Grey Wethers: A Romantic Novel

by V. Sackville-West

Young Gorwyn grinned again. “But you’ll stay to watch the broadstick, now you’re here?” he said eagerly, since to him it was the great event of the day.

“Well, I think perhaps broadstick is scarcely a suitable entertainment for a young lady,—eh, Gorwyn?” said Mr. Calladine. “Races, or even wrestling, but scarcely broadstick,—a rough game, and usually unpleasant to watch at the end. I think Miss Warrener and I will ride away and leave you to your sports.”

Gorwyn, who had at first looked astonished, opened his mouth to protest, then a look of contempt came over his ruddy face, succeeded by a sudden shyness; he mumbled something, and scampered back to his companions.

“Oh, but I wanted to see the broadstick,” began Clare.

“My dear young lady,” said Mr. Calladine, leaning sideways in his saddle towards her, “may I, for once, stand in the place of your father, and say that I am sure he would never approve of your witnessing this rough display, and indeed would be most grieved if it came to his ears that you had done so? May I beg you to have confidence in my judgment? Come, now, let us ride away together, and if you can obtain your father’s consent I will promise to escort you to some fair where you may see the game,—will that content you?”

Clare, greatly disappointed, was too young to question Calladine’s decision. If he said her father would disapprove, then he must be right; although, privately she thought that her father, mild and vague, would have no views at all on the subject. Obediently, however, she wheeled her pony after Calladine’s horse, and they rode quietly away along the top of the ridge. She was thinking how sorry she was that he had come instead of Lovel. She did not very much like Mr. Calladine, although she was kind to him out of goodness of heart, because she thought he seemed lonely; indeed, he never ceased talking to her about his loneliness.

He lived some way out of King’s Avon, right in the country; it must be, she thought, very lonely in his small farm-house in the evenings, so she sometimes persuaded her father to ask him to dinner.

On such occasions, not knowing how else to entertain her father and guest, she would play to them both such simple airs as she could command upon the piano, and sometimes would sing, accompanying herself, such little songs as she had picked up from Martha Sparrow or the country people. Mr. Calladine would come then and lean over the top of the piano, watching her in the candlelight in that intent way he had. She did not like this either; it was part of his elaborate and disturbing manner, but she had too much pity for him to ask him to desist. He seemed to like her singing; he always clapped his fine hands softly together and begged for more. On the whole, she did not much enjoy the evenings he spent at the Manor House; they were strained and difficult; or, at least, so she thought, although he appeared unaware of this, perfectly content, and in no hurry to take his leave. When he at last did so, Clare, whose country idea of hospitality involved accompanying her guest to the front door to see the last of him, was always slightly relieved when she watched him button up his greatcoat, climb into his gig, gather up the reins, and drive away into the night.

His horse paced now beside hers, and, riding with his beautifully light hands, he restrained its paces to suit her pony’s, all with that air of chivalrous deference which she found so subtly irritating. It conveyed that she was not able to take care of herself, but that he must do it for her, in a playful, tactful way, while allowing her apparent liberty, and she felt now that he had taken her away from the games as he might have taken a little girl. It made her inclined to start her pony off into a gallop, but she reproved herself, remembering that Mr. Calladine was very much older than she was,—he must be quite fifty,—and that it was kind and condescending of one so fine and cultured to desire her company. At the same time, she could not help contrasting his manner with Lovel’s; Lovel was often brusque and even rude to her; he lost his temper with her sometimes, and never apologised afterwards; it was all the more insolent in Lovel, for he was not the gentleman that Calladine was.