Part 22

Jeffray’s eyes had lost all the shadows of indecision. The girl was leaning on him, trusting her womanhood within his arms.

“Bess.”

“Ah—!”

It was a great sigh of contentment that escaped her. Jeffray’s arms drew yet closer. He would not have loosed her at that moment had twenty Lots set their swords at his throat.

“Tell me, Bess, what has happened.”

He spoke with the quiet tenderness of a man sure of his own strength. She turned up her face and looked at him wearily, yet with a shimmer of mystery in her eyes.

“I have half-discovered a secret.”

“The brooch?”

“I cannot tell the meaning of it yet. They caught me, Dan and Isaac, watching them uncovering money in the woods. It was last night, and I had followed Dan, and Isaac tried to shoot me, but Dan saved me then.”

“Yes, yes.”

“They brought me back to the cottage, and left me tied to a chair. Ursula came and cut the rope while they were away, and so—I escaped and came to you.”

She hung with a kind of happy languor in the man’s arms now that her heart could unburden itself of all bitterness. The mouth had softened and was no longer petulant. Their eyes held each other in one long, steady look. Neither desired to have it otherwise.

“Bess.”

She thrilled a little, and colored under her brown skin.

“You are safe with me.”

“You will not send me away? You will not send me away?”

Jeffray drew a deep breath, and knew in his heart that the riddle was solving itself as he had prayed.

“How can I send you away from me?” he said.

“Mr. Jeffray!”

“Do you not know? My God, I ought not to speak to you like this! And yet—I cannot help myself.”

She turned suddenly in his arms, red to the bosom.

“It is the dream,” she said. “We cannot help it; no, we cannot kill the truth.”

“The dream?”

“The dream I had on the saint’s night of you at Holy Cross. It has come true, in spite of Dan. I would not change it for all the gold in the wide world.”

Suddenly she put Jeffray’s arms gently away from her, and drew apart with a simple dignity that preserved her womanhood from any air of wantonness. Jeffray felt the subtle change in her, and respected her the more for it.

He took his inspiration from her on the instant.

“Bess,” he said, “do with me what you will. My honor is yours. You will trust me?”

She smiled at him, a soft light of pride and joy shining in her eyes.

“I will do all that you tell me,” she answered, with a sense of dependence.

“You are tired.”

“No, not now.”

So engrossed were they with each other that neither Bess nor Jeffray had heard the distant sound of wheels as the Hardacre coach rolled up from the lodge-gates towards the priory. The road was hidden from the two in the oak-wood. Only the gables and the tall chimneys showed between the trunks of the trees.

Jeffray took the path that led through beech-thickets to the north wall of the great garden. Bess set herself at his side as though this slightly built man held the threads of her fate firmly in his delicate yet sinewy hands. They walked together under the trees with the sunlight splashing through the fresh, green foliage, Bess telling Jeffray of her night’s adventure in Pevensel, and of the perils she had dared thereby.

They crossed the wooded hollow of the park, and entered the garden by a little gate in the red brick wall. To Jeffray the whole passage seemed a dream—strange, tragic, yet infinitely sweet. His hand touched Bess’s as they walked side by side amid the rose-trees. His fingers closed on hers for one swift moment, tightened as his eyes met hers, and then relaxed with pure regret. They approached the stairway leading to the terrace, holding a little apart, yet very conscious of each other’s nearness.

On the top step of the stair Jeffray halted suddenly. A coach was standing on the gravel drive before the house. On the terrace, not twenty paces away, and walking towards them, came Lot Hardacre with Mr. Robert Beaty at his side. Jeffray turned to Bess, but realized in an instant that all hope of concealment had gone. He pointed her to a stone seat at the end of the terrace, and, gathering his dignity, walked on to meet Lot Hardacre.

XXXVIII

Jeffray came to a halt before Mr. Lancelot, who flourished his hat, made his cousin a stiff bow, as though he were saluting an acknowledged enemy.

“I have the honor, sir, to wish you a very good-morning. I must apologize”—and Mr. Lot chuckled—“for disturbing you with the lady yonder. Mr. Jeffray—Mr. Robert Beaty, permit me to introduce you to each other.”

The two gentlemen bowed with the most perfect gravity. Jeffray held himself very upright after the salute, his lips compressed into a straight line.

“And for what purpose, gentlemen,” he said, striking straight at the heart of the matter, “am I indebted for the pleasure of your presence here at Rodenham?”

