Hurlingham in the merry month of June, just when the east winds have ceased to trouble; when the roses and strawberries are at their best; when the lamb is verging towards muttony, and the whitebait are growing up; when the leaves are yet young, and Epsom and Ascot either pleasant or grim memories of the past. Can anything be more delightful than Hurlingham on a fine Saturday afternoon? that one week-day when the daughters of Venus throng the pleasant grounds, and the birds sacred to the goddess are held sacred for fear that the shooters should scatter the coaches it would be too grievous that the destruction of pigeons, through frightening the horses, should result in the upsetting of a drag bearing a bevy of London’s fairest daughters. What matches have been made here both for life and for centuries as, in the “shibboleth” of our day, a hundred pounds is sometimes termed! Much damage at times has no doubt accrued both to the hearts of humanity and the legs of the polo ponies. The coaches gather thick about their allotted end of the grassy paddock; drag after drag drops quietly into its position; the teams are unharnessed and led slowly away; and their passengers either elect to view the forthcoming match from their seats of vantage, or, alighting, stroll up and mix with the fashionable crowd that throngs the far side of the lawn-like paddock. All London has flocked to Hurlingham to-day to enjoy the bright afternoon, indulge in tea, gossip, or claret-cup, and look lazily on at the polo match between the th Hussars and Monmouthshire. Both teams are reported very strong, and opinion is pretty equally divided as to which way the match will go.

Mrs. Wriothesley is, of course, there. That lady is a pretty constant habituée, and with Sylla to chaperon is not likely to miss it on this occasion. She has joined forces already with Lady Mary: as she said, they have all a common interest in the event of the day, for was not Captain Bloxam the life and soul of the Hussar side, and were they not all there ready to sympathize or applaud? Applause at Hurlingham, by the way, being in as little accord with the traditions of the place as it is in the stalls of a fashionable theatre. The match has not yet begun. Two or three wiry ponies, with carefully-bandaged forelegs, are being led up and down on the opposite side of the paddock. The centre is still unoccupied, save for a few late-comers walking quietly across, none of the competitors having so far put in an appearance.

“Just the sort of thing to interest you, this, Miss Sylla,” exclaimed Pansey Cottrell, after lifting his hat in a comprehensive manner to the whole party. “I know you are passionately fond of horses and have a taste for riding.”

“Now, what does he mean by that?” thought Sylla. There was nothing much in the remark, but she was getting a little afraid of this mischievous elderly gentleman. She was beginning to look for a hidden meaning in his speeches. Could this be a covert allusion to her mishap at Todborough? Had the story of her fall come to his ears, and was he about to indulge his love of teasing people at her expense? “I don’t know,” she replied, guardedly, “that I am so very passionately fond of horses; but I have no doubt I shall enjoy this very much. Knowing one of the players will of course make it interesting.”

“Quite so,” replied Cottrell. “It is a pity Mr. Beauchamp is not playing. If he were, I should consult you as to which side to back. You judge his capabilities in all ways so accurately.”

Neither Lady Mary nor Mrs. Wriothesley could help noticing this speech. It was just one of those wicked little remarks to which Pansey Cottrell treated his friends when they were wanting in deference to his comments on things generally.

“Sylla has known him all her life,” interposed Mrs. Wriothesley; “but because she happened to know that Lionel could run, it does not follow that she knows whether he can play polo. However, as he is not playing, it is a matter of very little account whether he can or no.”

“Quite right. Nothing is much in this world, except the weather and the cooks. The sun shines to-day; and whatever the rest of us are called upon to endure, Mrs. Wriothesley, I know, can always rely upon her soup and entrees. I always look upon it as rather good of you to dine out.”

It was probable that such judicious remarks had done Mr. Cottrell good service in the early part of his career; but now he was the fashion, and realised his position most thoroughly.

“Very pretty of you to recognize the fact that my poor little kitchenmaid is not a barbarian,” rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley.

She also had her foible, and always spoke in disparaging tones of her establishment. She would ask her friends to take a cutlet with her, or to come and eat cold chicken with her after the play, but took good care that the menu should be of very different calibre. She, like Pansey Cottrell, was the fashion, and he knew it. Besides, not only was the lady a favourite of his, but he never would have permitted himself to commit the folly of quarrelling with any one who so thoroughly understood the mysteries of gastronomy.

