Chapter VII: Part 7

“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.

But the others were not so considerate—

“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.”

She looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then smiling archly, went on—

“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.

A PRISONER OF WAR

IT is nearly a hundred years ago now since that golden October evening which made such a change in Molly Rainford’s life; the blue-eyed children to whom she used to tell the story have long since been laid to rest, and her grandchildren—old men and women now—have almost forgotten it. Even the neighbours have ceased to wonder at the odd name which they bear, and do not realise that were it not corrupted and mispronounced, it would have a still stranger sound in their ears.

On this fine October evening then, many, many years ago, Molly Rainford was setting the house-place to rights, before the return of her father and his men from the wheatfield, where they had been at work since dawn. It was worth while growing wheat in those days, as Farmer Joe could tell you, but it took long to cut, and the arms grew weary that wielded the sickle, and the sweat poured down the brown faces. Old Winny the servant, and even Susan, the lass who occasionally came in to help, had been all day in the field too, helping with other women-folk to bind the sheaves. Molly would have been there herself, but that somebody was wanted to go backwards and forwards between house and field with food and drink for the labourers. Indeed, what with carrying the ten o’clock “bagging,” the big noonday dinner, and the four o’clock “drinkings,” Molly’s arms and feet ached pretty well, but she could not sit down to rest yet; she must bestir herself, “straighten up” the house, and set out the supper—bread and cheese, cold bacon, and plenty of small beer.

As she moved about the flagged room, intent on her own thoughts, she did not at first hear a low hurried tap at the outer door, which stood open; and it was not until a figure passed hurriedly through it, and stepped from the passage into the kitchen itself, that she turned round with a great start.

She saw a young fellow of about middle height, with a well-knit and curiously graceful figure, fair hair, closely cropped, and blue eyes set in a face which, though pale and startled now, had nevertheless a certain winsomeness about it. His clothes were soiled and ragged, and his feet were bare, yet at the very first sight of him Molly realised that he was no tramp.

“Don’t scream,” he said in a low voice, and throwing out his hand pleadingly.

“I weren’t goin’ to scream,” returned Molly, briefly and calmly, and thereat the stranger smiled—a very pleasant smile, with a flash of white teeth, and a merry twinkle in the eyes.