A Riding Lesson
The College had reopened on a Tuesday, so that by her first Sunday
Honor had been at school five days. In her own estimation it seemed
more like five months, but as she had left home on 24th April, and the
Shakespeare calendar in the recreation room (a leaf of which was torn
off punctually each morning by the monitress) only recorded 29th April,
she was obliged reluctantly to acknowledge the evidence of the almanac,
and realized that twelve whole weeks must intervene before the joyful
termination of what she considered her banishment from Erin.
Sundays were made very pleasant at Chessington. In the morning the
girls attended the parish church at Dunscar. In the afternoon they
might read, or stroll about the grounds where they pleased, an
indulgence not permitted on weekdays. During the summer term they were
allowed to carry their four-o'clock tea into the garden. All was laid
ready by the servants in the dining-hall, and each girl might pour out
her own cup, and, taking what bread and butter she wished, retire with
a few select companions to some nook under the trees, or a seat in an
ivy-covered arbour.
From half-past four to half-past five was "silence hour", which
everyone was required to devote to reading from a special library of
books carefully chosen for the purpose by Miss Cavendish.
"I won't call them Sunday books," she sometimes said, "because I
consider our religion would be a very poor thing if it were only kept
for one day in the week. What we learn in this quiet time we must apply
in our busy hours, and let the helpful words we read influence our
ordinary life and go towards the building of character, which is the
most invaluable of all possessions."
At half-past six there was a short service in chapel; and the rest of
the evening, after supper, was given up to the writing of home letters.
All the routine of the school was still new to Honor, and she felt very
strange and unusual as, precisely at ten o'clock, she took her place
among the lines of Chessingtonians marshalled in the quadrangle
preparatory to setting off for church. Miss Cavendish gave the signal
to start, and the two hundred girls filed along two and two, all
dressed alike in white serge coats and skirts and best sailor hats,
with their house colours, the blue ribbons of the School House leading
the way, followed by the pink of St. Aldwyth's, and the orange, violet,
and scarlet of St. Chad's, St. Bride's, and St. Hilary's, respectively.
"I believe it's considered one of the sights of the neighbourhood to
see us parade through the lich-gate," said Lettice Talbot, who happened
to be walking with Honor. "Visitors stand in the churchyard and try to
count us. They make the most absurd remarks sometimes; I suppose they
think we shan't overhear what they say. Really, they seem to look upon
us as a kind of show, and I quite expect we shall be put down in the
next edition of the guide-book as one of the attractions of Dunscar. Of
course, we take no notice. We walk along with our noses in the air, as
if we weren't aware that anyone was even thinking of us; but all the
same we feel giggles inside when we catch a whisper: 'They look like
angels dressed in white!' or, 'What a pile of washing they must make!'"
Honor had been looking forward immensely to this Sunday morning, for
she hoped she might have an opportunity of seeing her brother Dermot,
who was at Dr. Winterton's school. Dermot was her favourite among her
five brothers, and the thought that Orley Grange and Chessington stood
only a mile and a half apart had so far been her one thread of comfort.
To catch even a distant glimpse of Dermot would be like a peep at home,
and she felt that a moment's talk with him would be sufficient to send
her back to St. Chad's rejoicing.
The students of the College occupied the whole of the left aisle of the
church, and the right aisle was reserved for Dr. Winterton's pupils. As
a rule, the girls arrived early and took their seats first; and they
always passed out by a side door, so that they seldom met the boys in
the churchyard. Should they happen to do so, however, it was etiquette
to take no notice of them, even though some might be relations, or
intimate friends. Honor was unaware of this rule, which her classmates,
not knowing she had a brother at the Grange, had not thought of
mentioning to her.
On this particular Sunday either Miss Cavendish or Dr. Winterton had
slightly miscalculated the time, for the two schools arrived at exactly
the same minute. As there was not room for all to march in together
through the lich-gate, the boys were drawn up like a regiment, and
waited for the College to go by. The girls sailed past with well-bred
unconsciousness, their eyes fixed discreetly upon the Prayer Books and
hymn-books that they carried--all except poor impulsive, unconventional
Honor, who made a sudden dart out of the line, and snatched rapturously
at a brown-faced, curly-headed boy, by his coat sleeve.
