Willing Horse

Ian Hay

Description

In this stirring novel of World War I, Ian Hay delves beyond the familiar accounts from the history books and gives readers a glimpse of the many ways the war impacted salt-of-the-earth families in Scotland and England, who demonstrated their bravery and dedication to the effort in their own unique manner.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 décembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776674794
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE WILLING HORSE
A NOVEL
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IAN HAY
 
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The Willing Horse A Novel First published in 1921 Epub ISBN 978-1-77667-479-4 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77667-480-0 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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To the Reader Chapter I - The Valleys Stand so Thick with Corn Chapter II - Rebellious Marjorie Chapter III - Der Tag Chapter IV - A Tryst Chapter V - The Inevitable Chapter VI - Solo Chapter VII - Duet Chapter VIII - Chorus Chapter IX - The Book of the Words Chapter X - Discipline! Discipline! Discipline! Chapter XI - Enfin! Chapter XII - Tom Birnie Chapter XIII - Albert Clegg Chapter XIV - Two Sparrows Chapter XV - The Explorer Chapter XVI - The Great Pretend Chapter XVII - The Undefeated Chapter XVIII - The Old Order Chapter XIX - The Last Throw Chapter XX - Fountain Keep Chapter XXI - Identities Chapter XXII - The Mills of God Chapter XXIII - The Soul of Eric Bethune Chapter XXIV - Through
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TO
H. M. B.
To the Reader
*
One is informed that novels touching upon the war are no longer read.This, if true, reduces the novelist to the following alternatives:
(1) Writing a novel of some period of the world's history antecedent tothe year nineteen-fourteen. This is undoubtedly a wide field—theChristian era alone covers twenty centuries—but it has been cultivatedby several writers already.
(2) Writing a post-war novel in which it is assumed that the war neverhappened. This would make it rather difficult to know what to do withthe graves of our dead.
(3) Writing a post-war novel about people who took no part in the war.This would restrict one's choice of hero, heroine, and charactersgenerally to Certified Lunatics, Convicts in residence, andConscientious Objectors.
I have therefore decided to take a chance. The tale which follows isbased:
( a ) Upon a frank admission that there has been a war.
( b ) Upon a humble belief that the people chiefly worth writing aboutin these days are those who gave body, soul—everything—to win thatwar.
That explains my choice of title.
Chapter I - The Valleys Stand so Thick with Corn
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I
A Sunday at Baronrigg is a chastening experience. It is not exactly aday of wrath—though one feels that it might easily become one—but itis a time of tribulation for people who do not want to go to church—or,if the worst happens, prefer their religious exercises to be brief anddilute.
But neither brevity nor dilution makes any appeal to my friend TomBirnie.
"I am a member," he announces, as soon as a quorum has assembled atSunday breakfast, "of the old Kirk of Scotland; and I propose to attendservice at Doctor Chirnside's at eleven o'clock. If any of you wouldcare"—he addresses a suddenly presented perspective of immaculatepartings, bald spots and permanent waves—"to accompany me, a conveyancewill leave here at ten-forty."
"Well, we can't all get in, that's plain," chirps Miss Joan Dexterhopefully. (The table is laid for fourteen.)
"The conveyance," continues the inexorable Tom, "holds twelve inside andfour out, not counting the coachman."
"It's no good, Joan, old fruit," observes Master Roy Birnie. "We keep apantechnicon!"
"I suppose there's not a Church of England service within reach?" askslittle Mrs. Pomeroy, rather ingeniously. "One's own Church makes anappeal to one which no other denominationcannot—can—adequately—doesn't it?" she concludes, a little uncertainboth of her syntax and her host. This is her first visit to Baronrigg.
"Now she's done for herself!" whispers Master Roy into my left ear.
"I agree with you. There is an Episcopal Church—Scottish Episcopal, ofcourse—at Fiddrie, three miles from here. I shall be happy to send youover there this evening at half-past six. This morning, I know, youwill put up with our barbaric Northern rites!" replies Tom, with what heimagines to be an indulgent smile. "I like to see the Baronrigg pewfull."
And full it is.
The longer I know Tom Birnie, the more I marvel that Diana Carrickmarried him. That sentiment is shared by a good many people, but onmore abstract grounds than mine. Tom is a just and consideratelandlord, an adequate sportsman, and a good specimen of that class bywhose voluntary service this country gets most of its local governmentdone, admirably, for nothing. But there are certain things against Tom.