Jeffray’s composure did not appear to trouble Mr. Hardacre for a moment. He expected a certain measure of impudence from his cousin, seeing that he had a trim waist and a plumb figure to inspire him. Lot nodded to Mr. Beaty, and signed to him to withdraw. The useful supernumerary received the hint in silence, and strolling away towards the end of the terrace, amused himself by staring hard at Bess.

Lot Hardacre drew Sir Peter’s epistle from his pocket, and handed it to Richard with a bow.

“Be so good as to read it,” he said, bluntly.

Jeffray, imagining its contents, broke the seal and ran his eyes rapidly over Dr. Jessel’s elegant sentences. He colored a little as he read the letter, the declamatory abuse spreading itself before him, the charges of cowardice and dishonor awakening in him a feeling of quiet contempt. Jeffray read the letter through without one single shock of compunction or of shame. He folded it up again composedly, knowing that Lot was watching him, and taking therefore a pride in flouting his cousin’s curiosity.

“I am much honored by Sir Peter Hardacre’s bad opinion of me,” he said, tearing the letter in pieces and scattering them upon the stones.

Mr. Lot’s red face grew a shade redder.

“The devil you are?” he answered.

“It is very evident, sir, that a man of low character like myself, is—on your father’s showing—utterly unworthy of approaching Miss Hardacre with a view to matrimony.”

“Then, sir, you admit the truth of the charges made in my father’s letter?”

Jeffray kept his eyes fixed on his cousin’s red and lowering face.

“I recognize none of these charges,” he retorted, calmly, “for the simple reason that I feel myself justified by my own conscience. I do not love your sister, sir, I have no intention of doing her the great wrong of perjuring myself by promising to marry her.”

Mr. Lot took three strides to the left and three strides back again, as though setting to a partner in a dance. He turned and faced Jeffray again, his eyes glinting with anger, his clinched fists quivering with the inclination to dash itself in his kinsman’s face.

“This is your answer, sir?” he said.

“My answer, Lot.”

“Then, sir, I call you just what you are, a most infernal scoundrel.”

Jeffray, cooling in contrast to his cousin’s indignation, bowed to him, and condescended to smile.

“Thanks for your bad opinion, cousin,” he said.

“Cousin, damn you, don’t call me cousin! Tell me who the wench is who is making play for you over here.”

Jeffray drew himself instantly.

“Let me advise you, sir,” he said, “to refrain from repeating an insult to a woman’s honor.”

Mr. Lot gave a deep, ventral laugh, flashed a contemptuous look at his cousin, and cocked his thumb towards Bess.

“You needn’t talk so fine about such baggage,” he said.

“Lot Hardacre!”

“You can see the color of her stockings, eh? I tell you, Richard Jeffray, you have insulted my sister’s affections, jilted her, sir, for a mere drab. Take it straight in the face.”

Mr. Lot’s fist lunged out suddenly, but Jeffray, who had been watching for the blow, sprang back out of the reach of his cousin’s arm.

“Be careful,” he said, whipping out his sword and presenting the point towards Mr. Lot, “I will run you through if you try any of your drayman’s methods.”

Lot glared at him and felt for his sword-hilt.

“Will you fight?” he roared.

“Readily.”

“I’ll give you a mark to remember, sir—by gad, I will!”

Jeffray bowed to him very quietly.

“Permit me to call my second,” he said, “Mr. Richard Wilson is in the library.”

“Fetch him out,” growled the hero of the moment.

“The lawn below the terrace will serve us.”

Jeffray turned, sword in hand, and entered the house. He crossed the hall, found Wilson reading in the library, and explained the affair to him in a few words. The painter appeared distressed and by no means eager to further the quarrel. Jeffray smothered his objections, appealed to him as a friend, and soon had Wilson out upon the terrace. Mr. Beaty and Lot Hardacre were conferring together in undertones. On the seat at the end of the terrace sat Bess, looking restless and alert about the eyes. She started up when Jeffray reappeared with Wilson upon the terrace, and moved some paces towards him.

Jeffray, after introducing Wilson to Mr. Robert Beaty, withdrew with a slight bow and passed on to speak with Bess. Knowing that Lot Hardacre was watching him narrowly, he bore himself with all the courtliness he could command towards the girl, and pointed her back to the seat that she had just abandoned.

“I have a debt of honor to pay,” he said, with a smile.

