Part 11

The Lady Letitia was stern as some ancient druidess.

“Do not hope for anything in this life, sir,” she said; “take pleasure as it comes, and make the most of it. Do not be deceived by sentimental notions of propriety, and do not count on the future, for our expectations generally turn out to be ridiculous. Drink the wine in the cup, sir, and don’t plot for the morrow. And stick to your money, Richard; for whatever poets may say, money is the only sure friend in this world.”

The Lady Letitia’s philosophy was not vastly cheering to her nephew’s spirit, but then the sordid truth is never welcome to the ardent soul of youth. He pitied her for the poverty of her sentiments, and yet felt uncomfortably conscious all the while that there was much shrewd wisdom in her words. His money, yes! Would Miss Jilian Hardacre have loved him if he had been without a penny? Would Sir Peter have waxed so amiable and hearty? Would the rough boors touch their hats to him and the farmers wax obsequious in his presence? Richard smiled somewhat sadly over these thoughts, like a man finding his creed light in the balance. Yet there was Dick Wilson, the rough knave whose tongue was clumsy. Jeffray believed in him. And Bess? Why should he think of Bess at such a moment? Bess Grimshaw was inclined to pout and quarrel with his wealth because—and Richard flushed at the conviction—because his gentility threw up a barrier between them. Jeffray had never contrasted Miss Jilian and the forest child in this bright light before.

The morning after his talk with Aunt Letitia, Jeffray walked in his garden and watched the spring flowers that were spearing through the brown earth in the borders. The snowdrops had melted away, and gaudy crocuses, purple and gold, blazed beyond the hedges of close-clipped box. Hyacinths were thrusting up, tulips spreading their stout leaves. On the lawns below the terrace daffodils were nodding in the wind, lighting the sombreness of the yews and cedars.

As Richard walked his gravel-paths, thinking of Bess and of her shrouded history, a short, sturdy figure in black appeared upon the terrace and came down the steps towards the garden. It was Dr. Sugg, the fat rector of Rodenham, whose red face shone forth with fiery solemnity under his powdered wig.

Dr. Barnabas Sugg was a favorite with the villagers. He could drink good beer, preach short sermons, and refrain from poking his amiable nose too parsonically into his parishoners’ affairs. He was a good man, though no ascetic, a round and rich-voiced gentleman, who was ready to put his hand into his pocket on occasions, and to give comfort to such as came to see him in his stuffy and smoke-haunted little parlor. Dr. Sugg was a high authority with the women. Had he not “churched” them and baptized their babies? Who could handle an erring wench and her lad so well, or persuade them to satisfy the prejudices of society? Who could sit and listen more good-naturedly to the small woes of the rough cottagers? The rector was no fire-fly, no sweating, shrieking Jonah, making hell lurid to the frightened oafs and wenches. A very human rogue, he lived his life among the rustics, worked with them, ay, swore at them when the occasion called for unshrinking eloquence. As for Mr. Wesley and his preachers, they had made no conquests in the rector’s kingdom. More than one gospeller had sampled the bottom of the village pond.

Dr. Sugg approached Jeffray with an expression of unusual solemnity that morning, while the peacocks strutted in sapphire and gold and the white pigeons coquetted on the columbary roof.

“Good-morning, sir. I hope the Lady Letitia is well?”

Jeffray answered for his aunt’s health and shook the parson by the hand. They boasted a mutual liking for each other, for though poor Sugg did not live the life of a St. Francis, he was a veritable mine of culture and erudition when compared with the squirearchs of the Sussex weald.

“Well, sir, I am not a bird of happy omen.”

The rector blew his nose and flapped his scarlet handkerchief in the air.

“What evil tidings am I to hear?” asked Jeffray, smiling.

“Just this, sir, that the small-pox is said to be in Rodenham.”

“The small-pox, Sugg!”

“A bad business, Mr. Richard, for we have been free of the plague these many years. I refer to the plague, sir, and not to the Methodists.”

“How was it brought into the village?”

“By a peddler fellow from Lewes, I have heard. He had an attic at the Wheat Sheaf for a night, and George Gogg’s girl, Kate, has sickened with what Surgeon Stott says is the yellow-pox, and I suppose he knows. Where it will end, sir, God only can tell.”

