“Well—no, I am afraid her ladyship might prove formidable, were she to be surprised after that fashion a second time,” he replied, slightly checking his hunter, “I only propose to see you and Jupiter safe on some avenue of the park, where you can scamper home in safety. I must be in-doors before Lady Catherine, or this escapade will be difficult to account for.”
My cheek grew hot with mortified pride; I felt that he was afraid of some annoyance, perhaps ashamed of having returned for me. Without a word I drew in Jupiter with a suddenness that made him leap—wheeled him on one side, and plunged into the woods, leaving the gentleman, for a moment, unconscious of my desertion.
He followed directly, urging his hunter to a run, and calling after me as he dashed through the trees. I took no heed, and gave back no answer; the blood was burning in my temples; I felt my lips curve and quiver with insulted pride. No man or boy living should speak to me, or look at me, who was ashamed to do it before all the world. Then my heart began to ache even in its wrath. I had thought so well of him, his interest in my loneliness, his brave fight with the hounds—why, why did he exert all this tender strength in my behalf to wound me so cruelly afterward? He was by my side, but I kept my head averted with girlish willfulness, expressing my displeasure rudely like any other spoiled child.
“Will you not tell me why you ran away?” he said, attempting to rest one hand upon my saddle as he cantered by me.
Oh, how I longed to lift my pretty riding-whip and strike him hard across the face! I think the act would have appeased me.
“Say, child, will you explain this bit of very bad manners?” he urged, evidently determined to provoke me to some reply.
“Child!” This was too much; the whole taunt stung me into speech. I checked Jupiter, and felt the fire leap into my face as it was turned toward my persecutor. He looked grave—offended.
“Because I wish to ride alone: I’m not used to company, and don’t want any, especially of persons who are afraid or ashamed of being kind to me,” I said, half crying amid my fiery vexation.
“I am not afraid, and am not ashamed,” he answered gravely; “yet you cannot understand, child, for with all that fierce temper you are but a child!”
“I am more than twelve—thirteen, fifteen, for what any one knows,” I said, half blinding myself with tears. “I understand what it is just as well as you can tell me; you are afraid of that haughty person, your mother. You are not quite satisfied with having braved the hounds before a whole crowd of people, for a little girl who has only Mr. Turner to care for her. Oh, yes, I know—I could feel that without knowing!”