Riding was one of the accomplishments brought by Leam from school, though she had never been able to thoroughly conquer either her timidity or her reluctance.  Her childish days of inaction and inclusion had left their mark on her for life, and, moreover, she was not of the race or kind whence, by any process of education possible, could have been evolved a girl of the florid, fearless, energetic kind usually held as the type of the English maiden.  Hence she was never quite happy on horseback, and always wondered how it was that people could be enthusiastic about riding.  Nevertheless, she had learnt to sit with grace, if not with confidence, and she was too proud to show the discomfort she felt.  Her father had bought for her use the showiest chestnut to be had in the market; and as he wished her to ride sometimes with him, if oftener with only the groom at her heels, and as, again, she had honestly set herself to please him, she used to mount her Red Coat, as she called her beast, punctually every other day, and carry her dislike to the exercise as the penance it was fitting she should perform.  And besides all this, that devouring fever in her blood, that oppressive consciousness rather than active remembrance, lying always at the back of her life, was best soothed by long hours alone in the open air.  For when she had only the groom behind her, Leam—­to whom all men were as yet powers undesignated, and a man of low degree a mere animal that made intelligible sounds on occasions and was of a little more use than a dog—­forgot him altogether, and was as much alone as if he had not been there.

Once or twice before the hegira of the gentry she had chanced to meet Major Harrowby in her rides, and he had turned with her and accompanied her, which was half a pain to’ Leam and half a pleasure.  The pain was connected with her reins and her stirrups, her saddle and the girths, the restless way in which the chestnut moved his ears, the discomposing toss of his small impatient head, the snorts which frightened her as the heralds of an outbreak, and his inclination to dance sideways into the hedge rather than walk discreetly in the middle of the road, whereby her seat was disturbed and her courage tried, she all the while not liking to show that she was ill at ease.  The pleasure was personal, arising from the strange sense of protection that she felt in Edgar’s society and the charming way in which he talked to her.  He had seen a great deal, and he had a facile tongue, and between fact and color, memory and make-up, his stories were delightful.  Also, after the manner of men who seek to influence a young girl’s mind and heart, he lent her books to read, and he marked his favorite passages, which he discussed afterward.  They were not passages of abstract thought and impersonal sentiment, like the penciled notes in Alick Corfield’s literary loans, but scenes of passion or of pathos, going straight to the heart of youth, which feels rather than reflects, or descriptions of places which were equal to pictures of human life.  Under Alick’s guidance she had fallen asleep over Wordsworth—­under Edgar’s she dreamed beneath the stars over Byron, and had heartaches without knowing why.