“That’s an awful brute you sold me, Sawyer,—that bay of yours. You were quite right to part with him. My fellow tells me he can’t go a yard: wants me to ride him myself; told him I’d rather not, if I can walk as fast. Do you think there’s anything wrong with him, or used he always to gallop as if his legs were tied?”
This is not a very easy question for the former owner to answer, asked, as it is, in the Honourable’s off-hand careless manner. Mr. Sawyer thinks of trying the “virtuous indignation” tack; reflects that under the circumstances it would only make him ridiculous, and that thoroughly to carry it out, he ought to be prepared to take back the horse, a measure that in his wildest moments he has never contemplated, and finally subsides into a good-humoured smile, and affirms—
“We thought him a fair horse enough in the Old Country. Perhaps he don’t shine so bright amongst your clippers. He’s a sound, good-constitutioned beast, too, and never off his feed; that I can answer for, and you’ve seen him jump. I am sorry you don’t like him; but if you wanted a racehorse, you know, that sort of thing is quite out of my line.”
The Honourable, who is good-nature itself, laughs heartily. “I don’t hate him as much as Tiptop does; and if worst comes to worst, he’s good-looking enough for harness. By the bye, old fellow, do you dine over at Dove-cote to-morrow?”
“Well, I’ve been asked” replied our friend, as if he hadn’t set his heart upon going, and been thinking of it ever since. “Why?” he adds, smothering a blush, as he thinks his companion may have found out his secret, and is laughing in his sleeve.
“Only that we’re all going,” rejoins the Honourable; “I’m glad to hear you are not to be left in the lurch. It’s a fearful road, and an infernal long way; but Dove gives you such ’41 as is not to be got anywhere else, and a skinful of it, my boy, not forgetting to drink his own share. I like the mother Dove, too, and pretty Miss ‘Cissy’ is always good fun!”
Sawyer felt the blood tingling in his ears. Amongst the many annoyances that gird as with briars the man who is sufficiently ill-advised to take an interest in any one but himself, not the least is that ridiculous sensitiveness to remarks, hazarded by the most careless of bystanders on the “object” or its belongings. If it is praised, we are jealous; if censured, we are angry; and if not mentioned at all, we are disappointed. That Mr. Sawyer, who had no more “vested interest” in her than the Lord Chancellor, should feel annoyed at Miss Cissy being spoken of as “good fun,” by so amiable a critic as the Honourable Crasher, only shows the absurd organisation of the human mind, and how careful we should be never to put off that armour of selfishness and self-conceit, with which nature has provided us for our self-defence.
Mr. Sawyer made a move toward his bed-candle.
“Good-night, old fellow,” said the Honourable. “By Jove! we’ll go together to-morrow to the Dove-cote. I’ll drive you there in my phaeton; and, by Jove! we’ll put that bay horse of yours in, and see how it goes with a trap behind him—so we will.”
The Honourable appeared so delighted with his own suggestion, that it was impossible to controvert it; but as Mr. Sawyer wound up his watch and deposited it on his dressing-table, it certainly occurred to him that there was such a thing as retribution even at Market Harborough.