XI
Dick Wilson had taken very kindly to Jeffray’s hospitality, having discovered a warmth and sincerity in the master of Rodenham that was welcome to this rough philosopher who had suffered from the treachery of fashion. He loved the lad for his enthusiasm, his modesty, and the frank chivalry of his boyish heart. Though contrasting in the outer man there was much similarity of soul between Jeffray and the painter. To strangers Wilson often appeared a coarse, ungainly, and ill-bred person, too much enamoured of using a somewhat scathing tongue on occasions, a man who drank porter and delighted in cheese.
Wilson had already set to work to paint a portrait of the Lady Letitia. The dowager appeared to have become even more enamoured of honest Dick, confessing to Richard that she had but rarely met a man possessed of so much wit, wisdom, and sterling common-sense. Jeffray respected his aunt for admiring Wilson, and was heartily glad that the poor fellow should make a friend of one whom he believed to be of influence in fashionable circles. Wilson had described to Jeffray the many ignominies and trials of a painter’s life. Since he had been persuaded by Zucarelli to abandon portraiture for landscape-painting he had discovered that he was dropping from the notice of the polished patrons of the age. Nature smiled upon his canvases, but she could not give him guineas in return. The English gentleman of that period believed that he could see trees, clouds, and rivers anywhere, and was by no means inclined to waste good gold on studies of prosaic hills. Well might Gay’sTriviastand for the tastes of the age, Pope-ridden pedantry, cramped, stilted, and precise. An absurd and pompous classicalism clogged the mind. Affectation was everywhere; the very flowers might have been made of wax, the trees of painted pasteboard. As for the imagination, poor bloodless captive, it was crushed beneath epigrammatical pedantry, and walled in by a versification cold as it was ugly.
The Lady Letitia had instructed her nephew to persuade Wilson to go with them to the masked ball at Hardacre, and though Jeffray acknowledged the wisdom of her remarks, he found Mr. Dick by no means eager to enjoy Sir Peter’s hospitality.
“Deuce take me, Jeffray,” he said, with a grimace, “what sort of figure should I cut at such a rout? I should tread on the wenches’ gowns, put my feet through their petticoats, and crunch their pretty toes. How can an elephant mate with Miss Terpsichore? Imagine Richard Wilson plodding through a minuet, sir! As for my talking sweet nothings to the ladies, you might as well put up a rhinoceros to flirt with the Venus of Milo.”
Jeffray laughed, but was not answered.
“I think you would enjoy it, Dick,” he said. “You can keep to the wall and gossip with the dowagers. I am not much of a dancer myself, but I like to study the world in one of its many phases.”
“I will think about it, lad—I will think about it,” said the painter, sadly.
“My aunt will be disappointed, sir, if you do not go.”
“Disappointed, eh?”
“Certainly, Dick; she has taken a great fancy to you.”
“We are to wear masks, eh?”
“You are not ashamed of your own face, Dick?”
“It is ugly enough, to be sure, sir. A piece of black velvet or crape would look much prettier.”
The same evening, while Jeffray was sorting some of his curios in the library, the Lady Letitia catechised Richard Wilson in the parlor on the subject of the Hardacre ball. She was instructing her dear painter in the mysteries of piquet, listening the while to his droll tales with a delight that would have filled Dr. Sugg with scholarly contempt. Wilson, palpably disconcerted, but not desiring to pique the old lady, had put forward much the same excuses as he had made to Mr. Richard. The Lady Letitia, however, refused to listen to his self-depreciation. She even pretended to be incensed with poor Wilson for holding so humble an opinion of his own powers to please.
“Why, sir,” she exclaimed, “you are far too modest a creature to succeed in this world. People are only too ready to take one at one’s own estimate, if it happens to be a humble one. Remember, sir, that you must expect no magnanimity from your fellow-men; genius is always jeered at by the crawling cleverness of the world. Therefore, stand up for yourself, sir, and let men know that you are better than they.”
Poor Wilson fidgeted in his chair, and almost regretted that the dowager had conceived so good an opinion of him.
“And do you think, madam,” he asked, bluntly, “that they want a poor beggar of a painter at Hardacre House?”
The Lady Letitia rustled haughtily in her chair.
“I should like to know, sir,” she said, “what house is not honored by the presence of genius.”
“You are very kind, madam, I am sure.”
“Why, I mentioned your name to Miss Hardacre herself.”
Dick Wilson looked aghast.
“You mentioned my name and profession, madam?”
“Well, sir, what fault has your superlative modesty to find with me now? Miss Hardacre expressed herself charmed, sir, that you should be present at the ball.”
“Charmed!”
