“And you tell me you have forgotten this conversation of ours? Now, I
can recall it word for word. When I first emerged from under the leafy
archway yonder”—with a wave of the hand—“you were standing thus”—
She rose to her feet and struck an attitude, head bent, one hand pressed
to her brow, the other clutching at the ruffles at her breast. “And I
was so rude as to laugh; do you remember?”
“You have the advantage of me, madam,” said John Cotley, sternly.
She continued as though she had not heard him, and with a little tremor
in her voice. “You said some pretty things about my being an angel, and
I asked you what you knew of me; and you said that you knew only what
your eyes had shown you, and what your heart had told you. Oh, John,
does your heart tell you nothing now?”
“I do not understand you,” said John, steadily.
“To be sure you have forgotten all that passed. I suppose, too, that you
have forgotten about those wanderings of ours in the alleys yonder, when
the leaves were green, and the roses were blowing. I stumbled once, and
you made me take your arm, and I felt it trembling beneath my hand.
Think of that, Mr Cotley! Were you not a foolish youth in those days?
And so we walked together, and told each other wonderful things, and I
asked you to think kindly of me always. Ah, John, I fear you have not
kept your word.”
He, too, had risen and stood before her, rigid, with hands dropping by
his side, and a grey face.
“Then they called me,” she went on, with a thrill in her musical voice,
her face earnest now and glowing, “they called me—there was but one
moment left: I gave you a flower, but you said it was not enough—you took
my hands and—”
Bending forward suddenly she seized his; they were limp and cold as ice;
“You took my hands,” she repeated, her voice still vibrating, her eyes
fixed passionately on his, “you fell on your knees at my feet as I kneel
to you now, you said, you said—oh, let me say it!—“Love, love, stoop to
me!”
John Cotley gave one glance at the pleading, upturned face, at the
beautiful eyes swimming in tears, and then he withdrew his hands.
“You have surpassed yourself, madam,” he said. “You are certainly a
marvellous actress. Your rendering of the scene was absolutely perfect.”
She was on her feet in a moment, dashing the tears from her eyes and
laughing unsteadily.
“I was determined to convince you of my powers,” cried she, in a voice
which feigned lightness though it was husky and ill-assured. “There, you
should feel proud, Mr Cotley, that so famed a personage should give you a
performance all to yourself. . . . The storm shows no signs of abating,
I fear, so I will not trespass further on your hospitality. I am much
obliged to you, Mr Cotley, for your entertainment, and now I think I will
take my leave. My cloak and hood lie yonder—I thank you”—as he assisted
her to put them on. “Now, sir, if you will have the kindness to open the
gate I will pursue my way.”
They were out of the house by this time, and she passed in front of him
towards the gate. When she reached it she paused, and curtsied with
averted eyes.
“Farewell, sir, I have to thank you for your generosity and kindness. I
need trouble you to come no further.”
He watched the figure move away with stately undulating grace, and when
it was lost in the white mist he closed the gate with a heavy sigh.
There lay the tracks in front of him, flower and leaf, flower and leaf,
those just made showing sharp and clear, the others already
half-obliterated; by nightfall all alike would have vanished. The light
feet would intrude no more upon his path.
Going indoors he stood for a moment by the hearth, and then drawing a
note-book from his bosom, took from the little leather pocket beneath the
cover a small paper packet which he proceeded to unfold. Within lay the
crumbling and discoloured remnants of what once had been a rose.
“Let it go with the rest!” said John Cotley, and stooping he dropped it
among the embers.
A little flame caught it, leaped up, flickered, and died away.