The white curtains with red roses flowered on them were half drawn over
the windows of Miss Hardacre’s bedroom. Miss Jilian’s room smelled
mildly of musk and lavender-water, and there were flowers in the vases
upon the mantle-shelf and in the cream-colored Wedgwood bowl upon the
French occasional table. The bed was spread with a red silk quilt, the
turned-down sheets looking white as milk when contrasted with the
expanse of red below. The panels on the walls were painted with
garlands, cherubs’ heads, and silly, fat Cupids straddling lambs. The
door of the robe-cupboard was open, showing a hanging-garden of gowns.
On a couch by one of the windows lay Miss Jilian herself, wrapped in a
pale-green bed-gown, red slippers on her feet, and one of Mr.
Richardson’s novels in her hands. Through the open window came the
constant drone of the bees that were working the honeysuckle under the
window-ledge. The monotonous clicking of a needle imitated the ticking
of a death-scarab against the wainscoting. A little old woman in a white
mob-cap and a black-stuff gown sat sewing at a little distance from the
couch, her red-knuckled hands moving busily over the lace and linen in
her lap. Every now and again her peering, short-sighted eyes would fix
themselves with a mute, inquiring kindliness on Miss Hardacre’s face, as
though her thoughts were busy as her hands.
Alas for Miss Jilian’s tawny fleece of hair! The golden masses had
fallen to the shears, and nothing but a sharp, crisp aureole remained.
On a little table beside the couch lay a black silk mask, a hand-mirror,
a powder box and puff, and a rosewood case that told of Dutch pink and
Chinese paints, lip-salves, wash-balls, and ointments scented with
orange and with jessamine. Even these inanimate things gave a pathetic
significance to the scene, hinting at the havoc disease had wrought upon
poor Jilian’s comeliness. The truth was evident enough to the most
casual of glances. Angry pits disfiguring cheeks and forehead, eyes
injected and inflamed, the lids red and half empty as to lashes.
It was plain that Mr. Richardson’s sentimentalities tended rather to
aggravate Miss Hardacre’s troubles to herself. She laid down the book
betimes, took up her glass, toyed with it awhile as though dreading its
candor, and then compelled herself to snatch a glimpse at her own face.
She frowned at the reflection, and put the glass aside with a gesture of
impatience. Poor child, the chastening she was receiving seemed
over-hard and malicious despite the fact that she had been courting
bitterness by the cultivation of her own vanities. For Jilian, a month’s
sickness had changed the whole complexion of earth and of heaven. She
had none of the comfortable religious spirit in her that creates a
passive heroism out of the renunciation of her own comeliness. She was
of the world, and loved every pretty stitch and glistening gew-gaw and
silken flower in its gay attire, and saw nothing in quiet sanctity that
could recompense her soul.
The little old woman in black had been blinking her eyes and fidgeting
with her work, while Miss Hardacre was suffering the ordeal of looking
for the hundredth time at her own face. Jilian’s own maid had refused to
attend on her mistress at the very beginning of her illness, and old
Mrs. Martha, who had handled both Lot and his sister in their infancy,
had been brought from the cottage, where she had been pensioned, to
nurse Jilian through the small-pox.
Mrs. Martha was unable to restrain the impatience of her loyalty and
pride when Miss Hardacre’s hand wavered once more towards the mirror.
She jumped up very briskly for so shrivelled an old lady, toddled across
the polished floor, snatched up the mirror, and plunged it into the
pocket of her voluminous apron.
“The good Lord knows, my dear,” she said, with the affectionate
familiarity of an old servant—“the good Lord knows why you should be
for making yourself vaporish and miserable with this paltry bit of
glass! You should forget to look into a mirror, my dear, and in a month
you won’t be so much afraid of your own pretty face. I’ve seen ladies as
have had the small-pox before, haven’t I? And very decent faces they
managed to keep after it, though I’ll warrant they were more like plum
dumplings afore the pock-marks healed.”
Jilian lay back looking piteously about the mouth, as though she were
trying not to believe a word of what this silly old woman said. Mrs.
Martha had toddled back to her chair with the air of a grandmother who
has done her duty by a peevish child.
“I hope you may be right, Martha,” said Miss Hardacre, miserably; “to be
sure I look ugly enough now to make Mr. Richard go off into a faint.”
Mrs. Martha seated herself in her chair with solid precision. She
fingered her work irritably, and continued her declaiming as though some
imaginary person were threatening her constantly with contradictions.