“La, dear Mr. Wilson, of course I know all about that boyish escapade of yours, but those things are of no account in society. If we modish women were to avoid the men we had once flirted with, why, sir, we could go nowhere. I warrant you Miss Hardacre is a discreet young woman; she has forgotten that little affair years ago. Should she frown on you because of it? The best policy in these things, Mr. Wilson, is to act as if there had never been any harmless little romance at all.”
The painter had sat blushing like a boy during this harangue. He fidgeted in his chair, looked at the card-table and at the ceiling.
“I suppose this is the fashion, madam, in the genteel world?” he asked.
“Of course, sir, of course, and a very sensible fashion to be sure.”
“Then you think there is no reason why I should not present myself at Hardacre House?”
“Mr. Wilson, have I had any experience of the world?”
“Ample, madam, ample.”
“And there should be one very good reason, sir,” she said, coquettishly, “why you should humor me in the matter.”
Wilson stared.
“I like to be amused, sir, by the wit and wisdom of a man of the world. These Sussex folk are terribly dull. I shall die of ennui there, unless—”
“Unless, madam?”
“You take pity on an old woman, and put your most delightful tongue at her service.”
Thus, thanks to the Lady Letitia’s diplomacy, Richard Jeffray was compelled to ransack his dead father’s wardrobe in order to provide his friend with fitting clothes for the occasion. He discovered a sky-blue silk coat that fitted Wilson very respectably. He also provided the painter with a bag-wig, a pair of black silk breeches, white stockings, a richly frilled shirt, a lace cravat, and an old court-sword. The painter made by no means a poor figure as he stood before the fire in Rodenham hall, waiting for the Lady Letitia to descend to the coach. Certainly the muscularity of his calves was too much in evidence; his back resembled a barn door, and his fiery face seemed in need of powder. Richard Wilson looked a gentleman of solidity and distinction, so long as he kept his feet still and did not get into difficulties with his sword. His dignity in such finery was intended to be of the statuesque order. Set him in motion, and his lumbering limbs moved with the clumsy stiltedness of a mechanical figure.
Hardacre House was brilliantly lit that night. The wax-candles in the rooms and galleries would have stocked a country shop a whole year. The major-domo and the serving-men were wearing new liveries of blue plush. The great baronial hall had been cleared for the rout, the floor waxed and polished till it shone, the suits of armor burnished to the radiance of silver, the escutcheons over the great stone fireplace repainted. In the minstrels’ gallery above the oak screen were two violins, a bassoon, a ’cello, and a flute. Sir Peter had hired his musicians at The Wells, so that his guests should not complain of the quality of the music. The hall was gay with bright coats and handsome gowns, when the Rodenham company, properly and discreetly masked, were ushered in unannounced by the major-domo.
And what a quaint and stately sight it was, the great hall with its mediæval atmosphere filled with color, perfume and charming affectation. There were pompous and powdered dames, tinted like delicate china and exhaling odors of ambergris and of musk. There were gentlemen in gorgeous coats and waistcoats, slim swords dangling beside their silk-stockinged legs. And the sweet wenches in brocades and flowered silks, with black masks over their soft, pink faces, and their dear eyes glistening like stars through a dark firmament! The nodding feathers, the lace, the powder and patches, the rippling color, the perfumes, the coy satin slippers, the flickering fans. Surely it was all very quaint and beautiful, even though much of its charm was on the surface, and that there were sharp tongues behind many a set of pearly teeth.
Richard, despite the mystery of a black velvet vizard, soon discovered Mistress Jilian amid the rout. Did he not recognize the plump, pink bosom and the well-turned arms, the dimpled chin and bright gray eyes? Miss Hardacre’s head of auburn hair beaconed to Jeffray despite its powder. How red her mouth was!—and her gay-gowned body exuded perfume as though a spice-box had been broken in her tiring-room. Had he not seen that painted fan before, those twinkling feet, those plump, white hands?
“Ah, Jilian, how well you look to-night.”
The masked maiden laughed mischievously, and tapped Richard’s shoulder with her fan.
“Are you sure it is Jilian?” she asked, with an arch bending of the neck.
“I should know you anywhere.”
“Now, sir, be careful.”
“Why, there is the little brown mole on your left arm.”
“Oh, cousin,” quoth the lady, covering the offending stigma with her fan, “you must not look at me as close as that.”
“How can I help looking at you, Jilian?”
“La, Richard, you are growing sweetly wicked. Come, they are striking up in the gallery. Let us lead off the first dance together.”
