Part 14

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.