“But, lovie, dear, my pet Gourmie, try to perswade Mr. Fitzroy not to throw his life away, and the life of hall of us. Mussy-me, lovie, it’s terrible.”
But terrible or not terrible, that very day they had put five-and-twenty miles of east behind them, and pitched at night in a sweet green field not far from Midhurst.
There was no entertainment that night. But they did lots of billing, and, early next morning it was evident from the interest the rustics were showing round the gate and the fences that a bumper house might be counted upon.
Nor were they disappointed. “The Forest Maiden” was new to them here, and so successful was the entertainment, that, when, on the morning after, the rustics saw the tents being struck, they were very much disappointed indeed. Just as they were starting, a busy little clergyman bustled up, and saluting Fitzroy, told him the show was just the sort of thing he would like to see encouraged, as it kept the people away from the public houses, and he would like him to promise that if ever he was anywhere in the neighbourhood again it would not be one night nor even one week he would stay, to give his (the parson’s) parishioners pleasure, but a month at the very least.
Fitzroy smiled and replied that he would certainly consider the matter.
* * * * *
It was getting on towards the end of leafy May, May with its glorious blue spring skies, its green fields and waving woods, its wealth of wild flowers in meadow-land, and on wayside sward; May with its music of wild birds, days of dreamy sunshine, and nights of stars. And Peggy sighed a little, as she looked her last on the rolling trees of England south, some miles before they rolled into busy bustling, Southampton.
Peggy little knew what was before her.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Dark like a Winter’s Eve.”
A CHANGE, and what a change!