CHAPTER XII. A VERY “CROSS EXAMINATION”
The morning was bright and sunny, the air sharp, crisp, and bracing, as the heavy travelling-carriage which conveyed Mr. Martin and Lady Dorothea rolled smoothly along the trimly kept approach to Cro' Martin. Many a beautiful glade, many a lovely vista opened on them as they passed along deep-bosomed woods and gently swelling slopes, dotted over with cattle, stretched away on either side; while far in the distance could be seen the battlemented towers of the princely residence.
The lover of nature might have felt intense pleasure at a scene so abounding in objects of beauty. A painter would have lingered with delight over effects of light and shade, glorious displays of color, and graceful groupings of rocks and trees and gnarled stumps. A proud man might have exulted in the selfish enjoyment of feeling that these were all his own; while a benevolent one would have revelled in the thought of all the channels through which such wealth might carry the blessings of aid and charity.
Which of these feelings predominated now in the minds of those who, snugly encased in furs, occupied the respective corners of the ample coach? Shall we own it? Not any of them. A dreamy, unremarking indifference was the sentiment of each; and they sat silently gazing on a prospect which suggested nothing, nor awoke one passing emotion in their hearts. Had any one been there to express his admiration of the landscape,—praised the trees, the cattle, or the grassy slopes,—Martin might have heard him with pleasure, and listened even with interest to his description. My Lady, too, might not unwillingly have lent an ear to some flattery of the splendid demesne of which she was mistress, and accepted as half homage the eulogy of what was hers. None such was, however, there; and so they journeyed along, as seemingly unconscious as though the scene were wrapped in midnight darkness.
Martin had known the spot, and every detail of it, from his boyhood. The timber, indeed, had greatly grown,—graceful saplings had become stately trees, and feathery foliage deepened into leafy shade; but he himself had grown older, too, and his sense of enjoyment, dulled and deadened with years, saw nothing in the scene to awaken pleasure. As for Lady Dorothea, she had reasoned herself into the notion that the walls of her own grounds were the boundaries of a prison, and had long convinced herself that she was a suffering martyr to some mysterious sense of duty. From the drowsy languor in which they reclined they were both aroused, as the pace of the carriage gradually diminished from a smooth brisk trot to an uneven jolting motion, the very reverse of agreeable.
“What have they done? Where are they going?” said Lady Dorothea, peevishly.
And Martin called out from the window, in tones even less gentle. “Oh, it's the new approach; the road is not quite completed,” said he, half sulkily, as he resumed his place.
“Another of Miss Martin's clever devices, which, I must say, I never concurred in.”
“Why, you always professed to hate the old road by the stables.”