"Dermot! Dermot! I _am_ glad to see you!" she exclaimed, in a voice that
could be heard from end to end of the ranks.
"Oh, I say, Honor! Stow it!" murmured the boy in an agonized tone,
turning as red as fire, and trying to back away from her.
Naturally Honor's unexpected and unprecedented act caused a great
sensation. Lettice Talbot stopped when deserted by her partner, and the
girls behind her were obliged to halt too. All wondered what had
happened, and, in spite of their excellent training and good
discipline, their curiosity got the better of them, and they craned
their necks to look. Miss Farrar saved the situation by hurrying to
Honor, seizing her by the shoulder, and forcing her back into her
place; then the long line once more moved forward, and the
Chessingtonians, slightly ruffled, but trying to carry off the affair
in a dignified fashion, marched with admirable coolness into the
church. If Honor had a little, surreptitious cry behind her Prayer
Book, she managed to conceal the fact from the neighbours on either
side of her in the pew; and if her eyes looked suspiciously red, and
there was a slight tendency to chokiness in her voice as she walked
home after service, Lettice Talbot, at any rate, was tactful enough to
take no notice, though she seized the opportunity of explaining the
school code of decorum, and was severe in her censure.
"You ought to have told me before," said Honor. "How could I know that
I mustn't speak to my own brother?"
"I didn't even know you had a brother," returned Lettice; "and I never
dreamt you'd do such an idiotic thing as rush at him like that. He
evidently didn't appreciate it."
"No! I thought he'd be more glad to see me," gulped Honor, not the
least part of whose trouble had been Dermot's cold reception of her
enthusiastic greeting.
"How silly you are! Does any boy care to parade his sister before his
whole school? I expect he'll get tremendously chaffed about this, poor
fellow! Really, Paddy, you ought to know better!"
Considerably chastened by Lettice's crushing remarks, Honor subsided
into silence, and only reopened the subject when, in company with Janie
Henderson, she had retired after dinner to a spot overlooking the
playing-fields. It was a warm, beautiful afternoon, a day when you
could almost hear the buds bursting and the flowers opening. The two
girls spread their jerseys on the grass, and sat basking in the
sunshine, watching a lark soar up into the blue overhead, or the
seagulls flapping leisurely round the cliffs; or listening to the caw
of the jackdaws that, in company with a flock of starlings, were
feeding in a neighbouring ploughed field. The sea lay a sparkling sheet
of pearly grey, and Honor looked wistfully at its broad expanse when
she remembered that its farther waves washed the rocky shores of
Ireland.
Janie was the only girl at St. Chad's to whom she cared to mention her
home. With the others she could exchange jokes, but not confidences;
and though she returned their banter with interest, she did not look to
them for sympathy. Janie seemed altogether different from the rest; she
never laughed at Honor, and even if she remonstrated, it was in such a
gentle, apologetic way that the most touchy of Celtic natures could not
have taken offence.
Miss Maitland had not overlooked the episode of the morning. She had
had a few words to say after their return from church, and Honor, in
consequence, was feeling rather sore, and ready to pour out her
grievances into her friend's ears.
"It's too bad!" she declared. "If you can't speak to your own brother,
to whom may you speak, I should like to know? It seems absurd that
Dermot should be living at the Grange, not two miles off, and yet we're
never to see one another. I thought I should at least meet him once a
week, and now I mayn't even say, 'How do you do?' without being scolded
as if I had committed a highway robbery."
"Is he your favourite brother?" asked Janie.
"Yes; he's the nearest in age to me, and we're great chums. We have the
wildest fun during the holidays--we dare each other to do the maddest
things we can think of!"
"What kind of things?"
