Jeffray slept till after the sun was up, and was awakened by Bess
tapping at his door. She came in blushing, looking very coy and winsome,
with a bowl of hot milk on a pewter dish, milk that her own brown hands
had drawn from the cow that morning. It was quite an uncommon mood in
Bess, this shy and half stately air of aloofness, with its smooth tones
and its half-abashed tenderness in the eyes. She gave Jeffray a very
quiet good-morning, asked how he had slept, blushing still as she
remembered their parting on the preceding night.
To Richard, he knew not why, there was a peculiar fascination in the
girl’s presence, in the very nearness of her body to his. Their hands
had touched as she held out the bowl of milk to him, and the silky
coldness of her skin had discharged a species of subtle magnetism at the
contact. He looked up into her face, saw the subdued light of the room
intensify the richness of her coloring and enhance the lustrous shadows
in her eyes. In truth, Bess’s eyes and Mr. Richard’s were always meeting
that morning, so that one or the other would redden and look away.
Jeffray, where he lay, could watch the girl through the open door as she
glided to and fro in the kitchen. How tall and strong she was, how full
of the delicious ardor of life, supple, swift, perfect in every outline.
Big of body though she was, her long legs carried her with the swinging
grace of an athletic male. She kept her mouth tightly shut in repose,
her intense blue eyes shining out from her ruddy face.
Jeffray, finding himself little the worse for Dan’s cudgelling, had
hardly risen, dressed, and shaved himself with one of Isaac’s razors,
when Peter Gladden appeared with the patriarch before Ursula’s cottage,
inquiring for the person of his master. The Lady Letitia herself was
waiting for Richard in her coach below the Beacon Rock. Jeffray tied his
cravat, buckled on his sword, and went out to speak with Peter Gladden
in the kitchen. Isaac Grimshaw was there also, humble, benignant and
subservient. Bess, seated on a settle by the fire, was mending the gown
that had been torn in the scuffle with Dan yesterday.
Richard shook Isaac Grimshaw’s hand, bowed to old Ursula, and laid three
guineas surreptitiously upon the table.
“I thank you for all your kindness,” he said, with a glance that was
meant for Bess.
Isaac, bowing, and rubbing his hands together, declared that they were
proud to have been able to serve such a gentleman.
“As for the money, your honor,” he said, “we cannot take the gold. What
we have given—we have given gladly. Eh, dame, ain’t that so?”
Old Ursula, whose eyes had twinkled at the sight of gold, courtesied and
confessed a little sourly that “Squire Jeffray was very welcome.”
Richard blushed, looked from one to the other, and repocketed his money.
“I shall not forget your kindness,” he said, simply. “If I can ever
serve you, Grimshaw, remember what I said to you last night.”
Peter Gladden had gone to saddle and bridle Richard’s mare in the
cow-house, and Jeffray proceeded to shake hands again very graciously
with Isaac and old Ursula. His heart had been touched by what appeared
to him to be simple and unsophisticated kindness; he had not learned to
look below the surface of life as yet. He hesitated before Bess, who had
risen and was standing looking at her hood that hung upon the key of the
linen-press.
“Will you show us the path through the woods?” he asked her.
Isaac was for offering his services, but a gesture from old Ursula
restrained him.
“The lass will be proud,” quoth the dame, amiably. “I would go with ye
myself, sir, but for the rheumatics. Bess, get your cloak, lass, and go
with the gentleman.” And in a whisper into the girl’s ear: “If he is for
giving you the guineas, girl, take ’em, and don’t forget it.”
Now, Richard Jeffray sent Peter Gladden on ahead with the mare that
morning, thus casting doubt on his sincerity in asking for guidance
through the woods. He walked with Bess, who had thrown her red cloak
over her shoulders and thrust her feet into her best buckled shoes. The
woods were full of dancing sunlight and of dew. A brisk breeze played
through the branches, chanting desirously, and sweeping the white clouds
over the forest in the blue sky above. The promise of spring seemed in
the air; already the green gorse was budding gold, and the cry of the
world’s youth was on the wind.
