THE GREY COB.
Morning has come, and the Queen of Chickaree must return to
hold her court. Little guesses the Queen what a court is
gathering for her. While she is quietly eating her breakfast
at Dr. Maryland's, Mme. Lasalle is ordering her horses, to
make a call upon her in the course of the morning, and Mr.
Kingsland is thinking in what cravat he shall adorn himself
when he goes to do the same thing in the afternoon. For Mr.
Kingsland has arrived at home, where he and his old father
keep a bachelor sort of household in a decayed old house at
one extremity of Crocus. They have a respectable name, folks
say, but not wealth to set it off; and the household is small.
The same little boy who rubs down Mr. Kingsland's horse waits
upon table, and there is nobody else but a housekeeper. But
Mr. Morton is thinking he will call too; and Mr. Morton is a
man of means; he owns a large part of Mill Hollow, called also
Morton Hollow. He occupies a great old brick house in the
neighbourhood of the Hollow, and keeps it in excellent repair,
and the grass of the lawn is well shaven. Mr. Morton is well
off and has servants enough, but he has years enough too; Mr.
Morton must be forty. Nevertheless he thinks he will call.
Then there is Mrs. ex-Governor Powder also; she lives in a
very good house, and in an irreproachable manner, at a fine
place called Valley Garden, ten miles off. Mrs. Powder is an
excellent woman, a stately lady, knows what is what, and has
been a beauty, and held a court of her own. Indeed she is of a
proud old family, and married a little beneath her when she
married the man who afterwards became Governor Powder. But
what would you have? Women must be married. Mrs. Powder will
come to see Miss Kennedy; she is thinking about it; but
probably she will not come till to-morrow or the day after;
she is not in a hurry. Mme. Lasalle is; and so is the
gentleman of the roses, her nephew. Meanwhile Miss Kennedy
knows nothing of all this, nor how furthermore the Lawyer's
wife and the Doctor's mother (for there is another doctor at
Crocus) are meditating how soon they may ask Miss Kennedy to
dinner or to supper, and how soon it will do to go and ask
her. They are afraid of seeming in a hurry. Meanwhile Miss
Kennedy eats her breakfast.
Breakfast is had in the stone hall, with the doors open front
and rear and the Summer day looking in at them. It is very
pleasant, and the old black woman, Portia, comes and goes
without interfering with the talk at table. The sewing machine
stands at one side of the hall still.
'What new affair have you got there, my daughter?' says the
doctor.
'It's a sewing machine, papa, which Duke has brought me.'
'A sewing machine! What are you going to do with it?'
'Put her work in her pocket, I hope, sir. I am tired of seeing
it in her hand.'
'It is very good of you, Duke; but can she manage it?'
'Not yet, sir. Neither of us can. We are going to find out.'
'Well, what's the advantage of it?'
'I brought it up, sir, in the hope and persuasion that it
would undertake the clothing of all the poor people at Crocus,
and give Rosy time to read philosophy.'
'Why papa,' said Rosy, 'it will do fifteen hundred stitches a
minute!'
'You don't want to do more than that in a day, do you, my
dear?' said the doctor, with an expression of such innocent
amazement, not without some dismay, that they all burst out
laughing; and Dr. Maryland but half enlightened, went off to
his study.
Much before Primrose wished it, the horses came to the door.
Rollo had had his own saddle put upon Vixen, and the grey cob
stood charged with the paraphernalia which should accompany
the mistress of Chickaree. She had gone up to prepare for her
ride, and now came to the front in habit and gauntlets and
whip, the rose branch at her button-hole.
'O,' she said in tones so like a bird that the groom might
have been pardoned for looking up into the maple boughs over
his head to find her; 'you have made a mistake! The other
horse is the one I ride. Will you change the saddles, please?--
I am sorry to give you the trouble!'
The groom would have been in great bewilderment, but that
luckily his master stood there too. The man's look of appeal
was comical, going from one to another. Rollo was looking at
girths and buckles, and did not seem to hear. Wych Hazel
waited--a slight growing doubt on the subject of his deafness
not increasing the pliability of her mood. Then he came
towards her, and asked if she was ready?
'I am--but my horse is not.'
'What is the matter with him?'
'I am very sorry to make any delay, Mr. Rollo, but the saddles
will have to be changed. I can't ride that grey horse!' And
she slipped her hat back and sat down on the doorstep, to
await the process.
'There is no mistake,' said Rollo. 'The horses were saddled by
my order. I told him to give you the grey. You will forgive
me, I hope!'
'Without asking me!' she said, giving him a rather wide-open
look of her eyes, and then in a tone as cool as his own--
'I shall ride Vixen, Mr. Rollo, if I ride at all.'
'I hope you will reconsider that.'
'Mr. Rollo,' she said in her gravest manner, 'you and I seem
fated to see something of each other--so it will save trouble
for you to know at once, that when I say a thing seriously, I
mean it.'
He lifted his hat with the old stately air. But then he smiled
at her.
'Allow me to believe that you have said nothing seriously this
morning?'
