“Serves her right,” said Nick.
“What!” cried Mr. Riddle. “Come down from there instantly.”
Nick raised his whip. It was not that that stopped Mr. Riddle, but a sign about the lad's nostrils.
“Harry Riddle,” said the boy, “if it weren't for you, I'd be riding in this coach to-day with my mother. I don't want to ride with her, but I will go to the races. If you try to take me down, I'll do my best to kill you,” and he lifted the loaded end of the whip.
Mrs. Temple's beautiful face had by this time been thrust out of the door.
“For the love of heaven, Harry, let him come in with us. We're late enough as it is.”
Mr. Riddle turned on his heel. He tried to glare at Nick, but he broke into a laugh instead.
“Come down, Satan,” says he. “God help the woman you love and the man you fight.”
And so Nicholas jumped down, and into the coach. The footman picked himself up, more scared than injured, and the vehicle took its lumbering way for the race-course, I following.
I have seen many courses since, but none to equal that in the gorgeous dress of those who watched. There had been many, many more in former years, so I heard people say. This was the only sign that a war was in progress,—the scanty number of gentry present,—for all save the indifferent were gone to Charlestown or elsewhere. I recall it dimly, as a blaze of color passing: merrymaking, jesting, feasting,—a rare contrast, I thought, to the sight I had beheld in Charlestown Bay but a while before. Yet so runs the world,—strife at one man's home, and peace and contentment at his neighbor's; sorrow here, and rejoicing not a league away.