On the Saturday nothing especial happened. Mr. Nappie was out on his grey horse, and condescended to a little conversation with Lord George. He wouldn’t have minded, he said, if Mr. Greystock had come forward; but he did think Mr. Greystock hadn’t come forward as he ought to have done. Lord George professed that he had observed the same thing; but then, as he whispered into Mr. Nappie’s ear, Mr. Greystock was particularly known as a bashful man. “He didn’t ride my ’orse anyway bashful,” said Mr. Nappie;—all of which was told at dinner in the evening, amidst a great deal of laughter. There had been nothing special in the way of sport, and Lizzie’s enthusiasm for hunting, though still high, had gone down a few degrees below fever heat. Lord George had again coached her; but there had been no great need for coaching, no losing of her breath, no cutting down of Lucinda, no river, no big wall—nothing, in short, very fast. They had been much in a big wood; but Lizzie, in giving an account of the day to her cousin, had acknowledged that she had not quite understood what they were doing at any time. “It was a blowing of horns and a galloping up and down all the day,” she said; “and then Morgan got cross again and scolded all the people. But there was one nice paling, and Dandy flew over it beautifully. Two men tumbled down, and one of them was a good deal hurt. It was very jolly;—but not at all like Wednesday.”
Nor had it been like Wednesday to Lucinda Roanoke, who did not fall into the water, and who did accept Sir Griffin when he again proposed to her in Sarkie wood. A great deal had been said to Lucinda on the Thursday and the Friday by Mrs. Carbuncle—which had not been taken at all in good part by Lucinda. On those days Lucinda kept as much as she could out of Sir Griffin’s way, and almost snapped at the baronet when he spoke to her. Sir Griffin swore to himself that he wasn’t going to be treated that way. He’d have her, by George! There are men in whose love a good deal of hatred is mixed;—who love as the huntsman loves the fox, towards the killing of which he intends to use all his energies and intellects. Mrs. Carbuncle, who did not quite understand the sort of persistency by which a Sir Griffin can be possessed, feared greatly that Lucinda was about to lose her prize, and spoke out accordingly. “Will you, then, just have the kindness to tell me what it is you propose to yourself?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle.
“I don’t propose anything.”
“And where will you go when your money’s done?”
“Just where I am going now!” said Lucinda. By which it may be feared that she indicated a place to which she should not on such an occasion have made an allusion.
“You don’t like anybody else?” suggested Mrs. Carbuncle.
“I don’t like anybody or anything,” said Lucinda.
“Yes, you do;—you like horses to ride, and dresses to wear.”
“No, I don’t. I like hunting because, perhaps, some day I may break my neck. It’s no use your looking like that, Aunt Jane. I know what it all means. If I could break my neck it would be the best thing for me.”
“You’ll break my heart, Lucinda.”
“Mine’s broken long ago.”
“If you’ll accept Sir Griffin, and just get a home round yourself, you’ll find that everything will be happy. It all comes from the dreadful uncertainty. Do you think I have suffered nothing? Carbuncle is always threatening that he’ll go back to New York, and as for Lord George, he treats me that way I’m sometimes afraid to show my face.”
“Why should you care for Lord George?”
“It’s all very well to say, why should I care for him. I don’t care for him, only one doesn’t want to quarrel with one’s friends. Carbuncle says he owes him money.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Lucinda.
“And he says Carbuncle owes him money.”
“I do believe that,” said Lucinda.
“Between it all, I don’t know which way to be turning. And now, when there’s this great opening for you, you won’t know your own mind.”
“I know my mind well enough.”
“I tell you you’ll never have such another chance. Good looks isn’t everything. You’ve never a word to say to anybody; and when a man does come near you, you’re as savage and cross as a bear.”
“Go on, Aunt Jane.”
“What with your hatings and dislikings, one would suppose you didn’t think God Almighty made men at all.”
“He made some of ’em very bad,” said Lucinda. “As for some others, they’re only half made. What can Sir Griffin do, do you suppose?”
“He’s a gentleman.”
“Then if I were a man, I should wish not to be a gentleman; that’s all. I’d a deal sooner marry a man like that huntsman, who has something to do and knows how to do it.” Again she said, “Don’t worry any more, Aunt Jane. It doesn’t do any good. It seems to me that to make myself Sir Griffin’s wife would be impossible; but I’m sure your talking won’t do it.” Then her aunt left her, and, having met Lord George, at his bidding went and made civil speeches to Lizzie Eustace.
That was on the Friday afternoon. On the Saturday afternoon Sir Griffin, biding his time, found himself, in a ride with Lucinda, sufficiently far from other horsemen for his purpose. He wasn’t going to stand any more nonsense. He was entitled to an answer, and he knew that he was entitled, by his rank and position, to a favourable answer. Here was a girl who, as far as he knew, was without a shilling, of whose birth and parentage nobody knew anything, who had nothing but her beauty to recommend her—nothing but that and a certain capacity for carrying herself in the
