An almost sanctified silence descended upon the interior of the Rodenham
coach as the cumbrous carriage lumbered and creaked homeward over the
heath that night. It was as though the three inmates travelled half in
awe of one another, and were afraid to grapple with the mystery of the
situation. The Lady Letitia sat stiffly in her corner, a statuesque and
repellent figure in the dusk, while Richard Wilson, feeling very
miserable and foolish, remained bolt upright, his knees and toes
together, his round face still glistening with sweat. Jeffray lay back
against the cushions, staring at the painter with obfuscated curiosity,
and trying to explain to himself Miss Hardacre’s fainting fit and Cousin
Lot’s savage attack on Wilson in the hall.
First a few irrelevant remarks passed between the three as the coach
rolled on under the stars through the desolate wastes of Pevensel. The
road was heavy, and the horses tugged and strained at the traces, the
coach rolling on its high springs. They could hear the man-servant’s
toes knocking against the panelling as he sat perched on the back seat
and clung to the rail as the wheels plunged and bumped into the ruts.
Richard appeared to rouse himself of a sudden. He turned to his aunt and
frankly desired her to translate to him the meaning of the strange scene
he had witnessed at Hardacre. The Lady Letitia appeared deaf for a
moment amid the jangling of the harness and the laboring of the wheels.
When she was compelled at last to understand the nature of her nephew’s
question, she shrugged her shoulders and wrapped her shawl closer about
her neck.
“Don’t ask me, Richard,” she said; “you had better request Mr. Wilson to
give you an explanation before you go to bed.”
The painter groaned in spirit and looked pathetically at the old lady.
“I am sure, madam,” he said, humbly, “it would have been better if I had
not taken your advice.”
“Advice! More mysterious,” quoth Jeffray, losing patience.
The Lady Letitia rustled her silks in the corner; her eyes were fixed
upon Wilson’s face, a lugubrious patch of white in the gloom of the
coach.
“Sir,” she said, “I am beginning to think that you have not been quite
frank with me. There must have been more in the affair than you have
confessed. I never saw a wench so flustered in my life.”
Wilson shrugged his shoulders in despair.
“I will endeavor to explain the matter to Mr. Jeffray,” he said,
ruefully; “to be sure I have made a deuced fine fool of myself, and
shamed my own friend’s hospitality. You will do me justice, madam, by
remembering that I had no liking to attend this ball.”
“Mr. Wilson,” quoth the dowager, frigidly, “it is clear that I never
knew the true state of the case.”
“Perhaps not, madam; perhaps not.”
Meanwhile Richard laid his hand on the painter’s knee.
“Don’t vex yourself, Dick,” he said, beginning to suspect the Lady
Letitia’s diplomacies, “we will talk it over together when we get home.”
When the coach drew up before the priory, Richard gave his aunt his arm
up the steps into the hall. Very much upon her dignity, she gave Mr.
Wilson and her nephew a very stately courtesy, and swept away up the
great staircase to her chamber. The atmosphere seemed to lighten
somewhat on the dowager’s departure. Richard ordered Gladden to light
the candles in the library where a fire was still burning, and to bring
up a bottle of port from the cellar. He laid his hand on Wilson’s
shoulder, who was pacing restlessly up and down the hall, his sword
clapping to and fro against his muscular calves. They went into the
library together, took pipes and the Virginia-box from the cupboard
beside the chimney, and settled themselves before the fire. Peter
Gladden came in with an uncorked bottle and glasses upon a tray. Wilson
rose up, unbuckled his sword with a prodigious sigh, drank down a
bumper, and waited till the butler had closed the door.
“Richard Jeffray,” he said, with more vivacity, as though eager to
unburden his soul now that they were alone, “I can’t tell you, sir, what
a sorry fool I feel after this night’s business.”
Jeffray, who had never grasped the full significance of the scene in the
great hall at Hardacre, smiled at the painter as he filled his pipe.
“I am in an utter fog, Dick,” he said; “what made Miss Jilian faint, and
what the devil were you and Lot quarrelling about as though there had
been some old feud between you. You painted Sir Peter’s portrait once,
eh?”
“Paint it, sir? I should think I did paint it,” quoth Wilson, savagely;
“and had I not been an unplucked fool I should never have gone to that
ball to-night. A pretty stew I’ve brewed for you, Richard. It was all
that old woman’s doing. Damme, sir, why did I listen to her palaver!”
The painter’s red face was a study in shame, wrath, and irritable
contrition. His pipe spluttered as though to be in sympathy with its
master’s temper. Jeffray, still mystified, could not help a smile at
Wilson’s distress.
“What made Miss Hardacre faint, Dick?” he asked, in all innocence.
“What made her faint, sir!”
