MY WHITE MARE.
I passed my final examinations with credit, if not with honour. It was
not yet clearly determined what I should do next. My goal was London,
but I was unwilling to go thither empty-handed. I had been thinking as
well as reading a good deal; a late experience had stimulated my
imagination; and at spare moments I had been writing a tale. It had
grown to be a considerable mass of manuscript, and I was anxious,
before going, to finish it. Hence, therefore, I returned home with the
intention of remaining there quietly for a few months before
setting-out to seek my fortune.
Whether my uncle in his heart quite favoured the plan, I have my
doubts, but it would have been quite inconsistent with his usual grand
treatment of me to oppose anything not wrong on which I had set my
heart. Finding now that I took less exercise than he thought desirable,
and kept myself too much to my room, he gave me a fresh proof of his
unvarying kindness, He bought me a small grey mare of strength and
speed. Her lineage was unknown; but her small head, broad fine chest,
and clean limbs indicated Arab blood at no great remove. Upon her I
used to gallop over the fields, or saunter along the lanes, dreaming
and inventing.
And now certain feelings, too deeply rooted in my nature for my memory
to recognize their beginnings, began to assume colour and condensed
form, as if about to burst into some kind of blossom. Thanks to my
education and love of study, also to a self-respect undefined yet
restraining, nothing had occurred to wrong them. In my heart of hearts
I worshipped the idea of womanhood. I thank Heaven, if ever I do thank
for anything, that I still worship thus. Alas! how many have put on the
acolyte’s robe in the same temple, who have ere long cast dirt upon the
statue of their divinity, _then_ dragged her as defiled from her lofty
pedestal, and left her lying dishonoured at its foot! Instead of
feeding with holy oil the lamp of the higher instinct, which would
glorify and purify the lower, they feed the fire of the lower with vile
fuel, which sends up its stinging smoke to becloud and blot the higher.
One lovely Spring morning, the buds half out, and the wind blowing
fresh and strong, the white clouds scudding across a blue gulf of sky,
and the tall trees far away swinging as of old, when they churned the
wind for my childish fancy, I looked up from my book and saw it all.
The gladness of nature entered into me, and my heart swelled so in my
bosom that I turned with distaste from all further labour. I pushed my
papers from me, and went to the window. The short grass all about was
leaning away from the wind, shivering and showing its enamel. Still, as
in childhood, the wind had a special power over me. In another moment I
was out of the house and hastening to the farm for my mare. She neighed
at the sound of my step. I saddled and bridled her, sprung on her back,
and galloped across the grass in the direction of the trees.
In a few moments I was within the lodge gates, walking my mare along
the gravelled drive, and with the reins on the white curved neck before
me, looking up at those lofty pines, whose lonely heads were swinging
in the air like floating but fettered islands. My head had begun to
feel dizzy with the ever-iterated, slow, half-circular sweep, when,
just opposite the lawn stretching from a low wire fence up to the door
of the steward’s house, my mare shied, darted to the other side of the
road, and flew across the grass. Caught thus lounging on my saddle, I
was almost unseated. As soon as I had pulled her up, I turned to see
what had startled her, for the impression of a white flash remained
upon my mental sensorium. There, leaning on the little gate, looking
much diverted, stood the loveliest creature, in a morning dress of
white, which the wind was blowing about her like a cloud. She had no
hat on, and her hair, as if eager to join in the merriment of the day,
was flying like the ribbons of a tattered sail. A humanized Dryad!--one
that had been caught young, but in whom the forest-sap still asserted
itself in wild affinities with the wind and the swaying branches, and
the white clouds careering across! Could it be Clara? How could it be
any other than Clara? I rode back.
I was a little short-sighted, and had to get pretty near before I could
be certain; but she knew me, and waited my approach. When I came near
enough to see them, I could not mistake those violet eyes.
I was now in my twentieth year, and had never been in love. Whether I
now fell in love or not, I leave to my reader.
Clara was even more beautiful than her girlish loveliness had promised.
‘An exceeding fair forehead,’ to quote Sir Philip Sidney; eyes of which
I have said enough; a nose more delicate than symmetrical; a mouth
rather thin-lipped, but well curved; a chin rather small, I
confess;--but did any one ever from the most elaborated description
acquire even an approximate idea of the face intended? Her person was
lithe and graceful; she had good hands and feet; and the fairness of
her skin gave her brown hair a duskier look than belonged to itself.
Before I was yet near enough to be certain of her, I lifted my hat, and
she returned the salutation with an almost familiar nod and smile.
‘I am very sorry,’ she said, speaking first--in her old half-mocking
way, ‘that I so nearly cost you your seat.’
‘It was my own carelessness,’ I returned. ‘Surely I am right in taking
you for the lady who allowed me, in old times, to call her Clara? How I
could ever have had the presumption I cannot imagine.’
‘Of course that is a familiarity not to be thought of between
full-grown people like us, Mr Cumbermede,’ she rejoined, and her smile
became a laugh.
