The turret clock was striking seven when the coach swung out of the
stable-yard, and, turning on the gravel-drive before the house, drew up
with rattling harness before the porch. The luggage lay piled upon the
roof, a loaded blunderbuss hanging in the straps before the back seat.
Both the coachman and the serving-man beside him were armed. Peter
Gladden, cloaked, and with a couple of pistols swinging in his
tail-pockets, stood with his hand on the handle of the door.
Jeffray, his sword under his left arm, handed Bess down the steps to the
coach. Dick Wilson followed them, striving not to look lugubrious, his
blue eyes set staringly in his sun-tanned face. Bess tripped into the
coach; Jeffray halted with one foot on the step, and held out his hand
to his friend with a smile.
“Good-bye, Dick,” he said, “and God bless you.”
Wilson’s powerful fist closed upon Jeffray’s brown and sinewy fingers.
“God go with you, too, sir,” he retorted, a little thickly. “I’ll see to
your business. The fellow in Lincoln’s Inn shall have your letter, and
we’ll forward all news between us to France.”
Jeffray gave a last grip to the painter’s hand, and sprang into the
coach.
“There is the letter to my bankers, Dick,” he said, when Gladden had
closed the door, “deliver it in person. A portion of it concerns
yourself.”
“Concerns me, sir?”
“Yes, Dick—good-bye—good-bye.”
“God go with you both, sir, and may you be happy!”
Peter Gladden climbed to the back seat. The whip cracked, the horses
strained at the traces, the heavy wheels ground into the gravel. The
great coach rolled away on its high springs, leaving the old house
bowered up amid its trees, moated by shrubs and the thousand faces of
its flowers. Dick Wilson ran to the end of the terrace, flapping a
red-cotton handkerchief. Jeffray, leaning out of the window, waved to
him in turn, Bess looking over her lover’s shoulder. Wilson was still
standing there when a cedar hid the gardens and terrace-way from sight.
Gable and chimney-stack and lozenged-casement sank away behind the
trees; only a faint trail of blue smoke in the heavens showed where the
old house stood.
Jeffray, with a melancholy light in his brown eyes for the moment,
sighed and turned back towards Bess. She was leaning forward slightly,
her elbows resting on her knees, her head thrown back, her white throat
showing. She seemed oblivious for the moment of Jeffray’s presence.
“Bess.”
She dropped her hands with a start, and lay back in the coach, looking
at him very dearly.
“Well, we are on the road,” said the man, smiling.
Her lips quivered, her eyes flashed up to his.
“To-night we shall be at Lewes.”
“Yes.”
“And to-morrow we shall see the sea.”
Bess stretched out her hand to him. Jeffray took it and held it in his,
feeling it warm and dewy, full of the swift moving blood of youth.
“Ursula has confessed,” he said, looking in her eyes.
“Ursula?”
“Yes—”
“Is it of Dan?”
Jeffray’s calm face reassured her as she leaned towards him with sudden
dread.
“No,” he said, “I had a letter from the King’s officer an hour ago; they
had found Ursula tied to a chair in her cottage, and hearing that Dan
was dead—and her kinsfolk scattered, she made a confession about the
past. You are no Grimshaw, Bess, but some one’s child from over the
sea.”
Jeffray told her all that had been laid bare in the old woman’s
confession, Bess lying back in the corner of the coach, her eyes looking
out at the country that was sweeping by. Her fingers crept round
Jeffray’s wrist, and contracted spasmodically as though she wished to
realize that he was near. The wild and fantastic tale unfolded itself
before her, the great ship sunk at sea, the murder of the four sailors
in the forest, the hiding of the treasure, the beginning of her own life
in Pevensel. She began to understand much that had puzzled her of old,
why Isaac had been mad for her to marry Dan, and why the old man had
wished to kill her after she had watched them uncovering the chest by
the Monk’s Grave.
“Richard,” she said, very softly, still looking out of the window.
He bent towards her with great tenderness.
“Who was my mother?”
“Bess, I do not know.”
“Did they kill her?”
This time Jeffray’s hand fastened upon the girl’s.
“I fear so,” he said, gravely.
“She was a lady?”
“Yes, so Ursula believed. It was your mother who wore the brooch your
husband gave you. We may learn more of the past if the treasure is
discovered.”
There was silence between them for a moment. Bess was breathing deeply,
her face shining white under her black hair as she suffered the
revelation to sink slowly into her soul. Jeffray, still holding her
hand, watched her with a great light in his dark eyes. It was his life’s
desire to save this woman whom he loved from further pain and
tribulation.
