“What is love, that all the world
Talks so much about it?
What is love, that neither you
Nor I can do without it?”
The hour which followed in the old garden sealed the fate of the false
heir--he was hopelessly head over heels in love with the girl whom he
had come to Blackheath Hall determined to hate. He was frightened at
the vehemence of his mad passion.
What if she should not return it and refuse to obey the conditions of
the will?
“I will not think of such a possibility,” he told himself, setting his
handsome, white teeth hard together.
He felt that the first thing to be done to get on an amiable footing
with her and remove her prejudice--for he felt reasonably sure that she
recognized him--was to apologize for his seeming harshness to his horse
on that memorable occasion when the girl had encountered him.
He got around the point most admirably, in his opinion, when he turned
lightly and said to Jess:
“I have been trying to think, ever since I beheld you to-day, of whom
you remind me. I have it now, your face is very similar to that of a
young girl whom I met in this vicinity a few days ago as----”
“I am that girl, Mr. Dinsmore,” cut in Jess, icily, and with more
dignity of manner than good Mrs. Bryson would ever have dreamed that
she possessed, adding: “Your conduct exasperated me, and I administered
to you what I considered a lesson and a rebuke in one. I know you are
intending to tell Mrs. Bryson about it to get me into trouble, but
I do not care; I would do the same thing over again under the same
provocation, Mr. Dinsmore!” she cried, with flashing eyes.
“You mistake my intentions,” he hastened to reply; “I have no wish to
ever mention it after this conversation, believe me. Instead, I wish to
explain my actions to you, that I may not seem quite such an ogre in
your sight as I must at present. Remember, I asked you to hear me then
and you refused; surely you will not judge me too harshly until you
have heard what I have to say upon the subject?” he said, eagerly.
“I would rather try to forget it,” retorted Jess, her slender, dark,
jetty eyebrows meeting in a decided frown.
He would take no notice of her remark, but went on, quickly:
“You shall hear my reason for my actions, which will, I am sure, excuse
them----”
“Nothing will ever excuse a man for lashing a poor dumb brute!” cried
Jess, trembling with indignation. “Spare your words, sir!”
Without noticing the interruption he went on, in a low, injured voice:
“Some five minutes ere you saw me I had been taken with an attack of
my old enemy--acute gastritis--and I knew that my only hope of not
falling dead in the saddle was to reach a place where I could summon
assistance, for in five minutes more I would be in spasms. In moments
like that one uses every means within one’s grasp to reach safety and
succor. I realized dimly that the animal was tired, but it was his life
or mine, and the latter, of course, was the one to be saved. In my
excruciating pain I know not what words I used--I never will know. My
brain seemed on fire and whirling about; my only thought was to reach
the village beyond, and with all possible speed, while I was able to
control the lines and keep my seat. The terrible fall which the animal
gave me had its good effects; it restored the circulation of blood
as nothing else could have done, and probably saved my life then and
there. That is all I have to say; surely, after knowing the truth, you
cannot withhold your pardon from me, Miss Jess?”
“Not if your statement is true,” replied the girl, with terrible
straightforwardness. “I did you two injuries: the first, in believing
you unmercifully wicked and cruel; the second, in reaching out from the
limb of the tree on which I was seated and striking you. It is I who
should sue for your pardon, sir, and pray that you might forget it.”
“I beg you to believe that my pardon is fully and freely granted,” he
replied, eagerly. “And now, may I hope that we shall be friends, Miss
Jess?” and, emboldened by her forgiving mood, he caught the little
brown hand that was hanging by her side ere she could know what he was
about to do, and began kissing it rapturously.
With an angry gesture Jess quickly drew her hand from his clasp.
“You ask for my friendship,” she said, “that is quite another matter;
you will have to deserve it. And I shall not know whether you are
worthy of it until I know you better, and have learned your good
traits, and your bad ones.”
The young man laughed outright, highly amused. Was there ever such an
original girl as this Jess? he asked himself.
“I shall strive for it as man never strove for a girl’s friendship
before,” he declared. “Now that I have removed your distrust--nay, even
your hatred--I may hope to gain your good will--which is so much to me.”