‘Ah, you do recognize me, then?’ I said, thinking her cool, but
forgetting the thought the next moment.
‘I guess at you. If you had been dressed as on one occasion, I should
not have got so far as that.’
Pleased at this merry reference to our meeting on the Wengern Alp, I
was yet embarrassed to find that nothing more suggested itself to be
said. But while I was quieting my mare, which happily afforded me some
pretext at the moment, another voice fell on my ear--hoarse, but breezy
and pleasant.
‘So, Clara, you are no sooner back to old quarters than you give a
rendezvous at the garden-gate--eh, girl?’
‘Rather an ill-chosen spot for the purpose, papa,’ she returned,
laughing, ‘especially as the gentleman has too much to do with his
horse to get off and talk to me.’
‘Ah! our old friend Mr Cumbermede, I declare! Only rather more of him!’
he added, laughing, as he opened the little gate in the wire fence, and
coming up to me, shook hands heartily. ‘Delighted to see you, Mr
Cumbermede. Have you left Oxford for good?’
‘Yes,’ I answered--‘some time ago.’
‘And may I ask what you’re turning your attention to now?’
‘Well, I hardly like to confess it, but I mean to have a try
at--something in the literary way.’
‘Plucky enough! The paths of literature are not certainly the paths of
pleasantness or of peace even--so far as ever I heard. Somebody said
you were going in for the law.’
‘I thought there were too many lawyers already. One so often hears of
barristers with nothing to do, and glad to take to the pen, that I
thought it might be better to begin with what I should most probably
come to at last.’
‘Ah! but, Mr Cumbermede, there are other departments of the law which
bring quicker returns than the bar. If you would put yourself in my
hands now, you should be earning your bread at least within a couple of
years or so.’
‘You are very kind,’ I returned, heartily, for he spoke as if he meant
what he said; ‘but you see I have a leaning to the one and not to the
other. I should like to have a try first, at all events.’
‘Well, perhaps it’s better to begin by following your bent. You may
find the road take a turn, though.’
‘Perhaps. I will go on till it does, though.’
While we talked, Clara had followed her father, and was now patting my
mare’s neck with a nice, plump, fair-fingered hand. The creature stood
with her arched neck and small head turned lovingly towards her.
‘What a nice white thing you have got to ride!’ she said. ‘I hope it is
your own.’
‘Why do you hope that?’ I asked.
‘Because it’s best to ride your own horse, isn’t it?’ she answered,
looking up naïvely.
‘Would _you_ like to ride her? I believe she has carried a lady, though
not since she came into my possession.’
Instead of answering me, she looked round at her father, who stood by
smiling benignantly. Her look said--
‘If papa would let me.’
He did not reply, but seemed waiting. I resumed.
‘Are you a good horsewoman, Miss--Clara?’ I said, with a feel after the
recovery of old privileges.
‘I must not sing my own praises, Mr--Wilfrid,’ she rejoined, ‘but I
_have_ ridden in Rotten Row, and I believe without any signal
disgrace.’
‘Have you got a side-saddle?’ I asked, dismounting.
Mr Coningham spoke now.
‘Don’t you think Mr Cumbermede’s horse a little too frisky for you,
Clara? I know so little about you, I can’t tell what you’re fit
for.--She used to ride pretty well as a girl,’ he added, turning to me.
‘I’ve not forgotten that,’ I said. ‘I shall walk by her side, you
know.’
‘Shall you?’ she said, with a sly look.
‘Perhaps,’ I suggested, ‘your grandfather would let me have his horse,
and then we might have a gallop across the park.’
‘The best way,’ said Mr Coningham, ‘will be to let the gardener take
your horse, while you come in and have some luncheon. We’ll see about
the mount after that. My horse has to carry me back in the evening,
else I should be happy to join you. She’s a fine creature, that of
yours.’
‘She’s the handiest creature!’ I said--‘a little skittish, but very
affectionate, and has a fine mouth. Perhaps she ought to have a
curb-bit for you, though, Miss Clara.’
‘We’ll manage with a snaffle,’ she answered, with, I thought, another
sly glance at me, out of eyes sparkling with suppressed merriment and
expectation! Her father had gone to find the gardener, and as we stood
waiting for him she still stroked the mare’s neck.
‘Are you not afraid of taking cold,’ I said, ‘without your bonnet?’
‘I never had a cold in my life,’ she returned.
‘That is saying much. You would have me believe you are not made of the
same clay as other people.’
‘Believe anything you like,’ she answered carelessly.
‘Then I do believe it,’ I rejoined.
She looked me in the face, took her hand from the mare’s neck, stepped
back half-a-foot and looked round, saying--
‘I wonder where that man can have got to. Oh, here he comes, and papa
with him!’