But now, clad in white flannels, butcher-boots, and scarlet caps, a couple of players make their appearance, and walk their sturdy little steeds up the ground; another and another quickly follow, and soon the contending sides group themselves together at opposite ends of the enclosure. The Monmouthshire quintet in their all white and scarlet caps are faced by the Hussars in their blue and scarlet hoops. The umpire walks to the centre, glances round to the captains of either side to see that they are all in readiness, and then drops the ball. Quick as thought the contending teams are in motion, the “players up” of each party scudding as fast as their wiry little ponies can carry them for the first stroke. It is a close thing; but the white and scarlet obtains the first chance, and by some fatality misses the ball. Another second, and Jim Bloxam has sent it flying towards the Monmouthshire goal, and is pelting along in hot pursuit, only to see the ball come whizzing back past him from a steady drive by one of the adversary’s back-players. Backwards and forwards flies the ball, and the clever little ponies, at the guidance of their riders, bustle now this way, now that, in chase of it. Over and over again it is driven close to the fatal posts at either end the being driven between which scores the first goal of the game only to be sent again in the reverse direction by the back-player. Then comes a regular scrimmage in the centre of the ground, and the ball is dribbled amongst the ponies’ legs, first a little this way, and then that, but never more than a few yards in any direction. Suddenly it flies far away from the melee, and Jim Bloxam races after it, hotly pursued by one of the white and scarlet men. Jim fails to hit the ball fair, and it spins off at a tangent. His antagonist swerves, quick as thought, to the ball, and by a clever back-stroke sends it once more into the centre of the field; another short melee, and then the Monmouthshire men carry the ball rapidly down on the Hussar goal. The back-player of the Hussars rides forward to meet it; but a dexterous touch from the leader of the white and scarlet men sends it a little to the right, and before any of the Hussars can intervene, a good stroke from one of the Monmouthshire men galloping on that side sends it between the posts, and the first goal is credited to the white and scarlet.

Dr. Johnson, when asked by Boswell what a shining light of those days meant by a somewhat vague remark, surmised that the speaker must have “meant to annoy somebody.” The Doctor was probably right, being a pretty good judge of that sort of thing. There are many unmeaning remarks made, the why of which it is difficult to explain, unless we put that interpretation upon them. It must have been some such malicious feeling that prompted Mr. Cottrell to observe,

“Poor Jim! He seems destined always to play second fiddle. As at Rockcliffe, he is just beaten again.”

“Defeats such as Captain Bloxam’s,” exclaimed Sylla, “are as much to one’s credit as easily-obtained victories. He was just defeated at Rockcliffe after a gallant struggle. I have seen some polo-playing before at Brighton, and don’t think I ever saw a harder-fought goal played.”

It was with somewhat amused surprise that Mr. Cottrell found his dictum disputed by a young lady in her first season, and he shot a sharp glance at Mrs. Wriothesley, to see what that lady thought of the spirited manner in which her niece stood up for the vanquished Hussar; but she and Lady Mary were just then engaged in welcoming Lionel Beauchamp, and the observation consequently escaped their ears.

“I beg your pardon,” rejoined Cottrell; “I did not know your sympathies were so strong. I am, of course,” he continued, in mocking tones, “prepared to condole with his family over Jim’s defeat; but I must comfort you in your affliction by reminding you that the loss of one point does not mean the loss of the rubber.”

“Thank you,” replied Sylla. “I have ranged myself to-day on the side of the Hussars; and my champions are not always defeated, as you may remember.”

“I trust,” replied Mr. Cottrell, laughing, “you will have a good afternoon. I reverence you as a young lady who wagers with infinite discretion.” And so saying, he moved off to talk to other acquaintance.

Lionel Beauchamp had seated himself next Blanche, and, assisted by a slight movement of the young lady’s chair in his favour, found that he had successfully obtained the tete-a-tete for which he had manoeuvred.

“I want you to do me a favour, Miss Bloxam,” he observed.

“Certainly, Mr. Beauchamp, if I can; what is it?”

“I want you to promise to join a water party that four of us are organizing for this day fortnight; but we mean to go down the river instead of up. We intend chartering a steamer, and so be quite independent, as we shall carry our own commissariat with us.”

“I have no doubt mamma will say yes if we have no other engagement. But favour for favour I have one to ask of you; will you grant it?”

“I answer as you did most certainly if I can.”

“Ah, but you must answer differently; you must say ‘certainly’ without any conditions.”

“That is impossible; one cannot quite pledge oneself to that. It is not very likely that I shall refuse you.”

“But you are refusing me now. I want you to say ‘certainly’ without any reservation whatever.”

“And I can only reply as I did before, Miss Bloxam, that it is impossible. No sensible person could ever do that. It is very improbable that you should ask me, but it is possible that you might wish me, to do something that I was bound to say ‘no’ to. I repeat, improbable but possible. Won’t you tell me what it is? You may be quite sure it is already granted if within my power.”