Richard was no coward, but he looked grave enough over Dr. Sugg’s tidings. He knew that the disease was Death’s right-hand man in England, and that there were more folk who were scarred than there were folk who had gone free. High and low dreaded the scourge; the toper went white over his punch-bowl; madam in her perfumed boudoir shivered at the thought of the marring of her face.

“What is being done?” he asked, quietly.

“Done, sir; what can be done? I don’t suppose there are five souls in the village who have ever been inoculated. I trust, Mr. Richard, that you are one of them.”

“I followed Lady Montague’s example—before I went abroad.”

“Then you should be safe, sir. But those cottagers yonder would breed the pest as a dunghill breeds flies. Then there is my poor Mary. If it spreads, sir, she’ll take it as she takes everything—mumps, measles, and the ague. Good God, Mr. Richard, I lost my wife by the small-pox! What should I do if I lost my girl?”

The rector’s voluminous voice quavered with honest feeling. He blew his nose vigorously, blinked his eyes, and looked at Jeffray with lugubrious eagerness. Richard was touched by the old man’s distress. Poor Mary Sugg; her plain face could not bear further detractions from its beauty.

“Why not take her away?” he asked.

A mild frown spread itself across the rector’s forehead. He stared into the distance and shook his head.

“The girl might go,” he observed, slowly, “and yet I don’t think it is right lest she might carry the pest with her. No, sir, I don’t think it would be honest. As for me, Mr. Jeffray, I have no intention of turning tail. What would the poor folk think of their spiritual father if he tucked up his gown and scuttled directly the devil came down on them in the shape of a damnable disease?”

There was a look of blunt heroism on Dr. Sugg’s commonplace old countenance that refreshed Jeffray’s spirit of revolt against the Lady Letitia’s cynicism.

“You are right, sir,” he said. “I respect you for your sense of duty. The priory is a safer place than the rectory. Let Mary come up here to-morrow. Of course I shall forbid my servants going down into the village.”

Dr. Sugg appeared grateful and comforted. He sniffed, and shook Jeffray’s hand with unction.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, “I thank you from my heart. And shall you remain at Rodenham yourself?”

Richard smiled.

“I have no intention of running away,” he answered, “since I may be of some use if the plague spreads. What are they doing down at the Wheat Sheaf? There is the old pest-house down by the brook, is there not?”

The rector sighed and shook his head.

“George Gogg won’t let his daughter be moved, sir,” he said, “in spite of Surgeon Stott’s fuming. As for the pest-house, the roof’s half in, and Farmer Summers has been keeping his cattle in it. It ain’t fit for use.”

Richard took the responsibility to himself.

“I am afraid the fault is mine,” he said; “I ought to have had the place kept in repair. Well, send Mary and her boxes up to-morrow. We will take her in till the danger is over.”

Richard rode over to Hardacre that same afternoon and found his betrothed in the garden, a coquettish straw hat on her auburn head, the blue ribbons tied in a bow under her chin. Miss Hardacre carried a basket and a rake, and looked as rustic as a somewhat gorgeous blue gown and green hoop would suffer. Miss Jilian’s gowns were legion, and it appeared as though she had one for each day of the month. They were part of the munitions of war, and Sir Peter flattered himself that now Mr. Richard had surrendered, he would no longer receive such outrageously long bills from the smart millinery establishment at Tunbridge Wells.

Richard made his betrothed a very fine bow, and was permitted to kiss the hand upon whose third finger shone the diamonds and rubies he had given her.

“La, Richard,” quoth Miss Jilian, looking coy, “you have caught me in my oldest clothes, sir. You must remember that I have my housewifely duties. Sir Peter never troubles his head about the garden, and I have to see that the rascals weed the paths.”

Mr. Richard declared that he admired a woman who was thoroughly domesticated.

“But really, Jilian,” he said, innocently, “your old clothes look very handsome. May I carry the basket for you?”

Miss Hardacre simpered, looked at her little feet, and blushed. She took care to be very coy and quaint with Richard, tricked out with charming affectations of simplicity, altogether a pretty pastoral of the cream and rose bloom order. No unspoiled youth would ever have fancied that many a male arm had circled that slim waist, or that sundry and several gallants had tasted those cherry lips.

“I hope you like pretty clothes, Richard,” she said, archly, handing him the basket, and wafting odors of lavender and of violet from her laced bosom like a living flower.

