1
The sorrows of childhood are mercifully passing, for it is only when
maturity has rendered soil mellow that grief will root very deeply.
Stephen’s grief for Collins, in spite of its violence, or perhaps
because of that very violence, wore itself out like a passing tempest
and was all but spent by the autumn. By Christmas, the gusts when they
came were quite gentle, rousing nothing more disturbing than a faint
melancholy—by Christmas it required quite an effort of will to
recapture the charm of Collins.
Stephen was nonplussed and rather uneasy; to have loved so greatly and
now to forget! It made her feel childish and horribly silly, as though
she had cried over cutting her finger. As on all grave occasions, she
considered the Lord, remembering His love for miserable sinners:
‘Teach me to love Collins Your way,’ prayed Stephen, trying hard to
squeeze out some tears in the process, ‘teach me to love her ’cause
she’s mean and unkind and won’t be a proper sinner that repenteth.’ But
the tears would not come, nor was prayer what it had been; it lacked
something—she no longer sweated when she prayed.
Then an awful thing happened, the maid’s image was fading, and try as
she would Stephen could not recall certain passing expressions that had
erstwhile allured her. Now she could not see Collins’ face at all
clearly even if she willed very hard in the dark. Thoroughly
disgruntled, she bethought her of books, books of fairy tales, hitherto
not much in favour, especially of those that treated of spells,
incantations and other unlawful proceedings. She even requested the
surprised Mrs. Bingham to read from the Bible:
‘You know where,’ coaxed Stephen, ‘it’s the place they were reading in
church last Sunday, about Saul and a witch with a name like Edna—the
place where she makes some person come up, ’cause the king had forgotten
what he looked like.’
But if prayer had failed Stephen, her spells also failed her; indeed
they behaved as spells do when said backwards, making her see, not the
person she wished to, but a creature entirely different. For Collins now
had a most serious rival, one who had lately appeared at the stables. He
was not possessed of a real housemaid’s knee, but instead, of four
deeply thrilling brown legs—he was two up on legs, and one up on a
tail, which was rather unfair on Collins! That Christmas, when Stephen
was eight years old, Sir Philip had bought her a hefty bay pony; she was
learning to ride him, could ride him already, being naturally skilful
and fearless. There had been quite a heated discussion with Anna,
because Stephen had insisted on riding astride. In this she had shown
herself very refractory, falling off every time she tried the
side-saddle—quite obvious, of course, this falling off process, but
enough to subjugate Anna.
And now Stephen would spend long hours at the stables, swaggering
largely in corduroy breeches, hobnobbing with Williams, the old stud
groom, who had a soft place in his heart for the child.
She would say: ‘Come up, horse!’ in the same tone as Williams; or,
pretending to a knowledge she was far from possessing: ‘Is that fetlock
a bit puffy? It looks to me puffy, supposing we put on a nice wet
bandage.’
Then Williams would rub his rough chin as though thinking: ‘Maybe
yes—maybe no—’ he would temporize, wisely.
She grew to adore the smell of the stables; it was far more enticing
than Collins’ perfume—the Erasmic she had used on her afternoons out,
and which had once smelt so delicious. And the pony! So strong, so
entirely fulfilling, with his round, gentle eyes, and his heart big with
courage—he was surely more worthy of worship than Collins, who had
treated you badly because of the footman! And yet—and yet—you owed
something to Collins, just because you had loved her, though you
couldn’t any more. It was dreadfully worrying, all this hard thinking,
when you wished to enjoy a new pony! Stephen would stand there rubbing
her chin in an almost exact imitation of Williams. She could not produce
the same scrabbly sound, but in spite of this drawback the movement
would soothe her.
Then one morning she had a bright inspiration: ‘Come up, horse!’ she
commanded, slapping the pony, ‘Come up, horse, and let me get close to
your ear, ’cause I’m going to whisper something dreadfully important.’
Laying her cheek against his firm neck she said softly: ‘You’re not
_you_ any more, you’re Collins!’
So Collins was comfortably transmigrated. It was Stephen’s last effort
to remember.
2
Came the day when Stephen rode out with her father to a meet, a glorious
and memorable day. Side by side the two of them jogged through the
gates, and the lodgekeeper’s wife must smile to see Stephen sitting her
smart bay pony astride, and looking so comically like Sir Philip.
‘It do be a pity as her isn’t a boy, our young lady,’ she told her
husband.
It was one of those still, slightly frosty mornings when the landing is
tricky on the north side of the hedges; when the smoke from farm
chimneys rises straight as a ramrod; when the scent of log fires or of
burning brushwood, though left far behind, still persists in the
nostrils. A crystal clear morning, like a draught of spring water, and
such mornings are good when one is young.
The pony tugged hard and fought at his bridle; he was trembling with
pleasure for he was no novice; he knew all about signs and wonders in
stables, such as large feeds of corn administered early, and extra long
groomings, and pink coats with brass buttons, like the hunt coat Sir
Philip was wearing. He frisked down the road, a mass of affectation,
demanding some skill on the part of his rider; but the child’s hands
were strong yet exceedingly gentle—she possessed that rare gift,
perfect hands on a horse.
