Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
The dinner was a great success. The jolly Admiral, his portly wife and vivacious daughters, were always charmed to have Adeline in their midst. The daughters hung on all Malahide had to say of Paris. He posed, he swaggered. He praised the good wine and, to Adeline’s chagrin, she perceived at the moment of leaving that he had taken too much of it.
At the door she hesitated, wondering if she should not ask for someone else to drive them home, but it was late. With misgiving in her heart and a bold front she bade her friends goodnight and, taking Malahide’s arm, guided him down the steps, managing to conceal his condition. Indeed he looked more alive than usual, helped her in, and mounted lightly to the seat beside her. He took the reins from the Laceys’ old coachman.
“I hope you haven’t drunk too much, Mally,” said Adeline as they spun down the drive.
“Not a drop,” he laughed. “Never felt better in my life. How nice the Laceys are! I have a mind to visit them for a little when the Show is over. I suppose those girls have not much money?”
“Poor as church mice. Mind what you’re doing! You all but grazed the gateposts.”
“Don’t worry!” laughed Malahide, cracking the whip. “I’ll jump the gate if necessary — carriage and all!”
They flew along the road, Adeline’s lace scarf streaming out behind, the moonlight shining on her set features.
“Look there!” said Malahide. “What lovely clouds! To me the moon looks like a race horse leaping over them.” He waved his whip skyward and the carriage swerved dangerously near the edge of the road.
“My God!” cried Adeline. “You’ll have us in the ditch!”
“What! Do you say I can’t drive?” He turned and looked in her face. The bays shied at a piece of paper fluttering in the moonlight.
“Give me those reins,” said Adeline.
She took them in her hands and drew the horses to a standstill. She spoke soothingly to them.
Malahide swayed and seemed likely to fall off the seat.
Adeline would have given a great deal to be back at the Laceys’ or home at Jalna. But this must be faced. She put one arm firmly about Malahide’s waist. His head dropped to her shoulder. His hat fell off, but fortunately not into the road.
What would her children say if they could see her, she thought grimly, as she drove homeward. Never must they know of this. Yet the situation was not without its element of pleasure. It was many a year since she had handled the reins. Her hands felt strong and capable. If only she had not this incubus of Malahide leaning against her!
And what a night! The unseasonable warmth had gone. In a few hours it had turned to this brilliant air, pregnant with frost, filled with sharp warning of the approaching winter. She was reminded of night drives with her Philip. Different indeed they had been, with him sitting straight and stalwart beside her, driving his horses at a spanking rate along the lonely road.
With a challenging air she drew up the bays in front of her own door. Malahide seemed half asleep, but she helped him to alight and made him sit on a garden seat in the shadow of the porch. The bays stood quietly, nuzzling each other.
When the man had driven the horses to the stables she turned to Malahide. What should she do with him? She decided, after a moment’s reflection, that he must go back to his tent.
“Come,” she said sternly, “get up and take my arm.”
He rose obediently and they moved slowly across the lawn in the direction of the ravine. She added: —
“Are you able to walk to your tent?”
“To the world’s end with you,” he declared, leaning heavily on her.
“You talk like a fool, Mally…. Now, help yourself a little! Don’t imagine I can carry you.”
She gave him a thump between the shoulders that made him stagger. It did him good. He braced himself. Slowly and heedfully they descended the variable path.
In the ravine a clear and poignant chill stung their nostrils. “Sharp frost tonight,” commented Adeline.
“And me in a tent!”
“Have you plenty of blankets?
“Tons of them.”
“Good. Ha, here is the bridge!” She would have liked a breathing space here, but she was afraid to stop, for fear he might be difficult to start again.
She found the path on the other side and along it they groped, for it was dark down here, till they saw the whiteness of the tent. Malahide was reviving in the cold air. He bent and, unfastening the flap, ushered her into the tent as though it were a mansion. He found and lighted a candle. The interior was discovered, chill and neat. On a chair, by the bed, stood a half-empty bottle of brandy. He beamed at Adeline. He said: —
“Let me give you something to sustain you on the walk back. But, no, you shall not go! You shall sleep on my pallet and I will lie on the ground outside your door.”
