Three days after hearing of Jilian’s illness, Jeffray took his first
drive with Wilson, in a light chaise that his father had used when his
increasing feebleness had debarred him from the saddle. Dame Meg, the
most sedate mare in the stable, was between the traces, with Wilson, who
was equal to ruling so amiable a lady, in possession of the reins. They
rattled through the park and turned down towards Rodenham village,
intending to follow the Lewes coach-road as far as the Lane that
branched off to Thorney Chapel, a hamlet lying under the southern slopes
of Pevensel. Jeffray, who felt the fog shifting from his brain as they
rolled along under the open sky, dilated to Wilson on the beauties of
the place, insisting that he must paint it, and that he, Richard, would
be the purchaser of the picture. He had been striving to persuade the
painter to pass the summer at the priory, a kindness that Mr. Dick’s
pride found some difficulty in accepting.
As they drove down into Rodenham village several of the women ran out to
courtesy to the young squire and grin congratulations at him on his
recovery. Richard bowed to them with a pleasant color rising in his
cheeks. He was a man whose natural desire was to be loved and trusted by
his fellows, and any affection that was shown to him inevitably kindled
a kindred feeling in his heart. On the steps of the Wheat Sheaf they saw
George Gogg standing, his hands thrust into his breeches-pockets under
his apron, and a blackened clay pipe between his teeth. Jeffray bade
Wilson draw up before the inn while he spoke sympathetically to the old
man on the loss of his daughter. George Gogg’s face looked flushed and
sodden as though he had been drinking heavily to drown his thoughts. His
blue eyes, that seemed to see everything and understand nothing, stared
blankly at the roofing of the village pump.
“Well, sir,” he said, “Parson Sugg tells me as how it is God’s way of
doing things, and I reckon it is a comfortable sort of notion that no
man can quarrel with. I mus’ say my poor wench was a purty wench, and I
reckon she won’t disgrace ’em up above in the matter of looks. Anyway,
the angels have got her, sir, for she was a gal as never did nobody any
harm. Her old father can best say ‘hallelujah,’ and think a bit more of
trying to climb up after her, and with Parson Sugg’s leave, sir, I’ll
hang on to his coat-tails till I feel a bit surer of my feet. Will it
please your honor to take a glass of wine?”
Jeffray shook Gogg’s hand sympathetically, and declined the courtesy.
“You have your boy, Gogg,” he said, kindly.
“Yes, I have the boy, sir, and he’s a stocky lad, though a bit fond of
helping himself to other folk’s fruit. I am glad to see your honor
looking so fit and hearty.”
“Thank you, Gogg, I am nearly myself again.”
“And I hope, sir, you will be soon saying the same of your good
lady—Miss Hardacre.”
Jeffray’s face hardened at the innkeeper’s words; the frank, beaming
look died out of the eyes, the angles of the sensitive mouth sank
instantly. Even this fat fool’s suavity seemed to summon before his eyes
all those grim and staring sentimentalities that hemmed him in like a
crowd of attorneys. George Gogg’s round person vanished with its
white-stockinged legs and dirty apron, and in its place Jeffray beheld
the implacable Sir Peter and Mr. Lot’s red and arrogant face. A small
crowd of children had gathered about the chaise, their natural
impertinence suppressed by a hoped for largesse of pence. Jeffray threw
some coppers among them as Wilson flapped the reins on Dame Meg’s back.
The brats scrambled and fought for the money, one urchin, a head taller
than the rest, concluding the scramble by forcing the pennies from the
fists of the feebler competitors. Richard’s munificence had wrought more
woe than pleasure. There was much blubbering and squealing, much running
together of angry mothers, ready to squabble over their children’s
feuds.
There was an amused glint in Wilson’s eyes as he caught a glimpse of
Jeffray’s melancholy face.
“See, sir,” he said, “the evils of too promiscuous a generosity. There
is about as much evil caused in this world by giving as by grinding. As
to that pretty superstition with regard to the beautiful innocence of
childhood, it is about as outrageous a myth as ever rose out of the
affectations of maternity. Children are generally worse than animals,
sir, since they inherit all the devilish and human cunning of their
ancestors.”
Jeffray lay back in the chaise as though he were weary.
“What it means to be an idealist!” he said.
“Live on a desert island and you may succeed,” quoth the painter, with a
smile.
The day was one of those magical days in May when the earth seems
radiant as for a bridal. A pearly haze hung like a great veil of
gossamer, tempering the blue of the cloudless heavens. The wind that
came from the east was scarcely strong enough to set the bluebells
nodding in the woods, or to scatter the fading blackthorn blossom from
the boughs. Despite his unlovely recollections of Rodenham village,
Jeffray’s spirit kindled as the chaise threaded the green, and he saw
the chaffinches darting in the hedgerows, and the larks shivering and
singing in the sun. Over the ploughed lands the crops were thrusting up
a myriad emerald spears, and already the buttercups were gilding the
quiet meadows.
They came to the lane that branched off from the high-road, and wound
over green hills and plunged into forest hollows towards the hamlet of
Thorney Chapel. The woods rose up before them with all the deepening
mystery of May as Dame Meg drew the chaise between the hedgerows. Dome
on dome, and height on height, the trees were piled towards the blue.
The spirits of spring were spinning everywhere, bronze for the oak,
silver and gold for the poplar and the willow, shimmering green for the
birch, beech, and thorn. Yonder a great larchwood rose solemn and stiff
beneath a thousand emerald spires. Dark yews and pines stood black amid
the lighter multitude. About the pillared fore-courts of the forest the
gorse was fringed and seamed with gold. Purple orchids had speared
through their sheaths. Bluebells dusted each lush green knoll. The broom
blazed like living fire.
