As he spoke, Harry again impatiently flirted the whip over the ears of “My old Aunt Sally,” an indignity which excited the fiery disposition of that highly-descended quadruped, who, throwing up her head and tail, flinging out her fore feet, as though she were sparring with the distance her speed must overcome, and altogether looking her very handsomest, dashed up to the group of pedestrians so suddenly as to cause the two ladies to draw back in alarm; while even the redoubtable Horace himself sprang out of the way with a degree of alacrity which evinced a stronger regard for his personal safety than might have been expected from so heroic a character. For this sacrifice of dignity to the first law of nature, self-preservation, he endeavoured to compensate himself by stroking his moustaches, and staring superciliously at the new comers.
While Hazlehurst, who sprang down the moment the dog-cart stopped, was exchanging greetings with his cousin and sister, Harry was left undisturbed to make his observations on the trio to whom he was about to be introduced. The elder of the two young ladies, who responded to the definition, “My cousin, Miss Kate Marsden,” was above the middle height, and of a singularly graceful figure; her features were delicately formed and regular, her complexion pale, but clear, her hair and eyes dark, the latter being large and expressive, her hands and feet small, and her whole bearing and appearance refined and aristocratic in the extreme; but her features bore a look of proud reserve, which interfered with the effect which her beauty would otherwise have produced—an inscrutable look, which seemed to say, “I have a peculiar and decided character, but I defy you to read it.”
It is of no use to attempt to describe Alice Hazlehurst, for the simple reason that no description could convey an adequate idea of her. Not that she was anything particularly wonderful; she was not even a miracle of beauty—she was only about the best thing this fallen world of ours contains—a bright, high-spirited, pure, simple, true-hearted, lovely, and loveable young girl, just emerging into graceful womanhood; very shy, slightly romantic, full of kindly sympathies and generous impulses, which she concealed as carefully as bad men hide unpopular vices, and with all the deep and noble qualities of her woman’s nature, as well as, alas! its faults and foibles, lying dormant within her, either to be developed in their full completeness, or dwarfed into comparative insignificance, as the hands into which she might fall should prove fitted or unfitted to the great, yet enviable, responsibility of forming her character. As Hazlehurst leapt down, she sprang forward to meet him; then drew back from his hearty embrace with a smile and a blush, which very unnecessarily made her appear prettier than before, to acknowledge, with a bow, her introduction to her brother’s friend.
The third member of the party, Horace D’Almayne, had been well fitted by nature to sustain the character of “exquisite”—tall, and with a graceful, slender figure, his well-formed and regular features, soft dark hair, and brilliant complexion, gave him an undoubted right to the epithet handsome, although it was in a style suited rather to a woman than to a man. The expression of his face, cynical and supercilious when in repose, or when he spoke to one of his own sex, relaxed into a smile of sentimental self-confidence when he addressed a woman. He appeared very young, probably not above two or three and twenty, and was dressed up to the ne plus ultra of refined dandyism.
“‘Why, D’Almayne,” exclaimed Hazlehurst, “how is it that we come to be honoured by your company? I was not even aware that my father possessed the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
“Nor did he a week ago; but the matter came about thus,” was the reply. “During the London season I was introduced at one of the Duke of D———’s parties, to an opulent individual of the name of Crane, learned his opinion prospective and retrospective in regard to the weather, bowed adieu, and straightway forgot him. About a month since, being in a café at Baden-Baden, my attention was attracted by an awful charivari; and on attempting to investigate the cause thereof, discovered Friend Crane lamenting himself pathetically in bad French and worse German, and surrounded by a mob of foreigners. Having in some degree appeased his polyglot passion, I soon contrived to make out, that his pocket having been picked by A., he had accused innocent B., and denounced unoffending C.—a vicarious system of reprisals which those victimised individuals appeared, not unnaturally, inclined to resent. Understanding somewhat better than our irascible friend the language and customs of the natives, I contrived to extricate him from the dilemma; for which act of good Samaritanism I have been, from that time forward, more or less the victim of his indefatigable gratitude. Your worthy father finding me a few days since located in the Château Crane, politely included me in his invitation. I arrived this morning, and under the able tuition of your cousin and sister, was rapidly becoming acquainted with the beauties of Hazlehurst, when you drove up.”
As he insinuated this skilfully-veiled compliment, the exquisite Horace pointed its application by favouring Alice with a languishing œillade, which was certainly not without effect; for it excited in the breast of Harry Coverdale a sudden, intense, and unreasonable desire then and there heartily to kick the talented originator of the compliment. This impulse he was only enabled to check by a powerful effort, which caused him to twitch the reins so suddenly, as painfully to compress the delicate mouth of “My Aunt Sally,” to an extent which justified that outraged quadruped in converting herself for the time being into a biped, by standing erect on her hind legs, and pawing the air with her fore feet.
“Soho, girl! gently, gently!” exclaimed Hazlehurst, who, not having perceived the exciting cause of the manœuvre, attributed the mare’s unmannerly behaviour to an outbreak of inherent viciousness. “Why, Harry, what on earth is the matter with the creature?”
“Probably nothing more than a reasonless caprice natural to her sex,” was Harry’s ungallant reply. “Possibly she may have the bad taste to prefer the creature comforts of a cool stable and a good feed of corn, to remaining in the broiling sunshine, even with the opportunity of becoming acquainted with the beauties of Hazlehurst;” and as he made this sarcastic remark, Harry glanced, carelessly round over wood and field, so that any one not well acquainted with the play of his features would have been puzzled to decide whether he was himself aware of the full meaning of his words.
“A pretty broad hint that I am not to keep the mare standing any longer,” returned Hazlehurst, turning to his cousin and sister. “That fellow cares for nothing in the world but his horses, except his dogs and his double-barrel. Well, I suppose you girls will be coming home soon.”