XIII
Miss Jilian soon recovered from her faint in the great hall at Hardacre, thanks to sprinklings with scent and the immediate application of a smelling-bottle to her nose. Miss Hardacre had seen nothing of the foolish quarrel between Dick Wilson and Mr. Lot, and with true discretion she insisted on dancing the night out, vowing that she had only temporarily succumbed to the heat. A few words passed between brother and sister before the musicians struck up in the gallery, and Mr. Lancelot led out his sister to a country-dance. Though Sir Peter busied himself ostentatiously in seeing that certain of the hall windows were opened for the sake of ventilation, there was much secret wagging of tongues amid the company, much bobbing of plumes, much wise gossip. Several reasons were spread abroad to account for the affair and the sudden departure of the party for Rodenham. Miss Jilian, however, rose bravely superior to the past, smiled and swept courtesies, drank wine to give herself a color. She even coquetted with Mr. Gedge, one of her brother’s boon comrades, for the rest of the evening, carrying her amber head very high, and showing no symptoms of cowardice or distress.
The following morning, however, Miss Hardacre was very viciously afflicted with the vapors. She kept her bed, would not so much as suffer her maid to draw her curtains, and left untouched the chocolate the sympathetic handmaid pressed upon her. Her one command was that Sir Peter should be informed that she was vaporish, and would be pleased to see him if he would walk up-stairs. The baronet, after finishing his breakfast and swearing at Lot for making such a pother the preceding night, gathered himself together and tramped up the broad staircase to pay his respects to his daughter.
The red curtains were half drawn across the windows of Miss Jilian’s room. An odor of lavender pervaded the atmosphere, and the four-post bed, with its pink-and-white hangings, looked like a shrine where love might claim sanctuary. Miss Hardacre’s ball dress lay thrown across a chair. Her cosmetics and wash-balls were untouched on the table below her mirror. The fair Jilian herself lay back on her belaced pillows, looking rather thin and old, her tawny hair in a tangle, her mouth adroop in her white face.
Sir Peter thrust a pair of satin slippers aside with his foot, gurgled, took snuff, tossed sundry belaced vestments from a chair, and sat himself down beside the bed. The baronet gazed at his daughter with stupid gravity, and heaved a sigh under his snuffy waistcoat.
“Well, lass, how are you feeling?”
There was some rustling of the belaced bed-gown, a pair of shoulders began to twitch spasmodically, a handkerchief fluttered out, a pathetic signal of distress.
“Damn it, Jill, don’t let’s play at snivelling.”
Sir Peter’s irritable method of showing his sympathy only distressed the sweet martyr the more. There were chokings and moist miseries under the pink-and-white canopy. Miss Hardacre’s pretty feet twitched and fidgeted under the clothes, while she half buried her face in the pillow and sobbed with unction.
“Bless my soul, Jill, you ain’t a baby no longer—to play at the snivels.”
“Oh, Sir Peter, you are brutal!” came the choking reproof from the pillow.
“Drat it, lass, what are you blubbering for? There’s no great harm done, eh? Lot will see to the Hardacre honor.”
Miss Hardacre’s sobs seemed to grow less hysterical. She thrust a bare arm out of the bed, a wealth of lace hanging about the elbow. Sir Peter, who looked hot, angry, and unhappy, was at some pains to console his daughter. He took her hand and patted it parentally.
“There, there, lass; what shall we do for ye, eh?”
“Tell Lot—”
“Tell Lot. What am I to tell Lot, eh?”
“Not to quarrel with poor Richard—”
“Damn the lad, Jilian, don’t you take on so. Richard Jeffray’s a little gentleman, and I’ll take my immortal oath that it was all that old she-dog’s doing. Lot is for riding to Rodenham to demand an explanation.”
Miss Hardacre pressed her father’s hand and mopped her eyes with her lace handkerchief. Her bones showed somewhat at the base of her neck, and she looked less plump when unadorned.
“La, Sir Peter, I am very miserable,” she whimpered. “Richard and I were so happy together last night. Why should that old woman try to spoil our happiness? It was cruel of her, sir, to bring that painter fellow to Hardacre. Such an old affair, too; I was only a silly child then.”
Sir Peter swore, and fumbled for his snuffbox.
“Don’t you eat your heart out, Jill,” he said; “Lot shall see to it. Richard Jeffray shall prove that he is a gentleman.”
Miss Hardacre started up in bed upon her elbow, and held out an appealing hand towards her father.
“Don’t let there be any quarrelling; I couldn’t bear to think—”
“There, there,” interposed the baronet, with a sniff; “what a tender goose it is! You leave it to me, Jill. We will see that you are treated like a lady.”
