A sharp skirmish occurred in the great drawing-room that night after
that stately chamber had been emptied of its guests. Richard, chafing
under Sir Peter’s honest outburst of wrath and Miss Jilian’s ironical
reproaches, charged the Lady Letitia with deliberately insulting these
good people whom he had summoned to Rodenham in all the innocence of his
heart. The Lady Letitia, throned on a brocaded fauteuil before the dying
fire, regarded her nephew with amused contempt, and proceeded to
convince him of the disinterested wisdom of her plot.
“You are a young greenhorn, my dear Richard,” she said, playing with her
great red fan, “and you may regard me, sir, as a fairy godmother sent by
Heaven to draw you out of the toils. Come, perceive, sir, I have routed
the Amalekites and thrown poison into that sweet spinster’s rouge-pot. I
wager, nephew, that Miss Hardacre will be for hating you cordially in a
few days if you will only follow my advice.”
But Richard was in no mood to listen to this arch-diplomat’s ingenious
proposals. Shorn of his natural passivity, he kindled commendably over
the crisis, and paced the floor with all the authority of an admiral
stalking his quarter-deck.
“May I suggest to you, madam, that I will permit no further meddling in
my affairs?”
“Richard—!”
“What poisonous insinuations you have been pouring into Miss Hardacre’s
ears I cannot imagine. You have trifled with my honor, madam, disgraced
my hospitality, and shamed me in my own house.”
“Richard Jeffray!”
“Permit me to add, madam, that I will not have my friends slighted and
insulted in Rodenham.”
“Heavens, Richard!”
“This is my house, madam. If you do not approve of my tastes and habits
you can mend your displeasure by departing.”
The old lady sat and stared at her nephew, nodding her huge “head,” her
little eyes twinkling under their bushy brows. She would not have
believed that the lad had so much spirit in him. His eyes sparkled, his
face had flushed, and he carried himself with an angry stateliness that
was worthy of Mr. Garrick.
“My dear Richard,” she said, rising, puffing herself out like an old
hen, “I think we had better dismiss the subject till your temper has
cooled in the morning. May I request you to ring for my maid?”
Jeffray stalked to the bell rope, jerked it savagely, and bowed grandly
to his aunt.
“May I wish your ladyship a very good-night?”
The dowager extended her hand, and suffered the lad to touch her gouty
fingers crowded thick with rings.
“My dear nephew,” she said, not unkindly, “you have a good heart, but—”
“Well, madam?”
“You will confess some day that your old aunt was a woman of sense and
discretion. Marry the sweet Jilian, my dear. After all, it is no
business of mine. But, my dear Richard, if you discover that you have
embraced a bag of bones, a bundle of affectations, blame yourself and
not me. Why, that Perkaby girl would make a better match; she has a
body, an uncommon fine and handsome body, and old Perkaby can lay down
guineas. But I see I weary your delicate sense of honor. Bon soir, mon
cher Richard.”
The clock in the turret had told ten next morning when Richard mounted
his black mare and cantered off through the park to take the sandy road
that wound through Pevensel. He was still feverishly ashamed of the
unfortunate incidents of the previous night, and was as much disgusted
with the Lady Letitia’s logic as with his own pusillanimous stupidity.
Miss Hardacre had been slighted, insulted in his own house. Sir Peter,
that kind but peppery old gentleman, had been driven to retreat in
justifiable indignation. Richard Jeffray, sensitive and generous-hearted
youth, still chafed and fumed under the indignity of it all. His duty
lay clear before him as he rode through the waving wilds of Pevensel,
and saw the sunlight chase the shadows over the dusky woods.
Sir Peter and Mr. Lancelot were out with the hounds that morning, and
had ridden to draw Squire Rokeley’s covers at Marvelscombe. Miss
Hardacre was at home, however, so said the fat major-domo, grinning
benignly over the apparent coincidence. Jeffray left his mare in the
hands of a stable-boy, and, throwing his whip, gloves, and hat on a
table in the hall, prepared to confront the sweet angel whom his aunt
had tortured on the preceding night. Miss Jilian was sitting before her
embroidery frame in the red parlor when the major-domo announced Richard
Jeffray. Curious to relate, Miss Hardacre did not start up in amazement
on catching the name from old Roger’s lips. So the dear lad had ridden
over to protest his innocence and to make peace? Miss Jilian had
expected it.
“La, cousin,” she said, rising up with much stately rustlings of silk as
the door closed on the major-domo, “I never thought to see you here.”