In the first place—to quote old Lady Christina Bethune, ofBuckholm—"no one knows who the creature is, or where he came from."This implies nothing worse than that since Tom represents the firstgeneration of Birnies born in this county, his forbears must have beenborn somewhere else. In other words—still quoting the samedistinguished authority—"they never existed at all." As a matter offact and common knowledge, Tom's grandfather was a minister of the Kirk,somewhere in Perthshire, and his father an enormously successful memberof the Scottish Bar, who bought the derelict little estate of Strawick,hard by here, and settled there in the late sixties with thepresumptuous, but, I think, excusable, intention of founding a family.Naturally a family which has resided in our county for only forty-sevenyears can hardly be expected to have drifted, as yet, within the rangeof Lady Christina's lorgnette.
Secondly, Tom is a Radical. We are broad-minded people in this county,and are quite indulgent to persons who disapprove of the leaseholdsystem (which does not obtain in Scotland), or who make excuses for thelate Mr. Gladstone, or who are inclined to criticise pheasantpreserving. That is the kind of Radicalism which we understand, and areprepared to tolerate. That was the sort of person Tom's father was.That is how Tom began. But of late, it must be confessed, Tom has beengoing it. He supports the present Government; he is for reducing theArmy and Navy; he has recently helped to abolish our Second Chamber.(That was no great calamity; but he and his friends have omitted toprovide us with a substitute.) He has openly applauded the efforts of aperson named George to break up the foundations of our well-tried SocialSystem; while the courses which he advocates with regard to the taxationof Land Values and the treatment of loyal Ulster, surpass belief. Thatis what the county has against Tom.
But I am neither a laird nor a farmer, and my indictment against Tom isbased on more personal and less venial grounds. Firstly, he is nothuman. He is a calculating machine, with about as much passion as aparish pump. Secondly, he is absolutely destitute of all sense ofhumour. And yet Diana married him! Her own beautiful person exhaledhumanity and humour in equal proportions. In all her short life I neverknew her fail to understand a fellow-creature, or miss a humoroussituation. Yet she married Tom Birnie. She married Tom Birnie, and shebroke off her engagement with Eric Bethune to do it. I am ahumble-minded person, and I never professed to understand any woman—noteven my own wife, Diana's sister—but I wonder, even now, how any girlcould have resisted Eric Bethune as he was twenty years ago, or, havinggot him, have relinquished him in favour of Tom Birnie. There wassomething pretty big and tragic behind that broken-off engagement. MyEve knew what it was—I suppose Diana told her about it—but when Iasked for the explanation I was tersely instructed not to be aninquisitive old busybody. As for Eric, he never mentioned the matter tome. He simply informed me that my services as best man would not berequired after all, and that he would be gratified if I would refrainfrom asking damn silly questions. (Not that I had asked any.) Also,that he looked to me to prevent other persons from doing so.
And now Tom Birnie is a baronet and a widower, with a son eighteen yearsold, and Eric Bethune is still an eligible bachelor of forty-three. Andhow he hates Tom Birnie! However, I will introduce Eric presently.First of all, I must get our party to church.
II
The ancestral hereditary omnibus of the house of Baronrigg deposited usat the kirk door at ten fifty-five precisely, and by the time that theReverend Doctor Chirnside's Bible and hymn-book had been set out uponthe red velvet cushion of the pulpit by a bulbous old friend of minenamed James Dunshie—an octogenarian of austere piety, an infallibleauthority on dry-fly fishing, and a methodical but imperviousdrinker—we were all boxed into our places in the private gallery ofBaronrigg. It is less of a gallery than a balcony, and juts outcuriously from the side of the little church, with the public galleryrunning across the end wall on its right, and the minister on its left.It recedes into a deep alcove, and at the back is a fireplace, in whicha fire is always kept burning upon wintry Sundays. The Baronriggpew—and, indeed, Baronrigg itself—came into the family from Diana'sside of the house: she brought them to Tom on her marriage. The pew isrich in Carrick associations. It is reported of old Neil Carrick, thegrandfather of Diana and my Eve, that whenever he found himselfdissatisfied—a not infrequent occurrence—with the discourse of DoctorChirnside's predecessor, it was his habit to rise from his red rep chairin the forefront of the gallery, retire to the back, make up the firewith much clatter of fire-irons, and slumber peacefully before theresulting blaze with his back to the rest of the congregation. But nosuch licence was permitted to us. We sat austerely in two rows, gazingsolemnly at the blank wall opposite us, while Doctor Chirnside workedhis wi