Part 26

There was silence between them for a moment. Bess was breathing deeply, her face shining white under her black hair as she suffered the revelation to sink slowly into her soul. Jeffray, still holding her hand, watched her with a great light in his dark eyes. It was his life’s desire to save this woman whom he loved from further pain and tribulation.

Bess turned to him suddenly, her face flushing, her eyes searching his.

“Ah—then you will not marry a beggar-woman,” she said.

“No, no!”

“Perhaps I have that in me that can make you happy.”

“Need you ask that?”

“You are giving me everything. And I?”

“You—are everything, Bess,” he answered.

So the coach swung along on the road to Lewes, the wheels grinding cheerily over the stones, and Peter Gladden on the back seat solacing himself surreptitiously with a bottle of wine that he had hidden under his cloak. Bess and Richard turned their faces towards the green slopes of Pevensel, and took a long look at the forest that still spoke to them of mystery. The wild woodland sank back against the northern sky, melting into a purple mist against the blue. On the right, a good mile from the high-road, stood Thorney Chapel where Bess and Dan Grimshaw had been married. They could not see the place from the road, for it lay in the valley that ran northward to Pevensel and the vale of yews. Hidden though it was, the bleak stone chapel, with its rusty bell and rotten porch, rose vividly before the thoughts of both. They drew closer to each other in the coach, smiling half sadly into each other’s eyes, remembering all that they had suffered.

The morning sped for them swiftly, like a river running under a rainless sky. The beauty of the earth seemed to grow more strange and alluring to their eyes. The great downs were rising and rising, green, gracious, and magnificent towards the south, speaking of the blue sea and the white cliffs that front the foam. The road ran now through fields and meadows, with here and there a wood filling a shady bottom, or topping the crest of a low hill. The crops in the fields rippled and glistened in the sunlight. The cows browsing in the meadows stopped to stare at the coach with liquid, violet eyes. Now and again a church-spire cleft the blue, and flashed white under the sun. From the hamlets along the road the sturdy Saxonlings, with their fair skins and tawny hair, would run out to cheer, and cling to the great springs behind, to be warned off by Mr. Gladden with imperious and unpardoning scorn.

Now, Peter Gladden was a Lewes man, and having received confidential instructions from his master, he took charge of the coach when it had once entered the town. They rumbled along the quaint old streets, with the gray castle towering above the chimney-stacks and gables, the great, green downs bulwarking the place like giant ramparts. Smoke hung in a blue haze over the town, the sun warming the tiled roofs and the red walls, flashing on the plastered gables, glimmering upon the casements. Lewes, buxom and stirring in those Georgian days, still carried in its Old World heart the memories of great happenings in the past. Spears and surcoats no longer bristled and blazed on bluff Mount Harry. Mighty St. Pancras and his Climiacs watched no more over the souls of Gundrada and her husband. The days of kingliness, tyranny, and flaming martyrdom were passed. Soon Tom the Exciseman would be holding forth on the noble rights of scavengers and cooks.

The Rodenham coach rolled up the High Street, dropping a serving-man at the Star on the way, and turned into a little side street towards the western end of the town not far from the old castle. Peter Gladden sprang down and appeared at the window. Across the narrow pavement at the corner of the street the round, white-framed windows of a sedate little shop, where coy hats and alluring scarfs showed through the panes of glass. A brown front-door carried a modest brass plate with “Madame Michael, Milliner,” inscribed thereon. Gladden, standing hat in hand, assured his master as to the excellence of the establishment.

Jeffray could see a couple of girls peering down at the coach from an open window above. He stepped out of the coach and gave his hand to Bess. Opening the door and setting a bell tinkling as in maidenly trepidation, he found himself in a little room with the wood-work painted white, a pier-glass in one corner, hats and caps ranged round on brass stands, and shelves filled with rolls of gay stuffs, cotton, satin, silk, and rich brocade. A demure, yellow-faced woman in a black sack, and wearing a white cap over her beautifully ordered gray ringlets, came forward from an inner room, courtesied, and gazed with polite curiosity at Jeffray and at Bess.

“Good-day, madame,” said the man, blushing, yet cherishing his dignity.