Richard came forward blushing, and was even permitted to kiss Miss
Hardacre’s hand. Certainly Miss Jilian drew her fingers away somewhat
hastily, and carried her auburn head with proper coldness and dignity.
“I have ridden over to ask your pardon, Jilian.”
“Pardon, cousin?”
“For the miserable affair last night. Aunt Letitia and I quarrelled
after every one had gone, and I am afraid I lost my temper. I lay awake
all night wondering what I should say to you in the morning.”
The lad looked very generous and very handsome as he stood there
blushing, his dark eyes full of ardent light and all the sincerity of
his heart quivering upon his words. Miss Hardacre still held her head in
the air, tapped on the floor with one red-slippered foot, and was ready
to pretend that she was not in the least eager for a reconciliation.
“I am sure this is very good of you, cousin,” she said, tartly; “I did
not expect you here to-day. In fact, Sir Peter ordered me—”
She hesitated of a sudden, blushed very charmingly, and gave Mr. Richard
an eloquent glimpse of her gray eyes.
“Sir Peter ordered you, Jilian?”
“Not to receive Mr. Richard Jeffray unless—”
“Unless?”
“He could explain away the insults that were heaped upon our family last
night.”
Miss Hardacre had sunk gracefully into the window-seat, her melting eyes
downcast towards her knees. There was infinite pensiveness in the pose
of her fair head. Richard, thinking her adorable for the moment, made so
bold as to seat himself beside her. How proud and yet how sensitive she
was! Poor child, how was it that the Lady Letitia could abuse her so?
“Upon my honor, Jilian, I was utterly miserable when you went away last
night.”
Miss Hardacre’s fingers were plucking at her gown. She did not so much
as look at the lad, but hung her head like a statue of grieved and
injured innocence.
“Won’t you believe me, Jilian?”
“Oh, Richard—”
“Cousin, dear cousin, how can I express my own shame and distress?”
“Then, Richard, you did not want to dance with Julia Perkaby?”
“Confound the girl. It was Aunt Letitia who forced me into it.”
“And you did not write poetry about her, and adore her singing?”
Richard burst forth into manly indignation.
“Jilian, who told you all these lies?”
Miss Hardacre sighed and began to finger her handkerchief.
“I don’t think I ought to say, Richard.”
“It was Aunt Letitia. I’ll swear it was Aunt Letitia. Damn the old
woman, Jilian, I absolutely hate her!”
“Richard! Richard!”
“Then it was Aunt Letitia?”
“She was very cruel to me, Richard.”
“On my honor, cousin, I’ll go back and turn her out of my house.”
Here came Miss Hardacre’s supreme opportunity. What more affecting and
delightful a virtue than that sweet spirit of forgiveness that juggles
divinely with the proverbial coals of fire. Miss Jilian bear malice? No,
the gods forbid! She would plead with her dear cousin, soothe his angry
passions, stem the torrent of his wrath that threatened to descend upon
the devoted dowager’s head. The Lady Letitia was a very old woman, and
alas! my dear cousin, very worldly. She had her whims and her
prejudices, and her temper had been rasped by the tooth of time.
Naturally the Lady Letitia was ambitious for her dear nephew; who would
not be ambitious for such a nephew as Richard Jeffray? The Lady Letitia
had prejudices in favor of money. Could Richard blame her if she strove
to save him from the “designs” of a poor baronet’s daughter, a country
mouse who had no adornments save those simple virtues with which nature
had endowed her unaffected soul?
What wonder that Richard, chivalrous lad, pressed Miss Hardacre’s hand
to his lips, and vowed that no more beautiful and forgiving spirit had
ever chastened mortal flesh. What wonder that the reconciliation was
complete between them, and that Miss Jilian consented to sing her songs.
How much more finely she sang than that stupid giantess, Julia Perkaby!
“La, cousin Dick, you must not call young ladies names.” Might he not
read his epic poem to her? “Oh, Richard, I am such an ignorant little
thing. Listen? I could listen all day. I am sure you are a genius,
Richard. Mr. Pope and Mr. Dryden never wrote half such fine verses as
yours.” What wonder that Richard Jeffray departed from Hardacre that
day, convinced in his heart that he was in love with his adorable
cousin. Why, she was an angel. How could Aunt Letitia fabricate such
monstrous and malignant lies?
