dick wilson had taken very kindly to jeffray’s hospitality, having discovered a warmth and sincerity in the master of rodenham that was welcome to this rough philosopher who had suffered from the treachery of fashion. he loved the lad for his enthusiasm, his modesty, and the frank chivalry of his boyish heart. though contrasting in the outer man there was much similarity of soul between jeffray and the painter. to strangers wilson often appeared a coarse, ungainly, and ill-bred person, too much enamoured of using a somewhat scathing tongue on occasions, a man who drank porter and delighted in cheese.
wilson had already set to work to paint a portrait of the lady letitia. the dowager appeared to have become even more enamoured of honest dick, confessing to richard that she had but rarely met a man possessed of so much wit, wisdom, and sterling common-sense. jeffray respected his aunt for admiring wilson, and was heartily glad that the poor fellow should make a friend of one whom he believed to be of influence in fashionable circles. wilson had described to jeffray the many ignominies and trials of a painter’s life. since he had been persuaded by zucarelli to abandon portraiture for landscape-painting he had discovered that he was dropping from the notice of the polished patrons of the age. nature smiled upon his canvases, but she could not give him guineas in return. the english gentleman of that period believed that he could see trees, clouds, and rivers anywhere, and was by no means inclined to waste good gold on studies of prosaic hills. well might gay’s trivia stand for the tastes of the age, pope-ridden pedantry, cramped, stilted, and precise. an absurd and pompous classicalism clogged the mind. affectation was everywhere; the very flowers might have been made of wax, the trees of painted pasteboard. as for the imagination, poor bloodless captive, it was crushed beneath epigrammatical pedantry, and walled in by a versification cold as it was ugly.
the lady letitia had instructed her nephew to persuade wilson to go with them to the masked ball at hardacre, and though jeffray acknowledged the wisdom of her remarks, he found mr. dick by no means eager to enjoy sir peter’s hospitality.
“deuce take me, jeffray,” he said, with a grimace, “what sort of figure should i cut at such a rout? i should tread on the wenches’ gowns, put my feet through their petticoats, and crunch their pretty toes. how can an elephant mate with miss terpsichore? imagine richard wilson plodding through a minuet, sir! as for my talking sweet nothings to the ladies, you might as well put up a rhinoceros to flirt with the venus of milo.”
jeffray laughed, but was not answered.
“i think you would enjoy it, dick,” he said. “you can keep to the wall and gossip with the dowagers. i am not much of a dancer myself, but i like to study the world in one of its many phases.”
“i will think about it, lad—i will think about it,” said the painter, sadly.
“my aunt will be disappointed, sir, if you do not go.”
“disappointed, eh?”
“certainly, dick; she has taken a great fancy to you.”
“we are to wear masks, eh?”
“you are not ashamed of your own face, dick?”
“it is ugly enough, to be sure, sir. a piece of black velvet or crape would look much prettier.”
the same evening, while jeffray was sorting some of his curios in the library, the lady letitia catechised richard wilson in the parlor on the subject of the hardacre ball. she was instructing her dear painter in the mysteries of piquet, listening the while to his droll tales with a delight that would have filled dr. sugg with scholarly contempt. wilson, palpably disconcerted, but not desiring to pique the old lady, had put forward much the same excuses as he had made to mr. richard. the lady letitia, however, refused to listen to his self-depreciation. she even pretended to be incensed with poor wilson for holding so humble an opinion of his own powers to please.
“why, sir,” she exclaimed, “you are far too modest a creature to succeed in this world. people are only too ready to take one at one’s own estimate, if it happens to be a humble one. remember, sir, that you must expect no magnanimity from your fellow-men; genius is always jeered at by the crawling cleverness of the world. therefore, stand up for yourself, sir, and let men know that you are better than they.”
poor wilson fidgeted in his chair, and almost regretted that the dowager had conceived so good an opinion of him.
“and do you think, madam,” he asked, bluntly, “that they want a poor beggar of a painter at hardacre house?”
the lady letitia rustled haughtily in her chair.
“i should like to know, sir,” she said, “what house is not honored by the presence of genius.”
“you are very kind, madam, i am sure.”
“why, i mentioned your name to miss hardacre herself.”
dick wilson looked aghast.
“you mentioned my name and profession, madam?”
“well, sir, what fault has your superlative modesty to find with me now? miss hardacre expressed herself charmed, sir, that you should be present at the ball.”
“charmed!”