“To be sure.”
“My accursed face, Richard Jeffray. I was mad enough to think of
marrying her ten years ago.”
Jeffray, who was in the act of lighting his pipe, dropped the lighted
spill upon the floor and sat staring open-mouthed at Wilson.
“What!” he said.
“You may well look blank, sir. It is how Dick Wilson is feeling. Upon my
soul, lad, I think Lot Hardacre did well when he slapped my silly face.”
Jeffray, who had recovered himself, put his foot upon the burning spill,
took another from the pot, held it over the fire, and lit his pipe. He
puffed steadily for some moments, lying back in his chair with a
peculiar calmness upon his face, and then turned again to Wilson.
“Tell me all about it, Dick,” he said.
“Shall I?”
“It is better that I should know.”
Wilson settled himself irritably in his chair and stared at the fire.
“Ten years ago,” he said, “when I was a better-looking fellow than I am
now, and when I was making money with my portraits, I painted Sir Peter
Hardacre and his daughter. They had a house in town, sir, then, and Miss
Jilian was as pretty a young lady as ever charmed the beaux of St.
James’s. Well, sir, I fell in love with the girl while I was painting
her, and a mighty long time I took over that picture, and a mighty fine
portrait I thought it. ‘Did not Hogarth marry old Sir James Thornhill’s
daughter,’ said I, ‘and why should I not win this goddess myself?’ She
bribed her maid, sir, and used to come to my studio to see me paint. I
don’t think it was quite honorable of me, Richard Jeffray, I know now
that it was not wise. Well, some old hag who had a grudge against Sir
Peter got hold of our secret, and put it about town that there was an
intrigue between us. Egad, sir, what an infernal pother there was! Sir
Peter sent his own son and some young bullies to bludgeon me in my own
studio. I still have the mark of one of their sticks on my asinine pate.
It was a bad business, Richard, though we were both of us innocent as
lambs.”
Jeffray sat and watched the painter’s face. He had never hinted to
Wilson that he himself was on the verge of a betrothal with this very
Miss Hardacre, nor had the Lady Letitia dropped a syllable upon the
subject. The revelation had come as something of a shock to Jeffray’s
sensitive nature. He began to suspect that certain of his aunt’s
scandals might be true, and that the sweet Jilian had lost much of the
bloom of her unkissed maidenhood. Wilson professed to deal with a
romance that had blossomed ten years ago, and Jeffray seemed to see of a
sudden a whole ghastly array of subsequent gallants rising before him to
impeach Miss Hardacre’s unsophisticated soul.
“I am sorry, Dick,” he said, “that we persuaded you to go to Hardacre.
If you had warned me—this might have been prevented.”
Wilson sat with his chin upon his chest, smoking vigorously, and staring
at the fire.
“True, very true, sir,” he said, patiently. “I am afraid I have been
misled by your aunt, sir, who professed to know all about the romance.
She swore to me, Richard, that it was an affair of the past, and that no
people of fashion ever distressed themselves about such things. Why,
Richard, she even told me that the Hardacres were ready to welcome me as
a friend of yours.”
Jeffray sat up suddenly in his chair, his pale face flushing as the
truth appeared.
“Miss Hardacre never knew your name, Dick,” he persisted.
“Deuce take me, sir, she must have known it. Your revered relative
herself assured me that there was no reason why I should not present
myself at Hardacre.”
“Aunt Letitia told you that?”
“Why, at the rout to-night, sir, she came to tell me that Miss Hardacre
had been inquiring for me. She made me unmask, sir, marched me up to the
girl, shouted out my name, after that—came the deluge.”
Richard twisted in his chair and swore. He understood now how the affair
had come about. It had been a carefully spun plot upon the part of the
Lady Letitia, and poor Wilson had been duped into lending himself to her
plans. Richard realized that the dowager’s excessive graciousness
towards the painter had been nothing but diplomatic cunning to lure Dick
into the toils.
“I understand it all now, Dick,” he said, rising, and helping himself to
another glass of wine.
“That’s more than I can say, sir.”
Jeffray drew himself up as though to surrender the unpleasant truth.
“We have both of us been fooled by my august relative,” he said. “I must
confess to you, Dick, that I have been courting Miss Jilian Hardacre,
and that the Lady Letitia is prejudiced against the girl. She has tried
before to embroil me with the Hardacres. She persuaded you to go to the
ball, Dick, in order to create a scene and prevent my becoming betrothed
to the lady.”
Dick Wilson’s face expressed astonished and indescribable distress. He
put his pipe aside, rose up stammering and blushing, blundered across to
where Jeffray was standing, and looked at him as though ready to weep.
