Remembering that Mary Sugg was to appear at the priory with her boxes
the following morning, Richard conceived it advisable that he should
enlighten the Lady Letitia as to Miss Sugg’s advent. Not desiring to
frighten the old lady, he announced to her after supper, with an air of
quiet unconcern, that there was a reputed case of small-pox in the
village and that he had offered his hospitality to Mary Sugg, who was
very susceptible to fever. The Lady Letitia received the news with
rampant astonishment, and fell straightway to abusing her nephew for
dreaming of introducing the parson’s daughter into the house.
“You must be mad, Richard,” she said, looking red and overheated, “to
think of dragging the girl up here. Precious little consideration you
show for your aunt’s safety, sir! I suppose my susceptibility to fevers
is not worthy of consideration.”
Jeffray attempted to mollify the old lady by describing poor Dr. Sugg’s
anxiety, and by dilating on the unhealthy position of the rectory, with
the church-pond close under its windows.
“Richard, you are an absolute booby,” she persisted. “How can you have a
young woman staying alone with you in the house, with no discreet
gentlewoman to see to the proprieties? Not that I am a prude, Richard,
but what will your estimable neighbors say?”
Jeffray appeared vexed and not a little impatient. Was the world full of
ridiculous entanglements of etiquette and propriety, and were all women
in the habit of flying into tempers whenever their personal comfort was
threatened?
“Why, madam,” he said, “I have known Mary Sugg since childhood, and
surely she is not a young gentlewoman likely to be made the subject of
scandal?”
“Scandal can blacken an archangel, nephew. You must not attempt the
impossible in life unless, of course, you intend to be improper.”
“Madam!”
“There, there; don’t frown at me, Richard. Can you not see, sir, that
you would expose yourself to the jeers and gossipings of your neighbors
by indulging in this quixotic sort of kindness? Mary Sugg is ugly, but
she is a woman, and ugly women, sir, are often very fascinating. I am
surprised that Dr. Sugg consented to the proposal.”
Richard’s lips curled perceptibly.
“To be frank with you, madam,” he retorted, “I think Dr. Sugg is a man
of sentiment and of sense. He is concerned for his child’s safety, and
his confidence in my honor is a compliment to my house. Why, poor Mary
and I used to make daisy chains together in the meadows when we were
children, and I can remember wanting her to ride my hobby-horse, and of
course she couldn’t,” and Mr. Richard laughed and blushed at the
reminiscence.
Aunt Letitia still regarded her nephew with a mournful and prophetic
stare.
“My dear Richard,” she said, “I am only attempting to defend you from
your own foolhardiness. The house is yours, and of course you can rule
it as you think fit. What would your neighbors say if Miss Jilian
Hardacre came to live with you before the crowning festival of
propriety?”
“That is no parallel, madam.”
“Hey! Then, nephew, go and ask Miss Hardacre to consent to Parson Sugg’s
daughter taking up her abode with you. If she displays no objection,
then, sir, my opinions are in the air.”
Jeffray bowed to his aunt’s personal prejudices none the less, and
despatched a servant with a note to the rectory, desiring Dr. Sugg to
postpone his daughter’s visit for a few days, since the Lady Letitia had
a great dread lest she should be exposed to infection.
Richard rode over to Hardacre that morning to discover that Miss Jilian
by no means approved of his suggestion that Mary Sugg should take up her
residence with him at the priory. She was surprised that Richard should
even have imagined such a thing, Trifling as the matter appeared,
Jeffray felt rebuffed and mortified. He had expected Jilian to give her
immediate consent to the plan, and behold, she seemed every wit as
shocked as the Lady Letitia. What had come to the women? Had poor Mary
Sugg been some lovely creature with pink cheeks and irreligious eyes,
then there might have been some reason for this pother.
“I am sorry if I have offended you, Jilian,” he said, a little
haughtily, “but it was a mere matter of neighborly courtesy. I have
known Mary Sugg from childhood.”
Miss Hardacre proceeded to demonstrate that she possessed a very decided
will of her own, and that even a purring, kittenish creature had claws.