"Well, one day, when old Biddy Macarthy was ill with quinsy, we got up
early and took her cart to Ballycroghan market, and Dermot sold all her
chickens for her. He talked away like a Cheap Jack, and made such fun,
people nearly died with laughing. You see, most of them knew who he
was, and it seemed so absurd to hear him proclaiming the virtues of
Biddy's fowls. Then we filled the cart with seed potatoes, as a present
for her; and tore home so fast that the traces broke, and the donkey
ran straight out of the shafts. We fell on the road, nearly buried in
potatoes, but luckily we weren't hurt. We managed to catch the donkey,
and to mend the traces with a piece of string; then we had to put all
the potatoes back. Biddy laughed so much when we told her about the
adventure that it cured her quinsy; and she said she never had such a
splendid crop of potatoes as from those we brought her that day from
Ballycroghan. That was Dermot's joke; but I think mine was quite as
much fun."
"What was yours?"
"I saved up my pocket-money to get a little pig, to give to old Micky,
the cobbler. Dermot and I walked over to Ennisfellen fair to buy it,
and drove it home with a string tied to its leg. As fast as we pulled
one way it ran another, and just as we got to Micky's cabin the string
snapped, and off the pig bolted down the village, and ran straight into
the open door of the school. The children chased it round and round
beneath the forms, and caught it at last under the master's desk. Oh,
we have lively times at Kilmore! Then once Dermot and I ran away, and
went to see Cousin Theresa at Slieve Donnell. Nobody knew where we were
for two days, and people were hunting all over the country for us. They
thought we must have been drowned, or have fallen into the bog."
"But weren't your father and mother fearfully anxious?" asked Janie,
who had listened almost aghast to the recital of those wild escapades.
"Well, Father was rather cross about that, certainly. He was never
really very angry, though, until the last time, when I----"
But here Honor stopped. On the whole, she decided she would not relate
the story of Firefly. She could not quite understand the expression on
Janie's face, and she began to doubt whether her friend would
altogether sympathize with her. Instead, she plunged into a detailed
description of her elder brothers, telling how two were preparing for
the Army at Sandhurst, how another was at Oxford, and the fourth was
studying law.
"I suppose you are nearly always with your mother, as you are the only
girl," said Janie.
"Well, no," admitted Honor. "She's so delicate, and so often ill. I'm
afraid I give her a headache."
"My mother is delicate too," confided Janie. "She has most dreadful
neuralgia sometimes. I bathe her head with eau-de-cologne, mixed with
very hot water, and it always does her good. She calls me her little
nurse. Have you ever tried hot water with eau-de-cologne for your
mother's headaches?"
Honor had never dreamt of offering any help or assistance to anyone in
sickness. The idea was quite new to her, and that Janie evidently
expected her to be her mother's companion and right hand surprised her.
She had already met with many astonishments at St. Chad's, where most
of the views of life seemed different from her old standards. She
scarcely liked to confess that she was of so little use at home, and
hastily turned the conversation back to her brother Dermot.
"Do you think if I were to ask Miss Cavendish, she would let him call
to see me?" she suggested.
Janie shook her head.
"I'm quite sure she wouldn't," she replied. "The rules are so strict
about visitors. Nobody but our parents is allowed, except an occasional
uncle or aunt--never a brother. You'd better not suggest it."
"Then I shall have to go and see him."
"How could you, Honor? Don't be so unreasonable!"
"I thought I might find an opportunity some day," said Honor
reflectively. "One never knows what may turn up. Dear old Dermot! It
would be hard luck to be within two miles of him for a whole term,
without exchanging a single word."
"Well, if you do, you'll get into a far bigger scrape than you'll like.
You'd much better wait until the holidays, when you'll probably both
travel home together," advised Janie.
There certainly were no opportunities at Chessington College for paying
calls. Except on half-holidays, the girls seldom went beyond the school
grounds, the large playing-fields providing a wide enough area for
exercise. The members of the Fifth and Sixth Forms were allowed to go
out occasionally, within specified bounds, if they went three together;
but the younger ones had not attained to such a privilege.