“But it is quite within your power,” replied Blanche; “you can do it if you choose. Why won’t you say ’yes’?”

“Tell me what it is,” he answered, more determined than ever not to yield to her unreasonable demand. He was not obstinate, but Lionel Beauchamp had a will of his own, and could make up his mind quickly and decidedly, a virtue sadly wanting in many of us. His reservation had been put in mechanically in the first instance, but Blanche’s persistence made him now resolute not to commit himself to an unlimited promise. Except unthinkingly, people do not make promises of this nature, any more than they give blank cheques, the filling-in of which in unwarrantable fashion might occasion much grief and tribulation to the reckless donor.

Miss Bloxam felt a little indignant at not being able to carry her point, but she knew just as well as Lionel did that she was insisting on the exorbitant. “Still,” she argued, “if he were really in love with me he would not mind promising to grant me whatever I asked.

“I want to know,” she said at length, “what was the present Miss Chipchase made you?”

“Good Heavens!” replied Lionel, laughing, “is that all you require? She sent me these solitaires for saving her bracelet at Rockcliffe; are they not pretty ones?” And, pulling back his coat-sleeve, Beauchamp exhibited the studs at his wrists.

“Very,” returned Blanche. “But that is not quite all: what is the commission she has given you?”

Beauchamp looked a little grave at this question. This commission was in reality the mildest of mysteries; but he saw that Blanche believed it to be of far greater importance.

“I cannot tell you,” he replied.

“May I ask why?”

“Certainly. I cannot tell you because I have promised not to mention it. You, of course, would not wish me to break my word?”

“Decidedly not,” rejoined Miss Bloxam. “My curiosity has led me into a great indiscretion. But the game is getting interesting. Surely Jim’s side are having the best of it now?” And Miss Bloxam, turning half-round in her seat, devoted her attention to the polo-players with laudable persistency. If Blanche Bloxam was showing herself somewhat childish and unreasonable for there could be no doubt that the young lady had turned away from Lionel more or less in a huff it must be remembered that she was very much in earnest in her love affair, that she was jealous of Sylla Chipchase, and that though she believed Lionel Beauchamp loved her, he had not as yet declared himself. She had foolishly, and perhaps whimsically, regarded this as a test question, and she had been answered in the negative. I do not know that she was out-of-the-way foolish. Maidens like Marguerite have played “He loves me, he loves me not,” many a time with a flower; and Blanche’s appeal was as wise as theirs, except in the one thing you cannot quarrel with a flower, but it is very possible to do so with a lover. It is all very well for the gods to laugh at such quarrels, but those interested seldom see the humour of the situation, and in nineteen cases out of twenty the cause of their occurrence is trifling.

The band of the Guards is ringing out the most seductive of valses. Silken robes sweep the grass, and soft laughter floats upon the summer air. The polo-players are once more in the full tide of battle. The gaily-coloured jerseys are now here, now there, in pursuit of the ever-flying sphere, for the temporary possession of which each player seems as covetous as Atalanta was of the golden apple. Ever and anon comes a short, sharp, furious melee, and then from its midst flies the ball, with three or four horsemen riding their hardest in pursuit; while the back-player of the threatened goal warily prepares for the attack that is impending unless some one of his comrades should succeed in arresting it. One of the fiercest of these melees is now taking place in front of the promenade. From the confused surging knot suddenly shoots the ball, and skims along at an ominous pace in the direction of the goal of the scarlet and white. Jim Bloxam, slipping all the other players by a couple of lengths, leads the pursuit, with two of his antagonists riding their hardest to catch him. Jim makes the most of his opportunity, and it looks like a goal for the Hussars. He is riding a smartish pony, and feels that his followers will never catch him. He is bound to get first to the ball, and, if only he does not miss his stroke, should drive it clean through the goal-posts. But though he is so far right that he keeps his lead of his antagonists, there is another player to be taken into calculation, whom so far Jim has quite overlooked, and this is the crafty back-player of the scarlet and white men who is in charge of the goal. He is quite as alive as Jim to the gravity of the occasion. He knows that Bloxam’s stroke must be prevented, if possible; and coming from the opposite direction, although lying somewhat to Jim’s left, is striving his utmost to interfere. The ball has all but stopped, and it is palpable that the new-comer will cut Jim’s course obliquely at the ball. It is a fine point. Each man’s wiry little steed is doing its very best. But, ah, Jim has it! The Hussar’s polo-mallet whirls high in the air, and, as he passes the ball, a well-aimed stroke sends it flying through the enemy’s goal-posts; another second, and, unable to rein up their ponies, Jim and the back-player of the scarlet and white meet in full career and roll over in a heap on the ground, while Jim’s two attendant antagonists are both brought to similar grief from tumbling over their leader.