“Richard, you are most unreasonable,” she argued, “and I am sure the
Lady Letitia advised you very sensibly. Why, the girl may be sickening
already. You might catch it from her—and give the disease to me.”
Jeffray made her a polite bow.
“I ask your pardon,” he retorted; “it is plain to me that I have not
considered the question selfishly enough. I will see Dr. Sugg and
explain the situation.”
“You need not tell the man that I objected, Richard.”
“Not?”
“La, sir, the responsibility is yours, is it not? What have I to do with
Mary Sugg?”
It may easily be conjectured that the parson’s daughter did not take up
her abode at Rodenham priory, and that Jeffray surrendered to Miss
Hardacre’s prejudices. He rode home in rather a sulky mood that day,
meditating on the fact that in betrothing himself to her he appeared to
have taken most baffling responsibilities upon his conscience.
Richard did not tell Jilian of his tryst at Holy Cross with Bess of the
Woods. He conceived that there was no shame in the adventure, since the
girl was in trouble and needed the counsel of a friend. Silent as to his
purpose, Richard rode to Hardacre that Monday, and found Miss Hardacre
vaporish and out of humor with the world. She was cross; nor did she
attempt to hide her petulance, expecting the lad to sympathize with her
over the shortcomings of her maid and Sir Peter’s stinginess in the
matter of pin-money. Richard, blushing and looking a little
uncomfortable, offered her guineas out of his own purse. Jilian’s eyes
glittered at the suggestion. She did not refuse the favor, and showed no
delicate dislike to taking Richard’s money.
Jeffray excused himself early, and rode through the chase and over the
heath towards Pevensel. The sky was gray and sullen, cloud masses moving
fast over the waving woods, and no sunlight splashing upon the greens
and purples of the forest. Dead leaves whirled and danced in the glades;
there was much swaying of pine-tops against the hungry sky.
He rode down through the woods, past the Calvary in the meadows, and
came towards Holy Cross asleep amid the green. Moving amid the broken
walls and arches he saw the girl spring down from the recess of a
window, a gray cloak and hood upon her head and shoulders. She unbuckled
the cloak and threw it aside as she came towards Jeffray over the grass,
her black hair gleaming almost with a purplish lustre, her face aglow,
her eyes shining. Jeffray had dismounted and thrown his bridle over the
bough of a stunted thorn. He turned towards Bess with a curious shyness
and a sense of rapid beating at the heart.
“Am I late?” he asked her.
She laughed, showing the regular whiteness of her teeth, the lustre in
her eyes increasing.
“I had to run from the hamlet,” she said, standing a little apart from
him with her hands over her heart. “They have been bullying me again; it
was yesterday, but the pistols kept them off. Mother Ursula is for
me—now.”
Richard was watching her with an instinctive delight in the splendid
aliveness of her beauty. There was something inevitable about her, a
passionate naturalness that made Miss Jilian seem a tangle of
affectations. Bess spoke out, looked straight with her keen, blue eyes,
and did not ogle, flirt, or simper.
“I am sorry that they will not leave you in peace,” he said.
“Peace! There will be no peace for me unless I shoot Dan or run away
or—”
She went red and looked troubled of a sudden, drooping her black lashes,
and beating her hands together softly as though measuring out the rhythm
of her thoughts. There was a wistfulness about her mouth that begot in
Jeffray a great yearning to comfort her.
“Bess,” he said.
She lifted her chin and looked at him, the light welling up again into
her eyes.
“If Dan is for being a brute to you—”
“Yes?”
“Come to me at Rodenham. We can give you a home there—until—we see
further into the future.”
Richard had almost spoken of his marriage, but had strangled the
confession before it had been uttered. Bess was looking at him steadily
with much forethought in her eyes. Richard’s chivalry did not wholly
convince her; some self-conscious and intangible difficulty appeared to
be hampering his mind.
“I thank you, Mr. Jeffray,” she said, slowly, “but—”
“Well?”
“You would be ashamed of me in your great house.”
Richard colored and looked at her appealingly.
“On my honor, Bess, no. Can you think such a thing of me?”
