Miss Jilian soon recovered from her faint in the great hall at Hardacre,
thanks to sprinklings with scent and the immediate application of a
smelling-bottle to her nose. Miss Hardacre had seen nothing of the
foolish quarrel between Dick Wilson and Mr. Lot, and with true
discretion she insisted on dancing the night out, vowing that she had
only temporarily succumbed to the heat. A few words passed between
brother and sister before the musicians struck up in the gallery, and
Mr. Lancelot led out his sister to a country-dance. Though Sir Peter
busied himself ostentatiously in seeing that certain of the hall windows
were opened for the sake of ventilation, there was much secret wagging
of tongues amid the company, much bobbing of plumes, much wise gossip.
Several reasons were spread abroad to account for the affair and the
sudden departure of the party for Rodenham. Miss Jilian, however, rose
bravely superior to the past, smiled and swept courtesies, drank wine to
give herself a color. She even coquetted with Mr. Gedge, one of her
brother’s boon comrades, for the rest of the evening, carrying her amber
head very high, and showing no symptoms of cowardice or distress.
The following morning, however, Miss Hardacre was very viciously
afflicted with the vapors. She kept her bed, would not so much as suffer
her maid to draw her curtains, and left untouched the chocolate the
sympathetic handmaid pressed upon her. Her one command was that Sir
Peter should be informed that she was vaporish, and would be pleased to
see him if he would walk up-stairs. The baronet, after finishing his
breakfast and swearing at Lot for making such a pother the preceding
night, gathered himself together and tramped up the broad staircase to
pay his respects to his daughter.
The red curtains were half drawn across the windows of Miss Jilian’s
room. An odor of lavender pervaded the atmosphere, and the four-post
bed, with its pink-and-white hangings, looked like a shrine where love
might claim sanctuary. Miss Hardacre’s ball dress lay thrown across a
chair. Her cosmetics and wash-balls were untouched on the table below
her mirror. The fair Jilian herself lay back on her belaced pillows,
looking rather thin and old, her tawny hair in a tangle, her mouth
adroop in her white face.
Sir Peter thrust a pair of satin slippers aside with his foot, gurgled,
took snuff, tossed sundry belaced vestments from a chair, and sat
himself down beside the bed. The baronet gazed at his daughter with
stupid gravity, and heaved a sigh under his snuffy waistcoat.
“Well, lass, how are you feeling?”
There was some rustling of the belaced bed-gown, a pair of shoulders
began to twitch spasmodically, a handkerchief fluttered out, a pathetic
signal of distress.
“Damn it, Jill, don’t let’s play at snivelling.”
Sir Peter’s irritable method of showing his sympathy only distressed the
sweet martyr the more. There were chokings and moist miseries under the
pink-and-white canopy. Miss Hardacre’s pretty feet twitched and fidgeted
under the clothes, while she half buried her face in the pillow and
sobbed with unction.
“Bless my soul, Jill, you ain’t a baby no longer—to play at the
snivels.”
“Oh, Sir Peter, you are brutal!” came the choking reproof from the
pillow.
“Drat it, lass, what are you blubbering for? There’s no great harm done,
eh? Lot will see to the Hardacre honor.”
Miss Hardacre’s sobs seemed to grow less hysterical. She thrust a bare
arm out of the bed, a wealth of lace hanging about the elbow. Sir Peter,
who looked hot, angry, and unhappy, was at some pains to console his
daughter. He took her hand and patted it parentally.
“There, there, lass; what shall we do for ye, eh?”
“Tell Lot—”
“Tell Lot. What am I to tell Lot, eh?”
“Not to quarrel with poor Richard—”
“Damn the lad, Jilian, don’t you take on so. Richard Jeffray’s a little
gentleman, and I’ll take my immortal oath that it was all that old
she-dog’s doing. Lot is for riding to Rodenham to demand an
explanation.”
Miss Hardacre pressed her father’s hand and mopped her eyes with her
lace handkerchief. Her bones showed somewhat at the base of her neck,
and she looked less plump when unadorned.
“La, Sir Peter, I am very miserable,” she whimpered. “Richard and I were
so happy together last night. Why should that old woman try to spoil our
happiness? It was cruel of her, sir, to bring that painter fellow to
Hardacre. Such an old affair, too; I was only a silly child then.”
Sir Peter swore, and fumbled for his snuffbox.
“Don’t you eat your heart out, Jill,” he said; “Lot shall see to it.
Richard Jeffray shall prove that he is a gentleman.”
Miss Hardacre started up in bed upon her elbow, and held out an
appealing hand towards her father.
“Don’t let there be any quarrelling; I couldn’t bear to think—”
“There, there,” interposed the baronet, with a sniff; “what a tender
goose it is! You leave it to me, Jill. We will see that you are treated
like a lady.”
Sir Peter kissed his daughter, and trudged downstairs, blowing his nose.
