The others laughed, some contemptuously, glancing at their own well-equipped animals the while, some constrainedly, for they knew the approaching guest, and felt a slight compunction in seeming to side with Mr. Ferris. Barton began to smile stiffly, but presently bit his lip and drew his brows together.
Pressing the handle of his riding-whip against his chin, he stared vacantly up the lane, muttering “We must wait, I suppose.”
His lids were lifted in wonder the next moment; he seized Ferris by the arm, and exclaimed:—
“Whom have we here?”
All eyes turned in the same direction, descried a dashing horseman in the lane.
“Upon my soul I don't know,” said Ferris. “Anybody expected from the Fagg's Manor way?”
“Not of my inviting,” Barton answered.
The other guests professed their entire ignorance of the stranger, who, having by this time passed the bars, rode directly up to the group. He was a short, broad-shouldered man of nearly forty, with a red, freckled face, keen, snapping gray eyes, and a close, wide mouth. Thick, jet-black whiskers, eyebrows and pig-tail made the glance of those eyes, the gleam of his teeth, and the color of his skin where it was not reddened by the wind, quite dazzling. This violent and singular contrast gave his plain, common features an air of distinction. Although his mulberry coat was somewhat faded, it had a jaunty cut, and if his breeches were worn and stained, the short, muscular thighs and strong knees they covered, told of a practised horseman.
He rode a large bay gelding, poorly groomed, and apparently not remarkable for blood, but with no marks of harness on his rough coat.
“Good-day to you, gentlemen!” said the stranger, familiarly knocking the handle of his whip against his cocked hat. “Squire Barton, how do you do?”