“Economy!” quoth Tufty, with a grimace.
“Sir,” cried Harry earnestly, “you have my sympathy, but I trust for all
our sakes that there is at least some drinkable beer to be had on your
premises.”
“Or at any rate a dish of tea,” put in one of the elder ladies. “Pray,
sir, let the matter have your attention, for I assure you we are
positively faint.”
“A roast fowl would not come amiss,” added the other matron, whose
appearance was indeed suggestive of good-living, for her large person
seemed to be bursting out of her silk sacque, and her face was as plump
as it was good-humoured. “Such a thing should easy be come by in the
country—a platter of ham and eggs with it.”
She paused, looking almost beseechingly at her bewildered entertainer.
“Speed, sir,” chimed in Tufty, “speed—despatch for heaven’s sake!”
“Sirs,—ladies, I go at once,” cried John, starting towards the door.
“Meanwhile be seated, I beg. I regret with all my heart I have no good
entertainment to offer you, but I will do my best.”
He hastened from the room, shouting lustily for “Molly,” and, after what
seemed to the impatient guests an interminable delay, the heavy door was
thrown open, and an old woman entered, carrying a tablecloth. The master
of the house followed, bearing a tray, on which, in the midst of a
shining array of plates and glasses, knives and forks, a toby jug of
goodly proportions occupied the place of honour. They proceeded,
awkwardly enough, to lay the table, and the housekeeper, having retired,
presently returned, staggering under the weight of another huge tray, on
which were set forth such homely viands as the house could provide: a
round of cold salt beef, a crusty loaf, a dish of ham and eggs. When all
was set upon the table John stood hesitating a moment, and then going
straight up to the owner of the unpowdered curls begged leave to hand her
to a chair.
“’Fore George, the manners of these country bumpkins want mending as well
as their gates!” cried Tufty. “Sir, do you not see that Her Grace is yet
standing?” and he waved his hand in the direction of the stout lady
already alluded to.
“Her Grace!” stammered John, somewhat taken aback, and then he added
bluntly—
“Madam, I will come back for you so soon as I have conducted this lady to
the table.”
“Why, sir,” returned she, with a jolly laugh, “I protest I like your
unceremoniousness. ’Tis a refreshing change. And after all you could
not be expected to divine my quality. ’Tis not often, I wager, that you
entertain a Duchess in this solitary place.”
“Madam,” responded John gravely, “I must own that I have never before
been privileged to offer hospitality to persons of such consequence; but
I can truthfully say that my desire to serve you is not more ardent than
before my knowledge of your station. I would fain do all in my power to
succour and entertain any lady in distress.”
“Very prettily said,” returned she. “There, my good sir, we will
dispense with ceremony for to-night. Pray sit by Lady Lucy since your
unbiassed choice has fallen on her. My friend, Lord Tuftington, will
escort me; and you, Lady Olivia, will no doubt allow Sir Harry to be your
companion.”
“Faith, madam, so that we may at once attack that round of beef, I have
no objection to make,” responded Lady Olivia, hurrying towards the board.
Meanwhile Molly stood gaping, and John himself was a little taken aback
on hearing of the exalted rank of all his self-invited guests. Yet, with
a certain natural dignity, he took his place as master of the house, and
proceeded to dispense hospitality.
He soon found, indeed, that these noble folks were as affable in manner
as gay in humour. Sir Harry proceeded to pour out foaming beakers of ale
for as many of the company as desired to partake of it; and, somewhat to
John’s surprise, everyone with the exception of Lady Lucy accepted this
homely beverage; even Her Grace the Duchess quaffed her tumbler with
unfeigned approval. Lord Tuftington served the ham and eggs, and Lady
Olivia, with great good-humour and a firm hand, cut slices from the
crusty loaf which she laughingly tossed across the table to each member
of the party.
Meanwhile Lady Lucy sat toying with an egg, speaking little, though every
now and then her face lit up with smiles over some ridiculous sally from
Tufty or Sir Harry. Once or twice John caught a curious glance shot at
him from beneath her long curling dark lashes, and with each of them he
felt as though that manly heart of his, hitherto untouched by love for
woman, were being drawn from out his bosom. Fain would he have sat by
her side in mute ecstacy, but his guests plied him incessantly with
questions, and appeared to be excessively diverted by the simplicity of
his answers.
