On reaching the high road, she observed a
fresh track of narrow wheels, that her rustic experience told her
could only be those of a four-wheeled carriage, and, making inquiries,
she found she was too late; carriage and riders had gone on before.
Her heart sank. Too late by a few minutes; but somehow she could not
turn back. She walked as fast as she could after the gay cavalcade, a
prey to one of those female anxieties we have all laughed at as
extravagant, proved unreasonable, and sometimes found prophetic.
Meantime Lucy and Mr. Talboys cantered gayly along; Mr. Fountain
rolled after in a phaeton; the traveling carriage came last. Lucy was
in spirits; motion enlivens us all, but especially such of us as are
women. She had also another cause for cheerfulness, that may perhaps
transpire. Her two companions and unconscious dependents were governed
by her mood. She made them larks to-day, as she had owls for some
weeks past, last night excepted. She would fall back every now and
then, and let Uncle Fountain pass her; then come dashing up to him,
and either pull up short with a piece of solemn information like an
_aid-de-camp_ from headquarters, or pass him shooting a shaft of
raillery back into his chariot, whereat he would rise with mock fury
and yell a repartee after her. Fountain found himself good
company--Talboys himself. It was not the lady; oh dear no! it never
is.
At last all seemed so bright, and Mr. Talboys found himself so
agreeable, that he suddenly recalled his high resolve not to pop in a
county desecrated by Dodds.
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