Malahide simpered in pleasure. He slipped his hand into Renny’s arm and leant on him as they returned to the drawing room.
Mrs. Court remained in the hall, rubbing the back of the picture. Once she began to clean anything it was hard for her to stop, but the place was large and she was small so, with the best will in the world, she could not keep up with the cobwebs and the dirt.
The next day there was a meeting of the local Hunt. Dermot Court took his two guests with him. He was Master of the Hunt and, though because of his rheumatism he seldom attempted to jump a fence or even lasted beyond the first twenty minutes, he was very popular and exercised a shrewd control over hounds and men. He knew that he should have resigned years ago but he could not bring himself to do it, not only because he shrank from giving up the sport he loved but because his rival who had built a wall with the money which should have been his was panting to be Master.
It was a fair March morning with a sweet tang in the air when Adeline ran down the wide staircase in her riding things. Her hair was in two plaits and she wore a bowler hat well on the back of her head. Dermot Court and Renny were waiting in the hall below. They might have been father and son and, many a time in those days, Dermot wished they were.
He raised Adeline’s hand to his lips.
“Here’s a picture I shall keep with me,” he said. “Have you ever ridden to hounds before, my dear?”
“No, but I’m not afraid.”
“You had better stick by me. I’ll not do anything that will be dangerous for even a little filly like you.”
Adeline nodded brightly but her mind was made up to follow her father.
“That’s good advice,” he said. “Keep near Cousin Dermot.”
He was a little uneasy about her for, though she could stick on a horse better than any child he knew, he was afraid the confusion and jostling might alarm her. As they went toward the dining room he gave her some good advice. She looked up into his eyes obediently but her mind was a wild turmoil.
She could not eat. A lot of people had come for breakfast. They were standing about with large sandwiches and cups of coffee or glasses of cherry brandy in their hands. They were an odd, mixed lot but she had a strange feeling of kinship with them for, in some way she could not have explained, they resembled her own family. She was an object of interest to them and Dermot was proud to show her off. She stood with a plate of potato chips and sausages which she could not eat, before her, talking to a horse-faced lady in a rusty black habit who turned out to be a marchioness, and a square thick-set man who made everybody laugh by saying there was going to be a war.
“You’d better hurry home, little girl,” said the lady, “or you may get caught in it.”
The man added gravely — “That is indeed true, Lady Ryall.”
Now they were in the cobbled yard where the horses were being held, their hoofs moving delicately in their eagerness to be off. The hounds were sunning themselves beside a wall, gentle and indolent-looking, dappled liver and white. Servants were moving about with trays of sandwiches and drinks. The air was a caress. Little birds were singing in the jasmine that covered the wall. A fox terrier ran here and there in a state bordering on lunacy, ignored by the hounds, shouted at by his master. Renny lifted Adeline to her saddle.
Like ladies swaying in a gentle dance the horses moved along the drive between the rows of linden trees. Adeline rode a little chestnut mare, cobby and reliable. She had ridden her but twice yet there was understanding between them. Adeline pressed her legs against the mare’s sides and stroked her mane. Her fingers felt the delicious smoothness of the rein. All her life she had seen pictures of the Hunt. All her life she had heard reminiscences of it. She had been taken to meets in Canada but thought scornfully of them as drag hunts, having no real fox as their reason. Now she was in Ireland, out with an Irish Hunt, her old Cousin Dermot ambling at her side smiling down at her with a protective air. But she wanted no one’s protection. She felt no fear. A fire was kindled inside her. She kept her eyes on her father’s back, determined to be near him. A towheaded twelve-year-old boy was edging closer to her. Now they were out on the road.
She could see the hounds ahead splashing through small puddles, their tails waving as though the breeze blew them. In an orchard a host of daffodils were in bloom. In her nostrils was the scent of polished leather and well-groomed horse. They turned in at a gate where a group of ragged children, some old men, and girls with bicycles stood by to watch them. Now they were on a rise of ground and the countryside spread before them in hills and vales, in the misty green of springtime, threaded by silver streams and dotted by white cottages. The hounds were on the fringe of a wood trotting aimlessly, it seemed, in and out of the gorse. There were boulders on the hillside surrounded by gorse. An old white farm horse ambled close.