“You are going to fight that man?”

“Yes.”

“Who is he? I hate him.”

“I will tell you everything afterwards. Will you go into the house or stay here on the terrace?”

Their eyes met, and they stood looking at each other with a mute and indescribable tenderness.

“I will stay here,” she said, at last.

“Well chosen,” he answered her.

She held out her hands, stooping a little towards him, her face bathed in the dearness of her love.

“God keep you safe—”

“For your sake, Bess?”

“Yes, yes, for my sake, Mr. Richard.”

Jeffray bent, took her hand, touched it momentarily with his lips. He turned and walked back to where the three gentlemen were waiting at the head of the stairway leading to the lawns. Bess had gone back to her seat against the balustrade. She knelt on it, pressing her hands to her bosom, her eyes following Jeffray as he passed down with the others from the terrace.

Mr. Beaty and Dick Wilson chose their ground immediately below the stairway where the old turf spread a crisp green under their feet. The swords were measured, and found to be of equal length. Lot Hardacre stripped off his red coat and gaudy waistcoat, gave them to his second, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves over his plump and muscular forearms. He threw his hat aside on the grass, wiped his right hand on his breeches, and took his sword from Mr. Beaty with a genial and meaning grin. Mr. Lot was at no loss for confidence and courage despite the proverbial cowardice of bullies. Undoubtedly he despised Jeffray, smiling rather contemptuously as he ran his eyes over his cousin’s slim and graceful figure.

Jeffray had thrown aside his coat and waistcoat, and was standing facing Lot, in black breeches, white silk stockings, and spotless shirt. The point of his sword rested on the grass. Wilson, who was looking at him anxiously, marked the firm, compressed mouth, the alert brightness in the dark eyes, the fine pose of the sinewy and agile figure. The lad was on his mettle, and looked as quiet and dangerous as any veteran. His simple directness of movement contrasted with Mr. Hardacre’s shoulder-swinging swagger and all the flourish and gusto of his self-conceit.

They saluted and began. Bess, leaning on the balustrading of the terrace, with her chin between her hands, watched them as though magnetized. Lot Hardacre had opened the attack with a series of florid and rather clumsy passes that suggested more strength and bombast than clear skill. He smiled all the time, his mouth slightly open, his blue eyes agleam. Jeffray appeared in no way flustered by the hectoring vigor of his cousin’s assault. He kept his temper and took the measure of his man, parrying all thrusts with an alertness and precision that betrayed how well he had profited by his schooling at The Wells.

It was not long before Lot Hardacre began to sweat. The expression on his round and buxom face changed remarkably. He smiled no longer, but looked puzzled and not a little impatient. Who the devil would have thought that this scholar fellow could make so good a fight of it? Instinctive and obstinate contempt got the better of Mr. Hardacre’s temper. He began to fume and swear under his breath at finding Jeffray’s sword ever at point against him. What, should he, Lot Hardacre, be kept playing by a mere lad who could do nothing but write poetry!

Losing his coolness and his self-restraint, he closed in on his cousin, and put yet more dash and spirit into his attack. Even to Bess’s keen but uncritical eyes it seemed that the big man was no match for Jeffray in litheness and suppleness of wrist. Richard was swifter, cooler, defter on his feet. He carried himself as though he could go on fencing for an hour, while Lot, red and sweaty, stamped to and fro, grunting and laboring, setting his teeth, and breathing fiercely through his nostrils.

Suddenly the whole method of the bout changed. Jeffray’s sword began to stab and glimmer, coming at every pass within perilous nearness to his cousin’s skin. Lot Hardacre began to tire and give ground. He seemed flurried, bustled, winded, and out of heart. Jeffray pressed him harder than before, amused by the astonished fury on his cousin’s face. He took his chance at last, and clinched the argument. Feinting, he lunged in under Lot’s swerving blade, and ran him through the flesh of the right breast a hand’s-breadth below the shoulder.

Lot Hardacre snarled like a hurt dog, staggered, and fell back against Mr. Beaty, who had sprung forward to catch him. A broadening patch of scarlet showed on the white shirt, and blood trickled down the wounded man’s sword-arm. He recovered himself, thrust Bob Beaty off with an oath, and stood on guard. Jeffray, who was watching him with his point lowered, drew back and held his sword crosswise across his thigh.

“You are hard hit, Lot,” he said; “you are not fit to fight again.”

Mr. Hardacre ground his teeth and swore at him.

