Part 7

“Perhaps she was,” said Richard, with studied carelessness. “Were she ugly or otherwise, I only did my duty as a gentleman and a man.”

“You dear lad,” quoth Miss Hardacre, tenderly.

“Jilian!”

“Now don’t pretend you don’t know how brave and noble you are. Ah, Heavens, only to think of it; the wretch might have killed you! It makes me shudder, Richard; it does indeed.”

Jeffray, much touched, looked at the young lady with affectionate and chivalrous candor.

“And should you have cared, dear cousin?” he asked her.

Miss Hardacre flushed crimson and hung her head. How pretty her downcast lashes looked as they swept her fair cheeks; what a sweet, sad smile hovered about her lips.

“Oh, Richard,” she said, “can you not believe—?”

“I believe all that is good and pure and kind of you, dear cousin.”

“There, sir, there; you are making me blush so that I shall hardly be able to face your aunt. You must not flatter a simple girl so. Ah, Richard,”—and she sighed—“thank Heaven that you are safe and well.”

How could Mr. Jeffray bear himself under such delicate flattery but declare Miss Hardacre to be the kindest and best of women, and to abuse his own foolish heart for dreaming dreams about young ladies with red petticoats and coal-black hair? What a weak creature he was, and what a noble being this cousin of his appeared! He was very tender and attentive to Miss Jilian that day, nor did the lady fail to encourage such an admirable display of affection. She flashed shy and melting glances into Mr. Richard’s face, blushed dearly when he spoke to her, and was as gentle and as sweet as any convent saint. Jeffray strove to forget poor Bess of the Woods, whose fierce blue eyes blazed out at him continually.

Meanwhile, Aunt Letitia appeared determined to erase from the minds of the Hardacres the unpleasant memories that her own strategies had created. Her amiability puzzled Mr. Lancelot that afternoon as he walked the terrace with her, and looked down upon the lawns and prim paths beneath, the statuary shining white amid the yews and cedars. The old lady’s eyes dwelt often on Richard and Miss Jilian who were drifting to and fro absorbed in their mutual confidences. From time to time she would scan the park as though watching for some person to appear. Dick Wilson had gone forth sketching to study the effects of light and shade upon the distant summits of the “downs.” The Lady Letitia was eagerly expecting the painter’s return. It would be so interesting to watch his introduction to Miss Hardacre.

“Look at those dear innocents,” she said, with a twinkle, to Mr. Lot. “To be frank with you, sir, I was not eager to see my nephew married; early marriages are such lotteries, Mr. Hardacre. But now that I am beginning to see more of your sweet sister, I must confess that I am becoming converted.”

Lot Hardacre gave the old lady a queer look. He was no fool was Mr. Lot, and he did not trust the dowager with all the manly innocence of his fox-hunting heart.

“I observe, madam,” he said, bluntly, “that you are a sportswoman. You don’t mind confessing when you’re off the scent.”

“The truth, sir, is always easily understood,” quoth the dowager, cheerfully.

“Egad, you’re right, madam.”

“And I shall have much pleasure in attending your father’s ‘rout,’ Mr. Hardacre. Sir Peter has shown a magnanimous spirit; and I trust that a woman of my birth knows how to receive so graceful a pardon.”

Mr. Lot grinned. He recalled to mind how his sister had been compelled to weep and threaten hysterics before the baronet could be prevailed upon to include the Rodenham folk among his guests. “Richard was a decent lad, to be sure, but that damned old cat, no, egad, he’d see her hanged before he had her at Hardacre.” It was only after much persuasion that Sir Peter had been brought to see that it would be wiser to appease the old lady than to tempt her malice.

“I trust that we have buried the hatchet, madam,” said Mr. Lot, with a bow.

“The hatchet, sir!”

“You and Sir Peter, madam, had better leave whist alone.”

The old lady chuckled as though Mr. Hardacre had delivered himself of an excellent jest. She wagged her head at him, and gave him an arch smile that carried no malice.

“You are a wicked fellow, sir,” she said, with a pat of the hand. “I can see that you have been laughing all the time at your father and myself. La, Mr. Hardacre, I can take a joke, to be sure. You are a wicked, sly fellow, sir, and you are no fool, I see that clearly enough.”

Much to Aunt Letitia’s chagrin, Dick Wilson did not return in time that day to be introduced to Miss Jilian Hardacre. She confessed to the young lady that her nephew had a painter friend staying at the priory, a droll and charming creature, but the Lady Letitia did not divulge the gentleman’s name. Might they bring him to the masked ball at Hardacre? Of course Miss Jilian declared that any friend of her cousin’s would be welcome. And thus Mr. Lot and his sister departed from Rodenham, on the best of terms with Richard Jeffray, and apparently reconciled to the Lady Letitia, his aunt. Richard walked with them across the park, and took leave of his sweet cousin with an ardent look and a significant pressure of the hand.

