She had not left the village far behind her, when she found that she had been well-advised in taking the dog, for a small party of horsemen, gay with ribbons, encountered her on the Worcester road, and the words of two of them made her face flame; nor did the stern reprimand of one of the officers greatly mend matters, as she passed swiftly on, trying to seem quite unconscious of the insult.
Meanwhile the officer in command, having reproved his soldiers, looked back thoughtfully once or twice, and noticed that the girl turned to the left through a field gate. It was clear that she was on her way to the picturesque gabled house plainly visible through the leafless trees.
On reaching Bosbury, he bade his lieutenant ride on with the men to Canon Frome, saying that he had business in the village; and, having left his horse at the “Bell Inn,” he returned leisurely on foot along the Worcester road, and sat down to wait on a sunny bank beside the gate through which Hilary had passed.
“It is the face that has haunted me for more than a year,” he reflected. “That exquisite face I saw in the miniature at Marlborough hanging from that rogue’s stubborn neck. Would that I had a halter round the throat of him now! What on earth was the name on his precious love-letter? I was a fool to tear it at Marshfield, for ’twas fully directed. Hang it, though, if I can remember a single word save that the lady lived at the Palace, Hereford. Well, I can soon find out all now, for, in spite of her dignity, she is as simple and inexperienced a country maid as little Nell herself. Nell, I understand, hath wedded one Mr. Neal. Never mind! News of the event is not likely to have reached Herefordshire, and she will serve me excellently well in the game I mean to play with Mr. Harford’s high-spirited lady-love. There is deadly need of some diversion in this country hole.”
Meanwhile Hilary had gone on her way not a little troubled and disconcerted by what had passed. It was not so much that the rude admiration of these soldiers was of any real consequence, as that she knew it would annoy her uncle, and perhaps lead to her walks being restricted entirely to the garden, a prospect that tried her not a little.
She was thankful when she reached the field gate leading to the farm, but in the anxious selection of the Christmas turkey, on which she felt that her reputation for womanly wisdom rested, she speedily forgot the passing annoyance.
Then, after the turkey review was ended and the fateful choice made, she gave the farmer’s wife a red ribbon to tie about the leg of the loyal bird, and having had a friendly gossip over Mrs. Kendrick’s rheumatism, called Don and ran gaily down the sloping field, racing the dog, and arriving at the gate almost breathless.
She gave a start of dismay when she suddenly discovered at the other side of the hedge a gentleman in a red doublet with a short fawn-coloured cloak thrown back over one shoulder, and an officer’s red feather in his fawn-coloured hat.
At sight of her he sprang up from the bank on which he had been resting, and Don growled so savagely at him that she was obliged to call the dog to heel.
“Pardon me, madam,” said the stranger in the most musical voice she had ever heard, “I only wish to apologise for the impertinence of my men, who deserve to be thrashed for so rudely troubling you with their ill-bred staring and admiration.”