Bess turned to him suddenly, her face flushing, her eyes searching his.
“Ah—then you will not marry a beggar-woman,” she said.
“No, no!”
“Perhaps I have that in me that can make you happy.”
“Need you ask that?”
“You are giving me everything. And I?”
“You—are everything, Bess,” he answered.
So the coach swung along on the road to Lewes, the wheels grinding
cheerily over the stones, and Peter Gladden on the back seat solacing
himself surreptitiously with a bottle of wine that he had hidden under
his cloak. Bess and Richard turned their faces towards the green slopes
of Pevensel, and took a long look at the forest that still spoke to them
of mystery. The wild woodland sank back against the northern sky,
melting into a purple mist against the blue. On the right, a good mile
from the high-road, stood Thorney Chapel where Bess and Dan Grimshaw had
been married. They could not see the place from the road, for it lay in
the valley that ran northward to Pevensel and the vale of yews. Hidden
though it was, the bleak stone chapel, with its rusty bell and rotten
porch, rose vividly before the thoughts of both. They drew closer to
each other in the coach, smiling half sadly into each other’s eyes,
remembering all that they had suffered.
The morning sped for them swiftly, like a river running under a rainless
sky. The beauty of the earth seemed to grow more strange and alluring to
their eyes. The great downs were rising and rising, green, gracious, and
magnificent towards the south, speaking of the blue sea and the white
cliffs that front the foam. The road ran now through fields and meadows,
with here and there a wood filling a shady bottom, or topping the crest
of a low hill. The crops in the fields rippled and glistened in the
sunlight. The cows browsing in the meadows stopped to stare at the coach
with liquid, violet eyes. Now and again a church-spire cleft the blue,
and flashed white under the sun. From the hamlets along the road the
sturdy Saxonlings, with their fair skins and tawny hair, would run out
to cheer, and cling to the great springs behind, to be warned off by Mr.
Gladden with imperious and unpardoning scorn.
Now, Peter Gladden was a Lewes man, and having received confidential
instructions from his master, he took charge of the coach when it had
once entered the town. They rumbled along the quaint old streets, with
the gray castle towering above the chimney-stacks and gables, the great,
green downs bulwarking the place like giant ramparts. Smoke hung in a
blue haze over the town, the sun warming the tiled roofs and the red
walls, flashing on the plastered gables, glimmering upon the casements.
Lewes, buxom and stirring in those Georgian days, still carried in its
Old World heart the memories of great happenings in the past. Spears and
surcoats no longer bristled and blazed on bluff Mount Harry. Mighty St.
Pancras and his Climiacs watched no more over the souls of Gundrada and
her husband. The days of kingliness, tyranny, and flaming martyrdom were
passed. Soon Tom the Exciseman would be holding forth on the noble
rights of scavengers and cooks.
The Rodenham coach rolled up the High Street, dropping a serving-man at
the Star on the way, and turned into a little side street towards the
western end of the town not far from the old castle. Peter Gladden
sprang down and appeared at the window. Across the narrow pavement at
the corner of the street the round, white-framed windows of a sedate
little shop, where coy hats and alluring scarfs showed through the panes
of glass. A brown front-door carried a modest brass plate with “Madame
Michael, Milliner,” inscribed thereon. Gladden, standing hat in hand,
assured his master as to the excellence of the establishment.
Jeffray could see a couple of girls peering down at the coach from an
open window above. He stepped out of the coach and gave his hand to
Bess. Opening the door and setting a bell tinkling as in maidenly
trepidation, he found himself in a little room with the wood-work
painted white, a pier-glass in one corner, hats and caps ranged round on
brass stands, and shelves filled with rolls of gay stuffs, cotton,
satin, silk, and rich brocade. A demure, yellow-faced woman in a black
sack, and wearing a white cap over her beautifully ordered gray
ringlets, came forward from an inner room, courtesied, and gazed with
polite curiosity at Jeffray and at Bess.
“Good-day, madame,” said the man, blushing, yet cherishing his dignity.
The little French lady smiled sympathetically, her bright eyes darting
comprehensive glances at Bess’s rough clothes and Jeffray’s grave and
boyish face.
“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked, with quaint and courtly
composure.
Jeffray, still red, and looking a little amused at his own novel
responsibility, explained to madame how greatly they needed her help. It
was no question of money; Jeffray desired to see the lady who was to be
his wife dressed as charmingly as time and madame’s genius could
contrive. Bess was standing in the middle of the room, looking very tall
and stately despite her rough clothes and red stockings and her heavy
shoes. She eyed the Frenchwoman a little haughtily, glanced at herself
in the pier-glass, put back the stray strands of black hair over her
ears, and smiled as her eyes met Jeffray’s.
