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—