Market Harborough, and Inside the BarWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
General
Market Harborough, and Inside the Bar
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
Country life -- England -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century; Fox hunting -- Fiction
Miss H.: “Oh! very.”
[Grand Round strikes up, much to their joint relief, and promises to put
a speedy termination to the solemnity.]
But in the revolutions of this highly-exciting pastime there is one
figure which admits of the gentleman and lady opposite saying nearly
three words to each other; and it is needless to insist on the necessity
of condensing as much meaning as possible into so short a sentence.
“Why so cross?” said Miss Cissy, as she approached her adorer at this
propitious moment; and, although Mr. Sawyer had neither presence of mind
nor opportunity to make an appropriate reply, he looked like a different
individual henceforth, and almost forgot to return his little partner,
none the worse for her excursion, to the maternal wing.
Little did Mr. Sawyer dream, as she thanked him with her demure curtsey,
how that sly puss, who had been indeed the life and soul of the
school-room she had just left, would act the whole scene over again that
night in her dormitory for the edification of three elder sisters and a
Swiss maid; how she would mimic to the life his stiff shy manner and
preoccupied demeanour; nay, make her very draperies stick out like the
square tails of his coat. In virtue of her sex, the little minx detected
his secret, and saw through him at a glance, though she was but sixteen.
He thought it was very good of him to dance with her, and she was making
a study and a character of him the whole time. Dear, dear! how little we
know of them! Happy the man who wraps himself in a waterproof garment of
vanity; who is determined to ignore the reflection, that the smile he
resolves to accept as approval may be nothing better than derision after
all; who leaves them to their own devices, and thanks his stars that he
has served his apprenticeship and is “out of his time!”
A quadrille with Miss Dove put everything to rights. She seemed resolved
to make amends, and she did it so prettily. She gave him her fan to
hold, and her bouquet to smell, and asked his opinion of the different
beauties, and smiled upon him and petted him, till her dancing-bear was
in thorough subjection once more. He almost made up his mind he would
propose to her in the tea-room. An eligible spot for the purpose, as it
was likely to contain about fifty couples wedged together in the closest
possible proximity. He could hardly be mistaken, he thought, this time;
yet a cold shudder crept over him as he recollected Miss Mexico. If this
business should have the same termination, he felt he had lived long
enough. He would go and drown himself in the Whissendine, or retire to
the mountain fastnesses of Wales, there to hunt with the Plinlimmon
harriers and that united pack, the glory of three districts, whereof no
mortal tongue can pronounce the names.
He drew her nervously with him towards the tea-room. Ere they reached
its entrance they were intercepted by young Vainhopes—all gloves and
studs and curls and chains and smiles.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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