asharp skirmish occurred in the great drawing-room that night after that stately chamber had been emptied of its guests. richard, chafing under sir peter’s honest outburst of wrath and miss jilian’s ironical reproaches, charged the lady letitia with deliberately insulting these good people whom he had summoned to rodenham in all the innocence of his heart. the lady letitia, throned on a brocaded fauteuil before the dying fire, regarded her nephew with amused contempt, and proceeded to convince him of the disinterested wisdom of her plot.
“you are a young greenhorn, my dear richard,” she said, playing with her great red fan, “and you may regard me, sir, as a fairy godmother sent by heaven to draw you out of the toils. come, perceive, sir, i have routed the amalekites and thrown poison into that sweet spinster’s rouge-pot. i wager, nephew, that miss hardacre will be for hating you cordially in a few days if you will only follow my advice.”
but richard was in no mood to listen to this arch-diplomat’s ingenious proposals. shorn of his natural passivity, he kindled commendably over the crisis, and paced the floor with all the authority of an admiral stalking his quarter-deck.
“may i suggest to you, madam, that i will permit no further meddling in my affairs?”
“richard—!”
“what poisonous insinuations you have been pouring into miss hardacre’s ears i cannot imagine. you have trifled with my honor, madam, disgraced my hospitality, and shamed me in my own house.”
“richard jeffray!”
“permit me to add, madam, that i will not have my friends slighted and insulted in rodenham.”
“heavens, richard!”
“this is my house, madam. if you do not approve of my tastes and habits you can mend your displeasure by departing.”
the old lady sat and stared at her nephew, nodding her huge “head,” her little eyes twinkling under their bushy brows. she would not have believed that the lad had so much spirit in him. his eyes sparkled, his face had flushed, and he carried himself with an angry stateliness that was worthy of mr. garrick.
“my dear richard,” she said, rising, puffing herself out like an old hen, “i think we had better dismiss the subject till your temper has cooled in the morning. may i request you to ring for my maid?”
jeffray stalked to the bell rope, jerked it savagely, and bowed grandly to his aunt.
“may i wish your ladyship a very good-night?”
the dowager extended her hand, and suffered the lad to touch her gouty fingers crowded thick with rings.
“my dear nephew,” she said, not unkindly, “you have a good heart, but—”
“well, madam?”
“you will confess some day that your old aunt was a woman of sense and discretion. marry the sweet jilian, my dear. after all, it is no business of mine. but, my dear richard, if you discover that you have embraced a bag of bones, a bundle of affectations, blame yourself and not me. why, that perkaby girl would make a better match; she has a body, an uncommon fine and handsome body, and old perkaby can lay down guineas. but i see i weary your delicate sense of honor. bon soir, mon cher richard.”
the clock in the turret had told ten next morning when richard mounted his black mare and cantered off through the park to take the sandy road that wound through pevensel. he was still feverishly ashamed of the unfortunate incidents of the previous night, and was as much disgusted with the lady letitia’s logic as with his own pusillanimous stupidity. miss hardacre had been slighted, insulted in his own house. sir peter, that kind but peppery old gentleman, had been driven to retreat in justifiable indignation. richard jeffray, sensitive and generous-hearted youth, still chafed and fumed under the indignity of it all. his duty lay clear before him as he rode through the waving wilds of pevensel, and saw the sunlight chase the shadows over the dusky woods.
sir peter and mr. lancelot were out with the hounds that morning, and had ridden to draw squire rokeley’s covers at marvelscombe. miss hardacre was at home, however, so said the fat major-domo, grinning benignly over the apparent coincidence. jeffray left his mare in the hands of a stable-boy, and, throwing his whip, gloves, and hat on a table in the hall, prepared to confront the sweet angel whom his aunt had tortured on the preceding night. miss jilian was sitting before her embroidery frame in the red parlor when the major-domo announced richard jeffray. curious to relate, miss hardacre did not start up in amazement on catching the name from old roger’s lips. so the dear lad had ridden over to protest his innocence and to make peace? miss jilian had expected it.
