Lestrange helped her to the saddle in silence, and
before Richard realized that she was gone, he heard
the merriment of the party mingling with the clang
of their horses’ hoofs, as they went swinging
down the road. The fairy had set them all laughing
already!
The instant they were gone, Simon showed a strange
concern over the insignificant wound: he had
been hasty with Richard, and unfair to him! Had
he driven his nail one hair’s-breadth too near
the quick, Miss Brown would have made the smithy tight
for them! He seemed anxious to show, without
actual confession, that he knew he had spoken angrily,
and was sorry for it. He could not have shod
the mare better himself, he said—but why
the deuce did he let her tear his hand! It was
not likely to gather, though, seeing Richard drank
water! He must do nothing for a day or two!
To-morrow being Saturday, they would have a holiday
together, and leave the work to George!
A HOLIDAY.
Richard was willing enough, and it only remained to
settle what they would do with their holiday.
Suppressing a chuckle, Simon proposed that they should
have a walk, and a look at Mortgrange: it was
a place well worth seeing! “And then,”
he added, giving his grandson a poke, “we can
ask after the mare, and learn how her new shoe fits.”
They had known him there, he said, the last thirty
years, and would let them have the run of the place,
for sir Wilton and his lady were from home. Richard
had never—to his knowledge—heard
of Mortgrange, for Simon had hitherto avoided even
mentioning the place; but he was ready to go wherever
his grandfather pleased. Jessie would have company
of her own, Simon said, with a nod and a wink:
they need not trouble themselves about her!
So the next day, as soon us they had had their breakfast,
they set out to walk the four or five miles that,
by the road, lay between them and Mortgrange.
It was a fine frosty morning. Not a few yellow
leaves were still hanging, and the sun was warm and
bright. It was one of those days near the death
of the year, that make us wonder why the heart of man
should revive and feel strong, while nature is falling
into her dreary trance. Richard was dressed in
a tradesman’s Sunday clothes, but tradesman
as he was, and was proud to be, he did not altogether
look one. He was in high spirits—for
no reason but that his spirits were high. He
was happy because he was happy—“like
any other body!” he would have said: where
was the wonder such a fine day, with a pleasant walk
before him, and his jolly grandfather for company!
That he could not make one hair white or black, one
hour blessed or miserable, did not occur to him.
Yet he believed that joy or sorrow determined whether
life was or was not worth living! He had never
said to himself, “Here I am, and cannot help
being, and yet can order nothing! Even to-day
I am happy only because I cannot help it!” He
