The Real Charlotte - Edith Somerville [2]
Francie looked round, and with terror beheld that functionary in enraged pursuit. It was vain to try blandishments with the horse, now making for his stable at a good round trot; vainer still to pull at the reins. They were nearing the end of the long street, and Francie and the milkman, from their different points of view, were feeling equally helpless and despairing, when a young man came round the corner, and apparently taking in the situation at a glance, ran out into the road, and caught the horse by the bridle.
“Well, upon my word, Miss Francie,” he said, as Miss Fitzpatrick hurriedly descended from the cart. “You’re a nice young lady! What on earth are you up to now?”
“Oh, Mr. Lambert—” began Francie; but having got thus far in her statement, she perceived the justly incensed milkman close upon her, and once more taking to her heels, she left her rescuer to return the stolen property with what explanations he could. Round the corner she fled, and down the next street, till a convenient archway offered a hiding-place, and sheltering there, she laughed, now that the stress of terror was off her, till her blue eyes streamed with tears.
Presently she heard footsteps approaching, and peering cautiously out, saw Lambert striding along with the four Fitzpatrick children dancing round him, in their anxiety to present each a separate version of the escapade. The milkman was not to be seen, and Francie sallied forth to meet the party, secretly somewhat abashed, but resolved to bear an undaunted front before her cousins.
The “long black mustash,” so adroitly utilised by Francie for the chastening of Tommy Whitty, was stretched in a wide smile as she looked tentatively at its owner. “Will he tell Aunt Tish?” was the question that possessed her as she entered upon her explanation. The children might be trusted. Their round, white-lashed eyes had witnessed many of her exploits, and their allegiance had never faltered; but this magnificent grown-up man, who talked to Aunt Tish and Uncle Robert on terms of equality, what trouble might he not get her into in his stupid desire to make a good story of it? “Botheration to him!” she thought, “why couldn’t he have been somebody else?”
Mr. Roderick Lambert marched blandly along beside her, with no wish to change places with anyone agitating his bosom. His handsome brown eyes rested approvingly on Francie’s flushed face, and the thought that mainly occupied his mind was surprise that Nosey Fitzpatrick should have had such a pretty daughter. He was aware of Francie’s diffident glances, but thought they were due to his good looks and his new suit of clothes, and he became even more patronising than before. At last, quite unconsciously, he hit the dreaded point.
“Well, and what do you think your aunt will say when she hears how I found you running away in the milk-cart?”
“I don’t know,” replied Francie, getting very red. “Well, what will you say to me if I don’t tell her?”
“Oh, Mr. Lambert, sure you won’t tell mamma!” entreated the Fitzpatrick children, faithful to their leader. “Francie’d be killed if mamma thought she was playing with Tommy Whitty!”
They were nearing the Fitzpatrick mansion by this time, and Lambert stood still at the foot of the steps and looked down at the small group of petitioners with indulgent self-satisfaction.
“Well, Francie, what’ll you do for me if I don’t tell?”
Francie walked stiffly up the steps.
“I don’t know.” Then with a defiance that she was far from feeling, “You may tell her if you like!”
Lambert laughed easily as he followed her up the steps.
“You’re very angry with me now, aren’t you? Well, never mind, we’ll be friends, and I won’t tell on you this time.”
* * *
CHAPTER II.
The east wind was crying round a small house in the outskirts of an Irish country town. At nightfall it had stolen across the grey expanse of Lough Moyle, and given its first shudder among the hollies and laurestinas that hid the lower