Renny looked about for his child, saw her safe with Cousin Dermot, and turned again to his companion, a beautiful young woman in immaculate riding habit with long skirt. Low white clouds moved across the sky. A tawny something moved out of the wood and flashed down the hillside. The horn wound sweetly on the breeze. The hounds raised their voices in wild clamour. The Hunt swept, with flashing pink and streaming tails, after the fox.
“Keep close to me,” shouted Dermot.
Adeline laughed and nodded. Down the hill they swept. The boy was just ahead of her. He laughed at her over his shoulder, daring her. She could see the onlookers running through the mud of the field, keeping up as long as they could. The horses rose over a low wall at the end of the field. Beautifully the little mare jumped. Adeline felt all elastic muscle. She rose in the saddle. She was over the wall. Far ahead she could see the tawny streak enter a spinney. Forty waving tails pursued it. The thud of hoofs made a mystical music on the hillside.
Dermot stretched out a veined brown hand and caught her bridle. The horses relaxed into a walk.
“I promised to take care of you, young woman,” he said. “Don’t you go running away from me.”
Adeline flashed a smile at him. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. She longed above all things to escape from him, to follow her father, to be near the towheaded boy. He approached her.
“Stick close to Granddaddy, baby,” he jeered.
Adeline urged the mare close to his horse and, taking her foot from the stirrup, kicked it on the flank. It jumped aside, almost throwing the boy, who laughed good-humouredly.
“Spitfire!” he said and added — “Begad — they’re on the scent again!”
The sweet clangor rose like threescore bells from the hounds’ throats. Across the field, through a gate opened for them, into a lane muddy and full of holes and, at its end, a five-barred gate. Over the gate Adeline could see the huntsmen rise, hear them gallop away, saw some push through the bushes to find an easier way. Dermot was one of these and he beckoned to her. She pretended not to see. She would go over the gate! She would go over the gate!
Her heart was beating wildly. The joy that was in her seemed a thing apart from her. It sang and shouted like a living thing beside her. She patted the mare’s shoulder. She gathered her close between her legs. She lifted her over the tall gate, the shouting going on inside her, herself and the mare seeming to float in mid-air. They passed two horsemen struggling in a ditch. They galloped on to smooth turf in a wide level stretch. She could see her father ahead and the flapping of his companion’s skirt. Dermot was far behind. The towheaded boy was at her side.
“You’re a little rip!” he exclaimed. “You’re as good as any boy.”
Renny came cantering back to her.
“What did I tell you?” he demanded.
“To stay with Cousin Dermot.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t.”
“You might have broken your neck.”
Her face was radiant. “I did pretty well, didn’t I? Oh, she’s a lovely mare, Daddy!”
For a space the hounds had lost the scent. Now their deep-throated baying
sounded from a copse close to a stream. Horses and riders gathered themselves together in a jubilant rush toward the spot. The old fox dashed from the copse, with the pack in full pursuit after him. He ran through the mud at the edge of the stream, clambered over a wall, ran into a yard where a woman was hanging out clothes, hesitated, with his tongue lolling and his eyes starting, to look at her ducks waddling in terror from him. He ran through them. The woman screamed. Now he was through her gate on to the road. Now he had squeezed through an opening in a quick-set hedge to a ploughed field. His eager nostrils caught the scent of another fox. He crossed the scent. Keeping close to the hedge he laboured up the hill toward the rear of the hunt. The baying was confused, less certain, not so close. He stopped to look and to ease his heart. The hounds were running hither and thither, confused by the mingled scents. There was silence except for the quacking of the ducks. Then a bitch sent up a whimper. The hounds, as though weaving a pattern, ran toward her. Then, in full cry on the new scent, they stretched their legs to the utmost and, like a dappled tide, retreated. The huntsman wound his horn. The towheaded boy gave a screech that went through Adeline’s nerves like fire.
