Jeffray left Hardacre House that afternoon with his betrothal an assured
fact in the eyes of Christendom. The way the fog had melted before him
of a sudden had surprised even the generous Squireling of Rodenham. He
had expected an unnerving interview with Sir Peter, and possibly a very
affecting one with Miss Jilian, and here—in a morning he found himself
betrothed to the daughter and embraced and blessed by a future father.
Jeffray could only admire in Sir Peter the workings of an admirable and
manly spirit of forgiveness. As for Mr. Lot, Richard still felt the slap
that worthy gentleman had given him upon the shoulder and the hearty way
he had crunched his hand. Jilian had been wondrous sweet and coy with
her betrothed, and Jeffray should have boasted himself happy in
possessing the right to clasp such perfumed purity in his arms.
Was it the inevitable reaction after so much sweet ecstasy and such
squanderings of sentiment that threw Richard into a decidedly melancholy
mood after taking leave of his Jilian on the terrace? No doubt the
parting from the lady should have accounted for the onset of such a
humor, but Richard’s inclinations were contrary to custom, since he
desired to think and to be alone. Whether contact had crumbled up the
romance, or whether the seriousness of the step bulked for the first
time in Jeffray’s mind, he found himself meditating on the affair with a
chilly reasonableness that was not begotten in the rapturous school of
Venus.
Why was it that Aunt Letitia’s gibes and fables recurred with such
vividness to his mind? He had not heeded them before the crisis;
wherefore should he heed them now? He wished somehow that Wilson had not
loved the girl ten years ago; ten years were ten years—despite
idealism. What was amiss with him that the happy reunion of the morning
lost some of its glamour and assumed the suggestive notion of a net?
Surely he was not for recovering his own liberty, that liberty that had
weighed as a mere feather in the balance against honor? Was not Jilian
sweet and amiable, and still a girl, though older than himself? Surely
he could imagine a father in Sir Peter and a worthy brother in honest
Lot? And yet the vapor of melancholy persisted in Richard Jeffray’s
mind, despite his angry reasonings with himself. He had been happy in
the morning, righteously and sincerely happy. Why this loosening of the
cords of confidence, this morbid introspection that suggested the
possibility of error.
The day was such a one as begets the ideal of spring in the heart, warm,
fragrant, like a dewy dawn in June. The hills and valleys were bathed in
silvery light, a light more delicate and rare than the glare of summer.
All the colors of the landscape were soft and beautiful, the dusky
greens, the purples, the browns, the blue mistiness of the distant
downs. On the far hills beyond Pevensel a piece of ploughed land would
flash up almost as gold under the sun, or a chalk cliff glisten like
foam at the throat of a bursting billow. The meadows in the lowlands
were like a mosaic of emeralds set in silver.
Jeffray took the western track that plunged into Pevensel by White Hard
Ghyll. The pines and firs stood out a rich and generous green against
the sensitive azure of the sky, while the olive-colored trunks of the
oaks upheld the purple feltwork of swelling buds above. The yellow palm
was flashing in the breeze; primroses shone everywhere amid the moss and
leaves. The ragged and tempestuous gorse flamed about the listening
shadows of the woods. The track ran down into the wastes and crossed the
stream that fretted by the ruins of the old Abbey of Holy Cross.
Richard had not seen the place since he had climbed and hunted there as
a boy in the days when life flew fast and without thought. Holy Cross
was a mile or more from the hamlet of the foresters, and perhaps some
insensible magic drew Jeffray towards this relic of Popish power. The
monastic calm, the glow of ancient memories, would be in keeping with
the temper of the day. Certainly Mr. Richard was not anxious to return
to the society of the Lady Letitia, and he found sufficient friendship
in his thoughts. Yet the sly plea crept in amid the rest, for if chance
favored him he might catch sight of Bess amid the woods, and learn how
fortune had served her since she had nursed him in old Ursula’s cottage.
He walked his horse down the hill that closed in Holy Cross on the
north. He saw the ruined walls and the ragged remnant of a tower rising
beyond the trees that covered the hill-side. A stream came glinting
through the green to swell into a broad pool above the stone weir that
the monks had built of old. The thunder of the fall filled the dreamy
silence of the valley, as though chanting an eternal mass for the souls
of those who had lived and died in Holy Cross.