Sir Peter kissed his daughter, and trudged downstairs, blowing his nose. He found Lot in the dining-room with his feet propped against one of the carved jambs of the fireplace, a pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and his rather bleary eyes scanning the pages of a gazette. Lot dropped his feet and swung round in his chair as his father entered, took his pipe from his mouth, and grinned.
“How’s the angelic Jill?” he asked, laconically.
“Damned vaporish, sir. Hopes you won’t hurt the poor lad. ’Twould break her heart to think of your drawing your sword on him.”
Lot laughed and knocked out his pipe on the heel of his shoe.
“She’s a clever one, is Jilian,” he said. “Egad, sir, she has given me the wink. Break her sweet heart, the dear, tough wench! I must foot it nobly, sir, before my cousin, the poet, smite my brotherly bussum, and cry, ‘Behold, sir, here lies a brother’s honor.’ Richard’s a sweet, trustful lad. Leave him to me, sir; I’ll see that Jill has her husband.”
The baronet chuckled, and sat down in his leather-bottomed chair before the fire. He lay back, exposing his generous paunch, and winked at his son over his shoulder.
“Richard will make a good son-in-law, Lot,” he observed.
“Jill will milk his pockets for him, sir.”
Sir Peter nodded and beamed greedily.
“And we’ll have some of the butter, Lot,” he said; “an easy mortgage would be deuced convenient. What does the young dog want with all his thousands lying idle? They would serve us better than they would him. We want a new coach and a new stud, and, damme, I should like a house in town again. Dick Jeffray’s a nice lad, Lot. When do you think of riding over to Rodenham?”
Mr. Hardacre yawned, stretched his legs, and looked cunningly at his father.
“This afternoon, sir,” he said, with a grin. “The old harridan thinks she has spoiled our sport, but I guess she has given us a great opportunity. I will put it to Mr. Richard like a brother. If he don’t see it in the sentimental light, sir, I’ll just do a little bullying.”
“And have Jill weeping over his grave!”
Mr. Lot laughed loudly and thumped his chest.
“You’ll do it all right, Lot,” said the baronet; “damme, you will.”
“Leave him to me, sir. Sister Jill shall have her husband.”
Thus, with the wind blowing briskly through Pevensel and the clouds rolling like great purple chariots over the distant downs, Mr. Lancelot rode out in quest of the Hardacre honor, and came trotting through Rodenham park betwixt the beeches and the cedars. Mr. Lot was dressed in his best brown riding-suit, with a silver-mounted sword at his side, and a new tie-wig perched on his solid round pate. His blue eyes twinkled in his fiery face, and he swore softly to himself and patted his horse’s neck. Gladden answered the clanging bell with the usual inscrutable smirk upon his face. Mr. Hardacre announced the fact that he desired to see Mr. Jeffray alone, his manner demanding unequivocal obedience on the part of the butler. Richard was reading in the library at the moment, having left Dick Wilson at the inn. The Lady Letitia still kept her chamber, having sent word to her nephew that she was still prostrated after the unpleasant experiences of the night.
Mr. Lot had been ushered into the red parlor, and Richard found him strutting up and down before the windows that overlooked the park, his sword cocked under his coat-tails in very militant fashion. He bowed with unusual courtliness, and posed very creditably as a cavalier without reproach. Richard felt decidedly oppressed by his cousin’s portentous dignity. All the evidences of a determination to claim the right of politely murdering him appeared in Mr. Hardacre’s manner.
Jeffray desired Mr. Hardacre to be seated. Lot waved the proffered chair aside, and stood to the majestic moment with astonishing grandiosity.
“Cousin Richard,” he said, with another bow, “you doubtless recognize the delicacy of the errand that has brought me to Rodenham.”
Richard blushed and looked uncomfortable.
“You refer to the affair of last night, Lot,” he answered.
“Egad, sir, I do. It is my right as Miss Hardacre’s brother to demand an explanation from you, sir, with regard to the unwarrantable introduction of this Mr. Wilson into our house.”
Richard was still blushing and looking honestly distressed. He glanced appealingly at his cousin’s righteous face, and promptly plunged into a rambling and eager explanation of the affair, expressing his ardent regret at what had happened, and exonerating both Wilson and himself from the charge of premeditated mischief-making. Mr. Lot nodded very solemnly at every sentence, keeping his eyes fixed severely upon his cousin’s face, and still cocking his sword with aggressive significance.
“So you will see, Lot,” said the lad, frankly, at the end of his speech, “that I was utterly innocent of any desire to offend. God knows, sir, I was as miserable as a man could be over such a regrettable error. I can only offer you my apologies and ask you and Sir Peter to forgive me.”
Mr. Lancelot bowed and smiled with some grimness.
