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 BESS OF THE WOODS I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 BY 
 
 WARWICK DEEPING 
 
 AUTHOR OK 
 
 "THB SLANDBRBRS " " UTHBR AND IGRAINB " 
 
 BTC. 
 
 I 
 
 LONDON AND NEW YORK 
 HAHI'FR & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 M CMVI 
 
 r!
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Harper & Brothbrs. 
 
 AU rights reservni. 
 
 Published June, igo6.
 
 TO 
 
 MY VERY DEAR FRIEND 
 
 JOHN CECIL RIX
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 RICHARD JEFFRAY thrust back his chair from 
 Sir Peter Hardacre's dining -tabic, and stood stiff 
 and ill at case, like a man but half sure of his own 
 dignity. The Dutch clock had struck three, and the 
 winter sunlight was still flooding through the tall win- 
 dows upon the polished floor. A log-fire blazed on the 
 irons; decanters and glasses glistened on the table about 
 a great china punch-bowl covered with green dragons 
 and blue mandarins. 
 
 It was early in the afternoon, and yet Parson Jessel's 
 great wig was flapping forward with an unsaintly tilt over 
 the pastor's left eye. Sir Peter, a fat and tuberose- 
 nosed aristocrat, in a blue coat and a brocaded waist- 
 coat, sprawled in his arm-chair at the end of the table, 
 his paunch abutting against the board, his full-bottomed 
 wig flowing in slovenly profusion about his blotchy face. 
 On the far side of the table, with his back to the fire, 
 sat Mr. Lot Hardacre, a heavy-shouldcrcd gentleman 
 in a scarlet hunting-coat and buckskin breeches, whose 
 culture was half that of a jockey, half that of a card- 
 sharper. A long clay pipe drooped from the angle of 
 Mr. Lot Hardacre's mouth, and his coarse, chapped 
 hands were stuffed into the pockets of his breeches. 
 
 Richard Jeffray bowed to these three gentlemen as 
 
 I
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 though he was not wholly at his ease. Sir Peter Hard- 
 acre's ungainly torpor suggested that he had fed largely 
 and too well. 
 
 "You will pardon me, Sir Peter," he said, with a 
 glance at Mr, Lot's sodden and impudent face, "the 
 days are short, and I must be in the saddle. You will 
 make excuses for me to the ladies." 
 
 The baronet puffed out his lips and elevated his eye- 
 brows sleepily. Parson Jessel had already begun to 
 snore. Mr. Lancelot alone appeared to retain the spark- 
 lings of intelligence in his protuberant blue eyes. He 
 removed his pipe from his mouth, and winked at Richard 
 Jeffray with an air of benignant patronage. 
 
 "Sister Jilian's above, cousin," he said, "strumming 
 on the harpsichord. We're coarse devils, Dick, eh ? 
 Jil is a gentle creature, and don't swear — at least, not 
 often." 
 
 The baronet, bulging like a Silenus, nodded his head, 
 and fumbling for his snuff-box spilled half the contents 
 over his waistcoat. 
 
 "Going, Dick?" he quavered. "Gad, boy, it's 
 damned early; we shall be with the ladies in the turn 
 of a box. Sit down, lad. Son Lot will tell 'ee how he 
 won fifty guineas from that card-clipping Captain Car- 
 teret last week — sapped the soldier fairly. Egad, Lot 
 has marrow in him. Parson, pass the punch." 
 
 A loud snore from the ecclesiastic and a thick laugh 
 from Mr. Lancelot betrayed how fate had dealt with 
 the fuddled shepherd of the Hardacre souls. Sir Peter 
 thrust out his lower lip, and swore. 
 
 "Damme," he said, "what a dull dog it is! Dick, 
 lad, I'll match his sermons against the heaviest brew in 
 Sussex. Kick him. Lot; kick his shins, boy; the bowl 
 ain't empty yet." 
 
 The interlude was opportune, Richard Jeffray bowed 
 once more to the baronet, mumbled an excuse, and leav- 
 
 2
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ing Mr. Lot to the breaking of the cleric's shins and 
 slumber, stepped nimbly towards the door. Sir Peter 
 gazed after him with an expression of fat and over-fed 
 pity. "The lad was a nice lad, but, damn it, he couldn't 
 drink, and, God help him, he wouldn't swear!" The 
 baronet shook his wig and took snuff with some asperity. 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Lot was amusing himself by holding the 
 bowl of his pipe under the parson's nose. Richard, as 
 he closed the door, heard a mighty and portentous 
 sneeze herald the awakening of that saintly soul. 
 
 Richard Jcffray rode out through Hard acre Park with 
 a look of melancholy reflection on his face. He turned, 
 when he had ridden two hundred yards or more, and 
 gazed back at the old house, with its stately red turrets 
 and high gables clear-cut against the thin blue of a 
 winter sky. A great beech wood rose on the slope of 
 the hill behind the place, while around it lay the terraced 
 walks and trim lawns of the garden. Closely clipped 
 hollies and yews rose above the still water of the moat. 
 The warm, red brick, mellow in the slanting light of the 
 sun, the ivied buttresses, the lichened stone, seemed to 
 tone rarely with the purple gloom of the wood beyond. 
 And this betowered, tall-chimneyed, hundred -windowed 
 house, this rare casket memorable with all the stateliness 
 of a stately past, held for its jewels a bevy of boozing, 
 fox-hunting bullies whose oaths and lewd badinage 
 seemed fit only for a tavern. 
 
 Richard Jeffray whipped his black mare out of Hard- 
 acre Chase, leaving the gaunt trees, the dew-drenched 
 grass and rotting bracken for the muddy road that 
 curled up towards the moors. He was a slim yet wiry 
 youth, with a sallow face and a pair of sparkling Span- 
 ish eyes. A scn.sitive intelligence showed in every fibre. 
 He wore his own black hair unpowdered, and though 
 nature appearetl to have intended him for a macaroni, 
 he boasted more scholarly slovenliness than fashionable 
 
 3
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 elegance in his clothes. Cousin Lot thought him a 
 pretty fellow enough, but too damned womanish to be 
 of any use in the world. The local squires respected his 
 wealth and his breeding, did not hesitate to set their 
 daughters at his service, and chose to despise him over 
 their punch-bowls as a milksop and a fool, 
 
 Richard topped the heath, and reined in to scan the 
 shadowy slopes of the wilds of Pevensel. In the far 
 south, huge, hog -backed hills brooded over the sea, 
 purple under a passing cloud, or glistening in the slant- 
 ing sun. South, east, and west rolled the forest land, 
 hill on hill and valley on valley, mist-wrapped, splashed 
 with light or smirched with shadow, a region of gloom, 
 or of mysterious delight. 
 
 Richard Jeff ray sat in the saddle and stared about 
 him like a man refreshed. His pale face colored, his 
 eyes brightened. This forest land, called Pevensel of 
 old, and voted "a damned rubbish heap" by the Bar- 
 onet Peter, appealed to the sentimentalist as a wild 
 delicacy snatched from the material maw of Mammon. 
 Here were no cropped hedges and sullen fields, no sour 
 and unclean villages, no cabbage gardens, no frowsy and 
 rubbish-ridden farms. Nature had her sway in Pevensel. 
 Even the wild things were clean, sleek, and fair of limb, 
 beautiful according to the idea upon which each had 
 been created. The falcon glimmering under the clouds; 
 the hare scampering amid the heather. These were 
 preferable to clumsy, bandy-legged oafs, and to women 
 whose tongues were as unclean as their garments. 
 
 Richard rode on again down the sandy road that ran 
 like a gray streak through the waste of green. Had six 
 months passed since he had posted back from Italy with 
 the news of his father's death big in his heart ? Had he 
 not left England as a boy, and returned to it something 
 of a man, intoxicated with many delightful superstitions, 
 and fired with a belief in the stately grandeur of the 
 
 4
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 English nation. Sir Peter and his Sussex squires had 
 tumbled Mr. Richard's amiable theories down into their 
 native mire. Cousin Lot had laughed and sneered at 
 him. The Lady Letitia had assailed his soul with such 
 worldly wisdoms as disregarded sentiment and honor. 
 Richard had ruled his own house at Rodenham six 
 months, built his dead father's tomb, and attempted to 
 ingratiate himself with the boors who crowded Roden- 
 ham village. He had rattled his poetical notions against 
 the skulls of his Sussex peers, and half-fooled himself into 
 imagining that he was in love with gray-eyed Mistress 
 Jilian, his cousin, who wore flaming petticoats and pre- 
 posterous hoops, and rouged and ogled like the veteran 
 of thirty that she was. Richard JefFray confessed him- 
 self a fool as he rode down that day through the wilds of 
 Pevensel and cogitated upon the beauties of a rustic life. 
 The landscape was certainly not at fault, and the man 
 of sentiment believed himself in sympathy with nature. 
 The human element was the poison in the pot. He sup- 
 posed that these Wealden folk became, like the clay 
 they lived upon, heavy and sodden, dedicated to the 
 producing of wheat at sixty shillings a quarter. 
 
 The sky seemed prophetic of snow, a canopy of purple 
 clouds pressing from the north like some fate-bearing 
 vapor of the Norse legends. The west was a great cavern 
 of fire, with ruddy veins of glowing ore tonguing scarlet 
 and gold across the sky. The wild, fir-spired wastes of 
 Pevensel loomed strange and mysterious under the slant- 
 ing light. There were tall thickets bannered with crim- 
 son on the hills, stretches of rusty heather and dark- 
 green gorse, covered as with a web of gold. Now and 
 again a vague wind would start uj) out of the silence, 
 and come roaring and moaning amid the swaying 
 trees. 
 
 From Beacon Rock the road plunged suddenly into a 
 broad valley. A tawny, iron-stained stream trickled on 
 
 5
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 one side of the highway ; on the other a beechwood rose 
 towards the west, its round pillars and bronze carpeting 
 of leaves streaked and splashed by the setting sun. A 
 thousand intertwining branches netted the red and angry 
 splendor of the sky. 
 
 There was a sudden scuffling in the wood as Jeffray 
 rode by, a score of black pigs running squeaking and 
 grunting amid the dead leaves and bracken. Close to 
 the road, under the shadow of a great beech, sat an old 
 woman with her chin near her knees, her nose a red hook 
 above her lipless mouth. Behind the crone, and leaning 
 against the trunk of the tree, stood a girl in a green gown 
 and scarlet stays laced up over her full yet girlish bust, 
 her short gown displaying a pair of buckled shoes and 
 neat, gray-stockinged ankles. She wore also a red cloak, 
 the hood, lined with rabbit-skin, turned back upon her 
 shoulders. 
 
 Jeffray glanced at the pair as he reined in to avoid 
 riding down a couple of pigs that were grunting and 
 scurrying about the road. The girl in the red cloak was 
 a tall wench with coal-black hair, petulant, full lips, 
 cheeks tanned a rich red, a color that would have made 
 the ladies of St. James's appear pale and dim. Her eyes 
 were of a hard and crude blue, looking almost fierce 
 under their straight black brows. There was a haughty 
 and intractable air about her. The sensuous curve of 
 her strong figure seemed to suggest the agility and 
 strength of a beautiful savage. 
 
 The old woman had clambered up and was laying her 
 stick across the backs of the pigs with a verve that did 
 her hardihood credit. The girl by the tree stood mo- 
 tionless, as though in no mood for playing under-swine- 
 herd to the old lady. She was staring boldly at Jeffray, 
 with no play of emotion upon her face, no softening of 
 her large and petulant mouth. She looked, indeed, like 
 a child of the wild woods, taught to rely solely upon her 
 
 6
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 senses, and those primitive instincts that the forest Ufe 
 had developed. 
 
 The old woman dropped a courtesy to Jeffray as he 
 rode on, but the girl by the tree favored him only with 
 her barbaric stare. The storm wind was rising. It 
 came cr^'ing through the wood like the massed trumpet- 
 blasts of some black-bannered host. Jeffray drew his 
 cloak about him, whipped up his horse, and held on for 
 Rodenham. He still saw the hard blue eyes, the full, 
 petulant lips, the black hair falling desirously about the 
 ill-tempered and glowing face. He thought of Miss 
 Jilian Hardacre's rouged checks and simpering gray eyes. 
 Surely the baronet's daughter needed more blood under 
 her delicate skin when even this forest wench made her 
 seem tliin and old.
 
 II 
 
 IT had begun to snow by the time Jeffray had left 
 Pevensel Forest for the meadow-lands and brown fal- 
 lows that spoke of civilization. Dusk had fallen, the 
 whirling snow-flakes dimming the red glow in the west, 
 yet filling the twiHght with a gray radiance. Richard 
 saw the lights of Rodenham village glimmering faintly 
 in the valley below him. Soon he was riding through 
 his own park with the thickening snow driving like 
 mist amid the trees. 
 
 Jeffray left his mare at the stables and entered the 
 house by the side door from the garden. The old 
 priory of Rodenham was one of those dream -houses 
 that seem built up out of the idyls of the past. It was 
 full of long galleries, dark entries, beams, recessed win- 
 dows, huge cupboards, and winding stairs. Casements 
 glimmered in unexpected places. The rooms led one 
 into the other at all angles, and were rarely on a level. 
 Here were panels black with age, phantasmal beds, 
 carved chests that might have tombed mysteries for 
 centuries, faded tapestries that breathed forth tragedy 
 as they waved upon the walls. All was dark, mellow, 
 stately, silent. The very essences of life seemed to 
 have melted into the stones; the deep throes of the 
 human heart had become as echoes in each solemn 
 room. 
 
 Jeffray found the Lady Letitia, his aunt, playing 
 piquet in the damask drawing-room with Dr. Sugg, 
 the rector of Rodenham. The Lady Letitia was a red- 
 
 8
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 beaked and bushy browed old vulture, with wicked 
 eyes and a budding beard. Her towering "head" was 
 stuffed full of ribbons and feathers, her stupendous 
 hoop of red damask, her gown flowered red and blue. 
 The Lady Letitia was one of those preposterous old 
 ladies who labor under the delusion that a woman of 
 sixty may still presume to trade upon the reputation of 
 impudent loveliness she had created some thirty years 
 ago. Evervthing about the Lady Letitia was false and 
 artificial. Her teeth and eyebrows were emblems of 
 what her virtues were, manufactured articles to make 
 the wearer passable in society. The old lady had 
 deigned to drive down from London in her coach-and- 
 four to spend Christmas with her nephew, a piece of 
 affectionate economy necessitated by heavy losses at 
 cards. She had deigned also to take Richard's educa- 
 tion in hand. The lad was deplorably quiet, gauche, 
 and sensitive. 
 
 "So you are back at last, Richard," she said, looking 
 like a pompous old parrot, with one eye on her cards 
 and one on her nephew. "Seat yourself. Dr. Sugg; 
 Richard does not want you to stand on ceremony. 
 Snowing, eh? Detestable weather; the country is like 
 a quagmire already, as I may see by your coat and 
 breeches, nephew. It is usual for a gentleman to dress 
 before presenting himself to a lady. You look sur- 
 prised, Richard. 'Is it not my own house?' you say. 
 Certainly, mon cher, so it is, but I am a lady of birth, 
 sir, and I like to be treated as such. How is Mistress 
 Jilian ? Deft at the harpsichord as ever?" 
 
 Richard, whose face had flushed towards the end of 
 this oration, drew a chair beside the card-table, and 
 seatcf] himself before the fire. It was characteristic of 
 the Lady Letitia that she had a habit of ruling and cor- 
 recting every one. She would tilt her beak of a nose, 
 fix her wicked little eyes on the victim, and drop gall 
 a 9
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 and bitterness from her shrivelled old mouth with a 
 condescension that made her detestable. There was an 
 avaricious glint in the old lady's eyes for the moment. 
 Poor Dr. Sugg, purple-faced and stertorous, came night- 
 ly to the priory in clean ruffles and a well-powdered 
 wig to permit the Lady Letitia to possess herself of his 
 small cash in the hope that the worthy dowager might 
 use her influence on his behalf with my lord the bishop. 
 
 Aunt Letitia turned suddenly and rapped her neph- 
 ew's shoulder with her fan. 
 
 "Richard," she said, with some asperity, "is it cus- 
 tomary to sit between a lady and the fire?" 
 
 Jeffray apologized and shifted his chair. Dr. Sugg 
 was engaged in shuffling the cards ; the dowager's black 
 eyes were busy scanning her nephew's person with the 
 critical keenness of a woman of the world. 
 
 "Richard, where did you get that coat?" she asked. 
 
 "At Lewes, aunt." 
 
 "Pooh! the rascal has made it like a sack. You 
 must have a smart tailor, boy. I cannot allow you to 
 be disgraced by your clothes." 
 
 Dr. Sugg, who was glancing over his cards, cast a 
 pathetic look at Richard, and groaned over his in- 
 veterate bad luck. Aunt Letitia's eyes glistened ; her 
 rouged and scraggy face was radiant with miserly good 
 humor. 
 
 "My dear Richard," she said, benignantly, "I must 
 really take you to The Wells with me, and introduce 
 you into respectable society. You must learn elegance, 
 dignity, address. These virtues are as necessary to a 
 young man of good family as a good tailor or a smart 
 hatter. You must have your hair dressed properly; 
 I will instruct Gladden myself in the latest fashion. 
 Bucolic melancholy does not pass for fine breeding in 
 elegant circles." 
 
 Jeffray smiled somewhat cynically at his aunt as he 
 
 lO
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 watched her clutching at poor Sugg's shilHngs. He was 
 heartily tired of his elderly relative's imperial patron- 
 age. She condescended to accept his hos]iitality, and im- 
 proved the occasion by pestering him with her worldly 
 superficialities, abusing his " bookishncss " and amend- 
 ing his manners. The nephew looked forward to his 
 aunt's departure with a sincerity that was ingenuous 
 and enthusiastic. The Lady Lctitia was still, however, 
 bent upon economy. Though the country bored her 
 excessively, she was saving money at her nephew's ex- 
 pense, and his hospitality would enable her to go to 
 Tunbridge Wells in the spring unencumbered by debt. 
 
 Dr. Suggs departed with an empty purse after sup- 
 per, to trudge home to the parsonage through the drift- 
 ing snow. The Lady Lctitia established herself in a 
 fauteuil beside the fire in the damask drawing-room, with 
 Tom Jones on her knee and a glass of steaming rum at 
 her elbow. Jeffray had taken refuge in the Ubrary, the 
 only room in the house that Aunt Letitia suffered him 
 to possess in peace. The dowager bore herself as though 
 she were the mistress of Rodcnham Priory, walked the 
 linen-room and kitchen, rated the servants, and even 
 bearded old Peter Gladden, the butler, in his den, 
 
 Richard JefTray had brought many books, pictures, 
 and curios from abroad, having been plentifully sup- 
 pHed with money by his father, who had been some- 
 thing of an antiquary and a man of taste. The old 
 library, with its towering shelves and wainscoted walls, 
 held the treasures that Richard had transmitted from 
 time to time from Italy. Here were Etruscan and 
 Greek vases ; boxes of coins, rings, and charms ; fragments 
 of statuary and of mosaic. The gathering of engraved 
 stones had formed Jeflray's most extravagant hobby. 
 Egyptian scaraba^i, gnostic charms, classical cameos 
 and intaglios, mostly forged, were packed away in a 
 satinwood bureau. JefTray boasted a strong-box full 
 
 XI
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 of sapphires, emeralds, garnets, opals, chalcedonies, 
 sards, jaspers and other stones. Old Peter Gladden 
 had set two lighted candles on the escritoire near the 
 window. A manuscript lay open on the writing flap, 
 the manuscript of an epic that Richard had been labor- 
 ing at for months. It was conceived in the Miltonic 
 style, and dealt with the descent of Christ into Hades. 
 
 The Lady Letitia was yawning over the love affairs 
 of Sophia Weston when her nephew joined her in the 
 drawing-room. She roused herself, sat up stiffly in her 
 chair, and held up her fan to keep the heat of the fire 
 from her painted face. The dowager regarded Richard 
 with the solemnity of a witch of Endor. Jeffray had 
 learned to dread these nightly interviews. Aunt Le- 
 titia was forever flinging her sarcasms at his head, and 
 being a sensitive and easy-tempered youth he had never 
 presumed to flout her in her pedagogic utterances. 
 
 It was evident to Richard that the dowager had been 
 meditating as usual over his youthful eccentricities. 
 She looked more pompous and austere than usual, like 
 some hoary catechist ready to hear the callow creed of 
 youth. The wind was moaning over the great house, 
 tossing the sombre boughs of the cedars that towered 
 above the lawns. The windows rattled ; every chimney 
 was full of sound. Jeffray flung more wood upon the 
 fire, and sat down opposite his aunt with a look of 
 melancholy resignation on his face. 
 
 "Richard," said the old lady, suddenly, tilting her 
 red beak and fixing her eyes upon her nephew. 
 
 Jeffray roused himself as from a reverie. 
 
 "You are often at Hardacre House." 
 
 "Am I, Aunt Letitia?" 
 
 "Often enough, Richard, to suggest the attraction to 
 me. 
 
 Jeffray turned and watched the fire. The light 
 played upon his sallow face and melancholy eyes, his
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 plain black coat, the white rufldcs falling down upon the 
 small and refined hands. There was an air of pictu- 
 rcsqueness about him that even Aunt Letitia recognized, 
 despite the fact that she preferred a mischievous dandy 
 to a book-befogged scholar. 
 
 "Richard." 
 
 The young man glanced at her inquiringly. 
 
 "Jilian is thirty-five if she is a day. She pads her 
 figure and dyes her liair. You must be careful, lad. 
 The wench has angled these twenty years. I can make 
 a better match for you than that." 
 
 Richard had grown accustomed to the Lady Lctitia's 
 blunt methods of attack. He crossed one leg over the 
 other, and strove to appear at his ease under the old 
 lady's critical gaze. The dowager was forever hinting 
 at the undesirable nature of an alliance with the Hard- 
 acre family. They had birth, certainly, but what were 
 a baronet's blazonings in aristocratic England ? Sir 
 Peter was as poor as a parson; his estates were mort- 
 gaged to the last tree. Miss Jilian had been in the 
 market for years, and would bring nothing in the shape 
 of a dowry. The Lady Letitia dilated materially on all 
 these points, as though she were advising her nephew 
 on the purchase of a mansion. 
 
 "You are very kind. Aunt Letitia," said the young 
 man, somewhat sullenly, at the end thereof, "but I be- 
 lieve I am capable of choosing myself a wife." 
 
 The old lady's eyes glittered. 
 
 "So you are going to marry Jilian Hardacrc, eh?" 
 
 " I did not say so." 
 
 "Pooh, boy! haven't I eyes in my head? So she has 
 caught you, has she, the minx ? Yet I must confess, 
 nephew, that you do not seem ravished at the thought 
 of cml^racing such a bride." 
 
 Richard drew his knees up and lidgcled in his 
 chair. 
 
 13
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Nothing of a serious nature has passed between us," 
 he said, awkwardly. 
 
 "Nothing serious, eh? And what do you call 'seri- 
 ous,' mon cher? Oglings and letters, gloves, flowers, 
 whisperings in window-seats! Egad, nephew, you will 
 have that gambling oaf of a Lot to deal with. They are 
 mad to marry Jilian, and they want money." 
 
 The old lady was quite flushed and eloquent, while 
 Richard's brown face expressed surprise. He was inno- 
 cent of worldly guile, nor had he scented such matri- 
 monial subtleties in the Hardacre mansion. 
 
 "Sir Peter has been very kind to me," he said. 
 
 "Noble old gentleman! And he has never been for 
 pushing Miss Jilian into your arms, eh? No, I warrant 
 you, the wench is spry and buxom enough herself. You 
 are not a bad - looking lad, Richard, and you have 
 money," 
 
 Jeffray still appeared in a fog. 
 
 "I do not understand you, aunt," he said, 
 
 "Not understand me!" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Nephew Dick, you are a bigger fool than I thought 
 you were. Come, lad, blab to me; have you offered 
 yourself to the fair Jilian?" 
 
 Richard blushed, rather prettily for a man, and shook 
 his head. 
 
 " It has not gone as far as that," he confessed. 
 
 "Well, nephew," she said, brusquely, "are you in love 
 with the lady?" 
 
 "I thought I was—" 
 
 Aunt Letitia sniffed, and flicked her fan. 
 
 "Dear little love-bird," she rasped, ironically; "let 
 me warn you, Richard, before it is too late, that unless 
 this pretty romance is locked in the lumber-room you 
 will have that bully of a Lot raging round here about 
 his sister's honor." 
 
 14
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Richard straightened up stiffly in his chair and stared 
 at his aunt in melancholy astonishment. 
 
 "I have done nothing to compromise Miss Jilian," he 
 said. 
 
 "Nothing!" and the old lady cackled. 
 
 "On my honor, Aunt Lctitia." 
 
 "Dear lad, how innocent you arc! Your virginity is 
 better than a sermon. A pity Miss Jilian Hardacre can- 
 not say the same about her sweet i)erson. Well, Rich- 
 ard, if you take an old woman's advice, you will break 
 with the lady, delicately, gently, mind you. Miss Jilian 
 is a tender young thing, and must be handled with dis- 
 cretion." 
 
 "And Cousin Lot — ?" 
 
 "Can you fight, Richard?" 
 
 "Well, I am not much of a swordsman. But if Sir 
 Peter thinks — " 
 
 "That you have paid undue attention to his dear 
 daughter — " 
 
 "Yes—" 
 
 "You will sacrifice your virgin honor, eh?" 
 
 "Aunt Letitia, I trust I shall never act dishonorably 
 by any woman." 
 
 The dowager shut u]) her fan suddenly with a snap, 
 yawned, and announced that she was going to her 
 chamber. 
 
 " Vou are an inccjrrigible fo(jl, Richard," she said, 
 contemptuously; "please ring for my maid. I see that 
 it is quite useless to reason with such a saint."
 
 Ill 
 
 IN one of the valleys of the forest of Pevensel lay the 
 hamlet of the forest -folk, some half-dozen cottages of 
 unhewn stone, their flagged roofs covered with moss 
 and lichen. There were gardens about the scattered 
 cottages, an orchard or two, and a few strips of culti- 
 vated land where trees had been grubbed up, and whin 
 and heather routed. On the west the ground fell ab- 
 ruptly to the banks of a stream that flashed and glit- 
 tered under the pine-boughs. 
 
 These forest -folk mingled but little with the hinds of 
 the neighboring villages. They were all of Grimshaw 
 stock, sprung from the loins of Isaac Grimshaw and his 
 brother. There were Dan and David, sons to Isaac; 
 old Ursula their aunt, and Bess, her foster-child; also 
 Solomon, Isaac's brother, who had caused ten youngsters 
 to be brought into the world. Isaac, a white-haired 
 septuagenarian with a lame leg and a pair of unfathom- 
 able gray eyes, gave law and order to the clan like a 
 patriarch of old. Dan, Black Dan, as the others called 
 him, upheld his father's word with the brute strength 
 of his untamed body. 
 
 Rude and unlettered as were these woodlanders, they 
 came of finer stock than the oafs who toiled on the Sussex 
 farms. The Grimshaws never seemed to lack for money, 
 for Dan would drive his wagon into Rookhurst or Lewes 
 thrice a year, and spend sums that a squire might have 
 disbursed with pride. They were considered notorious 
 smugglers, these men of Pevensel, though the burning of 
 
 i6
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 charcoal and the smelting of iron were the crafts they 
 practised in pretence of an honest living. They had 
 good stuff, solid furniture, broad beds, pewter, and fine 
 crockery in their cottages. The men wore the best cloth, 
 were well-armed, and never lacked for spirits and to- 
 bacco. The squalor and poverty of an average village 
 contrasted with the clean comfort of the hamlet of 
 Pevensel. 
 
 How did the Grimshaws come by their money ? That 
 was the question the country-folk asked of one another 
 over their pipes and ale, a question also that the revenue 
 gentlemen had attempted to solve in vain. No one knew 
 save Isaac, old Ursula, and Dan, of the chest buried in 
 the deeps of the forest, stufifed with guineas, jewels, and 
 ingots of gold. No one knew that Bess, old Ursula's 
 foster-child, was a strangeling in Pevensel from over the 
 sea. Twenty years had passed since the Richmond Lass 
 had been scuttled in a fog off Beachy Head, after her 
 captain had been murdered and certain of the crew. 
 An English officer and his wife had shared the same fate, 
 paying with their lives for the treasure they carried with 
 them. Four sailors — two Irishmen, a Hollander, and a 
 Portuguese — had come ashore by night in the jolly-boat 
 with a heavy chest and the dead officer's daughter, a 
 child of three. They had scuttled the jolly-boat, after 
 filling her with stones, and, striking cross-country, had 
 disappeared with the child into the forest of Pevensel. 
 Only Isaac and Ursula knew the end of the tale, and 
 John, Isaac's eldest son, who had died five years later. 
 The four sailors had lodged at the Grimshaws, bargained 
 with Isaac, and, after drinking heavily, had been mur- 
 dered in their sleep. The treasure-chest hidden in the 
 forest, four skeletons buried under an old oak, the girl 
 Bess, were all that recalled that tragedy of the sea. 
 
 It was St. Agnes's Eve, and snow had fallen heavily 
 for a night and a day. The sky had cleared towards 
 
 '7
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 sunset, showing the west red above the white hills and 
 the snow-capped trees. The moon was full that night, 
 and her splendor turned Pevensel into a wilderness of 
 witchcraft and white magic, an endless maze of tall, 
 silent trees struck mute betwixt the moonlight and the 
 snow. 
 
 Old Ursula Grimshaw, Isaac's sister, lived alone with 
 Bess in the cottage nearest to the woods. Pine-boughs 
 overhung the roof, and the allies of the forest ran black 
 and solemn from the very walls. Whin, whortleberry, 
 heather, and the blown wind-rack of the trees had con- 
 quered one -half of the little garden. Bess and old 
 Ursula were the pair whom Richard Jeffray had passed 
 the day before, tending hogs in the beechwood by the 
 road. 
 
 It was St. Agnes's Eve, and Bess sat before the wood- 
 fire in the kitchen, her chin in her palms, her elbows on 
 her knees. Old Ursula had gone to bed, leaving Bess 
 to watch the flickering embers. The room was paved 
 with stone, a warm, snug chamber despite the deep 
 snow gleaming under the moon without. Herbs, 
 bundles of onions, flitches of bacon, a gun, sheaves of 
 feathers, hung from the great beams. There was much 
 polished pewter on the shelves; a great linen -press be- 
 hind the door; several oak chairs ranged about the 
 walls; brass candlesticks, an hour-glass and a Dutch 
 clock stood on the mantle-shelf, and on an iron hook 
 above the fire a kettle still hissed peacefully. 
 
 Bess had loosed her black hair about her shoulders 
 so that it rippled and shone about her face. Her bare 
 feet were on the hearth-stone, her gray stockings and 
 buckled shoes lying near to dry before the fire. Bess's 
 eyes were building pictures amid the embers stacked 
 behind the iron bars. It was St. Agnes's Eve, and the 
 girl's head was packed full of old Ursula's superstitious 
 lore. She was bent on trying a dream that night. She 
 
 i8
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 had kissed neither man, woman, nor chiKl all day, had 
 fasted since noon, and whispered a charm up the great 
 chimney. Now that old Ursula's black cat had lapped 
 up some milk, and was dozing before the fire, Bess rose 
 up to put herself to bed. 
 
 The girl's room lay on the upper floor at the back of 
 the cottage, its single window looking out over the 
 valley. Bess, after raking out the fire and seeing that 
 the door was fast, lighted her candle, and climbed the 
 wooden stairs to her room under the roof. A clean 
 shift was laid out on the bed, and the sheets had been 
 put on fresh that morning, for St. Agnes, it was said, 
 loved to find a wench in spotless gear. There were 
 fresh pulled bays strewn upon the pillow, a couple of 
 red apples, and a new shoe. 
 
 The room being cold, and Bess propitiously sleepy, 
 she disrobed briskly, drew on the clean shift, laid the 
 bay sprigs, apples, and shoe on the chair by the bed, 
 and slipped in between the sheets. Lying straight and 
 on her back, after old Ursula's orders, she put her right 
 hand beneath her head, saying: 
 
 "Now the God of Love send me my desire." Then, 
 since it was deemed discreet to make sure of sleep with 
 all speed, Bess rolled the clothes about her, blew out 
 the candle, and flung her black hair away from her over 
 the pillow. 
 
 Whether it was a mere trick of the brain or no, or 
 whether the good saint tripped down from heaven on 
 the girl's behalf, Bess dreamed a dream that night as 
 she lay in her attic with the pine-boughs swaying snow- 
 ladened without her window. It seemed t(^ her that 
 she was gathering herbs for old Ursula amid the ruins 
 of the Abbey of Holy Cross in the woods beside the 
 river. The sun was at full noon, since the roofless re- 
 fectory was ablaze with liglit. By the df)orway Bess 
 dreamed that she came uixtn a jjlant with green and 
 
 19
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 lustrous leaves and a great red bloom shooting up upon 
 a tall, straight stalk. The flower was so fair and strange 
 that she stooped to pluck it, and in the plucking found 
 the petals change to blood. Drawing back in fear, and 
 looking at her red hand, she saw the figure of a man 
 darken the arched doorway. He stood there looking at 
 Bess in silence, with a peculiar expression of pain upon 
 his brown and boyish face. Bess took notice even in 
 her dream that he was dressed in black and had white 
 ruffles at his wrists. As she wondered where she had 
 seen the face before, the man vanished away from her 
 without a word, and St. Agnes 's dreamer awoke in her 
 bed. 
 