When the purple shadow of the Beacon Rock fell athwart the crisp turf
that afternoon, Richard remembered, even in his state of exaltation, the
glowing face and fierce blue eyes of the fair savage of the woods. Old
Peter Gladden had told his master all he knew concerning the forest-folk
whose hamlet lurked in the midst of Pevensel. Richard remembered the
place vaguely as a scattering of stone-roofed cottages sunk in the
shadows of the woods. He had often explored the rides and wood-ways of
Pevensel as a boy, and had even taken young owls from a ruined tower of
the Abbey of Holy Cross. A sudden whim seized him that day to follow the
bridle-track that branched off by the Beacon Rock, and led close, so old
Gladden said, by the hamlet in the woods. It would lead him out by White
Hind walk on the broad coaching-road to Lewes.
No sooner had the whim tickled Richard’s sensibilities for romance than
he was off at a trot down the bridle-track, seeing the Queen’s Circle
sink down on his left below the slope of the open moor. The sun came
slanting through and through as Richard wound through the solemn
thickets, where the dead bracken glowed under the purple shade, and
whin, whortleberries, and heather tangled each knoll and dell. There was
a beckoning awe about the place, a brooding mystery that lured on and
on.
Now Bess had wandered out, while old Ursula was taking a nap in the
ingle-nook, to search for certain herbs that the old lady needed. She
had thrown her red cloak over her shoulders, taken a rush-basket and a
stout thorn stick. Three weeks or more had passed since the scrimmage in
the pine thicket, and young David, fearing Dan’s wrath, had fled the
hamlet, tramped down to Portsmouth, and been “pressed” for the king’s
navy. Isaac Grimshaw had had the news from a Jew peddler who had come
through by Chichester, and had seen young David dragged out of a tavern
by the press men, and hauled off with others to the harbor. The Jew
peddler knew all the forest-folk by name and face, having sold his wares
to them and obliged Isaac in many ways, year in, year out. There had
been hot words between old Isaac and his son, and hot words between
Isaac and Dame Ursula. Bess had called Black Dan a coward and a bully to
his face. But since the mischief was done, and young David on the seas,
Isaac calmed the contentions of his flock, and mollified the women as
best he could.
Dan Grimshaw had followed Bess from the hamlet that day with sullen fire
in his red-brown eyes. There had been words between them in the morning,
and the girl had treated the giant to a picturesque display of scorn.
Dan Grimshaw was ugly enough, but it did not please him to hear the
truth from Miss Bess’s petulant lips. He had blundered home to his
cottage in bovine wrath, inflamed by the girl’s comeliness, and by her
passionate taunts. Sly and savage he had watched her take the path that
led up through the woods to Beacon Rock, and had followed at a distance,
clinching his great fists as he saw her red cloak flit amid the trees.
Jeffray, riding down White Hind walk where the hamlet path crossed the
sleek grass that seemed to run like a river amid the trees, was edified
by beholding a tall wench belaboring a forester with a stick. The man
was dodging from side to side, cursing and taking the blows upon his
forearms. A basket half filled with sprouting weeds lay tossed aside
under a tree. So busy were these two Pevensel savages with their
stick-wielding and their dodging that neither of them noticed Richard’s
approach.
Of a sudden, however, the scene took on a more sinister expression. The
man had caught the stick and twisted it out of the girl’s hand. Jeffray
could distinguish his inflamed and passionate face even at a distance of
fifty paces. In another instant the man’s arms were about the girl’s
body, and she was writhing and struggling like a hound hugged to the
hairy bosom of a bear.
Richard, who had recognized the elf of the Queen’s Circle, pricked in
his spurs, and went cantering down the ride. He rolled out of the saddle
when close upon the pair, left his mare loose, and, drawing his sword,
ran towards Dan Grimshaw and Miss Bess. The girl had one hand on the
man’s throat, and was beating the other in his face. He had picked her
up bodily and was holding her in mid-air when Richard’s shout startled
his hairy ears.
Black Dan dropped Bess upon the grass, and, being mad as any antlered
stag baffled by a hunter, snatched up the girl’s stick and made at
Richard with savage good-will. Jeffray’s pretty bodkin of a blade was
smitten away out of his hand, and he himself was brought low with heavy
cut across the crown. Black Dan, his face as like a flesh-eating ogre’s
as any nursemaid might paint for the intimidation of the young, stood
over Richard as though tempted to strike again. He was balked in his
charitable purpose, however, by finding Bess fronting him with a pistol
in either hand. She had caught Jeffray’s mare, and plucked the pistols
from the holsters, their master having forgotten the good barkers in the
full flux of chivalry.
“Touch him, Dan, and I’ll shoot you, you devil.”
In truth, a fine stage effect, Belphœbe rescuing Timias from the wrath
of the savage of the woods!