And now Stephen would spend long hours at the stables, swaggering largely in corduroy breeches, hobnobbing with Williams, the old stud groom, who had a soft place in his heart for the child.
She would say: “Come up, horse!” in the same tone as Williams; or, pretending to a knowledge she was far from possessing: “Is that fetlock a bit puffy? It looks to me puffy, supposing we put on a nice wet bandage.”
Then Williams would rub his rough chin as though thinking: “Maybe yes—maybe no—” he would temporize, wisely.
She grew to adore the smell of the stables; it was far more enticing than Collins’ perfume—the Erasmic she had used on her afternoons out, and which had once smelt so delicious. And the pony! So strong, so entirely fulfilling, with his round, gentle eyes, and his heart big with courage—he was surely more worthy of worship than Collins, who had treated you badly because of the footman! And yet—and yet—you owed something to Collins, just because you had loved her, though you couldn’t any more. It was dreadfully worrying, all this hard thinking, when you wished to enjoy a new pony! Stephen would stand there rubbing her chin in an almost exact imitation of Williams. She could not produce the same scrabbly sound, but in spite of this drawback the movement would soothe her.
Then one morning she had a bright inspiration: “Come up, horse!” she commanded, slapping the pony, “Come up, horse, and let me get close to your ear, ’cause I’m going to whisper something dreadfully important.” Laying her cheek against his firm neck she said softly: “You’re not you any more, you’re Collins!”
So Collins was comfortably transmigrated. It was Stephen’s last effort to remember.
II
Came the day when Stephen rode out with her father to a meet, a glorious and memorable day. Side by side the two of them jogged through the gates, and the lodgekeeper’s wife must smile to see Stephen sitting her smart bay pony astride, and looking so comically like Sir Philip.
“It do be a pity as her isn’t a boy, our young lady,” she told her husband.
It was one of those still, slightly frosty mornings when the landing is tricky on the north side of the hedges; when the smoke from farm chimneys rises straight as a ramrod; when the scent of log fires or of burning brushwood, though left far behind, still persists in the nostrils. A crystal clear morning, like a draught of spring water, and such mornings are good when one is young.
The pony tugged hard and fought at his bridle; he was trembling with pleasure for he was no novice; he knew all about signs and wonders in stables, such as large feeds of corn administered early, and extra long groomings, and pink coats with brass buttons, like the hunt coat Sir Philip was wearing. He frisked down the road, a mass of affectation, demanding some skill on the part of his rider; but the child’s hands were strong yet exceedingly gentle—she possessed that rare gift, perfect hands on a horse.
“This is better than being young Nelson,” thought Stephen, “ ’cause this way I’m happy just being myself.”
Sir Philip looked down at his daughter with contentment; she was good to look upon, he decided. And yet his contentment was not quite complete, so that he looked away again quickly, sighing a little, because, somehow these days, he had taken to sighing over Stephen.
The meet was a large one. People noticed the child; Colonel Antrim, the Master, rode up and spoke kindly: “You’ve a fine pony there, but he’ll need a bit of holding!” And then to her father: “Is she safe astride, Philip? Violet’s learning to ride, but sidesaddle, I prefer it—I never think girl children get the grip astride; they aren’t built for it, haven’t the necessary muscle; still, no doubt she’ll stick on by balance.”
Stephen flushed: “No doubt she’ll stick on by balance!” The words rankled, oh, very deeply they rankled. Violet was learning to ride sidesaddle, that small, flabby lump who squealed if you pinched her; that terrified creature of muslins and ribbons and hair that curled over the nurse’s finger! Why, Violet could never come to tea without crying, could never play a game without getting herself hurt! She had fat, wobbly legs too, just like a rag doll—and you, Stephen, had been compared to Violet! Ridiculous of course, and yet all of a sudden you felt less impressive in your fine riding breeches. You felt—well, not foolish exactly, but self-conscious—not quite at your ease, a little bit wrong. It was almost as though you were playing at young Nelson again, were only pretending.
But you said: “I’ve got muscles, haven’t I, Father? Williams says I’ve got riding muscles already!” Then you dug your heels sharply into the pony, so that he whisked round, bucking and rearing. As for you, you stuck to his back like a limpet. Wasn’t that enough to convince them?
“Steady on, Stephen!” came Sir Philip’s voice, warning. Then the Master’s: “She’s got a fine seat. I’ll admit it—Violet’s a little bit scared on a horse, but I think she’ll get confidence later; I hope so.”
And now hounds were moving away towards cover, tails waving—they looked like an army with banners. “Hi, Starbright—Fancy! Get in, little bitch! Hi, Frolic, get on with it, Frolic!”
The long lashes shot out with amazing precision, stinging a flank or stroking a shoulder, while the four-legged Amazons closed up their ranks for the serious business ahead. “Hi, Starbright!” Whips cracked and horses grew restless; Stephen’s mount required undivided attention. She had no time to think of her muscles or her grievance, but only of the creature between her small knees.
“All right, Stephen?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Well, go steady at your fences; it may be a little bit slippery this morning.” But Sir Philip’s voice did not sound at all anxious; indeed there was a note of deep pride in his voice.
“He knows that