 She lay still, yet shivering a little, the vision still 
 playing before her eyes. A low wind had risen, and 
 she could hear it moving in the boughs of the trees 
 without. Beams of moonlight came slanting through 
 the casement to shine upon the polished panelling of an 
 old cupboard that stood against the wall. The cottage 
 seemed utterly still and dark. Bess started up in bed 
 on her elbow of a sudden, her hair falling down upon 
 the pillow, her eyes shining even in the dusk of the 
 room. 
 
 Surely she had heard a shower of pebbles rattling 
 against her window. The pine-boughs had been lopped 
 but a week ago by Dan because they smote the glass 
 when the wind blew. She sat up with the bedclothes 
 looped about her waist, and her shift showing her big 
 white arms and full round throat. As she listened 
 there came a second pattering of stones against the 
 casement. Bess, slipping out of bed and pulling on her 
 stockings, threw her red cloak over her shoulders and 
 crept across the room to the window. 
 
 Slipping the catch, she thrust open the frame and 
 peered out, with her head on a level with the swaying 
 boughs. The carpeting of snow stretched clear and 
 
 20
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 brilliant under the moon to end in the murk where the 
 woods thickened, and there was no sound save the 
 soughing of the wind in the trees. Bess's eyes hardened 
 as she leaned over the sill. She gave a short, sharp 
 cr)', and drew back as though to close the casement. 
 
 "Bess," came a gruff whisper up the wall. 
 
 There was trampled snow under the window. A man 
 was standing there in the moonlight, the upper part of 
 his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. A dwarfed 
 and exaggerated silhouette of his broad and burly figure 
 was thrown by the moon's light upon the snow. He 
 was standing with one arm against the wall, while his 
 head was but six feet or less below the ledge of the low 
 window. 
 
 "Bess." 
 
 The girl leaned out again, and looked down into the 
 man's face. 
 
 "Is that you, Dan?" 
 
 "Yes. Old Ursula's snoring, eh?" 
 
 "What are you meddling here at midnight for?" 
 
 She could see the man's hairy face straining up 
 towards her, the lips parted in an insinuating grin, the 
 moonlight shining in his eyes. 
 
 "I've had a dream of you, Bess," he said. 
 
 She frowned, and stared down at him almost fiercely 
 from her vantage-point. 
 
 "Well, what of that?" 
 
 "It's the saint's night, lass. I reckon you'd rather 
 see a man of blood and muscle under your window than 
 lie dreaming of that sheep-faced fool of a David." 
 
 Bess's mouth curled in the moonlight. She drew her 
 red cloak about her throat, and laughed at the man be- 
 neath her on the snow. 
 
 "Go home to bed, you great fool," she said. "Do 
 you think I shall thank you for being dragged up in 
 the cold to see your ugly face?" 
 
 ax
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Dan Grimshaw stood back from the window and 
 looked up at her with his teeth showing above his 
 beard. 
 
 "Steady, Bess!" he growled— "steady!" 
 
 She made as though to close the window, her bare 
 arm gleaming in the moonlight as she reached for the 
 catch. 
 
 "You are not my man, Dan Grimshaw," she said, 
 curling her lips over the words. 
 
 "Maybe young David would have had a kiss thrown 
 him," he retorted, hotly. 
 
 ' ' Maybe — he would . ' ' 
 
 "I'll break the young fool's back if I catch him 
 dangling at your heels." 
 
 "Take care of your own business, Dan," she said, 
 clapping to the casement and creeping back to bed.
 
 IV 
 
 BlvSS was coming over the snow next morning from 
 the thatched shed where she had been milking Dame 
 Ursula's cows, when Dan Grimshaw slouched round the 
 corner of the cottage with his gun over his shoulder. 
 He had been away in the woods early and had brought 
 back a hare, a brace of woodcock, and a widgeon that 
 he had knocked over in the old fish-ponds of the Abbey 
 of Holy Cross. A black spaniel followed at his heels. 
 Bess, in her red petticoat, her cheeks aglow under her 
 coal-black hair, came over the snow towards him with 
 the fresh milk frothing in the pail. 
 
 "Morning to ye, Bess," quoth the great, hairy-faced 
 animal whose huge calves and bulging shoulders were 
 those of a stunted giant. " I've brought ye back some 
 game, lass, in return for breaking your sleep last night. 
 I'm sorry if I angered ye." 
 
 He held out the hare and the three birds in one great 
 red paw, grinning amiably, yet with a glint in his red- 
 brown eyes. Bess smiled at Dan under her scarlet 
 hood. A lass needed wit in such a woodland haunt as 
 this, where the strongest arm ruled, and men fouglit like 
 stags for the mastery. It was a life that made a woman 
 quick, subtle, and resourceful, glib with her tongue and 
 clever with her eyes. The felinity of her nature was de- 
 veloped when she must purr and fawn, or spit and 
 extend her claws as necessity commanded. Bess did 
 not love Black Dan, but Isaac Grimshaw's son was a 
 man to be humored rather than rebulTed. 
 
 23
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "You have a good heart, Dan," she said, kindly 
 enough. "I was oversharp with ye last night. I 
 jumped out of bed on the left side, and was as cross in 
 the cold as might be. Won't you come in and take 
 breakfast with us?" 
 
 The man turned and walked with her towards the 
 cottage, carrying the game in one hand, the gun in the 
 other. His eyes watched Bess as she walked, tall and 
 straight as a cypress, her stride almost that of a man, 
 her head poised finely on her slightly arched neck. He 
 noticed the muscles and sinews standing out in the 
 strong brown forearm that carried the pail, the trim, 
 gray-stockinged ankles under the short red petticoat. 
 
 "Did ye dream of me, Bess?" he asked, with a grin. 
 
 "Not I," she laughed, good-humoredly. 
 
 "Or of young David?" 
 
 "No, nor of David." 
 
 "Then ye did not dream at all, lass," he said, with his 
 brown eyes burning. 
 
 "No, Dan, I have not seen my man as yet." 
 
 Old Ursula came to the door of the cottage at the 
 moment with a broom in her brown fists, looking for all 
 the world like an old witch. She gave Dan a glare from 
 her bright eyes, and scolded Bess for going out into the 
 snow in her best shoes. 
 
 "I have asked Dan to breakfast, mother," said the 
 girl, with a laugh; "see the game he has brought us 
 home." 
 
 "Dan to breakfast, indeed! There be but two rashers 
 in the pan and two eggs in the pot. We can't feed Dan 
 at such short notice." 
 
 The man frowned at her, kicked his dog that was for 
 sparring with old Ursula's cat, tossed the hare and birds 
 onto a settle by the door, and jerked his gun up over his 
 shoulder. He and Dame Ursula were not the best of 
 friends, and Black Dan, who feared no mortal thing in 
 
 24
 
 BE^S OF THE WOODS 
 
 breeches, stood half in awe of the old beldam. He 
 clawed his fur cap from off his head, stared hard at Bess, 
 and stood fidgetinj:; on the step. 
 
 "I reckon I'd better go home, lass," he said, sulkily. 
 
 Bess set her milk-pail down on the stone floor and 
 untied her hood. 
 
 "You take some cooking for, Dan," she said, mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 "I don't want to lick shoe-leather for a welcome." 
 
 " Never worry. We will be ready for you another day ." 
 
 Bess, having caught a significant twinkle in Dame 
 Ursula's eyes, gave Dan Grimshaw a courtesy, and picked 
 up her pail. The man pulled his fur cap down over his 
 eyes, and, with a last glance at the girl, plodded away 
 over the snow, whistling, his breath steaming on the 
 frosty air. Bess watched him go, and then closed and 
 locked the door. Old Ursula was bending over the fire, 
 turning the bacon in the pan. 
 
 She looked at Bess curiously, and scolded the black cat 
 that had put its fore-paws on the milk-pail and was 
 trying to lap the milk. 
 
 "Did you dream, lass?" she asked, inquisitively. 
 
 Bess looked serious of a sudden and colored, though 
 her face hardly betrayed any deepening flush. She was 
 still puzzling over the face of the man she had seen in 
 her dream, and yet the girl was not in a mood to con- 
 fess to Mother Ursula in the matter. 
 
 "Not I," she said, laughing, and taking a rough cloth 
 from a clrawer and spreading it on the oak table. 
 
 "Not of Davi.l?" 
 
 "Why should I dream of David, mother?" 
 
 Ursula frownecl, and mumbled over the pan. Isaac's 
 youngest son was her*favorite, a tall, flaxen-polled strip- 
 ling, with a merry face and good-humored blue eyes. 
 Ursula did not love Black Dan. He was too big and 
 masterful, too surly, too much of a great bully. 
 J 25
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Bess had spread the cloth. 
 
 " Dan came and threw stones at my window," she said, 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Hey!" 
 
 "I told him I wouldn't have climbed out of bed to see 
 his ugly face." 
 
 Old Ursula forked the rashers onto a hot plate and 
 looked at Bess meaningly, wagging a lean forefinger to 
 give emphasis to her words. 
 
 "You must be shy of Dan," she said, shrewdly. 
 
 "Shy, mother?" 
 
 "The great fool is a rough, masterful dog. Throw him 
 a bone now and then, lass, to keep him from growing 
 surly. He's no mate for you, girl, the great, black-faced 
 oaf. David's the lad to make a good husband. You 
 must be shy of Dan, Bess." 
 
 The girl swept her black hair over her ears, laughed, 
 and began to bustle about the kitchen. 
 
 "I can take care of myself, mother," she said. 
 
 "Better be your own mistress, lass, than let Black 
 Dan have the handling of your love." 
 
 Thus a certain superficial similarity may be traced 
 between the lots of Richard Jeffray and Bess of the 
 Woods. Both had a garrulous and world-wise relative 
 to stem with the calthrops of caution the careless confi- 
 dence of youth. While old Ursula pattered in the ingle- 
 nook of Black Dan's ugliness of face and temper, and 
 extolled the blond David for his red cheeks and good- 
 humored eyes, the Lady Letitia would ask her nephew 
 with the greatest gravity, "What color Miss Jilian fan- 
 cied for her hair this season ? Had Miss Hardacre had 
 that front tooth replaced ? Had Richard ever heard of 
 the Soakington affair, when Miss Jilian had eloped with 
 Ensign Soakington of a marching regiment, and had 
 been overtaken and brought back unmarried by Sir 
 Peter? Yes, it was quite true that Miss Hardacre had 
 
 26
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 spent the night with the ensign at an inn at Reigate 
 before Sir Peter and Brother Lot had ended the romance 
 with their wliips. What! Richard had not heard the 
 tale! Well, it was an old scandal, and had happened 
 ten years ago. Yes, there had been other affairs. Sir 
 Peter was wise in desiring to get his daughter married." 
 
 Now Richard Jctlfray was a sensitive youth, and 
 though the Lady Letitia's sarcasms gored him beneath 
 his air of amiable patience, he was not a little disturbed 
 by her gibes and her innuendoes. Richard had inherited 
 a chivalrous temper from his father, and he was some- 
 thing of a young Quixote in his notions of honor. Cer- 
 tainly he had often idled beside Miss Jilian's tambour- 
 frame, attended her as she warbled at the harpsichord, 
 danced and ridden with her, gazed into her gray eyes 
 with a fervor that was not platonic. Miss Hardacre had 
 been very kind to him, so had Sir Peter, and even Cousin 
 Lot. in his insolent and patronizing way. Moreover, the 
 Lady Letitia herself was not a white statue of truth and 
 candor. Richard knew that she cheated poor Sugg at 
 cards, rouged and powdered, and wore false eyebrows. 
 And surely Miss Jilian was a very handsome young lady, 
 and if she dressed somewhat gaudily, it was fashion's 
 fault and not her own. Richard supposed that most 
 young ladies had indulged in love affairs in their teens. 
 Had not he himself when a boy ogled Dr. Sugg's daughter 
 Mary for weeks together? And in Italy he had even 
 imagined a little opera singer to be the finest feminine 
 creation the world had ever doted upon. 
 
 Thus the amiable and generous assling conceived that 
 it would be a gross piece of dishonor on his ])art were he 
 to treat Miss Jilian Hardacre after the fashion that the 
 Lady Letitia advised. By reason of the extreme del- 
 icacy of his sentiment he felt himself impelled rather 
 to exaggerate his courtesies to that young lady, lest he 
 should be charged with trifling with the pure peace of a 
 
 27
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 spinster's heart. It was not that Richard stood alto- 
 gether in awe of Cousin Lancelot's hectoring courage. 
 Jeff ray was no coward, though a dreamer. Very possi- 
 bly his aunt's cynicisms had operated in a contrary 
 direction to that which the old pharmaceutist had 
 intended. Contradiction begets contrariness; pessim- 
 ism preens the wings of ardor. It may have been that 
 the lad's innate sense of chivalry was stirred, and that 
 the lamps in that gorgeous Temple of Beauty flashed a 
 bewitching glamour into Richard's soul. At all events, 
 he did not slink like a dishonest cur from the maligned 
 maiden's side. He still continued to kiss her hand, and 
 to admire her profile, a little forcefully perhaps, as she 
 sat and played to him on the harpsichord. 
 
 One morning, a week or more after his debate with 
 Aunt Letitia, Richard rode over to Hardacre House and 
 dined with Sir Peter, Mr, Lot, and certain of the latter 
 gentleman's sporting friends. These bluff Sussex boo- 
 bies could by no means fathom young Jeffray's char- 
 acter. They took his sensitive reserve for pride, his 
 occasional outbursts of enthusiasm for sentimentality. 
 Among these gentlemen the manly virtues were of the 
 florid order. He who swore most, drank most, debauch- 
 ed most, was voted a fine fellow, a man of blood and 
 bottom. Richard Jeff ray, refined, sensitive, and a 
 scholar, shrivelled and shrank before these noisy boors. 
 They did not love him for his melancholy and his silence. 
 "The young fool wanted pap and a flannel binder." One 
 rosy-gilled quipster made it his especial business that 
 day to point his jokes at Richard's expense, till he was 
 called to order by Cousin Lot across the table. 
 
 "Tie up your funny nag, Tom," quoth Mr. Lancelot, 
 with a glint of the eye, "he's a stale and dull beast. 
 Dick Jeffray's too much of a gentleman to straddle your 
 spavined jokes." 
 
 ^ Mr. Piggott blinked and guffawed. Next moment he 
 
 28
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 spilled his wine, and squealed as the heel of Mr. Lot's 
 boot came crunching upon his toe under the table. 
 
 "Damn it, sir—" 
 
 " Hallo, was that your foot, Tom ? Beg pardon ; I've 
 got such infernal long legs." 
 
 Mr. Piggott took the hint, mopped up the wine with a 
 napkin, and relapsed into silence. He was one of the 
 Hardacre toadies who swilled Sir Peter's punch, swore 
 in voluble admiration over Mr. Lot's escapades, and 
 always expressed himself ravished by Miss Jilian's 
 charms. Sir Peter had instructed his son as to the 
 necessity for blanketing Richard's sensitive soul. Hence, 
 Mr. Lot, wise in his generation, had come to regard 
 Jeflray as a prospective brother-in-law, a pretty bride- 
 groom to be cherished for Miss Jilian's sake. He might 
 despise the youth himself, but it was not Sir Peter's policy 
 to suffer Richard to be frightened from Hardacre by his 
 raw-boned and boisterous guests. 
 
 Richard did not see the fair Mistress Jilian that day. 
 Cousin Lot announced to him, with a leer, that his sister 
 was abed with a sick headache. Should he deliver a 
 note to her from her dear cousin ? It would do Jilian a 
 world of good no doubt to get a glimpse of her cousin's 
 pretty sentences. Richard blushed, smiled, contented 
 himself with sending his "sympathetic and cousinly 
 respect" to the suffering angel. The truth was this, 
 though Richard did not know it. Miss Hardacre had been 
 trying some new cosmetic from town, and the treacher- 
 ous stuff had blistered her fair cheeks. She was lying 
 abed with a plaster of chalk and olive-oil over her face, 
 and her sweet soul full of tempestuous indignation. 
 
 The snow was still lying an inch deep over the grass 
 when Jeffray bowed over Sir Peter's gnarled and gouty 
 hand, smiled sheepishly at Lot, and iriounted his marc 
 for Rodenham. Mists were creei)ing up the valleys, 
 rolling over the woods like smoke, wiping out the blues 
 
 29
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 and purples of the distance with steaming vapor. The 
 high ground by Beacon Rock was still clear, while below 
 the mist seemed like a gray sea beating upon the dark 
 coast-line of the moors. Here and there a tall clump of 
 trees stood out like a black and isolated rock in the 
 midst of the water, 
 
 Richard had passed Beacon Rock and was in the 
 fringe of the fog when a shrill cry came to him from a 
 thicket of pines known as the Queen's Circle, standing 
 on a knoll to the left of the road. He reined in to listen, 
 the mist drifting about him in ragged eddies, raw and 
 cold with the thawing snow. Richard could see the 
 clump of trees towering dimly through the vapor. 
 Angry voices came eddying over the moor. Jeffray 
 could distinguish a woman's above the growling of the 
 deeper undertones. 
 
 "Let him be, Dan, you coward!" 
 
 "Stand aside, wench — " 
 
 "Will you fight a mere lad? Off, you great coward! 
 I'll hold him, David, run, lad, run!" 
 
 There was an angry uproar, an oath or two, the sound 
 of men scuffling and struggling together. A woman's 
 figure broke away suddenly through the moving mist, 
 red cloaked, hood thrown back, black hair in a tangle. 
 She came close to Jcffray's horse, her hands to her bosom, 
 her white face straining towards the west. She ran up 
 to him, snatched at his bridle, looking up fiercely in his 
 face. 
 
 "Quick, or he'll murder him — " 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Black Dan. He's a devil when angry. Quick! 
 You have pistols; give me one — " 
 
 She snatched one from Jcffray's holster, looked to the 
 priming, and without so much as waiting for a word from 
 him, darted away over the heather. Richard, as though 
 compelled, turned his horse, clapped in the spurs, and 
 
 30
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 followed. He could see two men struj^^gling together in 
 the mist under the trees. The girl was running towards 
 them, brandishing her pistol, and shouting as she ran. 
 
 "Off, Dan, or I'll shoot ye. David, there's help com- 
 ing. Take your hand off his throat, you devil." 
 
 The struggling figures swayed and fell of a sudden. 
 Young David, with Dan's fist at his throat, had tripped 
 the giant, and slipped free in the fall. Quick as a cat he 
 broke away from his brother's clutches as they rolled on 
 the ground, and scrambling up, took to his heels over the 
 heather. Dan was up and after him like a plunging 
 hound, shouting and cursing as he lumbered in pursuit. 
 Before Bess had reached the trees they had both disap- 
 peared down the hill-side into the mist. 
 
 She turned suddenly and faced Jeffray, and held out 
 the pistol to him by the stock as he rode up. He hatl 
 recognized her as the girl he had seen under the beech- 
 trees with the old woman tending pigs. 
 
 "Thanks for your pistol," she said, frankly, "David's 
 broken away, and can run three yards to Dan's two. 
 The lad will be safe enough now." 
 
 Jeffray had taken the pistol from her and thrust it 
 back into the holster. He was studying her angry yet 
 handsome face, framed Ijy its glorious sheen of hair. 
 
 "What were they fighting about?" he asked. 
 
 Bess laughed, flashed a look at him out of her fierce 
 eyes. 
 
 "About me," she said. 
 You '. 
 
 "Yes. I must run home to warn Ursula and old 
 Isaac. Good-night." 
 
 She swung away suddenly over the heather, leaving 
 Jeffray as though he had known since birth who Dan 
 and David, Isaac and old Ursula were. The man 
 watchol her tall figure melt into the mist, wondering 
 the whiU; who this wild elf ccjuld be. Regaining the 
 
 31
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 road, he trotted on again towards Rodenham, keeping 
 a sharp watch upon the misty woods. That same even- 
 ing he called Peter Gladden, the butler, to him in the 
 library, and drew from the old man all he knew con- 
 cerning the woodlanders who lived in the forest of 
 Pevensel.
 
 THE great drawing - room at Rodcnham was full 
 of candles, powdered heads and waving feathers, 
 gentlemen in purple, red, or blue, dames in gorgeous 
 gowns and swelling hoops. The room had been the 
 prior's parlor of old, and still retained its slender pillars 
 capped with foliage, its deeply moulded groins, its many- 
 vaults, now painted azure and crusted with silver stars. 
 Candles were ranged around the walls in sconces be- 
 tween the long, gilded mirrors that made the room look 
 like a magician's maze. The panelling was painted 
 after the French fashion with Cupids, garlands, and 
 festoons of flowers. The furniture was also French, 
 Louis Quinze; fauteuils, canopies carved and gilt and 
 covered with tapestry ; handsome commodes ; here a 
 fantastic buhl-table, or a chased and inlaid escritoire. 
 There were two fireplaces in the long and curious room, 
 both with oak logs stacked upon their burnished irons. 
 Richard Jeffray was entertaining some of his Sussex 
 neighbors under the especial patronage of the Lady 
 Letitia. The Ilardacrc coach had rolled over the 
 priory bridge before dusk to deposit Sir Peter, Mr. 
 Lancelot and the fair Jilian at Richard's porch. The 
 Perkabys, of Rookhurst, were present with their three 
 sleepily handsome daughters, dark odalisques who 
 spoke slowly and looked love. Dr. Sugg Imstled to and 
 fro in his best gown, beaming upon every one, and 
 shaking the powder out of his full-bottomed wig. 
 S<4uire Bilson had driven over with his wife and son 
 
 33
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 from Marling to take snuff with Squire Rokeley of 
 Marvelscombe, whose harriers were the boast of all the 
 Sussex Nimrods. Some half a score lesser folk com- 
 pleted the assemblage — a lawyer, a few young gentle- 
 men of sporting tastes, Mary Sugg, Dr. Sugg's daughter, 
 and several elderly ladies whose plumes nearly swept 
 the star-dusted ceiling. 
 
 Richard in black, with white silk stockings and silver 
 buckled shoes, his hair powdered and caught up at the 
 back with a black velvet bow, stood behind his aunt's 
 chair as the guests came to pay their respects to the 
 venerable dowager. The Lady Letitia might have 
 stood for the high priestess of fashion with her immense 
 toupd, her gorgeous damasks, her rouge and patches, 
 her diamonds and her portentous fan. It was the 
 Lady Letitia herself who had devised the "rout," her 
 nephew having consented in the innocence of his heart. 
 He had never seen the Lady Letitia campaigning be- 
 fore, and had no notion of the strategies and ambus- 
 cades she had planned that night. From the moment 
 that the first guest had been announced by Peter Glad- 
 den, the dowager had taken the function to herself, and 
 ousted her nephew from all premiership or authority. 
 
 The elder men had gathered about one of the fires, 
 and were discussing the past hunting season. Squire 
 Rokeley posing as chief mentor and critic. The ladies 
 were bobbing their plumes, smirking and chattering to- 
 gether, while Miss Julia Perkaby, who had been be- 
 sought by the Lady Letitia with much graciousness to 
 seat herself at the harpsichord, thrilled the assemblage 
 with her rich contralto. Miss Jilian Hardacre had es- 
 tablished herself on a causeuse by the wall, with Mr. 
 Richard standing by her, looking aristocratic and even 
 distinguished in his black coat, frilled shirt, knee- 
 breeches and silk stockings. 
 
 Miss Jilian was a plump and comely woman, with 
 
 34
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 masses of auburn hair deckctl out with artificial flowers 
 and ribbons, a pair of experienced gray eyes, a full 
 bosom and a simpering red mouth. She wore a white 
 gown flowered with violets, a green hoop, white satin 
 slippers, an abundance of lace, and a chain of garnets 
 about her throat. There were three patches upon her 
 face, one above the delightful dimple on her left cheek, 
 one to the right of the round chin, another above her 
 right eyebrow. But for a slight thinness of the neck, 
 the sternomastoid muscles showing too patently, and 
 some faint wrinkles about the eyes. Miss Jilian contra- 
 dicted the Lady Letitia's insinuations very charmingly. 
 
 Richard, bending over this delightful morsel of old- 
 world perfume and affectation, was unbosoming him- 
 self of delicate inquiries as to her health. 
 
 "I hope you have been afflicted with no more head- 
 aches," he was asking with true lover-like solicitude. 
 "Sir Peter appeared uncommonly distressed about you 
 a week ago." 
 
 Miss Jilian's gray eyes searched Richard's face suspi- 
 ciouslv for the moment. Had that wretch Lot told 
 him the truth about that horrible cosmetic? No. 
 The lad was as ingenuous and sincere as any Galahad. 
 
 "La, Richard," she said, fluttering her ivory fan 
 painted with Cupids and peacocks, "it is strange that 
 you should remember the days when I keep my bed." 
 
 "Are they not sunless days?" quoth Mr. Richard, 
 with a fine bow. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, I am sure you are poking fun at me." 
 
 "Are you not the Sussex sun, Jilian?" 
 
 "Oh, cousin, how can you say such things? La, Miss 
 Perkaby is singing; we must cease our chatter." 
 
 Miss Hardacrc spread her fan and screened the Ixjld 
 mortal from the glow fjf her luminous countenance. 
 Rithard could see a round white chin and a mass of 
 auburn hair. 
 
 35
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I would rather hear you talk, Jilian. I cannot 
 think why Aunt Letitia asked the girl to sing. She has 
 a fine voice, though, but — not half so fine as yours." 
 
 A gray eye peeped demurely over the ivory screen. 
 
 "Do you think so, cousin?" 
 
 "Of course I think so, Jilian." 
 
 A loud burst of laughter came from the farther end 
 of the room, marring the melody like an ass braying. 
 It was Lot's laugh, a blatant and self-assertive expres- 
 sion of merriment that seemed to stand in need of being 
 passed through some refining sieve. Richard glanced 
 at the gay coated gentleman about the fire, a cordon of 
 purple, red, and blue, and noticed that his cousin's pro- 
 tuberant blue eyes appeared fixed upon Jilian and him- 
 self. Richard blushed as though all the ladies in the 
 room were studying him. He stood up and drew a 
 little apart from Miss Jilian as the Lady Letitia came 
 sailing down upon them like a gorgeous galleon freight- 
 ed with all the spices of India and the silks of China. 
 
 His aunt's air of extreme amiability towards Miss 
 Hardacre puzzled Jeffray not a little. She darted a 
 look at him, seated herself beside the fair Jilian, and 
 desired her nephew to go and talk to Mrs. Perkaby 
 and her daughters. Richard departed in all innocence, 
 leaving these instinctive and inveterate enemies to- 
 gether on the causeuse. They were soon chatting and 
 smiling, sparring and feinting at each other with that 
 admirable and hypocritical amiability that makes men 
 marvel. The dowager's keen eyes were subjecting Miss 
 Hardacre's person and toilet to a minute and insolent 
 examination. She talked effusively the while to that 
 young lady, a malicious innuendo or half-veiled snub in 
 every sentence. 
 
 "I hope to take Richard to The Wells with me," said 
 the Lady Letitia, staring steadily in Miss Hardacre's 
 face. "My nephew is a generous lad, but very gauche 
 
 36
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 and inexperienced. It is my wish that Richard should 
 sec what elegant and modish people are like. He is 
 wasted — stitled — you must perceive, Miss Hardacre, in 
 this quagmire of a county." 
 
 Miss Jilian's gray eyes glittered. She was no novice 
 in the fine art of polite insolence, and knew enough of 
 the world to recognize the string that worked the Lady 
 Letitia's tongue. 
 
 "I wish Cousin Richard joy of so experienced a 
 school-mistress," she said, tartly; "he himself has con- 
 fessed to me, madam, that he does not love the fash- 
 ionable world." 
 
 Aunt Letitia tilted her Roman nose. 
 
 "Truth, Miss Hardacre, I think you misread the lad's 
 meaning. He referred to country fashions; and who 
 can blame him.** La, dear Miss Perkaby is about to 
 sing again ; a divine voice, and such grace and breeding," 
 and the Lady Letitia sat in stately silence through the 
 song with a beatific appreciative smirk upon her be- 
 dizened face. 
 
 "Delicious," she chattered at the end, bowing and 
 beaming at Miss Julia Perkaby; "the lass has such soul. 
 My dear nephew dotes on Miss Perkaby's singing, and 
 he is forever humming her songs over to himself. And 
 do you sing, my dear?" 
 
 Miss Hardacre, flushed and angry, answered that she 
 did. 
 
 "And Richard never told me. What a memory the 
 lad has! Upon my soul. Miss Hardacre, the simpleton 
 informed me that your hair was nut brown, when I can 
 sec with my own eyes how much gold there is in it. 
 My poor nephew's pate is always stuflcd full of poetry. 
 1 expect that you have found him very absent-minded 
 at times, my dear." 
 
 Miss Hardacre's cheeks were covered with a rare 
 bloom, and she looked as though it would have aflord- 
 
 37
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ed her exquisite pleasure to slap the Lady Letitia's 
 face. 
 
 "I find Cousin Richard very intelligent," she re- 
 torted; "he has read some of his poetry to me. I can 
 admire his genius, madam, though I do not pretend 
 to be clever." 
 
 The dowager elevated her eyebrows and nodded. 
 
 "Indeed!" she said, with a chuckle, "why, the lad 
 must read his poetry to half the girls in the county. 
 Mary Sugg, I have heard the doctor say, compares his 
 verse to Spenser's. Of course, my dear Miss Hardacre, 
 Richard must find a woman of your mature years a 
 most discerning critic." 
 
 "Then, madam," said the younger lady, with a toss 
 of the head, "you must hear a great deal of Mr. Rich- 
 ard's poetry ?" 
 
 "I, my dear? I cannot abide the stuff. The dear 
 lad showed me a little poem he had written on a certain 
 young lady," and the dowager beamed ; " a young lady — 
 well, I must not give away the boy's secrets. It was 
 all about dark eyes and raven locks, hearts and darts, 
 love and dove. Terrible ! All boys scribble this species 
 of stuff, my dear. They discover a new goddess every 
 month, and write poems about her cherry lips till a 
 cherrier- lipped wench appears. By -the -way, who is 
 that very over-dressed person — that young farmer fellow 
 with his back to the fire?" 
 
 The Lady Letitia was indicating Mr. Lancelot with 
 her fan. Again Miss Jilian's gray eyes glistened; she 
 bit her red lip, and looked at the dowager with extreme 
 disdain. 
 
 "That gentleman, madam, is my brother." 
 
 "Nonsense, my dear — " 
 
 "I assure you, madam, I know my own brother 
 when I see him." 
 
 The Lady Letitia did not appear in the least disturbed. 
 
 38
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Ah, now I recognize a certain family likeness," she 
 said. "Bless me, there is that wicked boy Richard 
 making love to Miss Julia Perkaby. Hey! Is it not 
 amusing to watch these young things coquetting ? Wc 
 women, Miss Hardacre, who have had our day, can 
 afford to smile at the dehghtful follies of youth. Hem! 
 What, supper-time already ? I declare, there is Peter 
 Gladden ready to announce it to us. I must find you a 
 gentleman, my dear, to give you an arm. The young 
 things will sort themselves as they think fit." 
 
 There appeared to be a conspiracy afoot that night 
 to render Jeff ray's hospitality obnoxious in every de- 
 tail to the Hardacre folk. How was it that etiquette 
 was so flagrantly outraged, that Mrs. Perkaby Haunted 
 into the supper-room before a baronet's daughter, and 
 that Richard found himself shackled to Miss Julia 
 Perkaby by his aunt's machinations ? How was it that 
 Sir Peter was desired to give his arm to Mrs. Bilson, a 
 lady who had slandered him outrageously on a certain 
 occasion, and whom the baronet had detested ever 
 since? How was it that Mr. Lot, whose astonished 
 eyes beheld Richard in possession of his own especial 
 flame. Miss Perkaby, was sent down with Miss Sugg, 
 poor Mary, whose yellow face was as plain as a mill- 
 stone, and whose conversation consisted of prim and 
 monosyllabic nothinj,'s? And how was it that Miss 
 Jilian was abandoned to Dr. Sugg, the elderly spinster's 
 refuge, and plumped down in an obscure corner? 
 Never had so ill-assorted and tactless an affair been 
 I)lanncd. 
 
 There was some wanton spirit whispering malicious 
 suggestions about the board. Sir Peter gulped down 
 his food, swore in serious silence, while Mrs. Bilson 
 favored him with an occasional glare over her Ixmy 
 shoulder. Mr. lyot, surly and morose, watched Richard 
 and Miss Julia Perkaby with jealous attention, while 
 
 39
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Mary Sugg shivered and twisted her fingers into knots 
 at his elbow. Dr. Sugg attempted in vain to bring the 
 sparkle of a smile to Miss Hardacre's outraged eyes. 
 The Lady Letitia alone appeared amiable and garrulous 
 and wholly at her ease. For the rest, a sulky and dis- 
 traught silence possessed the majority of the guests. 
 
 The plot developed still further when the gentlemen 
 left their wine to join the ladies in the drawing-room. 
 Card-tables with candles, ivory markers, and packs of 
 cards had been set out by Peter Gladden and the foot- 
 men. The Lady Letitia was astir on the instant, 
 bustling about like some gorgeous bumble-bee, setting 
 every one in order, taking the whole function to herself. 
 
