The Story of Kennett | Page 8

and
unsatisfied desire. But where most other men would have sighed, or
given way to some involuntary exclamation, he merely set his teeth,
and tightened the grasp on his whip-handle.
He was not destined, however, to a solitary journey. Scarcely had he
made three quarters of a mile, when, on approaching the junction of a

wood-road which descended to the highway from a shallow little glen
on the north, the sound of hoofs and voices met his ears. Two female
figures appeared, slowly guiding their horses down the rough road. One,
from her closely-fitting riding-habit of drab cloth, might have been a
Quakeress, but for the feather (of the same sober color) in her beaver
hat, and the rosette of dark red ribbon at her throat. The other, in
bluish-gray, with a black beaver and no feather, rode a heavy old horse
with a blind halter on his head, and held the stout leathern reins with a
hand covered with a blue woollen mitten. She rode in advance, paying
little heed to her seat, but rather twisting herself out of shape in the
saddle in order to chatter to her companion in the rear.
"Do look where you are going, Sally!" cried the latter as the blinded
horse turned aside from the road to drink at a little brook that oozed
forth from under the dead leaves.
Thus appealed to, the other lady whirled around with a half-jump, and
caught sight of Gilbert Potter and of her horse's head at the same
instant.
"Whoa there, Bonnie!" she cried. "Why, Gilbert, where did you come
from? Hold up your head, I say! Martha, here's Gilbert, with a brush in
his hat! Don't be afraid, you beast; did you never smell a fox? Here,
ride in between, Gilbert, and tell us all about it! No, not on that side,
Martha; you can manage a horse better than I can!"
In her efforts to arrange the order of march, she drove her horse's head
into Gilbert's back, and came near losing her balance. With amused
screams, and bursts of laughter, and light, rattling exclamations, she
finally succeeded in placing herself at his left hand, while her adroit
and self-possessed companion quietly rode up to his right Then,
dropping the reins on their horses' necks, the two ladies resigned
themselves to conversation, as the three slowly jogged homewards
abreast.
"Now, Gilbert!" exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, after waiting a
moment for him to speak; "did you really earn the brush, or beg it from
one of them, on the way home?"

"Begging, you know, is my usual habit," he answered, mockingly.
"I know you're as proud as Lucifer, when you've a mind to be so.
There!"
Gilbert was accustomed to the rattling tongue of his left-hand neighbor,
and generally returned her as good as she gave. To-day, however, he
was in no mood for repartee. He drew down his brows and made no
answer to her charge.
"Where was the fox earthed?" asked the other lady, after a rapid glance
at his face.
Martha Deane's voice was of that quality which compels an answer,
and a courteous answer, from the surliest of mankind. It was not loud, it
could scarcely be called musical; but every tone seemed to exhale
freshness as of dew, and brightness as of morning. It was pure, slightly
resonant; and all the accumulated sorrows of life could not have veiled
its inherent gladness. It could never grow harsh, never be worn thin, or
sound husky from weariness; its first characteristic would always be
youth, and the joy of youth, though it came from the lips of age.
Doubtless Gilbert Potter did not analyze the charm which it exercised
upon him; it was enough that he felt and submitted to it. A few quiet
remarks sufficed to draw from him the story of the chase, in all its
particulars, and the lively interest in Martha Deane's face, the
boisterous glee of Sally Fairthorn, with his own lurking sense of
triumph, soon swept every gloomy line from his visage. His mouth
relaxed from its set compression, and wore a winning sweetness; his
eyes shone softly-bright, and a nimble spirit of gayety gave grace to his
movements.
"Fairly won, I must say!" exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, when the
narrative was finished. "And now, Gilbert, the brush?"
"The brush?"
"Who's to have it, I mean. Did you never get one before, as you don't

seem to understand?"
"Yes, I understand," said he, in an indifferent tone; "it may be had for
the asking."
"Then it's mine!" cried Sally, urging her heavy horse against him and
making a clutch at his cap. But he leaned as suddenly away, and shot a
length ahead, out of her reach. Miss Deane's horse, a light, spirited
animal, kept pace with his.
"Martha!"