The hours went gayly that evening, as though Time tripped to some quaint old measure. What rustling of silk there was, what stately mingling of youth and age! How the colors played under the timbered roof, betwixt the dark oaken walls, under the antlered heads and Gothic armor! How plaintive were the violins and how ravishing the mellow piping of the flute! Every one seemed born for laughter and coquetting. Sir Peter himself led out the Lady Letitia to a minuet, the dowager sailing through it with a stateliness that might have stood for history. Mr. Lot had discovered Miss Julia Perkaby, and his red face glistened under the magic of those languishing dark eyes. As for Richard Jeffray, he looked distinguished enough to have played the Young Pretender, and his courtesies to Miss Jilian had tottered on the brink of a declaration. Dick Wilson watched the rout from a dark corner under the minstrels’ gallery. Perhaps he would have preferred to have studied Greek nymphs dancing in Arcady under the moon, their white limbs flashing under the green umbrage of classic trees.
The painter remained in the background during the evening, and beyond gravitating more than once to the supper-room, hugged his isolation in the corner under the minstrels’ gallery. The Lady Letitia was with him ever and again, but Jeffray appeared too busy with Miss Hardacre and his friends to have much time to give to ungainly Dick. Wilson had remained unpresented as yet to Sir Peter and his children. The painter was well content with his obscurity, and beyond indulging in an occasional mild chat with some old lady who had been relegated to the wall, Wilson amused himself with listening to the music, and meditating on the picturesque hypocrisies of life.
All went well till late in the evening, when many of the dancers consented to unmask to each other, and to laugh over the small mysteries black velvet vizards could beget. It was then that the Lady Letitia came sailing down upon Richard Wilson where he sat in his blue coat under the gallery. The old lady had taken good care to keep her eyes on the painter during the whole evening.
“Ha, Mr. Wilson,” she said, with a triumphant amiability on her face, “at last I am able to enjoy your company. I have been tired to death, sir, by innumerable squirelings and country Tabithas. Come, has my nephew presented you to Miss Hardacre and Sir Peter?”
Wilson smiled and shook his head.
“Jeffray has been busy with the ladies, madam,” he said.
“What an absent lad it is! You must forgive him his youth, sir, and the sentimental excitements thereof. I will present you myself, sir, to Miss Hardacre. I hear she has been asking for you. Come. I see her yonder in the oriel.”
“Really, madam,” said the painter, bluntly, “I dare say Miss Hardacre can dispense with my society.”
The Lady Letitia plied her fan.
“Nonsense,” she said, “Miss Hardacre will feel slighted if Richard’s friend is left out in the cold. Take your mask off, sir.”
“Is it necessary, madam?”
“Heavens, Mr. Wilson, you cannot be presented to the lady of the house in blinkers! Ah, that is well. Put it in your pocket, sir. And now give me your arm.”
Miss Jilian was sitting on one of the benches in the great oriel that bayed out from the right of the raised dais. The perpendicular window itself was filled with white glass, banded across the centre with the arms of the Hardacres, gules, a clarion argent, and the shields of certain families with whom they had been connected by marriage. Miss Hardacre, who had unmasked, was talking to one of Squire Pierpoint’s daughters when the Lady Letitia came strutting across the hall on Mr. Richard Wilson’s arm. The painter looked red and overheated, nor was his composure under the eyes of the assemblage bettered by his nearly tripping over his sword. Jilian had not noticed the dowager’s approach, so absorbed was she in confiding to Miss Dorothy Pierpoint some very feminine secrets concerning Richard Jeffray. There was a smile of beautiful amiability on the Lady Letitia’s face as she bore down like destiny upon the unconscious maiden.
“My dear Miss Hardacre—”
Jilian’s gray eyes flashed up to find the old lady standing before her with a fat man in a blue coat at her side.
“Permit me, my dear, to present to you my nephew’s friend, Mr. Richard Wilson, the distinguished portrait-painter.”
Poor Dick proceeded to make his most professional and graceful bow. Miss Hardacre, who had gone very white under her delicate rouging, sat staring at the painter’s face as though it were possessed of the grim magic of the Medusa’s.
“Richard Wilson!”
Miss Hardacre stammered out the words, striving with all her might and main to smile.
“Surely you remember me, madam?” quoth Mr. Dick, clumsily, looking about as great a fool as a man could look in such a predicament.
The Lady Letitia was beaming upon the pair with a mischievous twinkle in her wicked old eyes. She knew that her nephew was watching them from the other side of the hall. But even the dowager was not prepared for the distressing and regrettable scene that was to follow. Miss Hardacre, instead of giving her hand to the painter, shrank back with a shrill scream, and proceeded to faint in the proper pathetic fashion, lying limp and pale in Miss Dorothy Pierpoint’s arms. Poor Wilson stood like an emblem of confusion, nodding his heavy head, and staring first at the unconscious Jilian and then at the Lady Letitia. There was much stir and bustle at the upper end of the hall. Old ladies began to crowd in sympathetic curiosity towards the oriel, with bobbing feathers and inquisitive noses.
