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He and Carolan stood side by side like two children. He was enjoying this; he had not been in such spirits for years.
“That’s true,” said George.
“Remember it, young Carolan!” And now he had had enough of this visit. They must go, he said.
“Thank you, Harriet, for the wine. Thank you for everything.” He kissed her hand. A most interesting morning.
They rode home slowly. He dismounted first and went over to Carolan.
“Well,” he said, ‘what do you think of your father’s birthday present?”
“It is a lovely present! Thank you!”
“Thank you who?”
“Thank you. Father.”
He shook a big finger at her, which made him look very wicked.
“And do not forget, please, or …” She moved from him a little.
“I will not forget, Father. And I love my present … It is a lovely, lovely present.” He was satisfied.
“I was right about the Bible, Carrie!” She hunched her shoulders and laughed. Oh, she had charm. Why? She was not really pretty, though she might be later. But even now she had all Bess’s charm and all Kitty’s charm, though it was without their beauty.
“Do not forget it was a bet,” he said, and he was breathless with emotion.
“A bet? What…”
“I said, did I not, “I bet it is a Bible”?”
“Oh, yes, you said that.”
“And it was; so because I was right you owe me something.” She was bewildered, wondering what he meant.
“What-should I owe you?”
“Well, as we did not stipulate, shall we say… a kiss?”
“A kiss!” She was a little startled, and he saw that and was suddenly angry. God damn them, they were all alike. He had given her a valuable mare, and she did not want to give even a kiss in exchange. But, God damn her insolence, she should. He lifted her out of the saddle, and put his face close to hers. He kissed her on the mouth. It was such a soft baby mouth. She gave a little ay of dismay for he had hurt her with his roughness.
He shouted at her: “By God, girl, you would take everything and give nothing your mother all over again! Kiss me or I will give you the biggest thrashing you have ever had in your life.”
Her little mouth trembled. She shut her eyes tightly, so that he could see the fringe of reddish-tipped lashes jutting out; she shut her eyes so that she should not see his face, he knew. She kissed him and his heart was heavy within him.
He set her down angrily.
“Get in.” he said.
“Get in before I put a whip about your shoulders.”
She went, and he looked after her, and he knew that the morning had not been a success but a miserable failure. She was not his daughter any more than he was the man he sometimes pretended he was because he longed to be that man.
“Jake!” he roared.
“You lazy hound, where are you?”
Jake came out and touched his forelock. Jake was jumpy as a two-year-old, eager to anticipate his master’s wishes when he was in this mood.
“Take those damned horses away!” cried the squire. And he turned sharply and went into the house.
Carolan went up to the nursery happily enough. She had had an abrupt dismissal from the squire, but she did not attach much importance to that. It had been an agreeable morning, except when she had had to kiss the squire. That had been most unpleasant, but Carolan’s life had never run smoothly for very long at a time, so she was prepared for sudden storms.
But, going upstairs, she thought what an extraordinary morning it had been. First her talk with her mother, then the horrible affair of the shrew mouse, then the present of the horse, then Everard who had said they must go riding together, then the horrid way the squire had kissed her. And now … back to the nursery, and she did not know what she would find. Charles and Je
Cautiously she went in. There was no sign of anyone. She breathed with relief, and went along to Margaret’s room because she wanted to tell Margaret about the horse and the Bible and the paperknife and cedarwood box.
“Margaret!” she called, and tapped on the door. There was no answer and she opened the door. Margaret had been sitting at her table by the window, for there was her quill pen and some sheets of paper lying on it.
She thought she heard Margaret in the garden below, and went to the window to look out; as she did so her eyes fell on the paper which had fluttered to the floor. On it was written “Margaret Haredon. Margaret Orland.”
Carolan picked it up. Margaret Haredon was Margaret, of course, but who was Margaret Orland? There was no Margaret Orland. Then on the other side of the paper she saw that Margaret had written that many times.
“Margaret Orland. Margaret Orland.” Why, Margaret could only be Margaret Orland if she married Everard!
What a strange morning! So much had been discovered, and yet more than ever seemed hidden. Margaret wanted to marry Everard, That was the latest discovery, and it disturbed Carolan, for though it seemed silly to think of such things when you were nine years old, she had imagined herself, some day, in the vague future, married to Everard.
Margaret was coming up the stairs and Carolan hastily threw down the sheet of paper; she went out into the corridor to meet Margaret, and though she told her about the strawberry roan, the cedarwood box and the Bible, she did not mention the paperknife.
There was one summer’s day in Carolan’s thirteenth year which she was to remember all her life. It was a hot day with a haze in the sky and scarcely a breath of air; she was old enough now to feel an uneasiness in the atmosphere about her. She knew that Napoleon was scoring success after success on the Continent and the squire grumbled a good deal and watched his villagers closely for the least sign of insolence. One awoke each morning wondering if something fearful would happen that day, but life went on much as usual until that summer’s afternoon.
Charles was away in another part of the country staying with a school-fellow; Margaret and Carolan breakfasted together as usual, and after breakfast did their lessons with the governess who had been engaged for them last year. Miss Scanlane was drowsy on that day, as indeed were Margaret and Carolan. Outside the schoolroom the wasps were buzzing noisily, and Carolan longed to be out with them; but when the afternoon came and she was free, she found it too hot to ride, too hot to walk over to the parsonage to see if Everard was at home, too hot to do anything but lie under the oak tree in the park and drowsily peer up through its leaves at the heavy sky. Margaret had gone off in the direction of the parsonage. Poor Margaret, at sixteen she was very intense and very tragic! She read poetry in her room every night; Carolan could hear the rumbling of her voice, and she knew it was all about love tragic love. She even wrote poetry; she had shown Carolan some of it and it was all about the sadness of love, and very melancholy; about people who died for love because they were brokenhearted. And Everard was somehow at the bottom of it. Poor Margaret! She would hang about outside the parsonage in the hope of seeing him, instead of going straight in and asking if he were home, as Carolan would. Carolan adored Everard too, but completely without melancholy.
And from Margaret. Carolan’s thoughts slipped to her mother. How strange she had looked yesterday, her eyes bigger than ever, looking right beyond Carolan, far away, as though she were seeing something Carolan could not! When Therese had spoken to her, she had said “Yes!” idly, and the answer should have been “No!” Therese had shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and grumbled in French. Mamma lay on her couch as though she were not really there, but somewhere else.
How complicated were the affairs of grownup people!
Footsteps were coming along the path which ran close by. Carolan lay still in the long grass and hoped that whoever it was would pass by without seeing her. She had no wish to be disturbed, and it might be someone to tell her that the squire wanted to see her; least of all grownups did she understand the squire. He was either very affectionate or very angry and one could never be sure whether he was going to scold or attempt to caress.