As she had prophesied, the meet was still uppermost in her father’s mind, and he looked approval when she entered the room in her short skirt and nailed boots. He had a stout ashplant in his hand, which he pushed across the table as she sat down to breakfast.
“It’s the stick I used to take hunting in William Lyndesay’s time,” he told her. “I kept it for rough work, and I haven’t seen it for at least ten years. You may not believe it, but it fell upon me out of a corner as I came downstairs!”
“It must have heard hounds and got hankering!” Deb laughed, picking it up and running her finger appreciatively down the good grain. “The wind’s that way, you know. Poor old thing! It shall have its day out all right. It shan’t be left at home to hanker in the dark. It has good taste in weather, too,” she added gaily, “for it’s going to be a grand day.”
“Yes—perfect!” Roger’s eyes went round to the window, to see the first pale gold of the sun climbing the shoulder of the hill. “I feel very much inclined to postpone my appointment, and come with you to the meet, after all.”
“It wouldn’t be very wise, would it?” Deb asked hurriedly, keeping her eyes on her plate, for she knew he was only waiting for the slightest sign of encouragement, having evidently forgotten the episode of the night before. “It will be very damp underfoot, I’m afraid, and you haven’t worn your biggest big boots for some time. I’m not quite certain where they are, to tell the truth! And if we make for Monteagle, as we’re nearly sure to, it will be pretty bad going, you know.”
Roger Lyndesay nodded, disappointed but acquiescent.
“I thought I might just have walked up to the house,” he said wistfully, and again Deb longed passionately for a resuscitated Slinker, at whatever cost to herself—“but I should only want to follow when once I was among hounds, and I don’t feel equal to that. I’ve done that Monteagle run in all weathers; ay, and seen the hare swim the river with hounds no more than a yard behind! It’s hard to keep indoors when their music’s in the air.”
“I’ll tell you everything when I come back, dad. We’ll follow every ring, and cover every yard, and struggle together through every spiky fence. You’ll feel as though you’d tramped every inch, you’ll see, instead of sitting quietly in your own arm-chair. And you’ll be able to correct Mr. Callander about all sorts of things when he comes for his next lesson in Crump geography. Nothing is so upsetting to your sense of locality as running rings round the same hill and crossing the river every ten minutes.
“And even if we were both dumb, the ashplant would have plenty to say, anyhow!” she added lightly, flourishing it as she went out. “It feels as though it were ready to walk out on its own. I could almost swear it was alive!”
She walked quickly across the park, a straight, slim figure in her dark jersey and close cap, and waved her hand to her father standing at his window on the other side of the fast-running water. Not until she was half-way to Crump did she realise that she had crossed the old bridge without a second’s hesitation, and with never a whisper of Slinker’s in her ear.