‘This is better than being young Nelson,’ thought Stephen, ‘’cause this
way I’m happy just being myself.’
Sir Philip looked down at his daughter with contentment; she was good to
look upon, he decided. And yet his contentment was not quite complete,
so that he looked away again quickly, sighing a little, because, somehow
these days, he had taken to sighing over Stephen.
The meet was a large one. People noticed the child; Colonel Antrim, the
Master, rode up and spoke kindly: ‘You’ve a fine pony there, but he’ll
need a bit of holding!’ And then to her father: ‘Is she safe astride,
Philip? Violet’s learning to ride, but side-saddle, I prefer it—I never
think girl children get the grip astride; they aren’t built for it,
haven’t the necessary muscle; still, no doubt she’ll stick on by
balance.’
Stephen flushed: ‘No doubt she’ll stick on by balance!’ The words
rankled, oh, very deeply they rankled. Violet was learning to ride
side-saddle, that small, flabby lump who squealed if you pinched her;
that terrified creature of muslins and ribbons and hair that curled over
the nurse’s finger! Why, Violet could never come to tea without crying,
could never play a game without getting herself hurt! She had fat,
wobbly legs too, just like a rag doll—and you, Stephen, had been
compared to Violet! Ridiculous of course, and yet all of a sudden you
felt less impressive in your fine riding breeches. You felt—well, not
foolish exactly, but self-conscious—not quite at your ease, a little
bit wrong. It was almost as though you were playing at young Nelson
again, were only pretending.
But you said: ‘I’ve got muscles, haven’t I, Father? Williams says I’ve
got riding muscles already!’ Then you dug your heels sharply into the
pony, so that he whisked round, bucking and rearing. As for you, you
stuck to his back like a limpet. Wasn’t that enough to convince them?
‘Steady on, Stephen!’ came Sir Philip’s voice, warning. Then the
Master’s: ‘She’s got a fine seat. I’ll admit it—Violet’s a little bit
scared on a horse, but I think she’ll get confidence later; I hope so.’
And now hounds were moving away towards cover, tails waving—they looked
like an army with banners. ‘Hi, Starbright—Fancy! Get in, little bitch!
Hi, Frolic, get on with it, Frolic!’
The long lashes shot out with amazing precision, stinging a flank or
stroking a shoulder, while the four-legged Amazons closed up their ranks
for the serious business ahead. ‘Hi, Starbright!’ Whips cracked and
horses grew restless; Stephen’s mount required undivided attention. She
had no time to think of her muscles or her grievance, but only of the
creature between her small knees.
‘All right, Stephen?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Well, go steady at your fences; it may be a little bit slippery this
morning.’ But Sir Philip’s voice did not sound at all anxious; indeed
there was a note of deep pride in his voice.
‘He knows that I’m not just a rag doll, like Violet; he knows that I’m
different to her!’ thought Stephen.
3
The strange, implacable heart-broken music of hounds giving tongue as
they break from cover; the cry of the huntsman as he stands in his
stirrups; the thud of hooves pounding ruthlessly forward over long,
green, undulating meadows. The meadows flying back as though seen from a
train, the meadows streaming away behind you; the acrid smell of horse
sweat caught in passing; the smell of damp leather, of earth and bruised
herbage—all sudden, all passing—then the smell of wide spaces, the air
smell, cool yet as potent as wine.
Sir Philip was looking back over his shoulder: ‘All right, Stephen?’
‘Oh, yes—’ Stephen’s voice sounded breathless.
‘Steady on! Steady on!’
They were coming to a fence, and Stephen’s grip tightened a little. The
pony took the fence in his stride, very gaily; for an instant he seemed
to stay poised in mid-air as though he had wings, then he touched earth
again, and away without even pausing.
‘All right, Stephen?’
‘Yes, yes!’
Sir Philip’s broad back was bent forward over the shoulder of his
hunter; the crisp auburn hair in the nape of his neck showed bright
where the winter sunshine touched it; and as the child followed that
purposeful back, she felt that she loved it utterly, entirely. At that
moment it seemed to embody all kindness, all strength, and all
understanding.
4
They killed not so very far from Worcester; it had been a stiff run, the
best of the season. Colonel Antrim came jogging along to Stephen, whose
prowess had amused and surprised him.
‘Well, well,’ he said, grinning, ‘so here you are, madam, still with a
leg on each side of your horse—I’m going to tell Violet she’ll have to
buck up. By the way, Philip, can Stephen come to tea on Monday, before
Roger goes back to school? She can? Oh, splendid! And now where’s that
brush? I think our young Stephen here, takes it.’
