The following morning a letter came to Richard from Hardacre, a
carefully sealed epistle smelling strangely of musk. He stared at it
like a spendthrift eying an unpayable bill, opened the letter as he
sipped his chocolate, spread it on the tray before him, and read it
grudgingly at his leisure. He was no longer moved to kiss the place
where Miss Jilian’s hand had rested. The sentimental infatuation had
withered in a week. It had never possessed roots in the natural soil.
The letter ran:
“MY DEAR RICHARD,—I was a little surprised to receive the note
that informed me that you were proceeding to Tunbridge Wells for
your health. Was it shame or delicacy of feeling that prevented
you from taking leave of me in person? You must remember how
little sympathy you showed me when we first met after my
illness. I am ready to pardon you, however, and shall expect
more sensibility in you in the future.
“Doubtless you will be rejoiced to hear that I am in good
health, and that my poor complexion promises to improve. The
great Dr. Buffin visited me yesterday. He had travelled down by
private coach to Lady Polsons, and Lancelot rode over to desire
him to call on me at Hardacre. His opinion proved to be most
sympathetic and comforting, so that you can rejoice with me in
my fresh flow of spirits.
“Is that terrible old woman—your aunt—at The Wells? Let me
warn you against her, Richard. She has led a wicked life, and
has no respect for God or the truth.”
Here followed certain very proper expressions of affection that made
Jeffray wince and color. The letter ended with a veiled threat, the
significance of which the man was world-wise enough to understand. He
suspected, and suspected rightly, that Miss Hardacre was not singly
responsible for the document before him. He had received letters from
Jilian of old, formless, feeble, and vaporish things, indifferent as to
spelling, commonplace as to style. Richard imagined that some family
friend had collaborated with her in the production of the letter, and
his docility was not increased by the impression.
Needless to say the Lady Letitia was permitted to read the epistle, and
the unflattering reference to her morals brought the light of battle
into the old lady’s eyes. She smiled very grimly at her nephew, tapped
on the floor with her crooked stick, and desired him to state what he
thought of Miss Hardacre’s letter. Richard had been watching the people
parading on the Pantiles, looking morose and melancholy, a man with a
growing grievance.
“You will see, madam,” he said, turning restlessly in his chair, “that
Miss Hardacre’s complexion is likely to improve.”
The dowager sniffed, and made an irritable gesture with the letter.
“So she writes, Richard,” she retorted.
“Dr. Buffin is a physician of experience.”
“An old mollycoddle, sir, fit to treat a cold in the head. He is one of
those gentlemen who takes two guineas for telling people just what they
wish to hear. But supposing the lady’s complexion mends, Richard, will
your love mend with it?”
This was a home-thrust, and Jeffray’s face betrayed his inability to
parry it. He played with his watch-chain and seals, and looked blank
pessimism so far as his affection for Miss Hardacre was concerned.
“I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself,” he confessed.
“Nonsense, mon cher, nonsense.”
“I cannot help my instincts.”
“Exactly, sir, exactly. Supposing now that you were set down in front of
an ugly china cat, and were told that unless you admired and adored it
eternally you would be the most dishonorable rascal in Christendom. What
should you think, sir?—what should you think?”
The sally drew a smile even from Richard’s melancholy.
“I should feel that the command was unreasonable,” he said.
“Of course, Richard, no one can accomplish the impossible. Love has
wings of fire, sir, it does not crawl like a spider in a web. And
supposing now that you hesitated about adoring the same china cat, and
that a great, red-faced bully stood over you with a whip, and swore he’d
thrash you into admiring the monstrosity, what would you do then,
Richard, eh?—what would you do then?”
“Rebel, I suppose,” confessed the catechumen, with a frown.
Though sitting as a disciple at his aunt’s feet, Jeffray had no great
difficulty in amusing himself reflectively in the village. He walked on
the Pantiles, watched the little comedies of life, listened to the
music, dined at the various inns, and modestly refused the ogling
invitations of sundry damsels in gay gowns and gaudy hats. Twice he
attended at the Assembly Rooms with the Lady Letitia, and was not a
little amused to find that the old lady had already discovered a rich
and pretty rival to outshine Miss Jilian. Jeffray’s pulses remained
unstirred by this new nereid. He danced with her twice, found her
amiable and commonplace, and laughed with modest incredulity when the
dowager rallied him on his chances. A young man in love might vote Dame
Venus herself a very prosaic and ordinary person.