“Poor dear Miss Hardacre has fainted.”
“Dear, dear, the room is uncommonly hot to be sure.”
“Will some one give her my smelling-salts?”
“Dear me, sir”—this from a thin dame to Mr. Wilson, who was pushing through the press—“do you know that you are trampling on my gown?”
The painter had been edging out of the oriel, conceiving that he could best mend the mischief he had done by taking his departure. There must have been some blundering somewhere; either the Lady Letitia had been mistaken in her knowledge of the world, or he had been mistaken in the Lady Letitia. Looking very red and foolish, he was shambling towards the door when footsteps came rattling after him and a hand gripped the collar of the painter’s coat.
Wilson, twisting round, saw Mr. Lot Hardacre’s furious red face staring into his.
“Richard Wilson, by Heaven!”
“Leave go of my collar, sir.”
“Deuce take me!”
“I came as Richard Jeffray’s friend, sir.”
“Curse you, sir, how dared you show your blackguardly face before my sister!”
Wilson shook himself free from Lot’s hold. He was no angel in the matter of temper, and his patience was giving way under the strain.
“Don’t swear at me, sir,” he said. “If I have been made a fool of I am not going to be kicked for it.”
Mr. Lot fired out a number of oaths, and struck Wilson across the face with the back of his open hand.
“Go, curse you,” he roared, “or I will have you pitched out by the grooms.”
Several of Mr. Lot’s bullies had crowded round, ready to uphold their Achilles in the broil. Dick Wilson, with his red face ablaze and his fists clinched, had fallen back against the wall, and was glaring at Lot Hardacre as though tempted to blood his nose for him then and there. The whole hall was in commotion, many of the guests having turned from the fainting Jilian to watch the quarrel between Mr. Lot and the man in the blue coat. The musicians had stopped playing, and were leaning over the balustrading of the gallery. Sir Peter himself was waddling from the supper-room when Jeffray pushed through the ring of gentlemen about Dick Wilson, and confronted his cousin with flushed face and angry eyes.
“You have struck my guest, Lot,” he said, with his hand on his sword.
Mr. Hardacre swore like a coal-heaver.
“Damnation, cousin, you have insulted us by bringing the fellow here.”
“Insulted you, sir?”
“And my sister, sir. Deuce take me, Richard Jeffray, if you weren’t my cousin I’d have you and this fellow ducked in the horse-trough. Deuce take me, I would.”
There was an enthusiastic murmur of approval from Mr. Lancelot’s friends. Jeffray, utterly mystified, yet thoroughly angered none the less, looked as though ready to take his cousin at his word. Wilson, who had recovered some of his equanimity, stepped forward suddenly and laid his great hand on the lad’s shoulder.
“Richard Jeffray,” he said, with a fierce glance at Lot, “let there be no blood-spilling on my account. It is my fault, sir, and this gentleman, your cousin, is justified in construing my presence here into an insult.”
Mr. Lot laughed contemptuously.
“Lick the dirt, my bully,” he said, “but I must have a word with Cousin Richard.”
Wilson interposed between the two, keeping his eyes fixed fiercely on Mr. Hardacre’s face.
“Your kinsman is as innocent as a child, sir,” he said; “the blame is mine. I offer you my apologies for causing such a scene. You can find me at Rodenham if you think fit.”
Wilson, looking quite the fine gentleman for once, bowed to Mr. Lancelot, and, elbowing the grinning toadies aside, strode towards the door with his shoulders squared. Richard, still hopelessly befogged, stared at his cousin, and then followed the painter. The Lady Letitia was sailing down the room, the light of battle in her eyes. She called her nephew to her and commanded him to give her his arm.
“It is time that we followed Mr. Wilson,” she said, with a fierce glare at Mr. Lot. “I have no wish to stay longer in this house to be insulted.”
Lot followed the dowager and Richard towards the door.
“You’ll hear from me, cousin,” he said.
“I am at your service, sir,” quoth Richard.
Lot, his red face still aflame, turned back to meet his father. The baronet was taking snuff with great asperity. He glared at his son, and spoke to him in an angry whisper.
“What devil’s mess have you been brewing here, sir?”
Mr. Lancelot’s blue eyes flashed.
“Dick Wilson, the painter fellow, was here,” he said.
“Dick Wilson!”
“That old beldam brought him with her from Rodenham. Jill fainted when she saw the fellow. Damme, sir, I will have it out with Cousin Richard. I can’t fight the old she-dog or the oilman, but I can fight Richard.”