All at once the Duchess threw down her knife and fork with a little
scream—
“Lord!” she cried, “we have left that booby of a postboy to his own
devices. What if he should have made off with all our property! Quick,
somebody, see to him!”
“Nay, Duchess,” returned Tufty, with his mouth full, “the fellow was dead
drunk, and the best horse dead lame—they will stick in the mud safe
enough till morning.”
“But surely our valises should be brought in?” cried Lady Olivia. “If by
any accident the fellow should abscond, we shall arrive in town without
so much as a change of linen.”
“Madam, we are all in the like plight,” observed Sir Harry; “and in any
case, if the lad had given us the slip he would be miles away by now, and
it would be useless to pursue him.”
“You cannot, I am sure, be serious,” said Lady Lucy, looking from one to
the other with large, startled eyes. “You would not be so inhuman as to
leave the poor man exposed to the weather all night. And the
horses—think of the horses. Surely they too need food and shelter.”
Neither of the gentlemen seemed in the least touched by her appeal, and,
though the Duchess and Lady Olivia continued loud protestations and
entreaties, both Sir Harry and Lord Tuftington continued their repast
without offering to move.
John looked from one to the other of these worthies with astonished
disapproval. Indeed, from the first, both gentlemen had impressed him
unfavourably. Their voices were loud, their laughter excessive: Lord
Tuftington interlarded his conversations with strange expletives, while
Sir Harry helped himself perpetually from the beer-jug. He was surprised
to observe on nearer view that the latter’s dress was at once tawdry and
slovenly; his gold lace was tarnished, his ruffles soiled; as he held the
jug aloft on one occasion, John actually detected a rent in his fine
peach-coloured coat.
After a pause, broken only by the lamentations of the elder ladies, Lucy
turned hesitatingly to her host—
“Do you not think, sir,” she said pathetically, “that it is cruel to
leave the poor horses standing in the road all night?”
“Ma’am,” cried John, starting up, “with your leave I will at once go and
see after them.”
“And bring my valise, good sir,” besought Lady Olivia—“the smallest
valise in the boot.”
“Pray, Mr Cotley, try to bring all our property—all at least that is
portable.”
“Certainly, ladies,” returned John, “I shall be happy to carry some of
the baggage myself, and to direct your servant to bring the remainder
hither.”
“I am obliged to you, sir,” replied the Duchess, with a somewhat
embarrassed air, “but you must know that with the exception of the
postboy we are unattended at present.”
“’Tis a pity, indeed, my dear,” put in Lady Olivia, “that we should have
left all our servants behind.”
“But, ladies, remember,” put in Sir Harry, with half-tipsy gravity, “that
we are travelling incog.”
“Perhaps the postboy may help me,” said John.
When he reached the scene of the catastrophe, however, he found the
fellow so hopelessly intoxicated, that it was clear no help was to be
expected from him, and he was forced to seek assistance from some of his
own work-people who lived in a little hamlet about a mile from his house.
It was more than an hour, therefore, before he returned home, himself
leading the horses, while a couple of stout lads staggered in his wake
laden with the ladies’ luggage, the post-boy having by his directions
been lifted inside the empty vehicle, which had been drawn up under the
hedge for the night.
He found the parlour empty, save for Sir Harry, who lay stretched half
across the table, while upstairs all was merry bustle. Old Molly was
distractedly hastening from one room to another with her warming-pan,
while Lord Tuftington stalked behind her, laden with warm blankets and
piles of lavender scented sheets. The ladies had volunteered to make the
beds, and with much chatter and laughter the work proceeded. They often
changed their minds with regard to the apartment which each intended to
occupy, and the trunks were in consequence dragged from room to room;
some half unpacked disgorging their finery in the passage—in fact such a
scene of confusion had never before been witnessed within the quiet walls
of Cotley Grange.
But at last some measure of order was restored: the babel of voices and
laughter ceased; the last door banged for the last time: the last light
was extinguished, and by-and-by all the house was still.
John, too, retired to bed, but only to toss feverishly from side to side,
with throbbing head and leaping pulses. Now he would thrill with delight
as he recalled the kind look which Lady Lucy had cast upon him when he
bade her good night: now a pang of despair would pierce his very soul as
he thought of how she would leave on the morrow, and of how, in all
probability, he would never set eyes on her again.
