“Come you, Mr. Saunders,” she went on; “be a man. When it’s too late you’ll be sorry there’s anybody alive can laugh at you for gettin’ the worst of it like you’ve done. My! the talk I’ve heard this morning! You’re too well known in these parts for a thing like that to pass off easy.”
Had there been no Hand of Friendship in Talgwynne, Susannah might merely have succeeded in irritating Charles without producing any effect; his brain was muddled, though in a slight degree, by what he had drunk, and he was in that unbraced humour in which rapid changes of mind are possible. But he was annoyed too, and his vanity, which had been so bitterly assailed, was as likely to turn him in one direction as in another. The two had come to a standstill, when the beat of hoofs made them look back.
The expected horse was emerging from between the houses in a series of capers and pig-jumps that promised the man on its back an interesting ride. Saunders had examined it in the fair, but, as the small boy in charge had orders not to mount himself, the owner, a very old man, had been obliged to look round for some one with pretensions to horsemanship before the young, excitable animal could be trotted out for Charles to see. Though everybody was not minded for the responsibility, the difficulty had been overcome at last. While Saunders watched the approaching rider, Susannah broke into an exclamation, and, running towards a gap in the hedge, concealed herself behind the trunk of a tree, which grew upon the bank.
“Afraid of horses, are ye?” called Saunders jeeringly, after her.
Susannah feared very few things; but she had sharp sight, and the man on the horse was Heber.
As the fact dawned on Charles his expression changed. He stood at the road-side, thrusting his hands into his pockets and feeling as though he would choke.
Heber had been too much occupied, hand and eye, to observe Susannah, but, as he drew near, the other man thought he could see a look of triumph on his face. The shepherd had induced the horse to be quiet and the creature trotted collectedly, a fine, strong, short-legged bay with a blaze and two white stockings. But Saunders had no eye for its paces, for the wrath he felt at the sight of Heber overcame him, business instincts and all. For any heed that Heber took of him he might have been a signpost or a milestone. Moorhouse turned back about fifty yards farther on and came by again at a canter. This time Saunders imagined that he was smiling.
“Take him away! I don’t want to see him again!” he roared after the retreating man.
Heber turned in his saddle and looked back. Charles was sure of the smile now.
“Go on! take him away, I tell you!” he yelled, waving his arm. He could almost have pelted him from the nearest stone-heap. Heber rode quietly on into the town.