THE ESPIAL.
Ruth Josselin came down from the mountain to the stream-side, where, by
a hickory bush under a knoll, her mare Madcap stood at tether.
Slipping behind the bush--though no living soul was near to spy on her--
she slid off her short skirt and indued a longer one more suitable for
riding; rolled the discarded garment into a bundle which she strapped
behind the saddle; untethered the mare, and mounted.
At her feet the plain stretched for miles, carpeted for the most part
with short sweet turf and dotted in the distance with cattle, red in the
sunlight that overlooked the mountain's shoulder. These were Farmer
Cordery's cattle, and they browsed within easy radius of a clump of elms
clustered about Sweetwater Farm. Some four miles beyond, on the far
edge of the plain, a very similar clump of elms hid another farm,
Natchett by name, in like manner outposted with cattle; and these were
the only habitations of men within the ring of the horizon.
The afternoon sun cast the shadow of the mountain far across this plain,
almost to the confines of Sweetwater homestead. A breeze descended from
the heights and played with Ruth's curls as she rested in saddle for a
moment, scanning the prospect; a gentle breeze, easily out-galloped.
Time, place, and the horse--all promised a perfect gallop; her own
spirits, too. For she had spent the day's hot hours in clambering among
the slopes, battling with certain craggy doubts in her own mind; and
with the afternoon shadow had come peace at heart; and out of peace a
certain careless exultation. She would test the mare's speed and enjoy
this hour before returning to Tatty's chit-chat, the evening lamp, and
the office of family prayer with which Farmer Cordery duly dismissed his
household for the night.
She pricked Madcap down the slope, and at the foot of it launched her on
the gallop. Surely, unless it be that of sailing on a reach and in a
boat that fairly heels to the breeze, there is no such motion to catch
the soul on high. The breeze met the wind of her flight and was beaten
by it, but still she carried the moment of encounter with her as a wave
on the crest of which she rode. It swept, lifted, rapt her out of
herself--yet in no bodiless ecstasy; for her blood pulsed in the beat of
the mare's hoofs. To surrender to it was luxury, yet her hand on the
rein held her own will ready at call; and twice, where Sweetwater brook
meandered, she braced herself for the water-jump, judging the pace and
the stride; and twice, with many feet to spare, Madcap sailed over the
silver-grey riband.
All the while, ahead of her, the mountain lengthened its shadow.
She overtook and passed it a couple of furlongs short of the homestead;
passed it--so clearly defined it lay across the pasture--with a firmer
hold on the rein, as though clearing an actual obstacle. . . . She was
in sunlight now. Before her a wooden fence protected the elms and their
enclosure. At the gate of it by rule she should have drawn rein.
She had never leapt a gate; had attempted a bank now and then, but
nothing serious. Her success at the water-jumps tempted her; and the
mare, galloping with her second wind, seemed to feel the temptation
every whit as strongly.
In the instant of rising to it Ruth wondered what Farmer Cordery would
say if she broke his top bar. . . . The mare's feet touched it lightly--
rap, rap. She was over.
A wood pile stood within the gate to the left, hiding the house. She
had passed the corner of it before she could bring Madcap to a
standstill, and was laughing to herself in triumph as she glanced
around.
Heavens!
The house was of timber, with a deep timbered verandah; and in the
verandah, not twenty paces away, beside a table laid for coffee, stood
Tatty with three ladies about her--three ladies all elegantly dressed
and staring.
Ruth's hand went up quickly, involuntarily, to her dishevelled hair; and
at the same moment the little lady, as though making a bolt from
captivity, stepped down from the verandah and came shuffling across the
yard towards her, almost at a run.
"Ruth, dear!" she panted. "Oh, dear, dear! I am so glad you have come!"
"Why, what's the matter?" The girl, scenting danger, faced it.
She swung herself down from the saddle-crutch, picked up her skirt, and
taking Madcap's rein close beside the curb, walked slowly up to the
verandah. "Have they been bullying you, dear?" she asked in a low quiet
voice.
"They have come all this way to see us--Lady Caroline Vyell, and Miss
Diana; yes, and Mrs. Captain Vyell--'Mrs. Harry,' as Dicky calls her.