Now if Wych Hazel's mood was not pliable, his was the sort of
look to make it so. A calmly good-humoured brow, with a clear
keen eye, and in both all that character of firm strength to
which a woman's temper is apt to give way. If it had been a
question of temper in the ordinary sense. But the lady of
Chickaree had nothing of the sort belonging to her that was
not as sweet as a rose.
'Allow me!' she said, just a little bit mockingly. 'Well--it's
not true, if you do believe it. I shall ride Vixen, or walk.'
'That would be very serious,' said Rollo, 'for it is going to
be very hot. What is the matter with the grey cob?'
'I don't like him--and I do like Vixen.'
'Have you ever ridden him?'
'No. And nothing in his appearance predicts that I ever
shall.'
'I do not think that Vixen is fit for you to mount. I am going
to find out. If she is you shall have her.'
'You can study her as much as you please, with me on her. Why,
what nonsense!--as if I didn't ride her all yesterday
afternoon!'
'And gave us, if you recollect, afterwards,' said Rollo,
looking amused, 'the synopsis of her character.'
'And now you think I am giving you the synopsis of mine,' said
Wych Hazel. 'Well, Mr. Rollo, of course your groom will not
mind me--will you order the saddles changed? or must I walk?'
'I shall not order the saddles changed. I am afraid. That is
no reason why you should be. Fear may be commendable in a man,
when it is not desirable in a woman.'
'But I cannot be bothered with anybody's fear but my own!'
He faced her with the same bright, grave face he had worn all
along. 'I owe it to Mr. Falkirk to carry you back safe and
sound.'
She laughed--her pretty mouth in a curl of fun.
'Ah,' she said, 'before you deal extensively with self-willed
women, you need to study the subject! I see the case is
hopeless. If you had presented it right end first, Mr. Rollo,
I cannot tell what I might have said, but as it is, I can only
walk.'
She turned quick about towards Primrose, pulling her hat back
into its place; which hat, being ill disposed, first caught on
her comb, and then, disengaged, carried the comb with it, and
down came Miss Hazel's hair about her shoulders. Not in 'wavy
tresses,' or 'rippling masses,' but in good, honest, wayward
curls, and plenty of them, and all her own. The hat had to
come off now, and gloves as well, for both hands had as much
as they could manage. Rollo took the gloves, and held the hat,
and waited upon her with grave punctiliousness, while Primrose
looked anxious and annoyed. When hair and hat were in order
again and he had delivered the gloves, Rollo requested to be
told by the peremptory little owner of them, 'what was the
matter with the right end of the subject, now she had got it?'
'I have not got it. The subject has only been gradually
turning round as I pushed, like a turnstile. Mr. Rollo, I
think it would do you a great deal of good to be thoroughly
thwarted and vexed two or three times--then you would learn how
to do things.'
'But, dear Miss Kennedy,' said Primrose's distressed voice,
'you are not going to try to walk through this heat?'
Wych Hazel turned and wrapped her arms about Primrose. 'Yes, I
am--but I don't think it's hot. And please don't call me "Miss
Kennedy"--your father does not.'
'But it's four or five miles.'
'I've walked more than that, often. Good-bye--will you let--'
Primrose kissed her for answer, but then gave her a troubled
whisper: 'I wish you wouldn't walk. Duke is so sure to be
right about the horses.'
'Sure to be right, is he?' said Miss Kennedy. 'Well, I am at
least as sure to be wrong. Good-bye!'
Primrose stood looking, doubtful and uncomfortable, and afraid
to say any more. Rollo smiled at her as he was leaving the
house, looked himself the reverse of uncomfortable, ordered
Byron to lead the horses, and set out by the side of Wych
Hazel. He was not just in the genial mood of last night and
the morning, but cool and gay, as it was his fashion to be;
though gravely and punctiliously attentive to his charge.
Cool, that is to say, as the day permitted; for the sun was
fervent, and pouring down his beams with an overwhelming
lavishness of bestowment.
On her part Wych Hazel went quietly on, not with the undue
energy which shows some hidden excitement but with a steady
step and thoughts most abstractedly busy. She made no sort of
remark, unless in answer to her companion, and then with very
quiet look and voice. Her changeful face had settled into a
depth of soberness. Perhaps it was because of noticing this
that his manner grew more gently careful of her; in trifles
shown, to be sure, but the touch of a hand and the tone of a
word will tell all that as well as much greater things.
Evidently he read her and was not angry with her; not even
though the way was long and hot, happily it was not dusty--the
shower had laid the dust. With undimmed faces and unsoiled
foot-gear they paced on, rood after rood, and Vixen, drooping
her head, followed at their heels. The groom had been sent
back with the cob, and Rollo walked with the bridle of Vixen
in his hands. Chickaree was reached at last.
'What do you expect to find here?' said he, as they entered
the gate and were going up the ascent.
'Mr. Falkirk.'
'There is much more awaiting you, then, than you expect. Take
care of that acacia branch! See, you must send Dingee, or
somebody--who is your factotum?--down here with pruning tools.
If I didn't know what to expect, I would try hard for a saw
and do it myself this morning. You have scratched your hand!'