“And I should like to know who Mr. Richard Jeffray is, to give himself
airs before a Hardacre of Hardacre? His grandfather was an ‘iron man,’
as we all know, I reckon; he made his money by turning the country-side
upside down, and cutting down all the trees. And hasn’t Mr. Jeffray been
down with the small-pox himself, and didn’t he give it to you, sure; for
you must have had it of him, my dear, or I never heard Parson Jessel
read the Bible. As for your purty face, my dear, it’ll just mend superb
with all the fine stuffs you may be using in that there box. And the
hair always grows stronger, like a tree, for being pruned. And maybe Mr.
Jeffray may be worse off than you in the matter of scars.”
Jilian looked round the room wearily, her eyes resting at last on the
tulips and jonquils in the blue bowl, an offering from Rodenham. The old
woman had uttered many of the thoughts in her busy, cackling way that
had been moving in Miss Hardacre’s brain itself. Had not Jeffray given
her the disease, and was it not his duty to be all the more tender and
sympathetic in consequence? Jilian almost hoped that he had been more
disfigured than herself so that his senses should have no cause to
boast. And then, after all, her face would be fairer to look upon when
her hair had grown and the red pock-marks had paled.
“So you have heard, Martha,” she asked, “of other ladies losing their
scars?”
The old woman moistened her lips with a sharp and viperish tongue.
“I mind Lady Hankinson a-taking of the small-pox, my dear. She was a
mighty fine woman in her day, and kept my lord in order with her looks.
Well, she had the gentlemen round her like flies at the routs, just as
much as ever. She wasn’t quite so smooth and creamy, my dear, but she
was a fine lady with as fine a pair of eyes as ever made a man feel hot
as a live coal. And she had a figure, too; one of them big,
duchessy-looking ladies she was, as would make you think as they’d need
extra webbing in their beds.”
Jilian smiled more optimistically, and, taking a fan from the table,
spread its painted sticks and seemed inclined to rehearse some of her
charming affectations.
“The small-pox can’t spoil a gentlewoman’s figure, Martha,” she said.
“Don’t you fret, my dear. Men like a slim waist and a plump bosom. And
there ain’t a lady in Sussex with hair like yours. And your nose is
there with a purty eye peeping out like a jewel on either side, and a
little red mouth below it as any gentleman would be proud to kiss. Don’t
you fret yourself about young Mr. Jeffray, my dear.”
And Jilian, finding herself cheered and inspirited by the old woman’s
flattering assertions, became ready as we all are to believe those
things which are pleasant to the heart.
Much the same problem was discussed that night by Sir Peter and Mr.
Lancelot as they drank their punch, with the ancestral faces peering
down at them gravely from the walls. The light from the candles in their
silver stands glimmered on the polished table that shone like brown
water. The casements were open, the heavy red curtains undrawn, and a
nightingale was singing in the shrubbery below the terrace. The
punch-bowl, with its green dragons and blue mandarins, steamed near Sir
Peter’s portly paunch. Mr. Lot slouched in his chair as usual, with his
hands thrust deep into his pockets and a clay pipe hanging out of the
corner of his mouth. He smiled very shrewdly at his father from time to
time, chuckled, and delivered himself of some forcible and oracular
remarks.
“I take it that you had better see the lad,” quoth the baronet, as he
ladelled out another glass of punch. “You can see what temper he shows,
Lot, whether he’s inclined to shy or not.”
Mr. Lancelot twisted his mouth into an expressive pucker, and appeared
inspired by a sense of his own cleverness.
“I’ll snaffle him, sir,” he said.
“Poor Jill’s a deuced fright, but for God’s sake, boy, don’t tell her I
said so.”
“She’ll wipe the spots out a bit in time. Give the girl a chance.”
Sir Peter grunted laboriously, and unfastened the lower buttons of his
waistcoat. His mottled face appeared heavy and lugubrious despite his
frequent reversions to the punch-bowl and his confidence in his son’s
astuteness.
“It’s deuced hard luck on the wench, Lot,” he said; “and Richard gave
her the ugly face, there’s no denying it.”
“I’ll rub that truth into him, sir, never fear.”
“He’s a nice, gentle lad.”
“Richard wants stroking the right way, sir, and taking on the high
poetic horse. He’s a man of sentiment, and he’ll swallow the stuff like
senna, and thrive on it, by gad! I know my mount, sir,” and Mr. Lot laid
a fat forefinger along his nose.
“Well, well,” said the baronet, reflectively, “I don’t want the lass
jilted again; we’ve had enough of it before. And Dick Jeffray’s a
pleasant lad with a useful pot of money to his name.”