She smiled, half sadly, and still watched him with a species of
instinctive incredulity.
“If they make me desperate,” she began.
“You will let me help you?”
“Ah, but then—”
“Promise me, Bess. You saved my life once. And are you nothing to me?”
The words had slipped with sudden intensity off Richard’s tongue. They
seemed the very words that Bess had hoped to hear from him, and that she
was hungry to take into her heart. She drooped her shoulders a little,
her eyes shining, her hands hanging idly at her sides.
“Mr. Jeffray—”
“Yes?”
“I will come to you if—”
Richard’s face had kindled in turn, and his eyes had caught the light in
the woman’s. He held his breath, and found himself trembling as he
looked at her.
“On my honor, you shall be safe at Rodenham.”
She laughed, and moved nearer to him, her mouth and chin upturned to
his.
“I hate Dan,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I did not dream of him on St. Agnes’s night. It was of you, Mr.
Jeffray. I dreamed that I was gathering herbs in the ruins here, and
that I picked a great, red flower that turned to blood in my hand.
Then—I saw you standing in the doorway yonder—looking at me, and
then—I awoke.”
Richard gazed at her. She was very near to him, so near that he almost
felt her breath upon his mouth. He forgot Miss Jilian utterly for the
moment in the near splendor of this woman’s face.
“I shall pray to St. Agnes, Bess,” he said.
She smiled at him wonderfully with her eyes.
“I almost blessed Dan, sir, for wounding you in the woods.”
“Bess!”
“I have kept the cup out of which you drank, and put orpine in it, and
it grows lustily. Listen, did you hear Dan’s gun? He’s down by the
fish-ponds after wild duck.”
She had started back from Jeffray with all the soft, glamourish light
gone from her face, her eyes growing hard and fierce under her black
brows. With a significant gesture she turned and climbed into one of the
ruined windows, and, parting the ivy that hung in masses about the
jambs, looked out over the grass-land towards the abbey pools. A man was
standing under a willow with his back towards the ruins. He was busy
recharging his gun, and watching his spaniel that was swimming out to
recover the bird that had fallen into the water. Bess watched him a
moment with her eyes sullen and full of hatred. Surely some devil must
have persuaded the unconscious Dan to trudge down to the abbey ponds
that evening.
Springing down again, she ran back to Jeffray, her red petticoat
swinging about her slim, strong ankles.
“It is Dan,” she said, in a whisper, looking hard at Richard.
“Confound the fellow!”
Bess’s eyes gleamed sympathetically.
“You must go, Mr. Jeffray.”
“Go?”
“If Dan found you with me—”
Richard’s smooth face grew wondrous grim for the moment.
“I am not afraid of your cousin, Bess,” he said.
“Ah, you do not know Dan; he has the temper of a devil.”
Richard was looking at her very earnestly.
“Perhaps you are right, Bess,” he answered. “There is no reason why we
should betray our trysting-place to him. What shall you do?”
“Oh, I can hide and wait till Dan has gone. He will never suspect that I
am here. And when—”
She hesitated, and swayed nearer to Richard as they walked towards his
horse.
“When?” he echoed.
“Shall we meet here again?”
“Thursday.”
“Three days!”
“It cannot be before.”
She smiled mysteriously and looked at Richard with the same alluring
light shining in her eyes. How red and mischievous her lips looked!
Jeffray conceived a great thirst for them, but hung back as though his
honor shackled him. They were both a little shy of each other, looking
long into each other’s eyes and breathing rapidly. Then they heard Dan’s
voice calling to his dog, and Jeffray, mounting his horse, smiled at the
girl and rode out from the ruins. Bess stood watching him with her bosom
rising and falling and her face aglow.
Richard overtook Dan Grimshaw at the ford, and gave him “good-day” as he
splashed through the water. The forester’s ugly face clouded as he
recognized Jeffray. He touched his fur cap surlily, and appeared puzzled
to know what business the Squire of Rodenham had in Pevensel. Jeffray,
gathering that Bess was safe, pricked up his horse and took the path
through the woods.