“Well,” said George, “there always was an excitable nature in Thorsby. He has very quick feelings for good, and if not for evil, at least for pleasure, and what he calls jollity. I had hoped that Letty would have been able to keep him more at home, but he always says he must have a little innocent larking, he should go daft without it.”
“He will go daft with it,” said Mr. Woodburn, “if he does not mind.”
Leonard Woodburn had had other causes of annoyance of late to try his temper, of which anon, and he felt very keenly the conduct of Thorsby towards his daughter.
“I have long thought,” he said “that Letty is far from happy. I see a gravity about her, a shade over her countenance sometimes, that I never saw before her marriage.”
“Yes, but remember, dear father, that she is now a wife and a mother; we cannot expect people to remain always the lightsome beings of their boy or girlhood.”
“I expect nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Woodburn, rather tartly; “but I did expect that this fellow would not be such a fool. It is a confounded bad job, George, and makes me very cross and very miserable. Good-night.” And Mr. Woodburn withdrew to bed.
It was soon found that great censure was cast on Thorsby for his conduct in this affair, and the knowledge of it seemed to anger him, and to drive him into further excesses. For the first time he turned almost savagely on Letty, when, on her return home, she expressed regret at what had happened.
“An old fool,” he said; “he should ride a safe horse, and not such a will-o’-the-wisp as that Welsh pony, and then no harm could happen to him.”
“But you knew, dear Harry, what the pony was,” said Letty. “I wish you had not done it. But as it is done, do, pray, call on Mr. Qualm and apologize to him: a soft word, you know, turneth away wrath. And call on Mr. Heritage and express your regret. We were on such good terms with them all, and they are such worthy people.”
“Do you think me such a sneak, Letty?” said Thorsby, taking up his hat to go out to business. “Don’t you believe it.”