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’s _Trivia_ stand 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.”