The little French lady smiled sympathetically, her bright eyes darting comprehensive glances at Bess’s rough clothes and Jeffray’s grave and boyish face.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked, with quaint and courtly composure.

Jeffray, still red, and looking a little amused at his own novel responsibility, explained to madame how greatly they needed her help. It was no question of money; Jeffray desired to see the lady who was to be his wife dressed as charmingly as time and madame’s genius could contrive. Bess was standing in the middle of the room, looking very tall and stately despite her rough clothes and red stockings and her heavy shoes. She eyed the Frenchwoman a little haughtily, glanced at herself in the pier-glass, put back the stray strands of black hair over her ears, and smiled as her eyes met Jeffray’s.

“I am afraid we are taxing your ingenuity, madame,” he said, to the aristocratic little lady, with a grave smile.

The Frenchwoman, with her gray ringlets, gave a merry and meaning laugh, glided up to Bess, took off the gray cloak, her deft hands fluttering white and delicate about the girl’s body.

“Ah, no, a pleasure, monsieur. A Frenchwoman is never taken by surprise. Come. It can be done, ma foi, yes—it is easy, very easy.”

The pretty hats were whisked down from their brass pedestals by the little lady, and poised in succession upon Bess’s stately head. Strings, black, blue, and white, were tied deliciously under the round and pearly chin. Madame stood aside from time to time, striking little attitudes, glancing at Jeffray and clapping her hands.

“Ha, charming, is it not, monsieur? Look in the glass, mademoiselle; see, is it not beautiful? It is the face, the handsome face. Ah, that is quite ravishing. Does not monsieur like it?”

Yes, Jeffray admired the first, the second, the third, and so forth. He would have them all; yes, madame might set them aside as sold. Gowns and petticoats? Madame had a number ready. Of course, that was woman’s business. Would mademoiselle step into the back room? The gentleman would wait, yes, he could not enter such a sanctuary, and the little Frenchwoman rippled with smiles. The lady should come forth and show herself in the dresses. She would look ravishing; yes, monsieur should not be disappointed.

Perhaps an hour passed, Jeffray scrutinizing Madame Michael’s merchandise with the prejudiced eye of a man in love. These pretty stuffs had no significance beyond Bess’s beauty. They were interesting by reason of the honor they might receive in being suffered to clothe the body of the one woman in Christendom. A crowd of small boys and two or three busybodies had gathered round the coach, gaping at Peter Gladden, who remained at his post, chin in air, like a Roman sentinel whom nothing could disturb. Madame Michael’s girl-apprentices were giggling and chattering in the room above. Jeffray went to the semicircular window and looked out. He could see across High Street, down a narrow alley a distant view of glimmering green downs and blue-throated corn-fields ablaze with poppies.

There was the sound of a door opening, a rustle of silks. Jeffray, turning with a quick smile, saw Bess standing in the middle of the room, wearing a summer gown cut low at the bosom, and made of some gauzy blue stuff dusted with green trefoils. A white satin petticoat showed below it, looped with blue silk. She had a band of black velvet about her throat, black mittens reaching nearly to her bare elbows, and one of Madame Michael’s adorable hats upon her head. Madame had even rearranged Bess’s hair, the black and gleaming splendor of it contrasting with the brown and pearly neck. Bess stood looking at her lover, blushing very deeply, her eyes fixed questioningly on his. As for Jeffray, he looked at her, and could not look enough, so stately and adorable did she appear in all these pretty trappings. The wild, sleek beauty of Pevensel seemed to glorify these fine clothes in a way that would have set many a round-backed and short-legged countess weeping.

The little Frenchwoman glided forward and clapped her hands. She had been watching the pair with her black, twinkling eyes, and enjoying the charm of it with sympathetic vivacity.

“Monsieur is pleased? Yes, to be sure, never have I had such a figure to show my gowns off. It is superb, superb. This gown, sir, and the others—were made but two weeks ago for a fine lady who disappointed me at the eleventh hour. Mademoiselle has a finer figure; they suit her to perfection.”

Jeffray and Bess were smiling at each other, the girl’s face radiant and suffused with a tender happiness. Nothing is more sweet to a woman than to be admired by the eyes of the man she loves.

“It is perfection,” said Jeffray, gravely.