“God bless my soul, Richard,” he said, “I would rather have lost my
right hand than that this should have happened.”
“It was no fault of yours, Dick.”
“Good Heavens, sir, how can I express my shame and regret! I wish my
ugly carcass had never come within ten miles of this place. I am
overwhelmed, sir, overwhelmed. I must leave your house at once.”
Jeffray smiled and laid his hand on the painter’s shoulder.
“It was my aunt’s fault, Dick,” he said, simply, “and we have both been
made to dance like a couple of dolls. As for your leaving Rodenham, I
shall not hear of it.”
Wilson, still thoroughly ashamed, gripped Jeffray’s hand, and then
turned away to blow his nose.
“No, no, sir,” he said, “I have made an infernal mess of your affairs,
and I cannot eat your food another day. Egad, though, I was forgetting
that Mr. Hardacre may desire to justify his sister’s honor.”
“That is my business, Dick.”
“And do you think, sir, that Richard Wilson will run away? No, no. I
tell you I will go down and take a room at the inn, and if Mr. Hardacre
wants me he will find me there. I am ready to make him and his sister a
handsome apology, Richard, for he is in the right and I am in the wrong.
If he will not take my apology, sir, then he must put a bullet into me
to satisfy his sister’s honor. It was my fault, Richard, for being such
a damned egregious fool. Perhaps I can mend the quarrel for you, and I
am not going to shirk the responsibility.”
Jeffray could make no impression upon the painter, who was as stubborn
as any Sussex boor in his determination to quit the house.
“Well, Dick,” he said, as he lighted the painter to his room, “you can
go down to the Wheat Sheaf to-morrow and put up there till the quarrel
blows over.”
Wilson shook his head as he stood to say good-night to Jeffray on the
landing.
“No, sir,” he said, “the quarrel has been of my making, and even if the
lady forgives you for being my friend, it would not please her to know
that I was still at Rodenham.”
“But we are not betrothed yet,” Jeffray argued.
“If you love her, sir, I presume this idle affair will make no change in
your affection. There was nothing to shame her so far as I was
concerned, and to be sure she is a little old for you, but then—”
Wilson hesitated suddenly, screwed up his eyes, and looked at the lad
with critical curiosity. It had not occurred to him before that there
was some disparity between their years. He had been so immersed also in
Miss Hardacre’s past that he had not given much thought to the present.
“I suppose you like her, lad, eh?”
“She has been very kind to me, Dick.”
“So.”
“I mean to act like a man of honor.”
“One thing is certain, sir, that Dick Wilson is better out of the way.
Good-night, Richard, you have been very kind to me, and I thank you.
Egad, sir, I shall never forgive myself for having served you thus.”
“We are still friends, Dick.”
“Yes, sir, till you are married to Miss Hardacre. Well, it’s a queer
world. Good-night, lad, good-night.”
The Lady Letitia kept her bed next day, but sent down a sealed note to
her nephew in which she expressed herself as being greatly distressed by
what had passed the previous night. She advised Richard “to persuade
that unfortunate creature Wilson to take his departure with all
despatch.” The dowager threw out many broad hints reflecting upon the
sincerity of the painter’s statements, and suggested to Richard that
Miss Hardacre must have compromised herself with the man many years ago.
Jeffray threw the letter in the fire. He was beginning to discover how
much veracity there was in Aunt Letitia’s world-wise soul.
Richard ordered Peter Gladden to go down in person and engage a room for
Wilson at the Wheat Sheaf. Wilson’s pack and red bundle were carried
down to the inn by a very scornful and unobsequious servant who believed
that no real gentleman would travel with such luggage, and who also
doubted the likelihood of such a “shabby creature” being able to
distribute decent largesse. Richard and the painter breakfasted
together, smoked their pipes in the library afterwards, and discussed
the dilemma once again. It appeared to Wilson that the young Squire of
Rodenham was not madly enamoured of Miss Jilian Hardacre. “She had been
very kind to him, yes. He thought her a sweet woman, despite his aunt’s
scandalous innuendoes. Certainly he had paid his cousin a great deal of
attention, and he would act honorably by her like an English gentleman.”
Wilson screwed his face up a little over the lad’s chivalrous
sentiments. He did not venture to meddle with so delicate a question,
however, having had sufficient excitement to satisfy him for months.