“la, cousin,” she said, rising up with much stately rustlings of silk as the door closed on the major-domo, “i never thought to see you here.”
richard came forward blushing, and was even permitted to kiss miss hardacre’s hand. certainly miss jilian drew her fingers away somewhat hastily, and carried her auburn head with proper coldness and dignity.
“i have ridden over to ask your pardon, jilian.”
“pardon, cousin?”
“for the miserable affair last night. aunt letitia and i quarrelled after every one had gone, and i am afraid i lost my temper. i lay awake all night wondering what i should say to you in the morning.”
the lad looked very generous and very handsome as he stood there blushing, his dark eyes full of ardent light and all the sincerity of his heart quivering upon his words. miss hardacre still held her head in the air, tapped on the floor with one red-slippered foot, and was ready to pretend that she was not in the least eager for a reconciliation.
“i am sure this is very good of you, cousin,” she said, tartly; “i did not expect you here to-day. in fact, sir peter ordered me—”
she hesitated of a sudden, blushed very charmingly, and gave mr. richard an eloquent glimpse of her gray eyes.
“sir peter ordered you, jilian?”
“not to receive mr. richard jeffray unless—”
“unless?”
“he could explain away the insults that were heaped upon our family last night.”
miss hardacre had sunk gracefully into the window-seat, her melting eyes downcast towards her knees. there was infinite pensiveness in the pose of her fair head. richard, thinking her adorable for the moment, made so bold as to seat himself beside her. how proud and yet how sensitive she was! poor child, how was it that the lady letitia could abuse her so?
“upon my honor, jilian, i was utterly miserable when you went away last night.”
miss hardacre’s fingers were plucking at her gown. she did not so much as look at the lad, but hung her head like a statue of grieved and injured innocence.
“won’t you believe me, jilian?”
“oh, richard—”
“cousin, dear cousin, how can i express my own shame and distress?”
“then, richard, you did not want to dance with julia perkaby?”
“confound the girl. it was aunt letitia who forced me into it.”
“and you did not write poetry about her, and adore her singing?”
richard burst forth into manly indignation.
“jilian, who told you all these lies?”
miss hardacre sighed and began to finger her handkerchief.
“i don’t think i ought to say, richard.”
“it was aunt letitia. i’ll swear it was aunt letitia. damn the old woman, jilian, i absolutely hate her!”
“richard! richard!”
“then it was aunt letitia?”
“she was very cruel to me, richard.”
“on my honor, cousin, i’ll go back and turn her out of my house.”
here came miss hardacre’s supreme opportunity. what more affecting and delightful a virtue than that sweet spirit of forgiveness that juggles divinely with the proverbial coals of fire. miss jilian bear malice? no, the gods forbid! she would plead with her dear cousin, soothe his angry passions, stem the torrent of his wrath that threatened to descend upon the devoted dowager’s head. the lady letitia was a very old woman, and alas! my dear cousin, very worldly. she had her whims and her prejudices, and her temper had been rasped by the tooth of time. naturally the lady letitia was ambitious for her dear nephew; who would not be ambitious for such a nephew as richard jeffray? the lady letitia had prejudices in favor of money. could richard blame her if she strove to save him from the “designs” of a poor baronet’s daughter, a country mouse who had no adornments save those simple virtues with which nature had endowed her unaffected soul?
what wonder that richard, chivalrous lad, pressed miss hardacre’s hand to his lips, and vowed that no more beautiful and forgiving spirit had ever chastened mortal flesh. what wonder that the reconciliation was complete between them, and that miss jilian consented to sing her songs. how much more finely she sang than that stupid giantess, julia perkaby! “la, cousin dick, you must not call young ladies names.” might he not read his epic poem to her? “oh, richard, i am such an ignorant little thing. listen? i could listen all day. i am sure you are a genius, richard. mr. pope and mr. dryden never wrote half such fine verses as yours.” what wonder that richard jeffray departed from hardacre that day, convinced in his heart that he was in love with his adorable cousin. why, she was an angel. how could aunt letitia fabricate such monstrous and malignant lies?