“Egad, cousin,” he said, “I am glad to find you in so reasonable a temper. I can tell you, Richard, my blood was up, and when Lot Hardacre is roused—he is a bit of a devil, sir.”
Richard, hot and eager, like the generous fellow he was, to salve the wounded Hardacre pride, held out his hand to Lot with a brave smile.
“Your anger does you honor, Lot,” he said. “Had I such a sister I should be terribly jealous for her.”
Mr. Hardacre glanced at Jeffray’s hand reflectively, and then shook it.
“Deuce take me, Richard,” he said, “I knew you were a lad of the right temper. As for Dick Wilson, I broke his pate once, poor devil, when Jill was a mere bread-and-butter simpleton, and he had the impudence to fall in love with her. A pretty little jest, Richard, nothing more. It was the old lady above, sir, who poisoned the posset.”
Jeffray was sincerely relieved to find Mr. Lancelot mellowing into such a brotherly humor.
“Poor Wilson was as much concerned as I was, Lot,” he said. “The Lady Letitia fibbed him into believing that he could present himself at Hardacre. I knew nothing of the matter till last night. Wilson is staying for a day at the Wheat Sheaf down in the village to offer you his apologies, or honorable satisfaction, should you require it.”
Mr. Lot laughed good-humoredly, and reduced the cock of his sword.
“I don’t want to quarrel with the poor devil, Richard,” he said. “You were both of you lambs sucking sour milk from the old dam above. I only desired, sir, to see justice done to my sister.”
Richard, blushing guiltily, looked with some shyness at his cousin.
“How is Jilian?” he asked.
Lot’s face seized upon a most lugubrious expression. He shook his head, and looked with significant pathos at Richard.
“Poor wench, she is in a terrible way—”
“Lot, I am miserably distressed.”
“She begged me to make no quarrel in the matter; swore it was no fault of yours; wanted me to promise that I would not lose my temper.”
Richard listened, looking the embodiment of generous contrition. What an angel this sweet cousin of his was, to be sure! Of course Jilian had had little romances after she had come fresh from school. What girl had not? And had not he, Richard Jeffray, brought all this distress upon her?
“Lot,” he said, “I am not worthy to kiss your sister’s hand. Do you think that she will forgive me?”
Mr. Lancelot appeared profoundly serious, and glanced at his cousin under wrinkled brows.
“Jill has a deuced kind heart, Dick,” he said.
“Can I see her to-morrow?”
“The lass has been much shaken, cousin; she kept her bed this morning.”
Richard, looking a fine and honest fellow with his eyes bright in his flushed face, held out his hands to his cousin.
“Be my friend, Lot,” he said, “and persuade Jilian to let me see her. I am a man of honor, sir, and your sister is a saint. Say I will ride over to-morrow in the hope that she will see me.”
Mr. Lot studied his cousin keenly and smiled. The lad was honest and generous enough; there would be no need of bullying.
“Egad, Richard,” he exclaimed, “you are a fine fellow, sir, and Lot Hardacre is with you. Poor Jill has a tender heart, cousin. I’ll try to get her to see you; I will. Sir Peter, too, is in a swearing rage, Richard, but I’ll get old Stott over and have the governor bled.”
Richard, with tears in his eyes, gripped his cousin’s hand.
“Thank you, Lot,” he said—“thank you. You are a friend in need—by Heaven, you are! As for my aunt, she shall leave Rodenham at once.”
Mr. Hardacre clapped Jeffray on the shoulder.
“That’s the tune, my buck,” he said, heartily; “be the master in your own house, Richard, and don’t be grandmothered by any old woman. Why, she would quarrel with you if you were for marrying St. Agnes, by gad, she would. Have it out with her, cousin; she’s been treating you like a foot-boy. I wouldn’t stand it, sir; I wouldn’t.”
Richard smiled a little ruefully, pressed his cousin’s red hand again, and accompanied him to the porch. Mr. Lot mounted on the terrace, flashed a keen look at his cousin, and took leave of him with boisterous good-humor.
“Get to the windward of her, Richard,” he said, meaningly. “Give her a broadside or two and she’ll strike. Damn it, cousin, don’t be a charity boy in your own house.”
“To-morrow, Lot—”
“I’ll do my best, Richard, by gad, I will. Lot Hardacre’s your friend, cousin, don’t you doubt it.”
Richard watched his kinsman ride away, and then went back to the library somewhat hot about the eyes. He was glad that the quarrel was ending so peaceably, and what an angel of sweetness Miss Jilian was, to be sure! Yes, he was ready to go down on his knees and ask her pardon, yet—why did Bess’s face flash up before him of a sudden? Well, he would go down to the Wheat Sheaf and tell Wilson what had happened. And then—then he must do battle with Aunt Letitia.
