These lines, to their author, seemed singularly delicate and expressive. He read them through several times, and they completed his intoxication. He was astonished by his facility in composition; nor paused to wonder whether in his sober morning senses he would think so highly of himself and his verses. But already he was conscious of a diminishing flow of inspiration: ‘her young Felicity’ did not altogether satisfy him. It had an extravagant air; it was over-fanciful: and, moreover, was it not rather his own felicity, were she won, that should be celebrated? This she of whom he sung was a phantom lady, nameless and formless and perhaps too fair for mortal imagining; but he could not deny that she looked at him now with the eyes, and spoke with the alluring lips, of one in whose company he had recently drunk wine. Even Mrs Lavender was forgotten: pretty young Mrs Lavender for whom he cherished a discreet tenderness, which was rekindled every time he received string or soap or candles across the counter of her husband’s little shop in the High Street. The fair stranger reigned unchallenged in his thoughts. In rapt if somewhat muddled contemplation of his work, and with numerous alternative rhymes to ‘he’ ringing in his mind, he fell asleep where he sat. At first he was vaguely aware of being asleep, and a drowsy satisfaction at not being in bed, at being adventurously carousing with the Muses in the small hours of the morning, like the gallant fellow he was, pursued him across the borderland and lent its colour to the crowding images of dream. But presently he quite lost sight of the waking world; his dreams came closer, surrounding him, shutting him in; he went on a long and strange voyage and gathered the fruits of eternal orchards. And then it seemed as though he were back again in his inn parlour, and watching through half-closed eyes a man in a dark cloak and a three-cornered hat tiptoeing towards the street door. He saw this apparition stop, stare in his direction, and remain for a moment very rigid, as though taking stock of him; then turn with careful step, and, proceeding on his way, draw the bolt of the door, lift the latch, and step into the moonlight. A very vivid dream, thought Mr Bailey; for he seemed positively to feel the cold air stealing in upon him from the street. But the door closed, and he sank again into deep slumber, to be roused presently by a sharp metallic clatter from outside. I know that sound, said he, with deep satisfaction: that’s horses, that is. Not one horse, but two horses. Wedded by Folly to a prior Claim. He had some notion of getting out of his seat to investigate this matter; he remembered his dream and wondered if aught was amiss. But now the clatter of hooves was a diminishing music; it vanished, beautifully, into an enchanted distance, into a past epoch, a golden time, a land misty with promise of love and idleness and a school of one’s own and a book of verses bound in morocco with the name of Erasmus Bailey Esquire on the title-page. ‘Pretty! Very pretty!’ he said aloud. ‘Clacketty clacketty clacketty clacketty . . . and away we go.’ The sound of his own voice, the movement of his own tongue, wakened him fully. He rubbed his eyes and his head; he yawned prodigiously, shivered a little, and got up. Vaguely disturbed in mind, and with some idea of putting everything right, he made his way to the door, opened it, and looked out. No one there. He nodded sagaciously at the empty street, as if to say ‘What did I tell you?’ He wagged an admonitory forefinger at himself. ‘That noise, Erasmus,’ said he, ‘was my fine gentleman taking his leave without paying his reckoning. God save the King, and confusion to traitors!’ The night air refreshed him; he stood for some few minutes quietly relishing its sharp assault.
When at last he turned back into the room he found he was not alone in it. After the brightness of the sky the firelit room was dim, but it seemed to Mr Bailey that someone, a woman, had tried to slip past him through the doorway. He shut the door with decision, and shot the bolt. There were to be no more fugitives from his tavern tonight. Then he faced her, the woman of his dreams. For in this place of shadows, this moment of magic, she was that, though earlier she had been no more than a hint of it. Bright eyes, a heaving bosom, black hair in heavenly disarray, and the whole effect that of a frightened lovely proud defiant daughter of moonlight—here was romance for you. She stood clutching her silk gown about her breasts: whether it was her only garment Mr Bailey dared not surmise (dared not but did, and spared no time to rebuke himself for the liberty of his thoughts). The cup of his night, this strange exhilarating night, was filled to the brim. He stood and stared, tasting its wonder, waiting for the woman to speak but not caring whether she spoke or not.
‘Oh it’s you, landlord! I declare you quite terrified me.’