The Little White Horse

by Elizabeth Goudge

  There was nothing ethereal about Robin — very much the opposite; which fact in itself proved to Maria that he was a real boy and no mere creation of her imagination. He was sturdy and strong and red-cheeked, with a skin tanned brown by sun and wind. His dark eyes sparkling with fun and kindliness were set in thick short black lashes beneath strongly marked dark eyebrows. His nose was tip-tilted and a little impudent above his wide, laughing, generous mouth and strong cleft chin. His thick chestnut hair grew low on his forehead, curled all over his head as tightly as a lamb’s fleece, and at the back of his neck the final curl formed a comic sort of twist like a drake’s tail. He was dressed all in brown, a rough brown jerkin the colour of fallen beech leaves, brown leather breeches and leggings, and he wore upon the side of his head a battered old brown hat with a long green peacock’s feather in it . . .

  Such was Robin when he had come to play with her in the Square garden; such was he as he companioned her dreams during this first night at Moonacre Manor, strong and kind and merry, warm and glowing like the sun, and the best companion in the world . . .

  In the little room at the top of the tower moonlight and firelight mingled their silver and gold, and Maria smiled as she slept.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1

  SHE woke up abruptly with the sun in her eyes, and lay for a moment a little puzzled by the light, the quiet and the freshness. Then she remembered, and with one swift excited movement flung back the patchwork counterpane over the top of the still sleeping Wiggins and slid out of bed, her bare toes sinking gratefully into the warmth and softness of the little sheepskin rug.

  Though it was still very early her room was quite warm and, looking round, she saw to her astonishment that the fire had been lit, and that bright flames were leaping up the chimney. It was obviously a very skilfully made fire, and only someone as soft-footed as a fairy could have managed to creep in and lay and light it without waking her. Warming her hands at the flames, she looked about her, wondering what else this fairy person had done for her comfort.

  As she had expected, there was once again hot water in the ewer, and — what was that lying on the top of one of the oak chests? A new dress? She picked it up, and it was a beautiful riding-habit, made of the finest dark-blue cloth trimmed with silver braid. There was a hat too, a dark-blue one trimmed with a white ostrich feather. And there was a riding-crop, a pair of gloves, and a strong little pair of riding-boots . . . And lying on top of the pile of garments was a bunch of snowdrops, still wet with the morning dew.

  She dressed in a sort of tremor of excitement which was increased when she found that the habit fitted her perfectly. She knew it had not been made for her, because it was old-fashioned in style (not that that mattered in this timeless place) and because she could see that it had been worn before; down by the hem a three-cornered tear had been exquisitely mended with thread as fine as a spider’s filament. The gloves and the boots, too, were a little rubbed in places, and in one of the pockets of the coat there was a gossamer handkerchief worked in one corner with the monogram L.M.

  Yet the fastidious Maria found that she did not mind that someone else had worn these clothes first. She had a queer feeling, as she fastened the coat of the habit and pinned the bunch of snowdrops in the front of it, that L.M. — whoever she was — put loving arms about her; almost as her mother might have done, had she not died. ‘I’ll always be safe when I’m wearing this habit,’ she thought. ‘People are always safe in their mother’s arms.’

  Standing in front of the little round mirror, she brushed out her straight carroty hair and pinned it up on top of her head, and then she was free to look out of the windows.

  She went first to the wide one with the window-seat, the south window that looked out towards the formal garden. It was the window whose light had welcomed her upon arrival, and it looked straight out into the topmost branches of the great cedar-tree.

  It would be perfectly possible for anyone agile to climb out of the window and into the tree and then down to the garden. She got on to the window-seat, flung the window wide and leaned out. She could not see a great deal, because of the tree, but she was conscious of floods of silver sunlight, of a pale-blue cloudless sky. And, looking downwards, she could see through the cedar branches a garden no longer ebony and silver, but bright with the white and gold of snowdrops and aconites, with here and there brilliant spots of colour where the first gold and purple crocuses were holding up their cups to catch the sun.