He rose with dawn and went out of doors; his men would soon arrive, but,
before allotting them their daily tasks, he sought to regain some measure
of his usual composure. Pacing up and down the garden at the rear of the
house—if in truth the sweet wilderness of tangled greenery and lush
grass, and borders where flowers and weed embraced each other might be
dignified with such a name—he inhaled the pure chill air of the September
morning, throwing open coat and waistcoat as though the fresh blast could
allay the fever in his breast. The swallows were already on the wing,
now circling aloft against the pearly sky, now dipping until they
appeared to brush the dewy grass; a robin was piping on a lichened
apple-bough, and to poor John Cotley the sweet shrill notes seemed to
carry a message at once poignant and delightful.
“Why did she come here!” he groaned; and in another moment he was asking
himself distractedly how he had contrived to exist before seeing her.
The sun had not yet risen high in the heavens, and the dew still lay in
silver sheets upon the meads, when Lady Lucy, having left her chamber,
was minded to take to take a walk abroad. She had protected her head
with a scarf which was lifted by the strong autumn breeze, so that its
fringes and her clustering curls were alike set dancing; and she had
thrust her little feet into thin slippers with very high heels, most
unfit for the wanderings on which she was bent; but nevertheless, having
first tripped down the flagged path between the lavender hedges, and
found the gates still closed, she had stolen up the weed-grown track that
led round the house, and made her way through the shrubberies, laughing
as the wet leaves flapped in her face, and peering round her with curious
delighted eyes. And suddenly, pushing through an overgrown arch of yew
and holly that had once been clipped into fantastic shapes, she came face
to face with John Cotley, standing stock-still in the middle of the
alley, with one hand pressed to his brow and the other clutching at his
bosom. Then what must Lady Lucy do on her perceiving the young man’s
violent start and blush, but burst into the sweetest, gayest little trill
of laughter, while poor John first reddened to the roots of his
disordered hair, and then grew pale as death, and drew his coat and
waistcoat together hastily, and stammered at last as she laughed on—
“Madam, I crave your pardon—I—I humbly crave your pardon.”
“For what, my good sir?” cried she. “For taking a morning stroll in your
own grounds, or for being discovered in such a profound reverie? Nay,
sir, it is rather I who should ask pardon for breaking in so suddenly on
what seemed to be very serious reflections, and for laughing so rudely.
But I vow it was droll and unexpected to find you could assume so tragic
an air—and then your start—your look of surprise! Pray, sir, did you
think I had fallen from the clouds?”
John blushed again, and, finding that she continued to look upon him
smilingly and very kindly, took courage, and said gently—
“’Twas folly in me to appear surprised, madam, for I believe that angels
do sometimes descend from the clouds.”
“Vastly well, sir,” said she. “Pray where did you learn to pay
compliments? I had thought they were not easily come by in the country.”
“Nay, madam,” sighed poor John, ruefully. “I fear I should prove a poor
scholar were I to attempt to learn the art of flattery. In saying that
you appear to me to be an angel I did but speak the truth.”
Lady Lucy stopped laughing, and hung down her head in a manner quite
inexplicable to John Cotley.
“An angel!” she said. “Ah, sir, what do you know of me.”
“Only what my eyes have shown me, madam,” said John, and then emboldened
by a certain timid protest in her downcast face, he added warmly, “only
what my heart has told me.”
And in some unaccountable fashion John Cotley’s tongue was loosed, and he
found himself telling Lady Lucy all manner of strange things. About his
loneliness, and of how during his somewhat melancholy life he had never
hitherto met with a woman whom he could love; of how at first sight of
her he had fallen a victim to one of those sudden passions of which he
had sometimes heard, but in which he had never hitherto believed; of how
absolutely hopeless he knew it to be, what misery, and yet what joy. His
face glowed as he spoke, and his eyes were bright with a kind of fierce
triumph: she should hear, she should know—at least she should know.
Her colour came and went as she listened; now her eyes were drawn to
John’s, as though fascinated, now they sought the ground; once or twice
she caught her breath with a little gasp.
“But a few moments ago,” said John, “I was telling myself that I wished I
had never seen you; and now, though I may never see you again, I thank
Heaven that this hour at least is mine. One hour, madam, out of a
lifetime; it is not much, but at least it is something to look back on.”
