My lady of Cleeve

by Percy John Hartley

Such was the condition of England in this, the month of June, 1690. ’Twas some ten days after the incident in the hollow that I again had speech of my lady. Intelligence had reached me of a rumoured landing of arms in the neighbourhood of Teignmouth. Leaving De Brito, therefore, and twenty men to guard the village, with the remaining two-score troopers at my heels, I set out northwards. Whether, for once, rumour had lied, or whether the Jacobites had got wind of our presence I do not know; but certain it is that though we lay all that day and the next concealed in a beech wood near to the town nothing occurred, nor did we see any sign of a vessel off the coast.

On the third day, therefore, empty handed, we returned to Cleeve. It was evening, when, dismissing the troopers at the entrance gates, I rode up to the manor.

Seldom, I think, in all my wanderings have I witnessed a more lovely night. Behind the torrs, in a golden glory the sun was sinking to its rest, gilding the foliage of the oaks with a dozen varying shades of orange, pink and purple, and in the light of which the house before me stood refulgent, as if ’twas bathed in lambent flame.

I rode slowly to the stables, and having seen my horse safely stalled, I passed by way of the terrace to the house.

The doors and windows stood wide open, for ’twas a warm June night and the smoke curled lazily from the tall chimneys into the still evening air; but there was no other sign of life about it, and I entered and made my way to the dining hall without encountering any one.

Here indeed, though I met with the same solitude, I found a cold collation upon the oaken table, to the which I readily applied myself, wondering the while at the silence of the house and half wishing—such is man’s inconsistency—for their ladyships’ presence. Once, my eyes travelling through the open window, rested upon the figure of a woman passing swiftly down one of the terrace walks. But the distance and the gathering dusk left me uncertain as to whether it was my lady or no.

Presently I rose and sauntered slowly through the gardens to the cliffs; and here, upon the highest point, I flung myself upon the grass and gazed in genuine admiration upon the scene.

Long I lay there watching the lights spring up, one by one, in the village below me, until the crimson glow faded from the fleecy clouds above; then at last I rose and slowly retraced my steps. As I passed through the misty, scented gardens, idly culling the roses that lined the pathway on either side, the bats were fluttering around me on their silent wings, and faintly in the deepening dusk came the hoot of wandering owls. Somewhere in the trees around the house a nightingale poured forth its flood of song, as slowly upon the quiet landscape fell the peaceful stillness of the summer night.

Presently I saw upon my right a green arch of yew, and passing beneath this, I came upon a spot the like of which I have never seen to equal. Surely, I told myself, this is my lady’s garden, and one well worthy to match with her in point of loveliness. For it was a veritable bower of roses—a smooth stretch of green lawn, interspersed with beds of flowers of every conceivable shade of colour. The thick yew hedge enclosing it was cut in the stiff and formal manner of the Dutch, a fashion brought with William from The Hague. In the centre stood a white marble fountain, the jet from which fell with a pleasant plash into the wide basin beneath. One side of this enclosure was fenced by the low stone wall that ran above the moat, and facing me, another leafy arch gave entrance to the terrace walk beyond. Yet it was not admiration for the scene before me that brought me to a sudden halt and caused my heart to quicken its pulsations; for upon the broad steps at the fountain foot a woman was seated with a canvas in her hand, a brush and palette at her side. At the sound of my footsteps she turned her head, and I saw that it was my lady’s sister, Mistress Grace.

“Captain Cassilis,” she said with a winning smile, “saw you ever a more lovely night? Alas! I fear that my poor efforts fall far short of the reality. But you shall judge, sir, of their merits for yourself.” And she held the canvas out to me.