  The yew-trees, those strange fantastic shapes of cocks and knights, were not frightening this morning, because their sombre darkness was entirely eclipsed by the loveliness of the spring flowers. The garden, she could see now, was not very tidy. The yew-trees needed clipping, the flower-beds about the water-lily pool needed weeding, and the paving-stones of the paths that wound between them were overgrown with bright green moss. But somehow the untidiness added to the charm of it all, giving it a look of easy friendliness that warmed one’s heart. In her childhood she had been scolded if she had stepped on any of the immaculate flower-beds in the Square garden, when she had been playing with Robin, but here no one would mind what she did.

  ‘Oh, if only Robin would come back and play with me here!’ she whispered to herself.

  But Robin had disappeared out of her life quite a couple of years ago; as soon as she had started pinning her hair on top of her head and putting on grown-up airs, he had gone away.

  She climbed down from the window-seat, and turned to the lancet window that looked west, framing a picture that took her breath away with its loveliness. Just below her was a tangled rose-garden, with a rose-coloured arbour in the middle of it, and grass paths winding between heart-shaped rose-beds.

  It was lovely, even though there were as yet only a very few tiny leaves on the thorny overgrown briars, and she could just imagine how wonderful it would be in June, with a mass of blossom and perfume sweeping right up to the old battlemented walls beyond, and breaking against them in a wave of colour and light. Though even now there was plenty of colour, because the rose-garden was full of birds, tits with blue on their wings and chaffinches with rose-red breasts, merry little creatures whose beauty caught at Maria’s heart.

  But these little creatures were not the only feathered things about this morning. A sound over her head made Maria look up, to see a flock of white seagulls flying over the manor-house from east to west. One after the other they came, their great beating wings catching the morning light most gloriously, their strange high cries making her heart beat fast with excitement. They were telling her that the sea could not be far away, to the east behind her, and she had never seen the sea . . .

  For a little while the glory of the morning light on their wings dazzled her, so that she could not see properly. Then she rubbed her knuckles in her eyes and feasted them again on the loveliness outside the window.

  Beyond the battlements, she could see right over into Moonacre Park. Never in all her short life had she seen such wonderful trees; giant beeches clad in silver armour, rugged oaks, splendid chestnuts, and delicate birches shimmering with light. They had no leaves as yet, but the buds were swelling, and there seemed a mist of pale colour among their branches — amethyst and chrome and rose and blue, all melting into each other like the colours of a rainbow that shines for a moment through the clouds and then changes its mind and goes away again.

  The trees did not grow too close together. Between them opened the glades that last night had been silver and now were clothed in the tawny grass of very early spring. Soon, Maria guessed, the grass would be bright green and full of primroses. The gorse was already in flower, glorious clumps of gold that shone almost as triumphantly as the flowers in the formal garden. In the open spaces of the park, sheep were feeding, with their lambs gambolling about them, and she saw a few deer. Yet though she strained her eyes, and looked this way and that, she did not see the little white horse.

  Beyond the park the hills began, those gently rounded green hi
lls of the West Country that presently she would come to love so passionately. They seemed to encircle the valley, rather as the battlemented walls encircled the manor-house. Among the nearer hills there was one that she especially liked, a tall conical-shaped hill, with a group of trees on the top, that was like a friendly presence. Against the background of the hills she could see a tall grey church tower, and guessed that the village of Silverydew nestled at its foot.

  Then she went to the north window. Below her was a jumble of old weathered moss-grown tiles, the manor-house roof ending in the northern battlements, and immediately beyond them was a pine-wood, stretching away up the slope of a hill; and the pine-wood frightened her. It was so dark and dense and mysterious . . .

  The mysterious alarming Wrolf, she remembered, had come out of the pine-wood . . . As she stood there, she heard a cock crowing somewhere in the depths of the wood, and the usually reassuring sound was oddly frightening.

  An imperious bark behind her brought her attention back to the room. Wiggins had awakened, and was demanding his morning run. At home in London he had always had an airing in the Square garden before breakfast, and he saw no reason why a change of abode should be allowed to interrupt his routine. An airing before breakfast was of great assistance to his digestion.

