The snow had fallen heavily all night, and now the sun shone with dazzling brilliance on the distant snow peaks, still rosy with the last lingering light of dawn.
Below, in the valley, the little Hotel des Alpes looked smaller and more insignificant than ever—its white walls were dingy against the virgin snow, but its bright green shutters and doors were a welcome relief from the otherwise universal whiteness.
The forest, usually dark and menacing, had a tame, Christmas-cake-like appearance, decided Major Holbrooke as he stood in his dressing-gown at his hotel bedroom window admiring the view. But probably, he thought, it wouldn’t seem tame if one was nearer. He imagined the animals and birds struggling for survival, and the trees groaning under their heavy burdens of snow.
Switzerland was a fascinating country, decided the Major, especially now, for, with Roland on the mend, one had both the heart and the time to enjoy it. But Folly Court in the spring-time was very hard to beat, and as he and his wife had been called away so unexpectedly, they had had to leave a great many things undone. The Major turned regretfully from the window to drink his coffee and open his large pile of letters. The top one was from Dr. Radcliffe, and, recognising the small precise handwriting, the Major knew it for a bearer of bad news. He opened it with a sigh and read it, frowning impatiently. Then, handing it to Mrs. Holbrooke, he said rather bitterly, “Here’s the first one; the modern generation seems to be incapable of managing its ponies without the aid of a full-time nurse-maid.” Mrs. Holbrooke read the letter in silence, then she said, “Well, the other child doesn’t seem to be doing too badly, though personally I always thought the Radcliffes much too wild and noisy for breaking ponies; anyway, it’s a good thing we shall be home for the Easter holidays. . . .”
Chapter VII
IT WAS the first day of the Easter holidays. All along the roadside tender blades of grass were thrusting their way through the ancient turf to bask in the sunshine, little dreaming of the day when they would be sordid and gritty; above, gay young clouds chased each other through the blue sunlit sky, and in the trees the birds sang because they wanted to, and not from a sense of duty. But Noel, riding Rusty back to the Spinneys, was heavy at heart, for Simon Wentwood was coming home, and after to-day she would have no pony to ride. In the Christmas holidays it hadn’t seemed so hard, for alternate frost, rain and snow had made the ground slippery, and forced Noel to be content with indoor amusements; but now the perfect weather of an early spring—the best time of all for riding—and the prospect of Pony Club rallies made giving up Rusty a heavy blow, quite apart from the fact that she had grown fonder of him than ever. Susan was very kind, and would, Noel knew, let her ride Beauty, but that was far from being the same thing as having a pony lent one for the whole term and being allowed to keep him at home. Still, she decided, there was no point in grumbling; she only hoped Simon would improve his riding, and try to jump Rusty decently at the Pony Club.
When she had turned Rusty out in his field and thanked Mrs. Wentwood for the loan of him, Noel crossed the road to speak to Romany, who was turned out in one of the Folly Farm fields opposite the Spinneys.
Everyone had heard about James Radcliffe’s arm, and John Manners had told Noel, one day when they met in Brampton, that James had broken it falling off Romany, but no one seemed to know exactly how it had happened, or why she had been sent back to the Major. When Romany saw Noel, she whinnied and trotted across the field, for she found it very dull turned out alone, without even a cow to talk to.
“I wish I could have you,” Noel told her. “But I’m such a hopeless rider that I wouldn’t even dare ask the Major. Besides, it would sound awfully conceited to suggest that I could manage you when Evelyn, who is miles a better rider, has had to send you back. All the same, I would love to try.” Unfortunately Romany couldn’t explain what had happened, so she just nuzzled Noel and accepted a few oats and crumbs, which she found in her pockets. Dusk was falling when at last Noel managed to tear herself away, and she was very late for tea.
None of the horse-breakers was very pleased when, on the first Saturday of the holidays, they each received a postcard from Major Holbrooke asking them to bring their ponies to Folly Court at ten o’clock on the following Saturday for an instructional rally.
Susan had Beauty saddled at once, and rode over to Russet Cottage to tell Noel. Beauty was fresher than usual; her strides longer and more springy; her clean-cut ears were pricked, and her eyes full of the joy of living as she gazed around her at the countryside. Each bush, field and tree had cast aside its fustian winter garments, and was wearing instead fresh, fashionable young leaves of every shade of green and yellow. Susan had no eyes for the scenery; she was thinking of the rally, wondering how Sunset would behave, and if the other ponies would be better schooled.
