“Are you going to ride, Creagh?” cried a friend from a high tax-cart.
“Maybe so, if the fences are not too big for me;” and a very malicious drollery twinkled in his gray eye.
“Faix, and if they are,” said a farmer, “the rest may stay at home.”
“I hope you 'll ride, Creagh,” said the first speaker, “and not let these English fellows take the shine out of us. Yourself and Tom are the only county names on the card.”
“Show it to me,” said Creagh, listlessly; and he took the printed list in his hand and conned it over, as though it had all been new to him. “They 're all soldiers, I see,” said he. “It's Major This, and Captain That—Who is the lady?” This question was rapidly called forth by a horsewoman who rode past at an easy canter in the midst of a group of men. She was dressed in a light-gray habit and hat of the same color, from which a long white feather encircling the hat hung on one side.
“That's Mrs. Sewell,—what do you think of her riding?”
“If her husband has as neat a hand, I 'd rather he was out of the course. She knows well what she 's about.”
“They say there's not her equal in the park in London.”
“That's not park riding; that's something very different, take my word for it. She could lead half the men here across the country.”
Nor was she unworthy of the praise, as, with her hand low, her head a little forward, but her back well curved in, she sat firmly down in her saddle; giving to the action of the horse that amount of movement that assisted the animal, but never more. The horse was mettlesome enough to require all her attention. It was his first day under a sidesaddle, and he chafed at it, and when the heavy skirt smote his flank, bounded with a lunge and a stroke of his head that showed anger.