He gave himself to these Gothic mysteries for a while before turning his
horse towards the ford that crossed the stream some sixty yards above
the weir. The weir pool was hidden by undergrowth and a clump of firs
and birches. The sound of his horse’s hoofs was deadened by the mossy
grass as he rode down slowly from the ruins. As he rounded the birchen
brake he saw something on the farther side of the stream that made him
rein in suddenly.
Bess was sitting on a rock beside the pool, combing her hair with her
fingers as it hung in a black mass over her shoulders. She looked up as
Jeffray came splashing through the water, recognized him instantly, and
flushed red as a poppy. A peculiar light kindled in her keen, blue eyes,
softening their hardness, and making her face seem less petulant and
heavy.
Jeffray dismounted and advanced towards her, leading his horse by the
bridle. Bess had risen and came some paces to meet him, making no
pretence to conceal her pleasure.
“Bess, I am glad I happened to take the track by the abbey.”
“I am glad, also, Mr. Jeffray.”
They looked at each other and smiled, instant sympathy flashing from
face to face. Bess looked very handsome with her black hair about her,
and Jeffray could not refrain from confessing the truth instinctively to
himself. Never in all Italy had he seen such coloring, such eyes, or so
fine a figure. To be sure her hands were a little red and rough, but
they were prettily made, and suited her simple and brightly colored
clothes.
“I have been wishing to see you,” said the girl, beginning to bind up
her black hair and watching Jeffray all the while.
“To see me, Bess?”
“They seem long days since I nursed you in our cottage.”
Richard, good youth, experienced secret pleasure at the confession. The
girl’s voice, deep, rich, and slightly husky, contrasted strangely with
Miss Jilian’s prattle. She spoke slowly, as though with an inward
effort, trying to temper her words to Jeffray’s superior culture. It was
done without affectation, however, and her quaint, slow way of mouthing
her words had an irresistible charm in it that made Jeffray delight in
hearing her speak.
“You have been bathing, Bess?”
She laughed, blushed a little, and began to coil up her hair over the
curve of her long, brown neck.
“You might have caught me, Mr. Jeffray.”
This time Richard colored.
“How are they treating you in Pevensel?” he made haste to ask.
“Treating me?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad of your pistols.”
Her expression changed suddenly from frankness to rebellion. Jeffray,
who was studying her with a secret sense of delight, marked the
hardening of her red mouth, the gleam in her fierce, far-sighted eyes.
He had forgotten Miss Jilian completely for the moment, and the delicate
and highly civilized sentiments that had made him throw his liberty at
her feet.
“Tell me what your trouble is,” he asked her.
“They are for marrying me to Dan.”
“What!”
“They tried to force me into it. Mother Ursula was with them till Dan
tried his bullying, and then she held him and his father off.”
The expression on Richard’s amiable face contradicted its habitual
shinings towards sweetness.
“But, Bess, old Grimshaw promised me—”
“He’s as bad as Dan,” she said, with a snarl. “I hate—hate them both.”
“They can’t marry you against your will.”
“Not while I have the pistols.”
There was a look almost suggestive of fear on her face for the moment,
despite its spirit of defiance. She glanced round her swiftly, and drew
closer to Jeffray.
“I am afraid of Dan.”
“Afraid, Bess?”
“Yes, as much as I am of anything.”
Jeffray understood her meaning of a sudden. His sensitive face grew
strangely stern and thoughtful, and there was a tightness about his
mouth, a steadiness in his eyes that would have puzzled Mr. Lancelot
Hardacre.
“You keep the pistols by you?” he asked, quietly.
Bess pointed to the rock where her red cloak lay.
“See, one is there,” she said. “They are the best friends I have in
Pevensel. I look to the priming every day.”
Jeffray’s usually smooth brow was still knotted in thought.
“I wonder if I could help you, Bess,” he said.
She gazed at him curiously, with one hand at her throat.
“Perhaps,” she answered.
“How?”
