Читать книгу Bobbie - Dorothea Conyers - Страница 7

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When Robert Bryan left the two young people alone, Yvonne smiled with the air of one who discards a toothache.

“Ah, he is so cross,” she said, with her French accent.

“Is he?” Bobbie said calmly.

“Yes. I fear him. And he is so glad to get you here. Because I am what you call the thorn in the flesh to him. And his great scheme is to espouse us.”

Yvonne dimpled demurely. Just as Bobbie burst into a peal of merry laughter, hearty and unrestrained, Robert Bryan stalked in, nursing a cobwebbed bottle in a cradle.

“So you’ve got a joke”—his eyes softened—“you two young people.”

“I saw nothing funny,” remarked Yvonne huffily.

“I did, then.” Bobbie laughed again, boyishly, his eyes twinkling.

“And here’s a glass of liquid nectar, young feller, old brandy, soft as a coaxing woman and fiery as a cross one.”

“Benedictine is my poison, but I like liqueurs.” Bobbie watched the hallowed ceremony of drawing the cork. He took the glass of amber liquid and neglected to sniff it ecstatically before he drank it, with reserve.

“Well?” said his grandfather.

“Oh, it’s good, but very strong,” decided Bobbie. “I like Dom better, sir.”

His grandfather said “Huh!” very irritably.

“Come to the stables, Pussyfoot,” he growled. “A cellar is wasted on you.”

To get to the stables at Knockbui one goes through to the west entrance to the portico, and into a dark walk shaded by high trees and bordered by clipped laurels and box, a faintly bitter smell drifting from both shrubs. Then out and under a long archway under which coaches and carriages had been washed in olden days and into a great square yard; horses’ heads poked from a long line of boxes; foxhound puppies sprawled in the autumn sunlight.

A slight, alert-looking man of middle age touched his cap and came forward.

“This is Condon. His father taught your father to ride.”

Bobbie shook hands graciously.

(“A slip of a lad, but spirit in him,” decided Mick Condon.)

“Ye are welcome, sir,” he said aloud.

“Now, Bobbie, I’ve got a string together for you. If ... you stay here, they are yours. Six of them. All mine are up to too much weight.”

“Six of them.” Bobbie flushed. “Six horses. Oh, glory be!” He darted into the box which Condon opened, starting his inspection.

There were two chestnuts, a black, a grey and a brown, all hunters, well bred and good jumpers.

Bobbie patted their noses, stroked their satiny coats, drew back and gazed at them. Yes, he had done right in coming to Knockbui.

His, these strong fleet beasts, so vibrantly alive, with their lean intelligent heads.

“Like ’em?” snapped Robert Bryan, a pleased note behind the snap.

“I want to ride them all at once.” Bobbie smiled gratitude. “I love ’em, sir.”

“Which is your pick, sir?” Condon asked.

“The grey,” decided Bobbie, “the grey mare.”

Now the grey mare was light of her middle piece and missed a rib; moreover her fore legs were shaky and she had been purchased on her performances. But she had a beautiful, well-bred head, and was showy.

“You’ll learn better,” grunted old Bryan. “The black is the best of the lot. You can ride, you say you can ride?”

“Oh, I ride all right.” Bobbie returned to the grey mare, Smoke, and patted her lovingly. “I won’t fall off and disgrace you utterly, if that’s what’s stinging you, grandfather.”

“You won’t, won’t you? Like a canter now? Huh! Saddle Rufus, Mick. He was out this morning, so you needn’t be nervous, Bobbie.”

Bobbie’s lips tightened. Something told him that Rufus meant a trial by ordeal, that he, Bobbie, was to be tested. Condon’s face confirmed his thoughts.

“Remember I haven’t ridden for some time,” Bobbie said quietly. “I’m out of practice, grandfather.”

The old man’s eyes were hard and anxious as Condon led a long raking chestnut out of a stable. A five-year-old, of great substance and quality, unfurnished as yet, but likely to make a magnificent horse.

He showed the whites of his eyes uneasily, and laid back his ears as Bobbie approached him. He was no horse for a boy to ride.

“Kape a holt of his head,” whispered Condon. “He is a schemer.”

Bobbie held up an ill-shod foot and landed in the saddle.

Good. Good to be there again, to feel the life beneath the leather, to gather up the thin reins.