As they climbed the road up the long hill towards Pevensel, Miss Jilian looked at her brother with a questioning smile, and remarked on the Lady Letitia’s change of temper.

“Richard must have terrified the poor old woman,” she said. “I should never have thought that the lad had so much spirit in him.”

Mr. Lot thrust out his lower lip and swore.

“Devil take the old cat,” he said; “she is too deuced polite and purry to make me fancy her. Do you think she loves us, Jill? Damme, I’ll wager she’d like to slap your face.”

“And yours too, Lot, eh?”

They laughed and whipped up their horses to a trot as they topped the hill.

“Cousin Richard’s a little gentleman,” quoth Mr. Hardacre, “though he is a bit of a fool.”

“No, no, Lot, he is too honest, that is all. I like the lad. He has a sweet nature.”

“What I should like to know is,” returned the brother, “what sort of mischief that old catamaran is plotting. She’s a regular Jezebel, Jill. Deuce take it, she would cheat Old Nick into believing her an angel, but she won’t cheat me.”

Meanwhile poor Bess, in Pevensel, had already been confronted with Isaac Grimshaw’s authority. She had told old Ursula of the pistols Jeffray had given her, and while the girl was away milking just before sunset, the old lady had crept up the stairs, filched away the pistols from the cupboard, and hidden them in the hole under the floor where she kept her guineas. The same evening, as Bess was sitting on the settle before the fire, thinking of Jeffray, her work lying idle in her lap, there came a sudden knocking at the cottage door. Old Ursula jumped up, shot back the bolt, and let in Isaac and his son. She locked the door after them and pocketed the key. Bess, starting up from the settle, became aware instinctively that there was some conspiracy afoot against herself.

Isaac, glib and smiling, thrust Dan forward—Dan, upon whose hairy face there was a suggestive and sheepish grin.

“I be come to claim you, Bess,” he said, shifting his fur cap from hand to hand.

“Claim me!”

“Mr. Isaac has ordered it. You and me are to break a coin together. Come, lass, I’ll be kind and easy with you. Give me a kiss, and let’s call it a bargain.”

Bess, flashing fierce scorn out of her eyes at Dan, turned on Isaac with rebellious and glowing face.

“I’ll not wed Dan,” she said. “No, I’ll have none of him. Press me if you dare.”

Grimshaw smiled at her, rubbed his hands together, and nudged Dan with his elbow. The giant made a step towards Bess, grinning through his beard. In an instant the girl had turned and darted towards the stairs, only to find the door closed and old Ursula leaning against it. Trapped, Bess drew herself up and looked at the old woman with wistful anger.

“Are you against me, too, mother?”

Ursula smiled painfully.

“Isaac’s word is law, girl,” she said.

“I’ll not marry Dan, no—I hate him. I’ll not be married against my will.”

She turned and faced old Grimshaw and his son, her eyes fierce as the eyes of some wild thing caught in a snare.

“Dan,” she cried, “will you marry me? Ha, I hate you; I hate your great, ugly face. Will you marry me, I say? You oaf, you great, black, hairy fool, I hate you. Be careful, all of you. I am not to be bought and sold.”

The three were silent a moment while Bess stood in the centre of the room, passionately defiant, her fists clinched, her strong chin up. Old Isaac watched her, and still rubbed his hands together. Dan, looking sullen and foolish, fidgeted with his cap, and glanced first at Bess and then at his father. Old Ursula had the corner of her apron between her teeth. She was wavering betwixt greed and love for Bess, her foster-child.

Isaac gave his son a sudden, fierce glance and a whispered command. Dan edged across the room towards Bess. In a flash she had picked up a heavy stool, and stood at bay behind the table.

“Come at me, Dan,” she cried, “and I’ll kill ye.”

There was a sudden squeak from old Ursula. She had flung open the door that closed the stairs, the love in her overmastering the greed for gold.

“Bess,” she squealed, “quick, lass, the door’s open. Dan, you great coward, back, keep your hands off her. I’ll have no bullying in my cottage.”

Bess had flung the stool at Dan, turned and darted towards Ursula. She kissed the beldam, and fled up the stairs, while the old woman closed the door on her and covered it with her body.

“Brother Isaac,” she said, with a certain dignity that became her gray hairs well, “I’ll have no bullying in my cottage. Let Dan win the girl like a man, and not like a coward. You shall not have Bess to-night save over my body.”

Dan slunk back behind his father, who was looking at his sister with a peculiar smile. He rubbed his hands together, his white hair falling benignantly about his face.

“There, there, dame,” he said, mildly, “don’t put yourself out about the wench. We mean no harm by her, and she shall not be browbeaten. Come, son, you must wait and try what patience will do. Good-night, old lady. Bess can go to sleep in peace.”

XI

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.”