“Ah, monsieur, you are very good. And these hats, and the other gowns that madam has chosen, where may I send them? There is some work for the needle. The evening shall see them finished.”

Jeffray gave the address of the Star Inn in High Street, took out his purse, and desired madame to present her bill. It proved a long one, and took several notes. But what of that? Jeffray was as glad to give as the little French lady was glad to receive. She courtesied Bess and Jeffray to her door, giving them all manner of good-wishes, and promising to send the gowns and hats to the Star before dusk. Peter Gladden’s face was a unique study when he set eyes on Bess in all her splendor. He bowed low as he opened the door of the coach, and received Jeffray’s orders to drive to the best goldsmith’s in the town.

Thus Bess and her lover travelled from shop to shop. An enamelled watch, bracelets, rings, a gold chain, pins, and brooches were taken from the goldsmith’s treasury. Shoes of fine leather and of satin were forthcoming elsewhere. Trunks were purchased at a saddler’s near the castle-gate. Then came more delicate and mysterious matters. Jeffray thrust his purse into Bess’s hand, and remained in the coach while she went a little shyly into Mr. Wace’s mercery and linen shop. The secrets of silken hose and of chemisettes and such gear were beyond the prerogatives of man. Bess was blushing very prettily when Peter Gladden and Mr. Wace attended her back across the pavement to the coach. Jeffray gave her his hand. She looked in his eyes, reddened, and laughed alluringly.

The coach rolled along the High Street and stopped before the Star Inn, glimpses of down country striking in between the red-roofed houses. Peter Gladden had taken care to have his master’s advent properly prepared for. The landlord came out in person to do the honor of his house. He bowed, rubbed his hands together, set himself and his whole establishment at Jeffray’s service. A private parlor had been set apart for him. Madam was to occupy the best bedroom, and the chief chambermaid should wait on her. Yes. The gentleman desired to take passage from Newhaven on the morrow? Many travellers honored the Star at Lewes on their way to France, and the landlord made it his business to obtain trustworthy news as to the shipping. The weather was perfect, and a brig was sailing for France the very next day. There would be no difficulty about a passage.

Bess and Jeffray supped together in their private parlor whose windows overlooked the place where the Sussex martyrs had been burned of yore. Red damask curtains toned well with the black wood-work and the quaint old furniture that had ministered to many. The sunlight came slanting in, burning above the western downs, warming the red roofs and the timbered gables of the old town. Time seemed to step to a slow and stately measure. Bells rang mellowly, the church clocks smote the hours. From the narrow streets and passageways the murmur of voices, the rumbling of wheels, rose up not unmelodiously into the evening air.

Peter Gladden waited at supper behind his master’s chair. The old man’s eyes wandered wonderingly towards Bess as she sat at the table in all the charm of her rich reprieve. The girl looked very lovely in her gay gown, with the black ribbon about her throat and a red rose thrust into the sable wreathings of her hair. She and Jeffray spoke but little, for Gladden’s presence set a restraint upon their tongues. Bess drank a glass of red wine, when Jeffray, smiling, gave her a love toast. They were happy in the quiet passing of the hour, happy in the thoughts of what had passed and what was yet to come.

Jeffray accompanied Bess to the door of her bed-chamber that night, carrying her candle. He stood a moment in the dusk of the beamed passage, looking in her eyes as he bade her good-night.

“Sleep well,” he said, touching her hand.

“Ah—you have been so good to me.”

“No, no, it is my happiness. To-morrow we shall cross the sea.”

She reddened, and turned up her face adorably as though for a kiss. Jeffray saw the chambermaid moving about the room, setting Bess’s new clothes and trunks in order. He bent and touched Bess’s hand with his lips, thinking of the mysterious days that were to come.

“God bless you, dear,” he said.

Her eyes flashed out to him. She took the candle, smiled, and entered the room.

Thus, while Bess put off her clothes amid the stately strangeness of the old inn, and suffered the chamber-woman to bind her hair, Jeffray sat at the parlor window and watched the young moon sink over the roofs and chimney-stacks of the old town. The charm of the day’s beauty stirred about him like the scent of flowers stealing up into the night. Bess would be sleeping her pure sleep for him, to rise and return, radiant and desirable with the dawn. Soon she would be his wife. The very thought of it stirred in him a strange and mysterious feeling of awe.

