Margery
that she might soon expect a pair of white gloves, as Sir Harry
Benson, he was very well informed, was just going to be married to
Miss Walton. Harley spilt the wine he was carrying to his mouth:
he had time, however, to recollect himself before the curate had
finished the different particulars of his intelligence, and summing
up all the heroism he was master of, filled a bumper, and drank to
Miss Walton. "With all my heart," said the curate, "the bride that
is to be." Harley would have said bride too; but the word bride
stuck in his throat. His confusion, indeed, was manifest; but the
curate began to enter on some point of descent with Mrs. Margery,
and Harley had very soon after an opportunity of leaving them, while
they were deeply engaged in a question, whether the name of some
great man in the time of Henry the Seventh was Richard or Humphrey.
He did not see his aunt again till supper; the time between he spent
in walking, like some troubled ghost, round the place where his
treasure lay. He went as far as a little gate, that led into a
copse near Mr. Walton's house, to which that gentleman had been so
obliging as to let him have a key. He had just begun to open it
when he saw, on a terrace below, Miss Walton walking with a
gentleman in a riding-dress, whom he immediately guessed to be Sir
Harry Benson.
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