“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?”