JOHN COTLEY closed his account-book—blotting the last entry carefully,
for he was an orderly man—and laid it in its accustomed place in the
drawer of his high desk. Then, rising from the tall stool on which he
had been seated for an hour and more, he passed his hands across his
brow, and looked through the mullioned window at the fast darkening
landscape.
“It grows late,” quoth he. “Molly will be in a taking at my keeping
supper waiting so long, but I must stretch my legs first, after all this
sitting.”
As he stood in the wainscotted hall without, in the act of taking down
his hat, he was startled by loud rapping at the great wooden gates of the
yard, which had been closed and bolted for the night, together with the
sound of several voices raised in unison. He threw open the hall-door
and stood for a moment on the threshold, listening; and the rapping was
repeated, and the voices called—some gruffly and some shrilly:—
“Let us in—you there! Let us in! What, is everyone in the place dead or
deaf?”
John went slowly down the flagged path between the lavender hedges, and
began with a grating, grinding sound to draw back the heavy bolts, the
voices on the other side of the stout oak portals keeping up, meanwhile,
a running commentary of impatient ejaculations, intermingled with little
bursts of laughter.
“Now, good fellow, who ever you may be, put a little goodwill into your
efforts.”
“Fie! what a disagreeable noise! Sir, ’tis to be wished that your master
would expend a pennyworth of oil on this screeching ironwork.”
“La! what a time the rascal takes! Pray, Hodge, or Giles, or whatever
thy name may be, tell us who lives here. We had thought you deaf; and
now, faith, it would seem as if you were dumb.”
“Nay, Tufty, do not distract the poor yokel. These rustics have not wit
enough to attend to more than one thing at a time. Tug away at thy bolt,
good man, and let us in; it grows chilly here.”
At length, with a final shriek, the last bolt was withdrawn from its
rusty hasp, and the doors parted in the middle under John’s hand; then,
removing his round hat, he was preparing, with his usual gravity, to
enquire the reason of this unexpected visit, when, with many expressions
of relief and satisfaction, a party of what seemed to be very grand folk
brushed past him into the enclosure. There was a rustling of silken
skirts, a waving of long feathers—a diffusion of sweet strange
odours—such odours as had never yet greeted the honest country nostrils
of John Cotley, though they would have been familiar enough to any
frequenter of high company in town; odours of powder and pomatum, and the
scented bags that women of fashion lay among their tuckers. Thus the
ladies filed past, one, two, and three; and then the gentlemen came—very
fine gentlemen, indeed. John could see, even in the dim light, the
glitter of gold lace and sparkling buckles, the pale gleam of
silk-stockinged legs and powdered heads.
“La, how sweet it smells,” cried one of the ladies. “What is it? Roses,
think you—gilly-flowers? Nay, ’tis lavender! See these ghostly hedges
are all of lavender.”
“Madam,” cried one of the gallants, “’twould please me better could I
smell some savoury stew. Ghostly, did you say? I vow the whole place
looks ghostly. Not a light in all those ancient windows.”
“Pray, you there, you, fellow; leave the gate and try and find thy
tongue. Does anybody live here, and is it possible to obtain refreshment
and a night’s lodging?”
“I live here,” said John, somewhat ruffled by the tone. “As to your
second question, before answering it I will first ask one or two of my
own. What may this company be, and why do they seek admittance into my
house at such an hour?”
“Why, what a churl is this!”
“By gad, ’tis his house, Harry. We’ve been discussing the place in the
presence of its owner; but we must needs be civil, it seems, if we would
dine and sleep under cover. Sir, you behold a noble company of
travellers, or, if you prefer it, a travelling company of noblemen and
ladies, journeying from Bristol Hotwells, where they have been sojourning
for the good of their health. Their coach, having taken a wrong turn,
has inconveniently broken down on that abominable mixture of marsh and
stones which you are pleased in these parts to term a road. As it is
late and the ladies are hungry and tired, the gentlemen athirst, the best
horse lame, the front wheel damaged, and the postboy drunk, we deem it
better to push no further to-night. Therefore, finding no inn within a
radius of ten miles, and descrying your house—which seemed to us a
building of some importance—we have come to throw ourselves upon your
hospitality for the night.”
“Sir,” returned John simply, “I am sorry for your misfortune, and will do
my best to entertain you, though, being a plain man and a bachelor, I
fear the accommodation I can offer you is not such as these ladies are
accustomed to.”
“Well said, man! you can but do your best,” cried the gentleman called
Harry, clapping John on his brawny shoulder. “Come, lead the way, and
we’ll all promise not to be over fastidious. Something to drink.”
John led the way into the house, baring his head as he passed the ladies,
and the party trooped after him into a panelled parlour, where the dim
outlines of cumbrous articles of furniture might be discerned in the
dusk. Drawing a tinder-box from his pocket, he struck a light, and
having ignited the candles on the mantelshelf, turned to face his
visitors.
The flickering light revealed to them the sunburnt face and well-knit
figure of a man of about five-and-twenty, with brown hair and brown eyes,
and an expression of shy kindliness.
As he looked in bewilderment from one to the other of his guests, dazzled
by the medley of fine clothes and trinkets, here marking the gleam of
white teeth, there a pair of dancing eyes, yonder the flutter of powdered
locks, out of the confusion there seemed to detach itself—one face. A
small face, round which the hair fell in natural curls untouched by
powder; laughing eyes, a mouth at once sweet and roguish; a bloom that
even John’s unsophisticated eyes instantly recognised as being wholly
natural, yet such as he had never beheld on the solid cheeks of the
rustic damsels of the neighbourhood.
Forgetful of his good manners, Cotley stared mutely at this lovely face,
until recalled to himself by a murmur of amusement from the rest of the
party.
“When you have recovered your tongue, mine host, we shall be glad if you
will introduce yourself,” remarked one of the gentlemen. “I myself must
own to no little curiosity about you. Pray, man, are you a hermit, that
you live thus in what seems to be absolute solitude? Split me, if I’ve
seen a living soul about the place except yourself!”
“Sir,” returned the other, with a start and a blush, “my name is John
Cotley, at your service. I am, as I think is easily seen, a gentleman of
somewhat limited means. Had you come before sundown you might have
observed a few of my labourers busy on the premises—when they leave, I
own, with the exception of my old housekeeper, I am alone in the house.”
Looking round on the curious and surprised faces he added, stiffly, with
a certain boyish pride: “My family met with reverses before I succeeded
to this small estate, and, if I am to live here at all, I must perforce
practise great economy and see but little company.”
“Poor fellow!” said a soft voice, which was not meant to reach his ears;
but John heard nevertheless, and marked that the bright eyes of the
youthful beauty were fixed on him with an expression at once of interest
and compassion.