The Lady Letitia, who was preparing for her departure from Rodenham,
treated her nephew very courteously, and with a species of pitying
kindness that suggested how profound and melancholy her forebodings were
as to the future. She had received the news of the betrothal from
Richard with unruffled dignity, showing neither malice nor irritation,
and even deigning to wish her nephew a happy and prosperous marriage.
“Ah, mon cher Richard,” she said, sitting very stiff and straight on her
brocaded fauteuil before the fire, “since I am the beaten party you must
permit me to march out of Rodenham with the honors of war. I have been
holding out for your liberty, sir, for you are young yet, Richard, nor
have you seen a great deal of the world. There, sir, don’t shake your
head at me; I will cease croaking. May you and your sweet Jilian be
happy.”
The old lady appeared quite affected, and Jeffray bowed to her and
kissed her hand.
“I trust that there is no ill-feeling left between us, madam,” he said.
Aunt Letitia remembered her nephew’s loan, and declared that she had
never been out of temper with Richard personally.
“You are one of those sweet fellows, nephew,” she explained, “who need
defending against their own generosity. Your honor is a sensitive and
untarnished virtue, sir, nor have you learned what the world is worth.
And now, my dear Richard, may an old woman be permitted to give you some
last fragments of advice?”
Jeffray, both amused and interested, expressed himself eager to be
benefited by the Lady Letitia’s wisdom.
“Well, sir,” she said, settling herself in her chair, “in the first
place, do not count too much on marriage. It is not always the honey-pot
young people imagine. And if you find your wife a little gay, Richard,
don’t weep over it and make a misery of life, but be gay in turn. You
will soon accustom yourself to being amused and satisfied by other
women.”
The old lady was as grave and solemn over her cynicisms as a bishop over
the expounding of the creed. Jeffray was not a little surprised at
receiving such strange and ominous advice.
“Frankly, madam,” he said, “I must confess that I look for better things
for Jilian and myself.”
The Lady Letitia was stern as some ancient druidess.
“Do not hope for anything in this life, sir,” she said; “take pleasure
as it comes, and make the most of it. Do not be deceived by sentimental
notions of propriety, and do not count on the future, for our
expectations generally turn out to be ridiculous. Drink the wine in the
cup, sir, and don’t plot for the morrow. And stick to your money,
Richard; for whatever poets may say, money is the only sure friend in
this world.”
The Lady Letitia’s philosophy was not vastly cheering to her nephew’s
spirit, but then the sordid truth is never welcome to the ardent soul of
youth. He pitied her for the poverty of her sentiments, and yet felt
uncomfortably conscious all the while that there was much shrewd wisdom
in her words. His money, yes! Would Miss Jilian Hardacre have loved him
if he had been without a penny? Would Sir Peter have waxed so amiable
and hearty? Would the rough boors touch their hats to him and the
farmers wax obsequious in his presence? Richard smiled somewhat sadly
over these thoughts, like a man finding his creed light in the balance.
Yet there was Dick Wilson, the rough knave whose tongue was clumsy.
Jeffray believed in him. And Bess? Why should he think of Bess at such a
moment? Bess Grimshaw was inclined to pout and quarrel with his wealth
because—and Richard flushed at the conviction—because his gentility
threw up a barrier between them. Jeffray had never contrasted Miss
Jilian and the forest child in this bright light before.
The morning after his talk with Aunt Letitia, Jeffray walked in his
garden and watched the spring flowers that were spearing through the
brown earth in the borders. The snowdrops had melted away, and gaudy
crocuses, purple and gold, blazed beyond the hedges of close-clipped
box. Hyacinths were thrusting up, tulips spreading their stout leaves.
On the lawns below the terrace daffodils were nodding in the wind,
lighting the sombreness of the yews and cedars.
As Richard walked his gravel-paths, thinking of Bess and of her shrouded
history, a short, sturdy figure in black appeared upon the terrace and
came down the steps towards the garden. It was Dr. Sugg, the fat rector
of Rodenham, whose red face shone forth with fiery solemnity under his
powdered wig.
Dr. Barnabas Sugg was a favorite with the villagers. He could drink good
beer, preach short sermons, and refrain from poking his amiable nose too
parsonically into his parishoners’ affairs. He was a good man, though no
ascetic, a round and rich-voiced gentleman, who was ready to put his
hand into his pocket on occasions, and to give comfort to such as came
to see him in his stuffy and smoke-haunted little parlor. Dr. Sugg was a
high authority with the women. Had he not “churched” them and baptized
their babies? Who could handle an erring wench and her lad so well, or
persuade them to satisfy the prejudices of society? Who could sit and
listen more good-naturedly to the small woes of the rough cottagers? The
rector was no fire-fly, no sweating, shrieking Jonah, making hell lurid
to the frightened oafs and wenches. A very human rogue, he lived his
life among the rustics, worked with them, ay, swore at them when the
occasion called for unshrinking eloquence. As for Mr. Wesley and his
preachers, they had made no conquests in the rector’s kingdom. More than
one gospeller had sampled the bottom of the village pond.