  ‘Come along, Wiggins,’ said Maria, and, seizing her hat, crop, and gloves, she opened the little door, ran down the tower steps with Wiggins at her heels, opened the door at the bottom of the staircase, and found herself in the parlour.

  2

  Last night she had not seen it properly, but now the light flooding in through the western windows, and the light of the log-fire in the grate, revealed it to her in all its pleading beauty. For it was a lovely little room, but a room that was obviously never used. And it wanted to be used. Every lovely thing in it was simply crying out to be used; only, as this was a lady’s room, and no female had set foot in Moonacre Manor for twenty years, the cries had not been heard . . . But they were heard now . . .

  Almost without realizing what she was doing, Maria flew like a bird to the old harpsichord and alighted on the stool before it, her hat, gloves, and crop flung on the floor, her fingers running up and down over the keys. There had been a harpsichord in the London house, and Miss Heliotrope had taught her to play very prettily, and to sing too. Now, as she played, she looked about her in delight.

  The pretty room was panelled in oak, and the western window, with its deep window-seat, looked out on to the rose-garden. Perhaps because of this, the person who had furnished the parlour had made it a rose room. The cream-coloured brocade curtains at the window, torn but beautiful, had little flame-coloured rosebuds scattered over them, and the winged armchair beside the fireplace was upholstered in the same brocade. The Persian rug upon the floor was patterned all over with full-blown golden roses upon a sea-green ground. The six Sheraton chairs that stood stiffly round the walls had seats worked in petit-point, white wild roses with golden hearts, upon a background that echoed the sea-green of the carpet. There were no pink roses anywhere. The creator of this room had not, apparently, been fond of pink.

  ‘Now isn’t that a good thing,’ said Maria to herself. ‘Because I’m not, either. I hate pink. It looks awful with my hair.’

  Her eyes went on travelling round the room as she played. There was a lovely graceful Adam fireplace, with the carved woodwork of the mantel sweeping up to form a picture frame, with delicate pillars at the sides and some words carved above. ‘The brave soul and the pure spirit shall with a merry and a loving heart inherit the kingdom together.’ Within the frame was a queer dim oil painting. Maria had to stare at it for some while before she could make out the subject of it, but when she did make it out her heart suddenly missed a beat. For it showed a little pure-white horse and a brave-looking tawny animal rather like Wrolf cantering along a forest glade together.

  Though the painting was so dim that it was hard to see their figures, yet they looked merry, as though they loved each other and liked being together. There were no ornaments upon the mantelpiece, and no other picture over it; the little white horse and the tawny animal reigned there supreme. But upon a table against the wall stood a carved cedarwood workbox, with the lid shut so firmly down that one felt it had not been lifted for years, and a chessboard with its ivory pieces all set out in neat array. The chessmen were beautifully carved, and in this particular set the knights were represented by plumed helmets, while the red pawns had heads like dogs and the white pawns were little white horses. But it was such a long time since anyone had played with them that they looked frozen.

  Maria was seized with a great longing to lift the lid of the workbox and to set the chessmen galloping out to battle once more. But she could not leave off playing. A lovely rippling tune that she did not know at all was singing away under her fingers. She had always been good at extemporizing on what Miss Heliotrope called ‘the instrument’, but she did not feel that this tune was one that she had composed herself; she felt it was a tune that had got shut up inside the harpsichord the last time it had been played, and now it had flown out freed. It was a grand little tune, and Maria abandoned herself to it with joy, until suddenly she left off abruptly . . . Someone was listening . . .

  There had been no sound, but she was conscious that someone was listening intently to her playing. She got up and ran to the open window and looked out, but she could not see anyone in the rose-garden; only the birds. Then she ran to the door that led from the parlour to the great hall and opened it, and saw that Wrolf was sitting before the fire and that Sir Benjamin, dressed this morning in dark-green riding-clothes, was just entering the hall through a door at the far end. He gave a smile that for geniality and warmth was like the sun rising on the first warm day of the year, but he made no reference to her playing, and she did not think he had heard it.