“Yoick! Yoick! Yoick!” he screeched, and she joined in.
The old fox trotted leisurely back toward the cottage. He thought he would hide in the nearby copse till the woman went indoors. He was ravenous and the thought of a plump duck made the saliva flow. He settled quietly in the undergrowth and began to lick a cut paw. There was silence except for the comfortable quacking of the ducks.
Going home in the late afternoon, through a fine misty rain, with missel thrushes singing in the hawthorns, Adeline had never been so tired in her life or quite so happy. They had hunted three foxes and not had a kill, but she did not mind. She had had the excitement of the chase and that was what mattered. She was not tenderhearted but something deep inside her was content that the foxes lived. She had had a fall, rolled over and over in the mud and been picked up by the towheaded boy. Renny had not known of the fall till he saw the mud on her back. She had said goodbye to the boy in the shelter of a wall where they had dismounted to take a stone from his horse’s shoe. Or was the stone imaginary? At any rate she did not see it.
“I suppose I’ll never see you again,” said the boy, his towhead bent above his horse’s foot.
“Oh, I’ll be back sometime,” said Adeline laconically.
He set down the hoof. “Will you kiss me goodbye?” he asked.
She looked surprised, then a dimple played in her cheek.
“I warn you,” she said.
“Why?”
“I’m pretty strong. I almost knocked over Cousin Malahide when I kissed him.”
The boy’s grey eyes opened wide. “Did you? How old is he?”
“About seventy.”
“I guess I can stand up to it.”
Adeline dropped the mare’s bridle and advanced on the boy. She threw her two arms about him and squeezed him with all her might. Deliberately she tried to throw him off his balance, but he was firmly planted. Then she kissed him on the mouth. The mare was beginning to crop the grass. The boy looked somewhat ruffled. His mother’s voice came, peremptorily calling: —
“Pat! Wherever is that boy?”
The boy caught the mare’s bridle and helped Adeline to her saddle.
“Gosh,” she exclaimed, “I don’t need any help!”
“You’re going to have mine,” he said grimly. He remounted. Warm colour suffused his cheeks. “Well — so long,” he said. He waved his hand and trotted away.
Now going home through the rain she thought of the boy and wondered if ever she would see him again.
“What was that boy’s other name?” she asked. “Pat was one.”
“Which boy? There were several.”
“The one with the white hair.”
“I’ve no idea. What a nice little mare that is!”
“Oh, she’s a darling! Daddy, I love hunting!”
“Good! So do I.”
“When shall we come back?”
“Next year — for me. I dont know when for you.”
“I expect that when Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernest hear how good I’ve been, they’ll want me to come again.”
“They’ll more probably think this will last you the rest of your life.”
But she was not downcast. She moved in a happy dream. Between the little mare’s pricked ears she watched the unfolding of the winding country road. She put her hand into her pocket and found a packet of ginger biscuits. She munched these as she rode.
Before dinner she had a hot bath. She was to be allowed to dine with the two men. The servant who had helped her dress stared at her in admiration.
“Ach,” she exclaimed, “it’s lovely you are! With thim eyes and thim curls, that look all alive. I wish your dadda would leave you with us.”
Adeline answered seriously — “Thank you, Kathleen, but I live in the best place in the world. I’ll always want to go back there.”
She ran lightly down the wide staircase. She found herself alone in the drawing room. A chandelier burned softly overhead and by its light she saw the portrait of her great-grandmother standing on the table.
It was lovely to think that the portrait was hers. She had a good look at it and then went to look at herself in a mirror. It had a wooden frame carved in a design of lilies and dimly gilded. She was wearing a little green velvet frock with rounded neck and short sleeves. The mirror seemed to reach out to her, to clasp her to it, in its gladness at her child beauty, after years of reflecting an old man and his friends. Not satisfied with reflecting her truly, it heightened her beauty, deepening the burnish of her hair, adding to the lustre of her skin and the depth of her eyes which were the colour of a beechwood in autumn.