She glanced round her rapidly as though accustomed to fear what the
woods might conceal. The sun was low in the west and the forest-clad
valley full of golden mist. She took her cloak and pistol from the rock,
and pointed to a path that branched off from the main ride into a
larch-wood, telling Jeffray that they could reach the Beacon Rock heath
by the path.
Thus with the shadows of the twilight stealing over the woods, and the
birds piping lustily in every thicket, Bess and Richard Jeffray wandered
through Pevensel together, looking with questioning youth into each
other’s eyes. Bess began to tell him of the memories that stood like
frail ghosts on the threshold of her forest life. She told him of the
flitting fancies of other days, of the faces and scenes she but half
remembered. Jeffray, impressed by her eager intensity of belief, reacted
to the many suggestions her words inspired. He watched her as she walked
beside him, tall, lissome, and convincing, her looks eloquent towards
the proving of her childish memories. Jeffray had seen what country
hoydens were worth in the matter of charm and of beauty, and had
discovered pretty milkmaids to be a myth. Bess was as different from any
Sussex Blowzelinda as a stately cypress from a dwarf oak outcrowded in
some sodden wood.
When she had ended he turned to her with no little eagerness, as though
her needs were already his.
“Have you ever spoken of this to any one?” he asked her.
Her face had kindled in the telling of the tale, and her eyes met
Jeffray’s and held them steadily.
“I have often spoken to old Ursula, but she has always laughed at me.”
“And you have no trinkets or rings that might have come from your
mother?”
She shook her head, still looking at him solemnly.
“Not one.”
“And why do they want to marry you to Dan?”
“Because he’s hot for my sake,” she answered, coloring and looking
fierce.
Jeffray walked on for a while in silence, his horse’s bridle over his
arm. Peter Gladden had hinted at mysteries with regard to the
forest-folk, and confessed that no one knew how the Grimshaws came by
their money. Could Bess have been stolen away as a child in gypsy
fashion? Were her memories of the sea, the great ship, and the rest mere
dawn dreams or the dim evidences of her origin? He glanced at her as she
swung along at his side, her strong chin up, her keen eyes watching the
darkening woods. He had never seen a Sussex wench bear herself like
Mistress Bess.
“Bess,” he said, suddenly.
Her eyes flashed round to him.
“There is something about you that makes me believe that you are not of
the Grimshaw stock.”
“Ah—”
“You look as though you had been born to be a great lady, and not Mother
Ursula’s niece.”
By the light in Bess’s eyes and the softness about her mouth, the
innocent flattery seemed very sweet to her.
“Do you know what made me tell you all this, Mr. Jeffray?” she asked.
“No—”
“Because you are one of the great folk—and because I—am nothing.”
Jeffray missed her meaning for the moment, and then caught a subtle
something in the girl’s eyes that made him hold his breath.
“God knows, Bess,” he said, “whether you are a Grimshaw or no. I have as
much honor for you as though you were my sister.”
She colored and looked a little peevish about the mouth.
“Thank you, Mr. Jeffray,” she answered.
They had come out upon the heath that smiled in the evening light. The
deep azure of the east curved up beyond. The woods stood a rare purple
below them, and a few plover were flapping and wailing over the moor.
“Bess,” said the man, looking in her face.
She glanced at him and waited.
“You will count me your friend?”
“Ah—I have done so—already.”
“And I want to talk with you again.”
“I can be by the abbey.”
“On Monday—about four?”
“Yes. I can be there.”
They stood looking at each other in silence, as though there were some
regret in either heart that the sun had sunk below the hills. It was
growing dusk apace. Richard fumbled with his bridle and made as though
to go. They were standing quite close to each other in the dusk, Bess’s
eyes fixed upon Jeffray’s face, her lips half parted as though she were
about to speak.
“I have not told you my dream,” she said, with a little laugh.
“St. Agnes’s dream?”
“Yes. I will tell it to you on Monday.”
Jeffray held out his hand to her. She was stooping a little, and her
look suggested that she would have liked Richard to kiss her. The man
remembered Miss Jilian Hardacre of a sudden, and he gazed at Bess as
though some intangible barrier were between them.
“Good-night.”
“Good-night, Bess. I will think of you—till next time.”