XIV
Jeffray, much impressed by Mr. Lancelot’s brotherly ardor, trudged down across the park that evening and took the road to Rodenham village. The Shrovetide cock-throwing was at an end, and beer had succeeded to brutality. Villagers were shouting and singing in front of the inn, where a fuddled old fiddler with a wooden leg sat perched on a barrel, scraping away at his violin. The red, hairy faces, with their animal laughter and their vociferous mouths, made the master of Rodenham shudder. A number of lads and wenches were racing and scrimmaging on the green, tumbling one another upon the grass, their coarse laughter sounding through the village. Jeffray pushed through the crowd towards the inn, holding his head high and turning his flushed face neither to the right nor the left. He found Wilson in the private parlor dining on steak and potatoes, with a pot of porter at his elbow. The painter sprang up and gripped Jeffray’s hand as the lad blurted out the result of his conference with Mr. Lot. Wilson’s rough face brightened. He wiped his great mouth, and looked at Richard with affection.
“Ah, sir,” he said, “I am glad to hear the sky is clearing. There is a weight, Richard, a great weight off my mind. I was not afraid, sir, of Mr. Hardacre’s sword, but I was afraid of injuring your happiness.”
Jeffray sat down and talked to Wilson, while the painter, after blunt apologies, went on with his dinner. Richard was for having Wilson back at Rodenham, but the honest fellow would consent to no such diplomatic error.
“No, no, Richard,” he said, after a pull at the pot, “I am best away, sir, at such a crisis, though I thank you heartily for your kindness. I shall tramp on to Lewes and see more of these glorious fellows—the downs. I have money in my purse, and, egad, what irony, I won some of it from your august aunt at cards. I believe she let me win it, sir, to keep me in a good temper, and the cash will pay for the portrait I painted. I shall come back by this road, Richard, and if I slink in for a meal at Rodenham you must not be amazed.”
“Come when you will, Dick,” said Jeffray, “the priory will be open to you when this quarrel is at end. Jilian has a kind heart; she will not grudge me a friend.”
Wilson shook his head and smiled shrewdly.
“I have no desire to make experiments, sir,” he said; “and if I turn in to see you, it will only be for a short day. If you have a priest’s hiding-hole at Rodenham, you might put it at my service for a night. Take my advice, Richard, and don’t fling my name in Miss Hardacre’s face. There are some things women like to leave in the lumber-room. Lud, what an infernal din those boors are making!”
Jeffray said farewell to the painter with no little regret, for he was one of the few men he had met to whom he could confide his poetical enthusiasm. There was a goodly world of beauty behind Richard Wilson’s ugly face. Jeffray walked back to Rodenham with a grave sense of responsibility increasing upon him. The Lady Letitia had sent word that she would come down to sup with her nephew, and Richard dreaded not a little the ordeal that loomed across the night. No doubt his aunt had heard of Mr. Hardacre’s visit. Jeffray had need of some of the courage of a Perseus to face this acrimonious and awe-inspiring dame.
The Lady Letitia’s attitude and expression may be imagined when Jeffray, looking pale but very composed, informed her that it would be necessary for her to leave Rodenham in her coach. The old lady expressed the most haughty astonishment, scanned her nephew as though he were an impudent urchin of ten, and began to insist that Wilson, the painter fellow, was a most unprincipled liar. Had he not occasioned all the disturbance at Hardacre by deceiving the dear old lady as to the nature of his past association with Miss Jilian? Was Richard Jeffray going to bundle his father’s sister out of his house as though she were no better than some unfortunate slut? Angels and martyrs, the Lady Letitia had no intention of stomaching such arbitrary treatment. She had pride, sir, and if her presence caused her nephew any inconvenience, she could take her departure without orders.
Richard held his tongue and kept his temper throughout the dowager’s explosive harangue, sitting with pale face and compressed mouth, and drumming on the table with his fingers.
“You will pardon me, madam,” he said, very politely, “but for the present peace of the neighborhood I conceive it expedient for you to leave Rodenham—for a time.”
The old lady’s red nose admonished her nephew. She twitched her eyebrows, flapped and fluttered with her fan, looking outraged both as to pride and affection.
“Certainly, my dear nephew,” she said, with an ironical twist of the mouth. “I am a little older than Miss Jilian Hardacre. We are both of us out of temper, sweet Jill and your old aunt, and when two cats will quarrel under one’s bedroom one of ’em must be silenced. Precisely so, my dear Richard; I will cumber your hospitality no longer.”
Jeffray, flushed and uncomfortable, and suffering the usual feelings of discourtesy and ingratitude that assail a young man on such occasions, clung to the conviction none the less, that the feud would not end without the Lady Letitia’s departure.