The lane had turned down from the woods into a shallow valley that ran
east and west under the shadows of Pevensel. Meadow-land filled it, with
here and there a pine thicket isleted amid the green, while astride the
road lay the hamlet of Thorney, some half a score timbered cottages
huddled about a tumble-down inn. To the east of the hamlet, and divided
from it by a small stream and a fourteen-acre meadow, stood Thorney
Chapel, a squat, sombre-colored building of stone with an open belfry
and a wooden porch.
A few frowsy women, with children hanging about their skirts, were
loitering outside the chapel-gate as the chaise came down the hill
towards the hamlet. Wilson, who had a keen scent for all the human
interests of life, however trite and humble they might seem, prophesied
that a country wedding was in progress.
“To be sure, May is an unlucky month,” he said, with a smile, “but the
sun will shine on the bride; and, confound it, sir, the majority of
wedded couples might have been tied together in May to judge by the
unlucky show they make in after life. See, they seem to be coming out;
the brats and the shes are pointing their noses up the path. Let’s stop,
sir, and watch.”
The chapel burial-ground was bounded by a low stone-wall, and within two
gnarled thorns and a few yews watched over the lichened stones that
looked distinctly irreverent in their convivial attitudes. The bell in
the open belfry began to clang vigorously. The women and children
crowded round the gate, elbowing one another to enjoy one of the rare
and elemental sights life in such a wilderness provided.
Wilson had drawn the chaise up under one of the thorn-trees that
overhung the wall. He tilted his hat on to the back of his head, dropped
the reins, and wiped his forehead with a red cotton handkerchief.
“This would have been a chance for that knave Herrick,” he said, with a
wink. “His muse was wanton, but his life was chaste, so he said, sir,
the fox. He should have been a pleasant old pagan, should Robert
Herrick. He and Mr. Ovid would have made Miss Venus a lovely pair of
twins.”
Richard, leaning forward slightly in the chaise, was watching the folk
who were filing out of the chapel porch while the bell creaked to and
fro in the belfry overhead. There were half a dozen lads and men with
flowers in their hats and green jackets on their backs, chuckling and
elbowing one another outside the porch. Richard saw the bride come out
upon the bridegroom’s arm, a tall, black-haired girl gowned in green,
with a garland of flowers on her head, rosemary and ribbons in her
bosom. Her face looked strained and white in the sun, her dark eyes
sullen and restless, like the eyes of one afraid. Her hand was laid
lightly on the sleeve of the bridegroom’s coat, and she seemed to hold
apart from him, as though there were more hate in her heart than love.
There was a shout from the lads and men.
“The garters—the garters—”
It was a coarse custom in some country-sides that the oafs should
scramble for the bride’s ribbons. One lad, bolder than the rest, seized
hold of the bride’s gown, and began to fumble about her ankles. The
others followed him, and amid much coarse laughter, struggling and
scrambling, the garters were torn from below the bride’s knees. She
stood motionless the while, her face flushing crimson, her teeth biting
into her lips.
Jeffray’s face was like the face of a man undergoing torture. It was
Bess—Bess of the Woods, mocked by this ribaldry, Bess looking miserable
and fierce as any Cassandra wedded against her will. Richard’s eyes were
fixed on her face as she moved on down the path beside Dan—Dan dressed
out in his best clothes, rosemary in his button-hole and ribbons in his
hat. Bess held her head very high, looking neither to the right hand nor
the left. A few children threw flowers at her as she passed, but she
seemed neither to notice them nor the stupid, curious faces at the gate.
Limping behind her, bareheaded, came Isaac Grimshaw, his white hair
shining in the sun. Solomon and his sons followed with old Ursula and
the rest of the forest-folk.
At the gate Black Dan turned suddenly, clawed Bess’s waist, and put up
his great, hairy face, sweating with satisfaction, for the bride’s kiss.
What followed seemed swift as the flash of a swallow across the calm
surface of a pond. Jeffray, looking with terrible earnestness at Bess,
saw her face flush scarlet and a fierce flare of hate stream up into her
eyes. She twisted herself free of Dan of a sudden, and swept him a blow
with the back of the hand across the mouth.
There was a loud burst of laughter from the crowd at the gate. Dan’s
face darkened, as though he were minded to return the blow had not Isaac
limped in between them and cursed Bess in an undertone. Old Ursula was
beginning to snivel, and at the same instant Bess’s eyes fell on the
chaise waiting under the shadow of the thorn. She stood rigid, staring
at Jeffray, her mouth working, her bosom rising and falling. For the
moment the look in her eyes was as the look of a hunted thing ready to
run for shelter to Jeffray’s feet. Then the soul seemed to ebb out of
her again. She hung her head as though ruined and ashamed, and swayed
out of the gate, her hands hanging limply at her sides. Dan followed
her, grinning and slouching his heavy shoulders. Isaac, Ursula, and the
rest crowded behind them along the road.
Wilson, who had been utterly unconscious of Jeffray at his elbow,
laughed cynically, and watched Bess, who was thrusting aside the arm Dan
offered her.
“Zounds!” he said, “the wench has a temper; she looks too fine to be
broken by that boor. I never saw a woman seem less willing. Why,
Richard, lad, what’s amiss with you, eh?”
Jeffray was lying back in the chaise, white as linen, with his eyes half
closed. He had bitten his lower lip till the red blood showed in
contrast to his gray, strained face.
“I am faint, Dick, nothing more.”
“Let me drive you to the inn and get some brandy.”
“No, no, turn back home. I shall be better with the east wind blowing in
my face.”