Sir Peter whistled softly, puffing out his fat, red cheeks.
“Good Lord, Lot,” he said, “here’s a pretty ending to our party. Damn the old woman. Egad, you’d better get Jilian to bed.”
“And to-morrow,” quoth Mr. Lot, savagely, “I will talk with Cousin Richard.”
XII
An almost sanctified silence descended upon the interior of the Rodenham coach as the cumbrous carriage lumbered and creaked homeward over the heath that night. It was as though the three inmates travelled half in awe of one another, and were afraid to grapple with the mystery of the situation. The Lady Letitia sat stiffly in her corner, a statuesque and repellent figure in the dusk, while Richard Wilson, feeling very miserable and foolish, remained bolt upright, his knees and toes together, his round face still glistening with sweat. Jeffray lay back against the cushions, staring at the painter with obfuscated curiosity, and trying to explain to himself Miss Hardacre’s fainting fit and Cousin Lot’s savage attack on Wilson in the hall.
First a few irrelevant remarks passed between the three as the coach rolled on under the stars through the desolate wastes of Pevensel. The road was heavy, and the horses tugged and strained at the traces, the coach rolling on its high springs. They could hear the man-servant’s toes knocking against the panelling as he sat perched on the back seat and clung to the rail as the wheels plunged and bumped into the ruts.
Richard appeared to rouse himself of a sudden. He turned to his aunt and frankly desired her to translate to him the meaning of the strange scene he had witnessed at Hardacre. The Lady Letitia appeared deaf for a moment amid the jangling of the harness and the laboring of the wheels. When she was compelled at last to understand the nature of her nephew’s question, she shrugged her shoulders and wrapped her shawl closer about her neck.
“Don’t ask me, Richard,” she said; “you had better request Mr. Wilson to give you an explanation before you go to bed.”
The painter groaned in spirit and looked pathetically at the old lady.
“I am sure, madam,” he said, humbly, “it would have been better if I had not taken your advice.”
“Advice! More mysterious,” quoth Jeffray, losing patience.
The Lady Letitia rustled her silks in the corner; her eyes were fixed upon Wilson’s face, a lugubrious patch of white in the gloom of the coach.
“Sir,” she said, “I am beginning to think that you have not been quite frank with me. There must have been more in the affair than you have confessed. I never saw a wench so flustered in my life.”
Wilson shrugged his shoulders in despair.
“I will endeavor to explain the matter to Mr. Jeffray,” he said, ruefully; “to be sure I have made a deuced fine fool of myself, and shamed my own friend’s hospitality. You will do me justice, madam, by remembering that I had no liking to attend this ball.”
“Mr. Wilson,” quoth the dowager, frigidly, “it is clear that I never knew the true state of the case.”
“Perhaps not, madam; perhaps not.”
Meanwhile Richard laid his hand on the painter’s knee.
“Don’t vex yourself, Dick,” he said, beginning to suspect the Lady Letitia’s diplomacies, “we will talk it over together when we get home.”
When the coach drew up before the priory, Richard gave his aunt his arm up the steps into the hall. Very much upon her dignity, she gave Mr. Wilson and her nephew a very stately courtesy, and swept away up the great staircase to her chamber. The atmosphere seemed to lighten somewhat on the dowager’s departure. Richard ordered Gladden to light the candles in the library where a fire was still burning, and to bring up a bottle of port from the cellar. He laid his hand on Wilson’s shoulder, who was pacing restlessly up and down the hall, his sword clapping to and fro against his muscular calves. They went into the library together, took pipes and the Virginia-box from the cupboard beside the chimney, and settled themselves before the fire. Peter Gladden came in with an uncorked bottle and glasses upon a tray. Wilson rose up, unbuckled his sword with a prodigious sigh, drank down a bumper, and waited till the butler had closed the door.
“Richard Jeffray,” he said, with more vivacity, as though eager to unburden his soul now that they were alone, “I can’t tell you, sir, what a sorry fool I feel after this night’s business.”
Jeffray, who had never grasped the full significance of the scene in the great hall at Hardacre, smiled at the painter as he filled his pipe.
“I am in an utter fog, Dick,” he said; “what made Miss Jilian faint, and what the devil were you and Lot quarrelling about as though there had been some old feud between you. You painted Sir Peter’s portrait once, eh?”
“Paint it, sir? I should think I did paint it,” quoth Wilson, savagely; “and had I not been an unplucked fool I should never have gone to that ball to-night. A pretty stew I’ve brewed for you, Richard. It was all that old woman’s doing. Damme, sir, why did I listen to her palaver!”
