She had been out of temper while dressing him.
“If I'm in at the death I expect Colonel Inch will blood me.
“You won't see any death,” said nanny.
Now she stood with her eyes at a narrow slit gazing rather resentfully at the animated scene below.
“It's all a lot of nonsense of Ben Hacket's,” she thought.
She deplored it all, hounds, Master, field, huntsman and whippers-in, Miss Tendril's niece in her mackintosh, Jock in rat-catcher, Mrs. Rattery in tall hat and cutaway coat oblivious of the suspicious glances of the subscribers, Tony smiling and chatting to his guests, the crazy old man with the terriers, the Press photographer, pretty Miss Ripon in difficulties with a young horse, titapping sideways over the lawn, the grooms and second horses, the humble, unknown followers in the background — it was all a lot of nonsense of Ben Hacket's.
“It was after eleven before the child got to sleep last night,” she reflected, “he was that over-excited.”
Presently they moved off towards Bruton wood. The way lay down the South drive through Compton Last, along the main road for half a mile, and then through fields.
“He can ride with them as far as the covert,” Tony had said.
“Yes, sir, and there'd be no harm in his staying a bit to see hounds working, would there?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“And if he breaks away towards home, there'd be no harm in our following a bit, if we keeps to the lanes and gates, would there, sir?”
“No, but he's not to stay out more than an hour.”
“You wouldn't have me take him home with hounds running, would you, sir?”
“Well he's got to be in before one.”
“I'll see to that, sir.”
“Don't you worry, my beauty,” he said to John, “you'll get a hunt right enough.”
They waited until the end of the line of horses and then trotted soberly behind them.
Close at their heels followed the motor-cars, at low gear, in a fog of exhaust gas.
John was breathless and slightly dizzy.
Thunderclap was tossing her head and worrying at her snaffle.
Twice while the field was moving off, she had tried to get away and had taken John round in a little circle, so that Ben had said,
“Hold on to her, son” and had come up close beside him so as to be able to catch the reins if she looked like bolting.
Once boring forwards with her head she took John by surprise and pulled him forwards out of his balance; he caught hold of the front of the saddle to steady himself and looked guiltily at Ben.
“I'm afraid I'm riding very badly today.
D'you think anyone has noticed?”
“That's all right, son.
You can't keep riding-school manners when you're hunting.”
Jock and Mrs. Rattery trotted side by side.
“I rather like this absurd horse,” she said; she rode astride and it was evident from the moment she mounted that she rode extremely well.
The members of the Pigstanton noted this with ill-concealed resentment for it disturbed their fixed opinion according to which, though all fellow members of the hunt were clowns and poltroons, strangers were without exception mannerless lunatics, and a serious menace to anyone within quarter of a mile of them.
Half way through the village Miss Ripon had difficulties in getting past a stationary baker's van.
Her horse plunged and reared, trembling all over, turning about, and slipping frantically over the tarmac: They rode round her giving his heels the widest berth, scowling ominously and grumbling about her.
They all knew that horse.
Miss Ripon's father had been trying to sell him all the season, and had lately come down to eighty pounds.
He was a good jumper on occasions but a beast of a horse to ride.
Did Miss Ripon's father really imagine he was improving his chances of a sale by letting Miss Ripon make an exhibition of herself?
It was like that skinflint Miss Ripon's father, to risk Miss Ripon's neck for eighty pounds.
And anyway Miss Ripon had no business out on any horse …
Presently she shot past them at a canter; she was flushed in the face and her bun was askew; she leant back, pulling with all her weight.
“That girl will come to no good,” said Jock.
They encountered her later at the covert.
Her horse was sweating and lathered at the bridle but temporarily at rest cropping the tufts of sedge that lay round the woods.
Miss Ripon was much out of breath, and her hands shook as she fiddled with veil, bun and bowler.
John rode up to Jock's side.
“What's happening, Mr. Grant-Menzies?”
“Hounds are drawing the covert.”
“Oh.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Oh yes.