“I am sorry, madam,” he said, “that I am compelled to speak to you like this, but I shall be unable to quit myself as a man of honor to the Hardacres so long as you remain at Rodenham.”
Aunt Letitia’s eyes glittered as though it would please her to repeat a certain episode of her nephew’s youth when she had tanned him royally with a slipper.
“Do not apologize, sir,” she said; “perhaps you will have the goodness to tell me whether I am to be ejected to-morrow, or will you grant me a week’s respite to prepare for exile?”
“I pray you, consider your own convenience,” returned Jeffray, blushing.
“I must send Parsons to The Wells to engage decent rooms for me. My bankers must be negotiated with. This is so sudden, sir, that you have caught me unprepared.”
Jeffray suggested that he would be happy to oblige his aunt in any way that she might desire. Aunt Letitia frowned and played with her fan. The dowager’s treasure-chest was nearly empty, and it would be a month or more before she could count upon the paying of her dividends. Could her nephew oblige her with a loan of a hundred guineas at an interest of five per cent.? Aunt Letitia appeared in no wise distressed by having to confide such delicate matters to her nephew. In fact, she built a grievance out of her inconveniences, and spoke with sarcastic significance of being “taken by so sudden a surprise.” Richard, eager to salve the old lady’s feelings, offered her a loan of two hundred guineas, repudiating the very thought of usury with scorn. Aunt Letitia clutched at the concession, and the interview ended with some symptoms of amiability, the dowager actually kissing her nephew before she hobbled off to bed.
Richard was in the saddle early next morning and away for Hardacre with the spring sun streaming down upon the greens and purples of Pevensel. The bright zest of the day was in his blood, generous and blithe as the spirit of youth itself. He was eager to crave Jilian’s forgiveness, and to quit himself as his manhood prompted in the matter of saluting the Hardacre honor. Richard rode in the belief that he had shamed his kinswoman, and that he had bruised her kind heart by his aunt’s duplicity.
With the thickets of Pevensel towering on every hand, Jeffray’s thoughts sped back from Hardacre to the glowing face of Bess of the Woods. Richard, despite his sensitive obedience to the promptings of honor, could not think of the girl without a flush of feeling sweeping across his mind. Her face brought both mystery and gladness, deep witchery and a prophecy of pain. What was this tall, black-haired, lissome wench to him that she should make his heart beat louder as over the tragic breathing of some song? Richard, riding through Pevensel, strove to laugh such romantic memories away. Because the girl had a fine body and a passionate face, should he suffer his thoughts to dally with her in the deeps of her own mysterious woods? Yet despite his strainings after sanity he found himself wondering how she fared in the forest, whether Black Dan still pestered her, and whether she carried one of his pistols in her bosom?
In due course Jeffray came to Hardacre Chase where the oaks, gray and purple, with brown bracken beneath, strode down in giant companies upon the road. Mr. Lancelot, who had remained at home that morning in expectation of Jeffray’s coming, met his cousin as he rode up to the gate house. There was a cheering smile upon Mr. Hardacre’s face, for the inimitable Lot had no doubt at all of his sister’s willingness to forgive Richard Jeffray. Sir Peter, who happened to be standing in the oriel-window of the main gallery, had seen the young Squire of Rodenham ride up. The baronet and his son had discussed the problem that very morning.
“Good luck to ye, Richard,” said Mr. Lot, with confidential solemnity. “I have had a terrible tussle with Sir Peter. Egad, cousin, I had to sweat to persuade the governor to let you see Jill. I’ll take your horse. You know the room, Richard?”
Richard, who had dismounted, pressed Mr. Lancelot’s hand.
“I shall not forget your kindness, Lot,” he said.
“Bosh, sir, I always side with a man of spirit. Go up to her, cousin, and do your best. I’ll see you’re not interfered with.”
Richard, blushing, turned away and entered the house. As for Mr. Lot, he thrust his hands deep into his breeches-pockets, looked after his cousin whimsically, and laughed.
What a sweet picture of sanctity met Mr. Richard’s eyes as he opened the door of Miss Hardacre’s parlor bashfully after his knock had been softly acknowledged! Miss Jilian was seated in the window-seat, dressed in a silky green gown that rippled like water as she rose to meet her cousin. There was much lace upon her bosom and a knot of red ribbon over her heart.
“Cousin Jilian.”
Miss Hardacre let her eyes rest only for a moment on Richard’s face. Jeffray was blushing very handsomely.
“Jilian, I have come to ask you to forgive me.”
He went close to his cousin, and stood looking at her with humbled ardor on his face. Miss Hardacre appeared much distressed. Surely his sweet cousin’s eyes were somewhat red and swollen. And were those wrinkles under the lids?
“Jilian, will you forgive me?”
“Oh, Richard!”
