CHAPTER VII.
Curls are on her brow, not clouds,
Smiles are in her eye,
Simple, brave, ’mong worldly crowds
Looks she to the sky.
Joy dwells with her every day,
Sorrows touch her as they pass,
Fearless goes she on her way
O’er the springing grass,
Daunting evil passengers
With those clear brave eyes of hers.—Ballad.
Mr George Oswald of Fendie was very proud of his daughter Hope; and Hope, as we have already seen, was very fond of ponies. Young, large animals of all kinds, indeed, were favourites with the favourite of the banker. A great tawny fellow of a dog, with large, disjointed, youthful limbs, whose uncouth gambols had as much fun and as little grace in them as could be desired, was Hope’s especial playmate, counsellor, and friend. She called him Merry—(gentle playfellow of mine, over whom I could yet weep tears, so named I thee!) it was not a very musical name; but there was nothing in the least æsthetic about the happy, clumsy, kindly animal who bore it. This poor fellow fell under Mrs Oswald’s displeasure sometimes, when it was discovered that Hope’s new gloves had been in the great innocent mouth, or that the big paw had left its print upon Hope’s garments too legibly; but the banker amply tolerated Merry.
On the morning of Hope’s intended visit to Mount Fendie, her father led her proudly away to the vicinity of the stable where his own horses were kept, and where, at its door, stood the red-headed Oswald Thomson, son of a retainer of the family, holding by the bridle a handsome pony, apparelled as became the steed of a lady, and arching its fine brown neck in conscious pride, under the eye of its future mistress.
“Oh, father, is it for me?” exclaimed the delighted Hope; “is it to be mine; is it to be all mine?”
And it was; and at that moment in Hope’s little chamber at home, her mother, with some secret smiles over her husband’s unmeasured indulgence, and some misgivings as to the youthful limbs which this new mode of conveyance might expose to danger, was carefully spreading out a new riding-habit, companion gift to the beautiful pony. Mr Oswald had intended to bring his daughter quietly home with him, to assume the appropriate garb before she began to be an equestrian; but that did by no means suit Hope. So at dire risk to the bright muslin frock donned in unspotted purity this morning, she sprang upon the new saddle and arrived at the door radiant with laughter and exultation while her father still panted in the rear, half running in spite of his years and dignity.
Hope could not take her dog with her to Mount Fendie—it was her sole regret as she cantered away happily alone, on the quiet familiar road. One of Merry’s mighty paws would have extinguished Mrs Fendie’s lap-dog for ever; the gambols of a young elephant could not have been more detrimental to the trim gardens at the Mount. She was compelled to leave her favourite behind.
But never did Hope salute passing acquaintances so joyously; and Hope’s list of friends was as large as it was miscellaneous, extending from Mrs Maxwell of Firthside, in her carriage, down to Robbie Carlyle, the fisherman, with the creel on his shoulders full of flounders which he had captured this morning, knee-deep in the waters of the Firth. Just before the gate of Mount Fendie was a toll—a toll which Hope paid triumphantly in presence of an admiring congregation of John Tasker’s children. It was the crowning glory of her ride.
“Oh, Hope, when did you get your pony?” cried Victoria Fendie. “What a pretty one!—but it’s not so pretty as Fred’s either—is it, Adelaide?”
“I don’t know what you call Fred’s,” said Adelaide, “for Fred is too little to have a pony, but I am sure yours is very pretty, Hope. Were you not afraid?”