We went across the trim little lawn, which lay waiting for the warmer
weather to burst into a profusion of roses, and through a trellised
porch entered a shadowy little hall, with heads of stags and foxes, an
old-fashioned glass-doored bookcase, and hunting and riding whips,
whence we passed into a low-pitched drawing-room, redolent of dried
rose-leaves and fresh hyacinths. A little pug-dog, which seemed to have
failed in swallowing some big dog’s tongue, jumped up barking from the
sheep-skin mat, where he lay before the fire.
‘Stupid pug!’ said Clara. ‘You never know friends from foes! I wonder
where my aunt is.’
She left the room. Her father had not followed us. I sat down on the
sofa, and began turning over a pretty book bound in red silk, one of
the first of the _annual_ tribe, which lay on the table. I was deep in
one of its eastern stories when, hearing a slight movement, I looked
up, and there sat Clara in a low chair by the window, working at a
delicate bit of lace with a needle. She looked somehow as if she had
been there an hour at least. I laid down the book with some
exclamation.
‘What is the matter, Mr Cumbermede?’ she asked, with the slightest
possible glance up from the fine meshes of her work.
‘I had not the slightest idea you were in the room.’
‘Of course not. How could a literary man, with a _Forget-me-not_ in his
hand, be expected to know that a girl had come into the room?’
‘Have you been at school all this time?’ I asked, for the sake of
avoiding a silence.
‘All what time?’
‘Say, since we parted in Switzerland.’
‘Not quite. I have been staying with an aunt for nearly a year. Have
you been at college all this time?’
‘At school and college. When did you come home?’
‘This is not my home, but I came here yesterday.’
‘Don’t you find the country dull after London?’
‘I haven’t had time yet.’
‘Did they give you riding lessons at school?’
‘No. But my aunt took care of my morals in that respect. A girl might
as well not be able to dance as ride now-a-days.’
‘Who rode with you in the park? Not the riding-master?’
With a slight flush on her face she retorted,
‘How many more questions are you going to ask me? I should like to
know, that I may make up my mind how many of them to answer.’
‘Suppose we say six.’
‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘Now I shall answer your last question and
count that the first. About nine o’clock, one--day--’
‘Morning or evening?’ I asked.
‘Morning of course--I walked out of--the house--’
‘Your aunt’s house?’
‘Yes, of course, my aunt’s house. Do let me go on with my story. It was
getting a little dark--’
‘Getting dark at nine in the morning?’
‘In the evening, I said.’
‘I beg your pardon, I thought you said the morning.’
‘No, no, the evening; and of course I was a little frightened, for I
was not accustomed--’
‘But you were never out alone at that hour,--in London?’
‘Yes, I was quite alone. I had promised to meet--a friend at the corner
of----You know that part, do you?’
‘I beg your pardon. What part?’
‘Oh--Mayfair. You know Mayfair, don’t you?’
‘You were going to meet a gentleman at the corner of Mayfair--were
you?’ I said, getting quite bewildered.
She jumped up, clapping her hands as gracefully as merrily, and
crying--
‘I wasn’t going to meet any gentleman. There! Your six questions are
answered. I won’t answer a single other you choose to ask, unless I
please, which is not in the least likely.’
She made me a low half merry, half mocking courtesy and left the room.
The same moment her father came in, following old Mr Coningham, who
gave me a kindly welcome, and said his horse was at my service, but he
hoped I would lunch with him first. I gratefully consented, and soon
luncheon was announced. Miss Coningham, Clara’s aunt, was in the
dining-room before us. A dry, antiquated woman, she greeted me with
unexpected frankness. Lunch was half over before Clara entered--in a
perfectly fitting habit, her hat on, and her skirt thrown over her arm.
‘Soho, Clara!’ cried her father; ‘you want to take us by
surprise--coming out all at once a town-bred lady, eh?’
‘Why, where ever did you get that riding-habit, Clara?’ said her aunt.
‘In my box, aunt,’ said Clara.
‘My word, child, but your father has kept you in pocket-money!’
returned Miss Coningham.
‘I’ve got a town aunt as well as a country one,’ rejoined Clara, with
an expression I could not quite understand, but out of which her laugh
took only half the sting.
Miss Coningham reddened a little. I judged afterwards that Clara had
been diplomatically allowing her just to feel what sharp claws she had
for use if required.
But the effect of the change from loose white muslin to tight dark
cloth was marvellous, and I was bewitched by it. So slight, yet so
round, so trim, yet so pliant--she was grace itself. It seemed as if
the former object of my admiration had vanished, and I had found
another with such surpassing charms that the loss could not be
regretted. I may just mention that the change appeared also to bring
out a certain look of determination which I now recalled as having
belonged to her when a child.
‘Clara!’ said her father, in a very marked tone; whereupon it was
Clara’s turn to blush and be silent.
I started some new subject, in the airiest manner I could command.
Clara recovered her composure, and I flattered myself she looked a
little grateful when our eyes met. But I caught her father’s eyes
twinkling now and then as if from some secret source of merriment, and
could not help fancying he was more amused than displeased with his
daughter.