War to the Knife.
A strange stillness came upon the Abbey House after Mrs. Tempest's
wedding. Violet received a few invitations and morning calls from
friends who pitied her solitude; but the best people were for the most
part away from home in August and Septernber; some no farther than
Bournemouth or Weymouth; others roaming the mountainous districts of
Europe in search of the picturesque or the fashionable.
Violet did not want society. She made excuses for refusing all
invitations. The solitude of her life did not afflict her. If it could
have continued for ever, if Captain Winstanley and her mother could
have wandered about the earth, and left her in peaceful possession of
the Abbey House, with the old servants, old horses, old dogs, all
things undisturbed as in her father's time, she would have been happy.
It was the idea of change, a new and upstart master in her father's
place, which tortured her. Any delay which kept off that evil hour was
a blessed relief; but alas! the evil hour was close at hand,
inevitable. That autumn proved exceptionally fine. Scotland cast aside
her mantle of mist and cloud, and dressed herself in sunshine. The
Trosachs blossomed as the rose. Gloomy gray glens and mountains put on
an apparel of light. Mrs. Tempest wrote her daughter rapturous letters
about the tour.
"We move about very slowly," she said, "so as not to fatigue me.
Conrad's attention is more than words can describe. I can see that even
the waiters are touched by it. He telegraphs beforehand to all the
hotels, so that we have always the best rooms. He thinks nothing too
good for me. It is quite saddening to see a herd of travellers sent
away, houseless, every evening. The fine weather is bringing crowds to
the Highlands. We could not have travelled at a more favourable time.
We have had only a few showers, but in one, on Loch Katrine, my poor
fawn-coloured dress suffered. The scarlet of the poppies ran into the
blue of the cornflowers. Is it not a pity? I was quite unconscious of
what was going on at the time; and afterwards, when I discovered it, I
could have shed tears.
"I hope when you marry, darling, you will come to Scotland for your
honeymoon. The mountains seem to appeal to one's highest feelings.
There are ponies, too, for the ascent; which is a great comfort if one
is wearing pretty boots. And you know, Violet, my idea that a woman
should be essentially feminine in every detail. I never could bring
myself to wear the horrid clump-soles which some women delight in. They
seem to me to indicate that strong-minded and masculine character which
I detest. Such women would want the suffrage, and to have the learned
professions thrown open to them. I meet ladies or, at least, persons
calling themselves such--in horrid waterproof costumes and with coarse
cloth hats. Hideousness could go no farther. And though I regret the
wreck of my fawn-colour, I can but remember with satisfaction what
Theodore always says to me when she shows me one of her
_chef-d'oeuvres:_ 'Mrs. Tempest, it is a dress fit for a _lady_.' There
are ill-natured people who declare that Theodore began life as
kitchen-maid in an Irish inn, but I, for one, will never believe it.
Such taste as hers indicates a refined progeniture."
With such letters as these did Mrs. Winstanley comfort her absent
daughter. Vixen replied as best she might, with scraps of news about
the neighbours, rich and poor, the dogs, horses, and gardens. It was
hateful to her to have to direct her letters to Mrs. Winstanley.
The days went on. Vixen rode from early morning till noon, and rambled
in the Forest for the best part of the afternoon. She used to take her
books there, and sit for hours reading on a mossy bank under one of the
boughy beeches, with Argus at her feet. The dog was company enough for
her. She wanted no one better. At home the old servants were more or
less--their faces always pleasant to see. Some of them had lived with
her grandfather; most of them had served her father from the time he
had inherited his estate. The Squire had been the most conservative and
indulgent of masters; always liking to see the old faces. The butler
was old, and even on his underling's bullet-head the gray hairs were
beginning to show. Mrs. Trimmer was at least sixty, and had been
getting annually bulkier for the last twenty years. The kitchen-maid
was a comfortable-looking person of forty. There was an atmosphere of
domestic peace in the offices of the Abbey House which made everybody
fat. It was only by watchfulness and tight-lacing that Pauline
preserved to herself that grace of outline which she spoke of in a
general way as "figure."
"And what a mite of a waist I had when I first went out to service,"
she would say pathetically.