'Never mind--yes, I should have kept on gloves, but it was so
warm. What do you expect, Mr. Rollo, besides luncheon? You
will stay for that, won't you?' she said shyly, yet with a
pretty enacting of the hostess. The touch of her own ground
made her feel better.
'I should have to stay for so many other things,' he said,
looking on the ground as he walked. She glanced at him, not
quite sure whether his words covered a negative, and not
choosing to ask.
'All this while you don't know that there is company at
Chickaree.'
'Company?--how do you know?'
'I know by the signs. You will find, I think, Mme. Lasalle up
there, and probably a few of her family.'
'Mme. Lasalle!'
By what connection did not appear, but Miss Hazel's fingers
were immediately very busy disengaging the rose branch from
the button of her habit, where it had hung during the walk.
'I think that is the prospect. But I do not know that I am
under any obligation to meet her, so I think I shall prefer
the company of your vixenish little mare. Not to speak of the
chance of encountering Mr. Falkirk,' said Rollo, lifting his
eyebrows. 'I shouldn't like to stand Mr. Falkirk's shot this
morning!'
'It will hit nobody but me,' she said, rather soberly.
'Is he a good marksman?'
'Depends a little on what he aims at,' said the girl. 'It is
easier, sometimes--as, perhaps, you know--to hit people than
things.'
'Take care!' said Rollo, again, as another obstacle in the
path presented itself; 'I don't mean anything shall hit you
while I have the care of you.' Putting his hands for an
instant on the girl's shoulders, he removed her lightly from
one side of the walk to the other, and then attacked a
sweeping dogwood branch, which, very lovely but very
persevering, hung just too low. It cost a little trouble to
dispose of it.
They were not on the great carriage road, but following one of
the embowered paths which led through the woods. It went
winding up, under trees of great beauty, thickset, and now for
long default of mastership, overbearing and encroaching in
their growth. A wild beauty they made, now becoming fast
disorderly and in places rough. The road wound about so much
that their progress was slow.
'Chickaree has had no guardian for a good while,' said Rollo,
as they went on. 'Look at that elm! and the ashes beyond it.
But don't cut too much, when you cut here; nor let Mr.
Falkirk.'
'He shall not cut a branch, and I love the thickets too well
to meddle with them. Unless they actually come in my face.'
'Then you do not love the thickets well enough. Come here,'
said he, drawing her gently to one side,--'stand a little this
way--do you see how that white oak is crowding upon those two
ashes? They are suffering already; and in another year it
would be in the way of that beautiful spruce fir. And the
white oak itself is not worth all that.'
'But if you cut it down there will be a great blank space. The
crowding is much prettier than that!'
'The blank space in two years' time will be filled again.'
'So soon?' she said doubtfully. Then with one of her half
laughs,--'You see I do not believe pruning and thinning out and
reducing to order agrees with everything; and naturally enough
my sympathies are the other way. I like to see the stiff
leaves and the soft leaves all mixed up together; they show
best so. Not standing off in open space--like Mr. Falkirk and
me.'
He took her up in the same tone; and for a little more of the
way there was a delicious bit of talk. Delicious, because Wych
Hazel had eyes and capacities; and her companion's eyes and
capacities were trained and accomplished. He was at home in
the subject; he brought forward his reading and his seeing for
her behoof; recommended Ruskin, and gave her some
disquisitions of his own that Ruskin need not have been
ashamed of. For those ten or fifteen minutes he was a
different man from what Wych Hazel had ever seen him. Then the
house came in sight, and a new subject claimed their
attention. For the mare, whether scenting her stable or
finding her spirits raised by getting nearer home, abandoned
her quiet manner of going, and after a little dancing and
pulling her bridle, testified her disapprobation of all sorts
of restraint by flinging her heels into the air, and being
obliged to follow her leader, she repeated the amusement
continuously.
'Do your drawing-room windows look on the front?' said Rollo.
'Some of them. Why?'
'Then, by your leave, as I do not care to act the Merry Andrew
for half a dozen pair of eyes, I will go to the rear to
mount.' But instead of his more stately salutation, he held
out his hand to Wych Hazel with a smile.
'Good bye,' she said. 'I am sorry you have had such a hot
walk. But why don't you mount here?'
'I like to choose my audience when I exhibit.'
He clasped Wych Hazel's hand after the fashion of the other
day; then disappeared one way as she went the other.
Passing swiftly on, holding up her long riding skirt so that
it seemed no encumbrance, musing to herself on past events and
present expectations; and not without a certain flutter of
pleasure and amusement and timidity at the part she had to
fill, Wych Hazel reached the low, broad steps and went in.
A slender little person, as airy and independent as the bush
she was named for; one of those figures that never by any
chance fall into any attitude or take any pose that is not
lovely. Hair--as to arrangement--decidedly the worse for the
walk; cheeks a little warmed up with the sun, and perhaps
other things; grave eyes, where the woman was but beginning to
supplant the child; a mouth as sweet as it could be, in all
its changes; and a hand and foot that were fabulous. So the
mistress of Chickaree went in to receive her first instalment
of visitors.