Richard noticed for the first time that Bess was taller than he was as
they walked together under the trees. Her eyes looked down on him a
little from under her glorious wreath of sable hair. In truth, she
seemed Richard’s master in the matter of mere physical strength; her
arms were of greater girth than his by two inches or more, and her
supple body would have turned the scale by a stone against Jeffray’s
slim but wiry frame. They had little to say to each other for the first
furlong or so. The girl appeared farouche and silent, looking at Richard
as though half in awe of him. And yet some subtle net of sympathy seemed
to have been cast about them both in the course of a single night.
“Bess,” said the man, suddenly plunging towards the thoughts that lay
close about his heart.
Being slightly ahead, she hung back and waited, with her eyes at gaze on
the deeps of the woods.
“I spoke to Isaac Grimshaw about you last night,” he continued, watching
the play of the sunlight upon her face.
“About me?”
“Yes, and Dan, your cousin.”
Bess’s eyes darkened and she pouted out her lips. Her walk seemed more
spirited, the carriage of her head more rebellious at the mention of
Dan’s name.
“I told your uncle that Barbara Gladden, my butler’s wife, could give
you a home at Rodenham—”
“At Rodenham!”
“Yes. If—”
“If?”
“You found your cousin’s company too rough for you.”
Bess flashed a look at Richard, and walked on in silence for some
moments, with a fine color upon her face. There was no suggestion of
patronage in Jeffray’s manner.
“I am not afraid of Dan,” she answered, “though I am grateful to
you—for this.”
A sudden realization of the gulf between them had taken hold of the
girl’s heart. This Richard Jeffray was one of the gentry, and she, a
poor forest wench not fit to stand before women, less handsome and less
honest than herself. At Rodenham she would take her meals in the
servants’ hall, and sleep in an attic under the roof. It would even be
considered a favor if the young squire spoke to her. No. She loved
Pevensel and her forest liberty better than that.
“I am not afraid of Dan,” she said again, with a fine lifting of her
head.
Jeffray felt something of the pride that played in her, and respected
her the more for it.
“I am not dropping a favor for you, Bess,” he said.
“Thank you,” she answered.
“You see—you saved me from Dan’s cudgelling. And you—and Ursula have
been very kind to me.”
They looked at each other half questioningly, a long and steady look
that bore more meaning than many words. Richard blushed under the girl’s
gaze. He suspected the spirit in her, and was loath to think that he had
hurt her pride.
“You said I might have your pistols,” quoth Bess, suddenly.
“I will give you them.”
“I was not made to serve. We are wild folk in the forest. I can take
care of myself.”
Then, catching the look in Jeffray’s eyes, she smiled at him very
dearly, and touched his hand.
“But—I shall remember,” she added.
“And I, Bess, also.”
“I will have the pistols—”
“A strange present!”
“No, no, they will make me feel somehow that you are near. For I dreamed
of you on St. Agnes’s Eve.”
She blushed and hung her head as soon as the words were out of her
mouth. Jeffray had started, and reddened also. He looked at Bess and
then at the heath showing gold beyond the trees.
“I will ride over—sometimes, Bess,” he said, slowly.
Her eyes flashed down at him, and then wavered away towards the woods.
“I knew you,” she said, simply, “when you lay on the grass—after I had
put back Dan’s stick.”
“Knew me?”
“Yes.”
Richard said nothing, but there was a strange sense of hurrying at his
heart.
They overtook Peter Gladden on the heath, and Richard taking the mare
from him bade him go forward and warn the Lady Letitia of his coming.
When the man had gone, Jeffray drew the pistols from the holsters, shook
out the priming, and handed them to Bess. They were light weapons of
delicate make, the butts set in Damascened silver. The girl took them
and put them in her gown above her girdle.
“Be careful, Bess,” he said.
She laughed, and her eyes grew very bright of a sudden.
“You did not give me these in the dream,” she said.
In another moment Richard was in the saddle cantering over the heath
towards the Beacon Rock.
The Lady Letitia had spent the whole of the previous day in meditation,
suspecting shrewdly enough that her nephew had ridden over to Hardacre
to make peace with the sweet Jilian. Of course Miss Hardacre would be
kind to Richard, and in that arch young lady’s kindness, Aunt Letitia
had foreseen her own discomfort. Now the dowager was not in the least
inclined to abandon Rodenham, for her financial affairs were still in an
embarrassed state. She had shut up her house in town for the winter, and
was keeping her coach-horses and her three servants at Jeffray’s
expense. Till late in the spring she had intended foraging for herself
amid the Sussex woods, and it would be wickedly inconvenient for her to
leave Rodenham at present.