Jeffray walked with Wilson through the park to Rodenham village, the
painter dressed again in his cocked hat, rusty brown suit and
club-tailed wig. The day was Shrove-Tuesday, as Jeffray would have
discovered earlier had he invaded his own kitchen and found the grooms
and wenches tossing pancakes. Rodenham village itself was in a holiday
temper, the boors turning out in clean smocks, the girls and women
tricked out in their best gowns, with ribbon in their hair and new
scarlet stockings showing under their short petticoats. Even the brats
had had their faces polished and been blessed with clean pinafores. The
benches in front of the Wheat Sheaf were ladened with farmers who had
come in to drink George Gogg’s beer and watch the “cock-throwing.” Old
Sam Sturtevant, the cobbler, had been training a couple of cocks since
Christmas, and the birds were as nimble and spry at the game as could
be. Sam was engaged with a crowd of hinds in pegging out one of his
birds upon the green, and in kicking a line in the turf to show where
the thrower should stand, when Jeffray and the painter passed the church
and came down the road leading to the village with its wood and plaster
fronts, its thatched roofs and sour and ragged gardens.
The sport sacred to Shrove-Tuesday had begun as Richard and the painter
came down towards the green. A crowd of jabbering, hairy-faced boors
were swearing and screaming on the grass. Some twenty paces distant from
the crowd of hinds and slatterns, Sam Sturtevant, the cobbler, was
holding one of his trained cocks by a string fastened to the leg. A
rustic was in the act of taking his three shots for a penny at the bird,
the object being to knock the cock down, and run and catch him before he
could recover his legs. So well trained was the bird that he dodged each
cast of the stick, the crowd jeering and laughing as the fellow lost his
penny to the cobbler. The next gentleman was more clever in his
throwing. Richard saw the bird go down on the grass, a twitching and
fluttering mass of feathers. The cock recovered himself, however, before
the fellow could reach him, and the stick-throwing recommenced amid the
shouts of the spectators.
Richard Jeffray had never seen the sport since the days when he was a
mere animal of a boy. His eyes flashed in his pale face; his mouth
hardened. Crossing the road with Wilson at his heels, he looked round
angrily at the boors, who had abated their yelling on the Squire’s
approach, and had pulled off their hats and were louting and grinning in
their uncouth way. Richard went up to the cobbler, an old man with a
flinty face, whose eyes were glistening over the pence his cock had
earned for him.
“Maybe Mr. Jeffray would like a shy,” he said, with a leer, while the
hinds crowded round with grinning faces.
Jeffray glanced at the bird that was staggering about on a broken leg.
“Do you call this sport, men?” he asked, hotly.
The cobbler stared and appeared puzzled. The ring of brutish faces
gathered closer.
“There be’nt no harm in it, yer honor,” he said.
Jeffray promptly pulled out his purse and offered to buy the cobbler’s
birds. The boors stared at one another, and began to murmur.
“Begging yer honor’s pardon,” quoth the mender of shoes, “these birds of
mine be’nt for buying.”
“You prefer to torture them, Sturtevant, eh?”
The man scratched his head and glanced at his friends for justification.
“There always be cock-throwing on Shrove-Tuesdays, Mr. Jeffray,” he
said. “Parson Sugg has never said aught agen it.”
“That be so, Sam,” added several rough voices.
Wilson, who had pushed through the crowd, laid his hand on Jeffray’s
shoulder and looked meaningly in his face.
“Let them alone, sir,” he said, in an undertone; “they won’t understand
your fine philosophy.”
“This is mere brutality, Dick.”
“Egad, sir, if you begin reforming the British nation you will be ducked
like Wesley in the horse-pond.”
Jeffray, feeling himself humiliated before the grinning and contemptuous
faces of the men, turned and walked away with Wilson towards the inn. An
outburst of coarse laughter followed him. One fellow put his thumb to
his nose and spread his fingers behind Jeffray’s back. Another made a
certain indescribable noise that condensed the contempt of these
“pastoral swains.”
“Lamentable soft, the Squire, be’nt he, Sam?”
“Poor sort of foreigner, I reckon.”
“Sing’lar young man. Poor, skinny-looking fox as ever I see. Better be
mindin’ of his own business. Lookee, Cloddy, it be your shy, man.”
They returned to their cock-baiting with rough laughter, and much lewd
jeering and cursing one with another. Jeffray and the painter had neared
the Wheat Sheaf where half a score red-faced farmers were gossiping and
drinking beer on the benches about the wooden tables. They exchanged
winks and grimaces, and pulled off their hats to Jeffray with mock
politeness. George Gogg, the innkeeper, came out to meet the master of
Rodenham, cloaking his personal and obese contempt for the young Squire
under an air of almost offensive servility. As Jeffray passed through
the bar with Wilson towards the private parlor, he became aware of a big
man in a green coat staring at him from a bench in the chimney-corner.
Richard, baffled for the moment, remembered where he had seen the
fellow’s face before. It was Dan Grimshaw, of Pevensel. As for a
contrast Bess’s face flashed up before him, its lips like a thread of
scarlet, its black hair streaming above the fierce blue eyes.