 "Sir Peter would play whist; yes, and Mrs. Bilson 
 was dying for a game. Dr. Sugg, will you partner me, 
 please? We will challenge Mrs. Bilson and Sir Peter. 
 Squire Rokeley, and you, Mr. Perkaby, will you two 
 gentlemen arrange the other tables? No doubt the 
 young folk would like to dance at the other end of 
 the room. Mary will play for you on the harpsichord. 
 Richard, dear, will you walk a minuet with Miss Julia 
 Perkaby? Mrs. Perkaby, madam, I remember seeing 
 your sweet daughter dance last season at The Wells. All 
 the men were watching her — upon my soul, they were, 
 madam. Miss Jilian, my dear, will yoU join the young 
 folk, or take a hand at cards?" 
 
 Richard, helplessly obedient to his august relative's 
 commands, walked a minuet with Miss Julia Perkaby, 
 while Mr. Lot glared at him from a corner, and Miss 
 Hardacre chatted to young Bilson, a spotty youth who 
 was about to take up a commission in the Foot Guards. 
 Miss Sugg's bony fingers tinkled rapidly over the notes, 
 while Richard, hot and ill at ease, performed with the 
 black-eyed and stately Julia, catching every now and 
 again his cousin Lot's sulky stare and a glimpse of Miss 
 Jilian's haughty face. More minuets and country- 
 
 40
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 dances followed. Youth tripped it under the painted 
 roof, curls jigged, fans flickered. The evening was well 
 advanced before Richard found himself seated once 
 again beside Miss Jilian on the causeuse by the wall. 
 
 He did not find Miss Hardacre in the most angelic of 
 tempers. In truth, she tilted her chin at Mr. Richard, 
 played restlessly with her fan, and appeared most re- 
 lentlessly chilling. Jeffray, though he was ignorant of 
 the Lady Letitia's treachery, yet felt that the evening 
 had been miserably mismanaged. There stood Cousin 
 Lot looking as surly and as savage as an unpaid creditor, 
 while fat Sir Peter glowered over his cards at Mrs. Bil- 
 son's funereal face. Miss Hardacre herself appeared 
 clouded by the prevailing sulkiness, though there was 
 an unpleasant glint in her sweet, gray eyes. 
 
 "La, Richard," she yawned, "you are not coming to 
 sit by your cousin, surely? How hot the room is! I 
 am sure it must be nearly time for us to go." 
 
 Miss Hardacre was plying her fan with rapid jerks, 
 and staring contemptuously the while at the dark-eyed 
 Miss Perkaby, who was smiling at Richard across the 
 room. 
 
 "I hope you are not tired, Jilian?" 
 
 "Tired! I suppose I look a poor washed-out thing! 
 I have nerves, sir, and a delicate body. It is those 
 heavy women who can foot it till cock-crow. Miss 
 Perkaby dances well, eh, cousin?" 
 
 Richard blushed. 
 
 "Does she?" he asked, helplessly, beginning to sus- 
 pect what had angered this angel of a woman. 
 
 "Your dear aunt, sir, hinted that I am getting too old 
 to dance." 
 
 "You — too old — to dance?" 
 
 "Yes. And did you notice, Richard, that I was sent 
 down to supper with Dr. Sugg? So you read your 
 poetry to Mary Sugg, cousin, eh? And write verses 
 4 41
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 about Miss Julia Perkaby? Heavens, how hot the 
 room is! I wish the butler would announce our coach." 
 Richard, pitifully bewildered, stared at Miss Jihan, 
 and felt that the room was certainly overheated. 
 
 "I have never read my poems to Mary Sugg," he 
 began. 
 
 Miss Jihan's lip curled. 
 
 "She thinks them equal to Spenser's, cousin," 
 
 "What! Did she tell you so?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no; she is not so innocent." 
 
 Richard, very flushed and unhappy, began to suspect 
 the Lady Letitia of mendacity. Mary Sugg had never 
 seen his verses. And the dowager had talked for some 
 time to Jilian, perhaps poisoning the girl's mind, 
 
 "My dear cousin — " he began. 
 
 "Won't you go and talk to Miss Perkaby, Richard? 
 I am such a dull creature. Heavens! what is the mat- 
 ter with Sir Peter, yonder?" 
 
 A sudden hubbub had arisen at the Laxly Letitia's 
 table. The baronet, a look of overheated indignation 
 on his face, had thrown down his cards and was taking 
 snuff with great vigor. The Lady Letitia was turning 
 over the tricks with a wicked smile in her eyes. Parson 
 Sugg appeared flushed and uncomfortable, while Mrs. 
 Bilson sat bolt upright in her chair. The players at 
 the other tables were glancing curiously at one another. 
 
 "Pardon me. Sir Peter." 
 
 "Pardon you, madam!" 
 
 "See, You did revoke. See, sir, you played a club 
 here." 
 
 "Damn the club, madam!" 
 
 Mrs. Bilson uttered a Httlc squeak of indignation, tilted 
 her nose, and stared at the baronet with shocked pity. 
 
 "It is evident that my partner has made a mistake. 
 Lady Letitia," she said, with unpleasant emphasis upon 
 the error. 
 
 42
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Such mistakes will occur," said Dr. Sugg, mildly. 
 
 " I am afraid the wine was rather heavy, Sir Peter. 
 I told Gladden to be chary of the port — " 
 
 The baronet flared up at last with righteous and dis- 
 gusted wrath, 
 
 "What, madam! You hint that I am fuddled? I 
 can see the pips as clear as you can." 
 
 "Sir Peter!" 
 
 "I think it is time that we laid down our cards," said 
 Mrs. Bilson, rising, 
 
 "Exactly, madam, I heartily agree with you, 
 madam," retorted the baronet, savagely, "whist is 
 only fit for old women." 
 
 "Oh, Sir Peter!" 
 
 "Sir Peter!" 
 
 "Will you be so good as to ring for my coach, Richard 
 JePfray? Lot, Jilian, it is time we were moving. Lady 
 Letitia, I kiss your hand. Gentlemen, good-night," 
 
 Jeffray had hurried forward with an expression of 
 pain upon his face. He glanced angrily at the Lady 
 Letitia, and followed Sir Peter, who had marched pom- 
 pously out of the room. The baronet frowned at him 
 and ignored the hand that Richard had extended, 
 
 "Order my coach, lad," was all he said. 
 
 "But, Sir Peter— " 
 
 They had reached the hall, and Richard, who had 
 given his orders to Peter Gladden, turned to appease 
 the angry baronet. Sir Peter, who had been bubl)ling 
 with a seething sense of wrong, exploded his wrath in 
 Richard's face. 
 
 "Don't ask me to any more of your infernal drums 
 or routs," he said, "Those old women were iov hinting 
 that I cheated — cheated, sir, to pocket their damned 
 miserly sixpences!" 
 
 "I am sure, Sir Peter — " 
 
 "Deuce take your surenoss, sir. I tell y(ju that 
 
 43
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 painted old image of an aunt of yours tricked us here, 
 sir, to make fun of us before that old she-dog of a Bil- 
 son and the rest. Damme, sir, are we Hardacres to be 
 set down to supper after all the Bilsons and Perkabys 
 and nobodies in the county? Come, Jill, my lass, they 
 sent you down with the snuffler, did they! Deuce take 
 you, sir, my daughter ain't one to be treated as though 
 she were born on a dung-heap and dragged up in a 
 hovel!" 
 
 Richard, bewildered, shamed and very miserable, 
 turned to Miss Hard acre with a piteous and boyish ap- 
 peal in his dark eyes. 
 
 "I wish I had never given the party," he said. 
 
 "Thank you, cousin!" 
 
 "It was my aunt's doing." 
 
 "To be sure, little 'un," quoth Mr. Lot, with a glum 
 grin, "and you didn't enjoy yourself at all, eh? Julia 
 Perkaby's a fine wench, Richard. What! Don't know 
 when a woman's got a pair of deuced fine eyes in her 
 head?" 
 
 Mr. Lot laughed loudly and slapped Jeffray on the 
 shoulder with a vigor that was not wholly inspired by 
 cousinly regard. Peter Gladden was standing at the 
 hall door with a lantern in his hand ; the Hardacre coach- 
 horses were pawing the gravel without. 
 
 "Come, Sir Peter, I don't think we are prime-beef 
 here." 
 
 Richard was still gazing ruefully at Jilian, watching 
 her enfold her auburn head in a light-blue wrapper. 
 
 "I am very sorry," he said, in a humble aside. 
 
 Miss Hardacre made him a fine courtesy. 
 
 "La, cousin, don't apologize," she said, "we have 
 had a delicious evening. I am sure Miss Julia's dancing 
 was superb."
 
 VI 
 
 A SHARP skinnish occurred in the great drawing- 
 room that niglit after that stately chamber had 
 been emptied of its guests. Richard, chafing under Sir 
 Peter's honest outburst of wrath and Miss Jilian's 
 ironical reproaches, charged the Lady Letitia with de- 
 Ubcrately insulting these good people whom he had 
 summoned to Rodenham in all the innocence of his 
 heart. The Lady Letitia, throned on a brocaded 
 fauteuil before the dying fire, regarded her nephew 
 with amused contempt, and proceeded to convince him 
 of the disinterested wisdom of her plot. 
 
 "You are a young greenhorn, my dear Richard," she 
 said, playing with her great red fan, "and you may re- 
 gard me, sir, as a fairy godmother sent by Heaven to 
 draw you out of the toils. Come, perceive, sir, I have 
 routed the Amalckites and thrown poison into that 
 sweet spinster's rouge-pot. I wager, nephew, that Miss 
 Hardacre will be for hating you cordially in a few days 
 if you will only follow my advice." 
 
 But Richard was in no mood to listen to this arch- 
 diplomat's ingenious proposals. Shorn of his natural 
 passivity, he kindled commendably over the crisis, and 
 paced the floor with all the authority of an admiral 
 stalking his quarter-deck. 
 
 "May I suggest to you, madam, that I will permit no 
 further meddling in my affairs?" 
 
 "Richard— I" 
 
 *' What poisonous insinuations you have been pouring 
 
 45
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 into Miss Hardacre's ears I cannot imagine. You have 
 trifled with my honor, madam, disgraced my hospi- 
 taHty, and shamed me in my own house." 
 
 "Richard Jeff ray!" 
 
 "Permit me to add, madam, that I will not have my 
 friends slighted and insulted in Rodenham." 
 
 "Heavens, Richard!" 
 
 "This is my house, madam. If you do not approve 
 of my tastes and habits you can mend your displeasure 
 by departing." 
 
 The old lady sat and stared at her nephew, nodding 
 her huge "head," her little eyes twinkling under their 
 bushy brows. She would not have believed that the 
 lad had so much spirit in him. His eyes sparkled, his 
 face had flushed, and he carried himself with an angry 
 stateliness that was worthy of Mr. Garrick. 
 
 "My dear Richard," she said, rising, puffing herself 
 out Hke an old hen, "I think we had better dismiss the 
 subject till your temper has cooled in the morning. 
 May I request you to ring for my maid ?" 
 
 Jeffray stalked to the bell rope, jerked it savagely, 
 and bowed grandly to his aunt. 
 
 "May I wish your ladyship a very good-night?" 
 
 The dowager extended her hand , and suffered the lad 
 to touch her gouty fingers crowded thick with rings. 
 
 "My dear nephew," she said, not unkindly, "you 
 have a good heart, but — " 
 
 " Well, madam ?" 
 
 "You will confess some day that your old aunt was 
 a woman of sense and discretion. Marry the sweet 
 JiHan, my dear. After all, it is no business of mine. 
 But, my dear Richard, if you discover that you have 
 embraced a bag of bones, a bundle of affectations, 
 blame yourself and not me. Why, that Perkaby girl 
 would make a better match; she has a body, an un- 
 common fine and handsome body, and old Perkaby can 
 
 46
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 lay down guineas. But I see I weary your delicate 
 sense of honor. Bon soir, mon cher Richard." 
 
 The clock in the turret had told ten next morning 
 when Richard mounted his black mare and cantered 
 off through the park to take the sandy road that wound 
 through Pevensel. He was still feverishly ashamed of 
 the unfortunate incidents of the previous night, and 
 was as much disgusted with the Lady Letitia's logic as 
 with his own pusillanimous stupidity. Miss Hardacre 
 had been slighted, insulted in his own house. Sir 
 Peter, that kind but pepper}' old gentleman, had been 
 driven to retreat in justifiable indignation, Richard 
 Jeffray, sensitive and generous - hearted youth, still 
 chafed and fumed under the indignity of it all. His 
 duty lay clear before him as he rode through the wav- 
 ing wilds of Pevensel, and saw the sunlight chase the 
 shadows over the dusky woods. 
 
 Sir Peter and Mr. Lancelot were out with the 
 hounds that morning, and had ridden to draw Squire 
 Rokeley's covers at Marvelscombe. Miss Hardacre was 
 at home, however, so said the fat major-domo, grinning 
 benignly over the apparent coincidence. Jeffray left 
 his mare in the hands of a stable-boy, and, throwing his 
 whip, gloves, and hat on a table in the hall, prepared to 
 confront the sweet angel whom his aunt had tortured 
 on the preceding night. Miss Jilian was sitting before 
 her embroidery frame in the red parlor when the major- 
 domo announced Richard Jeffray. Curious to relate. 
 Miss Hardacre did not start up in amazement on catch- 
 ing the name from old Roger's lips. So the dear hul 
 had ridden over to protest his innocence and to make 
 peace? Miss Jilian had expected it. 
 
 "La, cousin," she said, rising up with much stately 
 rustlings of silk as the door closed on the major-domo, 
 "I never thought to see you here." 
 
 Richard came forward blushing, and was even per- 
 
 47
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 mitted to kiss Miss Hardacre's hand. Certainly Miss 
 Jilian drew her fingers away somewhat hastily, and 
 carried her auburn head with proper coldness and dignity. 
 
 "I have ridden over to ask your pardon, Jilian." 
 
 " Pardon, cousin ?" 
 
 "For the miserable affair last night. Aunt Letitia 
 and I quarrelled after every one had gone, and I am 
 afraid I lost my temper. I lay awake all night won- 
 dering what I should say to you in the morning." 
 
 The lad looked very generous and very handsome as 
 he stood there blushing, his dark eyes full of ardent 
 light and all the sincerity of his heart quivering upon 
 his words. Miss Hardacre still held her head in the air, 
 tapped on the floor with one red -slippered foot, and was 
 ready to pretend that she was not in the least eager for 
 a reconciliation. 
 
 "I am sure this is very good of you, cousin," she said, 
 tartly; "I did not expect you here to-day. In fact. Sir 
 Peter ordered me — " 
 
 She hesitated of a sudden, blushed very charmingly, 
 and gave Mr. Richard an eloquent glimpse of her gray 
 eyes. 
 
 "Sir Peter ordered you, Jilian?" 
 
 "Not to receive Mr. Richard Jeffray unless — " 
 
 "Unless?" 
 
 "He could explain away the insults that were heaped 
 upon our family last night." 
 
 Miss Hardacre had sunk gracefully into the window- 
 seat, her melting eyes downcast towards her knees. 
 There was infinite pensiveness in the pose of her fair 
 head. Richard, thinking her adorable for the moment, 
 made so bold as to seat himself beside her. How proud 
 and yet how sensitive she was! Poor child, how was it 
 that the Lady Letitia could abuse her so? 
 
 "Upon my honor, JiHan, I was utterly miserable 
 when you went away last night." 
 
 48
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Miss Hardacre's fingers were plucking at her gown. 
 She did not so much as look at the lad, but hung her 
 head like a statue of grieved and injured innocence. 
 
 "Won't you believe me, Jilian ?" 
 
 "Oh, Richard—" 
 
 "Cousin, dear cousin, how can I express my own 
 shame and distress?" 
 
 "Then, Richard, you did not want to dance with 
 Juha Perkaby?" 
 
 "Confound the girl. It was Aunt Letitia who forced 
 me into it." 
 
 "And you did not write poetry about her, and adore 
 her singing ?" 
 
 Richard burst forth into manly indignation. 
 
 "Jilian, who told you all these lies?" 
 
 Miss Hardacre sighed and began to finger her hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 "I don't think I ought to say, Richard." 
 
 "It was Aunt Letitia. I'll swear it was Aunt Letitia. 
 Damn the old woman, Jilian, I absolutely hate her!" 
 
 "Richard! Richard!" 
 
 "Then it was Aunt Letitia?" 
 
 "She was very cruel to me, Richard." 
 
 "On my honor, cousin, I'll go back and turn her out 
 of my house." 
 
 Here came Miss Hardacre's supreme opportunity. 
 What more affecting and delightful a virtue than that 
 sweet spirit of forgiveness that juggles divinely with the 
 proverbial coals of fire. Miss Jilian bear malice? No, 
 the gods forbid! She would plead with her dear cousin, 
 soothe his angry passions, stem the torrent of his wrath 
 that threatened to descend upon the devoted dowager's 
 head. The Lady Letitia was a very old woman, and 
 alas! my dear cousin, very worldly. She had her whims 
 and her prejudices, and her temper had been rasped by 
 the toolh of time. Naturally the Lady Letitia was am- 
 
 49
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 bitious for her dear nephew ; who would not be ambitious 
 for such a nephew as Richard Jeffray ? The Lady 
 Letitia had prejudices in favor of money. Could Rich- 
 ard blame her if she strove to save him from the "de- 
 signs" of a poor baronet's daughter, a country mouse 
 who had no adornments save those simple virtues with 
 which nature had endowed her unaffected soul ? 
 
 What wonder that Richard, chivalrous lad, pressed 
 Miss Hardacre's hand to his lips, and vowed that no 
 more beautiful and forgiving spirit had ever chastened 
 mortal flesh. What wonder that the reconciliation was 
 complete between them, and that Miss Jilian consented 
 to sing her songs. How much more finely she sang than 
 that stupid giantess, Julia Perkaby! "La, cousin Dick, 
 you must not call young ladies names." Might he not 
 read his epic poem to her? "Oh, Richard, I am such 
 an ignorant little thing. Listen? I could listen all 
 day. I am sure you are a genius, Richard. Mr. Pope 
 and Mr, Dryden never wrote half such fine verses as 
 yours." What wonder that Richard Jeffray departed 
 from Hardacre that day, convinced in his heart that he 
 was in love with his adorable cousin. Why, she was 
 an angel. How could Aunt Letitia fabricate such 
 monstrous and malignant lies ? 
 
 When the purple shadow of the Beacon Rock fell 
 athwart the crisp turf that afternoon, Richard remem- 
 bered, even in his state of exaltation, the glowing face 
 and fierce blue eyes of the fair savage of the woods. 
 Old Peter Gladden had told his master all he knew con- 
 cerning the forest - folk whose hamlet lurked in the 
 midst of Pevensel. Richard remembered the place 
 vaguely as a scattering of stone-roofed cottages sunk 
 in the shadows of the woods. He had often explored 
 the rides and wood-ways of Pevensel as a boy, and had 
 even taken young owls from a ruined tower of the Abbey 
 of Holy Cross. A sudden whim seized him that day to 
 
 SO
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 follow the bridle-track that branched off by the Beacon 
 Rock, and led close, so old Gladden said, by the hamlet 
 in the woods. It would lead him out by White Hind 
 walk on the broad coaching-road to Lewes. 
 
 No sooner had the whim tickled Richard's sensibilities 
 for romance than he was off at a trot down the bridle- 
 track, seeing the Queen's Circle sink down on his left 
 below the slope of the open moor. The sun came 
 slanting through and through as Richard wound through 
 the solemn thickets, where the dead bracken glowed 
 under the purple shade, and whin, whortleberries, and 
 heather tangled each knoll and dell. There was a beck- 
 oning awe about the place, a brooding mystery that 
 lured on and on. 
 
 Now Bess had wandered out, while old Ursula was 
 taking a nap in the ingle-nook, to search for certain 
 herbs that the old lady needed. She had thrown her 
 red cloak over her shoulders, taken a rush -basket and 
 a stout thorn stick. Three weeks or more had passed 
 since the scrimmage in the pine thicket, and young 
 David, fearing Dan's wrath, had fled the hamlet, tramp- 
 ed down to Portsmouth, and been "pressed" for the 
 king's naxy. Isaac Grimshaw had had the news from 
 a Jew peddler who had come through by Chichester, and 
 had seen young David dragged out of a tavern by the 
 press men, and hauled off with others to the harbor. 
 The Jew peddler knew all the forest-folk by name and 
 face, having sold his wares to them and obliged Isaac 
 in many ways, year in, year out. There had been hot 
 words between old Isaac and his son, and hot words 
 between Isaac and Dame Ursula. Bess had called 
 Black Dan a coward and a bully to his face. But since 
 the mischief was done, and young Davifl on the seas, 
 Isaac calmed the contentions of his flock, and mollified 
 the women as best he could. 
 
 Dan Grimshaw had followed Bess from the hamlet 
 
 5'
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 that day with sullen fire in his red-brown eyes. There 
 had been words between them in the morning, and the 
 girl had treated the giant to a picturesque display of 
 scorn. Dan Grimshaw was ugly enough, but it did not 
 please him to hear the truth from Miss Bess's petulant 
 lips. He had blundered home to his cottage in bovine 
 wrath, inflamed by the girl's comeliness, and by her 
 passionate taunts. Sly and savage he had watched her 
 take the path that led up through the woods to Beacon 
 Rock, and had followed at a distance, clinching his 
 great fists as he saw her red cloak flit amid the trees. 
 
 Jeflray, riding down White Hind walk where the ham- 
 let path crossed the sleek grass that seemed to run like 
 a river amid the trees, was edified by beholding a tall 
 wench belaboring a forester with a stick. The man was 
 dodging from side to side, cursing and taking the blows 
 upon his forearms. A basket half filled with sprouting 
 weeds lay tossed aside under a tree. So busy were these 
 two Pevensel savages with their stick-wielding and their 
 dodging that neither of them noticed Richard's approach, 
 I Of a sudden, however, the scene took on a more sinister 
 expression. The man had caught the stick and twisted 
 it out of the girl's hand. Jeff ray could distinguish his 
 inflamed and passionate face even at a distance of fifty 
 paces. In another instant the man's arms were about 
 the girl's body, and she was writhing and struggling Hke 
 a hound hugged to the hairy bosom of a bear. 
 I Richard, who had recognized the elf of the Queen's 
 Circle, pricked in his spurs, and went cantering down 
 the ride. He rolled out of the saddle when close upon 
 the pair, left his mare loose, and, drawing his sword, ran 
 towards Dan Grimshaw and Miss Bess. The girl had 
 one hand on the man's throat, and was beating the other 
 in his face. He had picked her up bodily and was hold- 
 ing her in mid -air when Richard's shout startled his 
 hairy ears. 
 
 52
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Black Dan dropped Bess upon the grass, and, being 
 mad as any antlered stag baffled by a hunter, snatched 
 up the girl's stick and made at Richard with savage 
 good -will. Jeffray's pretty bodkin of a blade was 
 smitten away out of his hand, and he himself was brought 
 low with heavy cut across the crown. Black Dan, his 
 face as like a flesh-eating ogre's as any nursemaid might 
 paint for the intimidation of the young, stood over 
 Richard as though tempted to strike again. Pie was 
 balked in his charitable purpose, however, by finding 
 Bess fronting him with a pistol in either hand. She 
 had caught JefTray's mare, and plucked the pistols from 
 the holsters, their master having forgotten the good 
 barkers in the full flux of chivalry. 
 
 "Touch him, Dan, and Til shoot you, you devil." 
 In truth, a fine stage effect, Belphoebe rescuing Timias 
 from the wrath of the savage of the woods 1
 
 VII 
 
 DAN'S fury cooled out of him as he looked at the 
 white face half hidden by a grass tussock, and 
 caught a glint of the polished barrels of Bess's pistols. 
 Jeffray's beaver had fallen off, and he lay with the 
 blood soaking from a scalp-wound into his hair. Dan 
 drew back, swinging his stick, and staring sheepishly at 
 the blood trickling across Jeff ray's forehead. 
 
 Bess, seeing that Dan had come to his senses, put 
 back one of the pistols into the holster, but kept the 
 other in her hand. She ordered Dan back, and kneel- 
 ing down on the wet grass turned Jeffray's head gently 
 into her lap. A look of wonder flashed into her eyes as 
 she considered his face, for this was the man St. Agnes 
 had showed her in her dream. He even wore black, 
 with white ruffles at his wrists, and his blood had been 
 spilled for her in saving her from Dan's savagery. 
 
 She looked wonderingly at Jeffray, remembering him 
 at last as the gentleman who had ridden by when Dan 
 and David were fighting in the mist by the Queen's 
 Circle. The sight of the blood trickling across his fore- 
 head roused her from such reveries to womanly pity. 
 She flashed a glance at Dan, and bade him give her the 
 scarf he wore about his neck. With this she bound up 
 Jeffray's head, smoothing back his hair with her strong 
 brown hands. 
 
 "Take him up," she said to Dan; "we must carry 
 him home to Mother Ursula." 
 
 Dan was swinging his stick and watching Bess hold- 
 
 54
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ing JcfTray's head in her lap with a sullen jealousy that 
 he could not dissemble. He obeyed the girl, however, 
 and lifted JetTray as though he had been a child. Bess 
 picked up the fallen sword, and taking Jeffray's mare 
 by the bridle, pointed to the path that led towards the 
 hamlet. 
 
 Old Ursula held up her hands when Dan appeared at 
 her cottage door with JetTray still imconscious in his 
 arms. Bess told her foster-mother all that had hap- 
 pened, not deigning to spare Dan shame in the telling 
 of it. They laid JefTray on the settle before the fire, 
 and sent in haste for Isaac, who knew all the gentry by 
 sight who lived within ten miles of the Beacon Rock. 
 
 Isaac, sleek and authoritative, cursed Dan when he 
 recognized the Squire of Roilenham. 
 
 "Dan '11 swing for it," quoth Ursula, with an unlov- 
 ing glance at her nephew. 
 
 "Bah, there's no great harm done. Get him to bed, 
 dame, and when he wakes see that you put the youngster 
 in a good temper." 
 
 Isaac beckoned his son away, Ursula hobbling ofT to 
 drag clean sheets from the linen-press. Calling Bess, 
 who was watching JefTray, she bade her fetch a new 
 blanket and the best quilt from the oak chest on the 
 stairs. Isaac had taken Jeffray's mare, and, still rating 
 Dan, stabled her in the byre where Ursula kept her cows. 
 
 The old woman pattered into her bedroom on the 
 ground floor, dragged the clothes from the four-poster, 
 while Bess came in bearing a new blanket and a patch- 
 work quilt of many colors. Between them they spread 
 the clean sheets, strijjped off JefTray's clothes, and put 
 him to be<i there in his shirt. Unsula made a stew of 
 friar's-balsam, and after tearing s(^ft linen into strips, 
 washed JefTray's wound and bound up his head. Then 
 she went out to speak with Isaac in the kitchen, leaving 
 Bess alone to watch by the bed. 
 
 55
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 It was growing dark when Jeffray recovered con- 
 sciousness, and awoke to find great beams above his 
 head, and the sunset reddening the narrow casement of 
 a room. He fingered his bandaged head, looked round 
 him curiously, and would have struggled up in the bed 
 but for the swooping of Bess's strong brown hand upon 
 his shoulder. She had been sitting there silently in 
 the twilight, thinking of the dream she had dreamed on 
 St. Agnes's Eve, and studying Jeffray's pale and inani- 
 mate face. 
 
 At his wakening she had set her hand upon his 
 shoulder, as though to hint that he was under fair pro- 
 tection. Old Ursula had whispered to the girl that she 
 was to be polite, nay, servile, to the gentleman, since 
 the Squire of Rodenham might prove a troublesome 
 neighbor should he care to charge Dan with violence. 
 Servility, however, was not part of Bess's nature. She 
 did not even call Mr. Richard "sir," and though she 
 abated her masterfulness, she spoke to him as to an 
 equal. 
 
 "Bide still," she said, leaning over him and looking 
 in his eyes, "you are safe with us." 
 
 Richard could see the girl's face in the dusk, white 
 beneath the dead black hair. There was the delicious- 
 ness of youth in the rare roundness of her cheek, the 
 smooth low forehead, the strong chin and pouting 
 mouth. 
 
 "Where am I ?" he asked her, quietly, with his hands 
 lying on the many-colored quilt. 
 
 "In our cottage — Ursula's cottage. I made Dan 
 carry you home from the woods." 
 
 "Ah, I had the worst of it. What happened? Tell 
 me." 
 
 Bess was pleased with his voice. 
 
 "Dan hit you over the head," she said. 
 
 "I can believe that," quoth Richard, with a smile. 
 
 56
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I picked your pistols out of the holsters, and swore 
 I would shoot him if he struck you again." 
 
 Jcffray's thoughts were not of himself for the mo- 
 ment. He lay silent, looking up at Bess, still feeling 
 the pressure of her hand upon his shoulder. The room 
 was growing very dark. He could see only her hair as 
 a deep shadow above the white oval of her face. 
 
 "You are one of the forest-folk?" he asked. 
 
 "I am Bess — Bess Grimshaw." 
 
 "And Ursula?" 
 
 " Is mv mother. I li\e with her." 
 
 "And Dan—?" 
 
 "Is my cousin." 
 
 The tawny light had melted out of the sky. From 
 the kitchen came the murmur of Isaac's voice as he 
 argued with old Ursula. They were speaking of Rich- 
 ard and of Dan. The same subjects were in Bess's 
 thought, and perhaps the man in the bed divined the 
 same. 
 
 "Bess," he said, suddenly, calling her by her Christian 
 name as he would have called a child. 
 
 She started and bent over liini, leaning more heavily 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 "What hai)pened to David?" 
 
 She seemed puzzled for the moment, and then flushed 
 up redly in the dusk. 
 
 "David ran awav," she said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "lie was terrified of Dan. Thoy pressed him at 
 Portsmouth for the king's navy. We heard it from a 
 peddler who had seen the lad marched off." 
 
 They were both silent for a while, Richard's eyes 
 turned towards the window, Bess's hand still on Jcffray's 
 shoulder. The same thoughts were in either heart. 
 By some strange flash of symitathy Jeffray and the girl 
 seemed to understand each other. 
 
 3 57
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Are you afraid of your cousin?" he asked, suddenly. 
 
 "Of Dan?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She looked down into the man's face. 
 
 "I shall carry a knife," she said, with peculiar sig- 
 nificance. "I am a match for Dan — " 
 
 "I will leave you my pistols." 
 
 Then came the pattering of Dame Ursula's slippers 
 across the flagged floor of the kitchen. The door opened 
 and Bess of the Woods was called away. 
 
 Isaac Grimshaw was something of a sylvan diplo- 
 mat, a suave, sweet-voiced old sinner, who could bleat 
 texts or snarl out fantastic oaths as the emergency re- 
 quired. He had sworn at Dan for laying his hands on 
 one of the gentry and risking his bull neck for a wench's 
 Hps, and had driven his giant of a son cowering from 
 old Ursula's cottage. Then he had entered in and 
 preached to the dame in the ingle-nook, wagging a long 
 forefinger and brushing his white hair back from his 
 forehead. Squire Jeff ray must be appeased, tickled 
 into a good temper. That was the mark towards 
 which Isaac winged his words. 
 
 In due course he took the two candles in the brass 
 sticks from the mantle-shelf, and lighting them with a 
 fagot from the fire, bade Ursula open the bedroom 
 door and call Bess out. The patriarch went in mincing- 
 ly, set one candle on a table by the bed, and the other 
 on an oaken press. He stood very humbly before 
 Richard Jeff ray, his white hair waving over his fore- 
 head, his clean-shaven mouth sweet and benignant as 
 the mouth of some tender-souled old priest. 
 
 "I trust your honor is feeling comfortable." 
 
 "Not much the worse, Grimshaw, for your son's 
 stick." 
 
 Isaac rubbed his palms together and beamed. 
 
 "I have come to ask your honor's pardon, sir." 
 
 58
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 The patriarch sniffed pathetically, and fidgeted as he 
 stood with Hmp humbleness beside the bed. How could 
 Jeffray appear angry with such an old fellow whose soul 
 was overwhelmed in contrition for his son's misdeeds. 
 
 "Do not vex yourself, Grimshaw, on my account," 
 said the master of Rodenham, frankly, "your son's 
 blood was up, and I drew my sword on him. He is a 
 dangerous fellow, Grimshaw, and beyond your hand- 
 ling, I imagine." 
 
 Isaac bowed his head into his hands. 
 
 "The Lord help me, sir," he said, sobbing, "he's a 
 wild lad, your honor, but not bad at heart." 
 
 •'This may be a lesson to him, Grimshaw." 
 
 "Please God, sir, it will. Bess, sir, Bess is a good 
 wench, but she has a tongue that would drive a young 
 man crazy." 
 
 "I don't blame her, Grimshaw, so far as your son is 
 
 concerned." 
 
 "Dear Heaven, no, your honor. I will see to it, sir; 
 I will speak to Dan like a father. He shall not pester 
 the wench, and she shall be taught to bridle her tongue." 
 
 "If she has a temper, Grimshaw, you can best mend 
 it by teaching your son to mind his business." 
 
