“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?”