TELLETH HOW MY LADY HERMINIA BARRASDAILE WENT A-WOOING
It was a golden morning; beyond dew-spangled hedgerows stretched green
meadows where brooks sparkled and the river gleamed, while afar, to right
and left, rose the majestic shapes of Windover and Firle Beacon.
Never had the country looked so fair, never had it filled him with such
yearning; never had the birds carolled so joyously. And very soon,
instead of this widespread smiling countryside he loved so much, the
reverent hush and stillness of these everlasting hills, the rugged,
simple folk he had learned to honour and respect, in place of all this
would be the narrow, roaring streets of London, the glitter of Mayfair,
the whirl of Paris.... Emptiness and Desolation! Sir John sighed again
and closed his eyes wearily.
Presently from an inner pocket he took a wallet, whence he extracted a
small, folded paper and, opening this, beheld a thick curl of glossy
black hair; for a long moment he gazed down at this; then, taking it
from the paper, made to toss it from the chaise window. But, as he did
so, the pretty thing twined itself softly about his finger and clung
there, whereupon he sighed, raised it suddenly to his lips, kissed it
passionately and cast it forth, shaking it violently from his hand much
as if it had stung him.
And now from the wallet he drew a folded parchment, and frowned at the
words that stared at him therefrom in fair black and white:
A special Licence of Marriage, between....
Beholding which words, he laughed bitterly and made to tear the thing,
then paused, folded and replaced it in the wallet, and thrusting this
back into his pocket, sat in frowning reverie.
Thus drove Sir John through the golden morning, looking neither to right
nor left, scowling at the cushions before him, at his buckled shoes, his
silk stockings, at anything and anywhere rather than the countryside he
was leaving.
Nevertheless he was about to order the post-boy to drive faster, when the
chaise slowed up suddenly and jolted to a standstill.
Out of the window went Sir John’s indignant head on the instant.
“What the devil are ye stopping for?” he demanded. “What’s the matter?”
“I dunno, sir,” answered the post-boy, pointing with his whip, “but ’twas
all along o’ ’er ... in the middle o’ the road, sir!”
Forth from the chaise leapt Sir John in a fury.
“Damme, are ye drunk?” he demanded.
“Nary a drop, your honour, since nine o’clock las’ night, on my David,
sir! But theer she was, your honour, in the middle o’ the fair-way, d’ye
see, a-wavin’ of ’er arms wild-like ... wouldn’t move, an’ us nigh a-top
of ’er, so pull up I ’ad to, sir.”
“Ah!” quoth Sir John. “And now, my good Addlepate, will you pray inform
me what the devil you are stopping for?”
“Why, lord, sir, ain’t I a-tellin’ your honour as she came out o’ the
’edge yonder all suddent-like, an’ waved ’er arms wild-like an’——”
“Aye, my good numbskull, but who?”
“A ’ooman, sir, a precious big ’un in a——”
“Then where is she, my good clod, where is she?”
“Here!” answered a voice.
Sir John spun round upon his heel and very nearly gaped.
She was sitting in the chaise, her eyes very bright, her cheeks a little
flushed beneath the hood of the long grey cloak that enfolded her.
For a long moment they gazed at one another speechlessly, while the
post-boy sucked at the knob of his whip and stared with eyes round and
bright as his buttons, for whose behoof Sir John presently spoke.
“Madame,” said he, bowing with extreme ceremony, “I trust we ha’n’t kept
your ladyship long a-waiting!... You may drive on, my addle-brained
wiseacre, and pocket this guinea for possessing the wit not to run over a
lady in broad daylight.” So saying, Sir John bestowed the coin, got into
the chaise and closed the door, whereupon the jubilant post-boy cracked
his whip ecstatically, chirruped gaily to his horses, and they drove on
again.
“And now, madame,” inquired Sir John coldly, eyelids a-droop, chin
uptilted, and seated as far from her as the narrow vehicle allowed,
“pray, what folly is this?”
“Folly, indeed, John, to run away ... and so very early in the morning,
too!”
“How came you hither, madame?”
“In George Potter’s cart.... And do not be so extreme distant, John ...
for thee I left my warm bed at sunrise!”
“Your ladyship amazes me!”
“Merely because, sir, with all your knowledge of womankind, you don’t
in the very least apprehend this woman.... O John, didst think I would
suffer thee to steal thyself from me, so?”
“And why are you here, madame?”
“To woo thee,” she answered softly, “to seek thy love.”
Sir John started and turned to glance out of the window.
“How—how did you learn that I was leaving?” he questioned hastily.
“Old Penelope told me ... and, John dear, she gave me a charm; a very
potent spell should prevail with thee, an’ my poor pleading may not.”
Now, hearing the soft yearning in her voice, conscious of all the new,
sweet gentleness of her as, tremulous, wistful, she leaned towards him
appealingly, he looked resolutely out of the window.
“Spells and charms the most potent, my lady, shall prove of none avail,
for my love is surely dead!”
“Nay, thou foolish John, perchance it may swoon a little, but ’tis not
dead, for love that is of the true sort may never die. And thy love,
methinks, is a true love indeed.”
“It was,” he corrected; “and you made of it a mock——”
“Nay, I did but laugh, John, but not at thy dear love-making.... Oh,
indeed, thou’rt the merest man to be so blind! My laughter was by reason
o’ the broken ornament, the tumbled chair, my torn gown.... I must ha’
seemed so clumsy ... but the room was so strait and I always feel myself
so hugely vast! My laughter, John, was merest hysteria, which was strange
in me, for I was never so before.”
“Ha—never?” he questioned suddenly.
“Never with thee, John.”
“The night Death crawled upon me in the hedge?”
“And I shielded thy dear body with mine, John ... because I feared for
thee, loved thee, and would ha’ died for thee.... And ’twas because of
the last five years, the evil I had spoken of thee, the harms I had
wickedly tried to work thee ... this was why I would have died for thee,
John, this, but never hysteria.... Aye, I know, indeed, I so named it,
but this was only because I could think of naught else to retort upon
thee with....”
“Couldst indeed be so cruel?” he questioned more gently, but with his
gaze still averted.
“Yet am I kinder than thou,” she answered, “for if thou wilt break
my poor heart and ruin my life, I will not suffer thee to break thine
own.... So am I here beseeching thee to come back to love and me and the
dear Down-country.”
“Nay, this cannot be.”
“Because I do love thee truly, John.”
“This I cannot believe.”
“Why, then, John, I am here to follow thee where thou wilt, to beseech
thy forgiveness, to supplicate thee to love me a little ... and because I
am thine own, now and always, thou dear, brave, kind, cruel, unbelieving,
wise and most foolish John! Wilt not look at me even now? Then needs must
I use old Penelope’s charm!”
Speaking thus, she thrust something into his fingers, and he saw this for
the miniature of his long-dead father.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “What o’ this?”
“You must open it, John. Penelope bid me tell you to open the back and
read what your father wrote there so many years agone.”
Mutely he obeyed, and, inscribed in small, clear characters, saw this:
Beloved,
though death
must needs come
to us soon or late,
yet do I know we can
never die since Love
is immortal. So by
thy love shall I live
on beyond death
with thee for
ever. Thy
John Dering.
For a while he sat staring at this message from the “living” dead; at
last, and suddenly, he turned and looked at her.
“John,” she whispered, “take me, beloved, and so let us make each other
immortal.”
Then Sir John reached out his arms and, drawing her to him, gazed deep
into her eyes.
“Herminia,” said he, “O Rose o’ love ... my Rose in very truth, at last!”
“For thy wearing, John,” she sighed, “or needs must I fade soon and
wither utterly away.”