richard jeffray could not break from the thoughts of bess that had followed him from out the green glooms of pevensel. why, because she had a comely body and a comely face, should he be forever recalling the flash of her red-stockinged ankles under her short gown of green, the fine lifting of her handsome head, the way she had of putting her right hand up to her throat and of letting her eyes dwell with strange intentness upon his face? jeffray was honestly troubled by these haunting thoughts, these visions of passion that flashed on him out of his own heart. despite his romanticism he did not lack for character and discretion, and pedagogic reason told him that such dreams were neither obedient to philosophy nor to his loyalty to miss hardacre.
the news of jeffray’s misadventure in the woods had been duly carried to hardacre house; nor was it long before mr. lancelot and miss jilian rode over to inquire after their dear cousin. richard was idling in the garden, planning color schemes for the summer, when he heard the clatter of hoofs coming down the road through the park. richard recognized mr. lot in scarlet mounted on a great, rawboned roan, and miss jilian beside him in a green riding-habit, a black beaver on her auburn hair. richard crossed the terrace and went down the steps to meet them. his head was still bandaged, a fact that mr. lancelot remarked upon with his usual blunt brevity.
“egad, cousin,” he said, with a laugh, “so the forester broke your pate for you, deuce take his insolence! ha, jill, how do you like our richard in bandages? you should wear a mob-cap, cousin. how’s the dowager? got over the mumps yet?”
mr. lot roared over his own facetiousness, while richard stood beside miss jilian’s gray mare and pressed the young lady’s hand.
“i should have been at hardacre before this,” he said, blushing, “but surgeon stott ordered me to bide quiet.”
there was a look of delicious anxiety in miss hardacre’s eyes.
“are you sure you ought to be up and about, richard?” she asked.
“there is nothing much amiss with me,” he answered, looking up at her shyly. “won’t you dismount and come into the house? i will call gladden and have your horses taken.”
mr. lot winked and inclined his head knowingly in the direction of the house.
“has she got her war-paint on, richard?”
“who?”
“your revered relative. i am ready to make peace though she did send me down to supper with the ugliest girl this side of lewes. it’s uncommon hot to-day. what do you say, jill? shall we tumble in and have a glass of wine and a chat with the old lady?”
miss hardacre simpered, blushed prettily, and glanced at richard. the lad read her inclination on the instant, and helped her to dismount. she pressed his hand kindly, her gray eyes holding his a moment with a look that did not lack for eloquence.
“hold there; what a deuced ass i am,” quoth mr. lot, who had rolled out of the saddle and was thumping his manly chest. “here’s a certain precious document buttoned up in my breast-pocket. we are giving a masked ball next week at hardacre. quite a gorgeous affair, and sir peter thought he’d send the dowager a state summons, just to show there is no ill-feeling. of course you’ll come, cousin.”
mr. lot drew a sealed letter from his pocket, and handed it to richard with a mock bow.
“let old gladden give it to her in state,” he said, with a wink; “it will make a better show on a silver salver.”
richard was looking at miss jilian’s pink face and at her pretty figure sheathed in green.
“it is very magnanimous of sir peter,” he said, warmly, “to let by-gones be by-gones. i am sure aunt letitia is sorry for what happened that evening. she asked me, jilian, to try and persuade you to forgive her.”
lancelot hardacre chuckled.
“dear old mohawk,” he said.
“of course i will forgive her,” quoth miss hardacre, sweetly.
“that’s the game, jill. these women, richard, are moral prodigies. deuce take me, jill, you have the temper of an angel. don’t i know it.”
miss hardacre’s gray eyes flashed a curious look at her brother.
“heavens, lot,” she said, “how you do chatter.”
jeffray had rung the stable-bell, and peter gladden and a groom came out to take the horses. richard ordered the butler to bring cake and wine into the dining-room, and to send the lady letitia’s maid to inform her mistress, who was taking her afternoon nap, that miss hardacre was in the house. they went into the porch together and through the hall into the wainscoted dining-room, miss jilian holding her riding-skirt daintily in either hand, mr. lot swinging his velvet cap and whip and grinning affectionately at richard.
the lady letitia appeared in due course, as gracious as could be, decked out in a handsome sack, her hair freshly powdered, her mittens on, and her fan swinging at her wrist. she kissed miss hardacre on either cheek, squeezed the young lady’s hand, beamed at her nephew, and was very affable to mr. lancelot. she had received the invitation to sir peter’s ball from mr. gladden’s salver, and expressed herself charmed at sir peter’s courtesy. after wine had been drunk and cake crumbled, richard proposed that they should walk out into the garden. the dowager rang for her black mantilla, requested mr. lancelot to honor her with his arm, and led the way through the opening upon the terrace. jilian and richard lingered behind the lady letitia, miss hardacre very coy and ready to blush, richard feeling with some shame that pretty speeches came less glibly from his tongue than they had done of yore.
the sky was a rare blue above the green lawns, the old red walls, and the silvery grass-land of the park. as they walked the box-edged paths betwixt the stately yews and hollies miss jilian began to rally richard on his adventure in the woods. “how gallant and romantic it was, to be sure! do you think, richard, that you would have rescued me from some wicked ruffian had your poor cousin been at his mercy?”
jeffray was convincing in his chivalrous protestations.