“To look back on,” she repeated, with an odd expression, and an attempt
at lightness. “Surely, sir, it is better to look forward. I, for one,
care not for giving way to gloomy thoughts. The whole world lies before
us. I, you must know, am about to be introduced to it for the first
time: why should not you, too, seek to make a figure in it? Why bury
yourself for ever in this solitude?”
“Why, madam,” cried John excitedly, “would you have me seek my fortune in
London? Oh, if I thought there were the slightest hope—”
“Nay, good friend, I spoke not of hope,” returned she; “our ways, as you
very truly say, lie apart, and perhaps it is better so; were you to meet
me in town, you might think more lowly of me than you do at present.”
“How could that be?” he exclaimed eagerly, adding, however, despondently,
“but it is folly for me even to talk of such a thing. How could I, plain
John Cotley, the unpretending country gentleman, with threadbare clothes
and light purse, hope to make my way into the circles which you will
adorn. You, who will be courted by the highest in the land, admired by
all the fashionable world. Dukes, I suppose,” cried the poor fellow,
gloomily, “Dukes and Marquises will be fighting for the privilege of
kissing your hand.”
“Oh yes,” she rejoined, with a careless shrug, “there will be plenty of
that, I dare say.” Then, seeing his melancholy face, she added with an
arch smile. “But London is a large place, so large that even besides the
fashionable folk of whom you speak there might be room for honest John
Cotley. And what though there be a whole horde of noble admirers coming
to Court and applaud me! Is a worthy country gentleman for that obliged
to hold aloof? Sir, I tell you in the great world of London there are
many places where a man may see the object of his admiration. There are,
to begin with, places of entertainment, such as Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and
the like, and then there are the playhouses. Now, as a matter of fact,
did you chance to be at Sadler’s Wells Theatre on this day se’en-night
you would see me there.”
“At a playhouse!” cried simple John, all in a turmoil of emotion.
“Madam, I have never been at such a place in my life. My parents held
that play-going was folly, if not worse, and indeed even were I so minded
I have had no opportunities of frequenting such resorts. But to see
you—if I thought there were a hope of seeing you— But no, you are
mocking me. Even if I were to go there, how should I venture to intrude
my company upon you?”
“You are faint-hearted, in fact,” said she, while a wicked little dimple
came and went about her lips, “and you remember the adage, ‘Faint
heart’—”
John looked at her bewildered, enraptured, and mystified. Her words
appeared to encourage what had seemed to him a perfectly wild and
preposterous hope, but her manner was at once gay and repellent. As he
stood earnestly considering her in the endeavour to fathom her meaning,
she ceased laughing, and fixed her eyes upon him with a gaze that was
serious and almost sad.
“Nay,” she said, “I speak foolishly. Do not come to town, Mr Cotley;
better remain here in your tranquil and solitary home, and think upon me
sometimes kindly. Think of this hour, an hour that is all peace and
innocence and brightness. Come, shall we walk? I have a mind to explore
these alleys.”
She drew her scarf more closely round her, and looked about her, her face
bright with a child’s curiosity and pleasure, her momentary gravity
forgotten. “Oh, the roses,” she cried, and clapped her hands. “And
those sober old gilly-flowers, how sweet they are. And what a forest of
Michaelmas daisies! Pray, Mr Cotley, will you gather me a posy?”
It is needless to say how eagerly John fulfilled her behest, and with
what a distracting mixture of pleasure and longing he saw her fasten the
flowers at her waist.
Slowly they paced about the moss-grown paths. Once she stumbled, and he
enquired breathlessly if she would take his arm. What wondering bliss
when she agreed; how that strong arm of his thrilled under the light
pressure! What a sweet, sweet, brief dream it was! All too brief,
indeed, for while they yet wandered side by side among the sunlit green a
shrill voice was heard calling from the house, and Lucy, withdrawing her
hand from his arm, gave a little impatient sigh.
“They are calling me; I must go in.”
“Wait a moment,” cried John peremptorily; his voice was hoarse, his eyes
seemed to burn in his pale face, “let us part here, since we must part.”
She, too, had grown pale; but, after a moment’s pause, seemed to struggle
against the contagion of his emotion.
“Pooh,” she said, with a little jarring note in her voice, “who knows?
After all we may meet yet. Some folks say the world is a small place.”
“No, no,” he cried fiercely, “’tis you, yourself, who have said it,
madam. You go out of my life this day; my one hour is wellnigh over, but
a moment of it remains. Let it at least be full; give me something to
remember it by.”
