Patrick White - The Fringe of Leaves

It was indeed exasperating now that she had reached the cultivated fields and grazing sheep not to be able to piece together a dream which was already becoming indistinct.

More than exasperating, it was something of a shock to hear the sound of hooves approaching at her back. She hurried on and hoped that the swollen rain-clouds overhead would convince the oncoming rider that there was good reason for her otherwise unnatural pace.

When the horse was only a few yards distant a man’s voice called, ‘If you would like to try, we could hoist you up, to ride pillion, or on the pommel, if you prefer.’

‘Thank you, Mr Roxburgh,’ she answered without turning her head. ‘It would be far too awkward.’

At that moment the horse drew level, and Garnet Roxburgh bent down from the saddle and brushed from her back a few leaves which must have remained clinging there. She could only have looked a fright, her hair in disarray, her bonnet dangling by its strings from her fingers.

He made no comment apart from, ‘I don’t believe you trust me, Ellen,’ in a tone of voice which only half-suggested he might be mocking.

‘I can see no reason why I should not.’ Speech was difficult in her state of breathlessness, and she blushed besides, for she had in fact been wondering whether the mountain road she had taken on her walk was that on which the gig had overturned and Mrs Garnet Roxburgh broke her neck.

‘I enjoy walking,’ she informed him, to add something to what was hardly a conversation.

‘Do you ride as well?’

‘I did. But Mr Roxburgh has forbidden it — since I took a fall.’

‘Only one? A man can’t claim to be a horseman till he’s taken at least seven tumbles.’

She felt foolish in that she was unable to explain that her first had fatal consequences.

‘If that old woman my brother would allow it, I have a little black mare which would suit you to perfection. Any lady who has tried her out sings her praises.’

Mrs Roxburgh blushed again, for her impulse was to ask whether many ladies had tried out the little black mare.

At this moment they were caught up in a preliminary squall of rain.

‘You see,’ he shouted as his horse went into a caracol, ‘you should have accepted my offer!’

‘Oh, but we are almost there!’ she gasped, her cheeks slapped by the cold rain, her skirt ballooning as the wind got full possession of it.

She hurried to reach the shelter of the yard. There the two assigned men were attacking the wood-pile in a frenzy to demonstrate to the master their addiction for work, till such a deluge began, it was only sensible to take refuge with their axes in the barn.

Mr Austin Roxburgh was still comfortably seated in the library in front of a fire Mrs Brennan had lit against the cold.

‘You are wet through,’ he said to his wife with a resignation which suggested that he had expected nothing short of this.

‘And you soon will be!’ she rejoined.

It had not occurred to him to close a window through which the torrents were dashing.

She kissed his forehead and went to change.

In the morning Mrs Roxburgh lingered at writing in her journal, a luxury she appreciated increasingly since they had set out on their travels.

… anoyed with myself for not being able to remember this tantalizing dream. It has become no more than a blurred sensation. Did not mention it to Mr R. because he might find me ridiculous — or irrational .

While I was changing from my wet cloathes Holly came to my door. Mrs B. has decided it will be one of the girl’s duties to act as Lady’s Maid. Holly had recovered from her black thoughts of the same morning. She was pretty and glossy as before. She wld like to enjoy some fun if I can cure her of her shyness. I gave her my figured poplin and the pair of ear-rings with bunches of garnets set in gilt leaves. H. was overcome, neeled and kissed my hands, I felt her tears on them. She said she had never owned anything so grand. I wld have felt more gratified had I not been sick of that old poplin and had I not thought the ear-rings made me look what Aunt Tite used to call ‘trumpery’. Poor Holly has no means of knowing and looks like some pretty gypsy with bunches of glossy grapes in her ears.

At dinner Mr G. R. introduced the subject of the black mare. He is a man who will not be put off. My good husband yawned and said I might ride the mare if I felt inclined and she was not a mad-headed runaway. Garnet said he would ride her at the mountain a few times till she was recovered from a spell of unemployment and too much oats. Asked Mr R. as we prepared for bed was he no longer concerned that I might fall. He teased me and said I was less valuable for belonging to him these many years.

During the night heard sounds overhead as of heavy footsteps, muffled voices, occasional laughter. Mentioned it to Mr R. this morning, who claimed he had heard nothing. This surprised me as he complanes he is such a poor sleeper. I cld not resist reminding him. He said it is so, he does not get half the sleep he needs, but sometimes goes off into a doze, and whatever I imagined hearing must have occurred while he was in that condition.

When Mrs B. brought breakfast I returned to the noise I had heard and said I was at first afraid some escaped prisoner or ‘bush-ranger’ had broke in. The woman acted more than usually nervous — said she had been suffering from a toothache in the night and was looking for something to relieve the pain.

She did not return to collect the dishes but sent the girl who I also questioned. Asked whether the house was haunted, and had I perhaps heard a ghost . Holly’s cheeks looked radiant, but her shyness returned. Said there was no ghost she had ever met. She had tried on her lovely gown on going upstairs, for Mrs Brennan to admire, and the two had been wondering what kind of husband she might get now that she can pass as a lady. A simple guessing-game such as I will never again enjoy!

After breakfast, after they were dressed, Mr Roxburgh said with an abruptness which startled his wife, ‘How long, Ellen, do you suppose we ought to stay before we can decently escape from “Dulcet”?’

Mrs Roxburgh felt she had been ambushed. ‘When we came out for you to be with the brother you haven’t seen in years? And Christmas not yet here!’

‘Oh, well — yes — yes.’ Mr Roxburgh wagged his head and shuffled.

Ellen Roxburgh was oppressed by her own glib words and a sensation as of her stays filling with an ampler form than the years she had actually lived with her respected husband could warrant. She recoiled at once from this premonition of a complacent, cosseted middle-age — by which time (if she reached it) the respected husband would more than likely have left her a widow.

Later in the morning as she sat with her sewing (a hated duty she sometimes prescribed for herself) she heard a thundering outside, and on looking out of the window, caught sight of Garnet Roxburgh on what she took to be her black mare. She was in a lather, nostrils distended pink, from being ‘ridden at the mountain’, Mrs Roxburgh presumed. Evidently the mare was to become one of her more unavoidable prescribed duties.

A few evenings later she was pouring tea for the gentlemen when her brother-in-law announced without preamble, ‘Your mount is chastened, if you feel any inclination to try her.’

Austin Roxburgh, who had consented almost cynically to her riding the horse, at once grew anxious. ‘Not alone, Ellen! I would not like you to ride alone. But there is no reason why you should not accompany Garnet when he rides out on whatever business calls him.’ Anyone must have recognized ‘that old woman’ to whom his brother had laughingly referred.

Mrs Roxburgh gave no definite answer as she stirred the sugar in her tea.