“Do you ride him in a watering bridle?” queried Bobbie. “A plain snaffle?”

“He wouldn’t stand a curb, sir,” answered Condon.

Rufus walked springingly but sedately under the archway, and Bobbie patted the horse’s neck.

“Lave motherin’ alone,” counselled Condon. “Howld him tight.” The man opened a gate into a paddock.

The Rufus found short turf beneath his hoofs and light lax hands on his bridle. His strong back arched and he shot upwards with a buck and outwards with a plunge. Bobbie had a fleeting vision of a saddle beneath him as he went high and clear out over the horse’s shoulders.

“And you said you could ride,” came with a chuckle from old Bryan.

“I said I was out of practice, and I didn’t know the brute had no manners.” Bobbie rubbed his shoulder. “Mick’s got him. Hold him, Mick. I’ll get up.” Bobbie was thoroughly put out.

The boy vaulted into the saddle and thrust his feet home. He sawed the bit across the chestnut’s mouth.

“Can he jump?” he said sharply. “He wants sobering.”

“The moon, if ye sot him at it,” said Condon. “Oh, cripes almighty!”

For Bobbie set Rufus going. Sawed the bit again as the horse tried to plunge, got him from a canter to a smart gallop and went straight at a low fence at the end of the paddock. That it was a sunk fence and wired meant nothing to angry Bobbie.

He heard a roar behind him, incoherent and furious, as Rufus soared high above the wire.

“Get on,” said Bobbie, catching the horse by the head. Rufus got. They sailed down the lawn straight for Knockbui. A ragged double bank overgrown with thorns loomed in front.

Straight at it went Bobbie. Crash! into the thick thorns, breaking through and out into a soft boggy field.

“It’s full of rabbit holes,” roared his grandfather, but Bobbie was too far off to hear. “Mind the dyke,” rose the second roar. “God! He is going for the dyke.”

“It was wrong doin’s to put him on Rufus,” muttered Condon.

“That’s too soft,” decided Bobbie, steadying the chestnut, so he swung to the right and carried on, taking all his fences at a quick canter, and missing the dreaded drop fence, known as the Devil’s Dyke.

Only the chestnut’s activity saved a fall over a high narrow bank, which the youngster took from field to field, a method Bobbie quite approved of. The going became sound and for a mile Bobbie galloped on.

They crashed through a loose wall—Rufus was going too fast to take off properly—they floundered in and out of a treacherous boggy ditch. Bobbie pulled the sweating horse up at last.

“Now will you buck me off?” he said, with a flash in his eyes strangely like his grandfather’s.

Two more banks, high and green, too big to fly, though Rufus had to take them at a fast gallop, and Bobbie began to look for a road. He saw a dark object in the distance, flew at and crashed into another stone wall, and discovered that the blur was a man riding.

“Hello,” cried Bobbie.

“Hello,” came a somewhat grumpy response.

“Tell me the way back to Knockbui, will you? I’ve brought this horse along to give him a lesson.” The man on the road stared at Bobbie, looked at the ill-made coat and well-made breeches—the latter had belonged to Bobbie’s father—looked at the steaming horse, looked at blood running down an off fore leg and a knee already swelling.

Bobbie disliked this man. He disliked his perfect turn-out, his cleanly-cut tanned face and critical deep brown eyes.

“You ... seem to have given Rufus a lesson,” said the stranger easily. “Hi, steady on there. Hi, stop,” for Bobbie took the brown chestnut back to put him at the narrow bank on the road.

Bobbie pulled the chestnut up so sharply that his horse swerved and Bobbie himself all but went off. He recovered to look straight into the cool eyes which were watching him.

“Tailor,” they said most plainly.

Bobbie flushed scarlet.

“Is there wire there?” he said angrily.

“No, but there is a gate, and a nasty blind ditch this side. Ah, easy, you young fool.”

For Bobbie’s answer was to put Rufus at the fence. The horse kicked back cleverly, but blundered on his head on to the road, just saving a bad fall.

“Never jump on to a road when you can find a gate, my lad. I am riding towards Knockbui, so can show you the way. I presume you are young Bryan. My name’s Hume, Hickman Hume.”

Bobbie grunted and rode on.

“I suppose now”—Bobbie hated the rather slow voice—“that no one told you the old boy paid five hundred for that horse. By Happy Warrior out of a Red Prince mare he is.”