when the purple shadow of the beacon rock fell athwart the crisp turf that afternoon, richard remembered, even in his state of exaltation, the glowing face and fierce blue eyes of the fair savage of the woods. old peter gladden had told his master all he knew concerning the forest-folk whose hamlet lurked in the midst of pevensel. richard remembered the place vaguely as a scattering of stone-roofed cottages sunk in the shadows of the woods. he had often explored the rides and wood-ways of pevensel as a boy, and had even taken young owls from a ruined tower of the abbey of holy cross. a sudden whim seized him that day to follow the bridle-track that branched off by the beacon rock, and led close, so old gladden said, by the hamlet in the woods. it would lead him out by white hind walk on the broad coaching-road to lewes.
no sooner had the whim tickled richard’s sensibilities for romance than he was off at a trot down the bridle-track, seeing the queen’s circle sink down on his left below the slope of the open moor. the sun came slanting through and through as richard wound through the solemn thickets, where the dead bracken glowed under the purple shade, and whin, whortleberries, and heather tangled each knoll and dell. there was a beckoning awe about the place, a brooding mystery that lured on and on.
now bess had wandered out, while old ursula was taking a nap in the ingle-nook, to search for certain herbs that the old lady needed. she had thrown her red cloak over her shoulders, taken a rush-basket and a stout thorn stick. three weeks or more had passed since the scrimmage in the pine thicket, and young david, fearing dan’s wrath, had fled the hamlet, tramped down to portsmouth, and been “pressed” for the king’s navy. isaac grimshaw had had the news from a jew peddler who had come through by chichester, and had seen young david dragged out of a tavern by the press men, and hauled off with others to the harbor. the jew peddler knew all the forest-folk by name and face, having sold his wares to them and obliged isaac in many ways, year in, year out. there had been hot words between old isaac and his son, and hot words between isaac and dame ursula. bess had called black dan a coward and a bully to his face. but since the mischief was done, and young david on the seas, isaac calmed the contentions of his flock, and mollified the women as best he could.
dan grimshaw had followed bess from the hamlet that day with sullen fire in his red-brown eyes. there had been words between them in the morning, and the girl had treated the giant to a picturesque display of scorn. dan grimshaw was ugly enough, but it did not please him to hear the truth from miss bess’s petulant lips. he had blundered home to his cottage in bovine wrath, inflamed by the girl’s comeliness, and by her passionate taunts. sly and savage he had watched her take the path that led up through the woods to beacon rock, and had followed at a distance, clinching his great fists as he saw her red cloak flit amid the trees.
jeffray, riding down white hind walk where the hamlet path crossed the sleek grass that seemed to run like a river amid the trees, was edified by beholding a tall wench belaboring a forester with a stick. the man was dodging from side to side, cursing and taking the blows upon his forearms. a basket half filled with sprouting weeds lay tossed aside under a tree. so busy were these two pevensel savages with their stick-wielding and their dodging that neither of them noticed richard’s approach.
of a sudden, however, the scene took on a more sinister expression. the man had caught the stick and twisted it out of the girl’s hand. jeffray could distinguish his inflamed and passionate face even at a distance of fifty paces. in another instant the man’s arms were about the girl’s body, and she was writhing and struggling like a hound hugged to the hairy bosom of a bear.
richard, who had recognized the elf of the queen’s circle, pricked in his spurs, and went cantering down the ride. he rolled out of the saddle when close upon the pair, left his mare loose, and, drawing his sword, ran towards dan grimshaw and miss bess. the girl had one hand on the man’s throat, and was beating the other in his face. he had picked her up bodily and was holding her in mid-air when richard’s shout startled his hairy ears.
black dan dropped bess upon the grass, and, being mad as any antlered stag baffled by a hunter, snatched up the girl’s stick and made at richard with savage good-will. jeffray’s pretty bodkin of a blade was smitten away out of his hand, and he himself was brought low with heavy cut across the crown. black dan, his face as like a flesh-eating ogre’s as any nursemaid might paint for the intimidation of the young, stood over richard as though tempted to strike again. he was balked in his charitable purpose, however, by finding bess fronting him with a pistol in either hand. she had caught jeffray’s mare, and plucked the pistols from the holsters, their master having forgotten the good barkers in the full flux of chivalry.
“touch him, dan, and i’ll shoot you, you devil.”
in truth, a fine stage effect, belphœbe rescuing timias from the wrath of the savage of the woods!