Hence the news of Richard’s accident had provided the astute old lady
with an admirable opportunity for a reconciliation. She worked herself
into quite a delirium of distress over the tidings, questioned Solomon
Grimshaw in person, and soon wormed the truth from him as to how Richard
had come by a broken head. The romance pleased Aunt Letitia
prodigiously. She gave Solomon a guinea, one of poor Sugg’s ewe lambs,
and bade him carry back her affectionate greetings to Squire Jeffray.
She would have flown to him that very moment, only it was pitch dark,
and the roads in such a state. “Gladden, Peter Gladden, have my
coach—my own coach, Gladden—round at the door by nine. I must drive
over and bring the poor boy home. God grant, Gladden, that he is not
dangerously hurt. You must send one of the men over to Rookhurst to
order Surgeon Stott to call at the priory to-morrow.”
Aunt Letitia had dismounted from the coach that morning, and was
hobbling up and down under the shadow of the Beacon Rock, while her fat
horses steamed in the road. It was indeed an affecting sight to behold
this goddess of powder and patches strutting with all the admirable
anxiety of a “stage grandmother” on nature’s unartificial grass. The
Lady Letitia was an evening, rather than a morning, star, for her
physical frailties were unmasked by the sun. When Richard appeared
riding over the heath, the dowager’s holy outburst of joy was an
impressive sight to Peter Gladden and the lackey behind the coach. The
old lady actually toddled forward to meet Richard, a ridiculous little
straw hat perched on her powdered head, her ebony stick in one hand, a
lace handkerchief in the other.
“My dear Richard—my dear Richard—I am overcome with thankfulness at
seeing you so hearty.”
Jeffray, dismounting, kissed the Lady Letitia’s hand. He was touched by
his aunt’s display of feeling, and it was not in him to remember a
wrong.
“I am not much the worse, aunt,” he said, smiling, “but for a bandaged
head.”
“It was such a shock to me last night, Richard,” quoth the lady, dabbing
her eyes with her lace handkerchief, “for I said to myself, Richard:
‘perhaps the poor lad is dangerously hurt, and I cannot get to him
before the morning.’ And I remembered that we had quarrelled the night
before. Oh, my dear nephew, what a solemn thing is life; death is always
near to us, and how inscrutable are the ways of the Almighty.”
Richard, much moved by the old lady’s emotion, kissed her hand a second
time with much unction.
“I am sure, Aunt Letitia,” he said, simply, “I regret the rude words I
spoke to you that night. I lost my temper, madam, and I ask your pardon.
Dear Jilian and I were reconciled yesterday. I am sure you were mistaken
in her, aunt. She has a noble nature, and bears no malice.”
The Lady Letitia sniffed, suppressed her inclination towards cynicism,
and answered her nephew with gracious resignation.
“Let us say no more about it, dear Richard,” she said, “we are all
mistaken at times, and not even the oldest among us are infallible. I
can forget the past in thankfulness for your safe return; you must try
and forgive your old aunt her whims.”
Richard bowed and offered the Lady Letitia his arm.
“God forbid, Richard,” she said, impressively, as they walked back
towards the coach, Jeffray’s mare following like a dog at his heels,
“God forbid that an old woman should trifle with the happiness of two
young hearts. I wish you all joy, my dear nephew. You must try and
persuade Miss Hardacre to love me.”
Richard was quite conquered by the old lady’s tone of tender
resignation. Perhaps Jilian had exaggerated his aunt’s asperities in the
heat of her youthful self-pity. Richard was a peace-loving being, and he
was glad that the quarrel promised to end in sunshine.
“I am sure Miss Hardacre bears no malice,” he said.
The Lady Letitia’s eyes flashed a curious look into Richard’s face. So
the girl had chosen the saintly and heroic part. Well, she had wit, and
her dear nephew was a delightful and amusing simpleton. Did he really
think that women ever forgave such insinuations as she, the Lady
Letitia, had flung at Miss Hardacre’s head? At all events it would be
possible for her to remain another month or two in comfort at Rodenham,
and it would be an interesting recreation to study the lad’s domestic
ideals in the future.
