ever set eyes on — whatever else
you
may find in him.”
Lulu showed her teeth in a straight white line — a forced, bitterly disappointed grin.
Renny resolutely kept his eyes averted from her, as he wheeled the colt and trotted down the track. As he headed Gallant for the first hurdle, he saw, out of the sides of his eyes, Lulu and Scotchmere in angry altercation. There was no mistaking the vindictive thrust of the man’s head, the woman’s jeering laugh.
Everything was wrong with the colt. It sidled from the hurdles as though it had never seen them before. It tossed its head in fury at the flies. It behaved as though it had gone lame. It laid its ears flat and lolled out its tongue.
Renny had wanted to show Lulu of what mettle Gallant was made. In some subtle way he had transferred his amorous proclivities to his desire to display the colt, as though in its leaping his manhood might have leapt. Again and again he wheeled and rushed Gallant at the hurdles. The colt either balked or jumped sideways, scattered the rails or attempted to climb them. All its great naked flashing body was pregnant with perversity. The broken rhythm of its hoofs was a low thunder of hate.
In anger Renny lashed it with the crop and the colt snorted and bucked, throwing up torn pieces of turf. It made itself into a ball and hurled him over his head. Then, with a clarion neigh, it battered along the track and in a wild leap cleared the gate. The pine wood appeared to open to receive it, and into this natural stable it galloped, neighing as some prehistoric ancestor may well have done.
Renny lay on his back looking up into the faces of Lulu and Scotchmere with equal hate.
Lulu bent over him. “He’s hurt! Oh, my poor, beautiful boy!”
Scotchmere gave a loud guffaw. “Hurt! Not him. I guess he’s had two hundred falls in his life so far. He’s just mad — boiling mad at you. Haven’t you spoiled his morning’s work? Haven’t you turned the colt wicked, so we shall never win anything by him now? You ought to kneel down in this here field and pray to God to forgive you. Why He made horseflies and women like you to be pests — He only knows! This here’s a school for horses, not rips. So you can take yourself off or I’ll let the boss hear a thing or two.”
Lulu snatched up Renny’s crop and stared fixedly at Scotchmere.
“If you hit me,” he said, “I’ll hit you back and the young gentleman can bear witness why.”
She looked down at Renny. “Are you hurt?” she asked in a small voice unlike her own.
He answered — “No, but you’d better go.”
She exclaimed recklessly — “Oh, I’m going — never fear! You’ll never see me again — be sure of that! Do you think I’m a loose one that doesn’t mind being insulted? Look here, this Scotchmere is a cheat! He cheats your father! Haven’t I heard tales of him in the village? My God, how crooked he is!”
“You say that!” said Scotchmere, turning green.
“Yes! And more! I say that you was always prowling round my house of night — tapping at the window — whining to be let in!” She planted herself, laughing in his face.
“Blast your soul!” said Scotchmere. “Every word you let through your teeth is a lie. I’ll call on the law! I’ll have you up for libel! I’ll have you up for seduction! This young lad hadn’t a bad thought till you put them in his head.”
“You’ve blasted me, and I’ll blast you, in real earnest,” said Lulu. “And the horse, too, if it wasn’t that I love this boy.”
Renny sat up. “Don’t say you’d blast the colt, Lulu! That’s a terrible thing to say.”
His face changed, as he spoke, for he saw his father approaching in company with an apple buyer who had come to inspect the orchard. In the distance Philip took the figure of Lulu to be that of Mary. He removed his hat and waved it.
Lulu smiled at Scotchmere. “Mr. Whiteoak has nothing against me,” she said. She stood for a moment irresolute, then turned with a swaying step and moved toward the wood, the trees seeming to open to receive her as they had received the colt.
T
HE
S
AME
D
AY
A
T NOON OF THE SAME DAY
Renny followed the meanderings of the river, from where it skirted the wood, after having flung a protective arm about the churchyard, down into the ravine where it spread itself into a shallow basin. A smooth slab of stone formed the bottom of this, and cattails, wild honeysuckle, and elderberries drooped about it. Here he would bathe, for it was too far to go to the lake, dog-tired as he was. He and Scotchmere had had a morning’s work to recover the colt, which had crashed through undergrowth, galloped across fields, and at last had been captured on the public road trotting in the direction of the farm where he had spent one sultry night. The three had returned to the stables in common resentment.