"We mayn't even put our noses through the gate of the quad," said
Lettice Talbot, in reply to a question from Honor, who chafed sorely
against the rule; "not unless we can get a special exeat from Miss
Cavendish, and that's only given once in a blue moon. It's no use
looking volcanic, Paddy! You'll have to grin and bear it."
"It's as bad as being in prison," grumbled Honor.
"Nonsense!" snapped Maisie Talbot. "You have cricket or tennis for
nearly two hours every afternoon. What more can you want? I'd rather
play games myself than do anything else."
"You can't expect to do just as you like at school," remarked Dorothy
Arkwright, who sometimes joined with Maisie in "squashing" Honor.
"The riding lessons begin next Thursday," said Lettice, with an attempt
at consolation. "They are very jolly. Mr. Townsend always takes the
class a trot over the Tor. You said you were to learn riding?"
"It's the one lesson I begged for," replied Honor. "I could have
dispensed with Latin, or German, or mathematics."
"Maisie and I are to begin this term; we're looking forward to it
tremendously!"
"You are lucky," said Pauline Reynolds enviously. "I'd give all I
possess to be going with you. I've never ridden anything more
interesting than a rocking-horse, or a donkey on the sands; and one
doesn't get much of a canter for six-pence!"
"I believe I'm horribly nervous, and I don't mind confessing it,"
declared Lettice. "The idea of being perched on a great, tall horse
makes me shake in my shoes. When it begins to trot I shall drop off--I
know I shall!"
"Don't be so silly!" protested Maisie. "You can stick on to Teddie at
home all right. Honor Fitzgerald, can you ride?"
"Bareback, if you like," said Honor. "Dermot and I used to take our old
pony and practise what we called 'circus performances'. Pixie quite
entered into the spirit of the thing, and would walk along gently while
we stood on his back."
"I hear Mr. Townsend brings very fresh horses," said Lettice, with a
shiver of apprehension. "I do hope he'll choose me a quiet one!"
"The fresher the better for me," said Honor. "I'm just longing for a
good gallop."
"But suppose it runs away?"
"Then it will have to take me with it. If it's any kind of a beast with
four legs, I'll undertake to make it fly."
"I heard that Mr. Townsend's horses aren't worth the fag of riding,"
observed Flossie Taylor, who had joined the group.
"There speaks the voice of envy! You wouldn't say so if you were taking
the lessons," retorted Maisie.
"People who are accustomed to hunt at home don't care about hired
hacks," drawled Flossie, in her most supercilious manner.
"It all depends on the sort of hunting," returned Honor, who was never
at a loss. "If it's only 'hunt the slipper', I'll admit it's not much
of a training, and you might be afraid of your seat."
The riding course was a special feature of the summer term at
Chessington. It was an "extra", not part of the ordinary school
curriculum, as were the games. A master came from Dunscar, and would
escort select little parties of girls for a trot upon the Tor, a
stretch of moorland not far from the College. Mr. Townsend did not care
to take out many pupils at once, so on the following Thursday afternoon
only seven horses were waiting in the quadrangle. The Talbots, Ruth
Latimer, and Honor represented St. Chad's, while two girls from St.
Hilary's and one from St. Bride's completed the party. Lettice
confessed to a very superior and elated feeling as the reins were laid
in her hand and the cavalcade began to move, particularly as Flossie
Taylor and the Hammond-Smiths were just setting off for tennis, and
could not help witnessing the start, though they resolutely looked the
opposite way.
"Flossie always tries to be extremely grand herself, and make other
people seem small," whispered Lettice.
"Fortunately, one needn't take people at their own estimate," replied
Maisie, whose downright nature much disliked Flossie's habit of
bragging.
To all the seven girls it was a delight to find themselves passing
under the archway of the big gate, and away along the road towards the
Tor. A chestnut called Victor had fallen to Honor's share, and though
he was very tall in comparison with her old favourite Pixie, she
nevertheless sat him well.
