Part 9

The sport sacred to Shrove-Tuesday had begun as Richard and the painter came down towards the green. A crowd of jabbering, hairy-faced boors were swearing and screaming on the grass. Some twenty paces distant from the crowd of hinds and slatterns, Sam Sturtevant, the cobbler, was holding one of his trained cocks by a string fastened to the leg. A rustic was in the act of taking his three shots for a penny at the bird, the object being to knock the cock down, and run and catch him before he could recover his legs. So well trained was the bird that he dodged each cast of the stick, the crowd jeering and laughing as the fellow lost his penny to the cobbler. The next gentleman was more clever in his throwing. Richard saw the bird go down on the grass, a twitching and fluttering mass of feathers. The cock recovered himself, however, before the fellow could reach him, and the stick-throwing recommenced amid the shouts of the spectators.

Richard Jeffray had never seen the sport since the days when he was a mere animal of a boy. His eyes flashed in his pale face; his mouth hardened. Crossing the road with Wilson at his heels, he looked round angrily at the boors, who had abated their yelling on the Squire’s approach, and had pulled off their hats and were louting and grinning in their uncouth way. Richard went up to the cobbler, an old man with a flinty face, whose eyes were glistening over the pence his cock had earned for him.

“Maybe Mr. Jeffray would like a shy,” he said, with a leer, while the hinds crowded round with grinning faces.

Jeffray glanced at the bird that was staggering about on a broken leg.

“Do you call this sport, men?” he asked, hotly.

The cobbler stared and appeared puzzled. The ring of brutish faces gathered closer.

“There be’nt no harm in it, yer honor,” he said.

Jeffray promptly pulled out his purse and offered to buy the cobbler’s birds. The boors stared at one another, and began to murmur.

“Begging yer honor’s pardon,” quoth the mender of shoes, “these birds of mine be’nt for buying.”

“You prefer to torture them, Sturtevant, eh?”

The man scratched his head and glanced at his friends for justification.

“There always be cock-throwing on Shrove-Tuesdays, Mr. Jeffray,” he said. “Parson Sugg has never said aught agen it.”

“That be so, Sam,” added several rough voices.

Wilson, who had pushed through the crowd, laid his hand on Jeffray’s shoulder and looked meaningly in his face.

“Let them alone, sir,” he said, in an undertone; “they won’t understand your fine philosophy.”

“This is mere brutality, Dick.”

“Egad, sir, if you begin reforming the British nation you will be ducked like Wesley in the horse-pond.”

Jeffray, feeling himself humiliated before the grinning and contemptuous faces of the men, turned and walked away with Wilson towards the inn. An outburst of coarse laughter followed him. One fellow put his thumb to his nose and spread his fingers behind Jeffray’s back. Another made a certain indescribable noise that condensed the contempt of these “pastoral swains.”

“Lamentable soft, the Squire, be’nt he, Sam?”

“Poor sort of foreigner, I reckon.”

“Sing’lar young man. Poor, skinny-looking fox as ever I see. Better be mindin’ of his own business. Lookee, Cloddy, it be your shy, man.”

They returned to their cock-baiting with rough laughter, and much lewd jeering and cursing one with another. Jeffray and the painter had neared the Wheat Sheaf where half a score red-faced farmers were gossiping and drinking beer on the benches about the wooden tables. They exchanged winks and grimaces, and pulled off their hats to Jeffray with mock politeness. George Gogg, the innkeeper, came out to meet the master of Rodenham, cloaking his personal and obese contempt for the young Squire under an air of almost offensive servility. As Jeffray passed through the bar with Wilson towards the private parlor, he became aware of a big man in a green coat staring at him from a bench in the chimney-corner. Richard, baffled for the moment, remembered where he had seen the fellow’s face before. It was Dan Grimshaw, of Pevensel. As for a contrast Bess’s face flashed up before him, its lips like a thread of scarlet, its black hair streaming above the fierce blue eyes.

XIII

Miss Jilian soon recovered from her faint in the great hall at Hardacre, thanks to sprinklings with scent and the immediate application of a smelling-bottle to her nose. Miss Hardacre had seen nothing of the foolish quarrel between Dick Wilson and Mr. Lot, and with true discretion she insisted on dancing the night out, vowing that she had only temporarily succumbed to the heat. A few words passed between brother and sister before the musicians struck up in the gallery, and Mr. Lancelot led out his sister to a country-dance. Though Sir Peter busied himself ostentatiously in seeing that certain of the hall windows were opened for the sake of ventilation, there was much secret wagging of tongues amid the company, much bobbing of plumes, much wise gossip. Several reasons were spread abroad to account for the affair and the sudden departure of the party for Rodenham. Miss Jilian, however, rose bravely superior to the past, smiled and swept courtesies, drank wine to give herself a color. She even coquetted with Mr. Gedge, one of her brother’s boon comrades, for the rest of the evening, carrying her amber head very high, and showing no symptoms of cowardice or distress.