  ‘How did you sleep, my dear?’ he asked.

  ‘I slept well, Sir,’ said Maria, and curtsied to him, and then stood on tiptoe to kiss him. This was perhaps rather forward of her, for at that time the young did not kiss their elders unless commanded to do so. But she felt that she loved him so very much. And Sir Benjamin did not seem to mind. On the contrary, he seemed pleased, for, nearly-grown-up young lady of thirteen though she was, he picked her up and gave her a great bear-hug. Then he set her down and, feeling something wet and warm against her hand, she looked round and saw to her astonishment that Wrolf had risen to his feet and was standing beside her licking her hand, his great tail swishing slowly from side to side.

  ‘Look at that now!’ cried Sir Benjamin in triumph. ‘Wrolf knows it. You’re the true Merry weather steel, my dear, and Wrolf knows it.’

  Shyly Maria laid her hand upon Wrolf’s great head, and with a beating heart dared to look straight into his strange burning yellow eyes. They looked back at her, taking possession of her. She was his now. Suddenly all fear of him vanished, and she flung her arms round his neck and buried her face in his tawny mane.

  Then she looked up again at Sir Benjamin. ‘I’ve been looking at the lovely views from my windows, Sir,’ she said. ‘Which way does your room look?’

  ‘South and east, my dear,’ he said. ‘There is a second tower, and my room corresponds to the one Miss Heliotrope has. It was my mother’s room, when she was alive, but now I use it. The little room above, rather like yours but without the carvings and with a normal-sized door, was mine when I was a boy. But it is too small for me now and is not used any more.’ And then with a charred stick he traced the plan of the house on the ashes before the hearth.

  The ground floor of the manor was composed only of storerooms and the room where Digweed slept. The great hall, with raftered ceiling reaching to the roof, the kitchen leading out of it on one side and the parlour on the other occupied the first floor. Miss Heliotrope’s bedroom was over the parlour and Sir Benjamin’s over the kitchen.

  ‘And now,’ said Sir Benjamin, ‘I’ll show you the lie of the land.’

  He opened a d
rawer in the old writing-desk that stood against the wall and pulled out a rolled parchment, let down the flap of the desk and spread it out. ‘You can take this and examine it at your leisure whenever you like, my dear,’ he told her. ‘It shows you the whole of your Royal Highness’s Kingdom of Moonacre. But for now just take a quick glance at it and learn the lie of the land.’

  It was an old map of the estate, and Maria bent over it with a beating heart; for though it showed her only a few square miles of England’s West Country, they were a few square miles that Sir Benjamin said were her very own — her kingdom. And at the right-hand edge of the map was a half-moon of blue that was the sea — Merryweather Bay . . . It seemed that Maria Merryweather, who had never seen the sea, actually owned a whole half-moon of blue water . . .

  And then to the left was the church that she had seen from her west window, called the Church of Mary the Virgin, and the lovely hill behind it was called Paradise Hill. The names on the map, quite ordinary names though they were, sounded in her head like the notes of some beloved familiar piece of music. She looked up into Sir Benjamin’s face, smiling but speechless, and he nodded understandingly.

  ‘You’ve come home, my dear,’ he said. ‘But you can’t put what you feel into words. No Merryweather can. We don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves.’

  ‘Please, Sir,’ said Maria, ‘what is the meaning of those words that are carved over the fireplace in the parlour?’

  “‘The brave soul and the pure spirit shall with a merry and a loving heart inherit the kingdom together”,’ quoted Sir Benjamin. ‘That’s our family motto, my dear. It’s been our motto since the days of the first Sir Wrolf. It refers, I think, to the two sorts of Merry weathers, the sun and the moon Merryweathers, who are always merry when they love each other. It is also, perhaps, a device for linking together those four qualities that go to make up perfection — courage, purity, love, and joy.’ Sir Benjamin paused a moment, and then with intense relief suddenly bellowed, ‘Sausages!!!’