The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (119 page)

“All right … all right, old boy … all right.”

But the colt refused to be soothed. All through the great barrel of its body Renny felt the quivers of irritation, of smouldering rage. The rhythm of its hoofs on the road became broken. Its hard naked ears were pricked, one forward, one back.

They passed a farm wagon without mishap, the steady farm team plodding on through the yellow dust. A group of school children scampered shouting out of the way.

Then a motor car approached from a turn of the road. They were still rare in the country and it was the first Renny had met when on horseback.

“Oh, curse it!” he muttered. “Hold on, boy — hold on — you’re all right!
Hell
!”

The last exclamation was drawn from him by a hoot of the motor horn. The colt raised itself like a circus horse and stood poised on its hind legs as the car approached. Renny could see the faces of the two occupants turn pale and his own features relaxed into a grin.

The colt reared, as though made of grey stone, its hoofs, looking enormous, menacing the two in the car. It waved its iron hoofs like two missiles it was about to hurl in on them. The driver tried to turn aside, but the ditch and a heap of broken stones lay there. Renny tried to force the colt to its haunches, but it was careless of the pain of the bit. The faces of the motorists were contorted by fear as the car rattled past, the man ducking his head to escape the hoof that curved nearest. The stench of gasoline was ejected from behind the motor. The yellow teeth of the colt and the white teeth of the boy jeered.

The smell of gasoline was loathsome to the colt. All its being from nostrils to rump was insulted. It gathered itself together for a bound of escape, then was conscious of the wrench its jaw had received and, instead of bounding forward, it backed, with arching flanks, against the frail fence that separated the road from the steep bank overhanging the shore of the lake. The fence gave way, breaking like twigs, and Renny expected to find himself on the shore below with the weight of the colt on top of him. He struck his spurs into its flanks and flogged it with the crop. Violently the colt rushed from the bank, which was already crumbling.

They were on the road again and the colt was galloping as though to rid itself of the fears and hates that pursued it. Renny let it have its head and laughed in relief at his escape. They turned into a rough road diverging from the lake and rode for a long while under the heat of the mounting sun. They came to a steep hill and the colt, whose glossy sides were darkened by great patches of sweat, slackened its pace to a walk. But still it kept a wary outlook for offence. A barking dog set it once more rearing.

Among the shouldering hills, as though it had sought seclusion there, they came to a village with a small hotel where Renny remembered having gone with Philip at the time of the village fall fair. He had the colt put into a stall and himself rubbed it down. He ordered the hostler to give it a drink and a light feed. The colt looked almost subdued. Its eyes were pensively half closed. Renny’s hair was dark with sweat. His clothes clung to him. After he had washed he devoured two chops, a mound of potatoes and peas, and a slice of apple pie and cream. The first early harvest apples were just in. Cooked, they had a golden transparency, the cream was yellow and thick. He ordered a glass of beer and lighted a cigarette.

He had never felt more self-reliant, more master of himself than now. The tempestuous journey of the morning made Jalna seem far away. He looked in retrospect at the events that had been taking place there. Meg’s blighted love seemed suddenly affected. He felt a faint contempt for Maurice’s despair. He would handle the affairs of his own life differently. He began to wonder just why he was seeking out the two women. He wished he knew the older one’s name. It irritated him to have nothing to call her in his mind. It was she whom he wanted to see. A desire to be with her again, to talk to her, had been gathering within him like a storm. He felt that he would be desperate if he could not see her. Just what he wanted of her he would not let himself think. His mind shied from the thought as the colt from what was new and strange. In his thoughts of her he saw himself reflected in a distortion, as his image might be reflected in a dark woodland stream.

As he was paying his bill the hostler came in.

“That colt of yours,” he said, “has busted the bucket and chewed a piece out of the manger and kicked the hoss in the next stall. I guess you’ll owe the boss something for damages.”

The proprietor and Renny returned with him to the stable.

The colt rolled his eyes at them over his shoulder. His long tongue was hanging out of the side of his mouth, as though in derision. In the stall next to him an elderly man was putting some ointment on the hind leg of a quiet aged mare.

