FOREBODINGS
Gillian was sitting alone in the yew-hedged garden, her slim fingers
busy repairing the holes which appeared with unfailing regularity in
the heels of Coppertop’s stockings. From the moment he had come
to Stockleigh the number and size of the said holes had increased
appreciably, for, although five weeks had elapsed since the day of
arrival, Coppertop was still revelling whole-heartedly in the incredible
daily delights which, from the viewpoint of six years old, attach to a
farm.
Day after day found him trotting contentedly in the wake of the
stockman, one Ned Honeycott, whom he had adopted as guide, philosopher,
and friend, and whom he regarded as a veritable fount of knowledge and
the provider of unlimited adventure and entertainment.
It was Honeycott who lifted Coppertop on to the broad back of the
steadiest cart-horse; who had taught him how to feed calves by dipping
his chubby little hand into a pail of milk and then letting them suck
the milk from off his fingers; who beneficently contrived that hardly
a load of hay was driven to the great rick without Coppertop’s small
person perched proudly aloft thereon, his slim legs dangling and his
shrill voice joining with that of the carter in an encouraging “Come-up,
Blossom,” to the bay mare as she plodded forward between the shafts.
Gillian experienced no anxiety with regard to Coppertop’s safety
while he was in Ned Honeycott’s charge, but she missed the childish
companionship, the more so as she found herself frequently alone these
days. June Storran was naturally occupied about her house and dairy,
while Magda, under Dan Storran’s tutelage, appeared smitten with an
extraordinary interest in farm management.
It seemed to Gillian that Magda and Dan were in each other’s company the
greater part of the time. Every day Dan had some suggestion or other to
make for Miss Vallincourt’s amusement. Either it was: “Would you care to
see the hay-loader at work?” Or: “I’ve just bought a couple of pedigree
Devon cows I’d like to show you, Miss Vallincourt.” Or, as yesterday:
“There’s a pony fair to be held to-morrow at Pennaway Bridge. Would you
care to drive in it?” And to each and all of Storran’s suggestions Magda
had yielded a ready assent.
So this morning had seen the two of them setting out for Pennaway
in Dan’s high dog-cart, while Gillian and June stood together in the
rose-covered porch and watched them depart.
“Wouldn’t you like to have gone?” Gillian asked on a sudden impulse.
She regretted the question the instant it had passed her lips, for in
the wide-apart blue eyes June turned upon her there was something of the
mute, puzzled misery of a dog that has received an unexpected blow.
“I couldn’t spare the time,” she answered hastily. “You see”--the
sensitive colour as usual coming and going quickly in her face--“Miss
Vallincourt is on a holiday.”
She turned and went quickly into the house, leaving Gillian conscious of
a sudden uneasiness--that queer “trouble ahead” feeling which descends
upon us sometimes, without warning and without our being able to assign
any very definite cause for it.
She was thinking over the little incident now, as she sat sewing in the
evening light, and meditating whether she should give Magda a hint that
it might be kinder of her not to monopolise so much of Dan’s society.
And then the crisp sound of a horse trotting on the hard, dry road came
to her ears, and almost immediately the high dog-cart swung between the
granite gateposts and clattered into the yard.
Dan tossed the reins on to the horse’s neck and, springing to the
ground, came round to help Magda down from the cart.
“It’s rather a steep step. Let me lift you down,” he said.
“Very well.”
Magda stood up in the trap and looked down at him with smiling eyes,
unconsciously delighting in his sheer physical good looks. He was a
magnificent specimen of manhood, and the good yeoman blood in him,
which had come down through the generations of the same sturdy stock,
proclaimed itself in his fine physique and splendid virility.
A moment later he had swung her down as easily as though she were a
child, and she was standing beside him.
She laughed up at him.
“Oh, ‘girt Jan Ridd’!” she exclaimed softly.
He laughed back, well pleased. (Was there ever a man who failed to be
ridiculously flattered by a feminine tribute to his physical strength?)
Nor did his hands release her quite at once.
“You’re as light as a feather! I could carry you all day and--”
“Not know it!” concluded Magda gaily.
His hands fell away from her slim body abruptly.
“Oh, I should know it right enough!” he said jerkily.
