“I should think it was an inexpensive amusement,” said Christopher, in his most impersonal and academic manner, “but likely to pall.”
“Pall! Deuce a bit of it!” Lambert put a toothpick in his mouth, and began to chew it, to convey the effect of ease. “I can tell you I’ve known that girl since she was the length of my stick, and I never saw her that she wasn’t up to some game or other; and she wasn’t over particular about engagements or anything else!”
Christopher slightly shifted his position, but did not speak, and Lambert went on:
“I’m very fond of the girl, and she’s a good-hearted little thing; but, by Jove! I was sorry to see the way she went on with that fellow Hawkins. Here he was, morning, noon, and night, walking with her, and steam-launching, and spooning, and setting all the old women in the place prating. I spoke to her about it, and much thanks I got, though there was a time she was ready enough to mind what I said to her.” During this recital Mr. Lambert’s voice had been deficient in the accent of gentlemanlike self importance that in calmer moments he was careful to impart to it, and the raw Limerick brogue was on top as he said, “Yes, by George! I remember the time when she wasn’t above fancying your humble servant!”
He had almost forgotten his original idea; his own position, long brooded over, rose up out of all proportion, and confused his mental perspective, till Christopher Dysart’s opinions were lost sight of. He was recalled to himself by a startling expression on the face of his confidant, an expression of almost unconcealed disgust, that checked effectively any further outpourings. Christopher did not look at him again, but turned from the window, and, taking up Miss Mullen’s photograph-book, proceeded to a minute inspection of its contents. Neither he nor Lambert quite knew what would happen next, each in his own way being angry enough for any emergency, and both felt an extreme relief when Francie’s abrupt entrance closed the situation.
“Well, I wasn’t long now, was I?” she said breathlessly; “but what’ll I do? I can’t find my gloves!” She swept out of the corner of the sofa a cat that had been slumbering unseen behind a cushion. “Here they are! and full of fleas, I’ll be bound, after Clementina sleeping on them! Oh, goodness! Are both of you too angry to speak to me? I didn’t think I was so long. Come on out to the yard; you can’t say I’m keeping you now.”
She whirled out of the room, and by the time Lambert and Christopher got into the yard, she had somehow dragged the black mare out of the cow-shed and was clambering on to her back with the aid of a wheel-barrow.
Riding has many charms, but none of its eulogists have properly dwelt on the advantages it offers to the unconversational. To ride in silence is the least marked form of unsociability, for something of the same reason that talking on horseback is one of the pleasantest modes of converse. The power of silence cuts both ways, and simplifies either confidence or its reverse amazingly. It so happened, however, that had Lambert had the inclination to make himself agreeable to his companions he could not have done so. Christopher’s carriage-horse trotted with the machine-like steadiness of its profession, and the black mare, roused to emulation, flew along beside him, ignoring the feebly expressed desire of her rider that she should moderate her pace. Christopher, indeed, seldom knew or cared at what pace his horse was going, and was now by no means sorry to find that the question of riding along with Lambert had been settled for him. The rough, young chestnut was filled with a vain-glory that scorned to trot, and after a great deal of brilliant ramping and curveting he fell into a kind of heraldic action, half-canter, half-walk, that left him more and more hopelessly in the rear, and raised Lambert’s temper to boiling point.
“We’re going very fast, aren’t we?” panted Francie, trying to push down her rebellious habit-skirt with her whip, as they sped along the flat road between Lismoyle and Bruff. “I’m afraid Mr. Lambert can’t keep up. That’s a dreadfully wild horse he’s riding.”
“Are we?” said Christopher vaguely. “Shall we pull up? Here, woa, you brute!” He pulled the carriage-horse into a walk, and looked at Francie with a laugh. “I’m beginning to hope you’re as bad a rider as I am,” he said sympathetically. “Let me hold your reins, while you’re pinning up that plait.”