The candles were quenched in Bess’s room; her gay clothes were laid out ready for the morrow. Jeffray rose at last from the window-seat, rang the bell for Gladden, and ordered him to have candles carried to his room. Down in the street an old man with flapping brim of his hat turned down over his face, had been loitering to and fro under the shadows of the houses. He limped away as the church clocks struck ten, turned into the opening of a narrow alley, and entered the doorway of a low tavern. Isaac Grimshaw was in Lewes. His son was dead, his brother Solomon taken, the secret of the treasure betrayed by Bess. He had seen the girl drive with Jeffray through the town, had watched her enter several of the shops, and lodge at the Star Inn with her lover. Isaac had talked to one of the stable-men in the yard. He had heard that the coach was ordered for the morning, and that Jeffray and Bess were bound for Newhaven to take passage for France.

XLVI

It was early next morning when they left the town of Lewes behind upon its hill, and took the road winding across the flats towards the sea. The clouds were heavy over the downs that day, checkering the slopes with sunlight and with shadow. The Ouse burnished the broad pastures where the cattle browsed; and the green corn, dusted with scarlet poppies, waved and rippled in the freshening wind.

What zest had there been in the day for Bess since she had first wakened in the great bed to hear the clocks of Lewes striking, and the chatterings of the starlings on the tiles! The strange stir of the town, the piled-up roofs and white-faced gables, the breadth and beauty of the room she woke in charmed all her senses. She had put on those gay clothes thrice dear to her woman’s heart by reason of their love-given sanctity. The picture the mirror had made of her had made her smile and blush at her own image. And Jeffray’s eyes had proved more eloquent than any mirror. Then had come much running to and fro of servants, stir and bustle as the coach rattled out into the streets. The joyous reality of it all had included even the valedictory radiance of the landlord’s face, the barking of the dogs, the shouting of the urchins who had capered and turned somersaults for pence. It had been life at last for her, life, generous, bubbling to the brim.

So thickly had new impressions been thrust upon Bess that she lay back in the corner of the coach, and let her heart realize its dreams. Jeffray, who was watching her, saw that her silence betrayed no sadness. He was half sunk in a reverie himself, with the jingling of the harness and the thunder of the wheels. He watched Bess, and let the past drift before his eyes, and set its seal upon the glamour of the present.

They left Kingston village in a whirl of dust. Soon Iford was past, and the stunted spire of Rodmell showed white amid the trees. They went through the village at a brisk trot, under dusty elms and glittering poplars, with the sun-tanned Sussex women staring at them from doorways. A number of children were playing before the inn where roses climbed over the trellises. The youngsters ran beside the coach, cheering and waving their hands. Bess leaned forward and waved to them in turn, her eyes full of laughing light as she threw the children pence and watched them scramble. Everything was instinct with life for her that day, and her heart went out in blitheness to the world.

They were about a mile from Rodmell, with the road running through lonely marsh-lands and diked meadows, when the Pevensel folk made a last snatch at the thread of Bess’s fate. A rough shed stood at the edge of the field with a brick bridge before it closed by a gate. There was no one in sight upon the road, and nothing moved athwart the green background of the landscape, save the cattle browsing in the meadows.

The coach was within ten lengths of the cow-shed when two men came running out with a glinting of pistol-barrels in the sunlight. The younger of the two set himself in the middle of the road, and waved his arm to signal the coach to stop. It was then that Peter Gladden did one of the few bold things of his life, more from sudden impulse perhaps than from any superabundance of courage. Picking up the blunderbuss, he leaned forward over the baggage on the roof, and, chancing the singeing of his companion’s wigs, let fly straight at the man in the road.

The roar of the bell-mouthed old musket set the horses plunging into a gallop. Gladden had winged his man, for the fellow had been badly hit in the thighs and body by the leaden slugs with which the blunderbuss had been loaded. He fell heavily, and tried to crawl across the road to escape the coach that was thundering down upon him.