“Good Heavens! there are four of them down!” exclaimed Lionel Beauchamp. “Don’t be alarmed, Miss Bloxam: falls are not often serious at polo; see, there are two of them getting up already.”

The last melee had taken place so close to the spectators that it had been quite easy to identify the players, and Miss Bloxam was therefore quite aware that her brother was one of the four men down; but she and Lady Mary were too habituated to the accidents of the hunting-field to feel that nervous terror at witnessing a fall that people not so accustomed are apt to experience. But there were other lookers-on with whom it was very different. It was a bad accident to look upon; and Mrs. Wriothesley suddenly felt her wrist gripped with a force that could hardly be supposed existent in the delicately-gloved fingers. She glanced round at her niece’s face. The girl was white to her very lips. She had been educated abroad, and though, as we know, she had displayed plenty of courage when she had fallen into similar difficulties herself, accidents both in flood and field were a novel sight to her.

“He does not get up,” she faltered at last, in low tones.

“For goodness’ sake don’t make a fool of yourself,” replied Mrs. Wriothesley sharply. She honestly thought the girl was about to faint, and was filled with dismay at the prospect of finding her niece the centre of a scene. “Men don’t get hurt at polo any more than they do at cricket. They will all be galloping past here again before five minutes are over.”

But in this conjecture Mrs. Wriothesley was wrong; for although two of the fallen horsemen struggled promptly to their feet, Jim and the antagonist with whom he had come in collision had neither of them as yet done so. By this time all the players were collected round the spot where the accident had taken place, and an impression that some one was seriously hurt was rapidly gaining ground.

“Lionel,” exclaimed Mrs. Wriothesley, the moment she dared take her eyes off her niece, “I am sure Lady Mary would be extremely obliged to you if you would run down and see what is the matter. For Heaven’s sake, Sylla,” she whispered into her niece’s ear, “don’t make an exhibition of yourself by fainting or any nonsense of that sort. Ridiculous! as if any one was ever hurt by falling off a pony!”

Lady Mary reiterated Mrs. Wriothesley’s request, and Beauchamp at once slipped through the rails and ran down to the group. He found Jim resting his head upon his hand, lying on the grass and looking ghastly pale, but his brother-sufferer was still insensible.

“I don’t think I can go on,” gasped Jim, in answer to inquiries as to how he was “that is, not to be of any use, you know; that confounded cannon has not only knocked all the wind out of me, but knocked me half foolish besides. I feel so faint and sick, you must get on as you best can without me for half an hour.”

The other sufferer now gave signs of returning animation; and as, after looking at him, the doctor pronounced him only stunned by the fall and a good deal shaken, it was decided to draw a man from each side and so continue the game. Lionel Beauchamp made the best of his way back with his report.

“No sort of cause, Lady Mary, for being in the least alarmed. Bloxam is sensible; says there is nothing the matter, further than that they have knocked all the wind out of his body, and that he is too shaken to go on with the game at present; he will be all right again in a couple of hours. See, there he is, walking away to the dressing-rooms at the other side, along with his antagonist, who is in a similar case. It was an awkward collision, and it is well the results were no worse.” And, as he finished his speech, Beauchamp rather ruefully contrasted the cool reception that Blanche gave to his intelligence with the bright smile with which Sylla rewarded him.

Under no circumstances, perhaps, would it have been otherwise. Blanche was of a calmer disposition, very different from the vivacious emotional temperament of Sylla Chipchase; and then she had never felt the nervous apprehension as to its results that had so terrified Sylla. Miss Bloxam loved her brother very dearly, but it would never occur to her to feel any great anxiety at seeing Jim fall. She would have told you quietly that “Jim knew how to fall.” But she was filled with exceeding bitterness about one thing, that her secret love-test had resulted in failure, and that her heart was, to a considerable extent, out of her possession before it had been asked for. No, her difference with Lionel Beauchamp was not to be passed over so lightly as all that. If he could refuse the slight request that she had made him, he could care very little about her. “As if any man, honestly in love, would hesitate to break a mere promise made to another woman!” And to the best of my belief, the majority of her sex would be quite of Blanche’s opinion.

“He does not get up,” thought Mrs. Wriothesley, as she drove home from Hurlingham. “Yes, Sylla, my dear, you have told me something to-day that I honestly don’t believe you knew yourself before. When accidents happen in the plural, and young ladies remark upon them only in the singular number, it is a sign of absorbing interest in somebody concerned. People generally, I think, would have observed, ’They don’t get up.’” But Mrs. Wriothesley wisely kept all these reflections to herself.