Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“It’s the last night you can keep him here.”
“I’ll find a place for him tomorrow.”
“All he’ll need is a grave, if you go on stuffing him and handling him the way you do.”
“Don’t you worry about him,” returned Finch.
Long after Piers was asleep Finch lay staring at the patch of moonlight by the bed. He would strain his ears if his pet moved. When he heard a faint movement he would lean over the side of the bed and see the tiny creature once more compose himself to sleep.
It was grey dawn with a scattering of raindrops on the roof when Finch woke. He crept out of bed and lifted the cage from the floor. The rat was curled close round and sleek. It was very fast asleep. Finch opened the door of the cage and took out the rat. It lay curled in his hand. It was quite cold. Why — it was
dead!
It lay in his hand with no breath of life in it.
After a little he was able to think more clearly. He made up his mind that he would say the rat had escaped. He would leave the door of the cage ajar and hide the rat till he could bury it secretly. He stole softly to the clothes cupboard and hid the little body in an old shoe. It would be safe there. It lay curled in the shoe as though sleeping.
Finch crept into bed and pulled the bedclothes over his head. In his mind he rehearsed what he would say — “Why — my little rat’s gone, Piers! It’s escaped. I’ll bet I didn’t shut the door tight! It’s a darn shame, isn’t it? But I’m like you, Piers. I don’t want another. What I’m glad of is that you pulled my loose tooth.”
S
CHOOLING FOR
H
ORSES AND
M
EN
J
IM
D
AYBORN AND
Chris Cummings were going toward the stables for their morning’s work, he carrying Tod, she a bundle containing an extra sweater, a rug for the child’s rest time, a packet of sandwiches, some biscuits, and a bottle of lukewarm tea. All three wore a businesslike early-morning air that revealed nothing of the disorder they had left behind them in the house. The baby sat on Dayborn’s arm with an expression of determination on his chubby blond face. He seemed to feel that the livelihood of all three depended on his behaviour. Dayborn carried him so carelessly that a sudden stride over a ditch all but dislodged him from his perch, but he allowed himself no more than a moment’s discomfiture, then gripped Dayborn’s collar more firmly.
“I hope to God,” said Dayborn, “that the old groom hasn’t given that four-year-old sixteen pounds of oats, as he did yesterday. He was like a tornado to handle.”
“Whiteoak himself overfeeds them, so what can you expect of the grooms?”
They walked on in silence for a space, leaving dark footprints on the dew-grey grass. Then Dayborn said, the colour rising in his thin cheeks as he spoke:
“He’s making up to you, isn’t he?”
She laughed. “The groom?”
“You know who I mean.”
“If you mean Renny Whiteoak, you’re dotty.”
He looked shrewdly into her face. “You’re a bad liar,” he said.
“And you’re a bad judge of character. He’s not interested in women.”
Dayborn gave a derisive laugh.” You should hear what they say about him in the village!”
“Well, when we’re together, it’s always horses he talks about.”
“What do his eyes say?”
“You make me tired, Jim…. I’m able to look after myself.”
Tod looked dubiously into their faces, as though he feared a quarrel. They were nearing the stables. In the paddock a groom was leading about a dark bay two years old that scarcely was able to contain itself for the spirits that drove it to eccentric plunges and kicks. It was a recent acquisition and was being schooled as a hunter.
“Look at him,” exclaimed Dayborn bitterly. “Ready to jump out of his skin and his belly fit to burst!” He set down the baby, who toddled forward and looked between the palings at the capering horse with the eye of a judge. Dayborn slouched round to the gate and entered the paddock.
Chris Cummings hung her bundle on the palings, divested herself of her cardigan and went into the stables. There were a dozen horses in the various stalls and loose boxes, most of them being got ready for the Horse Show in November. Several of these Renny had bought at a considerable outlay since his return two months before. Toward one of these Chris moved slowly, stopping to give an appraising glance at one or other of the occupants of the stalls she passed. She wondered if Renny had yet arrived at the stables. She strained her ears for the sound of his voice. She passed Scotchmere, the oldest groom, squatting beside a chestnut mare, her hoof between his knees, while he plastered a strong-smelling ointment on a swollen joint. His wizened face grinned up at Chris. He tolerated a woman who rode well.