“Are you afraid?” he retorted.

“I warn you—”

“Damn you, put your point up.”

Lot made a dash at him, his mouth working, his eyes looking like the eyes of an angry dog. He thrust savagely at Jeffray, laboring with his breath, blood soaking his white shirt. Once his point grazed Jeffray, and for the moment Bess thought that the sword had passed through his body. Richard, losing patience at last as he realized the sincerity of his cousin’s hate, threw more fierceness into his play, and drove at Lot with swift good-will. For a minute or less there was a grim shimmering and shrilling of steel, a fine tussle fought out fiercely to a finish. Lot let fly a wild thrust, missed, over-reached himself, staggered as he tried to recover. In an instant Jeffray’s sword stabbed out in a flashing counter. The point smote Lot full in the chest.

Lot Hardacre gave a sharp, savage cry, faltered, and fell back two steps. His sword wavered helplessly in the air, his knees bent under him. Both Beaty and Wilson ran to catch him as he staggered and sank. The sword fell from his relaxed fingers. Jeffray, shocked at the sight of this strong man’s agony of defeat, threw his sword away, and bent over his cousin in generous distress.

“How is it with you, Lot?”

“A good quittance, and be damned to you.”

Bob Beaty knelt supporting Lot’s shoulders and pressing his hand over the frothing wound in the man’s chest.

“My God,” he said, “what fools! We brought no surgeon.”

Jeffray, who was looking down at his cousin with mute regret, turned suddenly, and, picking up Lot’s gaudy waistcoat, doubled it into a pad and thrust it into Beaty’s hand.

“Hold it over the wound,” he said; “we must get him into the coach. Drive to Stott’s house at Rookhurst. Quick, Dick, take his shoulders.”

Between them they lifted Lot Hardacre, gray-faced and bloody, weak as a sick child, and carried him up the stairway along the terrace to the coach. A frightened and shaking serving-man opened the coach door. They lifted Lot in as gently as they could, and laid him along the seat with his head resting against Bob Beaty’s shoulder. The serving-man slammed the door and climbed up to the seat behind the coach. The postilion whipped up his horses, and the clumsy carriage swung away on its great springs, leaving Jeffray and Dick Wilson watching it side by side from the terrace.

XXXIX

The anger had melted out of Jeffray’s heart from the moment that he had helped to lift his cousin’s body and bear it with Beaty and Wilson to the coach. The reaction was but the recoiling of a sensitive nature from the violence that had brought a strong man in anguish to the ground. He stood watching the coach as it rolled along between the trees casting up a cloud of summer dust that drifted idly over the long grass.

Wilson, understanding something of the regret that had seized upon his friend’s mind, laid his hand upon Jeffray’s shoulder.

“It was no fault of yours, Richard,” he said, looking earnestly into Jeffray’s face.

The younger man hung his head and sighed.

“He forced the quarrel on me, Dick.”

“And what is more, sir, he had no intention of showing you much mercy. You cannot blame yourself for the poor devil’s fury.”

Jeffray turned at last and remembered Bess. He had almost forgotten her in the fierce emotions of the moment, and in the vision of Lot lying bleeding on the grass. She was still kneeling on the stone bench at the end of the terrace, her elbows on the balustrading, her face between her hands. Wilson’s eyes were also fixed upon this solitary figure, suggesting in its bleak aloofness some tragic influence working silently upon the unfolding of the play. The painter glanced inquiringly at Jeffray, nor was the significance of the look lost upon his friend.

“I can trust you, Dick,” he said.

“I hope so, sir. I have seen something of the world.”

“Wait for me in the library.”

Wilson nodded.

“I will be with you in an hour.”

Jeffray, his shirt stained with Lancelot’s blood, passed back down the stairway to the lawn, and took his coat from the sundial where he had left it. Bess followed him from the terrace, wondering what had caused the quarrel between Richard and the big man with the red face.

“Thank God, you are safe,” she said, proud of him in her woman’s way. “Why did you fight? Tell me; I do not understand.”

Jeffray stooped and picked up the sword that lay on the grass where he had thrown it when Lot fell.

“Do you know who that man was?” he asked her.

“No.”

“Lancelot Hardacre.”

“Sir Peter’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Why did he come to quarrel with you?”

“Because I had refused to marry his sister.”