“why, jilian, can you doubt it?”
“and you would have fought for me, richard?” queried the young lady, with charming wonder.
“fight for you, jilian? why i would defend you with my life.”
“la, richard,” she exclaimed, blushing, “how brave you are! tell me, was the girl pretty?”
“pretty, jilian?”
“now, richard, i am sure she was pretty.”
“perhaps she was,” said richard, with studied carelessness. “were she ugly or otherwise, i only did my duty as a gentleman and a man.”
“you dear lad,” quoth miss hardacre, tenderly.
“jilian!”
“now don’t pretend you don’t know how brave and noble you are. ah, heavens, only to think of it; the wretch might have killed you! it makes me shudder, richard; it does indeed.”
jeffray, much touched, looked at the young lady with affectionate and chivalrous candor.
“and should you have cared, dear cousin?” he asked her.
miss hardacre flushed crimson and hung her head. how pretty her downcast lashes looked as they swept her fair cheeks; what a sweet, sad smile hovered about her lips.
“oh, richard,” she said, “can you not believe—?”
“i believe all that is good and pure and kind of you, dear cousin.”
“there, sir, there; you are making me blush so that i shall hardly be able to face your aunt. you must not flatter a simple girl so. ah, richard,”—and she sighed—“thank heaven that you are safe and well.”
how could mr. jeffray bear himself under such delicate flattery but declare miss hardacre to be the kindest and best of women, and to abuse his own foolish heart for dreaming dreams about young ladies with red petticoats and coal-black hair? what a weak creature he was, and what a noble being this cousin of his appeared! he was very tender and attentive to miss jilian that day, nor did the lady fail to encourage such an admirable display of affection. she flashed shy and melting glances into mr. richard’s face, blushed dearly when he spoke to her, and was as gentle and as sweet as any convent saint. jeffray strove to forget poor bess of the woods, whose fierce blue eyes blazed out at him continually.
meanwhile, aunt letitia appeared determined to erase from the minds of the hardacres the unpleasant memories that her own strategies had created. her amiability puzzled mr. lancelot that afternoon as he walked the terrace with her, and looked down upon the lawns and prim paths beneath, the statuary shining white amid the yews and cedars. the old lady’s eyes dwelt often on richard and miss jilian who were drifting to and fro absorbed in their mutual confidences. from time to time she would scan the park as though watching for some person to appear. dick wilson had gone forth sketching to study the effects of light and shade upon the distant summits of the “downs.” the lady letitia was eagerly expecting the painter’s return. it would be so interesting to watch his introduction to miss hardacre.
“look at those dear innocents,” she said, with a twinkle, to mr. lot. “to be frank with you, sir, i was not eager to see my nephew married; early marriages are such lotteries, mr. hardacre. but now that i am beginning to see more of your sweet sister, i must confess that i am becoming converted.”
lot hardacre gave the old lady a queer look. he was no fool was mr. lot, and he did not trust the dowager with all the manly innocence of his fox-hunting heart.
“i observe, madam,” he said, bluntly, “that you are a sportswoman. you don’t mind confessing when you’re off the scent.”
“the truth, sir, is always easily understood,” quoth the dowager, cheerfully.
“egad, you’re right, madam.”
“and i shall have much pleasure in attending your father’s ‘rout,’ mr. hardacre. sir peter has shown a magnanimous spirit; and i trust that a woman of my birth knows how to receive so graceful a pardon.”
mr. lot grinned. he recalled to mind how his sister had been compelled to weep and threaten hysterics before the baronet could be prevailed upon to include the rodenham folk among his guests. “richard was a decent lad, to be sure, but that damned old cat, no, egad, he’d see her hanged before he had her at hardacre.” it was only after much persuasion that sir peter had been brought to see that it would be wiser to appease the old lady than to tempt her malice.
“i trust that we have buried the hatchet, madam,” said mr. lot, with a bow.
“the hatchet, sir!”
“you and sir peter, madam, had better leave whist alone.”
the old lady chuckled as though mr. hardacre had delivered himself of an excellent jest. she wagged her head at him, and gave him an arch smile that carried no malice.