Noel was very pessimistic. She said that Sunset didn’t know half as much now as Grey Dawn had at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, and she thought all the ponies would look completely unschooled beside her, except, perhaps, Rocket Radcliffe, who, John Manners had told her, was “pretty good.” Susan, thrown into the depths of despair, begged Noel to go to the Towers on Monday afternoon and help her school, and also offered to lend her Beauty to ride at the rally. Noel accepted the invitation for Monday, but she said she was sure that Major Holbrooke wouldn’t want her to go to the rally when she wasn’t one of the horse-breakers. Susan said that Noel always made a fuss about going to rallies, and she believed that she was really frightfully conceited—much worse than June—and thought she had nothing to learn. Noel, who knew that Susan was only joking, said that she was quite right; she knew everything about horsemanship from A to Z, much more, in fact, than Major Holbrooke. But in the end Susan persuaded her by saying that it would take hours to ride Sunset to Folly Court alone, as she would dawdle and shy the whole way.
Richard was thrown into a frenzy by his postcard. He suddenly realised that Rufus was still unshod, and had never yet been ridden without someone leading him. Sitting at breakfast, a spoonful of patent, energy-filled cereals poised in mid air, Richard wondered what on earth he could do. Mrs. Morrisson looked up from her own dull letter to ask whom his was from.
“Major Holbrooke, the old bore,” Richard replied. “What does he want to start stirring things up for? I thought he was going to be away for ages.”
“But you know you like Pony Club rallies, darling,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “You ought to be pleased he’s back. What does he say?”
“Just: ‘I should be very glad if you could bring Rufus here on Saturday the ninth at ten o’clock for an instructional rally.’ That means a lot of fuss and criticism for everyone, except his dear little June, who, of course, will do everything perfectly,” said Richard, a bitter note in his voice.
“Well, you must train the pony a bit more,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “You really ought to be able to put up a better show against that Cresswell girl. I’m sick and tired of having her mother crowing over me at every gymkhana or rally I go to.”
“It’s easy to say that,” said Richard, “but how can I beat her? To start with, she’s got the best pony; we all wanted the grey, but I suppose the Major wangled it for her somehow.”
“Oh, Richard,” said Jill, “you know he wouldn’t do that, even if she is his favourite.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” said Richard. “It was a queer coincidence, anyway. To go on with, she doesn’t have to go to a boarding school, so she can train her wretched pony every day, and I bet her mother helps her. It’s not fair,” he went on, becoming more indignant as he thought about it. “Rufus can’t do anything yet, and I don’t see why I should make a fool of myself in front of all those conceited asses. I’m blowed if I’m going, and I don’t care what old Holbrooke says.”
“No, I should think you’d better not, if you’re going to make an utter fool of yourself,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “But are you sure you can’t train the pony in time?”
“How can I,” said Richard, raising his
voice, “with no one but Jill to help me? I tell you the wretched animal knows nothing—literally nothing.”
“Don’t shout at me like that, Richard,” said Mrs. Morrisson sharply. “It’s entirely your own fault for not riding the pony more last holidays. I wish we’d never said you could have it; it has caused nothing but trouble. Never again will I consent to anything of the sort. If the pony is as hopeless as you say it is,” she went on, “you’d better write a note to Major Holbrooke and say you are very sorry, but you have an appointment at the dentist’s on that day, and meanwhile, if you don’t settle down and train the animal seriously, I’ll speak to your father and he’ll send it back.” Richard would have liked to be rude, but after all, he thought, his mother had suggested a way out; so he confined himself to scraping back his chair and throwing his napkin on the floor, two things which he knew annoyed her, and saying, “All right, I’ll write to the old bore, and then I’ll try to knock some sense into that wretched pony,” he marched out of the room, banging the door. . . .
“Look at this, Mummy,” said June, handing her mother Major Holbrooke’s postcard, “I don’t want to go. He’ll be teaching the others how to make their ponies walk and trot and I shall have to stand about doing nothing. I think it’s mean,” she went on, “the way he always does everything to suit the worst people. If he taught the best, the others might see how bad they are and then they’d either give up or improve.”
“Yes, it does seem a shame,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “You’d think he’d take more trouble with the best ones—the ones that would do him most credit—instead of wasting time on the duds. Of course, I see your point of view, my pet,” she went on. “It’s no fun for you to stand about watching a crowd of beginners spoiling those promising young ponies; you won’t learn anything new. But what do you want to do? Wait a bit and hope the others get on?”
“I can’t see much good in doing that,” said June. “I should think Grey Dawn knows more now than the Major will have taught the others by the summer holidays, so I don’t see why I should waste my time going to the dull old rallies. Supposing I just go to the gymkhana or the test he said he was going to have to decide which is the best schooled pony before they go back to his cousin?”
“It would be nice to show that you could do it all without the Major’s help,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “But I’m afraid he has the right to insist on you taking Dawn to the rallies, for, though he must know that you wouldn’t be spoiling the pony, he would be failing his cousin if he didn’t keep an eye on all of them.”
“Well, I suppose if I have to, I might go to some of the later rallies when there may be jumping,” said June. “But this one is sure to be dull and I’m not going. Do think of an excuse, Mummy.”
“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “we could say you had an appointment at the dentist’s. . . .”
