The Woods in Winter by Stella Gibbons

Author:Stella Gibbons
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-10-22T00:00:00+00:00

Lord Gowerville and Milo were walking through the woods above The Hall one afternoon, about ten days after his visit to Ivy. Man and dog were enjoying their stroll; Lord Gowerville liked to see Milo waddling ahead, pausing to root into soft patches of earth on the banks at the edge of the wood where primroses would grow in the spring, or to snuff the sharp air of evening, and Milo liked snuffing and rooting and being with Lord Gowerville.

Low rays of lemon light from the setting sun pierced between the massive trunks as they entered the beechwood; Lord Gowerville poked discontentedly with his stick at a trailing bramble, then slashed at an aspen sapling. The place needed thoroughly going over by skilled men. It was a pleasure to walk along the grassy ride running through the forest; no seedlings could grow under that dense canopy of leaves, though ahead he would come on the victorious bracken, edging the slope above the house and yearly creeping down nearer to it, beastly stuff; he trod firmly on the lacy brown leaves of a young plant that had somehow found a footing at the verge, beastly stuff.

Only God knew what the state of the place would be when his time came to go, and young Heriot took over. The price of land was going down as quickly as the value of money. Ah well, no nation could fight as England had fought, for the last four years, and come out unscathed.

Milo waddled quickly past him, uttering the bark that was so much stronger than the weak, hoarse sound of ten days ago.

“What’s the matter, boy? Rabbits?”

No—oh lord, if it wasn’t poor little Angela Mordaunt, all caught up in one of those confounded brambles. It was all right; he had answered her letter asking permission to walk in the woods with a friendly note inviting her to scramble about and pick all the rubbish she wanted (he had not, of course, put it like that). But he did not care to be reminded just how much rubbish—bracken, brambles, spindly seedlings—grew there.

She was trying to tear her skirt away from the thorns, really pulling at it quite violently, and he was almost certain he could hear muttering.

“Damn . . . damn . . . blast . . .” It was such a soft voice, he couldn’t be certain. Poor little girl; poor Angela. His wife had had strong views about her mother, that charming woman. But women often had strong views about other women.

“Hullo, Miss Mordaunt, can I be of any help?” Lord Gowerville came towards her, cap in hand. He did not like women, particularly unhappy women, picking rubbish in his woods that should not be growing there, but not a sign of what he felt showed on his face.

“Oh Lord Gowerville!” Her mannish hat had got itself tilted sideways and her soft hair, no longer a bright brown and not yet grey, was flying about her face. “How kind of you!”

She tried

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