The Duchess had a sudden inspiration. Over the
fireplace in the harness-room, displayed in a glass show-case, was a
set of State harness which my father had had specially made for great
occasions in Dublin: gorgeous trappings of crimson and silver, heavy
with bullion. The Duchess hurried off for the key, and with my
brother's help harnessed the astounded mare and the filly, and then
put them to. The filly, unlike the majority of the young of her sex,
had apparently no love for the pomps and vanities of the world, and
manifested her dislike of the splendours with which she was
tricked-out by kicking furiously. The unclipped, ungroomed
farm-horses, bedizened with crimson and silver, must have felt rather
like a navvy in his working clothes who should suddenly find himself
decked-out with the blue velvet mantle of a Knight of the Garter over
his corduroys. The Duchess proposed fetching the old farmer herself,
so she climbed to the box-seat and gathered the reins into her hands,
but on being reminded by my brother that time was running short, and
that the cart-horses would require a good deal of persuasion before
they could be induced to accelerate their customary sober walk, she
relinquished her place to him. Off they went, the filly still kicking
frantically, the old Clydesdale mare, glittering with crimson and
silver, uncertain as to whether she was dragging a plough or hauling
the King in his State coach to the Opening of Parliament at
Westminster.
Pages:
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361