“Don’t I know the color of a guinea, sir?” quoth Mr. Lot, with a thick
laugh.
It may easily be gathered that Richard Jeffray was soon favored with a
state visit from Mr. Lancelot Hardacre. Richard had been dreading some
such interview not a little, even as a sensitive spirit dreads contact
with the boisterous, blustering, physical barbarian. Richard’s revulsion
from the responsibilities he had created for himself in the past had
waxed tenfold in strength since his discovery of Bess’s shame. His sense
of bondage chafed his pride, the more so, perhaps, because he was honest
enough to acknowledge the truth of his obligation.
There was always a suggestion of patronage in Mr. Lot’s manner that
presupposed his cousin to be but half a man. It was so that morning when
he dismounted before the priory porch. The genial swagger of the man,
the glare of his red coat, the crunching of his heavy boots upon the
gravel inspired Jeffray with an instinctive antagonism. Mr. Lot had
squeezed his cousin’s hand heartily enough and rallied him upon his
looks. They walked the terrace together, for Richard had gone out to
meet Lancelot at the porch.
There was nothing in Mr. Hardacre’s manner at first to betray the fact
that he carried a possible declaration of war in his pocket. It was his
policy to assume with the most glaring good-humor that Richard was
thirsting to see Miss Jilian, even though she might appear red and
disfigured about the face.
“We can’t cool your fever just yet, Richard,” he said, after an exchange
of cousinly courtesies. “Poor Jill has had it rather bad, you know, and
looks a bit weak about the eyes as yet. But, Lor’, when a young fellow’s
in love, a pimple or two makes precious little difference.”
Lot showed his teeth, stared, and nudged Jeffray meaningly with his
elbow. Their familiarity appeared complete; nevertheless, his cousin did
not expand in the sun of Mr. Hardacre’s confidence. There was a
compressed look about his mouth, a suggestion of sullenness in his eyes.
All these genialities only exaggerated his aversion. He was no longer
the lad whom Lot had bullied and teased of old, and his cousin’s loud
patronage made his stiffening individuality revolt. His heart was afire
for Bess at the moment, and she seized on the pity that should have been
Jilian’s.
“I am vexed that your sister has been ill,” he said, speaking with
sensible effort and with but little flow of feeling.
Mr. Lot stiffened at the remark. His blue eyes seemed to grow more
prominent, as though the cold steadiness of Jeffray’s manner had put him
suddenly on the alert.
“You will have to come and comfort Jill,” he said, staring hard at
Richard, as though to watch for any betrayal of rebellion.
“Certainly, Lot, as soon as she will see me.”
“She had it of you, you know, cousin; you will have to make it up to her
for a damaged complexion.”
Richard shuddered at the coarse suggestiveness of Lot’s words. There was
something in his cousin’s manner that made him see of a sudden how
cunningly the Lady Letitia had forecasted the future. Jilian’s
comeliness had suffered, and the Hardacres were prepared to hold him
like a culprit to his oath.
“I can promise you, cousin,” he said, bluntly, “that I shall not fail in
doing my duty.”
There was an unconscious tinge of irony in the retort that penetrated
Mr. Hardacre’s skin. He reddened a little, thrust out his lower lip, and
looked at Jeffray with sinister shrewdness.
“Duty, sir; that is a damned poor word for a lover to use!”
Jeffray flushed.
“I meant it in the honorable sense, Lot,” he said, more kindly.
“Egad, sir, I should hope so,” quoth the fire-eater, thrusting his chin
forward over his cravat. “You gave my sister the small-pox, sir, and if
you are anything of a fellow you will behave decently to her and not
from any confounded sense of duty. I am right there, Richard, I reckon.”
Jeffray, feeling humiliated, shackled, yet inwardly rebellious, looked
his cousin full in the face, and gave him his answer frankly and with
some heat.
“I am a gentleman, Lot, and therefore you may spare your hectoring.”
“Deuce take you, sir; I suppose I may feel for my sister, eh?”
The two men were eying each other like dogs half inclined to fight.
“At present, sir,” quoth Jeffray, reddening and throwing back his head,
“your sister’s honor is in my keeping.”
Lot Hardacre stared at him in silence for a moment. He was wondering how
Jeffray had come by so much spirit as to stand up to a man who had
always bustled him.
“Well, that’s spoken like a man,” he confessed.
“Jilian and I are betrothed, are we not?”
“By gad, you are.”
“Then, sir, I am not conscious of having given you any excuse as yet to
question my honor.”