“Oh, not the least danger; I'll take care of all that,” returned Lawless; “the little white mare is as gentle as a lamb: I cantered her across the park myself yesterday on purpose to try—the sweetest thing for a lady I ever set eyes on. You have got some good cattle in your stables, Harry, I must own that.”
“Hadn't we better think of mounting? Time will not stand still for us,” observed I.
“Let me assist you, Fanny,” said Oaklands, advancing towards her.
“Thank you,” replied Fanny, drawing back: “but I need not give you the trouble; Frank will help me.”
“Here, get out of the way!” cried Lawless, as I hesitated, fancying from the shade on Oaklands' brow that he might not like to be interfered with; “I see none of you know how to help a lady properly. Bring up that mare,” he continued, “closer—that's it; stand before her head. Now, Miss Fairlegh, take a firm hold of the pummel; place your foot in my hand—are you ready?—spring! there we are—famously done! Oh, you know what you are about, I see. Let me give you the rein—between the fingers; yes—the snaffle will manage her best; the curb may hang loose, and only use it if it is necessary; let the groom stand by her till I am mounted; the black horse is rather fidgety; soh! boy, soh! quiet!—stand you brute!—there's a good boy; steady, steady—off we go!”
As Lawless pushed by me at the beginning of this speech, Oaklands advanced towards him, and his pale cheek flushed with anger. Apparently, however, changing his intention, he drew himself up haughtily, and, turning on his heel, walked slowly to his horse, mounted, and reining him back a few paces, sat motionless as an equestrian statue, gazing on the party with a gloomy brow until we had started, when, suddenly applying the spur, he joined us in a couple of bounds, and took his station at Fanny's left hand. Lawless having appropriated the off side, devoted himself to the double task of managing the Arab and doing the agreeable to its fair rider, which latter design he endeavoured to accomplish by chattering incessantly.
After proceeding a mile or two, Lawless sustaining the whole burden of the conversation, while Oaklands never spoke a word, we came upon a piece of level greensward.
“Here's a famous place for a canter, Miss Fairlegh,” exclaimed Lawless; “lean a little more towards me—that's right. Are you ready?—just tickle her neck with the whip—not too hard—jerk the rein slightly—gently, mare, gently!—there's a good horse, that's it! Eh! don't you see she settles into her pace as quietly as a rocking-horse—oh! she's a sweet thing for a feather-weight;” and restraining the plunging of the fiery animal he rode, he leaned over, and patted the Arab's arched neck, as they went off at an easy canter.
I was about to follow their example, but observing that Oaklands delayed putting his horse in motion, it occurred to me that this being the first ride he had taken since his illness, the exertion might possibly be too much for his strength; I waited, therefore, till he joined me, when I inquired whether he felt any ill effects from the unwonted exertion.
“No,” was the reply. “I feel an odd kind of fluttering in my side, but it is only weakness.”