“It’s Scotch hunting,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“I have seen foxes dug out south of the Tweed,” suggested Lord George.
“I suppose everything is slow after the Baron,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, who had distinguished herself with the Baron’s staghounds last March.
“Are we to go home now?” asked Lizzie, who would have been well-pleased to have received an answer in the affirmative.
“I presume they’ll draw again,” exclaimed Mrs. Carbuncle, with an angry frown on her brow. “It’s hardly two o’clock.”
“They always draw till seven, in Scotland,” said Lord George.
“That’s nonsense,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “It’s dark at four.”
“They have torches in Scotland,” said Lord George.
“They have a great many things in Scotland that are very far from agreeable,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “Lucinda, did you ever see three foxes killed without five minutes’ running, before? I never did.”
“I’ve been out all day without finding at all,” said Lucinda, who loved the truth.
“And so have I,” said Sir Griffin;—“often. Don’t you remember that day when we went down from London to Bringher Wood, and they pretended to find at half-past four? That’s what I call a sell.”
“They’re going on, Lady Eustace,” said Lord George. “If you’re not tired, we might as well see it out.” Lizzie was tired, but said that she was not, and she did see it out. They found a fifth fox, but again there was no scent. “Who the ⸻ is to hunt a fox with people scurrying about like that!” said the huntsman, very angrily, dashing forward at a couple of riders. “The hounds is behind you, only you ain’t a-looking. Some people never do look!” The two peccant riders unfortunately were Sir Griffin and Lucinda.
The day was one of those from which all the men and women return home cross, and which induce some halfhearted folk to declare to themselves that they never will hunt again. When the master decided a little after three that he would draw no more, because there wasn’t a yard of scent, our party had nine or ten miles to ride back to their carriages. Lizzie was very tired, and, when Lord George took her from her horse, could almost have cried from fatigue. Mrs. Carbuncle was never fatigued, but she had become damp—soaking wet through, as she herself said—during the four minutes that the man was absent with her waterproof jacket, and could not bring herself to forget the ill-usage she had suffered. Lucinda had become absolutely dumb, and any observer would have fancied that the two gentlemen had quarrelled with each other. “You ought to go on the box now,” said Sir Griffin, grumbling. “When you’re my age, and I’m yours, I will,” said Lord George, taking his seat in the carriage. Then he appealed to Lizzie. “You’ll let me smoke, won’t you?” She simply bowed her head. And so they went home—Lord George smoking, and the ladies dumb. Lizzie, as she dressed for dinner, almost cried with vexation and disappointment.
There was a little conversation upstairs between Mrs. Carbuncle and Lucinda, when they were free from the attendance of their joint maid. “It seems to me,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “that you won’t make up your mind about anything.”
“There is nothing to make up my mind about.”
“I think there is;—a great deal. Do you mean to take this man who is dangling after you?”
“He isn’t worth taking.”
“Carruthers says that the property must come right, sooner or later. You might do better, perhaps, but you won’t trouble yourself. We can’t go on like this forever, you know.”
“If you hated it as much as I do, you wouldn’t want to go on.”
“Why don’t you talk to him? I don’t think he’s at all a bad fellow.”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“He’ll offer tomorrow, if you’ll accept him.”
“Don’t let him do that, Aunt Jane. I couldn’t say Yes. As for loving him;—oh, laws!”
“It won’t do to go on like this, you know.”
“I’m only eighteen;—and it’s my money, aunt.”
“And how long will it last? If you can’t accept him, refuse him, and let somebody else come.”
“It seems to me,” said Lucinda, “that one is as bad as another. I’d a deal sooner marry a shoemaker and help him to make shoes.”
“That’s downright wickedness,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. And then they went down to dinner.
XXXVIII
Nappie’s Grey Horse
During the leisure of Tuesday, our friends regained their good humour, and on the Wednesday morning they again started for the hunting-field. Mrs. Carbuncle, who probably felt that she had behaved ill about the groom and in regard to Scotland, almost made an apology, and explained that a cold shower always did make her cross. “My dear Lady Eustace, I hope I wasn’t very savage.” “My dear Mrs. Carbuncle, I hope I wasn’t very stupid,” said Lizzie with a smile. “My dear Lady Eustace, and my dear Mrs. Carbuncle, and my dear Miss Roanoke, I hope I wasn’t very selfish,” said Lord George.
“I thought you were,” said Sir Griffin.
“Yes, Griff; and so were you;—but I succeeded.”
“I am almost glad that I wasn’t of the party,” said Mr. Emilius, with that musical foreign tone of his. “Miss Macnulty and I did not quarrel; did we?”
“No, indeed,” said Miss Macnulty, who had liked the society of Mr. Emilius.
But on this morning there was an attraction for Lizzie which the Monday had wanted. She was to meet her cousin, Frank Greystock. The journey was long, and the horses had gone on over night. They went by railway to Kilmarnock, and there a carriage from the inn had been ordered to meet them. Lizzie, as she heard the order given, wondered whether she would have to pay for that, or whether Lord George and Sir Griffin would take so much off her shoulders. Young women generally pay for nothing; and it was very hard that she, who was quite a young woman, should have
