CHAPTER XXXVI.
Sir David Blythewood had a particularly infectious laugh, and like all men who make a plaything of their own dignity, he was wont to find his risibilities tickled consumedly before the solemnity of another’s self-importance. Sooner or later the humorous side of any situation would find him, and then, perhaps, it was only those at whom his mischief of merriment was directed who failed to appreciate his sense of the comical.
Now the history of the “Lake of Wine,” as he knew it, had been almost a life-long tradition with him, and a very seriously romantic one, too; but this latest phase of it was destined to quite suddenly make its appeal to him—after some weighty and respectful consideration—from a quarter that, it appeared, his gravity had left unguarded. That it did so is mentioned in this connection for the reason that a certain explosion of mirth on his part was fruitful of consequences.
He and Tuke had ridden over to Winchester to acquaint Luvaine of the progress of events. Perhaps they had not thought to do more than discuss the matter, according to promise, with this melancholy monomaniac. He, however, had relieved them of any hospitable embarrassment they might have felt by at once without any attempt at apology, inviting himself to return with them, with the intimation that it would go nearer to satisfy him if they could thresh out the question on the spot. In order to this, therefore, Tuke—stifling a certain natural antipathy he felt to the man—had prevailed upon him to become for awhile his guest at “Delsrop”; and now the three, slowly trotting by way of a harshly white and iron-bound country, were making, chill and rather silent, for that lonely dwelling-place.
Riding down into Stockbridge with little concern for anything but the dangerous road, Tuke had the tail of his eye, nevertheless, for the “First Inn,” and for Betty standing at the door thereof, serving a mug of ale to a solitary traveller. The girl dropped a curtsey, as in duty bound, to the gentlemen, two of whom saluted her in reply—Blythewood, smilingly; Tuke, gravely; but the wench’s fair soft figure, standing there in bravery of the bitter cold, and her sad mouth and lowered eyelids, dwelt with him by many an after mile, and his heart throbbed out to the forlorn passion he was so hopeless to comfort.
By and by, Sir David turned to his friend a face that struggled with some tickling convulsion.
“What the deuce is the matter with you?” said the latter.
“Eh? Oh! nothin’—nothin’ whatever, Tuke. I say, did you note the gentleman in the jumper?”
“Gentleman? Where?”
“Him that was drinkin’ the ale?”