Trembling in spite of herself, she looked at him, as much in earnest now
as he:
“What would you have?” she said almost in a whisper. “This?”
She detached one of the roses from her nosegay and held it out to him
with shaking fingers.
“I would have more, madam,” he cried, and, bending, took both her hands
in his and kissed them many times with a vehemence which startled her.
“Good-bye,” she said, and her slight form wavered like a reed, “good-bye,
poor John, dear John, try to think well of me always. And now, let me
go.”
But John had fallen on his knees in the green bower, and his face, as he
uplifted it, seemed bright with a kind of white radiance.
“Oh, love,” he cried in a broken whisper, “love, stoop to me!”
He drew her gently towards him, and she did not resist, and they kissed
each other shyly, tenderly, wonderingly, as the first man and woman may
have kissed beneath the blossoming trees of Eden.
Then the shrill cry came nearer, and there was a sound of pattering feet,
and in a moment she was gone, and John Cotley was left alone to awake
from his dream.
* * *
One week after the events which had so disturbed the placid current of
John Cotley’s life, that unwise young gentleman might have been discerned
making his way into Sadler’s Wells Play-house amid a crowd of more
seasoned play-goers.
He had struggled fruitlessly against the overpowering desire to see Lady
Lucy again; everything indeed had seemed to point out the folly of his
enterprise; the prejudices of a lifetime, the oft-repeated axioms of
those whom he had loved and lost, his own diffidence, the absolute
hopelessness of his passion, but none of these considerations had been
strong enough to outweigh the memory of the girl’s tantalising words:
“Did you chance to be at Sadler’s Wells Playhouse on this day se’en-night
you would see me there!” And then again, “You remember the adage, ‘Faint
heart’—.”
Surely no one could say that John Cotley’s heart was faint this evening;
on the contrary, it beat so loud and strong that he wondered his
neighbours did not turn to look at him. When he entered the building and
took his seat the whole place seemed to swim round him, and the play-bill
fluttered in his hand. But by-and-by he began to regain his
self-possession; the lights which had danced before his gaze settled
steadily in their places, and he took courage to rise and cast a
searching glance round the house; but strain his eyes as he might he
could not discover Lady Lucy. The house, indeed, seemed packed from pit
to topmost gallery, but amidst all the rows and rows of faces hers was
missing. After concluding his futile search for the twentieth time he
sat down disconsolately, and, to hide his confusion on perceiving the
amused and curious stare of his neighbours, he fell to examining his
play-bill. At first the words floated meaninglessly before his eyes, but
by-and-by one of them took shape and assumed, indeed, an odd familiarity.
“_Lord Tuftington_”—_Lord Tuftington_! Why, surely that was the name of
one of the invaders of Cotley Grange on that never-to-be-forgotten
evening. Lord Tuftington! How did his name come to be there? But stop!
Here was another that he knew, “_Sir Harry Highflyer_.” And here again,
“_The Duchess of Flummery_,” and again, “_Lady Olivia Pouncebox_,” and
here—here actually was the name of all others sacred to him, “_Lady Lucy
Mayflower_!” _Lady Lucy_!
He sat staring at the paper for a moment, and then, scarce knowing what
he did, turned to one of his neighbours—
“Pray, sir, is it not a strange thing for such a noble company to give a
performance in a public place?”
The man stared, and laughed.
“Sir, I fail to understand you. Where, in heaven’s name, would you have
them perform if not in a public place? How else should we see them
play?”
“’Tis for charity, no doubt,” cried John, scarcely heeding him, and
speaking in a white heat of passionate indignation. “But to me it seems
degrading that they should thus expose themselves, so that all who pay a
certain price are free to gape at them.”
The man gazed at him blankly for a moment, and then burst out laughing.
“I presume, sir, this is your first visit to a playhouse, and truly, I
think, with these sentiments, you would have done better to keep away.
But as for the performance being given for charity— Faith, if you were
to make such a suggestion to the manager he would tell you that charity
began at home, I fancy. By the time he has paid his company, and
defrayed the cost of the scenery—”
“Paid the company,” interrupted John, “why, sir, do you mean to tell me
that persons of such quality would condescend to play for hire?