Adeline stood firmly on her feet, regarding him with a strange mixture of amusement and despair.
“What account you will give of yourself tomorrow night, I can’t imagine,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s all up with us. For Robert Vaughan’s sake, pull yourself together, Mally!”
He stood swaying, the bottle in one hand. “For your sake, and yours only!” he said, fervently. He poured a little of the brandy into a glass and she sipped it gratefully.
She helped him to divest himself of his evening clothes, which she hung on a line that was suspended across the tent. He sat in his woollen dressing gown, his confused mind not quite convinced of her substance, or of the unreality of her grotesque shadow that loomed above them. As she raised her arms the lines of her sides and breast showed something of her early grace. Her face was to him the emblem of fortitude and the arrogance of their tradition.
She had tucked him up like a child and now she retraced her steps through the ravine. Freed of Malahide, she no longer felt tired. She walked strongly, and when she came to the bridge she stood there for a space, looking down into the sliding darkness of the stream. It threw silvery glances up at her. It talked to her — the familiar, long-continued converse of more than fifty years. She stood so motionless that she might have been one of the watchful trees at its brink. An owl flitted by her, its soft wings carrying the moonlight, a mouse drooping in its beak.
“Ha!” she exclaimed, under her breath. “You about your business … I about mine! Funny old birds … both of us!”
T
HE
H
ORSE
S
HOW
I
N THE STRONG ELECTRIC
light every detail of the spirited scene was garishly visible. The bright uniforms of the bandsmen; their polished instruments, from the throats of which a barbarous march was throbbing; the gently swaying flags and bunting that hung from the ceiling; the varied colour and staring faces of the audience that filled the tier upon tier of seats; the muscular and shining bodies of the horses, and the rich hue of the tanbark. From the boxes, with their array of white shirt fronts and evening cloaks, to the occupants of the back seats, all eyes were directed toward the next event, which was the most important of the Show, the prize being a coveted silver cup and a purse of a thousand dollars.
The Vaughans shared their box with the Laceys, all but Vera, who sat with Meg Whiteoak. Robert Vaughan’s ascetic face wore an eager, almost a tremulous, smile. It was his first outing since his illness and he found the excitement of the occasion almost overwhelming. Admiral Lacey sat, solid, red-faced, and benign, his eyes sometimes wandering from the horses to the handsome women who strolled by with their escorts.
The Whiteoak family occupied the next box, Nicholas nervously tugging at his dark moustache, Philip with an expression of exaggerated calm, Mary, outshining both young girls that night, in a gown of silver and blue. Adeline, wearing a white lace mantilla and a grey satin dress and ermine cape, was the most notable figure in the audience. Since her husband had been one of the founders of the Show, she had sat in that box year after year, her appraising gaze on the horses, her challenging smile flashing for the men who ever and again came to lean over her shoulder or raise their hats to her from below. This year, conscious of her new teeth, there was an added self-satisfaction in her greetings. She threw back her cape and sat erect as she saw a society reporter making a note of her appearance. There was nothing of the restrained and lukewarm fine lady about her. She arched her neck and showed herself off, as the vital and eager thoroughbreds in the Show.
Now they were coming! Lifting their dainty hoofs high, distending their full nostrils, holding their sleek, barrel-like bodies in readiness, their riders immaculate, their faces masks of imperturbability. Renny was the youngest rider and Gallant the youngest horse. Yet they excelled the eighteen other entrants in severity of line and scorn of bearing. Gallant was transported to a new world of artificial light and strange sounds. The only link with his old life was the thighs that bound him, the hands that guided him. For sheer grace, give the crowd Harpie and her dark-faced rider, whose languid length seemed to melt into her very flesh.
One after another the riders essayed the jumps. One after another they cleared the easier ones, balked or failed to clear without ticking or knocking a bar from the highest — all but Renny and Malahide, who, with scarcely a fault, circled the tanbark. One after another the sound of a bugle dismissed them till only five were left.