“you are a wicked fellow, sir,” she said, with a pat of the hand. “i can see that you have been laughing all the time at your father and myself. la, mr. hardacre, i can take a joke, to be sure. you are a wicked, sly fellow, sir, and you are no fool, i see that clearly enough.”
much to aunt letitia’s chagrin, dick wilson did not return in time that day to be introduced to miss jilian hardacre. she confessed to the young lady that her nephew had a painter friend staying at the priory, a droll and charming creature, but the lady letitia did not divulge the gentleman’s name. might they bring him to the masked ball at hardacre? of course miss jilian declared that any friend of her cousin’s would be welcome. and thus mr. lot and his sister departed from rodenham, on the best of terms with richard jeffray, and apparently reconciled to the lady letitia, his aunt. richard walked with them across the park, and took leave of his sweet cousin with an ardent look and a significant pressure of the hand.
as they climbed the road up the long hill towards pevensel, miss jilian looked at her brother with a questioning smile, and remarked on the lady letitia’s change of temper.
“richard must have terrified the poor old woman,” she said. “i should never have thought that the lad had so much spirit in him.”
mr. lot thrust out his lower lip and swore.
“devil take the old cat,” he said; “she is too deuced polite and purry to make me fancy her. do you think she loves us, jill? damme, i’ll wager she’d like to slap your face.”
“and yours too, lot, eh?”
they laughed and whipped up their horses to a trot as they topped the hill.
“cousin richard’s a little gentleman,” quoth mr. hardacre, “though he is a bit of a fool.”
“no, no, lot, he is too honest, that is all. i like the lad. he has a sweet nature.”
“what i should like to know is,” returned the brother, “what sort of mischief that old catamaran is plotting. she’s a regular jezebel, jill. deuce take it, she would cheat old nick into believing her an angel, but she won’t cheat me.”
meanwhile poor bess, in pevensel, had already been confronted with isaac grimshaw’s authority. she had told old ursula of the pistols jeffray had given her, and while the girl was away milking just before sunset, the old lady had crept up the stairs, filched away the pistols from the cupboard, and hidden them in the hole under the floor where she kept her guineas. the same evening, as bess was sitting on the settle before the fire, thinking of jeffray, her work lying idle in her lap, there came a sudden knocking at the cottage door. old ursula jumped up, shot back the bolt, and let in isaac and his son. she locked the door after them and pocketed the key. bess, starting up from the settle, became aware instinctively that there was some conspiracy afoot against herself.
isaac, glib and smiling, thrust dan forward—dan, upon whose hairy face there was a suggestive and sheepish grin.
“i be come to claim you, bess,” he said, shifting his fur cap from hand to hand.
“claim me!”
“mr. isaac has ordered it. you and me are to break a coin together. come, lass, i’ll be kind and easy with you. give me a kiss, and let’s call it a bargain.”
bess, flashing fierce scorn out of her eyes at dan, turned on isaac with rebellious and glowing face.
“i’ll not wed dan,” she said. “no, i’ll have none of him. press me if you dare.”
grimshaw smiled at her, rubbed his hands together, and nudged dan with his elbow. the giant made a step towards bess, grinning through his beard. in an instant the girl had turned and darted towards the stairs, only to find the door closed and old ursula leaning against it. trapped, bess drew herself up and looked at the old woman with wistful anger.
“are you against me, too, mother?”
ursula smiled painfully.
“isaac’s word is law, girl,” she said.
“i’ll not marry dan, no—i hate him. i’ll not be married against my will.”
she turned and faced old grimshaw and his son, her eyes fierce as the eyes of some wild thing caught in a snare.
“dan,” she cried, “will you marry me? ha, i hate you; i hate your great, ugly face. will you marry me, i say? you oaf, you great, black, hairy fool, i hate you. be careful, all of you. i am not to be bought and sold.”
the three were silent a moment while bess stood in the centre of the room, passionately defiant, her fists clinched, her strong chin up. old isaac watched her, and still rubbed his hands together. dan, looking sullen and foolish, fidgeted with his cap, and glanced first at bess and then at his father. old ursula had the corner of her apron between her teeth. she was wavering betwixt greed and love for bess, her foster-child.
isaac gave his son a sudden, fierce glance and a whispered command. dan edged across the room towards bess. in a flash she had picked up a heavy stool, and stood at bay behind the table.
“come at me, dan,” she cried, “and i’ll kill ye.”
there was a sudden squeak from old ursula. she had flung open the door that closed the stairs, the love in her overmastering the greed for gold.
“bess,” she squealed, “quick, lass, the door’s open. dan, you great coward, back, keep your hands off her. i’ll have no bullying in my cottage.”
bess had flung the stool at dan, turned and darted towards ursula. she kissed the beldam, and fled up the stairs, while the old woman closed the door on her and covered it with her body.
“brother isaac,” she said, with a certain dignity that became her gray hairs well, “i’ll have no bullying in my cottage. let dan win the girl like a man, and not like a coward. you shall not have bess to-night save over my body.”
dan slunk back behind his father, who was looking at his sister with a peculiar smile. he rubbed his hands together, his white hair falling benignantly about his face.
“there, there, dame,” he said, mildly, “don’t put yourself out about the wench. we mean no harm by her, and she shall not be browbeaten. come, son, you must wait and try what patience will do. good-night, old lady. bess can go to sleep in peace.”