Renny threw himself on the grass and took from his pocket three peaches he had picked on the way, for he had had little breakfast and it was an hour till the one o’clock dinner.
He laid the three in a row, in order of their mellowness, the first showing a ruddy gold cheek, the second blushing less warmly, and the third with only a faint pinkness beneath its velvety skin. The most mature he held to his nostrils, sniffing it with an air of distaste rather than relish. His unseeing eyes held in them the reflection of Lulu’s supple form as she moved toward the darkness of the wood. She had come all that way to tempt and for nothing less. And how had she come? Was Bob in their secret? He experienced both relief and chagrin at her discomfiture.
He bit deep into the peach and, as its nectar lay on his tongue, he made a wry face, for he was suddenly aware that he was not alone, but that Malahide Court was seated in the shallow basin below reading a book while he soaked himself in the tepid water.
If a serpent had raised his head in his retreat, he could scarcely have felt more aversion than he felt at the sight of Malahide’s small glossy head arching out of the stream. He looked and looked, as though the singular contours were new to him, and for some bizarre reason must be impressed upon his mind.
He felt surprised at the strength of the shoulders which he saw exposed and a grim amusement at the choice of such a spot for reading. He recognized the cover of the book as belonging to a novel by Rider Haggard. He finished his peach without tasting it, his eyes fixed on Malahide, who sat motionless as one of the tree roots which projected from the riverbank, save when he raised a dripping hand to turn the page.
Seeing a loose boulder near him, it entered Renny’s head to precipitate it down the bank into the basin and give Malahide a fright, but at that moment the two swans, followed by their troop of cygnets, the first they had successfully reared, swam round a curve. As they emerged from the greenish shadow into the sunlight the male swan became aware of the alien presence and halted abruptly in his gliding progress, curving his neck strongly and opening his beak. His mate and his cygnets also became statuesque, gleaming in their whiteness on the face of the stream.
As the swans paused, transfixed, Malahide became wearied of his book or had perhaps reached its last page. With a wide gesture he flung it on the bank and settled himself into a position of still greater repose, unaware that his movement had further angered the male swan, who swam quickly in his direction, only stopping when close behind him. If he would attack Malahide, thought Renny! Oh, to be the witness of a combat between the two! If only he could have broken the barrier of language and cried out something in the tongue of swans to incite them to anger!
But their leader now turned with careless grace, as though anger were unworthy of him, and moved in stately fashion, followed by his train, round the curve from where they had come.
Malahide, unaware that he had been observed by bird or man, now rose from the water and walked gingerly across the burning hot stones at the water’s edge and disappeared among some bushes.
Renny had no longer any desire to enter the pool. He sat staring gloomily down at it, his thoughts now turned from Lulu to what the outcome of the struggle between him and Malahide might be. Would the colt be upset by this morning’s happenings and perhaps lose his nerve or become irrevocably willful? Feelings of melancholy, to which he was seldom a victim, settled on his spirit like birds of prey.
He must do something active to be rid of them. He rose and climbed the path as it mounted the side of the ravine toward the lawn. On the smooth stretch of grass he saw Meg and Vera gathering grapes from the luxuriant vines that draped themselves along a trellis. They were filling a large woven basket that stood on legs, talking and laughing softly together as they worked. Nothing did Meg so much good as Vera’s presence. Vera lifted her out of herself, filled Meg with interest in the affairs of another.
When Meg saw Renny appear she made an excuse to go into the house, so that, as he reached Vera’s side, he found her alone. It seemed to him that he saw her now for the first time. He looked at her with a curiosity so evident that she coloured as she said: —
“Are you coming to help us? My aunts are determined to make grape wine. They are to have all I can gather for them.”
He did not answer, but still continued to look at her.
“There are two varieties here,” she said, trying to speak naturally, “the deep purple and this lovely greenish gold. Of course, I’m telling you something you know already, but which do you like best?”
“Those greenish-yellow ones are rather the colour of your eyes,” he answered, “so I like them best.”
She did not know whether to accept this seriously or to make light of it. Though Meg talked so much of her brother, Vera felt that she knew nothing of him. She said: —
“It doesn’t sound very attractive.”
“But it is. And, while we’re on the subject of you, I wish you would tell me why your hair is short and curly when the other girls wear pompadours.”
“I had scarlet fever before I left England and it had to be cut. It came in curly like this. I suppose you think it hideous!”