Straight ahead of
her the track dipped to a lane, and beyond that the ground rose again
in fields sprinkled with the drab and white of sheep and lambs and
backed by the elm trees of Sales Hall. She could see the chimneys of
the house and the rooks' nests in the elm tops and, as though the
sight reminded her of something mildly amusing, the smoothness of her
face was ruffled by a smile, the stillness of her pose by a quick
glance about her, but if she looked for anyone she did not find him.
There were small sounds from the larch wood, little creakings and
rustlings, but there was no human footstep, and the only visible
movements were made by the breeze in the trees and in the grass, the
flight of a bird and the distant gambolling of lambs.
She rode on down the steep, stony slope into the lane, and after
hesitating for a moment she turned to the right where the lane was
broadened by a border of rich grass and a hedge-topped bank. Here
primroses lay snugly in their clumps of crinkled leaves and, wishing
to feel the coolness of their slim, pale stalks between her fingers,
Rose Mallett dismounted, slipped the reins over her arm and allowed
her horse to feed while she stooped to the flowers. Then, in the full
sunshine, with the soft breeze trying to loosen her hair, with the
flowers in her bare hand, she straightened herself, consciously happy
in the beauty of the day, in the freedom and strength of her body, in
the smell of the earth and the sight of the country she had known and
loved all her life.
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