Ere long the silence grew oppressive; the crumpling of the paper as Mr. Linchmore turned it in his hand annoyed and irritated her; her thoughts were still half struggling with the past; she must bury that, and bring them forcibly back to the present time, so she spoke; but try as she would she could not do so without showing a little irritation of manner.
"The paper appears to engross your attention entirely, Mr Linchmore. Have you found anything so very interesting in it?"
He looked up in surprise, then quietly laid it on the table, as he replied, "Perhaps I did not speak, as I have rather unfortunate news for you, 'Lady Emily'—Mrs. Linchmore's riding horse—has gone dead lame."
"Lame!" exclaimed Mrs. Linchmore in a vexatious tone of voice. "It must be something very sudden then; she was perfectly well the last time I rode her, there was not the slightest symptom of lameness about her then."
"That was some time ago," rejoined her husband.
"Only a few days, or a week at the utmost. What is the matter with her? or what has caused the lameness?"
"A nail has been accidentally run into her foot in shoeing. There has been great carelessness no doubt."
"It is always the case that whenever I wish to ride or drive something happens to prevent me, for the last two or three months I have noticed it. What is the use of having servants if one cannot trust them, or horses either, when they are never fit to be ridden?"
"There are other horses in the stable, Isabella, would carry you just as well as Lady Emily, but you never will ride them."
Mrs. Linchmore was not exactly a timid horsewoman, but she was not courageous enough to ride a strange horse, whose temper and habits she was unacquainted with. She had ridden the mare constantly for the last five years, and knew her temper well, and after the first canter was over all nervousness was gone, and she could talk and laugh and ride without fear, or the slight timidity she might have felt at first starting.