“Mr. Gascoyne’s horse has returned home without him, and we are afraid he may have been thrown and hurt.” I spoke in a loud tone.
At the sight of Miss Gascoyne the whole assemblage had risen. She was looked upon by the cottagers around with not a little awe.
“Will some of you oblige me by helping to look for him?”
The landlord, who had had more than one passage of arms with the justices of the peace as to the way in which his house was conducted, became officiousness itself. Anything to prove to the gentry what an estimable and respectable character he was.
“It ain’t like Mr. Gascoyne to get into trouble on horseback,” he said, with a laudatory shake of his head, as if to conciliate Miss Gascoyne by conveying to her what a very high sense he had of her brother’s horsemanship.
He evidently had an idea of offering her some refreshment, for he looked from her to the bottles of spirit and coloured cordials on the shelf, and from them back again to her, but apparently without being able to make up his mind to so hazardous a proceeding.
As we were all standing outside the inn debating how to conduct the search, a dog-cart drove up.
“Let me see, I am right for the Grange, am I not?” asked a voice.
“Yes,” I answered, “but whom do you want at the Grange?”
“Miss Gascoyne.”