“It’s a nice cool morning,” he remarked.
“Yes. It’s lovely. How’s the leg?”
“Better, but she’s fussy, like all females.”
“That’s a lie, Scotchmere. She’s not half so fussy as you are — or her master either. Has he come yet?”
“Yes. He’s in the little room next the harness room. He’s fitting up an office for himself there. I guess he wants some place where he can be private from his family when he likes.”
As they spoke Renny appeared at the end of the passage. The mare whickered and made as though to withdraw her hoof from Scotch-mere’s knees.
“Whoa!” he shouted.
Between her delight at seeing Renny, whose favourite she was, and her distaste for the smell of the ointment, the mare uncovered her big teeth in a monstrous grimace.
“Whoa!” cried Scotchmere again, and smacked her on her drum-like belly.
Renny nodded to Chris and squatted beside the groom, their two heads, grizzled and red, close together. The mare muzzled the red in a rough caress.
“Well, I must get to work.” Chris moved to the last loose box and ran her eye over Launceton, her especial care.
“It’s about time,” grumbled Scotchmere. “She’s wasted half an hour already. That brother of hers let off a stream of cursing because Jerry has a few oats in him. He wants a sheep to ride. What do you think of this here leg?”
Renny fingered it tenderly. “It’s fine.”
While he held the mare’s fetlock he listened to the pleasant sounds of the stable. He felt singularly happy. He realized this morning, as he had not realized before, that the war was over. There would be peace, he thought, for the rest of his life. Things were going better at Jalna. He was fitting into his new niche. There was less friction between him and his family.
Coming suddenly on Chris Cummings had sent a new excitement through his nerves. He went to the loose box and looked in. She was bent over, grooming Launceton, her slim body moving beside the reposeful bulk of his like a reed against a rock. As she heard Renny’s approach she worked with even more energy.
Scotchmere, who had followed Renny, exclaimed angrily — “Are you wanting exercise, Mrs. Cummings? That there horse has been groomed already.”
“Who groomed him?” she asked, without looking up.
“I did.”
“Well, all I can say is, you’ve left a hell of a lot of dust in him…. Look at it.”
An aura of dust was indeed surrounding both the horse and her.
“You can always get dust out of a horse’s hide,” Scotchmere declared furiously.
“You bet I can when I come after you.”
“If you was a boy I’d have something to say to you.”
“If you were a man you’d get out of my way and let me finish my work.”
“I’ll stay here as long as I like.”
“All right — if your boss doesn’t mind paying you for wasted time.”
With a furious look the groom shuffled off, his thin bow-legs bending under him. Chris grinned at Renny as she saddled and bridled the horse. Renny remarked:
“He looks fit.”
“He is. I believe he’s a winner. He has the best set of pegs I’ve ever seen.”
“And what shoulders!”
They stared absorbed at the horse so charged with quiescent energy. His great eyes mirrored their figures in a look less of curiosity than of noble interest.
“He’s a superior being,” observed Renny.
“He’s rather like you.”
Renny gave an embarrassed grin. He passed his hand over the horse’s flank.
“Now, I’m wasting my time!” she exclaimed. There was a nervous tension in her voice. She hooked her arm through the bridle and began to walk towards the door. Renny followed her.
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“It will be hot later on.”
In the paddock they found that Eden had mounted the two-year-old. Dayborn was nursing an elbow. “I’ve had a nasty tumble,” he muttered.
“Your brother said he’d carry on for a bit.”
Renny frowned. “He doesn’t know how to school a hunter.”
“That one is as cantankerous as the devil.”
There was more hilarity than skill in Eden’s handling of the colt who did not approve of the change of riders. His ears were laid back and his tail held tight down. He was going to buck. He began. The violent intermingling of the lines of his powerful body with those of the youth, the distortion of the kicks and the momentary return to immobility while a new series of bucks was generating, held the eyes of the onlookers in fascination. Tod stared between the palings, a dandelion in his mouth.
Eden was on his back on the ground. The horse galloped down the paddock, a stableboy running after him.
“How do you like it?” called out Dayborn as Eden picked himself up and came toward them.