The following morning, however, Miss Hardacre was very viciously afflicted with the vapors. She kept her bed, would not so much as suffer her maid to draw her curtains, and left untouched the chocolate the sympathetic handmaid pressed upon her. Her one command was that Sir Peter should be informed that she was vaporish, and would be pleased to see him if he would walk up-stairs. The baronet, after finishing his breakfast and swearing at Lot for making such a pother the preceding night, gathered himself together and tramped up the broad staircase to pay his respects to his daughter.

The red curtains were half drawn across the windows of Miss Jilian’s room. An odor of lavender pervaded the atmosphere, and the four-post bed, with its pink-and-white hangings, looked like a shrine where love might claim sanctuary. Miss Hardacre’s ball dress lay thrown across a chair. Her cosmetics and wash-balls were untouched on the table below her mirror. The fair Jilian herself lay back on her belaced pillows, looking rather thin and old, her tawny hair in a tangle, her mouth adroop in her white face.

Sir Peter thrust a pair of satin slippers aside with his foot, gurgled, took snuff, tossed sundry belaced vestments from a chair, and sat himself down beside the bed. The baronet gazed at his daughter with stupid gravity, and heaved a sigh under his snuffy waistcoat.

“Well, lass, how are you feeling?”

There was some rustling of the belaced bed-gown, a pair of shoulders began to twitch spasmodically, a handkerchief fluttered out, a pathetic signal of distress.

“Damn it, Jill, don’t let’s play at snivelling.”

Sir Peter’s irritable method of showing his sympathy only distressed the sweet martyr the more. There were chokings and moist miseries under the pink-and-white canopy. Miss Hardacre’s pretty feet twitched and fidgeted under the clothes, while she half buried her face in the pillow and sobbed with unction.

“Bless my soul, Jill, you ain’t a baby no longer—to play at the snivels.”

“Oh, Sir Peter, you are brutal!” came the choking reproof from the pillow.

“Drat it, lass, what are you blubbering for? There’s no great harm done, eh? Lot will see to the Hardacre honor.”

Miss Hardacre’s sobs seemed to grow less hysterical. She thrust a bare arm out of the bed, a wealth of lace hanging about the elbow. Sir Peter, who looked hot, angry, and unhappy, was at some pains to console his daughter. He took her hand and patted it parentally.

“There, there, lass; what shall we do for ye, eh?”

“Tell Lot—”

“Tell Lot. What am I to tell Lot, eh?”

“Not to quarrel with poor Richard—”

“Damn the lad, Jilian, don’t you take on so. Richard Jeffray’s a little gentleman, and I’ll take my immortal oath that it was all that old she-dog’s doing. Lot is for riding to Rodenham to demand an explanation.”

Miss Hardacre pressed her father’s hand and mopped her eyes with her lace handkerchief. Her bones showed somewhat at the base of her neck, and she looked less plump when unadorned.

“La, Sir Peter, I am very miserable,” she whimpered. “Richard and I were so happy together last night. Why should that old woman try to spoil our happiness? It was cruel of her, sir, to bring that painter fellow to Hardacre. Such an old affair, too; I was only a silly child then.”

Sir Peter swore, and fumbled for his snuffbox.

“Don’t you eat your heart out, Jill,” he said; “Lot shall see to it. Richard Jeffray shall prove that he is a gentleman.”

Miss Hardacre started up in bed upon her elbow, and held out an appealing hand towards her father.

“Don’t let there be any quarrelling; I couldn’t bear to think—”

“There, there,” interposed the baronet, with a sniff; “what a tender goose it is! You leave it to me, Jill. We will see that you are treated like a lady.”

Sir Peter kissed his daughter, and trudged downstairs, blowing his nose. He found Lot in the dining-room with his feet propped against one of the carved jambs of the fireplace, a pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and his rather bleary eyes scanning the pages of a gazette. Lot dropped his feet and swung round in his chair as his father entered, took his pipe from his mouth, and grinned.

