She reckoned without the justice, who was wont to say that when he wore a cassock he was a parson, and when he wore his top-boots he was a gentleman. He recognised her with a subdued “View halloa!” and pulled up as she drew near. He slid from his saddle—with an agility his bulk did not promise—and barred the way.
With a grin and an over-gallant salute, “Dear, dear, dear,” he said. “Isn’t this out of bounds, young lady? Outside the rules of the bench, eh? What’d Mother Gilson be saying if she saw you here?”
“I have been on an errand for her,” Henrietta replied, in her coldest tone.
But she had to stop. The road was narrow, and he had, as by accident, put his horse across it.
“An errand?” he said, smiling more broadly, “as far as this? She is very trusting! More trusting than I should be with a young lady of your appearance, who twist all the men round your finger.”
Henrietta’s eyes sparkled.
“I am returning to her,” she said, “and I am late. Please to let me pass.”
“To be sure I will,” he said. But instead of moving aside he drew a pace nearer; so that between himself, the horse, and the bank, she was hemmed in. “To be sure, young lady!” he continued. “But that is not quite the tone to take with the powers that be! We are gentle as sucking doves—to pretty young women—while we are pleased; and ready to stretch a point, as we did the other day, for our friend Clyne, who was so deuced mysterious about the matter. But we must have our quid pro quo, eh? Come, a kiss! Just one. There are only the birds to see and the hedges to tell, and I’ll warrant”—the leer more plain in his eyes—“you are not always so particular.”
Henrietta was not frightened, but she was angry and savage.
“Do you know who I am?” she cried, for the moment forgetting herself in her passion.