“That’s a vicious brute you’ve got,” he said. “How he managed to kick my mare, I don’t know. But you can see the gash he’s given her.”

Renny made sounds of sympathy. He gently touched the injured leg. The mare looked at him kindly.

“What are you putting on it?” he asked.

The man showed him the tin.

Renny’s brows went up in amazement. “I should take it off if I were you,” he said. “My people have bred horses all their lives and nothing would induce them to use it. Now I’ll recommend something” — he turned and put a coin into the hand of the hostler, at the same time giving him the name of the preparation — “that will heal the cut in short order. We never use anything else in our stables.”

“Thanks,” said the owner of the mare glumly.

“You’ll be glad,” returned Renny, “that she had this little accident when you find what a wonderful remedy this is. I do hope you’ll always keep it on hand in future.” He went to the mare’s head and stroked it. “Nice old girl! How old is she?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“By George, I’d never have thought it! She looks about twelve, and what a set of teeth!”

He applied the ointment himself and helped the man to harness the mare to a buggy. His adroit hands tightened a strap here, eased one there. The mare turned her head and nuzzled him with her
long soft lip. Her owner pocketed the tin of ointment, pleased in spite of himself.

Renny picked up the badly dented bucket, examined it, and turned with a grin to the hostler. “You wouldn’t expect me,” he said, “to blame my colt for refusing to drink out of a leaking bucket. He’s not used to that sort of thing. I noticed that it was dribbling when you were carrying it to him.”

The hostler, crestfallen, peered into the bucket.

“What about the manger?” demanded the proprietor. “It’ll need a new side.”

Renny turned over petulantly. “If you trouble me any more over this bit of mischief my colt has done, I’m dashed if I will come here again.”

“Well, well,” muttered the proprietor, “we’ll say no more about it.”

Renny paid his bill and was left alone with the colt.

“I hope,” he said reproachfully, “that you will behave yourself on the rest of the journey.”

The colt looked down its long grey nose and laid back its ears. As Renny was putting the bit in place, the colt caught him by the shoulder and ripped the sleeve of his coat halfway down his arm.

“You would, would you?” he exclaimed, and gave him a furious cuff.

It worked the bit forward in its teeth, flattened its stark ears, and lifted its leg to kick. Renny hugged its head to him. “No, no, no, you shan’t!” He backed the colt out of the stall and mounted it in the yard. The hostler and a stableboy stood by as the colt disdainfully passed.

“Look at the gentleman’s coat!” jeered the hostler.

“It’s tore half off his back,” said the boy. “He ain’t got control of the beast. He can’t ride for sour apples, can he?”

Renny turned the colt toward the boy, but it danced with him out of the yard.

It seemed that the rest of the way would be more peaceful. The heat of the sun might well have taken the spirit even from the colt. But it still showed its irritability by sidling along the road and constantly shaking his head.

It was late afternoon when they came to a railway crossing guarded by gates. Renny heard the whistle of a train in the distance. The gate attendant rang a bell and the gates began to drop. Renny drew in his rein, wondering how the colt would take this new experience. At the same moment the motor car which had met them in the morning came up behind, the driver nervously sounding his horn.

A snort of horror shook the colt to its bowels. It bounded forward under the first of the gates, but before it could cross the track the second gate fell and horse and rider were caught in front of the onrushing train, which loomed horribly large and threatening.

The gatekeeper, in a panic, tried to raise the gates, but the mechanism balked. They did not rise. The colt’s hoofs clattered on the shining rails as he reared and wheeled.

The gatekeeper snatched up a green flag and ran toward the locomotive, waving it sharply. Renny faced the colt to the gate, struck him sharply with the crop and, with hands and knees giving their message of confidence, rode him straight for the jump.

With tail and mane streaming the colt rose and swam over the barrier. Had it ever jumped before? Renny did not know, but he grinned exultantly at the feel of the bounding body beneath him. He turned in the saddle and thumbed his nose at gatekeeper, locomotive, and motorist, his bare white shoulder showing through his torn coat.