“I am afraid we are taxing your ingenuity, madame,” he said, to the
aristocratic little lady, with a grave smile.
The Frenchwoman, with her gray ringlets, gave a merry and meaning laugh,
glided up to Bess, took off the gray cloak, her deft hands fluttering
white and delicate about the girl’s body.
“Ah, no, a pleasure, monsieur. A Frenchwoman is never taken by surprise.
Come. It can be done, ma foi, yes—it is easy, very easy.”
The pretty hats were whisked down from their brass pedestals by the
little lady, and poised in succession upon Bess’s stately head. Strings,
black, blue, and white, were tied deliciously under the round and pearly
chin. Madame stood aside from time to time, striking little attitudes,
glancing at Jeffray and clapping her hands.
“Ha, charming, is it not, monsieur? Look in the glass, mademoiselle;
see, is it not beautiful? It is the face, the handsome face. Ah, that is
quite ravishing. Does not monsieur like it?”
Yes, Jeffray admired the first, the second, the third, and so forth. He
would have them all; yes, madame might set them aside as sold. Gowns and
petticoats? Madame had a number ready. Of course, that was woman’s
business. Would mademoiselle step into the back room? The gentleman
would wait, yes, he could not enter such a sanctuary, and the little
Frenchwoman rippled with smiles. The lady should come forth and show
herself in the dresses. She would look ravishing; yes, monsieur should
not be disappointed.
Perhaps an hour passed, Jeffray scrutinizing Madame Michael’s
merchandise with the prejudiced eye of a man in love. These pretty
stuffs had no significance beyond Bess’s beauty. They were interesting
by reason of the honor they might receive in being suffered to clothe
the body of the one woman in Christendom. A crowd of small boys and two
or three busybodies had gathered round the coach, gaping at Peter
Gladden, who remained at his post, chin in air, like a Roman sentinel
whom nothing could disturb. Madame Michael’s girl-apprentices were
giggling and chattering in the room above. Jeffray went to the
semicircular window and looked out. He could see across High Street,
down a narrow alley a distant view of glimmering green downs and
blue-throated corn-fields ablaze with poppies.
There was the sound of a door opening, a rustle of silks. Jeffray,
turning with a quick smile, saw Bess standing in the middle of the room,
wearing a summer gown cut low at the bosom, and made of some gauzy blue
stuff dusted with green trefoils. A white satin petticoat showed below
it, looped with blue silk. She had a band of black velvet about her
throat, black mittens reaching nearly to her bare elbows, and one of
Madame Michael’s adorable hats upon her head. Madame had even rearranged
Bess’s hair, the black and gleaming splendor of it contrasting with the
brown and pearly neck. Bess stood looking at her lover, blushing very
deeply, her eyes fixed questioningly on his. As for Jeffray, he looked
at her, and could not look enough, so stately and adorable did she
appear in all these pretty trappings. The wild, sleek beauty of Pevensel
seemed to glorify these fine clothes in a way that would have set many a
round-backed and short-legged countess weeping.
The little Frenchwoman glided forward and clapped her hands. She had
been watching the pair with her black, twinkling eyes, and enjoying the
charm of it with sympathetic vivacity.
“Monsieur is pleased? Yes, to be sure, never have I had such a figure to
show my gowns off. It is superb, superb. This gown, sir, and the
others—were made but two weeks ago for a fine lady who disappointed me
at the eleventh hour. Mademoiselle has a finer figure; they suit her to
perfection.”
Jeffray and Bess were smiling at each other, the girl’s face radiant and
suffused with a tender happiness. Nothing is more sweet to a woman than
to be admired by the eyes of the man she loves.
“It is perfection,” said Jeffray, gravely.
“Ah, monsieur, you are very good. And these hats, and the other gowns
that madam has chosen, where may I send them? There is some work for the
needle. The evening shall see them finished.”
Jeffray gave the address of the Star Inn in High Street, took out his
purse, and desired madame to present her bill. It proved a long one, and
took several notes. But what of that? Jeffray was as glad to give as the
little French lady was glad to receive. She courtesied Bess and Jeffray
to her door, giving them all manner of good-wishes, and promising to
send the gowns and hats to the Star before dusk. Peter Gladden’s face
was a unique study when he set eyes on Bess in all her splendor. He
bowed low as he opened the door of the coach, and received Jeffray’s
orders to drive to the best goldsmith’s in the town.