Amid loud applause these five returned to another trial. The three tall barriers together at the end of the course were the stumblingblock. The tension of the audience became pronounced, as three of the riders were defeated and withdrew. Now only Gallant and Harpie were left. Through all their sensitive nerves they were conscious of the atmosphere of enmity. As they passed each other, Gallant made a hideous grimace and bit Harpie on the shoulder.
“Keep that hell’s spawn out of my way!” snarled Malahide, and struck at Gallant with his crop.
Three times Gallant and Harpie were pitted against each other. Three times the Whiteoaks and Vaughans were strung up to meet victory or defeat. But the judges could not decide. They bent their heads together in close conclave.
Philip consulted the paper on which he had kept tab of the jumps. He struck it on his knee.
“I tell you,” he said to his mother, “Gallant has won!”
“No doubt about it,” said Nicholas.
“Nothing of the sort,” declared their mother. “Gallant was at fault —
there
and
there
and
there!
” She tapped the paper with a hand upon the forefinger of which flashed a handsome ruby ring.
Mary exclaimed — “Harpie ticked the bar in that last jump! I saw it. She jumped all wrong.”
“What do
you
know of jumping?”
“I have my two eyes to see.”
“Ha, here they come again!”
At each successful leap there was an outburst of applause. At each failure a sharp outgoing of breath. The excitement was almost too much for Robert Vaughan. He closed his eyes that he might not see Harpie’s final leaps.
Throughout the contest the mare’s irritation had increased. She disliked Malahide and feared him. In crabbed fashion she jumped the hurdles and sped toward the three highest gates. She felt his hands like iron on her reins. His spur sought her side. In grand swoops she leaped the barriers and galloped from the course, tossing her head and sheering. The vibrant air was shattered by applause.
Adeline smiled triumphantly into Philip’s face.
“Renny will be put to it to beat that,” she said.
But the world must not know that she was against Jalna. Her face was noncommittal as colt and boy trotted into the arena. She felt a pang as she watched them to think that her heart was set against their victory. Ah, but they were clean-cut and fierce and beautiful! Her nostrils dilated with pride.
As the confidence between Harpie and Malahide had diminished during the contest, so the love between Gallant and Renny had flowered. With an almost jocular air the colt made his final appearance. He arched the granite grey of his neck and leaned sideways a little. He leaped the first barriers with disdain, the music of his hoofs thudding gaily between each. Like a phrase of music he approached the high climax of the three gates.
The audience leaned forward in their seats. Those standing by the palings pressed closer. A woman with coarse yellow hair gave an excited laugh and thrust her breast forward between two men. The colt, almost near enough for touching, rolled his great eyes, saw her and swerved. Strange memories came to him.
His gay arrogance fell from him. His speed rushed back on itself as a torrent in sudden meeting with a rock. He swerved from the jump and balked, showing his great teeth, picking up his hoofs as though they were missiles to be hurled.
Renny too had heard the laugh, seen the face. “Careful, boy — good boy — now for it!” Wheeling, he headed Gallant for the gates. But again he sheered, curveted, rolled his eyes. Now, for the last time — let him try it! All his blood is in a fever — the very hairs of his mane are electrified. “Up! Up! Up you go, my darling!” Renny says to him softly, and with hands and knees and spirit lifts him over the gate. The next looms. Over it the grey body describes a swift arc. At the third his spleen rises, he jumps as though he would fly to pieces, and kicks the top bar from its place. The bugle sounds. The air is shaken by handclaps and cheers and laughter. Like the embodiment of perversity the colt refuses to leave the arena. He gives a massive buck, then kicks at an official standing near. Renny’s face is white. His hat has fallen off and his hair shows dark red in the strong light.
Severely Malahide rides out on Harpie amid a tumult of noise. The brazen music of the band, the sharp explosion of applause. But Renny and the colt are the favourites. The air is full of praise for them and wonder at their defeat. Malahide circles the course with the silver cup on his saddle, his sallow face impassive.
As Renny made his way through the crowd he passed deliberately where Lulu stood hanging on the palings. Already she was in close conversation with one of the men, but she turned, her face all alight, to Renny. He said, his mouth beside her ear: —