“I won’t.”
“It’s a waste of time, I assure you. Besides, it’s mere vanity. It’s only because everybody likes you—so you think that I should too.”
“Between us, we are getting at my character at last,” observed Brook with some asperity. “You’ve discovered my vanity, now. By-and-by we shall find out some more good qualities.”
“Perhaps. Each one will be a step in our acquaintance, you know. Steps may lead down, as well as up. We are walking down hill on this road just now, and it’s steep. Look at that unfortunate mule dragging that cart up hill towards us! That’s like trying to be friends, against odds. I wish the man would not beat the beast like that, though! What brutes these people are!”
Her dark blue eyes fixed themselves keenly on the sight, and the pupils grew wide and angry. The cart was a hundred yards away, coming up the road, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and drawn by one wretched mule. The huge carter was sprawling on the front sacks, yelling a tuneless chant at the top of his voice. He was a black-haired man, with a hideous mouth, and his face was red with wine. As he yelled his song he flogged his miserable beast with a heavy whip, accenting his howls with cruel blows. Clare grew pale with anger as she came nearer and saw it all more distinctly. The mule’s knees bent nearly double at every violent step, its wide eyes were bright red all round, its white tongue hung out, and it gasped for breath. The road was stony, too, besides being steep, for it had been lately mended and not rolled.
“Brute!” exclaimed Clare, in a low voice, and her face grew paler.
Johnstone said nothing, and his face did not change as they advanced.
“Don’t you see?” cried the young girl. “Can’t you do anything? Can’t you stop him?”
“Oh yes. I think I can do that,” answered Brook indifferently. “It is rather rough on the mule.”