Wilfrid Cumbermede Part 35

'Very well,' she replied. 'Now I shall answer your last question and count that the first. About nine o'clock, one--day--'

'Morning or evening?' I asked.

'Morning of course--I walked out of--the house--'

'Your aunt's house?'

'Yes, of course, my aunt's house. Do let me go on with my story. It was getting a little dark--'

'Getting dark at nine in the morning?'

'In the evening, I said.'

'I beg your pardon, I thought you said the morning.'

'No, no, the evening; and of course I was a little frightened, for I was not accustomed--'

'But you were never out alone at that hour,--in London?'

'Yes, I was quite alone. I had promised to meet--a friend at the corner of----You know that part, do you?'

'I beg your pardon. What part?'

'Oh--Mayfair. You know Mayfair, don't you?'

'You were going to meet a gentleman at the corner of Mayfair--were you?' I said, getting quite bewildered.

She jumped up, clapping her hands as gracefully as merrily, and crying--

'I wasn't going to meet any gentleman. There! Your six questions are answered. I won't answer a single other you choose to ask, unless I please, which is not in the least likely.'

She made me a low half merry, half mocking courtesy and left the room.

The same moment her father came in, following old Mr Coningham, who gave me a kindly welcome, and said his horse was at my service, but he hoped I would lunch with him first. I gratefully consented, and soon luncheon was announced. Miss Coningham, Clara's aunt, was in the dining-room before us. A dry, antiquated woman, she greeted me with unexpected frankness. Lunch was half over before Clara entered--in a perfectly fitting habit, her hat on, and her skirt thrown over her arm.

'Soho, Clara!' cried her father; 'you want to take us by surprise--coming out all at once a town-bred lady, eh?'

'Why, where ever did you get that riding-habit, Clara?' said her aunt.

'In my box, aunt,' said Clara.

'My word, child, but your father has kept you in pocket-money!'

returned Miss Coningham.

'I've got a town aunt as well as a country one,' rejoined Clara, with an expression I could not quite understand, but out of which her laugh took only half the sting.

Miss Coningham reddened a little. I judged afterwards that Clara had been diplomatically allowing her just to feel what sharp claws she had for use if required.

But the effect of the change from loose white muslin to tight dark cloth was marvellous, and I was bewitched by it. So slight, yet so round, so trim, yet so pliant--she was grace itself. It seemed as if the former object of my admiration had vanished, and I had found another with such surpa.s.sing charms that the loss could not be regretted. I may just mention that the change appeared also to bring out a certain look of determination which I now recalled as having belonged to her when a child.

'Clara!' said her father, in a very marked tone; whereupon it was Clara's turn to blush and be silent.

I started some new subject, in the airiest manner I could command.

Clara recovered her composure, and I flattered myself she looked a little grateful when our eyes met. But I caught her father's eyes twinkling now and then as if from some secret source of merriment, and could not help fancying he was more amused than displeased with his daughter.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A RIDING LESSON.

By the time luncheon was over, the horses had been standing some minutes at the lawn-gate, my mare with a side-saddle. We hastened to mount, Clara's eyes full of expectant frolic. I managed, as I thought, to get before her father, and had the pleasure of lifting her to the saddle. She was up ere I could feel her weight on my arm. When I gathered her again with my eyes, she was seated as calmly as if at her lace-needlework, only her eyes were sparkling. With the slightest help, she had her foot in the stirrup, and with a single movement had her skirt comfortable. I left her, to mount the horse they had brought me, and when I looked from his back, the white mare was already flas.h.i.+ng across the boles of the trees, and Clara's dark skirt flying out behind like the drapery of a descending G.o.ddess in an allegorical picture.

With a pang of terror I fancied the mare had run away with her, and sat for a moment afraid to follow, lest the sound of my horse's feet on the turf should make her gallop the faster. But the next moment she turned in her saddle, and I saw a face alive with pleasure and confidence. As she recovered her seat, she waved her hand to me, and I put my horse to his speed. I had not gone far, however, before I perceived a fresh cause of anxiety. She was making straight for a wire fence. I had heard that horses could not see such a fence, and if Clara did not see it, or should be careless, the result would be frightful. I shouted after her, but she took no heed. Fortunately, however, there was right in front of them a gate, which I had not at first observed, into the bars of which had been wattled some brushwood. 'The mare will see that,' I said to myself. But the words were hardly through my mind, before I saw them fly over it like a bird.

On the other side, she pulled up, and waited for me.

Now I had never jumped a fence in my life. I did not know that my mare could do such a thing, for I had never given her the chance. I was not, and never have become, what would be considered an accomplished horseman. I scarcely know a word of stable-slang. I have never followed the hounds more than twice or three times in the course of my life. Not the less am I a true lover of horses--but I have been their companion more in work than in play. I have slept for miles on horseback, but even now I have not a sure seat over a fence.

I knew nothing of the animal I rode, but I was bound, at least, to make the attempt to follow my leader. I was too inexperienced not to put him to his speed instead of going gently up to the gate; and I had a bad habit of leaning forward in my saddle, besides knowing nothing of how to incline myself backwards as the horse alighted. Hence when I found myself on the other side, it was not on my horse's back, but on my own face. I rose uninjured, except in my self-esteem. I fear I was for the moment as much disconcerted as if I had been guilty of some moral fault. Nor did it help me much towards regaining my composure that Clara was shaking with suppressed laughter. Utterly stupid from mortification, I laid hold of my horse, which stood waiting for me beside the mare, and scrambled upon his back. But Clara, who, with all her fun, was far from being ill-natured, fancied from my silence that I was hurt. Her merriment vanished. With quite an anxious expression on her face, she drew to my side, saying--

'I hope you are not hurt?'

'Only my pride,' I answered.

'Never mind that,' she returned gaily. 'That will soon be itself again.'

'I'm not so sure,' I rejoined. 'To make such a fool of myself before _you_!'

'Am I such a formidable person?' she said.

'Yes,' I answered. 'But I never jumped a fence in my life before.'

'If you had been afraid,' she said, 'and had pulled up, I might have despised you. As it was, I only laughed at you. Where was the harm? You s.h.i.+rked nothing. You followed your leader. Come along, I will give you a lesson or two before we get back.'

'Thank you,' I said, beginning to recover my spirits a little; 'I shall be a most obedient pupil. But how did you get so clever, Clara?'

I ventured the unprotected name, and she took no notice of the liberty.

'I told you I had had a riding-master. If you are not afraid, and mind what you are told, you will always come right somehow.'

'I suspect that is good advice for more than horsemans.h.i.+p.'

'I had not the slightest intention of moralizing. I am incapable of it,' she answered, in a tone of serious self-defence.

'I had as little intention of making the accusation,' I rejoined. 'But will you really teach me a little?'

'Most willingly. To begin, you must sit erect. You lean forward.'