But Pauline was now in Scotland, harassed by unceasing cares about
travelling-bags, bonnet-boxes, and extra wraps, and under-valuing Ben
Nevis as not worth half the trouble that was taken to go and look at
him.
The gardeners were gray-headed, and remembered potting the first
fuchsia-slips that ever came to the Forest. They had no gusto for
new-fangled ideas about cordon fruit-trees or root-pruning. They liked
to go their own way, as their fathers and grandfathers had done before
them; and, with unlimited supplies of manure, they were able to produce
excellent cucumbers by the first of May, or a fair dish of asparagus by
about the same time. If their produce was late it was because nature
went against them. They could not command the winds, or tell the sun
that he must shine. The gardens at the Abbey House were beautiful, but
nature had done more for them than the Squire's old gardeners. The same
rose-trees budded and bloomed year after year; the same rhododendrons
and azaleas opened their big bunches of bloom. Eden could have hardly
owed less to culture. The noble old cedars, the mediaeval yews, needed
no gardener's hand. There was a good deal of weeding, and mowing, and
rolling done from week's end to week's end; and the borders were
beautified by banks of geranium and golden calceolaria, and a few other
old-fashioned flowers; but scientific horticulture there was none. Some
alterations had been begun under Captain Winstanley's directions; but
the work languished in his absence.
It was the twentieth of September, and the travellers were expected to
return within a few days--the exact date of their arrival not being
announced. The weather was glorious, warmer than it had been all
through the summer; and Vixen spent her life out of doors. Sad thoughts
haunted her less cruelly in the great wood. There was a brightness and
life in the Forest which cheered her. It was pleasant to see Argus's
enjoyment of the fair weather; his wild rushes in among the underwood;
his pursuit of invisible vermin under the thick holly-bushes, the
brambles, and bracken; his rapturous rolling in the dewy grass, where
he flung himself at full length, and rolled over and over, and leaped
as if he had been revelling in a bath of freshest water; pleasant to
see him race up to a serious-minded hog, and scrutinise that stolid
animal closely, and then leave him to his sordid researches after
edible roots, with open contempt, as who should say: "Can the same
scheme of creation include me and that vulgar brute?"
All things had been set in order for the return of the newly-married
couple. Mrs. Trimmer had her dinner arranged and ready to be put in
hand at a moment's notice. Violet felt that the end of her peaceful
life was very near. How would she bear the change? How would she be
able to behave herself decently? Well, she would try her best, Heaven
giving her strength. That was her last resolve. She would not make the
poor frivolous mother unhappy.
"Forgive me, beloved father, if I am civil to the usurper." she said.
"It will be for my mother's sake. You were always tender and indulgent
to her; you would not like to see her unhappy."
These were Vixen's thoughts this bright September morning, as she sat
at her lonely little breakfast-table in the sunny window of her den,
with Argus by her side, intensely watchful of every morsel of
bread-and-butter she ate, though he had already been accommodated with
half the loaf.
She was more amiably disposed than usual this morning. She had made up
her mind to make the best of a painful position.
"I shall always hate him," she told herself, meaning Captain
Winstanley; "but I will begin a career of Christianlike hypocrisy, and
try to make other people believe that I like him. No, Argus," as the
big paw tugged her arm pleadingly, "no; now really this is sheer
greediness. You can't be hungry."
A piteous whine, as of a dog on the brink of starvation, seemed to
gainsay her. Just then the door opened, and the middle-aged footman
entered.
"Oh, if you please, miss, Bates says would you like to see Bullfinch?"
"To see Bullfinch," echoed Vixen. "What's the matter? Is he ill? Is he
hurt?"
"No, miss; but Bates thought as how maybe you'd like to see 'un before
he goes away. He's sold."
Vixen turned very pale. She started up, and stood for a few moments
silent, with her strong young hands clenched, just as she gripped them
on the reins sometimes when Arion was running away with her and there
were bogs in front.
"I'll come," she said in a half-suffocated voice.
"He has sold my father's horse, after all," she said to herself, as she
went towards the stables. "Then I shall hate him openly all my life.
Yes, everybody shall know that I hate him."
She found the stables in some commotion. There were two strangers,
groomy-looking men, standing in front of Bullfinch's loose-box, and all
the stablemen had come out of their various holes, and were standing
about.