“How’s the angelic Jill?” he asked, laconically.

“Damned vaporish, sir. Hopes you won’t hurt the poor lad. ’Twould break her heart to think of your drawing your sword on him.”

Lot laughed and knocked out his pipe on the heel of his shoe.

“She’s a clever one, is Jilian,” he said. “Egad, sir, she has given me the wink. Break her sweet heart, the dear, tough wench! I must foot it nobly, sir, before my cousin, the poet, smite my brotherly bussum, and cry, ‘Behold, sir, here lies a brother’s honor.’ Richard’s a sweet, trustful lad. Leave him to me, sir; I’ll see that Jill has her husband.”

The baronet chuckled, and sat down in his leather-bottomed chair before the fire. He lay back, exposing his generous paunch, and winked at his son over his shoulder.

“Richard will make a good son-in-law, Lot,” he observed.

“Jill will milk his pockets for him, sir.”

Sir Peter nodded and beamed greedily.

“And we’ll have some of the butter, Lot,” he said; “an easy mortgage would be deuced convenient. What does the young dog want with all his thousands lying idle? They would serve us better than they would him. We want a new coach and a new stud, and, damme, I should like a house in town again. Dick Jeffray’s a nice lad, Lot. When do you think of riding over to Rodenham?”

Mr. Hardacre yawned, stretched his legs, and looked cunningly at his father.

“This afternoon, sir,” he said, with a grin. “The old harridan thinks she has spoiled our sport, but I guess she has given us a great opportunity. I will put it to Mr. Richard like a brother. If he don’t see it in the sentimental light, sir, I’ll just do a little bullying.”

“And have Jill weeping over his grave!”

Mr. Lot laughed loudly and thumped his chest.

“You’ll do it all right, Lot,” said the baronet; “damme, you will.”

“Leave him to me, sir. Sister Jill shall have her husband.”

Thus, with the wind blowing briskly through Pevensel and the clouds rolling like great purple chariots over the distant downs, Mr. Lancelot rode out in quest of the Hardacre honor, and came trotting through Rodenham park betwixt the beeches and the cedars. Mr. Lot was dressed in his best brown riding-suit, with a silver-mounted sword at his side, and a new tie-wig perched on his solid round pate. His blue eyes twinkled in his fiery face, and he swore softly to himself and patted his horse’s neck. Gladden answered the clanging bell with the usual inscrutable smirk upon his face. Mr. Hardacre announced the fact that he desired to see Mr. Jeffray alone, his manner demanding unequivocal obedience on the part of the butler. Richard was reading in the library at the moment, having left Dick Wilson at the inn. The Lady Letitia still kept her chamber, having sent word to her nephew that she was still prostrated after the unpleasant experiences of the night.

Mr. Lot had been ushered into the red parlor, and Richard found him strutting up and down before the windows that overlooked the park, his sword cocked under his coat-tails in very militant fashion. He bowed with unusual courtliness, and posed very creditably as a cavalier without reproach. Richard felt decidedly oppressed by his cousin’s portentous dignity. All the evidences of a determination to claim the right of politely murdering him appeared in Mr. Hardacre’s manner.

Jeffray desired Mr. Hardacre to be seated. Lot waved the proffered chair aside, and stood to the majestic moment with astonishing grandiosity.

“Cousin Richard,” he said, with another bow, “you doubtless recognize the delicacy of the errand that has brought me to Rodenham.”

Richard blushed and looked uncomfortable.

“You refer to the affair of last night, Lot,” he answered.

“Egad, sir, I do. It is my right as Miss Hardacre’s brother to demand an explanation from you, sir, with regard to the unwarrantable introduction of this Mr. Wilson into our house.”

Richard was still blushing and looking honestly distressed. He glanced appealingly at his cousin’s righteous face, and promptly plunged into a rambling and eager explanation of the affair, expressing his ardent regret at what had happened, and exonerating both Wilson and himself from the charge of premeditated mischief-making. Mr. Lot nodded very solemnly at every sentence, keeping his eyes fixed severely upon his cousin’s face, and still cocking his sword with aggressive significance.

“So you will see, Lot,” said the lad, frankly, at the end of his speech, “that I was utterly innocent of any desire to offend. God knows, sir, I was as miserable as a man could be over such a regrettable error. I can only offer you my apologies and ask you and Sir Peter to forgive me.”

Mr. Lancelot bowed and smiled with some grimness.