He found Lot in the dining-room with his feet propped against one of the
carved jambs of the fireplace, a pipe hanging out of the corner of his
mouth, and his rather bleary eyes scanning the pages of a gazette. Lot
dropped his feet and swung round in his chair as his father entered,
took his pipe from his mouth, and grinned.
“How’s the angelic Jill?” he asked, laconically.
“Damned vaporish, sir. Hopes you won’t hurt the poor lad. ’Twould break
her heart to think of your drawing your sword on him.”
Lot laughed and knocked out his pipe on the heel of his shoe.
“She’s a clever one, is Jilian,” he said. “Egad, sir, she has given me
the wink. Break her sweet heart, the dear, tough wench! I must foot it
nobly, sir, before my cousin, the poet, smite my brotherly bussum, and
cry, ‘Behold, sir, here lies a brother’s honor.’ Richard’s a sweet,
trustful lad. Leave him to me, sir; I’ll see that Jill has her husband.”
The baronet chuckled, and sat down in his leather-bottomed chair before
the fire. He lay back, exposing his generous paunch, and winked at his
son over his shoulder.
“Richard will make a good son-in-law, Lot,” he observed.
“Jill will milk his pockets for him, sir.”
Sir Peter nodded and beamed greedily.
“And we’ll have some of the butter, Lot,” he said; “an easy mortgage
would be deuced convenient. What does the young dog want with all his
thousands lying idle? They would serve us better than they would him. We
want a new coach and a new stud, and, damme, I should like a house in
town again. Dick Jeffray’s a nice lad, Lot. When do you think of riding
over to Rodenham?”
Mr. Hardacre yawned, stretched his legs, and looked cunningly at his
father.
“This afternoon, sir,” he said, with a grin. “The old harridan thinks
she has spoiled our sport, but I guess she has given us a great
opportunity. I will put it to Mr. Richard like a brother. If he don’t
see it in the sentimental light, sir, I’ll just do a little bullying.”
“And have Jill weeping over his grave!”
Mr. Lot laughed loudly and thumped his chest.
“You’ll do it all right, Lot,” said the baronet; “damme, you will.”
“Leave him to me, sir. Sister Jill shall have her husband.”
Thus, with the wind blowing briskly through Pevensel and the clouds
rolling like great purple chariots over the distant downs, Mr. Lancelot
rode out in quest of the Hardacre honor, and came trotting through
Rodenham park betwixt the beeches and the cedars. Mr. Lot was dressed in
his best brown riding-suit, with a silver-mounted sword at his side, and
a new tie-wig perched on his solid round pate. His blue eyes twinkled in
his fiery face, and he swore softly to himself and patted his horse’s
neck. Gladden answered the clanging bell with the usual inscrutable
smirk upon his face. Mr. Hardacre announced the fact that he desired to
see Mr. Jeffray alone, his manner demanding unequivocal obedience on the
part of the butler. Richard was reading in the library at the moment,
having left Dick Wilson at the inn. The Lady Letitia still kept her
chamber, having sent word to her nephew that she was still prostrated
after the unpleasant experiences of the night.
Mr. Lot had been ushered into the red parlor, and Richard found him
strutting up and down before the windows that overlooked the park, his
sword cocked under his coat-tails in very militant fashion. He bowed
with unusual courtliness, and posed very creditably as a cavalier
without reproach. Richard felt decidedly oppressed by his cousin’s
portentous dignity. All the evidences of a determination to claim the
right of politely murdering him appeared in Mr. Hardacre’s manner.
Jeffray desired Mr. Hardacre to be seated. Lot waved the proffered chair
aside, and stood to the majestic moment with astonishing grandiosity.
“Cousin Richard,” he said, with another bow, “you doubtless recognize
the delicacy of the errand that has brought me to Rodenham.”
Richard blushed and looked uncomfortable.
“You refer to the affair of last night, Lot,” he answered.
“Egad, sir, I do. It is my right as Miss Hardacre’s brother to demand an
explanation from you, sir, with regard to the unwarrantable introduction
of this Mr. Wilson into our house.”
Richard was still blushing and looking honestly distressed. He glanced
appealingly at his cousin’s righteous face, and promptly plunged into a
rambling and eager explanation of the affair, expressing his ardent
regret at what had happened, and exonerating both Wilson and himself
from the charge of premeditated mischief-making. Mr. Lot nodded very
solemnly at every sentence, keeping his eyes fixed severely upon his
cousin’s face, and still cocking his sword with aggressive significance.
“So you will see, Lot,” said the lad, frankly, at the end of his speech,
“that I was utterly innocent of any desire to offend. God knows, sir, I
was as miserable as a man could be over such a regrettable error. I can
only offer you my apologies and ask you and Sir Peter to forgive me.”
Mr. Lancelot bowed and smiled with some grimness.