“Grandfather had no business to put me up if the beast is so valuable,” growled Bobbie. “It’s got no manners at all and I just lammed it along.”

“Apparently,” mused Hume.

“He crashed into two stone fences.”

“Perhaps you crashed him into them. Walls ought to be taken slowly, y’know.”

“I took ’em all at a gallop.” Bobbie’s eyes shone. “Topping it was, too. I came straight out of the paddock along to this road.”

“Out of the paddock near the stables! You were lucky, my boy: there is a drop called the Devil’s Dyke to the east there, and a bog to the west, and I suppose luck brought you just between the two. I should say the old man is throwing several fits at the moment.”

“He put me up to see me worsted,” Bobbie grinned elfishly. “I did the worsting.”

Mr. Hume’s glance at Rufus’ knee was more eloquent than any reply.

The two jogged in silence; the chestnut was going short on the near fore.

“You’ll have to go slow to get on with your grandfather. He’s difficult—go quietly.”

“Next time I ride this horse, he’ll go quietly,” snapped Bobbie.

“I expect he will, when the next time comes. Ridden a lot, have you?”

“A good deal,” returned Bobbie sharply, sensing criticism. “But I’m out of practice. I haven’t even had a bike to throw a leg over for some time.”

“Well, there is the gate of Knockbui. Robert had no business to put a youngster up on that horse. Rufus wants handling.”

Bobbie’s heels thumped the chestnut’s sides, for the cool slow voice insinuated, too plainly, that Bobbie Bryan could not handle.

“Morning,” said Bobbie, trotting away.

“A cheeky young brat,” decided Hume. “And all over the place. Can’t ride for nuts. He’ll never stay here.”

Bobbie rode quietly up the avenue.

A tense hush hung over the yard. Condon was pretending to polish bits, the stable boys hung about watching as time slipped by, and Robert Bryan stood waiting, waiting at the gate, having sworn himself into silence.

“He never done it better, even when the strange man lepped on Cossack,” whispered Condon. “He’ll eat that poor child alive.”

And into the yard, on a dead lame, sweat-stained young thoroughbred, rode the poor child.

“Hello, sir. There was no room to teach the horse a lesson in that paddock, so I just went straight ahead.” Bobbie jumped off. “He’s a lovely mover, but bad over stone fences; took two from the root. He won’t buck me off when I ride him again, I tell you.”

“God in high heaven this day!” Condon drifted from the harness room. “He has chips med of the young chaser.”

“He ... will ... not.” Robert Bryan appeared to find it difficult to speak at all. “God! God! Hot water, Condon, iodine.”

“I loved it, grandfather. I met a fellow who said one ought to go slow at walls, but it was all a fly country where we hunted. Rufus just flew the banks beautifully.”

“Indeed.” Robert Bryan put a big hand to his throat as if speech hurt it.

The men waited for the thunderbolt to fall, for the dam to break.

“Hot wather, Andy,” breathed Condon faintly.

“He’s a peach, though. I’d like to hunt him, grandfather. And—oof! I’m tired, and I’m sorry he’s got a knock or two.”

“The first fence was wired, sir,” Condon muttered. “An’ we to see ye facin’ the Devil’s Dyke with its twinty-foot drop. Andy, get the iodine.”

“Well, it was topping, anyhow. I’m glad he bucked me off or I’d never have had that canter.”

“Canter!” came in a hoarse gasp from old Robert.

“It was nice of you to put me on such a valuable horse. And let’s go to tea. I’m dying of thirst.” Bobbie slipped his arm through his grandfather’s. The old man towered up, looking down at the boy, the old face worked, then suddenly smothering a fierce growl, Robert wheeled and walked away, that young arm through his own.

“He has met his match,” squealed Andy joyously, “the old man has met his match.”

“It’s the sack ye’ll meet if he hears ye, Andy Doolan.”

“He is too upsot to hear me. ‘I put him along, he won’t buck again,’ Rufus eyah.” Andy upset the bottle of iodine. “An’ he standin’ there with the light of hell in the masther’s two eyes. I’ll get a slap of Lysol, Mick, if all the iodine’s gone from us, the cut is nothin’ at all, the knee’s the boyo.”

Bobbie meanwhile held an irresponsive arm and prattled on.