“Miss Hardacre must be a very magnanimous young lady,” she said, with
inward irony.
“Jilian has a generous heart, madam.”
“Ah, Richard, the heart is everything in a woman.”
“True, aunt, true.”
“And you must tell me all about this romantic adventure of yours in the
woods. You are quite the knight-errant, sir.”
Richard blushed, and laughed good-humoredly.
“I will tell you about it to-night,” he said.
Jeffray excused himself from joining the Lady Letitia in her coach,
asserting that he had a headache, and that a brisk ride would clear his
brain. He mounted his mare, and followed the coach at a trot as it took
the southward road through Pevensel.
How strange and mobile are the moods of youth, April-hued, covered with
the gold and purple of sunlight or of shadow! Richard Jeffray was almost
wroth with his own heart that day as he rode through the woods and saw
the great green downs cleave the distant blue. How was it that Miss
Jilian’s face seemed less fair to him than it had yesterday? How was it
that eyes of passionate blue outstarred those of simpering gray? How was
it that a glowing face and a fleece of coal-black hair rose more
brilliantly before him than did the cream and rose bloom of Miss
Jilian’s countenance and her head of shimmering gold? What grievous flaw
was there in the clear contour of his soul, that sentiments, fragrant
yesterday, should leak forth in a night and melt into the air? Was he
not the same Richard Jeffray, and Jilian the same artless and forgiving
cousin? What had this forest child’s face to do with the romance? Surely
it was Black Dan’s stick that had knocked the sanity out of Richard’s
skull that he should be possessed by such fickle and yet haunting
thoughts.
A sturdy traveller was resting on the parapet of Rodenham bridge as the
Lady Letitia’s coach swung over towards the gates of the park. The
stranger, whose round red face topped a robust and somewhat corpulent
body, was dressed in a suit of rusty brown. He wore a three-cocked-hat,
rough shoes with dirty buckles, and the tail of his wig plaited into a
club. What appeared to be a peddler’s pack was strapped over his broad
shoulders, and on the parapet lay a thick oak stick and a red cloth
bundle. The man’s keen and humorous eyes had watched the Lady Letitia’s
coach swing by with a cynical twinkle.
Richard had no sooner set his eyes on the man than he reined in on the
bridge, and was out of the saddle with a flush on his boyish face.
“Wilson—Dick Wilson, by all the gods!”
The traveller had started up from the parapet, and had held out a pair
of red and sinewy hands to Richard.
“It is Dick Wilson, despite the gods,” he said.
“You have honored Rodenham—at last.”
“I tramped down from town with my pack on my shoulders.”
“To see the youngster whom you nursed through a fever at Rome.”
They shook hands with great good-will, a sly smile playing about the
painter’s rugged face.
“And do you mean to tell me, sir,” he laughed, “that you are not ashamed
of such a vagabond? Why, I have been twice in peril of the stocks as I
came through from town.”
“Ashamed, Dick!”
The painter indulged in a ludicrous grimace, turned up his brown coat to
show the frayed lining thereof, remarked that he had a hole in his
breeches, and at the same time brandished his scarlet bundle.
“If your polite pride can stand this, Richard Jeffray,” he said, “then,
sir, I will come inside.”
Richard laughed, and put his hand on the painter’s shoulder.
“Wilson,” he said, “I think we have seen enough of the world to know
what polite trifles are worth.”
“Egad, sir, then we must have outstripped humanity in our philosophies.”
There was no doubt as to Richard’s sincerity. He and Dick Wilson had
spent months together in Italy, and the lad had learned to admire the
robust but often cross-grained artist.
“How long can you stay, eh? Why not spend the spring and summer with me?
I am alone save for an aunt who goes to Tunbridge before long. We can
find you splendor enough in our Sussex woods and downs, even to satisfy
your mighty tastes.”
Wilson appeared touched by the enthusiastic sincerity of the lad’s
welcome. His round face beamed, his eyes twinkled.
“I was half in doubt, Jeffray,” he confessed, “whether you would be
pleased to see such a scarecrow. I have already tasted something of the
world’s favor, sweet for a week, sour for ten months. Deuce take me,
sir, I am glad of your welcome. It is bravely given, and I thank you for
it, Richard Jeffray.”