In Which Our Hero Falls into Two Things …
Horton did not understand his luck as he took the path to the edge of Simpkin's Mire, the giant swamp that covered half the county.
Nor did he understand his luck when he tripped and fell off the narrow path into the mosquitoed muck, emerging with one leg and one arm covered in stinking, putrid black mud.
However, hours later, he began to understand when, just moments after slogging out of the mire onto the Shortleys' two-mile-long lane, he saw a very surprising thing—a girl on a bicycle.
Though a bicycle—a relatively new invention at that time—was a heretofore unseen sight this far from London, there was nothing particularly lucky about seeing it.
No, it is the rider of this clanky contraption that interests us. As she approached, Horton perceived her to be the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Not because of makeup or hairstyle, of which she seemed to have neither, but because of the smile she gave him. He had received few enough smiles in his life, and this was surely the best of the lot.
Fear not, Reader, we will not dwell on these romantic inklings, not if you don't wish to. But it really was a nice smile.
"Why, you're covered in mud," she called, wrestling with a lever in an attempt to brake the bicycle—a tall, ungainly structure with one big and one little wheel. It stopped suddenly and plopped her onto the ground. She laughed.
Horton ran over and offered her a hand. Unfortunately, black mud, smelling of dead tadpoles, still caked the aforesaid hand, as well as the rest of Horton's self.
"Er, no thanks," she said. As she climbed to her feet, he realized she was twice as beautiful as he had first thought. But we don't dwell; we move on.
"Sorry," he mumbled, wiping his dirty hand on his dirty pants. "I fell in Simpkin's Mire."
"Is that the name of that swamp?" she asked. "What were you doing in there?"
"I had to come all the way from Smugwick Manor. I cut through the swamp to save time," he said. "I'm delivering an invitation to the Shortleys."
"Oh, really? I'll be glad to take it the rest of the way for you."
"Oh, do you work there?" he asked.
"No, I'm spending the summer there."
A terrible feeling began to work its way through the Halfpott midsection and a terrible thought came to the Halfpott mind. This wasn't a kitchen girl, as he had assumed because of her simple clothing. This wasn't even a governess.
The girl gave a silly little mock curtsy.
"My name's Celia Sylvan-Smythe. What's yours?"
"Horton Halfpott, ma'am," he said, and lowered his eyes respectfully.
This wasn't another servant, this was a young lady. A lady like M'Lady.
He had spoken to her. He had offered her a muddy hand. He had also entertained a certain notion that we're not dwelling on.
Humiliation set in fast. Certainly Miss Sylvan-Smythe did nothing to promote it. No, the humiliation came, as it so often does, of its own accord. It came of Horton's knowledge of the world—the way it worked and his place in it. He seemed unaware that Celia seemed unaware of the way the world worked and his place in it.
He yearned to go. The clammy, stinking mire seemed like a preferable place to be.
He held out the envelope. "Here, ma'am. The invitation."
She took it and laughed again. "You'll have to stop calling me ma'am if we're going to be friends. Besides, I'm only a miss."
He heard her, but he was already running. Back into the weeds, back through the muck to his proper place.
He had made a fool of himself, he realized, and worst of all, he would never have a chance to speak to her again.