"She looks just like the picture of Diana Vernon in our _Rob Roy_,"
remarked Lettice to Maisie, gazing with admiration at the upright,
graceful figure of her schoolmate, who seemed perfectly at home in the
saddle.
Lettice was getting on much better than her modest protestations
beforehand would have led her friends to expect. Violet Wright, the
girl from St. Bride's, was quite a beginner, and Mr. Townsend held her
horse by a leading rein; while Gwen Roby, from St. Hilary's, looked
rather solemn, as if she were not altogether sure that she was enjoying
the experience.
"I've ridden before," she explained, "but only on a small pony, and
this feels so very different."
At first the party went at a walking pace, but on coming to a good,
level stretch of road the master gave the order to trot, and his pupils
were able to test the capacities of their steeds. Honor, at least, was
most unwilling to pull up when Mr. Townsend called out "Halt!" I am
afraid she did not want a lesson, only a scamper through the fresh air;
and she listened impatiently while the master explained the right
position of the whip, the hold on the snaffle, and the principle of
rising elegantly in the saddle.
"It's all very well to talk of principles," said poor Violet, who
happened to find herself next to Lettice; "I expect a little practice
will be of more use to me. At present I jog up and down like a sack of
flour, and it's all I can manage to stick on anyhow. I know I shall be
as stiff as a board to-morrow!"
"When we reach the Tor we may manage a short canter," said Mr.
Townsend, "but for the present I wish you to keep together. Now then,
young ladies, please, elbows in and heads up! Hold the reins rather
short in the hand, and take care not to bear on the curb!"
"It's no fun, is it?" remarked Honor, as she passed Ruth Latimer. "Are
we only going to walk in a stupid row, and then trot for about ten
yards? I thought we should be flying along, like a hunt. I'd rather be
on Pixie at home; I could always make him go when I tickled his ears.
If we don't hurry up a little more I shall try it on this horse, and
see if he won't break into something more interesting than a snail's
pace."
"Oh, Honor, do take care!" remonstrated prudent Ruth.
But Honor did not stop to listen, and pushed on ahead of the others,
swishing her whip about in a manner that drew instant reproof from the
master. They had left the highway, and were now on a road leading
across the open moor. On one side the cliffs descended steeply to the
sea, and on the other rose bare, rolling hills, covered with short,
fine grass, the sails of a windmill or an occasional storm-swept tree
alone breaking the line of the horizon. It was a very suitable place
for a canter, and after a few preliminary remarks Mr. Townsend started
his flock on what seemed to most of them a rather mad career, following
closely himself in their wake, to continue his instructions:
"Courage, Miss Roby! Miss Talbot, you are leaning over in your saddle!
Miss Lettice, your elbows again! Miss Wright, you must learn not to
grasp the pommel. Don't drag the rein! Miss Latimer, keep a light hand!
What, tired already? Well, I won't work you too hard just at first."
A little shaken and agitated by the unwonted exercise, the girls
checked their horses to a walk. They were none of them practised
riders, and all were glad that no more was expected from them for the
present. Honor, however, was some way on in front, and, instead of
pulling up, as she was told, she gave her horse a switch across the
flank and a tweak on the ear, such as she had been accustomed to bestow
on her old pony at home. The effect was magical. Seaside hacks are not
generally prone to run away, but this one had a little spirit left in
him; he resented his rider's liberties, and, feeling the soft grass
under his feet, fled as if he were on a racecourse.
"Miss Fitzgerald! Miss Fitzgerald!" shouted Mr. Townsend, but he might
as well have spoken to the wind. Honor had found her opportunity, and
was quick to seize it. Instead of attempting to pull up Victor, she let
him have his head. She had no desire to check his pace, the motion was
so exhilarating; and she could not resist the temptation to display her
horsemanship before the rest of the class. The unfortunate master dared
not desert his other nervous and inexperienced pupils to give chase,
and in a few minutes she had left the remainder of the party a mile
behind. They could see her tearing past the coastguard station, where
an old man with a telescope yelled wildly to her to stop; past a
windmill, where children and chickens scrambled in hot haste out of her
path; and away over the moor, until she quite disappeared from sight.
