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"And will there be nobody at the Farm to help me," she asked, a trifle dismayed. "The farmer his name is Cordery rides, after a fashion. But he knows nothing of a side-saddle, if indeed he has ever seen one." "Then to trot, canter, and gallop I must teach myself," she thought; for among the close plantations of Sabines there was room for neither.
I could see Charles wriggle inside his clothes. He was most uncomfortable. That a man like Cordery should say such things, in so loud a voice, on no matter how little foundation, openly in Piccadilly, was enough in itself to make a sensitive barometer such as Cloetedorp Golcondas go down a point or two. "Hush, hush!"
He was calling, in that easy masterful voice of his, for one of the Cordery lads to take the pair to stable. Lemuel came running. In the act of dismounting he caught sight of her and paused to lift his hat. But before dismissing the horses to stable he looked them over, as a good master should. He was coming towards her. . . . Three paces away he halted, and his smile changed to a frown.
The last abbot, John Cordery, surrendered it in the July of 1537, but he and his community were not immediately dispersed, they were taken off to fill that strange new foundation of Bisham, of which we shall hear later in connection with the river, and which in its turn immediately disappeared.
She had never leapt a gate; had attempted a bank now and then, but nothing serious. Her success at the water-jumps tempted her; and the mare, galloping with her second wind, seemed to feel the temptation every whit as strongly. In the instant of rising to it Ruth wondered what Farmer Cordery would say if she broke his top bar. . . . The mare's feet touched it lightly rap, rap. She was over.
She would test the mare's speed and enjoy this hour before returning to Tatty's chit-chat, the evening lamp, and the office of family prayer with which Farmer Cordery duly dismissed his household for the night. She pricked Madcap down the slope, and at the foot of it launched her on the gallop.
There, jumbled together, he will find names marking the noblest Saxon or Angle blood Kenward or Kenric, Osgood or Osborne, side by side with Cordery or Banister now names of farmers in my own parish or other Norman-French names which may be, like those two last, in Battle Abbey roll and side by side the almost ubiquitous Brown, whose ancestor was probably some Danish or Norwegian house-carle, proud of his name Biorn the Bear, and the ubiquitous Smith or Smythe, the Smiter, whose forefather, whether he be now peasant or peer, assuredly handled the tongs and hammer at his own forge.
Cordery, also in the backyard, calling the poultry for their meal of Indian corn; the opening and shutting of windows as rooms were redded and dusted; lastly, Miss Quiney's tentative touch on the spinet.
Sir Oliver would escort the travellers for twelve miles on their way, to a point where the inland road broke into cart-tracks, and the tracks diverged across a country newly disafforested and strewn with jagged stumps among which the heavy vehicle could by no means be hauled. Here Farmer Cordery was to be in waiting with his light tilt-covered wagon.
There was a certain hill upon the way, and he would not have her pass it by daylight. He had returned that morning to Boston; Miss Quiney with him. Ruth's eyes were moist to leave these good folk. Farmer Cordery cleared his throat and blessed her in parting. She blessed them in return.
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