up her arms, that he might lift her on the horse behind him.
There came a muffled answer, on a big sob, as it seemed. And as if heaven paused to hear, the storm was mute.
Could he have heard correctly? The words he fancied he had heard were:
“Best bonnet.”
The elements undoubtedly had matter for volleys of laughter, for the moment the faint squeal had ceased, they crashed deep and long from end to end, like a table of Titans passing a jest.
Rain-drops, hard as hail, were spattering a pool on her head. Evan stooped his shoulder, seized the soaked garment, and pulled it back, revealing the features of Polly Wheedle, and the splendid bonnet in ruins—all limp and stained.
Polly blinked at him penitentially.
“Oh, Mr. Harrington! Oh, ain’t I punished!” she whispered.
In truth, the maid resembled a well-watered poppy.
Evan told her to stand up close to the horse, and Polly stood up close, looking like a creature that expected a whipping. She was suffering, poor thing, from that abject sense of the lack of a circumference, which takes the pride out of women more than anything. Note, that in all material fashions, as in all moral observances, women demand a circumference, and enlarge it more and more, as civilisation advances. Respect the mighty instinct, however mysterious it seem.
“Oh, Mr. Harrington, don’t laugh at me,” said Polly.
Evan assured her that he was seriously examining her bonnet.
“It’s the bonnet of a draggletail,” said Polly, giving up her arms, and biting her under lip for the lift.
With some display of strength, Evan got the lean creature up behind him, and Polly settled there, and squeezed him tightly with her arms, excusing the liberty she took.
They mounted the beacon, and rode along the ridge whence the west became visible, and a washed edge of red over Beckley church spire and the woods of Beckley Court.
“And what have you been doing to be punished? What brought you here?” said Evan.
“Somebody drove me to Fallowfield to see my poor sister Susan,” returned Polly, half crying.
“Well, did he bring you here and leave you?”
“No: he wasn’t true to his appointment the moment I wanted to go back; and I, to pay him out, I determined I’d walk it where he shouldn’t overtake me, and on came the storm . . . . And my gown spoilt, and such a bonnet!”
“Who was the somebody?”
“He’s a Mr. Nicholas Frim, sir.”
“Mr. Nicholas Frim will be very unhappy, I should think.”
“Yes, that’s one comfort,” said Polly ruefully, drying her eyes.
Closely surrounding a young man as a young woman must be when both are on the same horse, they must, as a rule, talk confidentially together in a very short time. His “Are you cold?” when Polly shivered, and her “Oh, no; not very,” and a slight screwing of her body up to him, as she spoke, to assure him and herself of it, soon made them intimate.
“I think Mr. Nicholas Frim mustn’t see us riding into Beckley,” said Evan.
“Oh, my gracious! Ought I to get down, sir?” Polly made no move, however.
“Is he jealous?”
“Only when I make him, he is.”
“That’s very naughty of you.”
“Yes, I know it is—all the Wheedles are. Mother says, we never go right till we’ve once got in a pickle.”
“You ought to go right from this hour,” said Evan.
“It’s ’dizenzy does it,” said Polly. “And then we’re ashamed to show it. My poor Susan went to stay with her aunt at Bodley, and then at our cousin’s at Hillford, and then she was off to Lymport to drown her poor self, I do believe, when you met her. And all because we can’t bear to be seen when we’re in any of our pickles. I wish you wouldn’t look at me, Mr. Harrington.”
“You look very pretty.”
“It’s quite impossible I can now,” said Polly, with a wretched effort to spread open her collar. “I can see myself a fright, like my Miss Rose did, making a face in the looking-glass when I was undressing her last night. But, do you know, I would much rather Nicholas saw us than somebody.”
“Who’s that?”
“Miss Bonner. She’d never forgive me.”
“Is she so strict?”
“She only uses servants for spies,” said Polly. “And since my Miss Rose come—though I’m up a step—I’m still a servant, and Miss Bonner ’d be in a fury to see my—though I’m sure we’re quite respectable, Mr. Harrington—my having hold of you as I’m obliged to, and can’t help myself. But she’d say I ought to tumble off rather than touch her engaged with a little finger.”
“Her engaged?” cried Evan.
“Ain’t you, sir?” quoth Polly. “I understand you were going to be from my lady, the Countess. We all think so at Beckley. Why, look how Miss Bonner looks at you, and she’s sure to have plenty of money.”
This was Polly’s innocent way of bringing out a word about her own young mistress.
Evan controlled any denial of his pretensions to the hand of Miss Bonner. He said: “Is it your mistress’s habit to make faces in the looking-glass?”
“I’ll tell you how it happened,” said Polly. “But I’m afraid I’m in your way, sir. Shall I get off now?”
“Not by any means,” said Evan. “Make your arm tighter.”
“Will that do?” asked Polly.
Evan looked round and met her appealing face, over which the damp locks of hair straggled. The maid was fair: it was fortunate that he was thinking of the mistress.
“Speak on,” said Evan, but Polly put the question whether her face did not want washing, and so