She looked at him in unfeigned astonishment.
“Why should you care whether I like or hate you, Mr. Dinsmore?” she
asked, looking straight into his face with her dark, childish eyes.
Had he chosen to utter the truth he might have responded:
“For two reasons: first, because I have taken a fancy to you; and
second, because you must marry me, whether you will or not, that I may
secure the Dinsmore fortune.”
But he only responded, quietly:
“Why should one wish for an enemy when that enemy can be made a friend
of, Miss Jessie?”
“Do not call me Jessie!” cried the girl; “I detest it. I am simply
Jess--nothing but that.”
“Jess, then,” he said, laughingly. “It shall be as the queen wills.”
“I shall be sure not to like you if you go on making speeches like
that!” declared the girl. “I don’t like queens, they are not my style;
I have read all about them. I’d rather be a plain American girl than be
the grandest queen in the world.”
“You are enthusiastically patriotic,” he said, admiringly. “I quite
honor you for that sentiment,” and he drew nearer, that he might look
more closely into the beautiful face, whose expression varied with
every passing thought.
And Mrs. Bryson, watching them eagerly from behind the screening vines
of the porch, said to herself that they were getting on famously
together.
It was a difficult matter, during the week which followed, to keep Jess
within the prescribed bounds of civilization which Mrs. Bryson had laid
out for her.
But that the brown linsey dress was destroyed, literally torn to pieces
before her very eyes, Jess would have donned it, and taken to her old
life again, roaming barefooted through the woods and dales, with never
a care.
She chafed like an untamed cub at the confinement she was now
undergoing, and of being thrust into stays and dainty dresses, and her
feet into slippers, even though they were of a size the far-famed
Cinderella herself might have envied. And the curls, which had always
been allowed to blow about as they would, free from restraint as the
breeze itself, did not take kindly to the jailer of a ribbon, and were
constantly breaking forth in crinkling rings here and there, utterly
defying detention.
“I was in great fear that he would not take to Jess,” mused Mrs.
Bryson, anxiously; “but now I know that that fear is groundless;
she can be mistress of Blackheath Hall if she so wills it; and, no
matter how obstinate she may be, I will see to it that she marries the
young heir when he asks her. Dear, dear! what a wonderful difference
fine clothes do make in the girl. I never knew before that she was
positively beautiful; but such is actually the case. ‘Fine feathers
make fine birds,’ most truly.”
Mrs. Bryson had too much tact to ask Jess what she thought of the
handsome young stranger, even when she found herself alone with the
girl that night. Instead, she said, with a sigh:
“Mr. Dinsmore is far more elegant than I thought he would be. I have
little hope that you will ever reign mistress of this vast estate, for
he would never think of falling in love with you, poor child.”
“Nor would I ever fall in love with him,” retorted Jess, spiritedly;
but all the same the words of the housekeeper rankled in her girlish
heart for an hour or more after Mrs. Bryson had left her; in fact,
until her dark, bright eyes closed in dreams. It was the first thought
that occurred to Jess when she opened her eyes at the dawn of day the
following morning.
“If it were not for the trouble I would show Mrs. Bryson how mistaken
she is,” Jess ruminated, as she made her simple toilet and hurried down
into the grounds.
Early as she was, to her great amazement she found Mr. Dinsmore already
in the grounds, smoking a cigar as he paced restlessly to and fro.
“What an unexpected pleasure, Miss Jess,” he cried, throwing away
his cigar at once and advancing toward her. “I hardly hoped for so
agreeable a surprise. Usually young girls are not visible much before
noon--those whom I have met in the world of fashion.”
“Then I should not like to belong to the world of fashion,” declared
Jess, “for the early morning has a charm for me which no other part
of the day can equal. I had almost forgotten to give you the letter
which Toby just brought up from the village post office for you, Mr.
Dinsmore.”
As he took it from her hand, and his eye fell upon the chirography, a
chalky, ashen color overspread his face, and he started violently. Even
before he opened it, he had an intuition of what it contained, and he
muttered to himself:
“I have not time to waste--I must marry this girl and collect all the
funds possible without delay. And after that--well, let the future look
out for itself!”