“Indeed, Jilian, I am proud to see you look so gay.”

“La, sir, I shall be a terrible expense to you, I am sure. What will you give me to dress myself on? Twenty pounds, eh, cousin?”

“Just as much as you like, Jilian.”

“Oh, Richard, how generous you are!”

“Am I?”

“You will be spoiling me, sir. But I do love pretty clothes, Richard, and scarves and perfumes and jewelry. Is it vanity, sir?”

“Very natural vanity,” quoth Mr. Richard, smiling, yet looking a little thoughtful.

Miss Hardacre glanced at him and arched her brows.

“There, you are teasing me, Richard,” she said; “I am sure you are.”

“I, laughing at you, Jilian?”

“Now you are frowning, to be sure. Is ought amiss with you, mon cher? You looked quite troubled and absent. Does my silly chatter tire you? I am such a gay, thoughtless little thing, and you, sir, are so terribly clever. Oh, I do hope I shall make you happy!”

Jeffray, angry with himself for the rebellious thoughts that were in his heart, pressed Miss Hardacre’s hand, and poured a pretty speech or two into her ear.

“I am a little troubled, Jilian,” he confessed. “Dr. Sugg told me this morning that there is a case of small-pox in Rodenham.”

Miss Jilian’s mouth gaped a little and her eyes hardened.

“Oh, Richard, how terrible!”

“Yes—terrible.”

She had shrunk almost imperceptibly away from him.

“I hope you have not been in any of those horrid cottages, Richard? The wretched people are so dirty and careless. Oh, the thought of the plague always terrifies me.”

Jeffray glanced at her gravely and with slight surprise. Miss Hardacre’s expression was one of petulant impatience.

“It will be a terrible thing, Jilian,” he said, “if the villagers are stricken down. The poor people are so ignorant that they cannot help themselves.”

“La, Richard, it will be their own fault, the silly, dirty wretches. Let me implore you not to go into Rodenham village.”

“I am not afraid,” quoth Mr. Richard, quietly.

“But you must think of me, sir. I do not want to be disfigured for life. Sir Peter would never let me be inoculated—or whatever they call it. He always said it was a nasty piece of nonsense.”

Richard hung his head a little, and noticed that Miss Hardacre still held her perfumed person at some slight distance from him.

“But, Jilian,” he said, “if the poor folk are ill I must try to do something to help them.”

The sweet angel showed further symptoms of impatience, even of temper. She carried her head very haughtily, and looked with some imperiousness at her betrothed.

“I suppose my wishes are of no account, Richard?”

“Jilian!”

“Oh yes, sir, it will be very nice for you to come and make love to me after you have been sitting in some dirty, festering hovel! Really, Richard, you must consider your position and my wishes. I suppose I have more claim upon your consideration than some frowsy cottage woman, eh?”

Miss Hardacre appeared in peril of tears, and Richard was moved to appease her with promises as best he could. Being a sensitive and somewhat diffident youth, he supposed himself wholly at fault in so delicate a matter, and apologized to his betrothed for seeming so careless of her health and happiness. After much sentimental persuasion Miss Hardacre deigned to smile and to receive him again into favor, ordering him, however, on pain of her extreme displeasure not to contaminate his person in the thatched hovels of Rodenham.

XVII

Remembering that Mary Sugg was to appear at the priory with her boxes the following morning, Richard conceived it advisable that he should enlighten the Lady Letitia as to Miss Sugg’s advent. Not desiring to frighten the old lady, he announced to her after supper, with an air of quiet unconcern, that there was a reputed case of small-pox in the village and that he had offered his hospitality to Mary Sugg, who was very susceptible to fever. The Lady Letitia received the news with rampant astonishment, and fell straightway to abusing her nephew for dreaming of introducing the parson’s daughter into the house.

“You must be mad, Richard,” she said, looking red and overheated, “to think of dragging the girl up here. Precious little consideration you show for your aunt’s safety, sir! I suppose my susceptibility to fevers is not worthy of consideration.”

Jeffray attempted to mollify the old lady by describing poor Dr. Sugg’s anxiety, and by dilating on the unhealthy position of the rectory, with the church-pond close under its windows.