Strange it is, but unforgettable moments are often connected with very
small happenings, happenings that assume fictitious proportions,
especially when we are children. If Colonel Antrim had offered Stephen
the crown of England on a red velvet cushion, it is doubtful whether her
pride would have equalled the pride that she felt when the huntsman came
forward and presented her with her first hunting trophy—the rather
pathetic, bedraggled little brush, that had weathered so many hard
miles. Just for an instant the child’s heart misgave her, as she looked
at the soft, furry thing in her hand; but the joy of attainment was
still hot upon her, and that incomparable feeling of elation that comes
from the knowledge of personal courage, so that she forgot the woes of
the fox in remembering the prowess of Stephen.
Sir Philip fastened the brush to her saddle. ‘You rode well,’ he said
briefly, then turned to the Master.
But she knew that that day she had not failed him, for his eyes had been
bright when they rested on hers; she had seen great love in those
melancholy eyes, together with a curiously wistful expression of which
her youth lacked understanding. And now many people smiled broadly at
Stephen, patting her pony and calling him a flier.
One old farmer remarked: ‘’E do be a good plucked un, and so be ’is
rider—beggin’ your pardon.’
At which Stephen must blush and grow slightly mendacious, pretending to
give all the credit to the pony, pretending to feel very humble of
spirit, which she knew she was far from feeling.
‘Come along!’ called Sir Philip, ‘No more to-day, Stephen, your poor
little fellow’s had enough for one day.’ Which was true, since Collins
was all of a tremble, what with excitement and straining short legs to
keep up with vainglorious hunters.
Whips touched hats: ‘Good-bye, Stephen, come out soon again—See you on
Tuesday, Sir Philip, with the Croome.’ And the field settled down to the
changing of horses, before drawing yet one more cover.
5
Father and daughter rode home through the twilight, and now there were
no dog-roses in the hedges, the hedges stood leafless and grey with
frost rime, a network of delicate branches. The earth smelt as clean as
a newly washed garment—it smelt of ‘God’s washing,’ as Stephen called
it—while away to the left, from a distant farm-house, came the sound of
a yard-dog, barking. Small lights were glowing in cottage windows as yet
uncurtained, as yet very friendly; and beyond, where the great hills of
Malvern showed blue against the pale sky, many small lights were
burning—lights of home newly lit on the altar of the hills to the God
of both hills and homesteads. No birds were singing in the trees by the
roadside, but a silence prevailed, more lovely than bird song; the
thoughtful and holy silence of winter, the silence of trustfully waiting
furrows. For the soil is the greatest saint of all ages, knowing neither
impatience, nor fear, nor doubting; knowing only faith, from which
spring all blessings that are needful to nurture man.
Sir Philip said: ‘Are you happy, my Stephen?’
And she answered: ‘I’m dreadfully happy, Father. I’m so dreadfully happy
that it makes me feel frightened, ’cause I mayn’t always last happy—not
this way.’
He did not ask why she might not last happy; he just nodded, as though
he admitted of a reason; but he laid his hand over hers on the bridle
for a moment, a large, and comforting hand. Then the peace of the
evening took possession of Stephen, that and the peace of a healthy body
tired out with fresh air and much vigorous movement, so that she swayed
a little in her saddle and came near to falling asleep. The pony, even
more tired than his rider, jogged along with neck drooping and reins
hanging slackly, too weary to shy at the ogreish shadows that were
crouching ready to scare him. His small mind was doubtless concentrated
on fodder; on the bucket of water nicely seasoned with gruel; on the
groom’s soothing hiss as he rubbed down and bandaged; on the warm
blanket clothing, so pleasant in winter, and above all on that golden
bed of deep straw that was sure to be waiting in his stable.
And now a great moon had swung up very slowly; and the moon seemed to
pause, staring hard at Stephen, while the frost rime turned white with
the whiteness of diamonds, and the shadows turned black and lay folded
like velvet round the feet of the drowsy hedges. But the meadows beyond
the hedges turned silver, and so did the road to Morton.
6
It was late when they reached the stables at last, and old Williams was
waiting in the yard with a lantern.
‘Did you kill?’ he inquired, according to custom; then he saw Stephen’s
trophy and chuckled.
Stephen tried to spring easily out of the saddle as her father had done,
but her legs seemed to fail her. To her horror and chagrin her legs hung
down stiffly as though made of wood; she could not control them; and to
make matters worse, Collins now grew impatient and began to walk off to
his loosebox. Then Sir Philip put two strong arms around Stephen, and he
lifted her bodily as though she were a baby, and he carried her, only
faintly protesting, right up to the door of the house and beyond
it—right up indeed, to the warm pleasant nursery where a steaming hot
bath was waiting. Her head fell back and lay on his shoulder, while her
eyelids drooped, heavy with well-earned sleep; she had to blink very
hard several times over in order to get the better of that sleep.
‘Happy, darling?’ he whispered, and his grave face bent nearer. She
could feel his cheek, rough at the end of the day, pressed against her
forehead, and she loved that kind roughness, so that she put up her hand
and stroked it.
‘So dreadfully, dreadfully happy, Father,’ she murmured, ‘so—dreadfully
happy—’