“la, dear mr. wilson, of course i know all about that boyish escapade of yours, but those things are of no account in society. if we modish women were to avoid the men we had once flirted with, why, sir, we could go nowhere. i warrant you miss hardacre is a discreet young woman; she has forgotten that little affair years ago. should she frown on you because of it? the best policy in these things, mr. wilson, is to act as if there had never been any harmless little romance at all.”
the painter had sat blushing like a boy during this harangue. he fidgeted in his chair, looked at the card-table and at the ceiling.
“i suppose this is the fashion, madam, in the genteel world?” he asked.
“of course, sir, of course, and a very sensible fashion to be sure.”
“then you think there is no reason why i should not present myself at hardacre house?”
“mr. wilson, have i had any experience of the world?”
“ample, madam, ample.”
“and there should be one very good reason, sir,” she said, coquettishly, “why you should humor me in the matter.”
wilson stared.
“i like to be amused, sir, by the wit and wisdom of a man of the world. these sussex folk are terribly dull. i shall die of ennui there, unless—”
“unless, madam?”
“you take pity on an old woman, and put your most delightful tongue at her service.”
thus, thanks to the lady letitia’s diplomacy, richard jeffray was compelled to ransack his dead father’s wardrobe in order to provide his friend with fitting clothes for the occasion. he discovered a sky-blue silk coat that fitted wilson very respectably. he also provided the painter with a bag-wig, a pair of black silk breeches, white stockings, a richly frilled shirt, a lace cravat, and an old court-sword. the painter made by no means a poor figure as he stood before the fire in rodenham hall, waiting for the lady letitia to descend to the coach. certainly the muscularity of his calves was too much in evidence; his back resembled a barn door, and his fiery face seemed in need of powder. richard wilson looked a gentleman of solidity and distinction, so long as he kept his feet still and did not get into difficulties with his sword. his dignity in such finery was intended to be of the statuesque order. set him in motion, and his lumbering limbs moved with the clumsy stiltedness of a mechanical figure.
hardacre house was brilliantly lit that night. the wax-candles in the rooms and galleries would have stocked a country shop a whole year. the major-domo and the serving-men were wearing new liveries of blue plush. the great baronial hall had been cleared for the rout, the floor waxed and polished till it shone, the suits of armor burnished to the radiance of silver, the escutcheons over the great stone fireplace repainted. in the minstrels’ gallery above the oak screen were two violins, a bassoon, a ’cello, and a flute. sir peter had hired his musicians at the wells, so that his guests should not complain of the quality of the music. the hall was gay with bright coats and handsome gowns, when the rodenham company, properly and discreetly masked, were ushered in unannounced by the major-domo.
and what a quaint and stately sight it was, the great hall with its mediæval atmosphere filled with color, perfume and charming affectation. there were pompous and powdered dames, tinted like delicate china and exhaling odors of ambergris and of musk. there were gentlemen in gorgeous coats and waistcoats, slim swords dangling beside their silk-stockinged legs. and the sweet wenches in brocades and flowered silks, with black masks over their soft, pink faces, and their dear eyes glistening like stars through a dark firmament! the nodding feathers, the lace, the powder and patches, the rippling color, the perfumes, the coy satin slippers, the flickering fans. surely it was all very quaint and beautiful, even though much of its charm was on the surface, and that there were sharp tongues behind many a set of pearly teeth.
richard, despite the mystery of a black velvet vizard, soon discovered mistress jilian amid the rout. did he not recognize the plump, pink bosom and the well-turned arms, the dimpled chin and bright gray eyes? miss hardacre’s head of auburn hair beaconed to jeffray despite its powder. how red her mouth was!—and her gay-gowned body exuded perfume as though a spice-box had been broken in her tiring-room. had he not seen that painted fan before, those twinkling feet, those plump, white hands?
“ah, jilian, how well you look to-night.”
the masked maiden laughed mischievously, and tapped richard’s shoulder with her fan.
“are you sure it is jilian?” she asked, with an arch bending of the neck.
“i should know you anywhere.”
“now, sir, be careful.”
“why, there is the little brown mole on your left arm.”
“oh, cousin,” quoth the lady, covering the offending stigma with her fan, “you must not look at me as close as that.”
“how can i help looking at you, jilian?”
