“Indeed I did not look at him,” replied her ladyship, glancing at Edmund. “So,” said Henry, with a sneer, “the fellow drives about to some purpose it would seem.” “To a most enviable one, certainly!” remarked the compliment-loving Lord of Borrowdale.
“Pray, can any one tell what brought him into this neighbourhood?” asked Lord Morven. “They were obliged,” answered Lord Borrowdale, “to send from Whitehaven to Carlisle for military, to quell a very serious riot of colliers, headed too, it seems, by one of the fair sex, who, I understand, leads her party in fashion of an equestrian amazon, and who had, they say, proceeded in triumph through every street in Whitehaven, terrified the poor quiet magistrates, overturned the carts of potatoes going down to the shipping for exportation, and, in short, lorded it over the whole population till the arrival of the dragoons.”
“How very well he plays the flute!” said Frances.
“Yes,” said Henry, “and what good care he took to keep his boat within hearing of our party, these several evenings on the lake.”
“I dare say it was quite by accident,” rejoined Frances; “and how picturesque the effect was,” she continued, turning to Lady Susan, “of the little skiff with its one white sail, appearing and disappearing round points of rock; the one reclining figure playing on the flute, the two dogs seated, one on each side, listening with profound attention, till at some dying cadence, pointing their noses upward, they would utter a long and piteous wail! while the rapt musician himself seemed unconscious not only of their wild accompaniment, and that of all the echoes far and near, but even of his own performance.”
“He thought himself a perfect hero of romance, I have no doubt,” replied her ladyship.
“Well!” cried Frances, “I do not think there was any appearance of affectation about him.”
“Whoever he is,” rejoined Henry, “he had better not wander about these woods in his long feathers, or I shall be apt to shoot him in mistake for a pheasant.”
“Henry, you had better take care what you do!” said Frances. “You are much too fond, let me tell you, of killing of every kind.”
“Talking of shooting, what have you done with that fine setter of yours, St. Aubin?” asked Lord Morven.