High-born ladies like—like the Duchess—”
His neighbour positively gaped, and then bending forward gazed at him
narrowly—
“Sir,” he said, “I believe you are purposely acting the buffoon; you seek
to impose on me by affecting an impossible ignorance—”
“Upon my soul, sir,” cried simple John, who was now quite pale and could
hardly speak for agitation, “’tis my first visit to such a place, and I—I
happen to know some of these ladies and—”
“So?” said the other with a grin. “Well, good country cousin, I will
take pity on your innocence. These titles here are wholly fictitious, as
indeed I think is easily seen; these names to the right are those which
either belong properly to the actors and actresses, or are assumed by
them for their greater convenience. Mrs Scully, for instance, who plays
Lady Olivia, chooses rather to call herself Mrs Swynnerton, because the
name has a better sound, while as for Miss Fitzroy, who is set down for
the part of Lady Lucy, that I am sure must be an assumed name, but as it
is the lady’s first appearance upon the boards, my information concerning
her is scanty. I am informed that she is a pretty little creature, and
likely to prove attractive. Now, sir, let me request that you will sit
still. I assure you it is quite unnerving to see you bouncing about in
your seat. Sit down; the curtain will rise in a moment; and let me
inform you, since the business is novel to you, that the first duty of
the playgoer is to refrain from disturbing the rest of the audience.”
John sat still; indeed, once the curtain had risen, he remained so
absolutely motionless that he might have been turned to stone.
The play, which at the time of its production enjoyed an ephemeral
popularity, but has since passed into oblivion like its author, abounded
in strained situations. The sentiment was superabundant, the humour
forced and occasionally verging upon coarseness, but Lady Lucy, who
sustained one of the principal parts, won tumultuous applause from first
to last. John saw her smiling upon her fictitious lover as she had
smiled upon him, he heard her voice, her light laugh, he marked certain
little tricks of manner, which, though he had known her for so brief a
space, seemed engraven upon his memory—and his jealous heart seemed like
to burst within him. He felt ashamed, nay, personally degraded by the
publicity into which she had thrust herself. Good God! That her beauty,
her charm, her pretty ways should be thus pilloried! That any coarse
brute who sate aloft in the gallery was free to make his comment because
he had paid his sixpence! That nothing should be sacred; that she should
prattle of love, and weep mock tears, there in the glare of the
footlights before all these curious, insolent eyes, as though he and she
had never clasped hands and stammered secrets in the sanctity of the
solitary dawn. Oh! Heavens, it was too much!
The intensity of his gaze drew hers towards him before she had been very
long upon the scene, and she appeared to falter for a moment, but
speedily recovered her self-possession.
At the end of the first act, while he was still staring blankly at the
lowered curtain, someone touched him on the shoulder, and, as he turned
round, thrust a note into his hand. He tore it open quickly, and found
it contained but a line:—“Come to the stage door when the play is over.”
Turning to speak to the messenger, he found that he had already gone.
When Lady Lucy next came on the stage she played with even greater spirit
and vivacity than before, but by-and-by stole a questioning glance at
John; and John gravely nodded. A thousand times, indeed, he had a mind
to leave the place and to set eyes on her no more; and still he lingered.
With each succeeding act Miss Fitzroy further captivated the house, and
the curtain descended at last amid tumultuous applause.
Slowly and gloomily John rose, and after many enquiries found his way to
the stage door, standing there motionless while streams of gay folk
passed and repassed before his eyes.
All at once he felt a hand upon his arm. A slender, cloaked figure was
beside him, and two bright eyes were gazing at him eagerly from the
depths of a quilted silk hood.
“John,” whispered Lady Lucy’s voice, “here I am, John. I have given them
all the slip that I might talk to you for a moment. You must know that I
have had quite an ovation—they say that my fortune is made and that all
London will be ringing with my name to-morrow; and now tell me, what did
you think of it—how did you like me?”
“What did I think of it?” groaned John. “My dear, it nearly broke my
heart!”
He saw the eager eyes flash, and felt the hand upon his arm tremble with
anger.
“What!” she was beginning wrathfully, but broke off and continued in a
softer tone: “You are vexed, I suppose, because I deceived you?”
“Nay, madam, ’tis not that. I had liefer you had told me the truth, yet
that is a small matter. But that you should thus exhibit yourself—”
She snatched away her hand.
“You would have kept me all to yourself, I suppose?”
“God knows I would!” said he.