“Egad, cousin,” he said, “I am glad to find you in so reasonable a temper. I can tell you, Richard, my blood was up, and when Lot Hardacre is roused—he is a bit of a devil, sir.”

Richard, hot and eager, like the generous fellow he was, to salve the wounded Hardacre pride, held out his hand to Lot with a brave smile.

“Your anger does you honor, Lot,” he said. “Had I such a sister I should be terribly jealous for her.”

Mr. Hardacre glanced at Jeffray’s hand reflectively, and then shook it.

“Deuce take me, Richard,” he said, “I knew you were a lad of the right temper. As for Dick Wilson, I broke his pate once, poor devil, when Jill was a mere bread-and-butter simpleton, and he had the impudence to fall in love with her. A pretty little jest, Richard, nothing more. It was the old lady above, sir, who poisoned the posset.”

Jeffray was sincerely relieved to find Mr. Lancelot mellowing into such a brotherly humor.

“Poor Wilson was as much concerned as I was, Lot,” he said. “The Lady Letitia fibbed him into believing that he could present himself at Hardacre. I knew nothing of the matter till last night. Wilson is staying for a day at the Wheat Sheaf down in the village to offer you his apologies, or honorable satisfaction, should you require it.”

Mr. Lot laughed good-humoredly, and reduced the cock of his sword.

“I don’t want to quarrel with the poor devil, Richard,” he said. “You were both of you lambs sucking sour milk from the old dam above. I only desired, sir, to see justice done to my sister.”

Richard, blushing guiltily, looked with some shyness at his cousin.

“How is Jilian?” he asked.

Lot’s face seized upon a most lugubrious expression. He shook his head, and looked with significant pathos at Richard.

“Poor wench, she is in a terrible way—”

“Lot, I am miserably distressed.”

“She begged me to make no quarrel in the matter; swore it was no fault of yours; wanted me to promise that I would not lose my temper.”

Richard listened, looking the embodiment of generous contrition. What an angel this sweet cousin of his was, to be sure! Of course Jilian had had little romances after she had come fresh from school. What girl had not? And had not he, Richard Jeffray, brought all this distress upon her?

“Lot,” he said, “I am not worthy to kiss your sister’s hand. Do you think that she will forgive me?”

Mr. Lancelot appeared profoundly serious, and glanced at his cousin under wrinkled brows.

“Jill has a deuced kind heart, Dick,” he said.

“Can I see her to-morrow?”

“The lass has been much shaken, cousin; she kept her bed this morning.”

Richard, looking a fine and honest fellow with his eyes bright in his flushed face, held out his hands to his cousin.

“Be my friend, Lot,” he said, “and persuade Jilian to let me see her. I am a man of honor, sir, and your sister is a saint. Say I will ride over to-morrow in the hope that she will see me.”

Mr. Lot studied his cousin keenly and smiled. The lad was honest and generous enough; there would be no need of bullying.

“Egad, Richard,” he exclaimed, “you are a fine fellow, sir, and Lot Hardacre is with you. Poor Jill has a tender heart, cousin. I’ll try to get her to see you; I will. Sir Peter, too, is in a swearing rage, Richard, but I’ll get old Stott over and have the governor bled.”

Richard, with tears in his eyes, gripped his cousin’s hand.

“Thank you, Lot,” he said—“thank you. You are a friend in need—by Heaven, you are! As for my aunt, she shall leave Rodenham at once.”

Mr. Hardacre clapped Jeffray on the shoulder.

“That’s the tune, my buck,” he said, heartily; “be the master in your own house, Richard, and don’t be grandmothered by any old woman. Why, she would quarrel with you if you were for marrying St. Agnes, by gad, she would. Have it out with her, cousin; she’s been treating you like a foot-boy. I wouldn’t stand it, sir; I wouldn’t.”

Richard smiled a little ruefully, pressed his cousin’s red hand again, and accompanied him to the porch. Mr. Lot mounted on the terrace, flashed a keen look at his cousin, and took leave of him with boisterous good-humor.

“Get to the windward of her, Richard,” he said, meaningly. “Give her a broadside or two and she’ll strike. Damn it, cousin, don’t be a charity boy in your own house.”

“To-morrow, Lot—”

“I’ll do my best, Richard, by gad, I will. Lot Hardacre’s your friend, cousin, don’t you doubt it.”