 "True, your honor, true; it is good to hear you speak 
 so kindly." 
 
 Jeffray lay quiet a moment, while Isaac still sniffed 
 and fidgeted beside the bed, watching the master of 
 Rodenham with his shrewd, gray eyes. Old Ursula was 
 clattering her pans in the kitchen, humming some old 
 ditty, while Bess, her brown hands white with Hour, was 
 making pastry for Squire Jeffray 's sui)per. 
 
 "Grimshaw," said the younger man, at last. 
 
 "Sirr" 
 
 " I shall not set the law against your son." 
 
 "God bless your honor's noble heart." 
 
 " If there is more trouble betwixt him and the girl — " 
 
 59
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Isaac Grimshaw was all reverent attention. 
 
 "You may like to find a good home for her — " 
 
 "Ah — your honor — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "We should sorely miss her pretty face." 
 
 "Better lose her than have her ruined, Grimshaw." 
 
 "The words of a prophet, sir." 
 
 "'We could take her at Rodenham. Old Mrs, Bar- 
 bara, my butler's wife, could give her a good home." 
 
 Had Richard Jeff ray seemed less innocent a youth, 
 Isaac might have winked at him, and grown gay over 
 so disinterested a proposal. Old Grimshaw was a fair 
 connoisseur of rogues, and his instincts told him that 
 Jeffray was not of the intriguing order. Therefore he 
 made Richard a very humble and grateful speech, and 
 declared he would keep such a benefactor's advice in 
 mind. "Deuce take me," he thought, "here is an 
 honest simpleton. Why, the lad needs no more bribing 
 to be generous than a drunken Paddy. He'll grow fat 
 on sentiment, without a morsel of real kissing to put 
 him into a good temper." 
 
 Jeffray discovered himself served royally in Ursula 
 Grimshaw's cottage that night. Isaac had sent a 
 chicken, his best cutlery, and silver forks and a flask 
 of wine, bidding his sister serve up a supper fit for a 
 city alderman. There was red wine, white meat, nutty 
 bread, savory herbs, custard and sugared fruits. Bess 
 tricked out in her best green gown, with a white lawn 
 apron, red stockings and shoes, and a silver chain set 
 with amethysts about her throat, waited on the master 
 of Rodenham as though to serve him were her whole 
 heart's desire. She drank wine with Richard, showed 
 her white teeth, courtesied and blushed when he thanked 
 her and old Ursula for their courtesies. She smoothed 
 his pillow, talked to him in her quaint, bold way, and 
 altogether reconciled Richard to his lodging for the 
 
 60
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 night. Solomon Grimshaw, Isaac's brother, had ridden 
 over on his pon\' to Rodenham to ease the Lady Lctitia 
 of any anxiety on her nephew's account. Bess had 
 brought Jeffray a quill, inkhom, and paper, and stood 
 by the bed watching the man's clever hand at work. 
 He was a being full of strangeness and mystery to this 
 forest elf, who had learned to look on men of coarser 
 fibre. There was a frank yet courtly simplicity about 
 Jeffray that charmed all women and made them trust 
 him. The world-wise among them might think him 
 a fool, and such folly women easily forgive. 
 
 Thus it befell that Bess of the Woods and Richard 
 Jeffray stepped for the first time into that subtle maze 
 of circumstance whose weavings spell out the passion- 
 ate strangeness of tragedy. Had not Isaac counselled 
 Dame Ursula to bewitch Squire Jeffray into as noble a 
 temper as statecraft would permit ? And what more 
 pleasant to the eyes of youth than the unfolding beauty 
 of a buxom girl ? 
 
 About bedtime old Ursula clattered in the kitchen, 
 coughed, and stamped up the wooden stairs. She 
 would sleep with Bess that night, since the young squire 
 had her bed. Bess, unaffected as could be, bent over 
 Richard to smooth his pillow. She looked at him a 
 rhomcnt with a queer light in her eyes, and then — stoop- 
 ing, kissed his lips. 
 
 "That's for my sake," she said, with a half-frightened 
 laugh. " Dan would have had it but for you." 
 
 She fled away, red as fire, and closed the door very 
 gently after her. Richard heard her climb the stairs. 
 He lay awake for many hours, listening to the wind in 
 the trees without, as the candles burned down towards 
 their sockets.
 
 VIII 
 
 JEFF RAY slept till after the sun was up, and was 
 awakened by Bess tapping at his door. She came 
 in blushing, looking very coy and winsome, with a bowl 
 of hot milk on a pewter dish, milk that her own brown 
 hands had drawn from the cow that morning. It was 
 quite an uncommon mood in Bess, this shy and half 
 stately air of aloofness, with its smooth tones and its 
 half-abashed tenderness in the eyes. She gave Jeffray 
 a very quiet good -morning, asked how he had slept, 
 blushing still as she remembered their parting on the 
 preceding night. 
 
 To Richard, he knew not why, there was a peculiar 
 fascination in the girl's presence, in the very nearness 
 of her body to his. Their hands had touched as she 
 held out the bowl of milk to him, and the silky coldness 
 of her skin had discharged a species of subtle magnetism 
 at the contact. He looked up into her face, saw the 
 subdued light of the room intensify the richness of her 
 coloring and enhance the lustrous shadows in her eyes. 
 In truth, Bess's eyes and Mr. Richard's were always 
 meeting that morning, so that one or the other would 
 redden and look away. Jeffray, where he lay, could 
 watch the girl through the open door as she glided to 
 and fro in the kitchen. How tall and strong she was, 
 how full of the delicious ardor of life, supple, swift, per- 
 fect in every outline. Big of body though she was, her 
 long legs carried her with the swinging grace of an 
 athletic male. She kept her mouth tightly shut in re- 
 
 62
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 pose, her intense blue eyes shining out from her ruddy 
 face. 
 
 Jeff ray, finding himself Httle the worse for Dan's 
 cudgelling, had hardly risen, dressed, and shaved him- 
 self with one of Isaac's razors, when Peter Gladden ap- 
 peared with the patriarch before Ursula's cottage, in- 
 quiring for the person of his master. The Lady Lctitia 
 herself was waiting for Richard in her coach below the 
 Beacon Rock. JetTray tied his cravat, buckled on his 
 sword, and went out to speak with Peter Gladden in 
 the kitchen. Isaac Grimshaw was there also, humble, 
 benignant and subservient. Bess, seated on a settle by 
 the fire, was mending the gown that had been torn in 
 the scuffle with Dan yesterday. 
 
 Richard shook Isaac Grimshaw's hand, bowed to old 
 Ursula, and laid three guineas surreptitiously upon tlie 
 table. 
 
 "I thank you for all your kindness," he said, with a 
 glance that was meant for Bess. 
 
 Isaac, bowing, and rubbing his hands together, de- 
 clared that they were proud to have been able to serve 
 such a gentleman. 
 
 "As for the money, your honor," he said, "we cannot 
 take the gold. What we have given — we have given 
 gladly. Eh, dame, ain't that so?" 
 
 Old Ursula, whose eyes had twinkled at the sight 
 of gold, courtesied and confessed a little sourly that 
 "Squire JefTray was very welcome." 
 
 Richard blushed, looked from one to the other, and 
 rcpocketed his money. 
 
 "I shall not forget your kindness," he said, simply. 
 "If I can ever serve you, Grimshaw, remember what 1 
 said to you last night." 
 
 Peter Gladden had gone to saddle and bridle Richard's 
 marc in the c(jw-h(juse, and JclTray ijroceeded h.) shake 
 hands again very graciously witli Isaac and old Ursula. 
 
 63
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 His heart had been touched by what appeared to him 
 to be simple and unsophisticated kindness; he had not 
 learned to look below the surface of life as yet. He 
 hesitated before Bess, who had risen and was stand- 
 ing looking at her hood that hung upon the key of the 
 linen-press. 
 
 "Will you show us the path through the woods?" he 
 asked her. 
 
 Isaac was for ofifering his services, but a gesture from 
 old Ursula restrained him. 
 
 "The lass will be proud," quoth the dame, amiably. 
 "I would go with ye myself, sir, but for the rheumatics. 
 Bess, get your cloak, lass, and go with the gentleman." 
 And in a whisper into the girl's ear: "If he is for giving 
 you the guineas, girl, take 'em, and don't forget it." 
 
 Now, Richard Jeffray sent Peter Gladden on ahead 
 with the mare that morning, thus casting doubt on his 
 sincerity in asking for guidance through the woods. 
 He walked with Bess, who had thrown her red cloak 
 over her shoulders and thrust her feet into her best 
 buckled shoes. The woods were full of dancing sun- 
 light and of dew. A brisk breeze played through the 
 branches, chanting desirously, and sweeping the white 
 clouds over the forest in the blue sky above. The 
 promise of spring seemed in the air ; already the green 
 gorse was budding gold, and the cry of the world's 
 youth was on the wind. 
 
 Richard noticed for the first time that Bess was 
 taller than he was as they walked together under the 
 trees. Her eyes looked down on him a little from 
 under her glorious wreath of sable hair. In truth, she 
 seemed Richard's master in the matter of mere physical 
 strength; her arms were of greater girth than his by 
 two inches or more, and her supple body would have 
 turned the scale by a stone against Jeffray's slim but 
 wiry frame. They had little to say to each other for 
 
 64
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 the first furlong or so. The girl appeared farouche and 
 silent, looking at Richard as though half in awe of him. 
 And yet some subtle net of sympathy seemed to have 
 been cast about them both in the course of a single 
 night. 
 
 "Bess," said the man, suddenly plunging towards the 
 thoughts that lay close about his heart. 
 
 Being slightly ahead, she hung back and waited, with 
 her eyes at gaze on the deeps of the woods. 
 
 "I spoke to Isaac Grimshaw about you last night," 
 he continued, watching the play of the sunlight upon 
 her face. 
 
 "About me?" 
 
 "Yes, and Dan, your cousin." 
 
 Bess's eyes darkened and she pouted out her lips. 
 Her walk seemed more spirited, the carriage of her head 
 more rebellious at the mention of Dan's name. 
 
 "I told your uncle that Barbara Gladden, my butler's 
 wife, could give you a home at Rodenham — " 
 
 "At Rodenham!" 
 
 "Yes. If— " 
 
 "If?" 
 
 "You found vour cousin's company too rough for 
 you." 
 
 Bess flashed a look at Richard, and walked on in 
 silence for some moments, with a fine color upon lur 
 face. There was no suggestion of patronage in Jeff ray's 
 manner. 
 
 "I am not afraid of Dan," she answered, "though I 
 am grateful to you — for this." 
 
 A sudden realization of the gulf between them had 
 taken hold of the girl's heart. This Richard Jeffray was 
 one of the gentry, and she, a poor forest wench not fit 
 to stand before women, less handsome and less honest 
 than herself. At Rodenham she would take her meals 
 in the servants' hall, and sleep in an attic under the 
 
 65
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 roof. It would even be considered a favor if the young 
 squire spoke to her. No. She loved Pevensel and her 
 forest liberty better than that. 
 
 "I am not afraid of Dan," she said again, with a fine 
 lifting of her head. 
 
 Jeffray felt something of the pride that played in 
 her, and respected her the more for it. 
 
 "I am not dropping a favor for you, Bess," he said. 
 
 "Thank you," she answered. 
 
 "You see — you saved me from Dan's cudgelling. 
 And you — and Ursula have been very kind to me." 
 
 They looked at each other half questioningly, a long 
 and steady look that bore more meaning than many 
 words. Richard blushed under the girl's gaze. He 
 suspected the spirit in her, and was loath to think that 
 he had hurt her pride. 
 
 "You said I might have your pistols," quoth Bess, 
 suddenly. 
 
 "I will give you them." 
 
 "I was not made to serve. We are wild folk in the 
 forest. I can take care of m3^self." 
 
 Then, catching the look in Jeffray's eyes, she smiled 
 at him very dearly, and touched his hand. 
 
 "But — I shall remember," she added. 
 
 "And I, Bess, also." 
 
 "I will have the pistols — " 
 
 "A strange present!" 
 
 "No, no, they will make me feel somehow that you 
 are near. For I dreamed of you on St. Agnes's Eve." 
 
 She blushed and hung her head as soon as the words 
 were out of her mouth. Jeffray had started, and red- 
 dened also. He looked at Bess and then at the heath 
 showing gold beyond the trees. 
 
 "I will ride over — sometimes, Bess," he said, slowly. 
 
 Her eyes flashed down at him, and then wavered 
 away towards the woods. 
 
 66
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I knew you." she said, simply, "when you lay on 
 the grass — after I had put back Dan's stick." 
 
 "Knew me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Richard said nothing, but there was a strange sense 
 of hurrying at his heart. 
 
 They overtook Peter Gladtlcn on the heath, and 
 Richard taking the marc from him bade him go for- 
 ward and wani the Lady Letitia of his coming. When 
 the man had gone, JefTray drew the pistols from the 
 holsters, shook out the priming, and handed them to 
 Bess. They were light weapons of delicate make, the 
 butts set m Damascened silver. The girl took them 
 and put them in her gown above her girdle. 
 
 "Be careful, Bess," he said. 
 
 She laughed, and her eyes grew very bright of a 
 sudden. 
 
 "You did not give me these in the dream," she said. 
 
 In another moment Richard was in the saddle can- 
 tering over the heath towards the Beacon Rock. 
 
 The Lady Letitia had spent the whole of the previous 
 day in meditation, suspecting shrewdly enough that 
 her nephew had ridden over to Hardacre to make peace 
 with the sweet Jilian. Of course Miss Hardacre would 
 be kind to Richard, and in that arch young lady's kind- 
 ness. Aunt Letitia had foreseen her own discomfort. 
 Now the dowager was not in the least inclined to aban- 
 don Rodenham. for her financial affairs were still in an 
 embarrassed state. She had shut up her house in town 
 for the winter, and was keeping her coach-horses and 
 her three servants at JcfTray's expense. Till late in the 
 .spring she had intended foraging for herself amitl the 
 Sussex woods, and it would l)e wickedly inconvenient 
 for her to leave Rodenham at present. 
 
 Hence the news of Richard's accident had jirovided 
 the astute old lady with an a<lmirable opportunity for 
 
 67
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 a reconciliation. She worked herself into quite a de- 
 lirium of distress over the tidings, questioned Solomon 
 Grimshaw in person, and soon wormed the truth from 
 him as to how Richard had come by a broken head. 
 The romance pleased Aunt Letitia prodigiously. She 
 gave Solomon a guinea, one of poor Sugg's ewe lambs, 
 and bade him carry back her affectionate greetings to 
 Squire Jeffray. She would have flown to him that very 
 moment, only it was pitch dark, and the roads in such 
 a state. "Gladden, Peter Gladden, have my coach — 
 my own coach, Gladden — round at the door by nine. 
 I must drive over and bring the poor boy home. God 
 grant. Gladden, that he is not dangerously hurt. You 
 must send one of the men over to Rookhurst to order 
 Surgeon Stott to call at the priory to-morrow." 
 
 Aunt Letitia had dismounted from the coach that 
 morning, and was hobbling up and down under the 
 shadow of the Beacon Rock, while her fat horses steamed 
 in the road. It was indeed an affecting sight to behold 
 this goddess of powder and patches strutting with all 
 the admirable anxiety of a "stage grandmother" on 
 nature's unartificial grass. The Lady Letitia was an 
 evening, rather than a morning, star, for her physical 
 frailties were unmasked by the sun. When Richard ap- 
 peared riding over the heath, the dowager's holy out- 
 burst of joy was an impressive sight to Peter Gladden 
 and the lackey behind the coach. The old lady act- 
 ually toddled forward to meet Richard, a ridiculous 
 little straw hat perched on her powdered head, her 
 ebony stick in one hand, a lace handkerchief in the 
 other. 
 
 "My dear Richard — my dear Richard — I am over- 
 come with thankfulness at seeing you so hearty." 
 
 Jeffray, dismounting, kissed the Lady Letitia's hand. 
 He was touched by his aunt's display of feeling, and it 
 was not in him to remember a wrong. 
 
 68
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I am not much the worse, aunt," he said, smiling, 
 "but for a bandaged head." 
 
 "It was such a shock to me last night, Richard," 
 quoth the lady, dabbing her eyes with her lace handker- 
 chief, "for I said to myself, Richard: 'perhaps the poor 
 lad is dangerously hurt, and I cannot get to him before 
 the morning.' And I remembered that we had quar- 
 relled the night before. Oh, my dear nephew, what a 
 solemn thing is life; death is always near to us, and how 
 inscrutable are the ways of the Almighty." 
 
 Richard, much moved by the old lady's emotion, 
 kissed her hand a second time with much unction. 
 
 "I am sure, Aunt Letitia," he said, simply, "I regret 
 the rude words I spoke to you that night. I lost my 
 temper, madam, and I ask your pardon. Dear Jilian 
 and I were reconciled yesterday. I am sure you were 
 mistaken in her, aunt. She has a noble nature, and 
 bears no malice." 
 
 The Lady Letitia sniffed, suppressed her inclination 
 towards cynicism, and answered her nephew with 
 gracious resignation. 
 
 "Let us say no more about it, dear Richard," she 
 said, "we are all mistaken at times, and not even the 
 oldest among us are infallible. I can forget the past in 
 thankfulness for your safe return ; you must try and 
 forgive your old aunt her whims." 
 
 Richard bowed and offered the Lady Letitia his arm. 
 
 "God forbid, Richard," she said, impressively, as they 
 walked back towards the coach, Jeffray's mare follow- 
 ing like a dog at his heels, "God forbid that an old 
 woman should trifle with the happiness of two young 
 hearts. I wish you all joy, my dear nephew. You 
 must tr\' and persuade Miss Hardacre to love me." 
 
 Richard was quite conquered by the old lady's tone 
 of tender resignation. Perhajjs Jilian had exaggerated 
 his aunt's asperities in tlic heat of her youthful self- 
 
 69
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 pity. Richard was a peace-loving being, and he was 
 glad that the quarrel promised to end in sunshine. 
 
 "I am sure Miss Hardacre bears no malice," he said. 
 
 The Lady Letitia's eyes flashed a curious look into 
 Richard's face. So the girl had chosen the saintly and 
 heroic part. Well, she had wit, and her dear nephew 
 was a delightful and amusing simpleton. Did he really 
 think that women ever forgave such insinuations as 
 she, the Lady Letitia, had flung at Miss Hardacre's 
 head ? At all events it would be possible for her to re- 
 main another month or two in comfort at Rodenham, 
 and it would be an interesting recreation to study the 
 lad's domestic ideals in the future. 
 
 "Miss Hardacre must be a very magnanimous young 
 lady," she said, with inward irony. 
 
 " Jilian has a generous heart, madam." 
 
 "Ah, Richard, the heart is everything in a woman." 
 
 "True, aunt, true." 
 
 "And you must tell me all about this romantic ad- 
 venture of yours in the woods. You are quite the 
 knight-errant, sir." 
 
 Richard blushed, and laughed good-humoredly. 
 
 "I will tell you about it to-night," he said. 
 
 Jeffray excused himself from joining the Lady Letitia 
 in her coach, asserting that he had a headache, and that 
 a brisk ride would clear his brain. He mounted his 
 mare, and followed the coach at a trot as it took the 
 southward road through Pevensel. 
 
 How strange and mobile are the moods of youth, 
 April-hued, covered with the gold and purple of sun- 
 light or of shadow! Richard Jeffray was almost wroth 
 with his own heart that day as he rode through the 
 woods and saw the great green downs cleave the dis- 
 tant blue. How was it that Miss JiHan's face seemed 
 less fair to him than it had yesterday ? How was it 
 that eyes of passionate blue outstarred those of sim- 
 
 70
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 pering gray ? How was it that a glowing face and 
 a fleece of coal-black hair rose more brilliantly before 
 him than did the cream and rose bloom of Miss Jilian's 
 countenance and her head of shimmering gold ? What 
 grievous flaw was there in the clear contour of his soul, 
 that sentiments, fragrant yesterday, should leak forth 
 in a night and melt into the air? Was he not the same 
 Richard Jcffray, and Jilian the same artless and for- 
 giving cousin ? What had this forest child 's face to do with 
 the romance ? Surely it was Black Dan's stick that had 
 knocked the sanity out of Richard's skull that he should 
 be possessed by such fickle and yet haunting thoughts. 
 
 A sturdy traveller was resting on the parapet of 
 Rodenham bridge as the Lady Letitia's coach swung 
 over towards the gates of the park. The stranger, 
 whose round red face topped a robust and somewhat 
 corpulent body, was dressed in a suit of rusty brown. 
 He wore a three-cocked -hat, rough shoes with dirty 
 buckles, and the tail of his wig plaited into a club. 
 What appeared to be a peddler's pack was strapped over 
 his broad shoulders, and on the parapet lay a thick oak 
 stick and a red cloth bundle. The man's keen and 
 humorous eyes had watched the Lady Letitia's coach 
 swing by with a cynical twinkle. 
 
 Richard had no sooner set his eyes on the man than 
 he reined in on the bridge, and was out of the saddle 
 with a flush on his boyish face. 
 
 "Wilson— Dick Wilson, by all the gods!" 
 
 The traveller had started uj) from the parapet, and 
 had held out a pair of red and sinewy hands to Richard. 
 
 "It is Dick Wilson, despite the gods," he said. 
 
 "You have honored Rodenham — at last." 
 
 " I tramped down from town with my pack on my 
 shoulders." 
 
 "To see the youngster whom you nursed through a 
 fever at Rome." 
 
 7'
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 They shook hands with great good-will, a sly smile 
 playing about the painter's rugged face. 
 
 "And do you mean to tell me, sir," he laughed, "that 
 you are not ashamed of such a vagabond ? Why, I have been 
 twice in peril of the stocks as I came through from town." 
 
 "Ashamed, Dick!" 
 
 The painter indulged in a ludicrous grimace, turned 
 up his brown coat to show the frayed lining thereof, re- 
 marked that he had a hole in his breeches, and at the 
 same time brandished his scarlet bundle. 
 
 "If your poUte pride can stand this, Richard Jef- 
 fray," he said, "then, sir, I will come inside." 
 
 Richard laughed, and put his hand on the painter's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Wilson," he said, "I think we have seen enough of 
 the world to know what polite trifles are worth." 
 
 "Egad, sir, then we must have outstripped humanity 
 in our philosophies." 
 
 There was no doubt as to Richard's sincerity. He 
 and Dick Wilson had spent months together in Italy, 
 and the lad had learned to admire the robust but often 
 cross-grained artist. 
 
 "How long can you stay, eh? Why not spend the 
 spring and summer with me ? I am alone save for an 
 aunt who goes to Tunbridge before long. We can find 
 you splendor enough in our Sussex woods and downs, 
 even to satisfy your mighty tastes." 
 
 Wilson appeared touched by the enthusiastic sin- 
 cerity of the lad's welcome. His round face beamed, 
 his eyes twinkled. 
 
 "I was half in doubt, Jeffray," he confessed, "whether 
 you would be pleased to see such a scarecrow. I have 
 already tasted something of the world's favor, sweet for 
 a week, sour for ten months. Deuce take me, sir, I am 
 glad of your welcome. It is bravely given, and I 
 thank you for it, Richard Jeffray." 
 
 72
 
 IX 
 
 THE two Richards walked through the ]iark tow- 
 ards the priory, Jeffray laughingly explaining how 
 he had come by a broken head, and pointing out the 
 many beauties of the place as they went. There were 
 the cedars his father had planted, already lusty and 
 handsome trees. Pine and beech woods spread ro- 
 mantic and mysterious gloom U])on the slopes. Here 
 were gnarled and dying oaks that still lived on, torn 
 and shattered, after the storms of centuries. There on 
 a green knoll stood the holy thorn that was said to have 
 sprung from the bones of some old saint, and had flow- 
 ered in popish days at Christmas. A myriad rushes 
 streaked the grass -land where mole -hills studded the 
 dew -silvered grass with brown. When they came in 
 sight of the old house lying in the hollow, lapped in the 
 purple gloom of the woods, its chimneys towering to 
 the blue, its fish-ponds glimmering in the sun, Wilson 
 stopped and laid a hand on JclTray's shoulder. 
 
 "By Heaven, this is s])lendi(l!" he said. "See the 
 purple, the green, Ihe l)]uc, the brave bronze! See the 
 silver showers of light on llic old trees! The toning of 
 the moss and lichen on those walls is enough to make 
 an im[)otent mortal weep!" 
 
 Jeflray's face kindled. He loved the old place, and 
 was glad to hear so blunt a critic as Richard Wilson 
 wax eloquent over the home of his fathers. 
 
 "You must stay with me, Dick," he said, warmly. 
 "Can you leave your jjortrait-painting in town?" 
 
 6 73
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I have given up the flattering of fools," quoth the 
 painter, almost with a snarl; "and in turn the fools are 
 giving me up. See here, Richard, this is how the gay 
 world treats its servant." 
 
 He turned up the tails of his shabby coat, and smiled 
 with a species of rueful bitterness. 
 
 "English gentlemen like to behold their own smug 
 faces, sir," he added, "better than waving woods and 
 smiling plains." 
 
 Before introducing Wilson to the Lady Letitia in the 
 afternoon, Richard delicately assisted the painter in 
 making his toilet, lending him a frilled shirt, and a 
 green waistcoat that was much too tight for him, and 
 providing him with a pair of Peter Gladden 's buckled 
 shoes. 
 
 "My aunt is something of a great lady, Dick," he 
 said, with an apologetic twinkle; "she loves to see a 
 man's buttons and cravat in order. I am always being 
 scolded for slovenliness and lack of distinction, so to 
 appease her taste I take more trouble with my dress." 
 
 The painter, who was worming his huge feet into the 
 butler's shoes, grimaced at Jeffray, and ran the pro- 
 fessional eye over the black-coated figure. 
 
 "You have not grown fatter, Richard," he said. "I 
 could still make an Apollo of you in the nude, as I did 
 that day when you bathed at Baise. What a graceful 
 trunk, sir! — what a hand and foot! Don't blush, lad, 
 your lines are splendid, so far as they go, though, on my 
 honor, you are reading too much, to judge by your 
 shoulders. I'll wager you have set the country nymphs 
 a-simpering, the dear Phoebes. Deuce take these shoes! 
 Is my wig on straight?" 
 
 "Perfectly," said Jeffray, with a smile, 
 
 Wilson expanded his chest, turned out his right foot 
 and knee, put his hand over his heart, and bowed. 
 
 "How's that, Richard?" he asked, gravely. 
 
 74
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Worthy of St. James's." 
 
 "My professional l)o\v, Richard. I detest it, sir — de- 
 test it! The money-^ettin^ tricks are not part of my 
 art. I leave them to Mr. Joshua, who could flatter the 
 moon into a trance, as his namesake did in Canaan, and 
 talk the sun into believing that his complexion was not 
 fiery. Now, sir, lead on." 
 
 Meanwhile, the Lady Letitia had heard strange and 
 distorted accounts of the person and profession of her 
 nephew's visitor. Peter Gladden had \inpacked Mr. 
 Wilson's knapsack and red bundle, and had discovered 
 besides canvas, brushes, and paints, a tooth-brush, a 
 few handkerchiefs, a razor, a soiled shirt, two night- 
 caps, a piece of flannel, and a prayer-book. It was all 
 over the house and into Aunt Letitia's ears in half an 
 hour that this eccentric person had borrowed Mr. Jcf- 
 fray's waistcoat and a pair of Peter Gladden's shoes. 
 The dowager's pride bristled, despite the saintly emo- 
 tions of the morning. A common painter fellow, a 
 mere vulgar artist, whose name she did not even know, 
 received as a guest at Rodenham Priory! What could 
 Richard be thinking of, by associating with such a low 
 and uncultured creature! Why, he would be for en- 
 tertaining next that awful author fellow, Mr. Johnson, 
 a man who spilled soup clown his waistcoat, sncczcil 
 over the table, and was so bold as to contradict a lady 
 ilatly. 
 
 Hence, the Lady Letitia's reception of Mr. Richard 
 Wilson in the parlor that afternoon, was not calcu- 
 lated to put that gentleman at his ease. The dow- 
 ager was polite, portentously and oppressively ])o]ite, 
 "to please poor Richard," as she would have phrased it. 
 Her eyes searched Mr. Wilson from wig to buckles, 
 starte<i at his wrinkled and complaining waistcoat, and 
 recognizcfl Peter Gladden's shoes. She deigned to lis- 
 ten to the painter's stumbling jjlatitudes about the 
 
 75
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 weather, and then discovered suddenly that she was 
 afflicted with deafness and a sick headache, and declared 
 that she would go and rest in her bedroom until dinner. 
 
 When the Lady Letitia had sailed out of the room, 
 Wilson stood and stared pathetically at Jeffray. 
 
 "There, sir," he exclaimed, with tragic emphasis, 
 "you see, my poor face always frightens them away, 
 and I fall over my own tongue as well as over my feet. 
 Nature did not breed me for a courtier, Jeffray. Damn 
 it, I can't flatter the fools in the gallant style. Beg 
 pardon, Richard, I was not referring to your august 
 and noble relative." 
 
 "Come and see the garden, Dick." 
 
 "Do you keep peacocks there, sir?" 
 
 "Peacocks, Dick! Why, peacocks?" 
 
 "A mere whim, sir — a mere whim," quoth the painter, 
 with a queer twist of the mouth. 
 
 A mysterious change had fallen upon the Lady 
 Letitia's temper by dinner-time, a change that betrayed 
 itself in her attitude towards Richard Wilson. She was 
 peculiarly gracious and urbane, and no one could be 
 more gracious than the Lady Letitia when she so chose. 
 The painter, astonished at his sudden acceptance into 
 favor, found himself talking to the dowager with an 
 ease and a fervor that made him fancy for the moment 
 that Jeffray's wine had got into his noddle. Aunt 
 Letitia beamed and sparkled, crowed and chuckled at 
 Dick's jokes, and seemed wholly to have abandoned the 
 air of hauteur that had repulsed Wilson in the after- 
 noon. Jeffray himself was thoroughly mystified as to 
 the miracle. He could only conclude that the dear old 
 lady had spoken the truth when she had complained of 
 a headache, and that it was not the painter's shabby 
 clothes or his rough and unfashionable face that had 
 shocked her aristocratic susceptibilities. 
 
 Aunt Letitia had been spending the afternoon gos- 
 
 76
 
 BE5S OF THE WOODS 
 
 sipin;^ with her maid, and that trusted servant had let 
 fall Mr. Richard Wilson's name into her mistress's 
 pensive ear. The four syllables had suddenly struck 
 some rusty note of by -gone scandal in the dowaj:;er's 
 brain. "Wilson! Wilson! Yes, to be sure, there used 
 to be a painter fellow in town of that name. She 
 had not heard him spoken of lately, though some of 
 the gentry had sat to him for their portraits years ago. 
 Wait! Could this be the Mr. Richard Wilson concern- 
 ing whom a merry tale had been spun one season in 
 the fashionable seats? Sir Peter Hardacre had had a 
 house in town seven years or so ago, before economy 
 had been forced like a bolus down the poor baronet's 
 throat." The Lady Letitia had knitted her brows over 
 these curious and interesting reminiscences. She had 
 determined to discover more about Mr. Richard Wilson 
 and his past that evening. Hence her amazing and 
 gracious affability to that honest but slovenly indi- 
 vidual, an affability that made Mr. Wilson expand his 
 chest, set his shabby wig straight, and imagine that 
 there was yet hope for him in the world of Mammon. 
 
 "You have been long abroad, sir, I believe?" said the 
 dowager, sweetly, after drawing the painter into a dis- 
 cussion on Italian art. 
 
 "Years, madam, years." 
 
 "You painted many clever portraits in town some 
 seasons ago." 
 
 Mr. Wilson bowed in his chair, and was flattered to 
 hear my lady had so kindly a memory. 
 
 "I was honored at one time, madam," he said, strok- 
 ing his broad chin, "by the presence of certain of the 
 beauties of the fashionable world in my studio. Yes, 
 madam, I painted Sir Toby Gilhooly and his lovely 
 daughters; Mr. Walsh, the poet; Admiral Timberbuck, 
 ancl many others, madam." 
 
 The Lady Letitia twinkled, and exhaled perfumes. 
 
 77
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Her nephew was engaged at the other end of the table 
 in a scholarly debate on Roman architecture with Dr. 
 Sugg. The lad had desisted from fathering Richard 
 Wilson, and was delighted to see that his aunt showed 
 the poor fellow so much favor. 
 
 "Did you ever paint Sir Peter Hardacre, Mr. Wil- 
 son?" asked the old lady, innocent as a paschal lamb. 
 
 The painter darted a look at her, flushed, and began 
 to fidget in his chair. 
 
 "Sir Peter Hardacre, madam?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I thought I remembered seeing the 
 picture — " 
 
 Richard Wilson adjusted his wig, and drank down a 
 glass of wine. 
 
 "I believe I did, madam — I believe I did," he said. 
 
 "Dear Sir Peter; he must have made such an aristo- 
 cratic study! I think I must really ask you to honor 
 me with a sitting, Mr. Wilson." 
 
 The painter blinked, and then bowed low across the 
 table. He appeared glad in measure to escape the sub- 
 ject, nor was his discomfort lost upon the Lady Letitia. 
 