Adeline looked from her reflection to the child in the picture. That other child looked so real, so living, that her breast seemed to rise and fall with her breathing. Surely the little heart was beating fast in happiness. Surely her voice would break the silence of the room. But Adeline was not afraid. She waited, with parted lips, for a sign.
Renny and Dermot Court had come into the room. It was Renny’s voice that broke the silence.
“To think,” he said, “that she lived to be over a hundred!”
Adeline turned and faced them.
“Well, young woman,” said Dermot, “and what have you to say for yourself?”
She put on her sweetest, most cajoling expression and came to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I could not help it.”
“I know, I know. But the next time you come I shall let your father take you in charge.”
Ceremoniously he offered her his arm and led her to the dining room.
Across the table she asked, “Who is the white-headed boy named Pat?”
Dermot chuckled. “I saw the two of you racing and hallooing. That’s young Pat Crawshay. Sir Patrick, to give him his title. His father was killed in a hunting accident when Pat was only three. He’s a fine little fellow.”
Adeline thought long about Patrick. She made up her mind that, when she returned to Canada, she would send him a picture postcard of Niagara Falls.
The next day they left for England.
It was a wild and stormy crossing. Adeline kept her legs under her but she was not herself. Her face was pale and there was a pessimistic look about her mouth as she stared at the tumbling grey waves. For the first time since leaving Jalna she felt homesick. When she thought of her mother a tightness came in her throat. Seeing her expression, Renny put his arm about her and drew her into the chair with him. With a look of mingled misery and gratitude she snuggled close and fell fast asleep.
They had just a day to spare before the Grand National was run. And what a day it was! They went early to Aintree. It was cool, windy, and sunny. Renny knew several of the racing men there and had letters of introduction to others of them, from Dermot. Everywhere they went there were horsy-looking men and women.
/> They walked the four and a half miles round the course and inspected every one of the thirty jumps. They stood in rapt speculation by Becher’s Brook. Would Johnny the Bird clear it? They both said they wished the race were tomorrow instead of in another year.
Adeline ate an enormous tea and developed hiccoughs. Neither sucking of sugar nor nine gulps of water, without taking breath, cured her. She sat facing Renny in the hotel bedroom, hiccoughing. Suddenly, with a look of horror, he pointed under the bed.
“A gorilla!” he gasped.
The fright completely cured her.
Next day they saw the Grand National run and, that night, in a train packed with people, set out for London.
XI
LONDON
IT WAS MORNING, it was spring, there was a feeling of gayety in the air, even in the railway station. Wakefield had gone into the café and had a cup of coffee, for he had been told the train was late. Now he stood by a bookstall looking over the titles of magazines and weeklies: the Illustrated London News, the Taller, the Sketch, Punch, the latest novels, the huge best-sellers. Should he buy something for Sarah to read? But she bought such masses of reading for herself it seemed quite unnecessary. No, he would buy chocolates for her. How her digestion stood all she ate puzzled him, but it did and she put on no extra weight. He moved to the sweet stall and bought a pound of chocolate creams. Then he remembered young Adeline. She would, of course, think the sweets were for her. Dash it, he thought, kids are a nuisance! He bought a Sketch and wrapped it round the telltale box. A train had just arrived. The people poured out of it on to the platform: businessmen strolling along, their bowler hats a little to one side, dropping a cigarette and feeling for their ticket; women leading children, women leading dogs, the dogs looking self-important, as though the train were theirs and they only tolerated human beings on it. One carriage was crammed with young fellows in the uniform of the Air Force. They were laughing and jolly. Wakefield stared at them and wondered if he would like to be a flier. A girl in a white overall pushed a tea wagon, the big urn glittering, the little glass case full of buns and sandwiches and plum cake. Wakefield was jostled first by one, then by another person. He was in everybody’s way. He felt rather sorry for himself. He decided that, as he had bought sweets for Sarah, he should have some for Adeline. He went back to the stall and bought a box of chocolates with hard centres. He lingered by the imported fruits and dates. It would have been more wholesome if he had bought them instead of all that sweet stuff. He had a mind to exchange them. Then he heard another train arriving and ran out to the platform.
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 124