The painter’s red face was a study in shame, wrath, and irritable contrition. His pipe spluttered as though to be in sympathy with its master’s temper. Jeffray, still mystified, could not help a smile at Wilson’s distress.
“What made Miss Hardacre faint, Dick?” he asked, in all innocence.
“What made her faint, sir!”
“To be sure.”
“My accursed face, Richard Jeffray. I was mad enough to think of marrying her ten years ago.”
Jeffray, who was in the act of lighting his pipe, dropped the lighted spill upon the floor and sat staring open-mouthed at Wilson.
“What!” he said.
“You may well look blank, sir. It is how Dick Wilson is feeling. Upon my soul, lad, I think Lot Hardacre did well when he slapped my silly face.”
Jeffray, who had recovered himself, put his foot upon the burning spill, took another from the pot, held it over the fire, and lit his pipe. He puffed steadily for some moments, lying back in his chair with a peculiar calmness upon his face, and then turned again to Wilson.
“Tell me all about it, Dick,” he said.
“Shall I?”
“It is better that I should know.”
Wilson settled himself irritably in his chair and stared at the fire.
“Ten years ago,” he said, “when I was a better-looking fellow than I am now, and when I was making money with my portraits, I painted Sir Peter Hardacre and his daughter. They had a house in town, sir, then, and Miss Jilian was as pretty a young lady as ever charmed the beaux of St. James’s. Well, sir, I fell in love with the girl while I was painting her, and a mighty long time I took over that picture, and a mighty fine portrait I thought it. ‘Did not Hogarth marry old Sir James Thornhill’s daughter,’ said I, ‘and why should I not win this goddess myself?’ She bribed her maid, sir, and used to come to my studio to see me paint. I don’t think it was quite honorable of me, Richard Jeffray, I know now that it was not wise. Well, some old hag who had a grudge against Sir Peter got hold of our secret, and put it about town that there was an intrigue between us. Egad, sir, what an infernal pother there was! Sir Peter sent his own son and some young bullies to bludgeon me in my own studio. I still have the mark of one of their sticks on my asinine pate. It was a bad business, Richard, though we were both of us innocent as lambs.”
Jeffray sat and watched the painter’s face. He had never hinted to Wilson that he himself was on the verge of a betrothal with this very Miss Hardacre, nor had the Lady Letitia dropped a syllable upon the subject. The revelation had come as something of a shock to Jeffray’s sensitive nature. He began to suspect that certain of his aunt’s scandals might be true, and that the sweet Jilian had lost much of the bloom of her unkissed maidenhood. Wilson professed to deal with a romance that had blossomed ten years ago, and Jeffray seemed to see of a sudden a whole ghastly array of subsequent gallants rising before him to impeach Miss Hardacre’s unsophisticated soul.
“I am sorry, Dick,” he said, “that we persuaded you to go to Hardacre. If you had warned me—this might have been prevented.”
Wilson sat with his chin upon his chest, smoking vigorously, and staring at the fire.
“True, very true, sir,” he said, patiently. “I am afraid I have been misled by your aunt, sir, who professed to know all about the romance. She swore to me, Richard, that it was an affair of the past, and that no people of fashion ever distressed themselves about such things. Why, Richard, she even told me that the Hardacres were ready to welcome me as a friend of yours.”
Jeffray sat up suddenly in his chair, his pale face flushing as the truth appeared.
“Miss Hardacre never knew your name, Dick,” he persisted.
“Deuce take me, sir, she must have known it. Your revered relative herself assured me that there was no reason why I should not present myself at Hardacre.”
“Aunt Letitia told you that?”
“Why, at the rout to-night, sir, she came to tell me that Miss Hardacre had been inquiring for me. She made me unmask, sir, marched me up to the girl, shouted out my name, after that—came the deluge.”
Richard twisted in his chair and swore. He understood now how the affair had come about. It had been a carefully spun plot upon the part of the Lady Letitia, and poor Wilson had been duped into lending himself to her plans. Richard realized that the dowager’s excessive graciousness towards the painter had been nothing but diplomatic cunning to lure Dick into the toils.
“I understand it all now, Dick,” he said, rising, and helping himself to another glass of wine.
“That’s more than I can say, sir.”
Jeffray drew himself up as though to surrender the unpleasant truth.
“We have both of us been fooled by my august relative,” he said. “I must confess to you, Dick, that I have been courting Miss Jilian Hardacre, and that the Lady Letitia is prejudiced against the girl. She has tried before to embroil me with the Hardacres. She persuaded you to go to the ball, Dick, in order to create a scene and prevent my becoming betrothed to the lady.”