Richard watched his kinsman ride away, and then went back to the library somewhat hot about the eyes. He was glad that the quarrel was ending so peaceably, and what an angel of sweetness Miss Jilian was, to be sure! Yes, he was ready to go down on his knees and ask her pardon, yet—why did Bess’s face flash up before him of a sudden? Well, he would go down to the Wheat Sheaf and tell Wilson what had happened. And then—then he must do battle with Aunt Letitia.

XIV

Jeffray, much impressed by Mr. Lancelot’s brotherly ardor, trudged down across the park that evening and took the road to Rodenham village. The Shrovetide cock-throwing was at an end, and beer had succeeded to brutality. Villagers were shouting and singing in front of the inn, where a fuddled old fiddler with a wooden leg sat perched on a barrel, scraping away at his violin. The red, hairy faces, with their animal laughter and their vociferous mouths, made the master of Rodenham shudder. A number of lads and wenches were racing and scrimmaging on the green, tumbling one another upon the grass, their coarse laughter sounding through the village. Jeffray pushed through the crowd towards the inn, holding his head high and turning his flushed face neither to the right nor the left. He found Wilson in the private parlor dining on steak and potatoes, with a pot of porter at his elbow. The painter sprang up and gripped Jeffray’s hand as the lad blurted out the result of his conference with Mr. Lot. Wilson’s rough face brightened. He wiped his great mouth, and looked at Richard with affection.

“Ah, sir,” he said, “I am glad to hear the sky is clearing. There is a weight, Richard, a great weight off my mind. I was not afraid, sir, of Mr. Hardacre’s sword, but I was afraid of injuring your happiness.”

Jeffray sat down and talked to Wilson, while the painter, after blunt apologies, went on with his dinner. Richard was for having Wilson back at Rodenham, but the honest fellow would consent to no such diplomatic error.

“No, no, Richard,” he said, after a pull at the pot, “I am best away, sir, at such a crisis, though I thank you heartily for your kindness. I shall tramp on to Lewes and see more of these glorious fellows—the downs. I have money in my purse, and, egad, what irony, I won some of it from your august aunt at cards. I believe she let me win it, sir, to keep me in a good temper, and the cash will pay for the portrait I painted. I shall come back by this road, Richard, and if I slink in for a meal at Rodenham you must not be amazed.”

“Come when you will, Dick,” said Jeffray, “the priory will be open to you when this quarrel is at end. Jilian has a kind heart; she will not grudge me a friend.”

Wilson shook his head and smiled shrewdly.

“I have no desire to make experiments, sir,” he said; “and if I turn in to see you, it will only be for a short day. If you have a priest’s hiding-hole at Rodenham, you might put it at my service for a night. Take my advice, Richard, and don’t fling my name in Miss Hardacre’s face. There are some things women like to leave in the lumber-room. Lud, what an infernal din those boors are making!”

Jeffray said farewell to the painter with no little regret, for he was one of the few men he had met to whom he could confide his poetical enthusiasm. There was a goodly world of beauty behind Richard Wilson’s ugly face. Jeffray walked back to Rodenham with a grave sense of responsibility increasing upon him. The Lady Letitia had sent word that she would come down to sup with her nephew, and Richard dreaded not a little the ordeal that loomed across the night. No doubt his aunt had heard of Mr. Hardacre’s visit. Jeffray had need of some of the courage of a Perseus to face this acrimonious and awe-inspiring dame.

The Lady Letitia’s attitude and expression may be imagined when Jeffray, looking pale but very composed, informed her that it would be necessary for her to leave Rodenham in her coach. The old lady expressed the most haughty astonishment, scanned her nephew as though he were an impudent urchin of ten, and began to insist that Wilson, the painter fellow, was a most unprincipled liar. Had he not occasioned all the disturbance at Hardacre by deceiving the dear old lady as to the nature of his past association with Miss Jilian? Was Richard Jeffray going to bundle his father’s sister out of his house as though she were no better than some unfortunate slut? Angels and martyrs, the Lady Letitia had no intention of stomaching such arbitrary treatment. She had pride, sir, and if her presence caused her nephew any inconvenience, she could take her departure without orders.

Richard held his tongue and kept his temper throughout the dowager’s explosive harangue, sitting with pale face and compressed mouth, and drumming on the table with his fingers.

“You will pardon me, madam,” he said, very politely, “but for the present peace of the neighborhood I conceive it expedient for you to leave Rodenham—for a time.”

The old lady’s red nose admonished her nephew. She twitched her eyebrows, flapped and fluttered with her fan, looking outraged both as to pride and affection.