“Aunt Letitia made fools of both of us, Jilian. I have told her to leave my house.”
Miss Hardacre hung her head and pressed her hands together.
“You know everything, Richard.”
“Poor Wilson told me everything, and it was nothing, Jilian.”
“I am a shamed and miserable woman.”
“Shamed, Jilian? Let me hear any man breathe a word against you.”
Miss Hardacre suffered her eyes to quaver up for a moment to Richard’s face. The lad could see tears ready to well up into those pellucid wells of light.
“What can I say to you, Richard?” she said. “Oh, I am very miserable.”
How could an honorable and generous youth refrain from going down on one knee, pressing the lady’s hand to his lips, and gazing up with enthusiastic homage into her face? The hot words were betwixt Richard’s lips in a moment, and Miss Hardacre was hiding her blushes behind her hand.
And then, for the climax, Richard’s lips pressed to Miss Jilian’s, and Sir Peter, who had been listening shrewdly on the landing, standing with admirable dumfoundedness before the innocently opened door. Of course Miss Jilian gave a shy scream, and Richard, red as the lips he had kissed, turned to play the hero before the parental demigod.
“Sir Peter Hardacre,” he said, with bashful dignity, “I have come to apologize to your daughter, sir, for the distress I innocently brought upon her the other night. I offer you my apologies, sir, also; I have always honored you, and you have been very kind to me.”
The lad drew himself up creditably, squared his shoulders, and looked the baronet straight in the face.
“Egad, sir,” quoth Sir Peter, glaring at his daughter and preparing to seem parental, “you appear quick at consoling the ladies. The Hardacre honor, sir—”
Mr. Richard became aware suddenly of a warm hand stealing into his. Miss Jilian gave him a look out of her gray eyes and a whispered word that carried a command. She went down on her knees before her father.
“What! Bless my soul, what’s this, eh? Stars and garters, Jill, what am I to understand from this?”
“Cousin Richard has asked me to be his wife,” said Miss Hardacre, with a divine simper.
“What!”
“With your consent, Sir Peter,” added Cousin Richard, half grimly.
And Sir Peter, noble and forgiving soul, put his pride in his pocket, beamed, and blessed them!
XV
Jeffray left Hardacre House that afternoon with his betrothal an assured fact in the eyes of Christendom. The way the fog had melted before him of a sudden had surprised even the generous Squireling of Rodenham. He had expected an unnerving interview with Sir Peter, and possibly a very affecting one with Miss Jilian, and here—in a morning he found himself betrothed to the daughter and embraced and blessed by a future father. Jeffray could only admire in Sir Peter the workings of an admirable and manly spirit of forgiveness. As for Mr. Lot, Richard still felt the slap that worthy gentleman had given him upon the shoulder and the hearty way he had crunched his hand. Jilian had been wondrous sweet and coy with her betrothed, and Jeffray should have boasted himself happy in possessing the right to clasp such perfumed purity in his arms.
Was it the inevitable reaction after so much sweet ecstasy and such squanderings of sentiment that threw Richard into a decidedly melancholy mood after taking leave of his Jilian on the terrace? No doubt the parting from the lady should have accounted for the onset of such a humor, but Richard’s inclinations were contrary to custom, since he desired to think and to be alone. Whether contact had crumbled up the romance, or whether the seriousness of the step bulked for the first time in Jeffray’s mind, he found himself meditating on the affair with a chilly reasonableness that was not begotten in the rapturous school of Venus.
Why was it that Aunt Letitia’s gibes and fables recurred with such vividness to his mind? He had not heeded them before the crisis; wherefore should he heed them now? He wished somehow that Wilson had not loved the girl ten years ago; ten years were ten years—despite idealism. What was amiss with him that the happy reunion of the morning lost some of its glamour and assumed the suggestive notion of a net? Surely he was not for recovering his own liberty, that liberty that had weighed as a mere feather in the balance against honor? Was not Jilian sweet and amiable, and still a girl, though older than himself? Surely he could imagine a father in Sir Peter and a worthy brother in honest Lot? And yet the vapor of melancholy persisted in Richard Jeffray’s mind, despite his angry reasonings with himself. He had been happy in the morning, righteously and sincerely happy. Why this loosening of the cords of confidence, this morbid introspection that suggested the possibility of error.
The day was such a one as begets the ideal of spring in the heart, warm, fragrant, like a dewy dawn in June. The hills and valleys were bathed in silvery light, a light more delicate and rare than the glare of summer. All the colors of the landscape were soft and beautiful, the dusky greens, the purples, the browns, the blue mistiness of the distant downs. On the far hills beyond Pevensel a piece of ploughed land would flash up almost as gold under the sun, or a chalk cliff glisten like foam at the throat of a bursting billow. The meadows in the lowlands were like a mosaic of emeralds set in silver.