Gladden’s shot from the top of the coach was the first hint that Jeffray had of the adventure. He felt the coach sway and creak as the horses broke into a gallop, and heard the shouting of the servants. Instinctively he caught at Bess, and drew her down as a face flashed up at the window, a white, withered face, with snarling teeth and silvery hair blown by the wind. There was the crack of a pistol, and the splintering of a bullet through the off panel of the coach.

Jeffray, with eyes ablaze, snatched up one of his own “flintlocks,” leaned out of the window, and fired at Isaac, who was running along behind the coach and pulling a second pistol from his belt. At the moment that Jeffray fired, the fore wheel smashed the man’s legs who was lying wounded in the road. The fellow’s yell of anguish spoiled Jeffray’s aim. The bullet tore a shred of cloth from the shoulder of Isaac’s coat, but did not stop the old wolf’s rush.

Gladden was crouching on the roof, shouting to the coachman to give the horses the whip. He hurled the empty blunderbuss at Isaac as the old man made a clutch at one of the springs and missed. The musket fell at Grimshaw’s feet and tripped him up as cleanly as a Bow Street runner’s foot. His pistol flashed in the fall, the bullet sighing sadly over the fields. By the time Isaac had picked himself up, and stood clashing his teeth like a balked beast, the coach was fifty yards away, and going at a gallop towards the sea.

Jeffray had turned from the window, and seized Bess’s arm.

“Are you hurt?”

She pointed to her breast, and he saw how near the shot had passed to her. Her gown was rent just over the heart, and the pistol wad still smoked on the lace she wore.

“Was it Isaac?” she asked.

“Yes, curse him.”

“I thought I had my death, Richard—”

“He would have hit you if I had not pulled you down to me. Look, the shot has singed the shoulder of my coat.”

He laughed, as a man laughs at times when he has been near death, snatched the smoking wad from the lace at Bess’s bosom, and tossed it through the window.

“Isaac shall have no second chance,” he said; “thank God, dear, he did not spoil it all.”

And they held each other very close awhile, awed and silenced by what had happened.

By the hovel, Isaac was bending over the young man Enoch, who was groaning and writhing in the road. The slugs from the blunderbuss had fleshed him cruelly, but his broken legs hurt him more than Gladden’s lead. Isaac Grimshaw’s eyes showed no pity for the lad; his helpless whimperings made the old man savage.

“Drop that snivelling! Curse your bones and the mother that made ’em. What did I say to ye, ‘Get to the horses’ heads,’ wasn’t it? Not, ‘Stand off and shove your arm up like a scarecrow in the middle of a field.’ Pretty mess you’ve made. Stop that row, or I’ll give ye the pistol butt.”

Enoch was half fainting and too distraught with pain to give much heed to Isaac’s curses. The old man took him by the collar of the coat, and dragged him into the hovel, despite his cries as the broken bones jarred and rubbed together. The lower end of one splintered shin-bone had pierced the skin and showed through the lad’s stocking when Isaac let him rest at last on the foul straw of the shed.

“Lie there and snivel, damn you,” he said. “The louder you shout, the sooner you’ll be hanged.”

And after reloading his pistols he crammed his hat down over his eyes, took his holly staff, and, ignoring Enoch’s whimperings, limped away doggedly along the road to the sea.

XLVII

The sky grew more heavily clouded as Bess and Jeffray neared the sea, and the distant downs stood out with peculiar distinctness under the ragged fringes of the wind-blown clouds. The two in the coach hardly so much as heeded the darkening of the day, or the dishevelled clouds that were shutting out the sun. They were still blessed by the preservation of the morning, and by the thought that the sea would rock their troubles to an end. The coach rolled fast over the flats, dust blowing in clouds, and the windows rattling and banging with the wind. Jeffray had shouted to the coachman not to spare his horseflesh, for there was no knowing how far old Grimshaw’s doggedness might not take him.

He smiled, and looked glad when they neared the outskirts of the little town, and could see the masts of the ships and fishing-boats rising in the harbor. Even the banking of the clouds, and the gusts of wind that beat about the coach, gave him no thought or trouble nor dulled the ardor of the day.

“Bess, are you much of a sailor?”

She smiled at him and shook her head.

“How should I remember? It is so long ago. I am not afraid,” and her eyes delighted him.

“We may have a rough passage.”