 "I shall be proud, madam, proud," he said; "the 
 honor is on my side, madam. I shall be proud to paint 
 Richard Jeffray's grandmother — pardon me, madam — 
 aunt, I mean. Upon my word, madam, you look ex- 
 traordinarily young to have so old a nephew." 
 
 Aunt Letitia, not in the least disturbed by the paint- 
 er's slip, received his clumsy apologies and awkward 
 apings of flattery with infinite good humor. 
 
 "La, Mr. Wilson," she said, frankly, "I am an old 
 woman, and, thank God, I know it. I think it is a 
 pitiful sight, sir, to see an old woman frittering away 
 the solemn and awful years of age in folly, when she 
 should be preparing herself to meet her Maker." 
 
 "Upon my soul, madam," said the painter, much re- 
 lieved, "your wisdom is as admirable as — ahem — as — 
 
 78
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 as your distinguished and aristocratic person. Ahem. 
 I shall be proud, madam, to put my poor powers at 
 your service." 
 
 "What a blundering and honest fool it is," thought 
 the Lady Letitia. "Yes, it is the very fellow who 
 painted old Sir Peter, and made love to the daughter. 
 Or was it Miss Jilian who made love to him? Egad, 
 dear nephew, there is no need for your old aunt to play 
 the scandal-monger, if this good ass can be got to bray. 
 Mr. Wilson must be made welcome here, and the secret 
 coaxed out of his ugly mouth." And thus the Lady 
 Letitia continued to beam upon the painter with all the 
 waning sunshine of her November years. She made 
 him draw droll sketches for her in the parlor after din- 
 ner, laughed at his whimsies, promised to send her dear 
 friends Lady Boodle and Miss FitzNoodle to be painted 
 bv Wilson when he returned to town. When Peter 
 Gladden set the card-table in order, the dowager in- 
 sisted that Richard Wilson should be her partner, and 
 that Richard should challenge them with Dr. Sugg. 
 And though poor Dick managed his cards disgracefully, 
 trumped the Lady Letitia's tricks, bungled the returns 
 and lost her money, she continued to beam on him 
 with undiminished brightness, and to encourage the 
 good oaf with all the sweetness she could comj)el. 
 
 "Yes, Richard, mon cher," she said to her nephew, 
 as she bade him good-night, "my headache has left me; 
 I felt quite vaporish this afternoon. Your friend is a 
 dear creature, so droll and refreshing; not polished, of 
 course, but quite charming. I have fallen in love with 
 the dear bear, Richard. It is so delightful to talk to a 
 man of sense antl humor, even though he may smell — 
 faintly, of the soil." 
 
 Bess had wandered back from Beacon Rock through 
 her well-lovefl woofls that morning, thinking more of 
 
 79
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Richard Jeffray than was good for a woman's heart. 
 There was a charm about Bess that no mortal could 
 gainsay. She looked fit for carrying a milking -pail 
 over meadows golden with cowslips, for playing the 
 Miss Prue gathering rosemary and thyme in some red- 
 walled garden, or walking in brocade and lace amid the 
 close-clipped yews, statues, and terrace ways of some 
 stately manor. Despite her strength and her brilliant 
 vitality she was no hoyden, and even in her wild beauty 
 seemed to suggest the subtle delicacy of high birth. 
 Richard himself had been puzzled by her quaint stateli- 
 ness, such stateliness as a child might have inherited 
 from a noble mother and treasured unconsciously as 
 she grew to womanhood. 
 
 The thoughts uppermost in Bess's mind that morn- 
 ing dealt with the worldly gulf between Jeffray and 
 herself. The girl had been content hitherto with the 
 forest life, content to accept old Ursula as her foster- 
 mother and the rest of them as her kinsfolk. She had 
 grown up with Dan and David, and the forest children, 
 ignorant as they were of the great world beyond the 
 shadows of Pevensel. Yet beyond the forest life a dim 
 and forgotten past seemed to rise up in the blue dis- 
 tance of the mind. A few strange incidents, which she 
 had never been able to explain, still lived on like relics 
 of a vanished age. She had prattled of them to old 
 Ursula as a child, and had been laughed at and chided 
 for her pains. The old woman had always told her 
 that Rachel, her mother, Ursula's younger sister, had 
 run away from the hamlet before Bess was born, and 
 that when her mother had died — "down in the west" 
 — a peddler man had brought Bess back to the Grim- 
 shaws of Pevensel. Ursula had always shed a species 
 of reticent mystery over the past, and had waxed dour 
 if Bess had pressed her questions too boldly or too far. 
 
 The girl had been content these years to let these 
 
 80
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 vague memories glide away into oblivion. Now and 
 again they would rise up to haunt her with strange 
 vividness, frail ghostly images of other days. How was 
 it that she often saw a negro man with black, woolly 
 hair in her dreams, she who had never seen such a man 
 in Pevensel ? Then there was that memory of her fall- 
 ing and cutting her bare knee upon a stone, and of a 
 tall lady with bright eyes and a brooch with green 
 stones at her throat rvmning to catch her in her arms. 
 Vaguely, too, she believed that she had once been in a 
 great ship at sea. There were incidents that lived 
 more vividly than the rest in her mind ; one, the memory 
 of her standing at night on the deck of a ship with the 
 dark sails flapping above and rough men swearing and 
 quarrelling about her; she had seen blows given, heard 
 a wild cry and the plash of a body thrown over the bul- 
 warks into the sea. Then again she remembered being 
 taken in a boat by night to land ; the same rough men 
 were with her; she could still recall one who wore a 
 great pig-tail and had a black patch over one eye and a 
 cloven lip. They had come with her to the shore and 
 taken her into the woods, carrying bales that had 
 seemed wondrous heavy. Thence they had disappeared, 
 and the life in Pevensel had begun, its very beginnings 
 dim as the mysterious past. 
 
 These memories came back with strange vividness to 
 her mind that morning after her parting with JefFray 
 on the heath. For the first time in her life she found 
 herself wondering whether old Ursula had told her the 
 truth. Could she have dreamed these mind pictures 
 that still clung to her? Were these memories but the 
 dim and fantastic fancies of childhood, mere myths 
 begotten of a child's brain. She ];uzzled over them 
 earnestly as she walked through the woods that morn- 
 ing, and jjromised herself that she would tell them to 
 Richard Jctfray when they should meet again. 
 
 8i
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Old Ursula sat up after Bess had gone to bed that 
 night, huddled snugly in the ingle-nook with her black 
 cat at her side. The pewter glistened on the shelves 
 as the handful of sticks that the dame had thrown on 
 the sulky fire kindled and broke into busy flame. Bess 
 had been in bed half an hour or more, and was lying 
 with her black hair loose upon the pillow, thinking of 
 Richard Jeflray and her adventure with him. She had 
 primed the pistols from the powder-horn kept in the 
 kitchen-press, and had hidden them away in the cup- 
 board in her bedroom, meaning to carry one whenever 
 she went abroad in the woods. Bess had fallen asleep, 
 when old Ursula, dozing in the ingle-nook, was awakened 
 by a knocking at the cottage door. She started up, 
 hobbled across the kitchen, and let Isaac Grimshaw in. 
 
 The old man sat himself down on the settle before the 
 fire, drew out a short pipe and a tobacco-box, and began 
 to smoke. He looked at Ursula with his shrewd, cal- 
 culating eyes, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and 
 smiled. 
 
 "The wench is above, eh?" 
 
 "This hour or more." 
 
 "Dame, I have much to gossip over with ye about 
 our Bess. She is a dangerous wench and needs a mas- 
 ter. There'll be no peace with us, dame, till the girl 
 is stalled." 
 
 Isaac, kindling to his subject, began to talk to the 
 old woman, significantly, about betrothing the girl to 
 Dan without delay. He had much to put forward in 
 justification of the measure. Bess's beauty had be- 
 come an apple of discord in the hamlet; all the young 
 men wanted her, and Black Dan would put up with no 
 rival. Isaac spoke mysteriously of the need for good- 
 fellowship among the forest - folk ; there must be no 
 mating of Bess to a bachelor outside the hamlet; she 
 was one of them and with them she must remain. Old 
 
 82
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Ursula looked surly and displeased during the patriarcri's 
 harangue. The match was little to her liking, and she 
 distrusted Dan's ability to make marriage bearable to 
 such a woman as Bess. 
 
 "I may as well tell ye, Isaac," she said, sourly, "that 
 the wench does not care a brass button for your 
 Dan." 
 
 "Who does she fancy then, dame, eh?" 
 
 "I thought once she was for hking young David. 
 She is a powerful-tempered wench is Bess, and she don't 
 like being driven." 
 
 Isaac puffed at his pipe and frowned. 
 
 "Odd's my life," he said, "the wench must be taught 
 her place. My Dan's the first man in the forest, eh ? 
 What better lad does the wench look for? I'll wager 
 that we will soon persuade her." 
 
 "You be careful of Bess," quoth the old woman, 
 solemnly. 
 
 "Careful, dame! That's the very text I'm preaching 
 on. How much does the wench remember, eh ? Deuce 
 take me, sister, we have reared her here, and here she 
 must remain. And Dan will be breaking all the youths' 
 heads unless he has her, and have her he shall." 
 
 Isaac laid down his pipe and, leaning forward with 
 his hands spread to the fire, began to speak further to 
 the old woman in his grim and didactic way. There 
 was an expression of almost ferocious earnestness on 
 his thin and clever face, and it was difficult to believe 
 that an old man could be possessed of so much fire and 
 vigor. Isaac had ruled the hamlet these forty years; 
 his will had been law unto them all. Old Ursula's one 
 feeling was known to the patriarch well enough. He 
 played upon it tliat night as she sat in the ingle-nook 
 and listenefl. The dame kept a stockingful of guineas 
 hid under the floor in one of the upper rooms. She 
 would often go up secretly and play with the pretty 
 
 83
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 golden pieces, counting and recounting them, letting 
 them fall and jingle in her lap. 
 
 "A hundred gold guineas, dame," said Isaac at the 
 end of his persuading. "I'll bring them to you on the 
 betrothal day. Why, look you, the wench will be spry 
 and gay enough when she is mated. Unbroken fillies 
 are always wild." 
 
 Ursula nodded over the fire, stroked the black cat 
 refiectively, and watched Isaac's face with her greedy 
 eyes. 
 
 "You take your oath on it ?" she asked. 
 
 The patriarch grinned, and drew a leather pouch from 
 the tail-pocket of his coat. He jingled it and tossed it 
 into his sister's lap. 
 
 "There are twenty," he said, curtly; "keep them, 
 dame, as a proof of the bargain. I'll give you the rest 
 when the gold piece is broken."
 
 X 
 
 RICHARD JEFFRAY could not break from the 
 thoughts of Bess that had followed him from out 
 the green glooms of Pevensel. Why, because she had 
 a comely body and a comely face, should he be forever 
 recalling the flash of her red-stockinged ankles under 
 her short gown of green, the fine lifting of her handsome 
 head, the way she had of putting her right hand up to 
 her throat and of letting her eyes dwell with strange 
 intentness upon his face ? Jcfifray was honestly troubled 
 by these haunting thoughts, these visions of passion 
 that flashed on him out of his own heart. Despite his 
 romanticism he did not lack for character and discretion, 
 and pedagogic reason told him that such dreams were 
 neither obedient to philosophy nor to his loyalty to 
 Miss Hardacre. 
 
 The news of Jeff'ray's misadventure in the woods had 
 been duly carried to Hardacre house; nor was it long 
 before Mr. Lancelot and Miss Jilian rode over to inquire 
 after their dear cousin. Richard was idling in the gar- 
 den, planning color schemes for the summer, when he 
 heard the clatter of hoofs coming down the road through 
 the park. Richard recognized Mr. Lot in scarlet mount- 
 ed on a great, rawboned roan, and Miss Jilian beside 
 him in a green riding-habit, a black beaver on her auburn 
 hair, Richard crossed the terrace and went down the 
 steps to meet them. His head was still bandaged, a 
 fact that Mr. Lancelot remarked upon with his usual 
 blunt brevity.
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Egad, cousin," he said, with a laugh, "so the 
 forester broke your pate for you, deuce take his inso- 
 lence! Ha, Jill, how do you like our Richard in band- 
 ages? You should wear a mob-cap, cousin. How's the 
 dowager? Got over the mumps yet?" 
 
 Mr. Lot roared over his own facetiousness, while 
 Richard stood beside Miss Jilian's gray mare and 
 pressed the young lady's hand. 
 
 " I should have been at Hardacre before this," he 
 said, blushing, "but Surgeon Stott ordered me to bide 
 quiet." 
 
 There was a look of delicious anxiety in Miss Hard- 
 acre's eyes. 
 
 "Are you sure you ought to be up and about, Rich- 
 ard?" she asked. 
 
 "There is nothing much amiss with me," he answer- 
 ed, looking up at her shyly. "Won't you dismount 
 and come into the house. I will call Gladden and have 
 your horses taken." 
 
 Mr. Lot winked and inclined his head knowingly in 
 the direction of the house. 
 
 "Has she got her war-paint on, Richard?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Your revered relative. I am ready to make peace 
 though she did send me down to supper with the ugliest 
 girl this side of Lewes. It's uncommon hot to-day. 
 What do you say, Jill ? Shall we tumble in and have a 
 glass of wine and a chat with the old lady?" 
 
 Miss Hardacre simpered, blushed prettily, and 
 glanced at Richard. The lad read her inclination on 
 the instant, and helped her to dismount. She pressed 
 his hand kindly, her gray eyes holding his a moment 
 with a look that did not lack for eloquence. 
 
 "Hold there; what a deuced ass I am," quoth Mr. 
 Lot, who had rolled out of the saddle and was thump- 
 ing his manly chest. "Here's a certain precious docu- 
 
 86
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ment buttoned up in my breast-pocket. We are giving 
 a masked ball next week at Hardacre. Quite a gor- 
 geous afifair, and Sir Peter thought he'd send the dowa- 
 ger a state summons, just to show there is no ill-feeling. 
 Of course you'll come, cousin." 
 
 Mr. Lot drew a sealed letter from his pocket, and 
 handed it to Richard with a mock bow. 
 
 "Let old Gladden give it to her in state," he said, 
 with a wink; "it will make a better show on a silver 
 salver." 
 
 Richard was looking at Miss Jilian's pink face and at 
 her pretty figure sheathed in green. 
 
 "It is very magnanimous of Sir Peter," he said, 
 warmly, "to let by-gones be bygones. I am sure Aunt 
 Lctitia is sorry for what happened that evening. She 
 asked me, Jilian.to try and persuade you to forgive her." 
 
 Lancelot Hardacre chuckled. 
 
 "Dear old Mohawk." he said. 
 
 "Of course I will forgive her," quoth Miss Hardacre, 
 sweetly. 
 
 "That's the game. Jill. These women, Richard, are 
 moral prodigies. Deuce take me, Jill, you have the 
 temper of an angel. Don't I know it." 
 
 Miss Hardacre's gray eyes flashed a curious look at 
 her brother. 
 
 "Heavens, Lot," she said, "how you do chatter." 
 
 Jeffray had rung the stable-bell, and Peter Gladden 
 and a groom came out to take the horses. Richard 
 ordered the butler to bring cake and wine into the 
 dining-room, and to send the Lady Letitia's maid to 
 inform her mistress, who was taking her afternoon nap, 
 that Miss Hardacre was in the house. They went into 
 the porch together and through the hall into the wain- 
 scoted dining-room. Miss Jilian holding her riding-skirt 
 daintily in either hand, Mr. L(jt swinging his velvet cap 
 and whip and grinning affecti(jnately at Richard. 
 
 «7
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 The Lady Letitia appeared in due course, as gracious 
 as could be, decked out in a handsome sack, her hair 
 freshly powdered, her mittens on, and her fan swinging 
 at her wrist. She kissed Miss Hardacre on either 
 cheek, squeezed the young lady's hand, beamed at her 
 nephew, and was very affable to Mr. Lancelot. She 
 had received the invitation to Sir Peter's ball from Mr. 
 Gladden's salver, and expressed herself charmed at Sir 
 Peter's courtesy. After wine had been drunk and cake 
 crumbled, Richard proposed that they should walk out 
 into the garden. The dowager rang for her black 
 mantilla, requested Mr. Lancelot to honor her with his 
 arm, and led the way through the opening upon the 
 terrace. Jilian and Richard lingered behind the Lady 
 Letitia, Miss Hardacre very coy and ready to blush, 
 Richard feeling with some shame that pretty speeches 
 came less glibly from his tongue than they had done of 
 yore. 
 
 The sky was a rare blue above the green lawns, the 
 old red walls, and the silvery grass-land of the park. As 
 they walked the box-edged paths betwixt the stately 
 yews and hollies Miss Jilian began to rally Richard on 
 his adventure in the woods. "How gallant and ro- 
 mantic it was, to be sure! Do you think, Richard, 
 that you would have rescued me from some wicked 
 ruffian had your poor cousin been at his inercy?" 
 
 Jeffray was convincing in his chivalrous protesta- 
 tions. 
 
 "Why, Jilian, can you doubt it?" 
 
 "And you would have fought for me, Richard?" 
 queried the young lady, with charming wonder. 
 
 "Fight for you, Jilian? Why I would defend you 
 with my life." 
 
 "La, Richard," she exclaimed, blushing, "how brave 
 you are! Tell me, was the girl pretty?" 
 
 "Pretty, Jilian?" 
 
 88
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Now, Richard, I am sure she was pretty." 
 
 "Perhaps she was," said Richard, with studied care- 
 lessness. " 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." 
 
 Jeff ray, 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 deli- 
 cate flattery but declare Miss Hardacre to be the 
 kindest anfl 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 dis]>lay of afTi^ction. She flashed 
 shy and melting glances into Mr. Richard's face, blushed 
 dearly when he spoke to her, and was as gentle and as 
 
 ' 8q
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 drift- 
 ing 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 con- 
 fess 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 dow- 
 ager 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 
 
 90
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 father's 'rout,' Mr. Hardacrc. 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 Hard- 
 acre." 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. Hard- 
 acre, 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 
 
 9'
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 ques- 
 tioning 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 pis- 
 tols from the cupboard, and hidden them in the hole 
 under the floor where she kept her guineas. The same 
 
 92
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 set- 
 tle, 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 sheep- 
 ish 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 u\) 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. 
 
 9.3
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "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 sul- 
 len 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 wav- 
 ering betwixt greed and love for Bess, her foster-child. 
 
 Isaac gave his son a sudden, fierce glance and a whis- 
 pered 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. 
 
 94
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "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 sin- 
 cerity 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 enthu- 
 siasm, 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 be- 
 come even more enamoured of honest Dick, confessing 
 to Richard that she had but rarely met a man pos- 
 sessed 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 
 
 96
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 classi- 
 calism 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 cpi- 
 grammatical pedantry, and walled in by a versification 
 cold as it was ugly. 
 
 The Lady Letitia had instructed her nephew to per- 
 suade Wilson to go with them to the masked ball at 
 Hardacre, and though Jeffray acknowledged the wis- 
 dom 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 go.ssip with the dowagers. 1 
 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 disa[)pointed, sir, if you do not go." 
 
 "Disappointed, eh?" 
 
 "Certainly, Dick; she has taken a great fancy to you." 
 
 " We arc to wear masks, ch ?" 
 
 97
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "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 disconcert- 
 ed, 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 in- 
 censed 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 hap- 
 pens 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 re- 
 gretted 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." 
 
 98
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 experienceof the world ?" 
 
 "Ample, madam, ample." 
 
 "And there should be one very gofxl 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 (jld woman, and put your most 
 delightful tongue at her service." 
 
 99
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Thus, thanks to the Lady Letitia's diplomacy, Rich- 
 ard 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 pro- 
 vided 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 de- 
 scend 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 dis- 
 tinction, 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 stilted ness 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 poHshed 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 
 vioHns, 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 mask- 
 ed, were ushered in unannounced by the major-domo. 
 
 And what a quaint and stately sight it was, the great 
 hall with its mediaeval atmosphere filled with color, 
 
 ICO
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 perfume and charming affectation. There were pom- 
 pous and powdered dames, tinted Uke deUcate china and 
 exhahng odors of ambergris and of musk. There were 
 gentlemen in gorgeous coats and waistcoats, sHm swords 
 dangUng 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 ven,'' quaint and beau- 
 tiful, 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 Hard acre'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 
 tapper] Richard's shoulder with her fan. 
 
 "Are you sure it is Jilian?" she asked, willi 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." 
 
 lOI
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "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 dow- 
 ager 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 Wil- 
 son 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 unpre- 
 sented as yet to Sir Peter and his children. The painter 
 was well content with his obscurity, and beyond in- 
 dulging in an occasional mild chat with some old lady 
 who had been relegated to the wall, Wilson amused him- 
 
 I02
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 self with listening to the music, and meditating on the 
 picturesque hypocrisies of hfe. 
 
 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 innu- 
 merable squirelings and country Tabithas. Come, has 
 mv 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 vouth, 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." 
 
 Miss Jilian was sitting on one of the benches in the 
 
 »03
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 great oriel that bayed out from the right of the raised 
 dais. The perpendicular window itself was filled with 
 white glass, banded across the centre with the arms of 
 the Hardacres, gules, a clarion argent, and the shields 
 of certain families with whom they had been connected 
 by marriage. Miss Hardacre, who had unmasked, was 
 talking to one of Squire Pierpoint's daughters when the 
 Lady Letitia came strutting across the hall on Mr. 
 Richard Wilson's arm. The painter looked red and 
 overheated, nor was his composure under the eyes of 
 the assemblage bettered by his nearly tripping over his 
 sword. Jilian had not noticed the dowager's approach, 
 so absorbed was she in confiding to Miss Dorothy Pier- 
 point some very feminine secrets concerning Richard 
 Jeffray. There was a smile of beautiful amiability on 
 the Lady Letitia's face as she bore down like destiny 
 upon the unconscious maiden. 
 
 "My dear Miss Hardacre—" 
 
 JiHan's gray eyes flashed up to find the old lady 
 standing before her with a fat man in a blue coat at her 
 
 side. 
 
 " Permit me, my dear, to present to you my nephew's 
 friend, Mr. Richard Wilson, the distinguished portrait- 
 painter." 
 
 Poor Dick proceeded to make his most professional 
 and graceful bow. Miss Hardacre, who had gone very 
 white under her delicate rouging, sat staring at the 
 painter's face as though it were possessed of the grim 
 magic of the Medusa's. 
 
 "Richard Wilson!" 
 
 Miss Hardacre stammered out the words, striving 
 with all her might and main to smile. 
 
 "Surely you remember me, madam?" quoth Mr. 
 Dick, clumsily, looking about as great a fool as a man 
 could look in such a predicament. 
 
 The Lady Letitia was beaming upon the pair with a 
 
 104
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 mischievous twinkle in her wicked old eyes. She knew 
 that her nephew was watchinj; them from the other side 
 of the hall. But even the dowa.i^er was not prepared 
 for the distressing and regrettable scene that was to 
 follow. Miss Hardacre, instead of giving her hand to 
 the painter, shrank back with a shrill scream, and pro- 
 ceeded to faint in the proper pathetic fashion, lying 
 limp and pale in Miss Dorothy Pierpoint's arms. Poor 
 Wilson stood like an emblem of confusion, nodding 
 his heavy head, and staring first at the unconscious 
 Jilian and then at the Lady Letitia. There was much 
 stir and bustle at the upper end of the hall. Old 
 ladies began to crowd in sympathetic curiosity tow- 
 ards the oriel, with bobbing feathers and inquisitive 
 noses. 
 
 "Poor dear Miss Hardacre has fainted." 
 
 " Dear, dear, the room is uncommonly hot to be sure." 
 
 "Will some one give her my smelling-salts?" 
 
 " Dear me, sir" — this from a thin dame to Mr. Wilson, 
 who was pushing through the press — "do you know 
 that you are trampling on my gown?" 
 
 The painter had been edging out of the oriel, con- 
 ceiving that he could best mend the mischief he had 
 done by taking his departure. There must have been 
 some blundering somewhere; either the Lady Letitia 
 had been mistaken in her knowledge of the world, or 
 he had been mistaken in the Lady Letitia. Looking 
 very red and foolish, he was shambling towards the 
 door when footsteps came rattling after liini and a 
 hand gripped the collar of the j)aintcr's coat. 
 
 Wilson, twisting round, saw Mr. Lot llardacre's furi- 
 ous re<l face staring into his. 
 
 "Richard Wilson, by Heaven!" 
 
 "Leave go of my collar, sir." 
 
 "Deuce take me!" 
 
 "1 came as Richard JefTray's friend, sir." 
 
 * 105
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Curse you, sir, how dared you show your black- 
 guardly face before my sister!" 
 
 Wilson shook himself free from Lot's hold. He was 
 no angel in the matter of temper, and his patience was 
 giving way under the strain. 
 
 "Don't swear at me, sir," he said. "If I have been 
 made a fool of I am not going to be kicked for it." 
 
 Mr. Lot fired out a number of oaths, and struck Wil- 
 son across the face with the back of his open hand. 
 
 "Go, curse you," he roared, "or I will have you 
 pitched out by the grooms." 
 
 Several of Mr. Lot's bullies had crowded round, 
 ready to uphold their Achilles in the broil. Dick Wil- 
 son, with his red face ablaze and his fists cUnched, had 
 fallen back against the wall, and was glaring at Lot 
 Hardacre as though tempted to blood his nose for him 
 then and there. The whole hall was in commotion, 
 many of the guests having turned from the fainting 
 Jilian to watch the quarrel between Mr. Lot and the 
 man in the blue coat. The musicians had stopped 
 playing, and were leaning over the balustrading of the 
 gallery. Sir Peter himself was waddling from the sup- 
 per-room when Jeffray pushed through the ring of gen- 
 tlemen about Dick Wilson, and confronted his cousin 
 with flushed face and angry eyes. 
 
 "You have struck my guest. Lot," he said, with his 
 hand on his sword. 
 
 Mr. Hardacre swore like a coal-heaver. 
 
 "Damnation, cousin, you have insulted us by bring- 
 ing the fellow here." 
 
 "Insulted you, sir?" 
 
 "And my sister, sir. Deuce take me, Richard Jef- 
 fray, if you weren't my cousin I'd have you and this 
 fellow ducked in the horse-trough. Deuce take me, I 
 would." 
 
 There was an enthusiastic murmur of approval from 
 
 io6
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Mr. Lancelot's friends. Jeffray, utterly mystified, yet 
 thoroughly angered none the less, looked as though 
 ready to take his cousin at his word. Wilson, who 
 had recovered some of his equanimity, stepped forward 
 suddenly and laid his great hand on the lad's shoulder. 
 
 "Richard Jeffray," he said, with a fierce glance at 
 Lot, "let there be no blood-spilling on my account. It 
 is my fault, sir, and this gentleman, your cousin, is 
 justified in construing mv presence here into an in- 
 sult." 
 
 Mr. Lot laughed contemptuously. 
 
 "Lick the dirt, my bully," he said, "but I must have 
 a word with Cousin Richard." 
 
 Wilson interposed between the two, keeping his eyes 
 fixed fiercely on Mr. Hardacre's face. 
 
 "Your kinsman is as innocent as a child, sir," he 
 said; "the blame is mine. I offer you my apologies 
 for causing such a scene. You can find me at Roden- 
 ham if you think fit." 
 
 Wilson, looking quite the fine gentleman for once, 
 bowed to Mr. Lancelot, and, elbowing the grinning 
 toadies aside, strode towards the door with his shoulders 
 squared. Richard, still hopelessly befogged, stared at 
 his cousin, and then followed the painter. The Lady 
 Letitia was sailing down the room, the light of battle 
 in her eyes. She called her nephew to her and com- 
 manded him to give her his arm. 
 
 "It is time that we followed Mr. Wilson," she said, 
 with a fierce glare at Mr. Lot. "I have no wish to stay 
 longer in this house to be insulted." 
 
 Lot followed the dowager and Richard towards the 
 door. 
 
 "You'll hear from me, cousin," he said. 
 
 "I am at your service, sir," quoth Richard. 
 
 Lot, his red face still aflame, turned hack t(j meet 
 his father. The baronet was taking snufT with great 
 
 107
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 asperity. He glared at his son, and spoke to him in 
 an angry whisper. 
 
 " What devil's mess have you been brewing here, sir ?" 
 
 Mr. Lancelot's blue eyes flashed. 
 
 "Dick Wilson, the painter fellow, was here," he said. 
 
 "Dick Wilson!" 
 
 "That old beldam brought him with her from Roden- 
 ham. Jill fainted when she saw the fellow. Damme, 
 sir, I will have it out with Cousin Richard. I can't 
 fight the old she-dog or the oilman, but I can fight 
 Richard." 
 
 Sir Peter whistled softly, puffing out his fat, red 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Good Lord, Lot," he said, "here's a pretty ending 
 to our party. Damn the old woman. Egad, you'd 
 better get Jilian to bed." 
 
 "And to-morrow," quoth Mr. Lot, savagely, "I will 
 talk with Cousin Richard."
 
 XII 
 
 A\ almost sanctified silence descended upon the in- 
 ^ terior of the Rodenham coach as the cumbrous car- 
 riage lumbered and creaked homeward over the heath 
 that night. It was as though the three inmates trav- 
 elled half in awe of one another, and were afraid to 
 grapple with the mystery of the situation. The Lady 
 Lctitia sat stiffly in her corner, a statuesque and re- 
 pellent figure in the dusk, while Richard Wilson, feel- 
 ing very miserable and foolish, remained bolt upright, 
 his knees and toes together, his round face still glisten- 
 ing with sweat. JefTray lay back against the cushions, 
 staring at the painter with obfuscated curiosity, and 
 trying to explain to himself Miss Hardacrc's fainting 
 fit and Cousin Lot's savage attack on Wilson in the 
 hall. 
 
 First a few irrevelant remarks passed between the 
 three as the coach rolled on under the stars through 
 the desolate wastes of Pevensel. The road was heavy, 
 and the horses tugged and strained at the traces, the 
 coach rolling on its high springs. They could hear the 
 man-servant's toes knocking against the panelling as 
 he sat perched on the back seat and clung to the rail 
 as the wheels plunged and bumped into the ruts. 
 
 Richard appeared to rouse himself of a sudden. He 
 turneti to his aunt and frankly desired her to translate 
 to him the meaning of the strange scene he had witnessed 
 at Hardacre. The Lady Letitia appeared deaf for a 
 moment amid the jangling of the harness and the labor- 
 
 109
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ing of the wheels. When she was compelled at last to 
 understand the nature of her nephew's question, she 
 shrugged her shoulders and wrapped her shawl closer 
 about her neck. 
 
 "Don't ask me, Richard," she said; "you had better 
 request Mr. Wilson to give you an explanation before 
 you go to bed." 
 
 The painter groaned in spirit and looked pathetically 
 at the old lady. 
 
 "I am sure, madam," he said, humbly, "it would 
 have been better if I had not taken your advice." 
 
 "Advice! More mysterious," quoth JefEray, losing 
 patience. 
 
 The Lady Letitia rustled her silks in the corner; her 
 eyes were fixed upon Wilson's face, a lugubrious patch of 
 white in the gloom of the coach. 
 
 "Sir," she said, "I am beginning to think that you 
 have not been quite frank with me. There must have 
 been more in the affair than you have confessed. I 
 never saw a wench so flustered in my life." 
 
 Wilson shrugged his shoulders in despair. 
 
 " I will endeavor to explain the matter to Mr. Jeffray," 
 he said, ruefully; "to be sure I have made a deuced fine 
 fool of myself, and shamed my own friend's hospitality. 
 You will do me justice, madam, by remembering that 
 I had no liking to attend this ball." 
 
 "Mr. Wilson," quoth the dowager, frigidly, "it is 
 clear that I never knew the true state of the case." 
 
 "Perhaps not, madam; perhaps not." 
 
 Meanwhile Richard laid his hand on the painter's 
 knee. 
 
 "Don't vex yourself, Dick," he said, beginning to 
 suspect the Lady Letitia's diplomacies, "we will talk 
 it over together when we get home." 
 
 When the coach drew up before the priory, Richard 
 gave his aunt his arm up the steps into the hall. Very 
 
 no
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 much upon her di^mity, she gave Mr. Wilson and her 
 nephew a very stately courtesy, and swept away up the 
 great staircase to her chamber. The atmosphere seemed 
 to lighten somewhat on the dowager's departure. 
 Richard ordered Gladden to light the candles in the 
 library where a fire was still burning, and to bring up 
 a bottle of port from the cellar. He laid his hand on 
 Wilson's shoulder, who was pacing restlessly up and 
 down the hall, his sword clapping to and fro against his 
 muscular calves. They went into the library together, 
 took pipes and the Virginia-box from the cupboard be- 
 side the chimney, and settled themselves before the fire. 
 Peter Gladden came in with an uncorked bottle and 
 glasses upon a tray. Wilson rose up, unbuckled his 
 sword with a prodigious sigh, drank down a bumper, 
 and waited till the butler had closed the door. 
 
 "Richard Jeflfray," he said, with more vivacity, as 
 though eager to unburden his soul now that they were 
 alone, "I can't tell you, sir, what a sorry fool I feel 
 after this night's business." 
 
 Jeflfray, who had never grasped the full significance 
 of the scene in the great hall at Hardacrc, smiled at the 
 painter as he filled his pipe. 
 