His eyes kindled, and Magda, conscious of something suddenly disturbing
and electric in the atmosphere, turned quickly and, leaving Storran to
unharness the horse, made her way to where she espied Gillian sitting.
The latter looked up from her sewing.
“So you’ve got back? Did you have a good time?”
“Yes. It was quite amusing. There were heaps and heaps of ponies--some
of them wild, unbroken colts which had been brought straight off the
Moor. They were rearing and plunging all over the place. I loved them!
By the way, I’m gong to learn riding, Gillyflower. Mr. Storran has
offered to teach me. He says he has a nice quiet mare I could start on.”
A small frown puckered Gillian’s brows.
“Do you think Mrs. Storran will like it?”
Magda started.
“Why on earth shouldn’t she?”
“Well,”--Gillian spoke with a vague discomfort. “He’s her husband!”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” replied Magda. “We’re staying
here and, of course, the Storrans want to make it as nice as they can
for us. Anyway, I’m going to take such goods as the gods provide.”
She got up abruptly and went in the direction of the house, leaving
Gillian to digest as best she might the hint that her interference was
not likely to be either welcomed or effective.
Left to herself, Gillian sighed unhappily. Almost she wished they
had never come to Stockleigh, only that it was pure joy to her to see
Coppertop’s rather thin little cheeks filling out and growing sunburnt
and rosy. He had not picked up strength very readily after his attack of
croup, and subsequently the intense heat in London had tried him a good
deal.
But she was gradually becoming apprehensive that disturbing consequences
might accrue from Magda’s stay at Stockleigh Farm. A woman of her
elusive charm, equipped with all the subtle lore that her environment
had taught her, must almost inevitably hold for a man of Storran’s
primitive way of life the fascination of something new and rather
wonderful. To contrast his wife with her was to contrast a field-flower
with some rare, exotic bloom, and Gillian was conscious of a sudden rush
of sympathy for June’s unarmoured youth and inexperience.
Magda’s curiously uncertain moods of late, too, had worried her not a
little. She was unlike herself--at times brooding and introspective, at
other times strung up to a species of forced gaiety--a gaiety which had
the cold sparkle of frost or diamonds. With all her faults Magda had
ever been lovably devoid of bitterness, but now it seemed as though she
were developing a certain new quality of hardness.
It puzzled Gillian, ignorant of that sudden discovery and immediate loss
of the Garden of Eden. It might have been less of an enigma to old Lady
Arabella, to whom the jigsaw puzzle of human motives and impulses was
always a matter of absorbing interest, and who, as more or less an
onlooker at life during the last thirty years, had become an adept in
the art of fitting the pieces of the puzzle together.
Magda herself was only conscious of an intense restlessness and
dissatisfaction with existence in general. She reflected bitterly that
she had been a fool to let slip her hold of herself--as she had done the
night of Lady Arabella’s reception--even for a moment.
It had been thoroughly drilled into her both by precept and example--her
mother’s precept and her father’s example--that to let a man count for
anything much in her life was the biggest mistake a woman could make,
and Michael’s treatment of her had driven home the truth of all the
warnings Diane had instilled.
He had hurt her as she had never been hurt before, and all that she
craved now was change. Change and amusement to drug her mind so that
she need not think. Whether anyone else got hurt in the process was a
question that never presented itself to her.
She had not expected to find amusement at Stockleigh. She had been
driven there by an overmastering desire to escape from London--for a
few weeks, at least, to get right away from her accustomed life and from
everyone who knew her. And at Stockleigh she had found Dan Storran.
The homage that had leaped into his eyes the first moment they had
rested on her, and which had slowly deepened as the days slipped by, had
somehow soothed her, restoring her feminine poise which Michael’s sudden
defection had shaken.
She knew--as every woman always does know when a man is attracted by
her--that she had the power to stir this big, primitive countryman,
whose way of life had never before brought him into contact with her
type of woman, just as she had stirred other men. And she carelessly
accepted the fact, without a thought that in playing with Dan Storran’s
emotions she was dealing with a man who knew none of the moves of
the game, to whom the art of love-making as a pastime was an unknown
quantity, and whose fierce, elemental passions, once aroused, might
prove difficult to curb. He amused her and kept her thoughts off recent
happenings, and for the moment that was all that mattered.