“Fine.” His eyes were sparkling. “What do you suppose, Renny? I’ve had a poem accepted by an American magazine! That’s why I wanted Pegasus under me!”
“A poem? Are they going to print it?”
“
Print
it! Why, they’ve sent me twenty-five dollars.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Renny, but his heartiness carried no conviction. He hoped the boy was not going to be a queer egg. “I didn’t know that you sent poetry about?”
“I wouldn’t tell you till I had a success.”
“Better read us the poem,” put in Scotchmere. “I’ll bet it don’t rhyme.”
“Is that baby allowed to eat dandelions?” interrupted Renny.
“Not till it’s in print,” answered Eden. He passed his hand over his bright tumbled hair of a gold that had a greenish cast. “Well, I’m off,” he added. He picked up his coat, vaulted over the palings, and walked quickly along the path toward the cherry orchard.
No one had replied to Renny’s question. He picked up Tod, put a finger in his mouth and extracted the dandelion. The stableboy led up the hunter.
“I’ll have a go at him,” said Chris, seeing how pale Dayborn was. She opened the gate into the paddock and went in.
“All these changes are damned bad for him,” repeated Renny. Then to Tod — “If you eat dandelions I shall put you over the fence among the horses.”
“Gee-gee,” Tod chuckled and filled his hands with earth.
“I’ll be all right in a few minutes,” said Dayborn.
“Come into my office and have a drink.” Renny felt a boyish pleasure in speaking of his office though not till today was it ready for use.
They waited, however, to see Chris ride the colt. The boy held him. The groom helped her to mount. He stood docile a space, then began to buck.
“Ah, he’s an ugly brute,” observed Scotchmere. “You’ll never get a decent price for him, sir.”
Chris hit the colt with her crop. There was a struggle — a contest of bucking and reprisal. Suddenly he flew into a grand gallop. She looked thin as a spider on his back. Round and round the field they flew. He seemed magically to be in good humour. She put him over a hurdle. Then another. Then over a thick high fence.
“Hurrah!” cried Scotchmere. “She
can
ride! I take off my hat to her.”
They stood watching, Tod with his mouth full of dandelions, Launceton calmly awaiting his turn.
“You ought to be proud of your sister,” Renny said to Dayborn as they went toward the office.
“I am. She can ride anything. The colt will make a fine hunter. As to Launceton — if he goes on the way he’s begun — he’ll be fit for the Grand National.”
“God!” exclaimed Renny, his heart in his voice. “If only I could win that.”
In the office he took a bottle of Scotch from a cupboard and offered Dayborn a drink. “How do you like my office?” he asked.
“Very much. It looks businesslike.”
“See this desk? I bought it second-hand.” He opened and shut the various drawers. “Here I shall keep pedigrees, records of sales and accounts. How do you like my pictures?” He indicated a number of coloured lithographs of horses.
“They’re fine.”
“They belonged to my father.”
He sat down in the swivel chair, turning it slightly as he sipped his whiskey and water.
Dayborn said abruptly — “Mr. Whiteoak, I wonder if you know that an affair is going on between your young brother and Mrs. Stroud?”
Renny stared.
“I know it’s none of my business,” added Dayborn.
“Do you mean Eden?”
“Yes…. And Mrs. Stroud.”
“That — woman? It’s impossible.”
“Impossible? They’re male and female.”
“She’s old enough to be his mother!
An affair
? What sort of affair?”
“He’s always there. I hate to tell of it. But there’s gossip. I thought you ought to know. One day, for instance, I went to her door. No one answered my knock. I could hear voices. Then I saw him leave the house by the back door. I was talking to her a bit later and she asked me if I had seen him recently. She said she guessed he was studying hard and not going anywhere. Another time I was up with the kid and I saw Eden leaving the house. It was past midnight.”
Renny ruefully bit his thumb. He did not want to hear disturbing things about Eden. He was getting on better with him. He was getting on better with his family. He did not want a row. He wanted very much to be happy, to savour the peace of this country life, to adjust himself to his new responsibility. He missed his father continually. That easy good humour, that look of beaming confidence in the well-being of tomorrow, had seemed so permanent a part of Jalna. He sometimes felt himself to be irritable, authoritative and even harsh, yet he burned with a protective paternalness toward the boys left in his care.