“Yes, my dear, I fear I was too ready to believe you were weak and foolish, and did not give you credit for being what you are, and—there, there, my dear, I surrender at discretion, I leave it to your generosity to let me march off with colours flying.”
“Dear Major Day! I didn’t deserve that you should think so ill of me,” sobbed Lucy passionately, and laying her hands in the old man’s she made no resistance as he drew her towards him, and kissed her forehead, just when, according to his unlucky custom, Oldroyd came into sight.
At the moment when the major bent down and pressed his lips on little Lucy’s white forehead, the pony’s head was directed straight towards them; the next instant he had sprung round like a weather-cock, and his head was directed towards home, but only for a few moments, before it was dragged round again, and the doctor come slowly ambling towards them, looking indignant and fierce.
“Then we are to be the best of friends again, eh, my dear, and I am quite forgiven?”
“Oh, yes, dear Major Day,” said Lucy; “but please don’t think so ill of me again.”
“I’m a dreadful old scoundrel ever to have thought ill of you at all,” cried the major. “There, we must forget all the past. Ah, doctor, how are you? When are you coming up to the hall? My brother will be glad to see you, I’m sure.”
“I hope Sir John is not unwell?” said Oldroyd, trying to wither Lucy with a look, and bringing back upon himself such an indignant flash that he metaphorically curled up, as he muttered something to himself about the daring impudence some women could display.
“Unwell? dear me, no,” said the major. “A little pulled down by too much inaction abroad; nothing hurts him though much. I mean come as a visitor. How is the health of the neighbourhood, eh?”
“Excellent, Major Day, that is, excepting Mr Alleyne’s.”
“What! Mr Alleyne ill? Bless my soul! you did not say anything about it, my dear.”