“And you have the face to tell me so. You would have me stifle my
ambition—make nothing of my talent—throw away the fame and fortune which
are now actually within my grasp? And pray, John Cotley, what would you
leave me?”
“Peace of mind,” said Cotley. “Honour—”
“Sir, do you mean to insult me? Surely these things must be mine in any
walk of life.”
“Madam, they are endangered by the course you would pursue. Give it up,
I beg of you—I entreat it of you. You cannot already have forgotten what
has passed between us—does it give me no right over you?”
“You are in truth a strange man,” said she petulantly, “though I believe
you love me well in your own odd fashion,” and here the little hand stole
back again to his arm. “But it is a selfish fashion, John. You would
take everything from me—what would you give me in return?”
“All that I am,” said John. “All that I have. My love, my home, myself.
I came round to this place to offer them to you once and for all.”
The very intensity of his passion made his voice sound stern, and Lady
Lucy once more jerked away her hand, and tossed her head.
“Upon my word, sir, you are mighty cool. Pray do you expect me to jump
at this proposal? I believe you do. I believe you would have me on my
knees with gratitude for your condescension. Really it is laughable.
Here am I with the world at my feet, and you—you would have me give up my
whole career at your command and follow you like some meek patient
Grizzel to that dreary home of yours. And you make this noble offer once
for all, do you? You are not disposed to renew it, should I venture to
hesitate?”
“No,” said John Cotley: “I am not to be trifled with. It must be now or
never.”
“Then it shall be never!” said Lady Lucy.
* * *
Seven years passed by, and John Cotley tilled his fields, and sowed, and
reaped, and rode abroad in summer heat and wintry frosts. He was a hard
man, his labourers said, and the neighbours gibed at him for being
morose; and John Cotley went on his way without heeding them, though day
by day the lines about mouth and eyes deepened, and silver threads, which
had no business there, increased among his brown locks.
One March afternoon he was driven indoors by a heavy fall of snow—one of
those late storms which are all the more severe because so untimely. He
was standing, drumming impatiently on the windowpane, and thinking with
vexation of the fruit-blossom which would be blighted, and the young
growth of root and blade which must be checked, when of a sudden, through
the muffled stillness there came a sound of imperative knocking at the
double gate. The men were at work in the woodshed at the rear of the
house, old Molly, who had grown deaf of late, was busy in the kitchen:
only the master was aware of the summons, and he paused a moment as
though in doubt before responding to it.
The knocking came again, hurried and urgent. John Cotley threw open the
window and called aloud—
“The gate is not locked: you can come in.”
He saw the latch partly lifted and then fall back again, and the knocking
was resumed, a woman’s voice crying out at the same time—
“Sir, it is too heavy for my strength. I pray you, let me in.”
John started and caught his breath; then hastened from the room, with
long swinging strides, and down the snow-covered path. The gate creaked
upon its hinges, and the figure of a lady, cloaked and hooded, stood
revealed; her hooped skirt almost filled the half-opened door, and as she
stepped past John and hurried up the sloping path that lay between the
lavender hedges—ghostly now beneath their weight of snow—she left behind
her a little track of narrow-soled high-heeled shoes—each print of that
light foot marking on the snow what seemed to be the impression of a
flower and a leaf. Not a word said she, but pressed on till she reached
the house, and indeed the snow was piled upon her shoulders and filled
the creases in her hood.
Once safe in the hall she turned and curtsied to John, who had followed
close upon her heels, and then, throwing back her hood, revealed to him
an unforgettable face in which he nevertheless saw much that was strange
and new. There was new beauty to begin with, but beauty of a different
order to that young delicate bloom which he remembered; there was a roll
in the bright eyes which had not used to be there; a somewhat languishing
smile wreathed the lovely lips. As she loosed her mantle and let it drop
from her shoulders, she revealed a form in which full womanly symmetry
had replaced the almost fragile grace of early girlhood.
“John Cotley,” she said, “I have come once more to throw myself upon your
hospitality. ’Tis true my coach has not broken down, but the storm is
unpleasant, and progress is slow, and I am not ill-pleased at the
prospect of warming and refreshing myself before proceeding further.
Therefore, recognising the aspect of the country, and calling to mind
that you lived in these parts, I desired my servants to halt for an hour,
and bethought me that I would come and take you by surprise.”
“Madam,” said John, “you do indeed take me by surprise.”