“la, richard, you are growing sweetly wicked. come, they are striking up in the gallery. let us lead off the first dance together.”
the hours went gayly that evening, as though time tripped to some quaint old measure. what rustling of silk there was, what stately mingling of youth and age! how the colors played under the timbered roof, betwixt the dark oaken walls, under the antlered heads and gothic armor! how plaintive were the violins and how ravishing the mellow piping of the flute! every one seemed born for laughter and coquetting. sir peter himself led out the lady letitia to a minuet, the dowager sailing through it with a stateliness that might have stood for history. mr. lot had discovered miss julia perkaby, and his red face glistened under the magic of those languishing dark eyes. as for richard jeffray, he looked distinguished enough to have played the young pretender, and his courtesies to miss jilian had tottered on the brink of a declaration. dick wilson watched the rout from a dark corner under the minstrels’ gallery. perhaps he would have preferred to have studied greek nymphs dancing in arcady under the moon, their white limbs flashing under the green umbrage of classic trees.
the painter remained in the background during the evening, and beyond gravitating more than once to the supper-room, hugged his isolation in the corner under the minstrels’ gallery. the lady letitia was with him ever and again, but jeffray appeared too busy with miss hardacre and his friends to have much time to give to ungainly dick. wilson had remained unpresented as yet to sir peter and his children. the painter was well content with his obscurity, and beyond indulging in an occasional mild chat with some old lady who had been relegated to the wall, wilson amused himself with listening to the music, and meditating on the picturesque hypocrisies of life.
all went well till late in the evening, when many of the dancers consented to unmask to each other, and to laugh over the small mysteries black velvet vizards could beget. it was then that the lady letitia came sailing down upon richard wilson where he sat in his blue coat under the gallery. the old lady had taken good care to keep her eyes on the painter during the whole evening.
“ha, mr. wilson,” she said, with a triumphant amiability on her face, “at last i am able to enjoy your company. i have been tired to death, sir, by innumerable squirelings and country tabithas. come, has my nephew presented you to miss hardacre and sir peter?”
wilson smiled and shook his head.
“jeffray has been busy with the ladies, madam,” he said.
“what an absent lad it is! you must forgive him his youth, sir, and the sentimental excitements thereof. i will present you myself, sir, to miss hardacre. i hear she has been asking for you. come. i see her yonder in the oriel.”
“really, madam,” said the painter, bluntly, “i dare say miss hardacre can dispense with my society.”
the lady letitia plied her fan.
“nonsense,” she said, “miss hardacre will feel slighted if richard’s friend is left out in the cold. take your mask off, sir.”
“is it necessary, madam?”
“heavens, mr. wilson, you cannot be presented to the lady of the house in blinkers! ah, that is well. put it in your pocket, sir. and now give me your arm.”
miss jilian was sitting on one of the benches in the great oriel that bayed out from the right of the raised dais. the perpendicular window itself was filled with white glass, banded across the centre with the arms of the hardacres, gules, a clarion argent, and the shields of certain families with whom they had been connected by marriage. miss hardacre, who had unmasked, was talking to one of squire pierpoint’s daughters when the lady letitia came strutting across the hall on mr. richard wilson’s arm. the painter looked red and overheated, nor was his composure under the eyes of the assemblage bettered by his nearly tripping over his sword. jilian had not noticed the dowager’s approach, so absorbed was she in confiding to miss dorothy pierpoint some very feminine secrets concerning richard jeffray. there was a smile of beautiful amiability on the lady letitia’s face as she bore down like destiny upon the unconscious maiden.
“my dear miss hardacre—”
jilian’s gray eyes flashed up to find the old lady standing before her with a fat man in a blue coat at her side.
“permit me, my dear, to present to you my nephew’s friend, mr. richard wilson, the distinguished portrait-painter.”
poor dick proceeded to make his most professional and graceful bow. miss hardacre, who had gone very white under her delicate rouging, sat staring at the painter’s face as though it were possessed of the grim magic of the medusa’s.
“richard wilson!”
miss hardacre stammered out the words, striving with all her might and main to smile.
“surely you remember me, madam?” quoth mr. dick, clumsily, looking about as great a fool as a man could look in such a predicament.
the lady letitia was beaming upon the pair with a mischievous twinkle in her wicked old eyes. she knew that her nephew was watching them from the other side of the hall. but even the dowager was not prepared for the distressing and regrettable scene that was to follow. miss hardacre, instead of giving her hand to the painter, shrank back with a shrill scream, and proceeded to faint in the proper pathetic fashion, lying limp and pale in miss dorothy pierpoint’s arms. poor wilson stood like an emblem of confusion, nodding his heavy head, and staring first at the unconscious jilian and then at the lady letitia. there was much stir and bustle at the upper end of the hall. old ladies began to crowd in sympathetic curiosity towards the oriel, with bobbing feathers and inquisitive noses.
