“Never mind, my beautiful little darling,” he whispered; “you shall have a new riding-habit every week if you like, only you must have the big curb for Mad Sal. Oh, I’d give something if Magnus could reproduce you now with one instantaneous touch of his brush, and—”
“Hush! you silly boy,” she whispered reprovingly, as the mare ambled on. “This is not the time and place to talk such nonsense.”
Nonsense or no, it produced a very satisfactory glow in the little maiden’s heart—a glow which shone in her soft cheeks, and made her eyes flash as they rode on.
These riding parties were very frequent, Cyril and Frank joining; sometimes John Magnus, but never upon the days when Julia was prevailed upon to mount.
For Cyril was supposed to be staying with his young wife at the farm, but he passed the greater part of his time at the rectory, when he was not at Gatley with his brother.
It was a pleasant time, for the roads were hard that winter, the air crisp and dry, giving a tone to the nerves and muscles, and an elasticity to the mind, that made even quiet James Magnus look more like himself, while there were times when Julia looked less dreamy and pale, and as if the thoughts of her persecutor were less frequent in her breast.
Sage and she had grown more intimate, as if there were feelings in common between them, the quiet toleration of Cyril’s wife ripening fast into affection, so that, as Cynthia’s time was so much taken up by Lord Artingale, Julia and Sage were a good deal together, the latter being her sister-in-law’s companion in her visiting rounds, when, to the Rev. Lawrence Paulby’s satisfaction, she tried to counteract some of the prevalent ill-feeling against the Mallow family by calls here and there amongst the parishioners.
One place where they often called was at the ford of the river, to have a chat with little Mrs Morrison, where somehow there seemed to be quite a magnetic attraction; Cyril’s wife sitting down in the neatly-kept little place to gaze almost in silence at the wheelwright’s pretty young wife, while, as if drawn there against her will, Julia would stop and talk.
The river was very pretty just there even in winter, brawling and babbling over the gravel before settling down calm and still as it flowed slowly amongst the deep holes beneath the willow pollards, where the big fish were known to lie. And more than once sister and sister-in-law came upon Cyril in one or other of the fields, trying after the big jack that no one yet had caught.
“I know he’s about here somewhere,” said Cyril, over and over again. “He lies in wait for the dace that come off the shallows, and I mean to have him before I’ve done.”