“The man I met, Hume, said you paid five hundred pounds for Rufus, and not too much either. I had a ride on Scarlet Lancer once and he ran in the National, third I think he was, too. He was jolly, and so gentle. That chestnut wants work, grandfather. A few rides like to-day would——”

“Would make a horse of him, no doubt,” said Mr. Bryan heavily, but the glare died out of his eyes and his arm lost its stiffness. “You are as thin as a rail, Bobbie.”

“We didn’t have a lot to eat,” said Bobbie. “Just a kipper or so for breakfast, and jam or butter. Things weren’t too easy, grandfather.”

“Ah,” said the old man angrily.

“Doesn’t Knockbui call to you? It does to me, as if it said, oh, I can’t explain, ‘I watch over the Bryans. I stand for them.’ ” Bobbie stood, looking at the hill.

“They bury us on Knockbui, Bobbie. Maybe it does watch.” The old blue eyes looked hard at the hill; the only being on earth who had not been afraid of him had been carried to rest in the vault there.

His wife, Hylda. If she had lived, old Robert knew that the quarrel between father and son would have been smoothed over.

“I love Knockbui,” said Bobbie, stooping to pet Duck, the water spaniel. “I’d like a dog, grandfather, a nice one, which I could keep in the house.”

“I do not allow dogs in the house,” said Robert sternly.

“Mine would sneak in, I’m afraid. There is Yvonne at the window.”

Yvonne, bobbed, short-skirted, nude-stockinged, opened the long French window and called out, “Tea.”

She poured it out with prim deftness, but when her grandfather came near the table a cup clattered, or Yvonne dropped a lump of sugar or spilt cream.

“How you rattle things, Yvonne,” he said irritably.

“Not always,” returned Yvonne nervously. “More tea, Bobbie?”

Bobbie, looking very weary, had bundled into a deep chair.

“Old brandy would be more to the point. Bobbie, are you aware that your cousin is waiting on you?”

“Sorry, sir. I’m doggo. Hardest day Bobbie’s had for years.” Bobbie jumped up.

“I just came in to ask how Rufus was,” said a cool voice at the window. “Knee not too bad, I hope?”

Bobbie sat down and looked cross.

“The knee is nothing, Hickman, thank you; the boy went a trifle too fast at the fences, I expect.”

“I should have put him on old Shortlegs, Robert. He’d teach anyone how to do this country.”

Cool criticism. Calm impertinence. Bobbie gulped his tea and choked.

“Cake, Hickman?” Old Robert glanced somewhat pointedly at his grandson. Bobbie got up and handed plates with manifest reluctance.

“Takes a lot of practice, riding over an Irish country,” mused Hume.

If only the man would stop lecturing!

“Bobbie rode Scarlet Lancer to hounds,” said Bobbie’s grandfather sharply.

“Good sort of old crock, wasn’t he?” Hume enquired. “Ran up in the National the year they all fell, I think.”

Bobbie did not reply. His dislike for Hickman Hume deepened.

“Stay and dine, Hickman. I’ve got a bottle of the old brandy open,” said Robert Bryan.

“You brought it up like a brandy baby,” Bobbie chuckled. “It’s wonderful stuff, nearly as nice, once it gets down, as Dom.”

Old Robert said “Huh!” twice before he could speak.

“As Dom, you young ass. As Dom! I tell you, Bobbie, that old brandy could bring a man back from the jaws of death. Mild as milk, soft as satin, strong as steel.”

“If I’m dying I’ll ask for a glass,” said Bobbie softly. “I promise, sir.”

Autumn sunlight streamed into the fine old room, glinting on great bowls of chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies, touching the polished tables. A wood fire crackled in the big grate. It was peaceful and homelike, and no one knew how that promise would be redeemed.

But a strange silence fell on them, broken only by the crackle of the logs, and the cry of a peacock on the lawn.

“Bah! I like not such a silence,” said Yvonne. “It is an omen; some say a revenant hovers ... a ...”

“Give it some old brandy,” said Bobbie sleepily. “I’m off for a tub. A nice hot one, grandfather,” and as he passed the big figure he laid a light hand on the massive old shoulder and shot a merry laughing glance straight into the fierce old eyes.

“I wish to heaven he was not ... what he is. Huh! kippers,” snarled Robert Bryan, stamping out of the room.