 "I am in an utter fog, Dick," he said; "what made 
 Miss Jilian faint, and what the devil were you and Lot 
 quarrelling about as though there had been some old 
 feud between you. You painted Sir Peter's portrait 
 once, eh ?" 
 
 "Paint it, sir? I should think I did paint it," quoth 
 Wilson, savagely; "and had I not been an unplucked 
 fool 1 should never have gone to that ball to-night. A 
 pretty stew I've brewed for you, Richard. It was all 
 that old woman's doing. Damme, sir, why did I listen 
 to her palaver!" 
 
 The painter's red face was a study in shame, wrath, 
 and irritable contrition. His pij)e spluttered as though 
 
 1 1 1
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 to be in sympathy with its master's temper. Jeffray, 
 still mystified, could not help a smile at Wilson's distress. 
 
 "What made Miss Hardacre faint, Dick?" he asked, 
 in all innocence. 
 
 "What made her faint, sir!" 
 
 "To be sure." 
 
 "My accursed face, Richard Jeffray. I was mad 
 enough to think of marrying her ten years ago." 
 
 Jeffray, who was in the act of lighting his pipe, 
 dropped the lighted spill upon the floor and sat star- 
 ing open-mouthed at Wilson. 
 
 "What!" he said. 
 
 "You may well look blank, sir. It is how Dick Wil- 
 son is feeling. Upon my soul, lad, I think Lot Hard- 
 acre did well when he slapped my silly face." 
 
 Jeffray, who had recovered himself, put his foot upon 
 the burning spill, took another from the pot, held it 
 over the fire, and lit his pipe. He pufTed steadily for 
 some moments, lying back in his chair with a peculiar 
 calmness upon his face, and then turned again to Wilson. 
 
 "Tell me all about it, Dick," he said. 
 
 "Shall I?" 
 
 "It is better that I should know." 
 
 Wilson settled himself irritably in his chair and 
 stared at the fire. 
 
 "Ten years ago," he said, "when I was a better-look- 
 ing fellow than I am now, and when I was making 
 money with my portraits, I painted Sir Peter Hardacre 
 and his daughter. They had a house in town, sir, then, 
 and Miss Jilian was as pretty a young lady as ever 
 charmed the beaux of St. James's. Well, sir, I fell in 
 love with the girl while I was painting her, and a mighty 
 long time I took over that picture, and a mighty fine 
 portrait I thought it. ' Did not Hogarth marry old Sir 
 James Thornhill's daughter,' said I, 'and why should I 
 not win this goddess myself?' She bribed her maid, 
 
 112
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 sir, and used to come to my studio to sec me pnint. I 
 don't think it was quite honorable of me, Richard Jef- 
 fray, I know now that it was not wise. Well, some old 
 hag who had a grudge against Sir Peter got hold of our 
 secret, and put it about town that there was an intrigue 
 between us. Egad, sir, what an infernal pother there 
 was! Sir Peter sent his own son and some young 
 bullies to bludgeon me in my own studio. I still have 
 the mark of one of their sticks on my asinine pate. It 
 was a bad business, Richard, though we were both of 
 us innocent as lambs." 
 
 Jeffray sat and watched the painter's face. He had 
 never hinted to Wilson that he himself was on the 
 verge of a betrothal with this very Miss Hardacre, nor 
 had the Lady Letitia dropped a syllable upon the sub- 
 ject. The revelation had come as something of a shock 
 to Jeflfray's sensitive nature. He began to suspect that 
 certain of his aunt's scandals might be true, and that 
 the sweet Jilian had lost much of the bloom of her un- 
 kissed maidenhood. Wilson professed to deal with a 
 romance that had blossomed ten years ago, and Jeflfray 
 seemed to see of a sudden a whole ghastly array of sub- 
 sequent gallants rising before him to impeach Miss 
 Hardacre's unsojjhisticated soul. 
 
 "I am sorry, Dick," he said, "that we persuaded you 
 to go to Hanlacre. If you had warned me — this might 
 have been prevented." 
 
 Wilson sat with his chin upon his chest, smoking 
 vigorously, and staring at the fire. 
 
 "True, very true, sir," he said, patiently. I am 
 afraid I have been misled by your aunt, sir, who pro- 
 fesscfl to know all about the romance. She swore to me, 
 Richard, that it was an affair of the past, and that no 
 people of fashion ever distressed themselves about such 
 things. Why, Richard, she even told me that the Tlanl- 
 acres were ready t(j welccjine me as a friend of yours."
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jeffray sat up suddenly in his chair, his pale face 
 flushing as the truth appeared. 
 
 "Miss Hardacre never knew your name, Dick," he 
 persisted. 
 
 "Deuce take me, sir, she must have known it. Your 
 revered relative herself assured me that there was no 
 reason why I should not present myself at Hardacre." 
 
 "Aunt Letitia told you that?" 
 
 "Why, at the rout to-night, sir, she came to tell me 
 that Miss Hardacre had been inquiring for me. She 
 made me unmask, sir, marched me up to the girl, 
 shouted out my name, after that — came the deluge." 
 
 Richard twisted in his chair and swore. He under- 
 stood now how the affair had come about. It had been 
 a carefully spun plot upon the part of the Lady Letitia, 
 and poor Wilson had been duped into lending himself 
 to her plans. Richard realized that the dowager's ex- 
 cessive graciousness towards the painter had been 
 nothing but diplomatic cunning to lure Dick into the 
 toils. 
 
 "I understand it all now, Dick," he said, rising, and 
 helping himself to another glass of wine. 
 
 "That's more than I can say, sir." 
 
 Jeffray drew himself up as though to surrender the 
 unpleasant truth. 
 
 "We have both of us been fooled by my august rela- 
 tive," he said. "I must confess to you, Dick, that I 
 have been courting Miss Jilian Hardacre, and that the 
 Lady Letitia is prejudiced against the girl. She has 
 tried before to embroil me with the Hardacres. She 
 persuaded you to go to the ball, Dick, in order to 
 create a scene and prevent my becoming betrothed to 
 the lady." 
 
 Dick Wilson's face expressed astonished and inde- 
 scribable distress. He put his pipe aside, rose up 
 stammering and blushing, blundered across to where 
 
 114
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jcffray was standing, and looked at him as though 
 ready to weep. 
 
 "God bless my soul, Richard," he said, "I would 
 rather have lost my right hand than that this should 
 have happened." 
 
 "It was no fault of yours, Dick." 
 
 "Good Heavens, sir, how can I express my shame and 
 regret! I wish my ugly carcass had never come within 
 ten miles of this place. I am overwhelmed, sir, over- 
 whelmed. I must leave your house at once." 
 
 Jeflfray smiled and laid his hand on the painter's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "It was my aunt's fault, Dick," he said, simply, "and 
 we have both been made to dance like a couple of dolls. 
 As for your leaving Rodenham, I shall not hear of it." 
 
 Wilson, still thoroughly ashamed, gripped Jeff ray's 
 hand, and then turned away to blow his nose. 
 
 "No, no, sir," he said, " I have made an infernal mess 
 of your affairs, and I cannot eat your food another day. 
 Egad, though, I was forgetting that Mr. Hardacre may 
 desire to justify his sister's honor." 
 
 "That is my business, Dick." 
 
 " And do you think, sir, that Richard Wilson will run 
 away ? No, no. I tell you I will go down and take a 
 room at the inn, and if Mr. Hardacre wants me he will 
 find me there. I am ready to make him and his sister 
 a hanrlsome apology, Richard, for he is in the right and 
 I am in the wrong. If he will not take my apology, 
 sir, then he must put a bullet into me to satisfy his 
 sister's honor. It was my fault, Richard, for being 
 such a damned egregious fool. Perhaps I can mend 
 the quarrel for you, and I am not going to shirk the 
 responsibility." 
 
 Jeffray could make no impre.ssion upon the painter, 
 who was as stubborn as any Sussex boor in his de- 
 termination to quit the house.
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Well, Dick," he said, as he lighted the painter to 
 his room, "you can go down to the Wheat Sheaf to- 
 morrow and put up there till the quarrel blows over." 
 
 Wilson shook his head as he stood to say good-night 
 to Jeffray on the landing. 
 
 "No, sir," he said, "the quarrel has been of my 
 making, and even if the lady forgives you for being my 
 friend, it would not please her to know that I was still 
 at Rodenham." 
 
 " Eut we are not betrothed yet," Jeffray argued. 
 
 "If you love her, sir, I presume this idl? affair will 
 make no change in your affection. There was nothing 
 to shame her so far as I was concerned, and to be sure 
 she is a little old for you, but then — " 
 
 Wilson hesitated suddenly, screwed up his eyes, and 
 looked at the lad with critical curiosity. It had not 
 occurred to him before that there was some disparity 
 between their years. He had been so immersed also in 
 Miss Hardacre's past that he had not given much 
 thought to the present. 
 
 "I suppose you like her, lad, eh?" 
 
 "She has been very kind to me, Dick." 
 
 "So." 
 
 "I mean to act like a man of honor." 
 
 "One thing is certain, sir, that Dick Wilson is better 
 out of the way. Good-night, Richard, you have been 
 very kind to me, and I thank you. Egad, sir, I shall 
 never forgive myself for having served you thus." 
 
 "We are still friends, Dick." 
 
 "Yes, sir, till you are married to Miss Hardacre. 
 Well, it's a queer world. Good -night, lad, good- 
 night." 
 
 The Lady Letitia kept her bed next day, but sent 
 down a sealed note to her nephew in which she ex- 
 pressed herself as being greatly distressed by what had 
 passed the previous night. She advised Richard "to 
 
 ii6
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 persuade that unfortunate creature Wilson to take his 
 departure with all despatch." The dowager threw out 
 many broad hints reflecting upon the sincerity of the 
 painter's statements, and suggested to Richard that 
 Miss Hardacre must have compromised herself with 
 the man many years ago. Jeflfray threw the letter in 
 the fire. He was beginning to discover how much 
 veracity there was in Aunt Letitia's world-wise soul. 
 
 Richard ordered Peter Gladden to go down in person 
 and engage a room for Wilson at the Wheat Sheaf. 
 Wilson's pack and red bundle were carried down to the 
 inn by a very scornful and unobsequious servant who 
 believed that no real gentleman would travel with such 
 luggage, and who also doubted the likelihood of such a 
 "shabby creature" being able to distribute decent 
 largesse. Richard and the painter breakfasted to- 
 gether, smoked their pipes in the library afterwards, 
 and discussed the dilenmia once again. It appeared to 
 Wilson that the young Squire of Rodenham was not 
 madly enamoured of Miss Jilian Hardacre. "She had 
 been very kind to him, yes. He thought her a sweet 
 woman, despite his aunt's scandalous innuendoes. Cer- 
 tainly he had paid his cousin a great deal of attention, 
 and he would act honorably by her like an English gen- 
 tleman." Wilson screwed his face up a little over the 
 lad's chivalrous sentiments. He did not venture to 
 meddle with so delicate a question, however, having 
 had sufficient excitement to satisfy him for months. 
 
 Jeffray walked with Wilson through the park to 
 Rwlcnham village, the painter dressed again in his 
 cocked hat, rusty brown suit and club-tailed wig. The 
 day was Shrove-Tuesday, as JefTray would have dis- 
 covered earlier had he invaded his own kitchen and 
 found the grooms and wenches tossing pancakes. 
 Rodenham village itself was in a holiday temper, the 
 boors turning out in clean smocks, the girls and women 
 
 117
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 tricked out in their best gowns, with ribbon in their 
 hair and new scarlet stockings showing under their 
 short petticoats. Even the brats had had their faces 
 poHshed and been blessed with clean pinafores. The 
 benches in front of the Wheat Sheaf were ladened with 
 farmers who had come in to drink George Gogg's beer 
 and watch the "cock-throwing." Old Sam Sturtevant, 
 the cobbler, had been training a couple of cocks since 
 Christmas, and the birds were as nimble and spry at 
 the game as could be. Sam was engaged with a crowd 
 of hinds in pegging out one of his birds upon the green, 
 and in kicking a line in the turf to show where the 
 thrower should stand, when Jeffray and the painter 
 passed the church and came down the road leading to 
 the village with its wood and plaster fronts, its thatched 
 roofs and sour and ragged gardens. 
 
 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 dis- 
 tant from the crowd of hinds and slatterns, Sam Stur- 
 tevant, 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 ccck recovered himself, however, before 
 the fellow could reach him, and the stick-throwing re- 
 commenced 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 
 
 tt8
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 wav. Rich- 
 ard 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. Jcffray 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 an- 
 other, 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 puslicd through the crowd, laid his 
 hand on Jeftray'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." 
 
 "Kgad, sir. if you begin reforming the British nation 
 you will be ducked like Wc-slry in the horse-pond." 
 
 lUj
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jeffray, feeling himself humiliated before the grin- 
 ning and contemptuous faces of the men, turned and 
 walked away with Wilson towards the inn. An out- 
 burst 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 gossip- 
 ing 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 serviHty. 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 fel- 
 low's face before. It was Dan Grimshaw, of Pevensel. 
 As for a contrast Bess's face flashed up before him, its 
 lips Hke a thread of scarlet, its black hair streaming 
 above the fierce blue eves.
 
 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 suc- 
 cumbed to the heat. A few words passed between 
 brother and sister before the musicians struck up in 
 the gallen,-, and Mr. Lancelot led out his sister to a 
 country-dance. Though Sir Peter busied himself os- 
 tentatiously 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 
 bobV)ing of plumes, much wise gossip. Several reasons 
 were spread abroad to account for the affair and the 
 sudden departure of the party for Rodcnham. Miss 
 Jilian, however, rose bravely superior to the [)a?t, 
 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 afflitted with the vapors. Sin; kept her 
 bed, would not so much as suffer her maid to draw her 
 curtains, and left untouched the chocolate the sympa- 
 thetic handmaid pressed upon her. Her one command 
 
 • 121
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 break- 
 fast 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, look- 
 ing 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 vest- 
 ments 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 snivelhng." 
 
 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 arc brutal!" came the choking 
 reproof from the pillow. 
 
 122
 
 BE3S OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Drat it, lass, what are you blubbering for? There's 
 no great harm done, eh ? Lot will see to tlie 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 explana- 
 tion." 
 
 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 Petier swore, and fumbled for his snuffbo-x. 
 
 "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," interjjosc'd the baronet, with a sniff; 
 
 123
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "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 down- 
 stairs, 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 ob- 
 served, 
 
 "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, 
 
 124
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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; "dam- 
 me, you will." 
 
 "Leave him to nic, sir. Sister Jill shall have her 
 husband." 
 
 Thus, with the wind blowing briskly through Pcven- 
 sel 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 Roden- 
 ham 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 tic-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 clang- 
 ing bell with the usual inscrutable smirk upon his face. 
 Mr. Hardacre announced the fact that he desired to see 
 Mr. Jefifray alone, his manner demanding unequivocal 
 obedience on the j)art of the butler. Richard was read- 
 ing in the library at the moment, having left Dick Wil- 
 son at the inn. The Lady Letitia still kept her cham- 
 ber, having sent word to her nephew that she was still 
 prostrated after the unpleasant experiences of the niglit. 
 
 Mr. Lot had been usluTcd into the red parlor, and 
 Ricliard found him strutting up and down before the 
 
 125
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 windows that overlooked the park, his sword cocked 
 under his coat - tails in very militant fashion. He 
 bowed with unusual courtliness, and posed very cred- 
 itably 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. 
 
 Jeff ray 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 dis- 
 tressed. He glanced appealingly at his cousin's right- 
 eous 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 aggres- 
 sive 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." 
 
 126
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Mr. Lancelot V)owcd and smiled with some grininess. 
 
 " Egad, cousin," he said, " I am j^lad 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 Jeff ray'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 poi- 
 soned 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 (hnvn 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, Rich- 
 ard," 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. 
 
 127
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "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 gener- 
 ous contrition. What an angel this sweet cousin of his 
 was, to be sure! Of course Jilian had had little ro- 
 mances 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 
 
 128
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 tlie 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, mean- 
 ingly, "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 Hard- 
 acre'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 Lctitia. 
 
 129
 
 XIV 
 
 JEFFRAY, much impressed by Mr. Lancelot's broth- 
 erly ardor, trudged down across the park that even- 
 ing 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, scrap- 
 ing 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, tum- 
 bling 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 vsprang 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 clear- 
 ing. 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." 
 
 Jeff ray 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 
 
 130
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 tem- 
 per, 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 Jcffray, "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 Hard- 
 acre's face. There are some things women like to 
 leave in the lumber-room. Lud, what an infernal din 
 those boors are making!" 
 
 JcfTray said farewell to the painter with no little re- 
 gret, 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 acrimoni- 
 ous and awe-insinring dame. 
 
 i3»
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 The Lady Letitia's attitude and expression may be 
 imagined when Jeffray, looking pale but very com- 
 posed, informed her that it would be necessary for her 
 to leave Rodenham in her coach. The old lady ex- 
 pressed 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 mar- 
 tyrs, 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 through- 
 out 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 con- 
 ceive 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, 
 
 "Certainly, my dear nephew," she said, with an ironi- 
 cal twist of the mouth. "I am a httle older than Miss 
 Jilian Hardacre. We are both of us out of temper, 
 sweet Jill and your old aunt, and when two cats will 
 quarrel under one's bedroom one of 'em must be silenced. 
 Precisely so, my dear Richard; I will cumber your 
 hospitality no longer." 
 
 Jeffray, flushed and uncomfortable, and suffering the 
 
 132
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 usual feelings of discourtesy and ingratitude that as- 
 sail a young man on such occasions, clung to the con- 
 viction none the less, that the feud would not end with- 
 out the Lady Letitia's departure. 
 
 "I am sorry, madam," he said, "that I am compelled 
 to speak to you like this, but I shall be unable to quit 
 myself as a man of honor to the Hardacres so long as 
 you remain at Rodenham." 
 
 Aunt Letitia's eyes gUttered as though it would please 
 her to repeat a certain episode of her nephew's youth 
 when she had tanned him royally with a slipper, 
 
 "Do not apologize, sir," she said; "perhaps you will 
 have the goodness to tell me whether I am to be ejected 
 to-morrow, or will you grant me a week's respite to 
 prepare for exile?" 
 
 "I pray you, consider your own convenience," re- 
 turned Jeffray, blushing. 
 
 "I must send Parsons to The Wells to engage decent 
 rooms for me. My bankers must be negotiated with. 
 This is so sudden, sir, that you have caught me unpre- 
 pared." 
 
 Jeffray suggested that he would be happy to oblige 
 his aunt in any way that she might desire. Aunt 
 Letitia frowned and played with her fan. The dow- 
 ager's treasure-chest was nearly empty, and it wouUl 
 be a month or more before she could count upon the 
 paying of her dividends. Could her nephew oblige her 
 with a loan of a hundred guineas at an interest of five 
 per cent. ? Aunt Letitia appeared in no wise distressed 
 by having to confide such delicate matters to her 
 ney)hew. In fact, she built a grievance out of her in- 
 conveniences, and spoke with sarcastic significance of 
 being "taken by so sudden a surprise." Richard, eager 
 to salve the old lady's feelings, offered her a loan of 
 two hundred guineas, repudiating the very thought of 
 usury with scorn. Aunt Letitia clutched at the con- 
 
 i3i
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 cession, and the interview ended with some symptoins 
 of amiabiUty, the dowager actually kissing her nephew 
 before she hobbled off to bed. 
 
 Richard was in the saddle early next morning and 
 away for Hardacre with the spring sun streaming down 
 upon the greens and purples of Pevensel. The bright 
 zest of the day was in his blood, generous and blithe as 
 the spirit of youth itself. He was eager to crave Jilian's 
 forgiveness, and to quit himself as his manhood prompt- 
 ed in the matter of saluting the Hardacre honor. Rich- 
 ard rode in the belief that he had shamed his kins- 
 woman, and that he had bruised her kind heart by his 
 aunt's duplicity. 
 
 With the thickets of Pevensel towering on every 
 hand, Jeffray's thoughts sped back from Hardacre to 
 the glowing face of Bess of the Woods. Richard, de- 
 spite his sensitive obedience to the promptings of 
 honor, could not think of the girl without a flush of 
 feehng sweeping across his mind. Her face brought 
 both mystery and gladness, deep witchery and a proph- 
 ecy of pain. What was this tall, black-haired, lissome 
 wench to him that she should make his heart beat 
 louder as over the tragic breathing of some song? 
 Richard, riding through Pevensel, strove to laugh such 
 romantic memories away. Because the girl had a fine 
 body and a passionate face, should he suffer his thoughts 
 to dally with her in the deeps of her own mysterious 
 woods? Yet despite his strainings after sanity he 
 found himself wondering how she fared in the forest, 
 whether Black Dan still pestered her, and whether she 
 carried one of his pistols in her bosom? 
 
 In due course Jeffray came to Hardacre Chase where 
 the oaks, gray and purple, with brown bracken be- 
 neath, strode down in giant companies upon the road. 
 Mr. Lancelot, who had remained at home that morn- 
 ing in expectation of Jeffray's coming, met his cousin 
 
 134
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 as he rode up to the <::ate house. There was a cheer- 
 ing smile upon Mr. Hardacre's face, for the inimitable 
 Lot had no doubt at all of his sister's willingness to 
 forgive Richard Jeffray. Sir Peter, who happened to 
 be standing in the oriel - window of the main gallery, 
 had seen the young Squire of Rodenham ride up. The 
 baronet and his son had discussed the problem that 
 \eTy morning. 
 
 "Good luck to ye, Richard," said Mr. Lot, with con- 
 fidential solemnity. " I have had a terrible tussle with 
 Sir Peter. Egad, cousin, I had to sweat to persuade 
 the governor to let you see Jill. I'll take your horse. 
 You know the room, Richard ?" 
 
 Richard, who had dismounted, pressed Mr. Lancelot's 
 hand. 
 
 "I shall not forget your kindness. Lot," he said. 
 
 "Bosh, sir, I always side with a man of spirit. Go 
 up to her, cousin, and do your best. I'll see you're not 
 interfered with." 
 
 Richard, blushing, turned away and entered the 
 house. As for Mr. Lot, he thrust his hands deep into 
 his breeches- pockets, looked after his cousin whimsi- 
 cally, and laughed. 
 
 What a sweet picture of sanctity met Mr. Richard's 
 eyes as he opened the door of Miss Hardacre's parlor 
 bashfully after his knock had been softly acknowledged! 
 .Mi.ss Jilian was seated in the window-seat, dressed in a 
 silky green gown that rippled like water as she rose to 
 meet her cousin. There was much lace ui)on her 
 bosom and a knot of red ribbon over her heart. 
 
 "Cousin Jilian." 
 
 Miss Hardacre let her eyes rest only for a monuMit 
 on Richard's face. Jeffray was blushing very hand- 
 somely. 
 
 "Jilian, I have come to ask you (o forgive me." 
 
 Hf went close to his cousin, antl stood looking at her 
 
 135
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 with humbled ardor on his face. Miss Hardacre ap- 
 peared much distressed. Surely his sweet cousin's eyes 
 were somewhat red and swollen. And were those 
 wrinkles under the lids ? 
 
 " Jilian, will you forgive me?" 
 
 "Oh, Richard!" 
 
 "Aunt Letitia made fools of both of us, Jilian. I 
 have told her to leave my house." 
 
 Miss Hardacre hung her head and pressed her hands 
 together. 
 
 "You know everything, Richard." 
 
 "Poor Wilson told me everything, and it was noth- 
 ing, Jilian." 
 
 "I am a shamed and miserable woman." 
 
 "Shamed, Jilian? Let me hear any man breathe a 
 word against you." 
 
 Miss Hardacre suffered her eyes to quaver up for a 
 moment to Richard's face. The lad could see tears 
 ready to well up into those pellucid wells of light. 
 
 "What can I say to you, Richard?" she said. "Oh, 
 I am very miserable." 
 
 How could an honorable and generous youth refrain 
 from going down on one knee, pressing the lady's hand 
 to his lips, and gazing up with enthusiastic homage into 
 her face? The hot words were betwixt Richard's hps 
 in a moment, and Miss Hardacre was hiding her blushes 
 behind her hand. 
 
 And then, for the climax, Richard's lips pressed to 
 Miss Jilian's, and Sir Peter, who had been hstening 
 shrewdly on the landing, standing with admirable 
 dumfoundedness before the innocently opened door. 
 Of course Miss Jilian gave a shy scream, and Richard, 
 red as the lips he had kissed, turned to play the hero 
 before the parental demigod. 
 
 "Sir Peter Hardacre," he said, with bashful dignity, 
 *' I have come to apologize to your daughter, sir, for the 
 
 136
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 distress I innocently brought upon her the other nijjiht. 
 I offer you my apologies, sir, also; 1 have always honored 
 you, and you have been very kind to me." 
 
 The lad drew himself up creditably, squared his 
 shoulders, and looked the baronet straight in the face. 
 
 "Egad, sir," quoth Sir Peter, glaring at his daughter 
 and preparing to seem parental, "you appear quick at 
 consoling the ladies. The Hardacre honor, sir — " 
 
 Mr. Richard became aware suddenly of a warm hand 
 stealing into his. Miss Jilian gave him a look out of 
 her gray eyes and a whispered word that carried a 
 command. She went down on her knees before her 
 father. 
 
 "What! Bless my soul, what's this, eh? Stars and 
 garters, Jill, what am I to understand from this?" 
 
 "Cousin Richard has asked me to be his wife," said 
 Miss Hardacre, with a divine simper. 
 
 "What!" 
 
 " With your consent. Sir Peter, "added Cousin Richard, 
 half grimly. 
 
 And Sir Peter, noble and forgiving soul, put his pride 
 in his pocket, beamed, and blessed them!
 
 XV 
 
 JEFFRAY left Hardacre House that afternoon with 
 his betrothal an assured fact in the eyes of Christen- 
 dom. The way the fog had melted before him of a sud- 
 den had surprised even the generous Squireling of Roden- 
 ham. He had expected an unnerving interview with 
 Sir Peter, and possibly a very affecting one with Miss 
 Jilian, and here — in a morning he found himself be- 
 trothed to the daughter and embraced and blessed by 
 a future father. Jeffray could only admire in Sir Peter 
 the workings of an admirable and manly spirit of for- 
 giveness. As for Mr. Lot, Richard still felt the slap 
 that worthy gentleman had given him upon the shoul- 
 der and the hearty way he had crunched his hand. Jilian 
 had been wondrous sweet and coy with her betrothed, 
 and Jeffray should have boasted himself happy in possess- 
 ing the right to clasp such perfumed purity in his arms. 
 Was it the inevitable reaction after so inuch sweet 
 ecstasy and such squanderings of sentiment that threw 
 Richard into a decidedly melancholy mood after taking 
 leave of his Jilian on the terrace? No doubt the part- 
 ing from the lady should have accounted for the onset 
 of such a humor, but Richard's inclinations were con- 
 trary to custom, since he desired to think and to be 
 alone. Whether contact had crumbled up the romance, 
 or whether the seriousness of the step bulked for the 
 first time in Jeffray 's mind, he found himself meditat- 
 ing on the affair with a chilly reasonableness that was 
 not begotten in the rajjturous school of Venus. 
 
 138
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Why was it that Aunt Lctitia's gibes and fables re- 
 curred with such vividness to his mind ? Ho liail not 
 heeded tliem before the crisis; wherefore should he heed 
 them now ? He wished somehow that Wilson had not 
 loved the girl ten years ago; ten years were ten years — 
 despite idealism. What was amiss with him that the 
 happy reunion of the morning lost some of its glam- 
 our and assumed the suggestive notion of a net? 
 Surely he was not for recovering his own liberty, that 
 liberty that had weighed as a mere feather in the bal- 
 ance against honor? Was not Jilian sweet and amiable, 
 and still a girl, though older than himself? Surely he 
 could imagine a father in Sir Peter and a worthy brother 
 in honest Lot ? And yet the vapor of melancholy per- 
 sisted in Richard Jeffray's mind, despite his angry 
 reasonings with himself. He had been happy in the 
 morning, righteously and sincerely happy. Why this 
 loosening of the cords of confidence, this morl)id intro- 
 spection that suggested the possibility of error. 
 
 The day was such a one as begets the ideal of spring 
 in the heart, warm, fragrant, like a dewy dawn in June. 
 The hills and valleys were bathed in silvery light, a 
 light more delicate and rare than the glare of summer. 
 All the colors of the landscape were soft and beautiful, 
 the dusky greens, the purples, the browns, the blue 
 mistiness of the distant downs. On the far hills beyond 
 Pevensel a piece of ploughed land would flash up al- 
 most as gold under the sun, or a chalk cliff glisten like 
 loam at the throat of a bursting billow. The meadows 
 in the lowlands were like a mosaic of emeralds set in 
 silver. 
 
 Jeffray took the western track that plunged into 
 Pevensel by White Hard Ghyll. The pines and firs 
 stood out a rich and generous green against the sensi- 
 tive azure of the sky, while the olive-colored trunks of 
 the oaks upheld the purple feltwork of swelling buds 
 
 139
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 above. The yellow palm was flashing in the breeze; 
 primroses shone everywhere amid the moss and leaves. 
 The ragged and tempestuous gorse flamed about the 
 listening shadows of the woods. The track ran down 
 into the wastes and crossed the stream that fretted by 
 the ruins of the old Abbey of Holy Cross. 
 
 Richard had not seen the place since he had climbed 
 and hunted there as a boy in the days when life flew 
 fast and without thought. Holy Cross was a mile or 
 more from the hamlet of the foresters, and perhaps some 
 insensible magic drew Jeffray towards this relic of Pop- 
 ish power. The monastic calm, the glow of ancient 
 memories, would be in keeping with the temper of the 
 day. Certainly Mr, Richard was not anxious to return 
 to the society of the Lady Letitia, and he found sufficient 
 friendship in his thoughts. Yet the sly plea crept in 
 amid the rest, for if chance favored him he might catch 
 sight of Bess amid the woods, and learn how fortune 
 had served her since she had nursed him in old Ursula's 
 cottage. 
 
 He walked his horse down the hill that closed in 
 Holy Cross on the north. He saw the ruined walls and 
 the ragged remnant of a tower rising beyond the trees 
 that covered the hill-side. A stream came glinting 
 through the green to swell into a broad pool above the 
 stone weir that the monks had built of old. The thun- 
 der of the fall filled the dreamy silence of the valley, as 
 though chanting an eternal mass for the souls of those 
 who had lived and died in Holy Cross. 
 
 He gave himself to these Gothic mysteries for a 
 while before turning his horse towards the ford that 
 crossed the stream some sixty yards above the weir. 
 The weir pool was hidden by undergrowth and a clump 
 of firs and birches. The sound of his horse's hoofs was 
 deadened by the mossy grass as he rode down slowly 
 from the ruins. As he rounded the birchen brake he 
 
 140
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 saw somethinj^ on the farther side of the stream that 
 made him rein in suddenly. 
 
 Bess was sitting on a rock beside the pool, combing 
 her hair with her fingers as it hung in a black mass over 
 her shoulders. She looked up as Jeffray came splash- 
 ing through the water, recognized him instantly, and 
 flushed red as a poppy. A peculiar light kindled in her 
 keen, blue eyes, softening their hardness, and making 
 her face seem less petulant and heavy. 
 
 Jeffray dismounted and advanced towards her, lead- 
 ing his horse by the bridle. Bess had risen and came 
 some paces to meet him, making no pretence to conceal 
 her pleasure. 
 
 "Bess, I am glad I happened to take the track by 
 the abbey." 
 
 "I am glad, also, Mr. Jeffray." 
 
 They looked at each other and smiled, instant sym- 
 pathy flashing from face to face. Bess looked very 
 handsome with her black hair about her, and Jeffray 
 could not refrain from confessing the truth instinctively 
 to himself. Never in all Italy had he seen such coloring, 
 such eyes, or so fine a figure. To be sure her hands were 
 a little red and rough, but they were prettily made, and 
 suited her simple and brightly colored clothes. 
 
 "I have been wishing to see you," said the girl, be- 
 ginning to bind up her black hair and watching Jeffray 
 all the while. 
 
 "To see me, Bess?" 
 
 "They seem long days since I nursed you in our cot- 
 tage." 
 
 Richard, good youth, experienced secret pleasure at 
 the confession. The girl's voice, deep, rich, and slightly 
 husky, contrasted strangely with Miss Jilian's prattle. 
 She spoke slowly, as though with an iinvard effort, try- 
 ing to temper her words to Jeffray 's sujierior culture. 
 It was done without affectation, however, and her 
 
 141
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 quaint, slow way of mouthing her words had an irresist- 
 ible charm in it that made Jeffray delight in hearing 
 her speak. 
 
 "You have been bathing, Bess?" 
 
 She laughed, blushed a little, and began to coil up 
 her hair over the curve of her long, brown neck. 
 
 "You might have caught me, Mr. Jeff ray." 
 
 This time Richard colored. 
 
 "How are they treating you in Pevensel?" he made 
 haste to ask. 
 
 "Treating me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I am glad of your pistols." 
 
 Her expression changed suddenly from frankness to 
 rebellion. Jeffray, who was studying her with a secret 
 sense of delight, marked the hardening of her red 
 mouth, the gleam in her fierce, far-sighted eyes. He 
 had forgotten Miss Jilian completely for the moment, 
 and the delicate and highly civilized sentiments that 
 had made him throw his liberty at her feet. 
 