“poor dear miss hardacre has fainted.”
“dear, dear, the room is uncommonly hot to be sure.”
“will some one give her my smelling-salts?”
“dear me, sir”—this from a thin dame to mr. wilson, who was pushing through the press—“do you know that you are trampling on my gown?”
the painter had been edging out of the oriel, conceiving that he could best mend the mischief he had done by taking his departure. there must have been some blundering somewhere; either the lady letitia had been mistaken in her knowledge of the world, or he had been mistaken in the lady letitia. looking very red and foolish, he was shambling towards the door when footsteps came rattling after him and a hand gripped the collar of the painter’s coat.
wilson, twisting round, saw mr. lot hardacre’s furious red face staring into his.
“richard wilson, by heaven!”
“leave go of my collar, sir.”
“deuce take me!”
“i came as richard jeffray’s friend, sir.”
“curse you, sir, how dared you show your blackguardly face before my sister!”
wilson shook himself free from lot’s hold. he was no angel in the matter of temper, and his patience was giving way under the strain.
“don’t swear at me, sir,” he said. “if i have been made a fool of i am not going to be kicked for it.”
mr. lot fired out a number of oaths, and struck wilson across the face with the back of his open hand.
“go, curse you,” he roared, “or i will have you pitched out by the grooms.”
several of mr. lot’s bullies had crowded round, ready to uphold their achilles in the broil. dick wilson, with his red face ablaze and his fists clinched, had fallen back against the wall, and was glaring at lot hardacre as though tempted to blood his nose for him then and there. the whole hall was in commotion, many of the guests having turned from the fainting jilian to watch the quarrel between mr. lot and the man in the blue coat. the musicians had stopped playing, and were leaning over the balustrading of the gallery. sir peter himself was waddling from the supper-room when jeffray pushed through the ring of gentlemen about dick wilson, and confronted his cousin with flushed face and angry eyes.
“you have struck my guest, lot,” he said, with his hand on his sword.
mr. hardacre swore like a coal-heaver.
“damnation, cousin, you have insulted us by bringing the fellow here.”
“insulted you, sir?”
“and my sister, sir. deuce take me, richard jeffray, if you weren’t my cousin i’d have you and this fellow ducked in the horse-trough. deuce take me, i would.”
there was an enthusiastic murmur of approval from mr. lancelot’s friends. jeffray, utterly mystified, yet thoroughly angered none the less, looked as though ready to take his cousin at his word. wilson, who had recovered some of his equanimity, stepped forward suddenly and laid his great hand on the lad’s shoulder.
“richard jeffray,” he said, with a fierce glance at lot, “let there be no blood-spilling on my account. it is my fault, sir, and this gentleman, your cousin, is justified in construing my presence here into an insult.”
mr. lot laughed contemptuously.
“lick the dirt, my bully,” he said, “but i must have a word with cousin richard.”
wilson interposed between the two, keeping his eyes fixed fiercely on mr. hardacre’s face.
“your kinsman is as innocent as a child, sir,” he said; “the blame is mine. i offer you my apologies for causing such a scene. you can find me at rodenham if you think fit.”
wilson, looking quite the fine gentleman for once, bowed to mr. lancelot, and, elbowing the grinning toadies aside, strode towards the door with his shoulders squared. richard, still hopelessly befogged, stared at his cousin, and then followed the painter. the lady letitia was sailing down the room, the light of battle in her eyes. she called her nephew to her and commanded him to give her his arm.
“it is time that we followed mr. wilson,” she said, with a fierce glare at mr. lot. “i have no wish to stay longer in this house to be insulted.”
lot followed the dowager and richard towards the door.
“you’ll hear from me, cousin,” he said.
“i am at your service, sir,” quoth richard.
lot, his red face still aflame, turned back to meet his father. the baronet was taking snuff with great asperity. he glared at his son, and spoke to him in an angry whisper.
“what devil’s mess have you been brewing here, sir?”
mr. lancelot’s blue eyes flashed.
“dick wilson, the painter fellow, was here,” he said.
“dick wilson!”
“that old beldam brought him with her from rodenham. jill fainted when she saw the fellow. damme, sir, i will have it out with cousin richard. i can’t fight the old she-dog or the oilman, but i can fight richard.”
sir peter whistled softly, puffing out his fat, red cheeks.
“good lord, lot,” he said, “here’s a pretty ending to our party. damn the old woman. egad, you’d better get jilian to bed.”
“and to-morrow,” quoth mr. lot, savagely, “i will talk with cousin richard.”