She stole at him a curious, somewhat anxious glance—but soon laughed, and
raised her eyebrows and shoulders with an affected gesture—
“Fie, sir! is that all you can find to say to me? I vow your manners
have grown rusty during these seven years. I protest when I visited you
last you had more politeness. Do you wish, sir, to forbid me entrance?”
“By no means, madam. Pray come in. Such entertainment as this poor
house can afford shall be yours.”
He led the way into the parlour, and soon was on his knees by the hearth
kindling a fire. Outside, the snow drifted past the window, and within
all was silence, save for the rustling of Lady Lucy’s silken garments as
she breathed quickly, and the click of flint and steel. The tinder
caught at last, and by-and-by the flame leaped in the chimney. Then John
Cotley rose from his knees, and found Lady Lucy earnestly considering
him.
“You have not changed much, John, these seven years.”
“Have I not, madam?” said he.
“The place,” she went on, “the place is so oddly familiar I could almost
fancy that I had been here yesterday.”
“Could you indeed, madam?” said John.
Leaning forward in the flickering light, and with that earnest expression
she looked wonderfully, perilously like the other Lady Lucy whom he had
once known. He averted his eyes, and began to move slowly towards the
door. She followed him with a curious intent gaze.
“’Tis a pity that it should be snowing, John,” she said, and the soft
voice sounded almost caressing. “I have a mind to see the garden. If by
chance it clears up by-and-by, I shall ask you to conduct me there.”
“Nay, madam,” said John, pausing in the doorway, and turning upon her a
very resolute face, “the garden would scarcely be worth your notice.”
“Do you suppose I have forgotten it?” whispered she. “Shall I ever
forget that sunny morning, and the roses, and—”
“Nay, forget it, madam,” said John, sternly. “I assure you the roses are
dead.”
And then he went away and left her, and presently old Molly came, all in
a flutter of wonder and delight.
“’Tis herself, sure,” she cried, peering into the beautiful pensive face
of the visitor; “’tis Lady Lucy. Master come to me and says, says he,
‘Get tea ready, and everything of the best,’ he says, ‘A lady has come
who must be well attended to’; but he didn’t never say it was your
ladyship. Dear, my lady, what a merry company you was, to be sure. Do
you mind how you all made your own beds. I’ll wager your ladyship has
never made your bed since.”
“Yes, yes,” said Lady Lucy, “I have made my own bed, Molly, and I must
lie on it.”
She sate very silent and thoughtful after this; but when refreshments
were served, and John Cotley came to do the honours of his table, she
became once more all smiles and gaiety, prattling very prettily about the
great world and the folk who dwelt there, and running on from one topic
to another without appearing to notice her host’s gravity and silence.
All at once, turning to him with a challenging air, she said: “In this
solitary retreat of yours, Mr Cotley, I presume the news of my doings and
successes have not reached you?”
“Madam,” he returned, with an added shade of coldness in his tone, “I
must own that I have failed to keep count of your triumphs.”
“Why, that is the less surprising since, according to my flatterers, my
triumphs are past reckoning. Do you remember, sir;” and here, leaning
her elbows on the table and resting her chin upon her hands, she darted a
penetrating glance towards him—“do you remember, sir, a conversation
which we once had at early dawn? I, at least, recollect it very well.
Though you were unaware at the time of the career I had chosen, you made
several curiously apt forecasts.”
“Madam,” returned John, “I regret to say that my memory is not as good as
yours.”
She bit her lip, but soon recovered herself. Tilting back her head
slightly, and looking at him through her narrowed lids, she continued—
“You prophesied, as I recollect, that I should be courted by the highest
in the land; admired by all the rank and fashion of London. ‘Dukes;’
said you—and I vow you would have laughed had you but known the gloomy
despair of your face—‘dukes and marquises will be fighting for the
privilege of kissing your hand.’ Well, your words have come true; many
grandees have come a-courting me; this hand of mine has been kissed by
royalty. And yet, John Cotley, ’tis a weary life. Empty flattery,
tiresome praise—a feather-headed crew that flutter round me with
unmeaning smiles and foolish compliments. Not one true man among them.”
As she paused, he bowed stiffly.
“Amid all my success I am sick at heart,” she went on, excitedly. “I
long for a home; I long to find a loyal heart, a hand that I could rely
on.”
“I regret to hear, madam,” said Cotley, as she paused again, “that events
have not justified your expectations.”