Dick Wilson’s face expressed astonished and indescribable distress. He put his pipe aside, rose up stammering and blushing, blundered across to where Jeffray was standing, and looked at him as though ready to weep.
“God bless my soul, Richard,” he said, “I would rather have lost my right hand than that this should have happened.”
“It was no fault of yours, Dick.”
“Good Heavens, sir, how can I express my shame and regret! I wish my ugly carcass had never come within ten miles of this place. I am overwhelmed, sir, overwhelmed. I must leave your house at once.”
Jeffray smiled and laid his hand on the painter’s shoulder.
“It was my aunt’s fault, Dick,” he said, simply, “and we have both been made to dance like a couple of dolls. As for your leaving Rodenham, I shall not hear of it.”
Wilson, still thoroughly ashamed, gripped Jeffray’s hand, and then turned away to blow his nose.
“No, no, sir,” he said, “I have made an infernal mess of your affairs, and I cannot eat your food another day. Egad, though, I was forgetting that Mr. Hardacre may desire to justify his sister’s honor.”
“That is my business, Dick.”
“And do you think, sir, that Richard Wilson will run away? No, no. I tell you I will go down and take a room at the inn, and if Mr. Hardacre wants me he will find me there. I am ready to make him and his sister a handsome apology, Richard, for he is in the right and I am in the wrong. If he will not take my apology, sir, then he must put a bullet into me to satisfy his sister’s honor. It was my fault, Richard, for being such a damned egregious fool. Perhaps I can mend the quarrel for you, and I am not going to shirk the responsibility.”
Jeffray could make no impression upon the painter, who was as stubborn as any Sussex boor in his determination to quit the house.
“Well, Dick,” he said, as he lighted the painter to his room, “you can go down to the Wheat Sheaf to-morrow and put up there till the quarrel blows over.”
Wilson shook his head as he stood to say good-night to Jeffray on the landing.
“No, sir,” he said, “the quarrel has been of my making, and even if the lady forgives you for being my friend, it would not please her to know that I was still at Rodenham.”
“But we are not betrothed yet,” Jeffray argued.
“If you love her, sir, I presume this idle affair will make no change in your affection. There was nothing to shame her so far as I was concerned, and to be sure she is a little old for you, but then—”
Wilson hesitated suddenly, screwed up his eyes, and looked at the lad with critical curiosity. It had not occurred to him before that there was some disparity between their years. He had been so immersed also in Miss Hardacre’s past that he had not given much thought to the present.
“I suppose you like her, lad, eh?”
“She has been very kind to me, Dick.”
“So.”
“I mean to act like a man of honor.”
“One thing is certain, sir, that Dick Wilson is better out of the way. Good-night, Richard, you have been very kind to me, and I thank you. Egad, sir, I shall never forgive myself for having served you thus.”
“We are still friends, Dick.”
“Yes, sir, till you are married to Miss Hardacre. Well, it’s a queer world. Good-night, lad, good-night.”
The Lady Letitia kept her bed next day, but sent down a sealed note to her nephew in which she expressed herself as being greatly distressed by what had passed the previous night. She advised Richard “to persuade that unfortunate creature Wilson to take his departure with all despatch.” The dowager threw out many broad hints reflecting upon the sincerity of the painter’s statements, and suggested to Richard that Miss Hardacre must have compromised herself with the man many years ago. Jeffray threw the letter in the fire. He was beginning to discover how much veracity there was in Aunt Letitia’s world-wise soul.
Richard ordered Peter Gladden to go down in person and engage a room for Wilson at the Wheat Sheaf. Wilson’s pack and red bundle were carried down to the inn by a very scornful and unobsequious servant who believed that no real gentleman would travel with such luggage, and who also doubted the likelihood of such a “shabby creature” being able to distribute decent largesse. Richard and the painter breakfasted together, smoked their pipes in the library afterwards, and discussed the dilemma once again. It appeared to Wilson that the young Squire of Rodenham was not madly enamoured of Miss Jilian Hardacre. “She had been very kind to him, yes. He thought her a sweet woman, despite his aunt’s scandalous innuendoes. Certainly he had paid his cousin a great deal of attention, and he would act honorably by her like an English gentleman.” Wilson screwed his face up a little over the lad’s chivalrous sentiments. He did not venture to meddle with so delicate a question, however, having had sufficient excitement to satisfy him for months.