The girls were in a panic of alarm. Mr. Townsend turned rather white,
but preserved his presence of mind, and, leading his little company
straight to the coastguard station, made all dismount, and tied up the
horses. Then he set out himself in pursuit of the runaway.
Honor, meanwhile, continued her "John Gilpin" galop. On and on she
flew, her hair, as the fairy tales say, "whistling in the wind". It
occurred to her at last that she might be going too far, and she made
an effort to pull up. But it was of no avail; Victor had got the bit
firmly between his teeth, and nothing could hold him. Luckily, the girl
did not lose her nerve, but waited until she could tire him out, and
get him in hand again; and I verily believe she would have succeeded in
mastering him, and turning him safely on his homeward course, had not
the way been unexpectedly barred by a fence. The poor old horse must
have been a hunter during some period of his life; he went at the fence
like a greyhound, and cleared it nimbly: but there were a trench and a
rough bank on the farther side, and as he alighted he stumbled,
flinging Honor violently from the saddle. Mercifully, her foot came
clear of the stirrup, and she rolled safely into a bed of nettles,
while Victor, scrambling up again, made off without her over the crest
of the hill.
Honor picked herself out of the nettles as quickly as she could. No
bones were broken, and, except for some painful stings, she was none
the worse for her adventure.
Nevertheless, the situation was awkward. There she was on the open
moor, many miles away from Chessington, and obliged to make her way
home to St. Chad's as best she could. She climbed over the fence, and,
holding up her habit, set out to walk back in the direction in which
she had come.
It seemed slow progress compared with riding, and she began to wonder
how long it would take her to retrace her steps. She had not gone more
than half a mile, however, when she met Mr. Townsend, who had at last
succeeded in reaching her. His relief at finding her alive and unhurt
was almost too great for words. He put her quietly on his own horse,
and led it by the bridle back to the coastguard station, where the rest
of the girls were waiting, very anxious to know what had become of
Honor, and very rejoiced when they saw she was safe.
There was no further riding lesson that day. As Maisie Talbot explained
afterwards to a select company of interested friends: "I'm sure Mr.
Townsend was frightfully angry, but he scarcely said a word. He only
took us straight home at once, in a kind of solemn procession. He had
to walk himself, leading Honor's and Violet's horses, so of course we
went horribly slowly; and he looked so savage that nobody dared to
speak."
"What possessed you, Paddy?" asked Lettice.
"I had an idea of going to see Dermot," confessed Honor. "I thought if
I rode straight up to the Grange, and asked leave from Dr. Winterton,
perhaps he'd let us have half an hour together."
"Well, you are the silliest goose! Why, the Grange is in exactly the
opposite direction! Will you never learn sense?" and Lettice collapsed
with laughter.
"Mr. Townsend is having a long talk with Miss Maitland at this present
moment," announced Ruth Latimer.
"Then I'm glad I'm not you, Paddy!" chuckled Lettice.
Nobody ever knew the details of Mr. Townsend's interview with the
house-mistress, or what explanation he gave of the affair. Though he
was perfectly persuaded that it was Honor's own fault, it was difficult
for him to blame her for what might, after all, have been a mere
accident; so, beyond a few words of warning about the danger of
whipping her horse without proper orders, she did not on this occasion
receive the scolding that she certainly merited.
Victor was found on the hills six miles away from Chessington, gently
cropping the grass, and allowed himself to be caught by a passing
farmer. He was not used at the riding lessons again. Honor was in
future given the tamest and least-spirited of the mounts, and for the
next two lessons was even kept strictly to the leading rein.
"She's fearfully disgusted about it," said Lettice, "and it certainly
is a humiliation, when she can ride so well. It's quite the worst
punishment Mr. Townsend could possibly have given her, and I expect he
knows it!"