They stood silent a moment, looking at each other, each knowing by intuition what was passing in the other’s mind. A great weight of doubt had been lifted from Jeffray’s heart. Life had taken a simpler meaning for him now that Lot Hardacre’s blood had set the seal of enmity upon the past. The action of an hour had sundered him irretrievably from Jilian and brought him nearer to this child of the woods.

“Bess,” he said, holding his sword between his hands, “I never loved this woman. Do you believe me when I tell you that?”

She colored, and her eyes flashed up to his.

“Yes, I believe it.”

“It is you whom I love, Bess. Now, before God, I have told you the truth.”

He set the sword by the point in the grass, reached out and took her hands.

“I want to do what is best for you,” he said.

“I know—I know—”

“We have come to life’s crossways, dear; give me a night to see my way.”

She looked up fearlessly into his face.

“I trust you,” she said, simply. “I trust you with all I have.”

He led her across the terrace to the house, and into the blue parlor beyond the dining-room. There he left her by the open window with the scent of thyme and woodbine floating in upon the air.

Crossing the hall, Jeffray went into the great salon that had been of old the prior’s parlor, and rang the bell for Peter Gladden. The butler, curious behind his respectful suavity, entered, to stare inquisitively at his master’s white and determined face. The sword that had pierced Lot’s body lay naked upon the table.

“Gladden.”

The butler bowed.

“Tell your wife to prepare the best bedroom. See that everything is in order.”

“Your servant, sir.”

“Mrs. Elizabeth Grimshaw is to be my guest. Your wife must wait on her in person. Let her meals be served her in her bedroom. Your wife, Gladden, must sleep in the dressing-room that opens from Mrs. Grimshaw’s room. Understand me in this, Gladden, that every command must be obeyed.”

The butler, astonished, but too well disciplined to betray the feeling, bowed again to his master and appeared all deference and submission.

“Gladden.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let one single piece of disrespect be shown to this lady, and you and your wife are dismissed from my service instantly.”

Jeffray found Dick Wilson sitting smoking at the open window of the library with his feet resting on the sill. He dropped his fat calves when Richard entered, and looked at him a little uneasily over his shoulder. Both men remembered the night of the Hardacre ball, when Wilson had confessed the truth of his old love affair with Miss Jilian. Jeffray felt that he could trust the painter, and he was in the spirit to treat him as a friend. Drawing up a chair beside Dick Wilson’s, he sat himself down before the open window.

“You saw the girl on the terrace, Dick?” he asked.

Wilson turned restlessly in his chair, his chin sunk upon his shabby green waistcoat.

“I did,” he said, quietly.

“Do you remember where you saw her before?”

The painter shook his head and frowned as though mystified.

“You remember the day we drove to Thorney Chapel?”

Wilson cocked one shrewd blue eye at Jeffray, and removed his pipe-stem from between his lips.

“You have set me thinking, sir,” he said, suddenly.

“The girl on the terrace—”

“And the rebellious bride—”

“You realize the identity.”

Simply and with no choosing of words, no rounding of sentences, Jeffray told Wilson the tale of Bess of the Woods, how she had been forced to marry Dan, and of the mystery that appeared to surround her birth. The painter sat hunched up in his chair, sucking at his pipe, and blowing out clouds of smoke. His rugged face was grave and sympathetically attentive; he grunted expressively from time to time, watching Jeffray with his keen and humorous blue eyes. The lad had developed, strengthened marvellously in these few weeks. Wilson had not yet escaped from the astonishment with which he had watched Lot Hardacre go down before Jeffray’s rapid passes.

There was a short silence at the end of Jeffray’s confessional. Wilson sat motionless in his chair, pulling at his pipe and staring out of the window.

“Well, sir, well?” he said at last.

Jeffray sprang up and began to pace the room. The telling of Bess’s story seemed to have rendered the past more vivid and real to him, the passion of the present more flowing and tumultuous.

“You are wondering what I am going to do?” he asked.

“Exactly, sir, exactly,” said Wilson, bluntly, yet without cynicism.

Jeffray stayed his striding from wall to wall, and stood with one hand gripping the back of the painter’s chair.

“The woman’s life is in danger,” he said.

Wilson nodded reflectively.

“Her husband has to be considered. She shall not go back to him.”

Dick Wilson swung himself up out of his chair, and stood staring at Jeffray with a frown upon his face. The two men looked each other in the eyes without flinching.

“Doubtless you think me mad, Dick,” said Jeffray, quietly.