At the dinner-table the Rector glowed with austere geniality while he carved the brace of pheasants which represented a day’s covert-shooting he’d had with Lord Dumborough—“a long-standing annual fixture of mine,” he called it. During our day’s hunting we had only caught occasional glimpses of him. But he had got away from Basset Wood with the hounds, and had evidently enjoyed himself in his reticent way. We discussed every small detail of our various experiences. Kind Mrs. Colwood kept up with the conversation as well as could be expected from an absentee who hadn’t ridden since she was quite a girl. She was interested and amused by hearing all about who had been out and what they had said, but she obviously found some difficulty in sharing her husband’s satisfaction about the clever way in which “Lord Nelson” (the one-eyed horse) had popped over a stile with an awkward takeoff and a drop on the landing-side. She must have endured many anxious hours while her family were out hunting, but her pinnacle of perturbation had been reached when Stephen rode in the Hunt Races—an ordeal which (unless Jerry went lame) was re-awaiting the next April. She could never be induced to attend “those horrible point-to-points” which, as she often said, would be the death of her.
On this particular evening my new horse was naturally the main topic, and his health was drunk in some port which had been “laid down” in the year of Stephen’s birth. After this ceremony the Rector announced that he’d heard for certain that the Master was sending in his resignation.
“Here’s to our next one,” he added, raising his glass again, “and I hope he’ll engage a first-rate huntsman.”
I assumed a sagacious air while they deplored the imperfections of Ben Trotter, and the way he was forever lifting his hounds and losing his head. Stephen remarked that whatever those humanitarian cranks might say, there was precious little cruelty to foxes when they were being hunted by a chap like Ben, who was always trying to chase his fox himself and never gave his hounds a chance to use their noses. The Rector sighed and feared that it was no use pretending that the Ringwell was anything but a cold-scenting country. We then adjourned to the study, where we soon had our noses close to the ordnance map. At this moment I can see Mr. Colwood quite clearly. With a slight frown he is filling his pipe from a tin of “Three Nuns” mixture; on the wall behind him hangs a large engraving of “Christ leaving the Praetorium.”
IV
Early in the afternoon of the following Thursday I journeyed homeward in the jolting annex of a horsebox. Although it was a sort of fifth-class compartment I felt serenely contented as I occasionally put my hand through the aperture to stroke Cockbird’s velvet nose. He appeared to be a docile and experienced railway traveller, and when he stepped out of the box at Dumbridge Station he had an air of knowing that he’d saved himself a twenty-mile walk. The porters eyed him with the respect due to such a well-bred animal. Having arranged for my kit-bag to be conveyed to Butley on the carrier’s van, I swung myself into the saddle which I had borrowed from the Colwoods. It was a mellow afternoon for midwinter, and our appearance, as reflected in the Dumbridge shopwindows, made me feel what, in those days, I should have called “a frightful nut.” Cockbird’s impeccable behaviour out hunting on the previous day had increased my complacency, and it was now an established fact that I had got hold of a top-hole performer with perfect manners.
Nobody at home was aware of what I’d been up to down in Sussex, and Dixon got the surprise of his life when we clattered into the stable-yard. So far as he was concerned it was the first really independent action of my career. When I arrived he was having his tea in his cottage above the coach-house; I could hear him clumping down the steep wooden stairs, and I sat like a statue until he emerged from the door by the harness-room with his mouth full of bread and butter. The afternoon was latening, but there was, I think, a quietly commemorative glow from the west. He stood with the sunset on his face and his final swallowing of the mouthful appeared to epitomize his astonishment. Taken aback he undoubtedly was, but his voice kept its ordinary composure. “Why, what’s this?” he asked. I told him.
Aunt Evelyn behaved like a brick about Cockbird. (How was it that bricks became identified with generous behaviour?) Of course she admired him immensely and considered it very clever of me to have bought him so cheap. But when it came to writing out the cheque for him I was obliged, for the first time in my life, to ask her to lend me some money. She promised to let me have it in a few days.
Next morning she went to London, “just to do a little Christmas shopping at the Army and Navy Stores.” I was in the drawing-room when she returned. I heard the dogcart drive up to the front door, and then Aunt Evelyn’s voice telling Miriam how tired she felt and asking her to make some tea. I didn’t bother to get up when she came into the room, and after replying to my perfunctory inquiry whether she’d had a good day she went to her bureau and fussed about with some papers. Somewhat irritably I wondered what she was in such a stew about as soon as she’d got home. Her quill-pen squeaked for a short time and then she came across to the armchair where I was sitting with Edmund Gosse’s Father and Son on my knee.
“There, dear. There’s the money for your horse, and the Hunt subscription as well.” She placed a cheque on the arm of the chair. “It’s your Christmas