He loved the colt. In a passion of loving he bent and kissed its neck. With its yellow teeth showing, its nostrils arched, it flew like an arrow along the road.

It flew into a thunder shower, but in its exultation never noticed the flash that whitened the road or the rolling of the clouds together. It did notice the spatter of drops on its hide and imagined they
were given by the rider who held it between his thighs. It flew faster and faster.

“Why, you’re made for a race horse!” exclaimed Renny. “I wish to God Dad had never sold you!”

The dust lay dark, flattened on the road. The leaves, new washed, cherished the last drops of the pain. All bright colours blazed at each other as though in challenge. Little birds essayed their evening song or preened their wet plumage.

Just beyond a hamlet in a hollow, the farm where the two women had come lay on the side of a steep hill. A red sunset cloud hung above it like a banner.

Renny felt a strange new shyness. What should he say when he arrived? In what different ways should he approach Elvira or her aunt, according to which he first met? He realized that his coat was torn, that he was wet through. As he and the colt moved slowly along the farm lane their heads hung in weariness.

By the side of a barn a load of hay was drawn up. A man in a dripping shirt was forking hay to the loft above. Just inside Renny could see Elvira distributing the hay on the floor of the mow. Her long cloth skirt was pinned up so that it reached just below her knees, but, as though to counterbalance this immodesty, her hair had loosed itself and hung in a dark mass about her shoulders.

The childish poise of her head as she peered down at him was moving to Renny. She looked innocent, isolated in the twilight of the mow. He thought of her as the mother of Maurice’s child. Yet Maurice hated the remembrance of her.

“Hullo, Elvira,” he said, riding round the load of hay so that it stood between him and the man.

“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Whiteoak,” she returned sedately, leaning on her fork.

“I had to come this way,” he went on, “to deliver this colt. My father sold it to a Mr. Ferrier, not far from here, so I thought I’d drop in and ask how you are.”

“Oh,” was her only answer. She looked timidly down on him as though not knowing what to do, as though wondering whether she should put aside her fork and come down to him.

The man came round the load of hay and looked aggressively at Renny.

“Is it John Ferrier you mean?”

“Yes.”

“He don’t live near here. He lives ten miles away, at Creditford.”

“Ten miles is nothing to this colt,” said Renny. “You’re lucky to have saved this load of hay before the rain came. It looks nice and dry.”

“It is,” returned the man, gruffly. “What I’ve got to do now is to stow it in the mow before dark. There’ll be more rain tonight.” He looked at the red cloud that hung above the hilltop. “Come along, Elvira. We’ve wasted enough time.” He set to work again.

“I’ve never seen a girl do farm work before,” observed Renny. “It looks strange to me.”

“You’d see lots of it where I came from,” said the farmer. He threw a forkful of hay, as though with intentional carelessness so that some of it fell over Renny and the colt. The colt started and laid back his ears. Renny dismounted. “Look here, let me help you! You’ll never get it in before dark at this rate.”

“Thanks,” muttered the farmer. “There’s an empty stall in there.” Fork in hand, he led the way to the stable. He gave Renny a small basin of oats for the colt.

Renny mounted the steps to the loft and Elvira obediently handed him her fork. He looked no better than a hired man, she thought, with the red sunburn on his face, his untidy hair and torn coat. Very different from Maurice. The sight of him brought back all her old life. Her heart ached with longing as she stood in the twilight watching his swift manipulation of the hay.

He and the man worked well together. The load diminished as the colour faded from the cloud. A thin piping of locusts began on all sides. A cow lowed in the stable below.

The man looked up at Elvira. “Why don’t Lulu come and do the milking?” he demanded.

“Shall I go and tell her?” asked Elvira. She turned to Renny. “This is our cousin, Bob,” she said. “We’re staying here.”

Renny and Bob assented to the introduction, as though they had just met. Bob said: —

“I’ll go and tell Lulu. Then you can go to the house and get some supper for us.” He felt that Renny and Elvira wished to be alone for a little.

When they were, she looked at him questioningly.

“Your child is well,” he said reassuringly, then added — “but you couldn’t have cared much for it or you’d not have done what you did.”