‘And why, pray?’ inquired the other, testily.
‘Rocket has never seen hounds and I am afraid she will give you some trouble when she does. At any rate, she will tire you out.’
‘Pshaw!’ replied Lady Eliza.
Six months had passed Cecilia, bringing little outward change, though, thinking of them, she felt as though six years had gone by in their stead; her spirits were apparently as even, her participation in her aunt’s interests apparently the same, for she was one who, undertaking a resolve, did not split it into two and fulfil the half she liked best. Each of our acts is made of two parts, the spirit and the letter, and it is wonderful how nominally honest people will divide them. Not that there is aught wrong in the division; the mistake lies in taking credit for the whole. She had resolved to pay for her aunt’s peace of mind with her own happiness, as it seemed that it could be bought at no other price, and she was determined that that peace of mind should be complete. She gave full measure and the irrevocableness of her gift helped her to go on with her life. It was curious that a stranger, lately introduced to her, and hearing that she lived with Lady Eliza Lamont, had called her ‘Mrs. Raeburn,’ in the belief that she was a widow. It was not an unnatural mistake, for there was something about her that suggested it. Her one day’s engagement to her lover was a subject never touched upon by the two women. Once, Lady Eliza had suspected that all was not well with her and had spoken; once in her life Cecilia had fostered a misunderstanding.
‘I could not have married him,’ she had replied; ‘I have thought over it well.’
No tone in her voice had hinted at two interpretations, and the elder woman had read the answer by the light of her own feelings.
The laird with whose harriers they were to hunt that day lived at a considerable distance. It was not often, in those times before railways and horse-boxes were invented, that there was hunting of any sort within reach of Morphie. There were no foxhounds in the county and no other harriers, though Lady Eliza had, for years, urged Fullarton to keep them; but the discussion had always ended in his saying that he could not afford such an expense and in her declaring that she would keep a pack herself. But things had gone on as they were, and a dozen or so of days in a season was all that either could generally get. This year she had only been out twice.
The meet was at a group of houses too small to be called a village, but distinguished by the presence of a public-house and the remains of an ancient stone cross. A handful of gentlemen, among whom was Robert Fullarton, had assembled on horseback when they arrived, and these, with a few farmers, made up the field. Cecilia and her aunt were the only females in the little crowd, except a drunken old woman whose remarks were of so unbridled a nature that she had to be taken away with some despatch, and the wife of the master, who, drawn up decorously in a chaise at a decent distance from the public-house, cast scathing looks upon Lady Eliza’s costume. Urchins, ploughmen, and a few nondescript men who meant to follow on foot, made a background to the hounds swarming round the foot of the stone cross and in and out between the legs of the whips’ horses. The pack, a private one, consisted of about fifteen couple.
Rocket, who expressed her astonishment at the sight of hounds by lashing out at them whenever occasion served, was very troublesome and her rider was obliged to keep her pacing about outside the fringe of bystanders until they moved off; she could not help wishing she had done as Cecilia suggested. The mare was always hot and now she bid fair to weary her out, snatching continually at her bit and never standing for a moment.
‘Her ladyship is very fond of that mare,’ observed Robert, as he and Cecilia found themselves near each other. ‘Personally, good-looking as she is, I could never put up with her. She has no vice, though.’