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.”