Jeffray walked with Wilson through the park to Rodenham village, the painter dressed again in his cocked hat, rusty brown suit and club-tailed wig. The day was Shrove-Tuesday, as Jeffray would have discovered earlier had he invaded his own kitchen and found the grooms and wenches tossing pancakes. Rodenham village itself was in a holiday temper, the boors turning out in clean smocks, the girls and women tricked out in their best gowns, with ribbon in their hair and new scarlet stockings showing under their short petticoats. Even the brats had had their faces polished and been blessed with clean pinafores. The benches in front of the Wheat Sheaf were ladened with farmers who had come in to drink George Gogg’s beer and watch the “cock-throwing.” Old Sam Sturtevant, the cobbler, had been training a couple of cocks since Christmas, and the birds were as nimble and spry at the game as could be. Sam was engaged with a crowd of hinds in pegging out one of his birds upon the green, and in kicking a line in the turf to show where the thrower should stand, when Jeffray and the painter passed the church and came down the road leading to the village with its wood and plaster fronts, its thatched roofs and sour and ragged gardens.
The sport sacred to Shrove-Tuesday had begun as Richard and the painter came down towards the green. A crowd of jabbering, hairy-faced boors were swearing and screaming on the grass. Some twenty paces distant from the crowd of hinds and slatterns, Sam Sturtevant, the cobbler, was holding one of his trained cocks by a string fastened to the leg. A rustic was in the act of taking his three shots for a penny at the bird, the object being to knock the cock down, and run and catch him before he could recover his legs. So well trained was the bird that he dodged each cast of the stick, the crowd jeering and laughing as the fellow lost his penny to the cobbler. The next gentleman was more clever in his throwing. Richard saw the bird go down on the grass, a twitching and fluttering mass of feathers. The cock recovered himself, however, before the fellow could reach him, and the stick-throwing recommenced amid the shouts of the spectators.
Richard Jeffray had never seen the sport since the days when he was a mere animal of a boy. His eyes flashed in his pale face; his mouth hardened. Crossing the road with Wilson at his heels, he looked round angrily at the boors, who had abated their yelling on the Squire’s approach, and had pulled off their hats and were louting and grinning in their uncouth way. Richard went up to the cobbler, an old man with a flinty face, whose eyes were glistening over the pence his cock had earned for him.
“Maybe Mr. Jeffray would like a shy,” he said, with a leer, while the hinds crowded round with grinning faces.
Jeffray glanced at the bird that was staggering about on a broken leg.
“Do you call this sport, men?” he asked, hotly.
The cobbler stared and appeared puzzled. The ring of brutish faces gathered closer.
“There be’nt no harm in it, yer honor,” he said.
Jeffray promptly pulled out his purse and offered to buy the cobbler’s birds. The boors stared at one another, and began to murmur.
“Begging yer honor’s pardon,” quoth the mender of shoes, “these birds of mine be’nt for buying.”
“You prefer to torture them, Sturtevant, eh?”
The man scratched his head and glanced at his friends for justification.
“There always be cock-throwing on Shrove-Tuesdays, Mr. Jeffray,” he said. “Parson Sugg has never said aught agen it.”
“That be so, Sam,” added several rough voices.
Wilson, who had pushed through the crowd, laid his hand on Jeffray’s shoulder and looked meaningly in his face.
“Let them alone, sir,” he said, in an undertone; “they won’t understand your fine philosophy.”
“This is mere brutality, Dick.”
“Egad, sir, if you begin reforming the British nation you will be ducked like Wesley in the horse-pond.”
Jeffray, feeling himself humiliated before the grinning and contemptuous faces of the men, turned and walked away with Wilson towards the inn. An outburst of coarse laughter followed him. One fellow put his thumb to his nose and spread his fingers behind Jeffray’s back. Another made a certain indescribable noise that condensed the contempt of these “pastoral swains.”
“Lamentable soft, the Squire, be’nt he, Sam?”
“Poor sort of foreigner, I reckon.”
“Sing’lar young man. Poor, skinny-looking fox as ever I see. Better be mindin’ of his own business. Lookee, Cloddy, it be your shy, man.”
They returned to their cock-baiting with rough laughter, and much lewd jeering and cursing one with another. Jeffray and the painter had neared the Wheat Sheaf where half a score red-faced farmers were gossiping and drinking beer on the benches about the wooden tables. They exchanged winks and grimaces, and pulled off their hats to Jeffray with mock politeness. George Gogg, the innkeeper, came out to meet the master of Rodenham, cloaking his personal and obese contempt for the young Squire under an air of almost offensive servility. As Jeffray passed through the bar with Wilson towards the private parlor, he became aware of a big man in a green coat staring at him from a bench in the chimney-corner. Richard, baffled for the moment, remembered where he had seen the fellow’s face before. It was Dan Grimshaw, of Pevensel. As for a contrast Bess’s face flashed up before him, its lips like a thread of scarlet, its black hair streaming above the fierce blue eyes.