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 suppose so."
After that he rode on for the best part of another mile before he
spoke to her again. He had made up his mind that he would do it. He
hardly knew why it was that he wanted her. He had not determined that
he was desirous of the charms or comfort of domestic life. He had
not even thought where he would live were he married. He had not
suggested to himself that Lucinda was a desirable companion, that her
temper would suit his, that her ways and his were sympathetic, or
that she would be a good mother to the future Sir Griffin Trewett.
He had seen that she was a very handsome girl, and therefore he had
thought that he would like to possess her. Had she fallen like a ripe
plum into his mouth, or shown herself ready so to fall, he would
probably have closed his lips and backed out of the affair. But the
difficulty no doubt added something to the desire. "I had hoped," he
said, "that after knowing each other so long there might have been
more than that."
She was again driven to speak because he paused. "I don't know that
that makes much difference."
"Miss Roanoke, you can't but understand what I mean."
"I'm sure I don't," said she.
"Then I'll speak plainer."
"Not now, Sir Griffin, because I'm so wet."
"You can listen to me even if you will not answer me. I am sure that
you know that I love you better than all the world. Will you be
mine?" Then he moved on a little forward so that he might look back
into her face. "Will you allow me to think of you as my future wife?"
Miss Roanoke was able to ride at a stone wall or at a river, and to
ride at either the second time when her horse balked the first. Her
heart was big enough for that. But her heart was not big enough to
enable her to give Sir Griffin an answer. Perhaps it was that, in
regard to the river and the stone wall, she knew what she wanted; but
that, as to Sir Griffin, she did not. "I don't think this is a proper
time to ask," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because I am wet through and cold. It is taking an unfair
advantage."
"I didn't mean to take any unfair advantage," said Sir Griffin
scowling--"I thought we were alone--"
"Oh, Sir Griffin, I am so tired!" As they were now entering
Kilmarnock, it was quite clear he could press her no further. They
clattered up, therefore, to the hotel, and he busied himself in
getting a bedroom fire lighted, and in obtaining the services of the
landlady. A cup of tea was ordered, and toast, and in two minutes
Lucinda Roanoke was relieved from the presence of the baronet. "It's
a kind of thing a fellow doesn't quite understand," said Sir Griffin
to himself. "Of course she means it, and why the devil can't she
say so?" He had no idea of giving up the chase, but he thought that
perhaps he would take it out of her when she became Lady Tewett.
They were an hour at the inn before Mrs. Carbuncle and Lady Eustace
arrived, and during that hour Sir Griffin did not see Miss Roanoke.
For this there was, of course, ample reason. Under the custody of the
landlady, Miss Roanoke was being made dry and clean, and was by no
means in a condition to receive a lover's vows. The baronet sent up
half-a-dozen messages as he sauntered about the yard of the inn, but
he got no message in return. Lucinda, as she sat drinking her tea and
drying her clothes, did no doubt think about him,--but she thought
about him as little as she could. Of course, he would come again, and
she could make up her mind then. It was no doubt necessary that she
should do something. Her fortune, such as it was, would soon be spent
in the adventure of finding a husband. She also had her ideas about
love, and had enough of sincerity about her to love a man thoroughly;
but it had seemed to her that all the men who came near her were
men whom she could not fail to dislike. She was hurried here and
hurried there, and knew nothing of real social intimacies. As she
told her aunt in her wickedness, she would almost have preferred a
shoemaker,--if she could have become acquainted with a shoemaker in
a manner that should be unforced and genuine. There was a savageness
of antipathy in her to the mode of life which her circumstances had
produced for her. It was that very savageness which made her ride so
hard, and which forbade her to smile and be pleasant to people whom
she could not like. And yet she knew that something must be done. She
could not afford to wait as other girls might do. Why not Sir Griffin
as well as any other fool? It may be doubted whether she knew how
obstinate, how hard, how cruel to a woman a fool can be.
Her stockings had been washed and dried, and her boots and trousers
were nearly dry, when Mrs. Carbuncle, followed by Lizzie, rushed into
the room. "Oh, my darling, how are you?" said the aunt, seizing her
niece in her arms.
"I'm only dirty now," said Lucinda.
"We've got off the biggest of the muck, my lady," said the landlady.
"Oh, Miss Roanoke," said Lizzie, "I hope you don't think I behaved
badly in going on."
"Everybody always goes on, of course," said Lucinda.
"I did so pray Lord George to let me try and jump back to you. We
were over, you know, before it happened. But he said it was quite
impossible. We did wait till we saw you were out."
"It didn't signify at all, Lady Eustace."
"And I was so sorry when I went through the wall at the corner of
the wood before you. But I was so excited I hardly knew what I
was doing." Lucinda, who was quite used to these affairs in the
hunting-field, simply nodded her acceptance of this apology. "But it
was a glorious run; wasn't it?"
"Pretty well," said Mrs. Carbuncle.
"Oh, it was glorious,--but then I got over the river. And oh, if you
had been there afterwards. There was such an adventure between a man
in a gig and my cousin Frank." Then they all went to the train, and
were carried home to Portray.