 "Tell me what your trouble is," he asked her. 
 
 "They are for marrying me to Dan." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "They tried to force me into it. Mother Ursula was 
 with them till Dan tried his bullying, and then she held 
 him and his father off." 
 
 The expression on Richard's amiable face contradicted 
 its habitual shinings towards sweetness. 
 
 "But, Bess, old Grimshaw promised me — " 
 
 "He's as bad as Dan," she said, with a snarl. I hate 
 — hate them both." 
 
 "They can't marry you against your will." 
 
 "Not while I have the pistols." 
 
 There was a look almost suggestive of fear on her 
 face for the moment, despite its spirit of defiance. She 
 glanced rotmd her swiftly, and drew closer to Jeffray. 
 
 142
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I am afraitl of Dan." 
 
 "Afraid. Boss?" 
 
 "Yes, as much as I am of anything." 
 
 JefTray understood her meaning of a sudden. His 
 sensitive face grew strangely stern and thoughtful, and 
 there was a tightness about his mouth, a steadiness in 
 his eyes that would have puzzled Mr. Lancelot Hard- 
 acre. 
 
 "You keep the pistols by you?" he asked, quietly. 
 
 Bess pointed to the rock where her red cloak lay. 
 
 "See, one is there," she said. "They are the best 
 friends I have in Pevensel. I look to the priming 
 every day." 
 
 JefTray 's usually smooth brow was still knotted in 
 thought. 
 
 "I wonder if I could help you, Bess," he said. 
 
 She gazed at him curiously, with one hand at her 
 throat. 
 
 "Perhaps," she answered. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 She glanced round her rapidly as though accustomed 
 to fear what the woods might conceal. The sun was 
 low in the west and the forest-clad valley full of golden 
 mist. She took her cloak and pistol from the njck, 
 and pointed to a path that branched olT from the main 
 ride into a larch-wood, telling JefTray that they could 
 reach the Beacon Rock heath by the path. 
 
 Thus with the shadows of the twilight stealing over 
 the woods, and the birds piping lustily in every thicket, 
 Bess and Richard JefTray wandered through Pevensel 
 together, looking with questioning youth into each 
 other's eyes Bess began to tell him of the memories 
 that stood like frail ghosts on the threshold of her 
 forest life. She told him of the flitting fancies of other 
 days, of the faces and scenes she but half remembered, 
 JefTrav, impressed by her eager intensity of belief, re- 
 
 M3
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 acted to the many suggestions her words inspired. He 
 watched her as she walked beside him, tall, lissome, and 
 convincing, her looks eloquent towards the proving of 
 her childish memories. Jeffray had seen what countrv 
 hoydens were worth in the matter of charm and of 
 beauty, and had discovered pretty m.ilkmaids to be a 
 myth. Bess was as different from any Sussex Blowze- 
 linda as a stately cypress from a dwarf oak outcrowded 
 in some sodden wood. 
 
 When she had ended he turned to her with no little 
 eagerness, as though her needs were already his. 
 
 " Have you ever spoken of this to any one ?" he asked 
 her. 
 
 Her face had kindled in the telHng of the tale, and 
 her eyes met Jeffray's and held them steadily. 
 
 "I have often spoken to old Ursula, but she has al- 
 ways laughed at me." 
 
 "And you have no trinkets or rings that might have 
 come from your mother?" 
 
 She shook her head, still looking at him solemnly. 
 
 "Not one." 
 
 "And why do they want to marry you to Dan ?" 
 
 "Because he's hot for my sake," she answered, color- 
 ing and looking fierce. 
 
 Jeffray walked on for a while in silence, his horse's 
 bridle over his arm. Peter Gladden had hinted at 
 mysteries with regard to the forest-folk, and confessed 
 that no one knew how the Grimshaws came by their 
 money. Could Bess have been stolen away as a child 
 in gypsy fashion ? Were her memories of the sea, the 
 great ship, and the rest mere dawn dreams or the dim 
 evidences of her origin ? He glanced at her as she 
 swung along at his side, her strong chin up, her keen 
 eyes watching the darkening woods. He had never 
 seen a Sussex wench bear herself like Mistress Bess. 
 
 "Bess," he said, suddenly. 
 
 144
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Her eyes flashed round to him. 
 
 '•There is something about you that makes me be- 
 lieve that vou are not of the Grimshaw stock." 
 
 "Ah—"' 
 
 "You look as though you had been born to be a 
 great lady, and not Mother Ursula's niece." 
 
 By the light in Bess's eyes and the softness about her 
 mouth, the innocent flattery seemed very sweet to her. 
 
 "Do you know what made me tell you all this, Mr. 
 Jeffrav ?" she asked. 
 
 "No—" 
 
 " Because you are one of the great folk — and because 
 I — am nothing." 
 
 JefTray missed her meaning for the moment, and then 
 caught a subtle something in the girl's eyes that made 
 him hold his breath. 
 
 "God knows, Bess," he said, "whether you are a 
 Grimshaw or no. I have as much honor for you as 
 though you were my sister." 
 
 She colored and looked a little peevish about the 
 mouth. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Jcffray," she answered. 
 
 They had come out upon the heath that smiled in 
 the evening light. The deep azure of the east curved 
 up beyond. The woods stood a rare purple l)elow 
 them, and a few plover were flapping and wailing over 
 the moor. 
 
 "Bess," said the man, looking in her face. 
 
 She glanced at him and waited. 
 
 "You will count me your friend?" 
 
 "Ah — I have done so — already." 
 
 "And I want to talk with you again." 
 
 " I can be by the abbey." 
 
 "On Monday — about four?" 
 
 "Yes. I can be there." 
 
 They stood looking at each other in silence, as though 
 
 M5
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 there were some regret in either heart that the sun had 
 sunk below the hills. It was growing dusk apace. 
 Richard fumbled with his bridle and made as though 
 to go. They were standing quite close to each other 
 in the dusk, Bess's eyes fixed upon Jefifray's face, her 
 lips half parted as though she were about to speak. 
 
 "I have not told you my dream," she said, with a 
 little laugh. 
 
 "St. Agnes's dream?" 
 
 "Yes. I will tell it to you on Monday." 
 
 Jeffray held out his hand to her. She was stooping a 
 little, and her look suggested that she would have liked 
 Richard to kiss her. The man remembered Miss Jilian 
 Hardacre of a sudden, and he gazed at Bess as though 
 some intangible barrier were between them. 
 
 "Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night, Bess. I will think of you — till next 
 time."
 
 XVI 
 
 THE Lady Lctitia, who was prcparinj^ for her de- 
 parture from Rodenhain, treated her nephew verv 
 courteously, and with a species of pitying; kindness that 
 su^'j^'csted how profound and melancholy her forel)0(l- 
 inj^s were as to the future. She had received the news 
 of the betrothal from Richard with unruffled dignity, 
 showing neither malice nor irritation, and even deign- 
 ing to wish her nephew a happy and prosperous marriage. 
 
 "Ah, mon cher Richard," she said, sitting very stiff 
 and straight on her brocaded fauteuil before the fire, 
 "since I am the beaten party you must permit me to 
 march out of Rodenham with the honors of war. I 
 have been holding out for your liberty, sir, for you are 
 young yet, Richard, nor have you seen a great deal of 
 the world. There, sir, don't shake your head at me; I 
 will cease croaking. May you and your sweet Jilian be 
 happy." 
 
 The old lady appeared quite affected, and Jcffray 
 bowed to her and kissed her hand. 
 
 " I trust that there is no ill-feeling left between us, 
 madam," he said. 
 
 Aunt Lctitia remembered her nei)hew's loan, and de- 
 clared that she had never been out of temper with 
 Richard personally. 
 
 " You arc one of those sweet fellows, ney>hew,*' she 
 explained, "who need defending against their own 
 generosity. Your honor is a sensitive and untarnished 
 virtue, sir, nor have you learned what the world is 
 
 M7
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 worth. And now, my dear Richard, may an old 
 woman be permitted to give you some last fragments 
 of advice?" 
 
 Jeff ray, both amused and interested, expressed him- 
 self eager to be benefited by the Lady Letitia's wisdom. 
 
 "Well, sir," she said, settHng herself in her chair, "in 
 the first place, do not count too much on marriage. It 
 is not always the honey -pot young people imagine. 
 And if you find your wife a little gay, Richard, don't 
 weep over it and make a misery of hfe, but be gay 
 in turn. You will soon accustom yourself to being 
 amused and satisfied by other women." 
 
 The old lady was as grave and solemn over her 
 cynicisms as a bishop over the expounding of the 
 creed. Jeffray was not a little surprised at receiving 
 such strange and ominous advice. 
 
 "Frankly, madam," he said, "I must confess that I 
 look for better things for Jilian and myself." 
 
 The Lady Letitia was stern as some ancient druidess. 
 
 " Do not hope for anything in this life, sir," she said; 
 "take pleasure as it comes, and make the most of it. 
 Do not be deceived by sentimental notions of propriety, 
 and do not count on the future, for our expectations 
 generally turn out to be ridiculous. Drink the wine in 
 the cup, sir, and don't plot for the morrow. And stick 
 to your money, Richard; for whatever poets may say, 
 money is the only sure friend in this world." 
 
 The Lady Letitia's philosophy was not vastly cheer- 
 ing to her nephew's spirit, but then the sordid truth is 
 never welcome to the ardent soul of youth. He pitied 
 her for the poverty of her sentiments, and yet felt un- 
 comfortably conscious all the while that there was 
 much shrewd wisdom in her words. His money, yes! 
 Would Miss Jilian Hardacre have loved him if he had 
 been without a penny? Would Sir Peter have waxed 
 so amiable and hearty ? Would the rough boors touch 
 
 148
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 their hats to him and the farmers wax obsequious in 
 his presence? Richard smiled somewhat sadly over 
 these thoughts, like a man finding his creed light in the 
 balance. Yet there was Dick Wilson, the rough knave 
 whose tongue was clumsy. Jcfifray believed in him. 
 And Bess? Why should he think of Bess at such a 
 moment? Bess Grimshaw was inclined to pout and 
 quarrel with his wealth because — and Richard flushed 
 at the conviction — because his gentility threw up a 
 barrier between them. Jeffray had never contrasted 
 Miss Jilian and the forest child in this bright light 
 before. 
 
 The morning after his talk with Aunt Letitia, Jeflfray 
 walked in his garden and watched the spring flowers 
 that were spearing through the brown earth in the 
 borders. The snowdrops had melted away, and gaudy 
 crocuses, purple and gold, blazed beyond the hedges of 
 close-clipped box. Hyacinths were thrusting up, tulips 
 spreading their stout leaves. On the lawns below the 
 terrace daffodils were nodding in the wind, Hghting the 
 sombreness of the yews and cedars. 
 
 As Richard walked his gravel-paths, thinking of Bess 
 and of her shrouded history, a short, sturdy figure in 
 black appeared upon the terrace and came down the 
 steps towards the garden. It was Dr. Sugg, the fat 
 rector of Rodenham, whose red face shone forth with 
 fiery solemnity under his powdered wig. 
 
 Dr. Barnabas Sugg was a favorite with the villagers. 
 He could drink good beer, preach short sennons, and 
 refrain from ])oking his amiable nose too parsonically 
 into his parishoners' affairs. He was a good man, 
 though no ascetic, a round and rich-voiced gentleman, 
 who was ready to put his hand into his pocket on occa- 
 sions, and to give comfort to such as came to see him 
 in his stuffy and smoke -haunted little parlor. Dr. 
 Sugg was a high authority with the women. Had ho 
 
 149
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 not "churched" them and baptized their babies? 
 Who could handle an erring wench and her lad so well, 
 or persuade them to satisfy the prejudices of society ? 
 Who could sit and listen more good - naturedly to the 
 small woes of the rough cottagers ? The rector was no 
 fire-fly, no sweating, shrieking Jonah, making hell lurid 
 to the frightened oafs and wenches. A very human 
 rogue, he lived his life among the rustics, worked with 
 them, ay, swore at them when the occasion called for 
 unshrinking eloquence. As for Mr. Wesley and his 
 preachers, they had made no conquests in the rector's 
 kingdom. More than one gospeller had sampled the 
 bottom of the village pond. 
 
 Dr. Sugg approached Jeffray with an expression of 
 unusual solemnity that morning, while the peacocks 
 strutted in sapphire and gold and the white pigeons 
 coquetted on the columbary roof. 
 
 "Good-morning, sir. I hope the Lady Letitia is 
 well?" 
 
 Jeffray answered for his aunt's health and shook the 
 parson by the hand. They boasted a mutual liking for 
 each other, for though poor Sugg did not live the life of 
 a St. Francis, he was a veritable mine of culture and 
 erudition when compared with the squirearchs of the 
 Sussex weald. 
 
 "Well, sir, I am not a bird of happy omen." 
 
 The rector blew his nose and flapped his scarlet 
 handkerchief in the air. 
 
 "What evil tidings am I to hear?" asked Jeffray, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Just this, sir, that the small-pox is said to be in 
 Rodenham." 
 
 "The small-pox, Sugg!" 
 
 "A bad business, Mr. Richard, for we have been free 
 of the plague these many years. I refer to the plague, 
 sir, and not to the Methodists." 
 
 150
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "How was it brought into the village?" 
 
 "By a peddler fellow from Lewes, 1 have heard. He 
 had an attic at the Wheat Sheaf for a night, and George 
 Gogg's girl, Kate, has sickened with what Surgeon 
 Stott says is the yellow-pox, and I suppose he knows. 
 Where it will end, sir, God only can tell." 
 
 Richard was no coward, but he looked grave enough 
 over Dr. Sugg's tidings. He knew that the disease was 
 Death's right-hand man in England, and that there 
 were more folk who were scarred than there were folk 
 who had gone free. High and low dreaded the scourge; 
 the toper went white over his punch -bowl; madam in 
 her perfumed boudoir shivered at the thought of the 
 marring of her face. 
 
 "What is being done?" he asked, quietly. 
 
 "Done, sir; what can be done? I don't suppose 
 there are five souls in the village who have ever been 
 inoculated. I trust, Mr. Richard, that you are one of 
 them." 
 
 "I followed Lady Montague's example — before I went 
 abroad." 
 
 "Then you should be safe, sir. But those cottagers 
 yonder would breed the pest as a dunghill breeds flies. 
 Then there is my poor Mary. If it spreads, sir, she'll 
 take it as she takes everything — mumj^s, measles, and 
 the ague. Good God, Mr. Richard, I lost my wife by 
 the small-pox! What should 1 do if 1 lost my girl?" 
 
 The rector's voluminous voice quavered with honest 
 feeling. He blew his nose vigorously, blinked his eyes, 
 and looked at JefTray with lugubrious eagerness. Rich- 
 ard was touched by the old man's distress. Poor Mary 
 Sugg; her plain face could not bear further detractions 
 from its beauty. 
 
 "Why not take her away?" he asked. 
 
 A mild frown spread itself across the rector's fon- 
 head. He stared into the distance and shook his head.
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "The girl might go," he observed, slowly, "and yet I 
 don't think it is right lest she might carry the pest with 
 her. No, sir, I don't think it would be honest. As for 
 me, Mr. Jeffray, I have no intention of turning tail. 
 What would the poor folk think of their spiritual 
 father if he tucked up his gown and scuttled directly 
 the devil came down on them in the shape of a damn- 
 able disease?" 
 
 There was a look of blunt heroism on Dr. Sugg's 
 commonplace old countenance that refreshed Jeffray's 
 spirit of revolt against the Lady Letitia's cynicism. 
 
 "You are right, sir," he said. " I respect you for your 
 sense of duty. The priory is a safer place than the 
 rectory. Let Mary come up here to - morrow. Of 
 course I shall forbid my servants going down into the 
 village." 
 
 Dr. Sugg appeared grateful and comforted. He 
 sniffed, and shook Jeffray's hand with unction. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," he said, "I thank you from my 
 heart. And shall you remain at Rodenham yourself .f"' 
 
 Richard smiled. 
 
 "I have no intention of running away," he answered, 
 "since I may be of some use if the plague spreads. 
 What are they doing down at the Wheat Sheaf ? There 
 is the old pest-house down by the brook, is there not?" 
 
 The rector sighed and shook his head. 
 
 "George Gogg won't let his daughter be moved, sir," 
 he said, "in spite of Surgeon Stott's fuming. As for 
 the pest-house, the roof's half in, and Farmer Summers 
 has been keeping his cattle in it. It ain't fit for use." 
 
 Richard took the responsibility to himself. 
 
 "I am afraid the fault is mine," he said; "I ought to 
 have had the place kept in repair. Well, send Mary 
 and her boxes up to-morrow. We will take her in till 
 the danger is over." 
 
 Richard rode over to Hardacre that same afternoon 
 
 152
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 and fouml his betrothed in the garden, a coquettish 
 straw hat on her auburn head, the blue ribbons tied hi 
 a bow under her chin. Miss Hardaere carried a basket 
 and a rake, and looked as rustic as a somewhat gor- 
 geous blue gown and green hoop would suffer. Miss 
 Jilian's gowns were legion, and it appeared as though 
 she had one for each day of the month. They were 
 part of the munitions of war, and Sir Peter flattered 
 himself that now Mr. Richard had surrendered, he would 
 no longer receive such outrageously long bills from the 
 smart millinery establishment at Tunbridge Wells. 
 
 Richard made his betrothed a very fine bow, and 
 was permitted to kiss the hand upon whose third finger 
 shone the diamonds and rubies he had given her. 
 
 "La, Richard," quoth Miss Jilian, looking coy, "you 
 have caught me in my oldest clothes, sir. You must 
 remember that I have my housewifely duties. Sir 
 Peter never troubles his head about the garden, and I 
 have to see that the rascals weed the paths." 
 
 Mr. Richard declared that he admired a woman who 
 was thoroughly domesticated. 
 
 "But really. Jilian," he said, innocently, "your old 
 clothes look very handsome. May I carry the basket 
 for you?" 
 
 Miss Hardaere simpered, looked at her little feet, and 
 blushcfl. She took care to be very coy and quaint 
 with Richard, tricked out with charming affectations 
 of simplicity, altogether a pretty pastoral of the cream 
 and rose bloom order. No unspoiled youth would ever 
 have fancied that many a male arm had circled that 
 slim waist, or that sundry and several gallants had 
 tasted those cherry lips. 
 
 "I hope you like pretty clothes. Richard," she said, 
 archly, handing him the basket, and wafting odors of 
 lavender and of violet from her laced bosom like a living 
 flower.
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Indeed, Jilian, I am proud to see you look so gay." 
 
 "La, sir, I shall be a terrible expense to you, I am 
 sure. What will you give me to dress myself on? 
 Twenty pounds, eh, cousin?" 
 
 "Just as much as you like, Jilian." 
 
 "Oh, Richard, how generous you are!" 
 
 "Am I?" 
 
 "You will be spoiling me, sir. But I do love pretty 
 clothes, Richard, and scarves and perfumes and jew- 
 elry. Is it vanity, sir?" 
 
 "Very natural vanity," quoth Mr. Richard, smiling, 
 yet looking a little thoughtful. 
 
 Miss Hardacre glanced at him and arched her brows. 
 
 "There, you are teasing me, Richard," she said; "I 
 am sure you are." 
 
 "I, laughing at you, Jilian?" 
 
 "Now you are frowning, to be sure. Is ought amiss 
 with you, mon cher? You looked quite troubled and 
 absent. Does my silly chatter tire you? I am such a 
 gay, thoughtless little thing, and you, sir, are so terribly 
 clever. Oh, I do hope I shall make you happy!" 
 
 Jeffray, angry with himself for the rebellious thoughts 
 that were in his heart, pressed Miss Hardacre's hand, 
 and poured a pretty speech or two into her ear. 
 
 "I am a little troubled, Jilian," he confessed. "Dr. 
 Sugg told me this morning that there is a case of small- 
 pox in Rodenham." 
 
 Miss Jilian 's mouth gaped a little and her eyes hard- 
 ened. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, how terrible!" 
 
 "Yes— terrible." 
 
 She had shrunk almost imperceptibly away from him. 
 
 "I hope you have not been in any of those horrid 
 cottages, Richard? The wretched people are so dirty 
 and careless. Oh, the thought of the plague always 
 terrifies me." 
 
 154
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jeffray sjlanccd at her cjravcly and with slight sur- 
 prise. Miss Hardacre's expression was one of petulant 
 impatience. 
 
 "It will be a terrible thing, Jilian," he said, "if the 
 villagers are stricken down. The poor people arc so 
 Ignorant that they cannot help themselves." 
 
 "La. Richard, it will be their own fault, the silly, 
 dirty wretches. Let me implore you not to go into 
 Rodenham village." 
 
 "I am not afraid," quoth Mr. Richard, quietly. 
 
 "But you must think of me, sir. I do not want to 
 be disfigured for life. Sir Peter would never let me be 
 inoculated — or whatever they call it. He always said 
 It was a nasty piece of nonsense." 
 
 Richard hung his head a little, and noticed that Miss 
 Hardacre still held her perfumed person at some slight 
 distance from him. 
 
 "But, Jilian." he said, "if the poor folk are ill T 
 must try to do something to help them." 
 
 The sweet angel showed further symptoms of im- 
 patience, even of temper. She carried her head very 
 haughtily, and looked with some imperiousness at her 
 betrothed. 
 
 "I suppose my wishes are of no account, Richard ?" 
 
 "Jilian!" 
 
 "Oh yes, sir, it will be very nice for you to come 
 and make love to me after you have been sitting in 
 some dirty, festering hovel! Really. Richard, you 
 must consider your position and my wishes. I suppose 
 I have more claim upon your consideration than some 
 frowsy cottage woman, eh ?" 
 
 Miss Hardacre a])])eared in peril of tears, and Richard 
 was moved to appease her with promises as best he could. 
 Being a sensitive and somewhat dithdent youth, he 
 supposed himself wholly at fault in so delicate a mat- 
 ter, and apologized to his betrothed for seeming so care- 
 
 '55
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 less of her health and happiness. After much senti- 
 mental persuasion Miss Hardacre deigned to smile and 
 to receive him again into favor, ordering him, however, 
 on pain of her extreme displeasure not to contaminate 
 his person in the thatched hovels of Rodenham.
 
 XVII 
 
 RKMEMBERING that Mary Sugg was to appear at 
 the priory with her boxes the following morning, 
 Richard conceived it advisable that he should en- 
 lighten the Lady Lctitia as to Miss Sugg's advent. 
 Not desiring to frighten the old lady, he announced to 
 her after supper, with an air of quiet unconcern, that 
 there was a reputed case of small-pox in the village 
 and that he had offered his hospitality to Mary Sugg, 
 who was very susceptible to fever. The Lady Letitia 
 received the news with rampant astonishment, and fell 
 straightway to abusing her nephew for dreaming of in- 
 troducing the parson's daughter into the house. 
 
 "You must be mad, Richard," she said, looking red 
 and overheated, "to think of dragging the girl up here. 
 Precious little consideration you show for your aunt's 
 safety, sir! 1 suppose my susceptibility to fevers is 
 not worthy of consideration." 
 
 JefTray attempted to mollify the old lady by describ- 
 ing poor Dr. Sugg's anxiety, and by dilating on the un- 
 healthy position of the rectory, with the church-pond 
 close under its windows. 
 
 "Richard, you are an absolute Ijooby," she per- 
 sisted. "How can you have a young woman staying 
 alone with you in the house, with no discreet gentle- 
 woman to see to the proprieties.^ Not that 1 am ;i 
 prude, Richard, but what will your estimable neighbors 
 say .•' 
 
 JefTray appeared vexe<l and not a little inii)aticnt. 
 
 '57
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Was the world full of ridiculous entanglements of eti- 
 quette and propriety, and were all women in the habit 
 of flying into tempers whenever their personal comfort 
 was threatened ? 
 
 "Why, madam," he said, "I have known Mary Sugg 
 since childhood, and surely she is not a young gentle- 
 woman likely to be made the subject of scandal?" 
 
 "Scandal can blacken an archangel, nephew. You 
 must not attempt the impossible in life unless, of 
 course, you intend to be improper." 
 "Madam!" 
 
 "There, there; don't frown at me, Richard. Can you 
 not see, sir, that you would expose yourself to the jeers 
 and gossipings of your neighbors by indulging in this 
 quixotic sort of kindness? Mary Sugg is ugly, but she 
 is a woman, and ugly women, sir, are often very fasci- 
 nating. I am surprised that Dr. Sugg consented to the 
 proposal." 
 
 Richard's lips curled perceptibly. 
 "To be frank with you, madam," he retorted, "I 
 think Dr. Sugg is a man of sentiment and of sense. He 
 is concerned for his child's safety, and his confidence in 
 my honor is a compliment to my house. Why, poor 
 Mary and I used to make daisy chains together in the 
 meadows when we were children, and I can remember 
 wanting her to ride my hobby-horse, and of course she 
 couldn't," and Mr. Richard laughed and blushed at the 
 reminiscence. 
 
 Aunt Letitia still regarded her nephew with a mourn- 
 ful and prophetic stare. 
 
 "My dear Richard," she said, "I am only attempt- 
 ing to defend you from your own foolhardiness. The 
 house is yours, and of course you can rule it as you 
 think fit. What would your neighbors say if Miss 
 Jilian Hardacre came to live with you before the crown- 
 ing festival of propriety?" 
 
 158
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "That is no parallel, madam." 
 
 "Hey! Then, nephew, go and ask Miss Hardacre to 
 consent to Parson Sugg's daughter taking up her abode 
 with you. If she displays no objection, then, sir, my 
 opinions are in the air." 
 
 Jeffray bowed to his aunt's personal prejudices none 
 the less, and despatched a servant with a note to the 
 rectory, desiring Dr. Sugg to postpone his daughter's 
 visit for a few days, since the Lady Letitia had a great 
 dread lest she should be exposed to infection. 
 
 Richard rode over to Hardacre that morning to dis- 
 cover that Miss Jilian by no means approved of his 
 suggestion that Mary Sugg should take up her resi- 
 dence with him at the priory. She was surprised 
 that Richard should even have imagined such a thing. 
 Trifling as the matter appeared, Jeffray felt rebuffed 
 and mortified. He had expected Jilian to give her im- 
 mediate consent to the plan, and behold, she seemed 
 every wit as shocked as the Lady Letitia. What had 
 come to the women ? Had poor Mary Sugg been some 
 lovely creature with pink cheeks and irreligious eyes, 
 then there might have been some reason for this pother. 
 
 "I am sorry if I have offended you, Jilian." he said, 
 a little haughtily, "but it was a mere matter of neigh- 
 borly courtesy. I have known Mary Sugg from child- 
 hood." 
 
 Miss Hardacre proceeded to demonstrate that she 
 possessed a very decided will of her own, and that even 
 a purring, kittenish creature had claws. 
 
 "Richard, you are most unreasonable," she argued, 
 "and I am sure the Lady Letitia advised you very 
 sensibly. Why, the girl may be sickening already. 
 You might catch it from her — and give the disease to 
 me." 
 
 Jeffray made her a p(jlite bcjw. 
 
 "I ask your pardon," he retorted; "it is plain to me 
 
 ^59
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 that I have not considered the question selfishly enough. 
 I will see Dr. Sugg and explain the situation." 
 
 "You need not tell the man that I objected, Richard." 
 
 "Not?" 
 
 "La, sir, the responsibility is yours, is it not? What 
 have I to do with Mary Sugg?" 
 
 It may easily be conjectured that the parson's daugh- 
 ter did not take up her abode at Rodenham priory, and 
 that Jeffray surrendered to Miss Hardacre's prejudices. 
 He rode home in rather a sulky mood that day, medi- 
 tating on the fact that in betrothing himself to her he 
 appeared to have taken most baffling responsibilities 
 upon his conscience. 
 
 Richard did not tell Jilian of his tryst at Holy Cross 
 with Bess of the Woods. He conceived that there was 
 no shame in the adventure, since the girl was in trouble 
 and needed the counsel of a friend. Silent as to his 
 purpose, Richard rode to Hardacre that Monday, and 
 found Miss Hardacre vaporish and out of humor with 
 the world. She was cross; nor did she attempt to hide 
 her petulance, expecting the lad to sympathize with 
 her over the shortcomings of her maid and Sir Peter's 
 stinginess in the matter of pin-money. Richard, blush- 
 ing and looking a little uncomfortable, offered her 
 guineas out of his own purse. Jilian 's eyes glittered at 
 the suggestion. She did not refuse the favor, and 
 showed no delicate dislike to taking Richard's money. 
 
 Jeffray excused himself early, and rode through the 
 chase and over the heath towards Pevensel. The sky 
 was gray and sullen, cloud masses moving fast over the 
 waving woods, and no sunlight splashing upon the 
 greens and purples of the forest. Dead leaves whirled 
 and danced in the glades; there was much swaying of 
 pine-tops against the hungry sky. 
 
 He rode down through the woods, past the Calvary 
 in the meadows, and came towards Holy Cross asleep 
 
 1 60
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 amid the green. Moving amid the broken walls and 
 arches he saw the girl spring down from the recess of a 
 window, a gray cloak and hood upon her head and 
 shoulders. She unbuckled the cloak and threw it aside 
 as she came towards Jeffray over the grass, her black 
 hair gleaming almost with a purplish lustre, her face 
 aglow, her cy-es shining. Jcflfray had dismounted and 
 thrown his bridle over the bough of a stunted thorn. 
 He turned towards Bess with a curious shyness and a 
 sense of rapid beating at the heart. 
 
 "Am I late?" he asked her. 
 
 She laughed, showing the regular whiteness of her 
 teeth, the lustre in her eyes increasing. 
 
 "I had to run from the hamlet," she said, standing a 
 little apart from him with her hands over her heart. 
 "They have been bullying me again; it was yesterday, 
 but the pistols kept them off. Mother Ursula is for me 
 — now." 
 
 Richard was watching her with an instinctive delight 
 in the sf)lendid aliveness of her beauty. There was 
 something inevitable about her, a passionate naturalness 
 that made Miss Jilian seem a tangle of affectations. 
 Bess spoke out, looked straight with her keen, blue eyes, 
 and did not ogle, flirt, or simper. 
 
 "I am sorry that they will not leave you in peace," 
 he said. 
 
 "Peace! There will be no peace for me unless I 
 shoot Dan or run away or — " 
 
 She went red and looked troubled of a sudden, droop- 
 ing her black lashes, and beating her hands together 
 softly as though measuring out the rhythm of her 
 thoughts. There was a wistfulness about her mouth 
 that begot in Jeffray a great yearning to comfort her. 
 
 "Bess." he said. 
 
 She lifted her chin and looked at him, the light well- 
 ing up again into her eyes.
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "If Dan is for being a brute to you — " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Come to me at Rodenham. We can give you a 
 home there — until — we see further into the future." 
 
 Richard had almost spoken of his marriage, but had 
 strangled the confession before it had been uttered. 
 Bess was looking at him steadily with much forethought 
 in her eyes. Richard's chivalry did not wholly con- 
 vince her; some self-conscious and intangible difficulty 
 appeared to be hampering his mind. 
 
 "I thank you, Mr. Jeffray," she said, slowly, "but — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "You would be ashamed of me in your great house." 
 
 Richard colored and looked at her appealingly. 
 
 "On my honor, Bess, no. Can you think such a 
 thing of me ?" 
 
 She smiled, half sadly, and still watched him with a 
 species of instinctive incredulity. 
 
 "If they make me desperate," she began. 
 
 "You will let me help you?" 
 
 "Ah, but then—" 
 
 "Promise me, Bess. You saved my life once. And 
 are you nothing to me?" 
 
 The words had slipped with sudden intensity off 
 Richard's tongue. They seemed the very words that 
 Bess had hoped to hear from him, and that she was 
 hungry to take into her heart. She drooped her 
 shoulders a little, her eyes shining, her hands hanging 
 idly at her sides. 
 
 "Mr. Jeflfray— " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I will come to you if — " 
 
 Richard's face had kindled in turn, and his eyes 
 had caught the light in the woman's. He held his 
 breath, and found himself trembling as he looked at 
 her. 
 
 162
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "On my honor, you shall be safe at Rodcnham." 
 
 She laughed, and moved nearer to him, her mouth 
 and chin upturned to his. 
 
 "I hate Dan," she said. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I did not dream of him on St. Agncs's night. It 
 was of you, Mr. JcfTray. I dreamed that I was gather- 
 ing herbs in the ruins here, and that I picked a great, 
 red flower that turned to blood in my hand. Then — I 
 saw you standing in the doorway yonder — looking at 
 me, and then — I awoke." 
 
 Richard gazed at her. She was very near to him, so 
 near that he almost felt her breath upon his mouth. 
 He forgot Miss Jilian utterly for the moment in the 
 near splendor of this woman's face. 
 
 "I shall pray to St. Agnes, Bess," he said. 
 
 She smiled at him wonderfully with her eyes. 
 
 "I almost blessed Dan, sir, for wounding you in the 
 woods." 
 
 "Bess!" 
 
 "I have kept the cup out of which you drank, and 
 put orpine in it, and it grows lustily. Listen, did you 
 hear Dan's gun ? He's down by the fish-ponds after 
 wild duck. 
 