They have ferreted us out, somehow--and the questions they have been
asking! I think, dear--I really think--that in your place I should walk
Madcap round to her stable and run indoors for a tidy-up before facing
them. A minute or two to prepare yourself--I can easily make your
excuses."
"And a moment since you were calling me to come and deliver you!"
answered Ruth, still advancing. "Present me, please."
Little Miss Quiney, turning and running ahead, stammered some words to
Lady Caroline, who paid no heed to them or to her but kept her eyeglass
lifted and fixed upon Ruth. Miss Diana stood a pace behind her mother's
shoulder; Mrs. Harry, after a glance at the girl, turned and made
pretence to busy herself with the coffee-table.
"So _you_ are the young woman!" ejaculated Lady Caroline.
"Am I?" said Ruth quietly, and after a profound curtsy turned sideways
to the mare. "A lump of sugar, Tatty, if you please. . . . I thank
you, ma'am--" as Mrs. Harry, anticipating Miss Quiney, stepped forward
with a piece held between the sugar-tongs. "And I think she even
deserves a second, for clearing the yard gate."
She fed the gentle creature and dismissed her. "Now trot around to your
stall and ask one of the boys to unsaddle you!" She stood for ten
seconds, may be, watching as the mare with a fling of the head trotted
off obediently. Then she turned again and met Mrs. Harry's eyes with a
frank smile.
"It is the truth," she said. "We cleared the gate. Come, please, and
admire--"
Mrs. Harry, in spite of herself, stepped down from the verandah and
followed. The others stood as they were, planted in stiff disapproval.
The girl led Mrs. Harry to the corner of the wood pile. "Admire!" she
repeated, pointing with her riding-switch; and then, still keeping the
gesture, she sank her voice and asked quickly, "Why are you here?
You have a good face, not like the others. Tell me."
"Lady Caroline--" stammered Mrs. Harry, taken at unawares. "She has a
right, naturally, to concern herself--"
"Does _he_ know?"
"Sir Oliver? No--I believe not. . . . You see, the Vyells are a great
family, and 'family' to them is a tremendous affair--a religion almost.
Whatever touches one touches all; especially when that one happens to be
the head of his house."
"Is that how Captain Vyell--how your husband--feels it?--No, please keep
looking towards the gate. I mean no harm by these questions, and you
will not mind answering them, I hope? It gives me just a little more
chance of fair play."
"To tell you the truth," said Mrs. Harry, pretending to study the jump,
"I looked at you because I could not help it. You are an
extraordinarily beautiful woman."
"Thank you," answered Ruth. "But about 'Captain Harry,' as we call him?
I suppose he, as next of kin, is most concerned of all?"
"He did not tell me about you, if that is what you mean; or rather he
told me nothing until I questioned him. Then he owned that there was
such a person, and that he had seen you. But he does not even know of
this visit; he imagines that Lady Caroline is taking me for a pleasure
trip, just to view the country."
Ruth turned towards the house. "You will tell him, of course," she said
gravely, "when you return to the ship."
"I--I suppose I shall," confessed Mrs. Harry, and added, "There's one
thing. You may suppose that, as his wife, I am as much concerned as
any--perhaps more than these others. But I don't want you to think that
I suggested hunting you up."
"I do not think anything of the sort. In fact I am sure you did not."
"Thank you."
Ruth had a mind to ask "Who, then, had brought them?" but refrained.
She had guessed, and pretty surely.
"Well," she said with half a laugh, "you have been good and given me
time to recover. It's heavy odds, you see, and--and I have not been
trained for it, exactly. But I feel better. Shall we go back and face
them?"
"One moment, again!" Mrs. Harry's kindly face hung out signals of
distress. "It's heavy odds, as you say. Everything's against you.
But the Lord knows I'm a well-meaning woman, and I'd hate to be unjust.
If only I could be sure--if only you would tell me--"
Ruth stood still and faced her.
"Look in my eyes."
Mrs. Harry looked and was convinced. "But you love him," she murmured;
"and he--"
"Ah, ma'am," said Ruth, "I answer you one question, and you would ask me
another!"