Bates looked grave and indignant.
"There isn't a finer horse in the county," he muttered; "it's a shame
to send him out of it."
Vixen walked straight up to the strange men, who touched their caps,
and looked at her admiringly; her dark blue cloth dress fitted her like
a riding-habit, her long white throat was bare, her linen collar tied
loosely with a black ribbon, her chestnut hair wound into a crown of
plaits at the top of her head. The severe simplicity of her dress set
off her fresh young beauty.
"She's the prettiest chestnut filly I've seen for a long time." one of
the grooms said of her afterwards. "Thoroughbred to the tips of her
ears."
"Who has bought this horse?" she asked authoritatively.
"My master, Lord Mallow, miss," answered the superior of the men. "You
needn't be anxious about him; he'll have a rare good home."
"Will you let me see the order for taking him away?"
"Your groom has got it, miss."
Bates showed her a sheet of paper on which Captain Winstanley had
written:
"Trosachs Hotel, September 12.
"The bay horse, Bullfinch, is to be delivered, with clothing, &c., to
Lord Mallow's groom.
"C. WINSTANLEY."
Vixen perused this paper with a countenance full of suppressed rage.
"Does your master give much money for this horse?" she asked, turning
to the strange groom.
"I haven't heard how much, miss." Of course the man knew the sum to a
penny. "But I believe it's a tidyish lot."
"I don't suppose I have as much money in the world," said Vixen, "or
I'd buy my father's horse of Captain Winstanley, since he is so badly
in want of money, and keep him at a farm."
"I beg your pardon, miss," said the groom, "but the hoss is sold. My
master has paid his money. He is a friend of Captain Winstanley's. They
met somewhere in Scotland the other day and my lord bought the hoss on
hearsay; and I must say I don't think he'll be disappointed in him."
"Where are you going to take him?"
"Well, it's rather an awkward journey across country. We're going to
Melton. My lord is going to hunt the hoss in October, if he turns out
to my lord's satisfaction."
"You are going to take him by rail?"
"Yes, miss."
"He has never been by rail in his life. It will kill him!" cried Vixen,
alarmed.
"Oh no it won't, miss. Don't be frightened about him. We shall have a
padded box, and everything tip-top. He'll be as snug and as tight as a
sardine in its case. We'll get him to Leicestershire as fresh as paint."
Vixen went into the loose-box, where Bullfinch, all regardless of his
doom, was idly munching a mouthful of upland meadow hay. She pulled
down his noble head, and laid her cheek against his broad forehead, and
let her tears rain on him unheeded. There was no one to see her in that
dusky loose-box. The grooms were clustered at the stable-door, talking
together. She was free to linger over her parting with the horse that
her father had loved. She wound her arms about his arched neck, and
kissed his velvet nose.
"Oh, Bullfinch, have you a memory? Will you be sorry to find yourself
in a strange stable?" she asked, looking into the animal's full soft
eyes with a pathetic earnestness in her own.
She dried her tears presently; she was not going to make herself a
spectacle for the scornful pity of stablemen. She came out of the
loose-box with a serene countenance, and went up to Lord Mallow's
groom. "Please be kind to him," she said, dropping a sovereign into the
man's ready hand.
"No fear of that, miss," he said; "there are very few Christians that
have as good a time of it as our hosses."
That sovereign, taken in conjunction with the donor's beauty, quite
vanquished Lord Mallow's stud-groom, and very nearly bought Violet
Tempest a coronet.
Bullfinch was led out presently, looking like a king; but Violet did
not stop to see him go away. She could hardly have borne that. She ran
back to the house, put on her hat and jacket, called Argus, and set out
for along ramble, to walk down, if possible, the angry devil within her.
No; this she would never forgive--this sale of her father's favourite
horse. It was as if some creature of her own flesh and blood had been
sold into slavery. Her mother was rich, would squander hundreds on fine
dresses, and would allow her dead husband's horse to be sold.
"Is Captain Winstanley such a tyrant that mamma can not prevent this
shameful thing?" she asked herself. "She talks about his attention, his
devotion, as if he were at her feet; and yet she suffers him to
disgrace her by this unparalleled meanness!"