"Oh, then, for heaven's sake, let us get out of his way," said Bessy, after having gazed for a moment in the direction in which I had been looking. "It is, it is, the great McGrubber. Let us turn into the wood, here. A path leads round in a way in which no human greyhound, if he had legs three times as long, could catch us." Thus saying, she led me along rapidly, till we were fairly into the wood, and then burst out into one of her clear, merry laughs at the idea of having baffled poor McGrubber. That he had seen us I was perfectly certain, and that, in the peculiar sort of charity which I attributed to him, he would not assign the best motive to our getting out of his way, I thought very probable; but, of course, I had too much discretion even to suggest to Bessy, that if her merely walking arm-in-arm with me was likely to be construed into an engagement between us, our flying into the woods from the presence of a parson was likely to be more misconstrued still. Bessy, however, had a bold, free way of settling all these things for herself, and, generally, I must say, she settled them very well. As we went, she pointed out to me all the various intricacies of the path we were pursuing, which was, indeed, quite labyrinthine, and she chatted with me on many subjects, quite different from those which had gone before. When we arrived at the house, we found Mrs. Stringer busying herself about the breakfast-table, and Bessy, running up to her, told her at once, in one of her gayest veins, how we had seen Mr. McGrubber coming towards us, and how we had doubled upon him into the wood, and passed him, unseen, within a hundred yards.
"Just as I have seen a fox do before the hounds," cried Bessy. "If I could but have drawn him after us, it would have been the greatest sport in the world. Cousin Richard and I would have led him through every swamp, and bush, and cane-break we could find."
"Oh no! you mad-cap," said Mrs. Stringer, "I am sure Sir Richard would never have been so unkind to the poor man. He is a bore, it is true; but there is no harm in him, I sincerely believe."
"I am not so sure of that," answered Bessy. "A man who thinks he understands everybody else's business better than themselves, becomes a very dangerous person when he makes a mistake."
"What is a bore?" asked Mr. McGrubber, entering the room just at this moment, after having evidently been listening in the hall. Mrs. Stringer, who had used the word, grew very red, and looked confused; but Bessy turned upon him at once, and answered in an ordinary tone, as if she were quoting from a dictionary,--
"Bore--A person who impertinently intrudes upon people who do not want him, and then keeps grinding them till he nearly bores a hole through them. That's in Johnson, is it not, Cousin Richard?" Her quiet look, the man's air of stolid bewilderment, and Mrs. Stringer's confusion, were, I must confess, too much for me; and I laughed till I cried.
"What is he laughing at?" asked Mr. McGrubber, in a solemn tone; "I see no cause for such levity." This was too much for both Bessy and Mrs. Stringer; and when Mr. Stringer entered, a minute after, he found us all three laughing as hard as we could laugh, and Mr. McGrubber standing, tall and stately, in the midst, a pillar of indignant solemnity. Breakfast was not yet over, when Mr. Thornton arrived on horseback, and I perceived at once that he was a good deal excited; but he refrained from all business matters till the party rose, inquiring into our adventures of the evening before, and giving a somewhat amusing account of the journey of the carriage home.
"I was very glad, to tell you the truth, Bessy," he said, "that our good cousin here was not with us. It would have been a grand triumph for an Englishman to see our roads in such a state after a shower; on one side holes six feet deep, in which a whole wheel would disappear at once, and, on the other, stumps and bumps of all shapes and dimensions."
"I dare say their roads are just as bad," said Bessy Davenport; "only they have not such good, honest showers as we have in Virginia, although I believe it always rains in England. Doesn't it, Cousin Richard?"
"Oh, yes," I answered, smiling; "but then it only rains marabout feathers, our climate is so soft and gentle."