Jeffray took the western track that plunged into Pevensel by White Hard Ghyll. The pines and firs stood out a rich and generous green against the sensitive azure of the sky, while the olive-colored trunks of the oaks upheld the purple feltwork of swelling buds above. The yellow palm was flashing in the breeze; primroses shone everywhere amid the moss and leaves. The ragged and tempestuous gorse flamed about the listening shadows of the woods. The track ran down into the wastes and crossed the stream that fretted by the ruins of the old Abbey of Holy Cross.
Richard had not seen the place since he had climbed and hunted there as a boy in the days when life flew fast and without thought. Holy Cross was a mile or more from the hamlet of the foresters, and perhaps some insensible magic drew Jeffray towards this relic of Popish power. The monastic calm, the glow of ancient memories, would be in keeping with the temper of the day. Certainly Mr. Richard was not anxious to return to the society of the Lady Letitia, and he found sufficient friendship in his thoughts. Yet the sly plea crept in amid the rest, for if chance favored him he might catch sight of Bess amid the woods, and learn how fortune had served her since she had nursed him in old Ursula’s cottage.
He walked his horse down the hill that closed in Holy Cross on the north. He saw the ruined walls and the ragged remnant of a tower rising beyond the trees that covered the hill-side. A stream came glinting through the green to swell into a broad pool above the stone weir that the monks had built of old. The thunder of the fall filled the dreamy silence of the valley, as though chanting an eternal mass for the souls of those who had lived and died in Holy Cross.
He gave himself to these Gothic mysteries for a while before turning his horse towards the ford that crossed the stream some sixty yards above the weir. The weir pool was hidden by undergrowth and a clump of firs and birches. The sound of his horse’s hoofs was deadened by the mossy grass as he rode down slowly from the ruins. As he rounded the birchen brake he saw something on the farther side of the stream that made him rein in suddenly.
Bess was sitting on a rock beside the pool, combing her hair with her fingers as it hung in a black mass over her shoulders. She looked up as Jeffray came splashing through the water, recognized him instantly, and flushed red as a poppy. A peculiar light kindled in her keen, blue eyes, softening their hardness, and making her face seem less petulant and heavy.
Jeffray dismounted and advanced towards her, leading his horse by the bridle. Bess had risen and came some paces to meet him, making no pretence to conceal her pleasure.
“Bess, I am glad I happened to take the track by the abbey.”
“I am glad, also, Mr. Jeffray.”
They looked at each other and smiled, instant sympathy flashing from face to face. Bess looked very handsome with her black hair about her, and Jeffray could not refrain from confessing the truth instinctively to himself. Never in all Italy had he seen such coloring, such eyes, or so fine a figure. To be sure her hands were a little red and rough, but they were prettily made, and suited her simple and brightly colored clothes.
“I have been wishing to see you,” said the girl, beginning to bind up her black hair and watching Jeffray all the while.
“To see me, Bess?”
“They seem long days since I nursed you in our cottage.”
Richard, good youth, experienced secret pleasure at the confession. The girl’s voice, deep, rich, and slightly husky, contrasted strangely with Miss Jilian’s prattle. She spoke slowly, as though with an inward effort, trying to temper her words to Jeffray’s superior culture. It was done without affectation, however, and her quaint, slow way of mouthing her words had an irresistible charm in it that made Jeffray delight in hearing her speak.
“You have been bathing, Bess?”
She laughed, blushed a little, and began to coil up her hair over the curve of her long, brown neck.
“You might have caught me, Mr. Jeffray.”
This time Richard colored.
“How are they treating you in Pevensel?” he made haste to ask.
“Treating me?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad of your pistols.”
Her expression changed suddenly from frankness to rebellion. Jeffray, who was studying her with a secret sense of delight, marked the hardening of her red mouth, the gleam in her fierce, far-sighted eyes. He had forgotten Miss Jilian completely for the moment, and the delicate and highly civilized sentiments that had made him throw his liberty at her feet.
“Tell me what your trouble is,” he asked her.
“They are for marrying me to Dan.”
“What!”
“They tried to force me into it. Mother Ursula was with them till Dan tried his bullying, and then she held him and his father off.”
The expression on Richard’s amiable face contradicted its habitual shinings towards sweetness.
“But, Bess, old Grimshaw promised me—”
“He’s as bad as Dan,” she said, with a snarl. “I hate—hate them both.”
“They can’t marry you against your will.”
“Not while I have the pistols.”
There was a look almost suggestive of fear on her face for the moment, despite its spirit of defiance. She glanced round her swiftly, and drew closer to Jeffray.
“I am afraid of Dan.”
“Afraid, Bess?”
“Yes, as much as I am of anything.”