Dr. Sugg approached Jeffray with an expression of unusual solemnity that
morning, while the peacocks strutted in sapphire and gold and the white
pigeons coquetted on the columbary roof.
“Good-morning, sir. I hope the Lady Letitia is well?”
Jeffray answered for his aunt’s health and shook the parson by the hand.
They boasted a mutual liking for each other, for though poor Sugg did
not live the life of a St. Francis, he was a veritable mine of culture
and erudition when compared with the squirearchs of the Sussex weald.
“Well, sir, I am not a bird of happy omen.”
The rector blew his nose and flapped his scarlet handkerchief in the
air.
“What evil tidings am I to hear?” asked Jeffray, smiling.
“Just this, sir, that the small-pox is said to be in Rodenham.”
“The small-pox, Sugg!”
“A bad business, Mr. Richard, for we have been free of the plague these
many years. I refer to the plague, sir, and not to the Methodists.”
“How was it brought into the village?”
“By a peddler fellow from Lewes, I have heard. He had an attic at the
Wheat Sheaf for a night, and George Gogg’s girl, Kate, has sickened with
what Surgeon Stott says is the yellow-pox, and I suppose he knows. Where
it will end, sir, God only can tell.”
Richard was no coward, but he looked grave enough over Dr. Sugg’s
tidings. He knew that the disease was Death’s right-hand man in England,
and that there were more folk who were scarred than there were folk who
had gone free. High and low dreaded the scourge; the toper went white
over his punch-bowl; madam in her perfumed boudoir shivered at the
thought of the marring of her face.
“What is being done?” he asked, quietly.
“Done, sir; what can be done? I don’t suppose there are five souls in
the village who have ever been inoculated. I trust, Mr. Richard, that
you are one of them.”
“I followed Lady Montague’s example—before I went abroad.”
“Then you should be safe, sir. But those cottagers yonder would breed
the pest as a dunghill breeds flies. Then there is my poor Mary. If it
spreads, sir, she’ll take it as she takes everything—mumps, measles,
and the ague. Good God, Mr. Richard, I lost my wife by the small-pox!
What should I do if I lost my girl?”
The rector’s voluminous voice quavered with honest feeling. He blew his
nose vigorously, blinked his eyes, and looked at Jeffray with lugubrious
eagerness. Richard was touched by the old man’s distress. Poor Mary
Sugg; her plain face could not bear further detractions from its beauty.
“Why not take her away?” he asked.
A mild frown spread itself across the rector’s forehead. He stared into
the distance and shook his head.
“The girl might go,” he observed, slowly, “and yet I don’t think it is
right lest she might carry the pest with her. No, sir, I don’t think it
would be honest. As for me, Mr. Jeffray, I have no intention of turning
tail. What would the poor folk think of their spiritual father if he
tucked up his gown and scuttled directly the devil came down on them in
the shape of a damnable disease?”
There was a look of blunt heroism on Dr. Sugg’s commonplace old
countenance that refreshed Jeffray’s spirit of revolt against the Lady
Letitia’s cynicism.
“You are right, sir,” he said. “I respect you for your sense of duty.
The priory is a safer place than the rectory. Let Mary come up here
to-morrow. Of course I shall forbid my servants going down into the
village.”
Dr. Sugg appeared grateful and comforted. He sniffed, and shook
Jeffray’s hand with unction.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, “I thank you from my heart. And shall you
remain at Rodenham yourself?”
Richard smiled.
“I have no intention of running away,” he answered, “since I may be of
some use if the plague spreads. What are they doing down at the Wheat
Sheaf? There is the old pest-house down by the brook, is there not?”
The rector sighed and shook his head.
“George Gogg won’t let his daughter be moved, sir,” he said, “in spite
of Surgeon Stott’s fuming. As for the pest-house, the roof’s half in,
and Farmer Summers has been keeping his cattle in it. It ain’t fit for
use.”
Richard took the responsibility to himself.
“I am afraid the fault is mine,” he said; “I ought to have had the place
kept in repair. Well, send Mary and her boxes up to-morrow. We will take
her in till the danger is over.”
Richard rode over to Hardacre that same afternoon and found his
betrothed in the garden, a coquettish straw hat on her auburn head, the
blue ribbons tied in a bow under her chin. Miss Hardacre carried a
basket and a rake, and looked as rustic as a somewhat gorgeous blue gown
and green hoop would suffer. Miss Jilian’s gowns were legion, and it
appeared as though she had one for each day of the month. They were part
of the munitions of war, and Sir Peter flattered himself that now Mr.