Thus Bess and her lover travelled from shop to shop. An enamelled watch,
bracelets, rings, a gold chain, pins, and brooches were taken from the
goldsmith’s treasury. Shoes of fine leather and of satin were
forthcoming elsewhere. Trunks were purchased at a saddler’s near the
castle-gate. Then came more delicate and mysterious matters. Jeffray
thrust his purse into Bess’s hand, and remained in the coach while she
went a little shyly into Mr. Wace’s mercery and linen shop. The secrets
of silken hose and of chemisettes and such gear were beyond the
prerogatives of man. Bess was blushing very prettily when Peter Gladden
and Mr. Wace attended her back across the pavement to the coach. Jeffray
gave her his hand. She looked in his eyes, reddened, and laughed
alluringly.
The coach rolled along the High Street and stopped before the Star Inn,
glimpses of down country striking in between the red-roofed houses.
Peter Gladden had taken care to have his master’s advent properly
prepared for. The landlord came out in person to do the honor of his
house. He bowed, rubbed his hands together, set himself and his whole
establishment at Jeffray’s service. A private parlor had been set apart
for him. Madam was to occupy the best bedroom, and the chief chambermaid
should wait on her. Yes. The gentleman desired to take passage from
Newhaven on the morrow? Many travellers honored the Star at Lewes on
their way to France, and the landlord made it his business to obtain
trustworthy news as to the shipping. The weather was perfect, and a brig
was sailing for France the very next day. There would be no difficulty
about a passage.
Bess and Jeffray supped together in their private parlor whose windows
overlooked the place where the Sussex martyrs had been burned of yore.
Red damask curtains toned well with the black wood-work and the quaint
old furniture that had ministered to many. The sunlight came slanting
in, burning above the western downs, warming the red roofs and the
timbered gables of the old town. Time seemed to step to a slow and
stately measure. Bells rang mellowly, the church clocks smote the hours.
From the narrow streets and passageways the murmur of voices, the
rumbling of wheels, rose up not unmelodiously into the evening air.
Peter Gladden waited at supper behind his master’s chair. The old man’s
eyes wandered wonderingly towards Bess as she sat at the table in all
the charm of her rich reprieve. The girl looked very lovely in her gay
gown, with the black ribbon about her throat and a red rose thrust into
the sable wreathings of her hair. She and Jeffray spoke but little, for
Gladden’s presence set a restraint upon their tongues. Bess drank a
glass of red wine, when Jeffray, smiling, gave her a love toast. They
were happy in the quiet passing of the hour, happy in the thoughts of
what had passed and what was yet to come.
Jeffray accompanied Bess to the door of her bed-chamber that night,
carrying her candle. He stood a moment in the dusk of the beamed
passage, looking in her eyes as he bade her good-night.
“Sleep well,” he said, touching her hand.
“Ah—you have been so good to me.”
“No, no, it is my happiness. To-morrow we shall cross the sea.”
She reddened, and turned up her face adorably as though for a kiss.
Jeffray saw the chambermaid moving about the room, setting Bess’s new
clothes and trunks in order. He bent and touched Bess’s hand with his
lips, thinking of the mysterious days that were to come.
“God bless you, dear,” he said.
Her eyes flashed out to him. She took the candle, smiled, and entered
the room.
Thus, while Bess put off her clothes amid the stately strangeness of the
old inn, and suffered the chamber-woman to bind her hair, Jeffray sat at
the parlor window and watched the young moon sink over the roofs and
chimney-stacks of the old town. The charm of the day’s beauty stirred
about him like the scent of flowers stealing up into the night. Bess
would be sleeping her pure sleep for him, to rise and return, radiant
and desirable with the dawn. Soon she would be his wife. The very
thought of it stirred in him a strange and mysterious feeling of awe.
The candles were quenched in Bess’s room; her gay clothes were laid out
ready for the morrow. Jeffray rose at last from the window-seat, rang
the bell for Gladden, and ordered him to have candles carried to his
room. Down in the street an old man with flapping brim of his hat turned
down over his face, had been loitering to and fro under the shadows of
the houses. He limped away as the church clocks struck ten, turned into
the opening of a narrow alley, and entered the doorway of a low tavern.
Isaac Grimshaw was in Lewes. His son was dead, his brother Solomon
taken, the secret of the treasure betrayed by Bess. He had seen the girl
drive with Jeffray through the town, had watched her enter several of
the shops, and lodge at the Star Inn with her lover. Isaac had talked to
one of the stable-men in the yard. He had heard that the coach was
ordered for the morning, and that Jeffray and Bess were bound for
Newhaven to take passage for France.