Jeffray understood her meaning of a sudden. His sensitive face grew strangely stern and thoughtful, and there was a tightness about his mouth, a steadiness in his eyes that would have puzzled Mr. Lancelot Hardacre.
“You keep the pistols by you?” he asked, quietly.
Bess pointed to the rock where her red cloak lay.
“See, one is there,” she said. “They are the best friends I have in Pevensel. I look to the priming every day.”
Jeffray’s usually smooth brow was still knotted in thought.
“I wonder if I could help you, Bess,” he said.
She gazed at him curiously, with one hand at her throat.
“Perhaps,” she answered.
“How?”
She glanced round her rapidly as though accustomed to fear what the woods might conceal. The sun was low in the west and the forest-clad valley full of golden mist. She took her cloak and pistol from the rock, and pointed to a path that branched off from the main ride into a larch-wood, telling Jeffray that they could reach the Beacon Rock heath by the path.
Thus with the shadows of the twilight stealing over the woods, and the birds piping lustily in every thicket, Bess and Richard Jeffray wandered through Pevensel together, looking with questioning youth into each other’s eyes. Bess began to tell him of the memories that stood like frail ghosts on the threshold of her forest life. She told him of the flitting fancies of other days, of the faces and scenes she but half remembered. Jeffray, impressed by her eager intensity of belief, reacted to the many suggestions her words inspired. He watched her as she walked beside him, tall, lissome, and convincing, her looks eloquent towards the proving of her childish memories. Jeffray had seen what country hoydens were worth in the matter of charm and of beauty, and had discovered pretty milkmaids to be a myth. Bess was as different from any Sussex Blowzelinda as a stately cypress from a dwarf oak outcrowded in some sodden wood.
When she had ended he turned to her with no little eagerness, as though her needs were already his.
“Have you ever spoken of this to any one?” he asked her.
Her face had kindled in the telling of the tale, and her eyes met Jeffray’s and held them steadily.
“I have often spoken to old Ursula, but she has always laughed at me.”
“And you have no trinkets or rings that might have come from your mother?”
She shook her head, still looking at him solemnly.
“Not one.”
“And why do they want to marry you to Dan?”
“Because he’s hot for my sake,” she answered, coloring and looking fierce.
Jeffray walked on for a while in silence, his horse’s bridle over his arm. Peter Gladden had hinted at mysteries with regard to the forest-folk, and confessed that no one knew how the Grimshaws came by their money. Could Bess have been stolen away as a child in gypsy fashion? Were her memories of the sea, the great ship, and the rest mere dawn dreams or the dim evidences of her origin? He glanced at her as she swung along at his side, her strong chin up, her keen eyes watching the darkening woods. He had never seen a Sussex wench bear herself like Mistress Bess.
“Bess,” he said, suddenly.
Her eyes flashed round to him.
“There is something about you that makes me believe that you are not of the Grimshaw stock.”
“Ah—”
“You look as though you had been born to be a great lady, and not Mother Ursula’s niece.”
By the light in Bess’s eyes and the softness about her mouth, the innocent flattery seemed very sweet to her.
“Do you know what made me tell you all this, Mr. Jeffray?” she asked.
“No—”
“Because you are one of the great folk—and because I—am nothing.”
Jeffray missed her meaning for the moment, and then caught a subtle something in the girl’s eyes that made him hold his breath.
“God knows, Bess,” he said, “whether you are a Grimshaw or no. I have as much honor for you as though you were my sister.”
She colored and looked a little peevish about the mouth.
“Thank you, Mr. Jeffray,” she answered.
They had come out upon the heath that smiled in the evening light. The deep azure of the east curved up beyond. The woods stood a rare purple below them, and a few plover were flapping and wailing over the moor.
“Bess,” said the man, looking in her face.
She glanced at him and waited.
“You will count me your friend?”
“Ah—I have done so—already.”
“And I want to talk with you again.”
“I can be by the abbey.”
“On Monday—about four?”
“Yes. I can be there.”
They stood looking at each other in silence, as though there were some regret in either heart that the sun had sunk below the hills. It was growing dusk apace. Richard fumbled with his bridle and made as though to go. They were standing quite close to each other in the dusk, Bess’s eyes fixed upon Jeffray’s face, her lips half parted as though she were about to speak.
“I have not told you my dream,” she said, with a little laugh.
“St. Agnes’s dream?”
“Yes. I will tell it to you on Monday.”
Jeffray held out his hand to her. She was stooping a little, and her look suggested that she would have liked Richard to kiss her. The man remembered Miss Jilian Hardacre of a sudden, and he gazed at Bess as though some intangible barrier were between them.
“Good-night.”
“Good-night, Bess. I will think of you—till next time.”