Jeffray’s favorite haunt was a rock on the Common, where he could bask
in the sun, and look into the blue distance towards Pevensel. Bess was
in his thoughts always; in truth, she was thought itself, the very blood
within his brain. He rehearsed her every pose, gesture, and expression,
the simple and half-tender words that she had spoken to him, the way her
eyes grew full of light when they met his. He remembered her bathing at
Holy Cross, a white pillar of loveliness glimmering in the sun. He
remembered her at Thorney Chapel, fierce, miserable, and ashamed.
Sweetest of all were the memories of the night when she had bent over
him as he lay in bed, and the day when he had met her in the larch-wood
and she had poured out all her despair into his ears.
What wonder that Miss Hardacre’s influence grew less and less, and that
mere airy and fragile sentiments weighed like gossamer against the gold
of love. Time and the Lady Letitia appeared to be clearing the
metaphysical fog from Jeffray’s brain. The dark melted, the noon sun
shone. True, he could not marry Bess, but his love for her should save
him from perjuring himself by an alliance with Jilian. The truth was as
plain as an Egyptian obelisk against the desert sky. Why should he shut
his eyes and wander on, hating himself, and hating Jilian. What—and did
he not pity her? Yes, in a vague and passive way, remembering ever the
Lady Letitia’s cry of “money,” and Mr. Lancelot’s insolent face.
It was the fourth day of Jeffray’s sojourn at The Wells when the Lady
Letitia succeeded in convincing him, somewhat dramatically, of how he
was being exploited by the gentry at Hardacre. The dowager produced a
letter from her reticule and handed it to Richard with a grim twinkle in
her shrewd old eyes. It was a letter written from a confidential friend
of Lot Hardacre’s to a confidential friend of the Lady Letitia’s.
Jeffray’s betrothal had been broached in a gossip between the dowager
and her confidant, and the letter had been confided to the old lady’s
care, on the understanding she was on no account to disclose its
contents to her nephew. The Lady Letitia’s jesuitical conscience
disposed very easily of the promise, and Jeffray was admitted behind the
scenes.
The passages that concerned him ran as follows:
“Jill Hardacre, that gay spinster, has had the small-pox, and
looks—so folks say—like a pitted orange with a wig. She is
betrothed, as you have probably heard, to a wealthy young
sapling whose grandsire made a fortune in iron. It seems that
the young gentleman is inclined to withdraw from the match,
since the sweet maid is grievously disfigured. But our friend
Lancelot thinks otherwise in the matter. Jilt my sister, sir,
egad, but you may bet your last guinea that he won’t. The lad is
a soft young fool, and will faint, damme, at the sight of a
sword.”
“So you see, sweet coz, that the noble Lot intends to pin the calf to
his promise in swaggering fashion. Well, Jill Hardacre has had her day,
and this promises to be her last and final hunting-party. Now or never
is the cry. The Hardacres want money, and the young squireling has a
veritable pot of gold. Amusing, eh? Life is a merry jest, to be sure.”
When Richard had read the letter through he handed it back very quietly
to the dowager. His face had hardened to that white, expressionless
mobility that bespeaks action. The mouth was no longer soft and plastic,
the eyes full of melancholy and reflective doubt.
“Well, Richard, what is to be done?”
Jeffray stood up and stretched himself.
“Take fencing lessons,” he said, curtly.
“Ah ha, that is the right spirit!”
“I could handle a sword in Italy, but am stiff and out of play. I
suppose there is a fencing-master in the place?”
The old lady’s eyes glittered, and she looked at her nephew approvingly.
“Yes, a Frenchman, a wonderful fellow, I believe. I will tell Parsons to
go at once and find where he lodges.”
“Thanks, madam. I will have a week’s practice with him before I return
to Rodenham.”