Richard had surrendered, he would no longer receive such outrageously
long bills from the smart millinery establishment at Tunbridge Wells.
Richard made his betrothed a very fine bow, and was permitted to kiss
the hand upon whose third finger shone the diamonds and rubies he had
given her.
“La, Richard,” quoth Miss Jilian, looking coy, “you have caught me in my
oldest clothes, sir. You must remember that I have my housewifely
duties. Sir Peter never troubles his head about the garden, and I have
to see that the rascals weed the paths.”
Mr. Richard declared that he admired a woman who was thoroughly
domesticated.
“But really, Jilian,” he said, innocently, “your old clothes look very
handsome. May I carry the basket for you?”
Miss Hardacre simpered, looked at her little feet, and blushed. She took
care to be very coy and quaint with Richard, tricked out with charming
affectations of simplicity, altogether a pretty pastoral of the cream
and rose bloom order. No unspoiled youth would ever have fancied that
many a male arm had circled that slim waist, or that sundry and several
gallants had tasted those cherry lips.
“I hope you like pretty clothes, Richard,” she said, archly, handing him
the basket, and wafting odors of lavender and of violet from her laced
bosom like a living flower.
“Indeed, Jilian, I am proud to see you look so gay.”
“La, sir, I shall be a terrible expense to you, I am sure. What will you
give me to dress myself on? Twenty pounds, eh, cousin?”
“Just as much as you like, Jilian.”
“Oh, Richard, how generous you are!”
“Am I?”
“You will be spoiling me, sir. But I do love pretty clothes, Richard,
and scarves and perfumes and jewelry. Is it vanity, sir?”
“Very natural vanity,” quoth Mr. Richard, smiling, yet looking a little
thoughtful.
Miss Hardacre glanced at him and arched her brows.
“There, you are teasing me, Richard,” she said; “I am sure you are.”
“I, laughing at you, Jilian?”
“Now you are frowning, to be sure. Is ought amiss with you, mon cher?
You looked quite troubled and absent. Does my silly chatter tire you? I
am such a gay, thoughtless little thing, and you, sir, are so terribly
clever. Oh, I do hope I shall make you happy!”
Jeffray, angry with himself for the rebellious thoughts that were in his
heart, pressed Miss Hardacre’s hand, and poured a pretty speech or two
into her ear.
“I am a little troubled, Jilian,” he confessed. “Dr. Sugg told me this
morning that there is a case of small-pox in Rodenham.”
Miss Jilian’s mouth gaped a little and her eyes hardened.
“Oh, Richard, how terrible!”
“Yes—terrible.”
She had shrunk almost imperceptibly away from him.
“I hope you have not been in any of those horrid cottages, Richard? The
wretched people are so dirty and careless. Oh, the thought of the plague
always terrifies me.”
Jeffray glanced at her gravely and with slight surprise. Miss Hardacre’s
expression was one of petulant impatience.
“It will be a terrible thing, Jilian,” he said, “if the villagers are
stricken down. The poor people are so ignorant that they cannot help
themselves.”
“La, Richard, it will be their own fault, the silly, dirty wretches. Let
me implore you not to go into Rodenham village.”
“I am not afraid,” quoth Mr. Richard, quietly.
“But you must think of me, sir. I do not want to be disfigured for life.
Sir Peter would never let me be inoculated—or whatever they call it. He
always said it was a nasty piece of nonsense.”
Richard hung his head a little, and noticed that Miss Hardacre still
held her perfumed person at some slight distance from him.
“But, Jilian,” he said, “if the poor folk are ill I must try to do
something to help them.”
The sweet angel showed further symptoms of impatience, even of temper.
She carried her head very haughtily, and looked with some imperiousness
at her betrothed.
“I suppose my wishes are of no account, Richard?”
“Jilian!”
“Oh yes, sir, it will be very nice for you to come and make love to me
after you have been sitting in some dirty, festering hovel! Really,
Richard, you must consider your position and my wishes. I suppose I have
more claim upon your consideration than some frowsy cottage woman, eh?”
Miss Hardacre appeared in peril of tears, and Richard was moved to
appease her with promises as best he could. Being a sensitive and
somewhat diffident youth, he supposed himself wholly at fault in so
delicate a matter, and apologized to his betrothed for seeming so
careless of her health and happiness. After much sentimental persuasion
Miss Hardacre deigned to smile and to receive him again into favor,
ordering him, however, on pain of her extreme displeasure not to
contaminate his person in the thatched hovels of Rodenham.