The eyes of the commonalty still hung upon every motion of the blacksmith and the miller, but by the people of quality the cudgelers were for the moment quite forgot.  The head of the house of Jaquelin hurried over the grass to the coach door.  “Ha, Colonel Byrd!  When we heard that you were staying overnight at Green Spring, we hoped that, being so near, you would come to our merrymaking.  Mistress Evelyn, I kiss your hands.  Though we can’t give you the diversions of Spring Garden, yet such as we have are at your feet.  Mr. Marmaduke Haward, your servant, sir!  Virginia has missed you these ten years and more.  We were heartily glad to hear, t’other day, that the Golden Rose had brought you home.”

As he spoke the worthy gentleman strove to open the coach door; but the horseman, to whom the latter part of his speech was addressed, and who had now dismounted, was beforehand with him.  The door swung open, and a young lady, of a delicate and pensive beauty, placed one hand upon the deferential arm of Mr. Marmaduke Haward and descended from the painted coach to the flower-enameled sward.  The women amongst the assembled guests fluttered and whispered; for this was youth, beauty, wealth, London, and the Court, all drawn in the person of Mistress Evelyn Byrd, bred since childhood in the politest society of England, newly returned with her father to his estate of Westover in Virginia, and, from her garlanded gypsy hat to the point of her silken shoe, suggestive of the rainbow world of mode.

Her father—­alert, vivacious, handsome, with finely cut lips that were quick to smile, and dark eyes that smiled when the lips were still—­followed her to the earth, shook out his ruffles, and extended his gold snuffbox to his good friend Mr. Jaquelin.  The gentleman who had ridden beside the coach threw the reins of his horse to one of the negroes who had come running from the Jaquelin stables, and, together with their host, the three walked across the strip of grass to the row of expectant gentry.  Down went the town-bred lady until the skirt of her blue-green gown lay in folds upon the buttercups; down went the ladies opposite in curtsies as profound, if less exquisitely graceful.  Off came the hats of the gentlemen; the bows were of the lowest; snuffboxes were drawn out, handkerchiefs of fine holland flourished; the welcoming speeches were hearty and not unpolished.

It was a society less provincial than that of more than one shire that was nearer to London by a thousand leagues.  It dwelt upon the banks of the Chesapeake and of great rivers; ships dropped their anchors before its very doors.  Now and again the planter followed his tobacco aboard.  The sands did not then run so swiftly through the hourglass; if the voyage to England was long, why, so was life!  The planters went, sold their tobacco,—­Sweet-scented, E. Dees, Oronoko, Cowpen, Non-burning,—­talked with their agents, visited their English kindred; saw the town, the opera, and the play,—­perhaps,