“Richard, you are an absolute booby,” she persisted. “How can you have a young woman staying alone with you in the house, with no discreet gentlewoman to see to the proprieties? Not that I am a prude, Richard, but what will your estimable neighbors say?”

Jeffray appeared vexed and not a little impatient. Was the world full of ridiculous entanglements of etiquette and propriety, and were all women in the habit of flying into tempers whenever their personal comfort was threatened?

“Why, madam,” he said, “I have known Mary Sugg since childhood, and surely she is not a young gentlewoman likely to be made the subject of scandal?”

“Scandal can blacken an archangel, nephew. You must not attempt the impossible in life unless, of course, you intend to be improper.”

“Madam!”

“There, there; don’t frown at me, Richard. Can you not see, sir, that you would expose yourself to the jeers and gossipings of your neighbors by indulging in this quixotic sort of kindness? Mary Sugg is ugly, but she is a woman, and ugly women, sir, are often very fascinating. I am surprised that Dr. Sugg consented to the proposal.”

Richard’s lips curled perceptibly.

“To be frank with you, madam,” he retorted, “I think Dr. Sugg is a man of sentiment and of sense. He is concerned for his child’s safety, and his confidence in my honor is a compliment to my house. Why, poor Mary and I used to make daisy chains together in the meadows when we were children, and I can remember wanting her to ride my hobby-horse, and of course she couldn’t,” and Mr. Richard laughed and blushed at the reminiscence.

Aunt Letitia still regarded her nephew with a mournful and prophetic stare.

“My dear Richard,” she said, “I am only attempting to defend you from your own foolhardiness. The house is yours, and of course you can rule it as you think fit. What would your neighbors say if Miss Jilian Hardacre came to live with you before the crowning festival of propriety?”

“That is no parallel, madam.”

“Hey! Then, nephew, go and ask Miss Hardacre to consent to Parson Sugg’s daughter taking up her abode with you. If she displays no objection, then, sir, my opinions are in the air.”

Jeffray bowed to his aunt’s personal prejudices none the less, and despatched a servant with a note to the rectory, desiring Dr. Sugg to postpone his daughter’s visit for a few days, since the Lady Letitia had a great dread lest she should be exposed to infection.

Richard rode over to Hardacre that morning to discover that Miss Jilian by no means approved of his suggestion that Mary Sugg should take up her residence with him at the priory. She was surprised that Richard should even have imagined such a thing, Trifling as the matter appeared, Jeffray felt rebuffed and mortified. He had expected Jilian to give her immediate consent to the plan, and behold, she seemed every wit as shocked as the Lady Letitia. What had come to the women? Had poor Mary Sugg been some lovely creature with pink cheeks and irreligious eyes, then there might have been some reason for this pother.

“I am sorry if I have offended you, Jilian,” he said, a little haughtily, “but it was a mere matter of neighborly courtesy. I have known Mary Sugg from childhood.”

Miss Hardacre proceeded to demonstrate that she possessed a very decided will of her own, and that even a purring, kittenish creature had claws.

“Richard, you are most unreasonable,” she argued, “and I am sure the Lady Letitia advised you very sensibly. Why, the girl may be sickening already. You might catch it from her—and give the disease to me.”

Jeffray made her a polite bow.

“I ask your pardon,” he retorted; “it is plain to me that I have not considered the question selfishly enough. I will see Dr. Sugg and explain the situation.”

“You need not tell the man that I objected, Richard.”

“Not?”

“La, sir, the responsibility is yours, is it not? What have I to do with Mary Sugg?”

It may easily be conjectured that the parson’s daughter did not take up her abode at Rodenham priory, and that Jeffray surrendered to Miss Hardacre’s prejudices. He rode home in rather a sulky mood that day, meditating on the fact that in betrothing himself to her he appeared to have taken most baffling responsibilities upon his conscience.

Richard did not tell Jilian of his tryst at Holy Cross with Bess of the Woods. He conceived that there was no shame in the adventure, since the girl was in trouble and needed the counsel of a friend. Silent as to his purpose, Richard rode to Hardacre that Monday, and found Miss Hardacre vaporish and out of humor with the world. She was cross; nor did she attempt to hide her petulance, expecting the lad to sympathize with her over the shortcomings of her maid and Sir Peter’s stinginess in the matter of pin-money. Richard, blushing and looking a little uncomfortable, offered her guineas out of his own purse. Jilian’s eyes glittered at the suggestion. She did not refuse the favor, and showed no delicate dislike to taking Richard’s money.

