“What are you, asking for her?—canna you answer a straightforred question, man?” reiterated Sir Archy, in a voice there was no mistaking.
“Twenty guineas, then,” replied Lanty, in a tone of defiance; “and if ye offer me pounds I won't take it.”
Sir Archy made no answer; but turning to the old cabinet, he unlocked one of the small doors, and drew forth a long leather pouch, curiously embroidered with silver; from this he took ten guineas in gold, and laid them leisurely on the table. The horse dealer eyed them askance, but without the slightest sign of having noticed them.
“I'm no goin' to buy your beast, Mr. Lawler,” said the old man, slowly; “I'm just goin' merely to buy your ain good sense and justice. You say the powney is worth twenty guineas.”
“As sure as I stand here. I wouldn't—”
“Weel, weel, I'm content. There's half the money; tak' it, but never let's hear anither word about her here: bring her awa wi' ye; sell or shoot her, do what ye please wi' her; but, mind me, man”—here, his voice became full, strong, and commanding—“tak' care that ye meddle not wi' that young callant, Herbert. Dinna fill his head wi' ranting thoughts of dogs and horses. Let there be one of the house wi' a soul above a scullion or a groom. Ye have brought ruin enough here; you can spare the boy, I trow: there, sir, tak' your money.”
For a second or two, Lanty seemed undecided whether to reject or accept a proposal so humiliating in its terms; and when at length he acceded, it was rather from his dread of the consequences of refusal, than from any satisfaction the bargain gave him.
“I'm afraid, Sir Archibald,” said he, half timidly, “I'm afraid you don't understand me well.”
“I'm afraid I do,” rejoined the old man, with a bitter smile on his lip; “but it's better we should understand each other. Good night.”
“Well, good night to you, any how,” said Lanty, with a slight sigh, as he dropped the money into his pocket, and left the room.