“Egad, cousin,” he said, “I am glad to find you in so reasonable a
temper. I can tell you, Richard, my blood was up, and when Lot Hardacre
is roused—he is a bit of a devil, sir.”
Richard, hot and eager, like the generous fellow he was, to salve the
wounded Hardacre pride, held out his hand to Lot with a brave smile.
“Your anger does you honor, Lot,” he said. “Had I such a sister I should
be terribly jealous for her.”
Mr. Hardacre glanced at Jeffray’s hand reflectively, and then shook it.
“Deuce take me, Richard,” he said, “I knew you were a lad of the right
temper. As for Dick Wilson, I broke his pate once, poor devil, when Jill
was a mere bread-and-butter simpleton, and he had the impudence to fall
in love with her. A pretty little jest, Richard, nothing more. It was
the old lady above, sir, who poisoned the posset.”
Jeffray was sincerely relieved to find Mr. Lancelot mellowing into such
a brotherly humor.
“Poor Wilson was as much concerned as I was, Lot,” he said. “The Lady
Letitia fibbed him into believing that he could present himself at
Hardacre. I knew nothing of the matter till last night. Wilson is
staying for a day at the Wheat Sheaf down in the village to offer you
his apologies, or honorable satisfaction, should you require it.”
Mr. Lot laughed good-humoredly, and reduced the cock of his sword.
“I don’t want to quarrel with the poor devil, Richard,” he said. “You
were both of you lambs sucking sour milk from the old dam above. I only
desired, sir, to see justice done to my sister.”
Richard, blushing guiltily, looked with some shyness at his cousin.
“How is Jilian?” he asked.
Lot’s face seized upon a most lugubrious expression. He shook his head,
and looked with significant pathos at Richard.
“Poor wench, she is in a terrible way—”
“Lot, I am miserably distressed.”
“She begged me to make no quarrel in the matter; swore it was no fault
of yours; wanted me to promise that I would not lose my temper.”
Richard listened, looking the embodiment of generous contrition. What an
angel this sweet cousin of his was, to be sure! Of course Jilian had had
little romances after she had come fresh from school. What girl had not?
And had not he, Richard Jeffray, brought all this distress upon her?
“Lot,” he said, “I am not worthy to kiss your sister’s hand. Do you
think that she will forgive me?”
Mr. Lancelot appeared profoundly serious, and glanced at his cousin
under wrinkled brows.
“Jill has a deuced kind heart, Dick,” he said.
“Can I see her to-morrow?”
“The lass has been much shaken, cousin; she kept her bed this morning.”
Richard, looking a fine and honest fellow with his eyes bright in his
flushed face, held out his hands to his cousin.
“Be my friend, Lot,” he said, “and persuade Jilian to let me see her. I
am a man of honor, sir, and your sister is a saint. Say I will ride over
to-morrow in the hope that she will see me.”
Mr. Lot studied his cousin keenly and smiled. The lad was honest and
generous enough; there would be no need of bullying.
“Egad, Richard,” he exclaimed, “you are a fine fellow, sir, and Lot
Hardacre is with you. Poor Jill has a tender heart, cousin. I’ll try to
get her to see you; I will. Sir Peter, too, is in a swearing rage,
Richard, but I’ll get old Stott over and have the governor bled.”
Richard, with tears in his eyes, gripped his cousin’s hand.
“Thank you, Lot,” he said—“thank you. You are a friend in need—by
Heaven, you are! As for my aunt, she shall leave Rodenham at once.”
Mr. Hardacre clapped Jeffray on the shoulder.
“That’s the tune, my buck,” he said, heartily; “be the master in your
own house, Richard, and don’t be grandmothered by any old woman. Why,
she would quarrel with you if you were for marrying St. Agnes, by gad,
she would. Have it out with her, cousin; she’s been treating you like a
foot-boy. I wouldn’t stand it, sir; I wouldn’t.”
Richard smiled a little ruefully, pressed his cousin’s red hand again,
and accompanied him to the porch. Mr. Lot mounted on the terrace,
flashed a keen look at his cousin, and took leave of him with boisterous
good-humor.
“Get to the windward of her, Richard,” he said, meaningly. “Give her a
broadside or two and she’ll strike. Damn it, cousin, don’t be a charity
boy in your own house.”
“To-morrow, Lot—”
“I’ll do my best, Richard, by gad, I will. Lot Hardacre’s your friend,
cousin, don’t you doubt it.”
Richard watched his kinsman ride away, and then went back to the library
somewhat hot about the eyes. He was glad that the quarrel was ending so
peaceably, and what an angel of sweetness Miss Jilian was, to be sure!
Yes, he was ready to go down on his knees and ask her pardon, yet—why
did Bess’s face flash up before him of a sudden? Well, he would go down
to the Wheat Sheaf and tell Wilson what had happened. And then—then he
must do battle with Aunt Letitia.