Jeffray excused himself early, and rode through the chase and over the heath towards Pevensel. The sky was gray and sullen, cloud masses moving fast over the waving woods, and no sunlight splashing upon the greens and purples of the forest. Dead leaves whirled and danced in the glades; there was much swaying of pine-tops against the hungry sky.

He rode down through the woods, past the Calvary in the meadows, and came towards Holy Cross asleep amid the green. Moving amid the broken walls and arches he saw the girl spring down from the recess of a window, a gray cloak and hood upon her head and shoulders. She unbuckled the cloak and threw it aside as she came towards Jeffray over the grass, her black hair gleaming almost with a purplish lustre, her face aglow, her eyes shining. Jeffray had dismounted and thrown his bridle over the bough of a stunted thorn. He turned towards Bess with a curious shyness and a sense of rapid beating at the heart.

“Am I late?” he asked her.

She laughed, showing the regular whiteness of her teeth, the lustre in her eyes increasing.

“I had to run from the hamlet,” she said, standing a little apart from him with her hands over her heart. “They have been bullying me again; it was yesterday, but the pistols kept them off. Mother Ursula is for me—now.”

Richard was watching her with an instinctive delight in the splendid aliveness of her beauty. There was something inevitable about her, a passionate naturalness that made Miss Jilian seem a tangle of affectations. Bess spoke out, looked straight with her keen, blue eyes, and did not ogle, flirt, or simper.

“I am sorry that they will not leave you in peace,” he said.

“Peace! There will be no peace for me unless I shoot Dan or run away or—”

She went red and looked troubled of a sudden, drooping her black lashes, and beating her hands together softly as though measuring out the rhythm of her thoughts. There was a wistfulness about her mouth that begot in Jeffray a great yearning to comfort her.

“Bess,” he said.

She lifted her chin and looked at him, the light welling up again into her eyes.

“If Dan is for being a brute to you—”

“Yes?”

“Come to me at Rodenham. We can give you a home there—until—we see further into the future.”

Richard had almost spoken of his marriage, but had strangled the confession before it had been uttered. Bess was looking at him steadily with much forethought in her eyes. Richard’s chivalry did not wholly convince her; some self-conscious and intangible difficulty appeared to be hampering his mind.

“I thank you, Mr. Jeffray,” she said, slowly, “but—”

“Well?”

“You would be ashamed of me in your great house.”

Richard colored and looked at her appealingly.

“On my honor, Bess, no. Can you think such a thing of me?”

She smiled, half sadly, and still watched him with a species of instinctive incredulity.

“If they make me desperate,” she began.

“You will let me help you?”

“Ah, but then—”

“Promise me, Bess. You saved my life once. And are you nothing to me?”

The words had slipped with sudden intensity off Richard’s tongue. They seemed the very words that Bess had hoped to hear from him, and that she was hungry to take into her heart. She drooped her shoulders a little, her eyes shining, her hands hanging idly at her sides.

“Mr. Jeffray—”

“Yes?”

“I will come to you if—”

Richard’s face had kindled in turn, and his eyes had caught the light in the woman’s. He held his breath, and found himself trembling as he looked at her.

“On my honor, you shall be safe at Rodenham.”

She laughed, and moved nearer to him, her mouth and chin upturned to his.

“I hate Dan,” she said.

“Yes?”

“I did not dream of him on St. Agnes’s night. It was of you, Mr. Jeffray. I dreamed that I was gathering herbs in the ruins here, and that I picked a great, red flower that turned to blood in my hand. Then—I saw you standing in the doorway yonder—looking at me, and then—I awoke.”

Richard gazed at her. She was very near to him, so near that he almost felt her breath upon his mouth. He forgot Miss Jilian utterly for the moment in the near splendor of this woman’s face.

“I shall pray to St. Agnes, Bess,” he said.

She smiled at him wonderfully with her eyes.

“I almost blessed Dan, sir, for wounding you in the woods.”

“Bess!”

“I have kept the cup out of which you drank, and put orpine in it, and it grows lustily. Listen, did you hear Dan’s gun? He’s down by the fish-ponds after wild duck.”