“I’ll see you ⸻; extremely well ⸻ first,” said Mr. Nappie.
The horse had now been surrendered to Mr. Nappie, and Frank suggested that he might as well return to Kilmarnock in the gig, and pay for the hire of it. But Mr. Nappie would not allow him to set a foot upon the gig. “It’s my gig for the day,” said he, “and you don’t touch it. You shall foot it all the way back to Kilmarnock, Mr. Greystockings.” But Mr. Nappie, in making this threat, forgot that there were gentlemen there with second horses. Frank was soon mounted on one belonging to Lord George, and Lord George’s servant, at the corner of the farmyard, got into the buggy, and was driven back to Kilmarnock by the man who had accompanied poor Mr. Nappie in their morning’s hunt on wheels after the hounds.
“Upon my word, I was very sorry,” said Frank as he rode back with his friends to Kilmarnock; “and when I first really understood what had happened, I would have done anything. But what could I say? It was impossible not to laugh, he was so unreasonable.”
“I should have put my whip over his shoulder,” said a stout farmer, meaning to be civil to Frank Greystock.
“Not after using it so often over his horse,” said Lord George.
“I never had to touch him once,” said Frank.
“And are you to have it all for nothing?” asked the thoughtful Lizzie.
“He’ll send a bill in, you’ll find,” said a bystander.
“Not he,” said Lord George. “His grievance is worth more to him than his money.”
No bill did come to Frank, and he got his mount for nothing. When Mr. MacFarlane was applied to, he declared that no letter ordering a horse had been delivered in his establishment. From that day to this Mr. Nappie’s grey horse has had a great character in Ayrshire; but all the world there says that its owner never rides him as Frank Greystock rode him that day.
XXXIX
Sir Griffin Takes an Unfair Advantage
We must return to the unfortunate Lucinda, whom we last saw struggling with her steed in the black waters of the brook which she attempted to jump. A couple of men were soon in after her, and she was rescued and brought back to the side from which she had taken off without any great difficulty. She was neither hurt nor frightened, but she was wet through; and for a while she was very unhappy, because it was not found quite easy to extricate her horse. During the ten minutes of her agony, while the poor brute was floundering in the mud, she had been quite disregardful of herself, and had almost seemed to think that Sir Griffin, who was with her, should go into the water after her steed. But there were already two men in the water, and three on the bank, and Sir Griffin thought that duty required him to stay by the young lady’s side. “I don’t care a bit about myself,” said Lucinda, “but if anything can be done for poor Warrior!” Sir Griffin assured her that “poor Warrior” was receiving the very best attention; and then he pressed upon her the dangerous condition in which she herself was standing—quite wet through, covered, as to her feet and legs, with mud, growing colder and colder every minute. She touched her lips with a little brandy that somebody gave her, and then declared again that she cared for nothing but poor Warrior. At last poor Warrior was on his legs, with the water dripping from his black flanks, with his nose stained with mud, with one of his legs a little cut—and, alas! with the saddle wet through. Nevertheless, there was nothing to be done better than to ride into Kilmarnock. The whole party must return to Kilmarnock, and, perhaps, if they hurried, she might be able to get her clothes dry before they would start by the train. Sir Griffin, of course, accompanied her, and they two rode into the town alone. Mrs. Carbuncle did hear of the accident soon after the occurrence, but had not seen her niece; nor when she heard of it, could she have joined Lucinda.
If anything would make a girl talk to a man, such a ducking as Lucinda had had would do so. Such sudden events, when they come in the shape of misfortune, or the reverse, generally have the effect of abolishing shyness for the time. Let a girl be upset with you in a railway train, and she will talk like a Rosalind, though before the accident she was as mute as death. But with Lucinda Roanoke the accustomed change did not seem to take place. When Sir Griffin had placed her on her saddle, she would have trotted all the way into Kilmarnock without a word if he would have allowed her. But he, at least, understood that such a joint misfortune should create confidence—for he, too, had lost the run, and he did not intend to lose his opportunity also. “I am so glad that I was near you,” he said.
“Oh, thank you, yes; it would have been bad to be alone.”
“I mean that I am glad that it was I,” said Sir Griffin. “It’s very hard even to get a moment to speak to you.” They were now trotting along on the road, and there were still three miles before them.
“I don’t know,” said she. “I’m always with the other people.”
“Just so.” And then he paused. “But I want to find you when you’re not with the other people. Perhaps, however, you don’t like me.”
As he paused for a reply, she felt herself bound to say something. “Oh, yes, I do,” she said—“as well as anybody else.”
“And is that all?”
“I
