Sir Marmaduke scanning from underneath a clump of trees, thought he had never seen his horse go so fast.
Once round the home-park—once across the lower end at speed—a leap over a ditch and bank—a breather up the hill—and Sir George trotted Grey Plover back to his owner, in an easy, self-satisfied manner that denoted the horse was sold. Never once had he turned his head towards the terrace where Cerise stood watching. She knew it as well as he did, but made excuses for him to herself. He was so fond of horses—he rode so beautifully—nobody could ride so well unless his whole attention was fixed on his employment. But she sighed nevertheless, and Florian, at her side, heard the sigh, and echoed it in his heart.
“Fifty broad pieces,” said Sir George, drawing up to the owner’s side, and sliding lightly to the ground.
“He’s worth more than that,” answered the other, loosening the horse’s girths and turning his distended nostrils to the wind. “But we’ll talk about the price afterwards. We are not likely to differ on that point. You never rode behind such shoulders, Sir George; and did you remark how he breasted the hill? Like a lion, Ah! If I was twenty years younger, or even ten! But it’s no matter for that. I want your advice, Sir George. You carry a grey lining, as we say, to a green doublet. Give me the benefit. There’s something brewing here between your house and mine that will come to hell-broth anon, if we take not some order with it in the meantime!”
The other turned his back resolutely on the terrace where his wife was standing, and shot a penetrating glance at the speaker.
“Let it brew!” said he. “If it’s hot from the devil’s caldron, I think you and I can make shift to drink it out between us.”
Sir Marmaduke laughed.
“I don’t like the smell of it,” he answered, “not to speak of the taste. Seriously, my friend, I’ve lit on a nest of Jacobites, here, on your own property, at the ‘Hamilton Arms’! They’ve got another of their cursed plots hatching in the chimney-corner, about fit to chip the shell by now. There’s a couple of priests in it, of course; a lad, I know well enough, with a good bay mare, that has saved his neck in more ways than one, for a twelvemonth past. He’s only put to the dirty work, you may be sure, and I can guess, though on this point I have no certain information, there are two or three more honest gentlemen, friends of yours and mine, whom I had rather meet at Otterdale Head with the hounds than see badgered by an attorney-general at the Exchequer Bar or the Old Bailey, with as many witnesses arrayed against them, at half a guinea an oath, as would swear away the nine lives of a cat! A murrain of their plots! say I; there’s neither pleasure nor profit in ’em, try ’em which side you will, and I’ve had my experience o’ both!”
Sir George’s brow went down, and his lips closed. In his frank, manly face came the pitiless expression of a duellist who spies the weakness of his adversary’s sword, and braces his muscles to dash in. He had got the Jesuit, he told himself, “on the hip”!