“She will see me to-night?” said Evan.
“I don’t know about to-night,” Polly replied.
“Go to her instantly. Tell her I am ready. I will be at the West park-gates. This is why you wrote, Polly? Why did you lose time? Don’t delay, my good girl! Come!”
Evan had opened the door. He would not allow Polly an instant for expostulation; but drew her out, saying, “You will attend to the gates yourself. Or come and tell me the day, if she appoints another.”
Polly made a final effort to escape from the pit she was being pushed into.
“Mr. Harrington! it wasn’t to tell you this I wrote.
Miss Rose is engaged, sir.”
“I understand,” said Evan, hoarsely, scarcely feeling it, as is the case with men who are shot through the heart.
Ten minutes later he was on horseback by the Fallowfield gates, with the tidings shrieking through his frame. The night was still, and stiller in the pauses of the nightingales. He sat there, neither thinking of them nor reproached in his manhood for the tears that rolled down his cheeks. Presently his horse’s ears pricked, and the animal gave a low neigh. Evan’s eyes fixed harder on the length of gravel leading to the house. There was no sign, no figure. Out from the smooth grass of the lane a couple of horsemen issued, and came straight to the gates. He heard nothing till one spoke. It was a familiar voice.
“By Jove, Ferdy, here is the fellow, and we’ve been all the way to Lymport!”