The next moment, two persons noiselessly entered the room—­a young man and a girl.  They wore the dress of the early Georgian days, as well as I could see; for the girl was wrapped in a cloak with a hood that almost concealed her face, while the man wore a heavy riding-coat.  He was booted and spurred, and the backs of his top-boots were splashed with mud.  I say the backs of his boots, for he stood with his back to me while he held open the door for the girl to pass, and at first I could not see his face.

The lady advanced into the light of the candles and threw back her hood.  Her eyes were dark and frightened:  her cheeks damp with rain and slightly reddened by the wind.  A curl of brown hair had broken loose from its knot and hung, heavy with wet, across her brow.  It was a beautiful face; and I recognised its owner.  She was Cicely Williams.

With that, I knew well enough what I was to see next.  I knew it even while the man at the door was turning, and I dug the nails of my right hand into the palm of my left, to repress the fear that swelled up as a wave as I looked straight into his face and saw—­my own self.

But I had expected it, as I say:  and when the wave of fear had passed over me and gone, I could observe these two figures steadfastly enough.  The girl dropped into a chair beside the table, and stretching her arms along the white cloth, bowed her head over them and wept.  I saw her shoulders heave and her twined fingers work as she struggled with her grief.  The young Squire advanced and, with a hand on her shoulder, endeavoured by many endearments to comfort her.  His lips moved vehemently, and gradually her shoulders ceased to rise and fall.  By-and-by she raised her head and looked up into his face with wet, gleaming eyes.  It was very pitiful to see.  The young man took her face between his hands, kissed it, and pouring out a glass of wine, held it to her lips.  She put it aside with her hand and glanced up towards the tall clock in the corner.  My eyes, following hers, saw that the hands pointed to a quarter to twelve.

The young Squire set down the glass hastily, stepped to the window and, drawing aside the blue curtain, gazed out upon the night.  Twice he looked back at Cicely, over his shoulder, and after a minute returned to the table.  He drained the glass which the girl had declined, poured out another, still keeping his eyes on her, and began to walk impatiently up and down the room.  And all the time Cicely’s soft eyes never ceased to follow him.  Clearly there was need for hurry, for they had not laid aside their travelling-cloaks, and once or twice the young man paused in his walk to listen.  At length he pulled out his watch, glanced from it to the clock in the corner, put it away with a frown and, striding up to the hearth, flung himself down in the arm-chair—­the very arm-chair in which I was seated.