Hilary Radcliffe found her postcard awaiting her on the breakfast table. She picked it up with a feeling of curiosity, but one glance told her what it was, and she quickly stuffed it into her riding-coat pocket, though not before Margaret’s sharp eyes had seen it.
“Who is your postcard from, Hilary?” she asked.
“Really, Margaret,” said Mrs. Radcliffe, “you mustn’t be so inquisitive. It’s Hilary’s letter, and she’d tell you if she wanted you to know. Besides, what will happen when she and Evelyn grow up and begin having young men and love affairs? It’ll be awfully embarrassing for them if you start cross-questioning them on their letters.”
“Well, I always let Hilary read my letters,” said Margaret, “and I think she might let me read hers. They can’t be from young men yet.”
“Oh, do shut up, Marga,” said Roger. “You’ll be asking to read my letters from people at school next. How can you be so uncivilised?”
“I’m not uncivilised,” said Margaret. “It’s Hilary.”
“Gosh,” said Roger, in a voice filled with scorn, “you’re just like a person at a prep. school.”
“I’m not,” said Margaret. But no one took any notice: they had started to discuss the plans for Dr. Radcliffe’s birthday, which was next day.
After breakfast Hilary went to the Prior’s room to look for her mother; instead, she found Roger.
“Hallo,” she said, “where’s mummy?”
“Still discussing Doc.’s birthday dinner with Hunty, I expect,” said Roger.
“Look,” said Hilary, handing him her postcard, “I suppose you guessed whom it was from.”
“Yes,” said Roger, “it was pretty obvious, for I didn’t believe in mummy’s young men.”
“I don’t want to go,” said Hilary as he finished reading it. “I know it won’t be any fun, but I can’t think what to say; I must give a reason.”
“I think you ought to go,” said Roger, balancing himself precariously on the fender, his back to the small wood fire. “After all, there is Rocket to consider.”
“Yes, but it’ll be beastly,” said Hilary. “I mean, one can’t mention Rocket, much less Major Holbrooke, now, without a ghastly silence, so what will it be like if I’m going to a rally?”
“But you can’t let that put you off,” said Roger. “That’s not your fault, you know, and the others are jolly selfish if they’re trying to drag you into that old row. Anyway, it ought to have blown over by now. I was most surprised when I came home these holidays and found Evelyn was still sulking.”
“She’s not sulking,” said Hilary. “But no one likes to have their pony sent back, and, if I do go to the rally, what am I to tell everyone?”
“If they are tactless enough to mention the subject, they deserve to be told to mind their own business,” said Roger firmly; “but I don’t think they will, except perhaps June Cresswell.”
“What has that poor despised creature done now?” asked Mrs. Radcliffe as she came into the room.
“It’s not what she’s done, but what she might do,” said Roger.
“Look,” said Hilary, handing her mother the postcard.
“Don’t you think she ought to go, Mummy?” asked Roger.
“Of course she must,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “But don’t you want to, Hilary?”
“No,” said Hilary. “It won’t be any fun without Evelyn, but I can’t think of an excuse.”
“Now you mustn’t be silly about it,” said Mrs. Radcliffe, sitting down on one of her elegant Sheraton chairs and lighting a cigarette. “I know it’s tiresome about Evelyn, but we can’t help that, and, even if you are twins, you mustn’t become inseparable. Think how awkward it will be if one of you marries.”
“What is the matter with you to-day, Mummy?” asked Roger. “You do nothing but talk about young men, love affairs, and getting married. Are you going to restore the family fortunes by forcing Hilary and Evelyn to make convenient marriages?”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “I’m going to marry them both to enormously fat stockbrokers, old enough to be their fathers. But seriously, Hilary,” she went on, “you can’t give up schooling Rocket now; it wouldn’t be fair to him or Major Holbrooke. Besides, it’s not as bad for Evelyn as you seem to think. She’s not so interested in breaking and schooling as you are, and it’s obvious, though I don’t know much about riding, that while she is much the best of you at jumping unwilling ponies over impossible heights, or forcing nappy ones to go where she wishes, she’s too impatient, noisy, and abrupt in her movements to be good with young or nervous ponies. Except for the blow to her pride,” Mrs. Radcliffe went on, “I don’t think she feels the loss of Romany as much as you think, and I’m sure she doesn’t feel anything like you would over Rocket.”
“Besides, Hil,” said Roger, “I’m positive that you’re the only person who can beat June Cresswell. Rocket is well ahead of Jet, and the Barington-Brown and Richard are certain to be miles behind John.”
“I wish you children hadn’t caught this dreadful competitive spirit,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “It’s all you seem to learn at school nowadays. After all, what
does it matter if June wins? It won’t alter the fate of nations, and I expect it gives her a good deal more pleasure than it would any of you. Why can’t you say, ‘I strove with none, for none was worth my strife,’ like Walter Savage Landor?”
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