 She had started Vjack from Jeffray with all the soft, 
 glamourish light gone from her face, her eyes growing 
 hard and fierce under her black brows. With a signif- 
 icant gesture she turned and climbed into one of the 
 ruined windows, and, parting the ivy that hung in 
 masses about the jambs, looked out over the grass- 
 land towards the a]>bcy pools. A man was standing 
 under a willow with his back towards the ruins. He 
 was busy recharging his gun, and watching his spaniel 
 that was swimming out to recover the bird that had 
 fallen into the water. Be.ss watched him a moment 
 with her eyes sullen and full of hatred. Surely some 
 
 i6.^
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 devil must have persuaded the unconscious Dan to 
 trudge down to the abbey ponds that evening. 
 
 Springing down again, she ran back to Jeffray, her 
 red petticoat swinging about her shm, strong ankles. 
 
 "It is Dan," she said, in a whisper, looking hard at 
 Richard. 
 
 "Confound the fellow!" 
 
 Bess's eyes gleamed sympathetically. 
 
 "You must go, Mr. Jeffray." 
 
 "Go?" 
 
 "If Dan found you with me — " 
 
 Richard's smooth face grew wondrous grim for the 
 moment. 
 
 "I am not afraid of your cousin, Bess," he said. 
 
 "Ah, you do not know Dan; he has the temper of a 
 devil." 
 
 Richard was looking at her very earnestly. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, Bess," he answered. "There 
 is no reason why we should betray our trysting-place to 
 him. What shall you do?" 
 
 "Oh, I can hide and wait till Dan has gone. He will 
 never suspect that I am here. And when — " 
 
 She hesitated, and swayed nearer to Richard as they 
 walked towards his horse. 
 
 "When?" he echoed. 
 
 "Shall we meet here again?" 
 
 "Thursday." 
 
 "Three days!" 
 
 "It cannot be before." 
 
 She smiled mysteriously and looked at Richard with 
 the same alluring light shining in her eyes. How red 
 and mischievous her lips looked! Jeffray conceived a 
 great thirst for them, but hung back as though his 
 honor shackled him. They were both a little shy of 
 each other, looking long into each other's eyes and 
 breathing rapidly. Then they heard Dan's voice call- 
 
 164
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ing to his dog. and Jeffray, mounting his horse, smiled 
 at the girl and rode out from the ruins. Bess stood 
 watching him with her bosom rising and falling and 
 her face aglow. 
 
 Richard overtook Dan Grimshaw at the ford, and 
 gave him '"good-day" as he splashed through the 
 water. The forester's ugly face clouded as he recog- 
 nized Jeffray. He touched his fur cap surlily, and ap- 
 peared puzzled to know what business the Squire of 
 Rodenham had in Pevensel. Jeffray, gathering that 
 Bess was safe, pricked up his horse and took the path 
 through the woods.
 
 XVIII 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S Romeo lost his reason in a night, 
 and, however illogical the intoxications of youth 
 may seem, they are of finer gold than the cold-tempered 
 alloys of age. 
 
 Jeffray rode through the woods that evening, and 
 heard the birds singing in the thickets, and saw the 
 gloom creeping up over the mysterious hills, the gray 
 sky cracking in the west to let through the red and 
 molten lava of the setting sun. Thrush challenged 
 thrush on many a glimmering spire, blackbirds piped it 
 mellowly, linnets twittered in the gorse. Soon the 
 plaintive chiding of the wryneck would be heard amid 
 the meadows and the thickets. The wild woods seemed 
 full of sound, of all the joyous outpourings of life, the 
 massed chantings of the forest choristers. The gorse 
 glimmered, wind-flowers shivered in the shade, the 
 cuckoo-flower was unfolding its finials of lilac and 
 white. Overhead the great trees breathed and mur- 
 mured, tossing their hands to the setting sun. 
 
 Jeffray 's whole soul was filled with melancholy de- 
 light. Was not this black-haired Bess akin to all this 
 beauty, this starting forth of colors, this uprushing of 
 sound ? The light in her eyes, surely it had set his soul 
 on fire. And the sweet scent of her clothes, like hay 
 on a June morning, should he forget it to the day of 
 his death ? 
 
 He slept but little that night, tossing to and fro — 
 and thinking of Bess. Even when he slept he dreamed 
 
 i66
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 of her, and waking — seemed to catch her face looking 
 out at him from the gloom. Ever and again, with a 
 rallying of his loyalty to Jilian, he strove to put the 
 thought of the girl out of his head. It was but the old 
 battle betwixt nature and the sentimental but very jeal- 
 ous ordinances of civilization. On the one hand, romance 
 pleaded, on the other, prosaic proprieties of life propound- 
 ed the doctrine of peace and respectable monotony. 
 
 Richard came from his bedroom feeling feverish and 
 heavy about the eyes next morning. It was but a just 
 judgment on the physical part of him. he imagined, for 
 the emotional debauch of yesterday. He ate his break- 
 fast in solitude, staring morosely out of the window, 
 and watching the clouds move across the sky. De- 
 pression had followed on exaltation, and he was moved 
 to regard the passion of yesterday in a somewhat more 
 stern and moral light. No. he would not meet Bess on 
 Thursday. If she were in trouble she could come to 
 him at Rodenham and he would help her. Heavens, 
 if his escapade came to Miss Jilian's ears there would 
 be excitement enough for him in the home of the Hard- 
 acres! He would go and see Jilian that very morning. 
 Her presence would chasten him and enable him to 
 realize more acutely the disloyalty of his attraction 
 towards poor Bess. 
 
 Probably Miss Hardacre was puzzled by her bc- 
 trothed's melancholy as they walked on the terrace that 
 day with Jilian's two spaniels playing about her feet. 
 The lady's quick wits were soon at work to discover 
 the meaning of her dear Richard's moodiness. Had 
 she been oversharp with him concerning poor Mary 
 Sugg? JcfTray smiled at her with genuine candor, and 
 confessed that the parson's daughter had nothing to do 
 with his depression. He was vexed with a headache; 
 so much Miss Hardacre could cajole from him, and it 
 was enough to enable her to be sympathetic. 
 
 1^37
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "La, Richard," she confessed, regarding him very 
 gravely, "you look quite feverish and ill. Would you 
 like to lie down in the house . Quiet, Tib ! Down Tobe ! 
 your master has a headache. Drat the dogs; how noisy 
 they are, to be sure!" 
 
 Miss Hardacre fhcked her handkerchief at the span- 
 iels, who, imagining that the lady was challenging them 
 to a game, yapped and growled with greater vigor 
 "Deuce take the dogs!" 
 Richard had his hand to his head. 
 "Don't vex yourself, Jilian," he said, "it is nothing, 
 I thank you." 
 
 "You look very white, Richard." 
 "It is the megrims — perhaps — " 
 
 Some sudden suspicion seemed to seize upon Miss 
 Hardacre's heart. She looked at her betrothed keenly, 
 with an anxious hardening of her eyes and mouth. 
 "Richard?" 
 "Yes, dear—" 
 
 "Have you been in Rodenham village?" 
 Jeffray stared at her questioningly. 
 "Not for a week," he said. 
 
 "Supposing it should be— Oh— horrible! My head 
 is in a whirl." 
 
 Jeffray flushed up as though Jilian had suddenly 
 discovered all that was in his heart. 
 
 "I do not understand you, Jilian," he said. 
 Miss Hardacre had drawn a little apart from Jeffray, 
 and was waving her scented handkerchief under her nose. 
 "Supposing you are sickening for the small -pox, 
 Richard," she said. 
 "Jilian!" 
 *'You look very feverish. No, please do not come 
 
 too near me." 
 
 " Am I so terrible to look at?" 
 "Oh, Richard, I am sure I am about to faint." 
 
 i68
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jeffray had grown pale of a sudden. Was there any- 
 thing prophetic in Miss Ilardacre's words, or was it his 
 own fancy that made him feel chilly about the heart ? 
 He drew away from his betrothed, put his hand to his 
 forehead, and felt that it was hot and moist. 
 
 He glanced at Jilian. who was walking unsteadily 
 with her eyes half closed, the spaniels still yapping at 
 her heels. 
 
 "Certainly I feel feverish," he confessed; "shall I 
 give you my arm, Jilian.' No. Perhaps I had better 
 keep away from you." 
 
 Miss Hardacrc's face had gone an ashy yellow behind 
 the blushes that still bloomed upon her cheeks. 
 
 "Richard," she said, "go home at once and send for 
 Surgeon Stott, from Rookhurst. It is not safe for you 
 to remain near me." 
 
 JefTray was gazing at her searchingly. wondering how 
 much she loved him since her first thoughts seemed for 
 herself. 
 
 "I think you are right," he said, slowly. 
 
 Jilian still played with her handkerchief, and appeared 
 tormented by the conflicting emotions in her heart. It 
 was proper for her to display some tenderness towards 
 her betrothed, yet she was in mortal fear of the disease 
 that might be lurking in his very breath. 
 
 "Richard, mon cher, if anything should happen, I— I 
 will come and nurse you." 
 
 Jeffray reddened and looked somewhat ashamed. 
 
 " I could not let you imperil yourself," he retorted, 
 with much feeling. 
 
 Miss Hardacre wavered, and held out her hands to 
 him pathetically. She was sorry for the lad. and yet 
 her terror overcame her [)ity. 
 
 "Go home, Richard," she said. " No, you must not 
 kiss me. It may be nothing but a fear, but — I am 
 afraid of you to-day." 
 
 13 169
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 And Jeff ray, feeling strangely humbled, bowed and 
 left her on the terrace. 
 
 The sense of feverishness increased on Richard as he 
 rode homeward through wild, alluring Pevensel. The 
 blood was drumming in his brain; his eyes were hot, his 
 mouth parched and dry with the March wind and the 
 dust. Even the motion of his horse made him sweat, 
 and there was a dull ache across his loins. How differ- 
 ent his mood from that which had torched him through 
 the wilds but yesterday! 
 
 The forest itself seemed to grow full of fantasies 
 before him, like some weird etching of Albrecht Durer's, 
 The trees towered, waxing grotesque and even threat- 
 ening as they poured down in places upon the road. 
 The mutterings of the wind were intensified in his ears, 
 the lights and shadows of the landscape exaggerated. 
 Continually he fancied that he saw a figure in a red 
 cloak flitting amid the crowded trunks of the trees. 
 The feverish thought haunted him that Bess was flying 
 to Rodenham for fear of Dan. What if he had had 
 the fever in his blood and had given it to the girl in the 
 abbey yesterday ? The thought of her proud and hand- 
 some face scarred by the ravages of disease made him 
 shiver and feel cold at the heart. Poor Jilian also might 
 take it from him, nor did he wonder that she had shrunk 
 away in fear. 
 
 Coming to the lowlands, and seeing the pasture lands 
 and fields russet and green under the blue, he uncovered 
 his head and let the wind play about his forehead. The 
 lodge gates were open, and even as Jeffray came up the 
 road at a walk, Dr. Sugg's stout figure came out from 
 the shadows of the yews that hid the drive. Richard 
 rallied himself and steadied his wits as the rector halted 
 in the road to speak to him. They had not met since 
 Jeffray had excused himself by letter from receiving 
 Mary Sugg at the priory. 
 
 170
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Good-day. Mr. Richard." 
 
 "Good-day. sir I want to speak with you." 
 
 The parson was looking at Jeffray curiously, screw- 
 ing up his eyes, wrinkles running across his forehead. 
 
 "What news have you for me?" 
 
 "Bad. sir, bad. George Gogg's wench has the small- 
 pox to a certainty. Gogg's in bed himself. Old Sturte- 
 vant and two more have sickened." 
 
 Jcfiray winced perceptibly, and gazed with some un- 
 easiness at the rector. 
 
 "1 am sorry about Mary," he said. 
 
 "Don't mention it, sir," quoth Dr. Sugg, stolidly. 
 
 "The Lady Letitia is nervous, very nervous, sir, and, 
 to be frank with vou. Miss Hardacre. mv betrothed — " 
 
 The rector's eyes twinkled as he broke in upon Jef- 
 tray's apologies. 
 
 "Do not vex yourself, sir," he said. "I understand 
 the matter perfectly. May I remark, Mr. Jeffray, that 
 you look far from well yourself." 
 
 Richard stared in Dr. Sugg's red and kindly face. 
 I — sir t 
 
 " You look feverish — uncommon feverish. I hope you 
 are not going to be bedded, sir. How are you feeling, 
 eh?" 
 
 Richard forced a smile and wiped his forehead. 
 
 " Rather hot in the head, Sugg, and stiff about the 
 back." 
 
 The rector's air of concern deepened. He screwed 
 up his eyes still more and cocked his broad head serious- 
 ly at Jeffray. 
 
 "Shall I tell Stott to ride up to the priory to-morrow, 
 sir"' He will be in the village." 
 
 "I am much obliged to you, doctor." 
 
 " Forewarned — forearmed, Mr. Jeffray. T trust, though, 
 it is nothing serious with you. My girl Mary's all right 
 as yet. I'll send Stott on to you to-morrow." 
 
 171
 
 XIX 
 
 THE Lady Letitia sat before the fire in the red par- 
 lor with a copy of the Gentleman's Magazine lying 
 upon her lap. In the fender lay a bundle of feathers 
 which the old lady was burning, having heard that the 
 smoke therefrom was very efficacious in the preventing 
 of fevers. Very cross and querulous she felt, and very 
 cross she looked as she sat there burning the feathers 
 and taking snuff from time to time, for the Lady Letitia 
 was not a woman fitted to play the Dorcas or to take 
 pleasure in ministering to the sick. Pain, disease, and 
 poverty were things she dreaded and detested as vul- 
 gar intruders, marring the polite gayeties of life. 
 
 Hence she had shown no little impatience that morn- 
 ing when Peter Gladden had announced the fact that 
 Mr. Richard was indisposed and would keep his bed. 
 Gladden, bearer of cocoa and shaving-water, had found 
 his master looking flushed and feverish, with dry lips 
 and heavy eyes, and complaining of sickness and head- 
 ache and sharp pain in the small of the back. JefTray 
 would not have the curtains drawn, for the sunlight 
 seemed to intensify his feeling of nausea and the fever- 
 ish throbbing in his head. He had ordered Gladden to 
 send a groom down to Rodenham village to insure Sur- 
 geon Stott's calling that day. 
 
 As the Lady Letitia sat burning her feathers and mut- 
 tering to herself in the red parlor, Peter Gladden's black- 
 coated figure appeared in the doorway, his colorless face 
 imperturbable as ever. The dowager glanced at the 
 
 172
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 butler irritably over her shoulder, and asked him, sharp- 
 ly, what he wanted. 
 
 "Surgeon Stott, madam, requests the honor of speak- 
 ing with you." 
 
 "What's the man want with me. Gladden?" 
 
 "It concerns Mr. Richard, madam." 
 
 The Lady Letitia scowled — and straightened her cap. 
 
 "Tell the man to come in, Gladden," she said. "Tell 
 him to remain by the door. Of course his clothes reek 
 of the small-pox." 
 
 The butler disappeared with a cynical twinkle in his 
 eyes, and turned to where Mr. Stott was standing with 
 his broad back to the hall fire. The surgeon and Mr. 
 Gladden looked at each other with a certain comical 
 flash of sympathy. Stott was a florid and well-com- 
 plexioned person who wore a blue coat, a scratch wig, 
 brown riding-breeches, and top-boots. The surgeon did 
 not cultivate the town graces and delicacies of "the 
 faculty." He had to ride through mud and ford 
 streams, dive into hovels where gowns and periwigs 
 would have been a nuisance and the pomposities of the 
 profession more than ridiculous. 
 
 The dowager scrutinized Mr. Stott from top to toe 
 with an air of aristocratic insolence as he bowed him- 
 self into the red parlor. She scanned his muddy boots, 
 noticed the bourgeois redness of his face and hands, 
 and desired him, with some hauteur, not to approach 
 too near her chair. Surgeon Stott's humorous mouth 
 twitched expressively. He inhaled the odors of lavender 
 and burned feathers, and seated himself, with the amiable 
 docility of a philosopher, near the door. 
 
 The Lady Letitia had cocked her beak at him com- 
 mandingly. 
 
 "Well, sir, what is your business with me?" 
 
 " I have come to speak to you about Mr. JcfTray, 
 madam." 
 
 173
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 The dowager caught a solemn twinkle in the man's 
 vulgar, blue eyes; the suave curve of his clean-shaven 
 mouth seemed to suggest that the surgeon possessed 
 a strong sense of humor. The Lady Letitia's dignity 
 increased. She did not exist to amuse muddy apothe- 
 caries peddling boluses in provincial towns. She, to 
 whom the great Dr. Billinghurst, of London, would listen 
 for an hour, was not to be smiled at by this rustic blue- 
 bottle. 
 
 "You are the apothecary from Rookhurst, sir, I be- 
 lieve?" 
 
 "Surgeon, madam." 
 
 "A member of the company?" 
 
 "I claim that distinction." 
 
 The Lady Letitia's face expressed surprise. Her 
 manner suggested to Mr. Stott that he had not im- 
 pressed her with any great degree of authority in the 
 art of healing. 
 
 "We thought we would have your opinion, sir," she 
 explained, "as a temporary satisfaction. Should my 
 nephew show signs of serious indisposition, we shall send 
 for a responsible physician to attend him. Now, sir, 
 will you oblige me with your candid opinion as to Mr. 
 Jeffray's health." 
 
 Surgeon Stott was watching the old lady with grim 
 curiosity. She was a distinct study in aristocratic arro- 
 gance with her air of condescending patronage, and her 
 detestable old face painted and powdered to the very 
 complexion of her vanity. 
 
 "If you care to consider my opinion, madam — " 
 
 "Well, sir?" 
 
 "I may state that Mr. Jeffray is sickening with the 
 small-pox." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 The Lady Letitia perked up like a frightened hen, 
 much to Surgeon Stott's inward satisfaction. 
 
 174
 
 BRSS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "That is my diagnosis, madam," he said. "I have 
 bled Mr. Jetlray of ten ounces, and ordered him to be 
 sponged with tepid water. One of the grooms is to 
 ride back with me to Rookhurst for the physic. There 
 will be a fever mixture and a bolus. Can 1 oblige your 
 ladyship in any way?" 
 
 The dowager plied her handkerchief and strove to 
 recover her disturbed dignity. Richard with the small- 
 pox! How deplorably vexatious, not to say — incon- 
 siderate—her nephew's illness appeared! Meanwhile, 
 Surgeon Stott had risen. He bowed to the dowager 
 till his tight riding-breeches creaked, and seemed not 
 a little amused at the old lady's fiuster. 
 
 "With your kind permission, madam," he said, "I 
 will call again to-morrow. Your ladyship may even 
 need my humble attention." 
 
 The dowager bridled at the insinuation, 
 
 "Call by all means," she retorted, "but I shall have 
 transferred myself to some locality where 1 can obtain 
 trustworthy advice." 
 
 When Mr. Stott had gone, the dowager pealed the 
 bell, and almost squealed at Gladden when his emotion- 
 less face appeared at the door. 
 
 "Send Parsons to me at once, and order Betsy to 
 pack my boxes." 
 
 Peter Gladden bowed, smiled curiously, and departed. 
 At the end of three minutes Parsons, the Lady Letitia's 
 confidential man, a thin, circumspect individual with 
 a prim mouth and a long nose, marched in to receive 
 his mistress's orders. 
 
 " Parsons, we must leave Rodenham at once. Have 
 the coach ready by one, and order Betsy to pack my 
 trunks. Can we make Tunbridge Wells before dusk?" 
 
 Parsons bowed, and apologized for the roads — in that 
 they had the bad taste to be execrably heavy. 
 
 " Urat the roads." quoth the old lady, in a fine fume. 
 
 175
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "No decent folk should venture into this abominable 
 wilderness. Where can we bait for the night, Parsons ?" 
 
 "We can find a good inn at Grinstead, madam." 
 
 "Let it be Grinstead, then. And Parsons, see that 
 Gladden and the servants have their vails; a guinea will 
 do for the wenches; here is my purse. And see to your 
 pistols. Parsons, this beggarly slough is full of smugglers 
 and footpads." 
 
 The suave and obsequious Parsons left to prepare his 
 mistress's departure. The Lady Letitia, still unduly 
 distressed, hobbled up to her bedroom by the back 
 stairs, so that she should not pass her nephew's door. 
 The guineas Richard had loaned to her were sewn up 
 in a leather bag under her hoop. Miss Betsy was fling- 
 ing gowns, petticoats, and underclothing into the 
 trunks, being no less eager than the Lady Letitia to flee 
 the house that the pest had entered. The room was 
 littered with scarves, pomade - boxes, pins, ribbons, 
 jewelry, gowns, stockings, and shoes. The dowager stood 
 leaning on her stick, scolding and directing the girl as she 
 hurried the multifarious articles into the trunks. 
 
 The old lady did not attempt to conceal either her 
 nervousness or her annoyance from her maid. 
 
 "Drat the small-pox," she said, with feeling; "one 
 would think that the devil had the sowing of the pest. 
 Confusion, wench, what are you doing with that green 
 silk sack? Don't crush it up as though it were dirty 
 linen. Yes. I have told Parsons that we must make 
 Grinstead before dusk." 
 
 Miss Betsy sat back on her heels as she knelt beside 
 the largest trunk, and glanced round at the hundred 
 and one articles littering the floor. 
 
 "Poor Mr. Richard!" she said. 
 
 "What's that you're saying?" 
 
 "It does seem mean, ma'am, that we should be run- 
 ning away and leaving him alone." 
 
 176
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Betsy." quoth the dowager, curtly, "you're a fool." 
 
 "La. ma'ain!" 
 
 "What good can we do by staying here, hey? You 
 should be grateful that I have the moral courage to go." 
 
 Before she departed the Lady Letitia wrote an affec- 
 tionate note to her nephew, addressing him as "Mon 
 beau Richard, mon cher neveu," praying for his speedy 
 recovery, and explaining that nothing but the extreme 
 delicacy of her health persuaded her to leave him at 
 such a crisis. Shortly after noon the dowager's coach 
 rolled away from the priory porch, with Peter Gladden 
 bowing stiffly on the threshold, and staring a con- 
 temptuous farewell at Mr. Parsons on the back seat, 
 who was looking to his pistols. Richard, half dehrious 
 in his room above, heard the grinding of the wheels and 
 the rattling of the harness. He understood dimly that 
 his aunt was deserting him with his guineas under her 
 petticoat. And thus the small-pox drove the old lady 
 out of Rodenham, and the sick man was left to Peter 
 Gladden and Surgeon Stott.
 
 XX 
 
 IT was on the night of Tuesday that Isaac came to 
 Ursula's cottage and seated himself on the oak 
 settle before the fire. Old Ursula was in the ingle-nook 
 with a pile of stockings in her lap, Bess on a stool be- 
 side the fender, her hands clasped about her knees, her 
 eyes full of the thought of Jeffray. She had opened 
 the door to the patriarch, greeted him somewhat sul- 
 lenly, and shot the bolts after him for fear that Dan 
 should be lurking outside the cottage. Isaac Grim- 
 shaw's smooth face suggested that he was in the most 
 sociable of moods. He persuaded his sister to brew a 
 bowl of rum punch, and, drawing out a short pipe and 
 a tobacco-box from the tail -pocket of his coat, sat 
 smoking before the fire. Bess, on her stool, was watch- 
 ing the old man suspiciously, and wondering what 
 thoughts were passing in his mind. She always dis- 
 trusted Isaac's good-humor, and preferred a frown from 
 him to a smile. 
 
 Isaac began to prattle on all manner of matters, pok- 
 ing fun at old Ursula and looking as simple and jolly 
 an old fellow as ever sniffed the odors of lemon and 
 rum, cloves and cinnamon. He talked of Rookhurst 
 Fair, and promised to buy a bunch of ribbons for 
 Ursula, and a pair of red shoes for her to wear on May- 
 day. 
 
 Bess grew very mistrustful of the old man's mood as 
 he sat there shaking his silvery hair in the firelight, 
 thrusting out his lower lip, and watching her with his 
 
 178
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 keen, sr^'^y eyes. She would take none of his punch, 
 though he pressed her often, noticing that Ursula was 
 growing drowsy after she had drunk of it more than 
 once. She felt instinctively that there was something 
 false in the old man's hilarity. Often Bess fancied 
 that Isaac was listening for some sound he intended 
 that she should not hear. She concealed her suspicions 
 from him, humored his gayety, and kept her wits alert 
 lest there might be treachery afoot against herself. 
 Isaac still ladled out the punch, winking at Bess as old 
 Ursula waxed sleepy in the ingle-nook. He began to 
 tell the women of Rookhurst Fair in the old days, when 
 he could handle a cudgel with any youngster in the 
 country. His shrill yet melodious voice flowed on 
 without ceasing, as though he were endeavoring to 
 drown the silence with a perpetual plash of words. 
 
 "Ah. dame," he said, "I can remember when Jeremy 
 brought ye your wedding-ribbons and a ring at Rook- 
 hurst. You were a merry bit of mutton then. Do you 
 call to mind old Stumpy Job, the Jew who used to have 
 his stall in the corner of the market before Surgeon 
 Stott's door? It was John Stott in those days, and, 
 deuce take me, he was a rough devil; he'd bleed you 
 half dead and blister your back till there wasn't a 
 sound bit of skin over your kidneys. Well, Stumpy 
 Job, he was about the cleverest knave as ever I knew. 
 Half the smugglers in the Channel had dealings with 
 him, and if 'my lady' wanted French lace or silks, she 
 had but to let Stumpy know, and a pack load of finery 
 would drop over the garden-wall one quiet night. Yes, 
 Stumpy was a neat rogue, but too greedy on the main 
 chance, and they stretched his neck for him at the end 
 of it. They hanged him on Danlan Heath for shooting 
 an exciseman, and he showed the white- feather terrible 
 at the end. I did hear that he promised to pay 'em .ill 
 a powerful lot of money if they'd let him run and cro.ss 
 
 '79
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 the water. His guineas were buried somewhere down 
 Chichester way, and they do say that a flash dame who 
 kept an inn there had it, for Stumpy was always hot 
 on the women." 
 
 Bess had been sitting motionless all through the old 
 man's monologue, her brows contracted, and an ex- 
 pression of alertness on her face. Her eyes were fixed 
 upon the door opening upon the stairs, though she cast 
 rapid glances ever and again at Isaac's countenance 
 shining in the firelight under his silvery hair. Ursula 
 was half asleep in the ingle-nook, nodding her head 
 mechanically over her brother's reminiscences. Bess 
 had caught a vague and indefinite sound that had 
 quickened her pulses and deepened her distrust. She 
 rose up very quietly from her stool, yawned, and 
 reached for the brass candlestick upon the mantle- 
 shelf. 
 
 Old Isaac, wide-awake on the instant, turned on the 
 settle and looked at her suspiciously. 
 
 "What's amiss, lass?" he asked her, with a smile. 
 
 Bess lit the candle, steadied herself, betraying noth- 
 ing of the dread that was in her heart. 
 
 "I am tired, and it is growing late." 
 
 "Tut, tut, lass, stay with us a little longer. Have 
 you listened too much to an old man's tales?" 
 
 Bess yawned behind her hand, laughed, and walked 
 towards the stairs. 
 
 "Ursula will sit and listen to you, uncle," she said. 
 "There is hot water in the kettle if you want more 
 punch." 
 
 She opened the stair door, and, shutting it quickly 
 after her, shot the bolt on the inside. Isaac had started 
 up from the settle, and limped across the room with an 
 impatient grin upon his face. Bess heard him try the 
 door and go back balked to the fire when he found it 
 bolted. Holding the candle above her head she climbed 
 
 1 80
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 the stairs slowly, step by step, frowning when the bare 
 boards creaked, and halting continually to listen. She 
 had drawn one of Jeffray's pistols from her bosom, and 
 the steel barrel quivered a little as her fingers strained 
 nervously about the stock. 
 
 Coming to the narrow landing at the top of the stairs, 
 she stood listening, with her head bent forward, the 
 candle shaded behind her hand. The two doors that 
 opened upon the landing were shut, and Bess knew not 
 what their black panelling might hide. Putting her 
 ear close to the door of her own bedroom, she heard 
 the casement rattling from time to time, and a souVid as 
 of some one at work on the iron bars closing the window. 
 The candle shook a little in her hand. Setting it down on 
 an old chest by the wall, she gathered her courage, and, 
 lifting the latch, threw the door open at arm's-length. 
 
 Outlined against the dark square of the window, Bess 
 saw the head and shoulders of a man. He appeared to 
 be half kneeling on the window-ledge without, working 
 at the clamps that held the iron bars in their sockets. 
 The casement frame was open, and for the moment Bess 
 could not see his face. 
 
 He looked up suddenly on hearing the door open, 
 swore, and hung there staring at Bess as she stood in 
 the doorway with the candle behind her. She had 
 recognized Dan, and understood with a flash of fury 
 why he was loosening the bars of the window. There 
 was a short ladder leaning against the cottage wall un- 
 der Dan's feet. He let himself half drop from the win- 
 dow-sill as Bess came forward into the room hiding her 
 pistol behind her back, 
 
 "Dan, you devil — " 
 
 She stood, pointing at him, her face ablaze, her eyes 
 hard and cruel. Dan was feeling the bar warily with 
 his hand, grinning and showing his yellow fangs, and 
 looking at Bess like a hungry animal. 
 
 i8x
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Let me in, wench," he said. 
 
 Bess eyed him and fingered her pistol. 
 
 "Let you in, Dan! The stair door's bolted and the 
 bar is up. Come at me — if you can — you coward." 
 
 There was a sudden splintering of wood as the bar 
 was forced in by the man's powerful arm. He lifted 
 his chest to the sill, and hung there straining and pant- 
 ing, working with his knees and feet against the wall. 
 Bess could hear Isaac beating upon the door that closed 
 the staircase. She moved quite close to Dan, and 
 pointed her pistol at his head. 
 
 "Stop, or I'll kill ye!" 
 
 Dan gave a great heave and brought his knees up on 
 the sill. Bess fired at him on the instant, and sprang 
 back towards the door. The ball whipped off the lobe 
 of Dan's right ear, the charge blackening and scorching 
 his face. The shock lost him his balance. Bess saw 
 him clutch at the casement frame, and go tumbling 
 down, tearing the lattice with him as he fell. Awed for 
 the moment, she stepped to the window and saw Dan 
 lying in a black heap under the ladder that had toppled 
 down on him. From below came old Ursula's cries 
 and Isaac's cursing. Bess heard the cottage door open. 
 Footsteps came through the garden under the trees. 
 Isaac's white head gleamed in the moonlight as he ran 
 forward and pulled the ladder from off Dan's body. 
 
 Bess turned to the cupboard in the corner of the room, 
 and took out the second pistol Jeffray had given her. 
 She went to the window again and looked out. Isaac 
 had his arms under Dan's shoulders; the old man was 
 kneeling and supporting his son's body, questioning 
 him in a shrill, fierce voice as to whether he was badly 
 hurt. Dan was little the worse save for a strained back 
 and a torn ear. He scrambled up stupidly with his 
 hand to his head, and stood looking up at Bess with 
 savage spite in his eyes. 
 
 182
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Thank the Lord, you she-dog," shouted old Isaac, 
 his mouth working Hke the mouth of a man in pain, 
 "the shot went wide of the lad's head." 
 
 Ursula, who had hobbled round, laid a hand on her 
 brother's shoulder. 
 
 "Don't vex the girl further, Isaac," she whimpered. 
 
 Old Grimshaw shook her hand away, and cursed Bess 
 to hefl<face. 
 
 "By Heaven, you shall be tamed," he said. "Dan 
 shall have you yet. Who gave you your shooting-irons, 
 eh.'' I'll come round and make 'cm safe to-morrow; you 
 shall give 'cm up, or I'll know why. Come, lad, pick 
 up the ladder; we must see to your burned face." 
 
 They took the ladder between them, and marched 
 away in the moonlight towards the hamlet. Ursula, 
 who had barred the door again, came up to Bess in her 
 bedroom, querulous and frightened. The girl told her 
 the whole truth, how Dan had loosened the window -bars 
 in their sockets while Isaac was talking to them in the 
 kitchen. Ursula shook her head over the treachery, 
 cursed Dan, and tottered off to bed. 
 
 Bess did not sleep that night, but, wrapping herself 
 in her cloak, lay down to think. The moon was sinking 
 towards the west, flooding the little room with silvery 
 light, and making the girl's face seem white and wistful 
 in the gloom. From the bed, Bess could see the tower- 
 ing woods melting away into dreamlands of mist and 
 magic. All Pevensel seemed asleep, with no wind stir- 
 ring. The pines about the cottage stood black and 
 motionless under the stars. From below Be.ss could 
 catch the quiet laughter of the stream in the valley 
 running under the moonlight amid the trees. 
 
 She lay there a long while in a stupor of fierce and 
 rebellious thought, the sense of her own loneliness 
 deepened by the vast silence of the night. Despite licr 
 woman's furv against Dan. she shivered anil felt cold.
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 and even the shadowy magic of Pcvensel seemed full 
 of treachery and whispering horror. Not till another 
 morrow would she meet Jeffray at Holy Cross, and she 
 had much to fear from Isaac and his son. 
 
 As she lay on the bed with the moonlight flooding in, 
 the sudden, shrill cry of a bird taken by a weasel in the 
 woods trembled up out of the silence. Bess shuddered 
 and started up from the pillow. She caught a warning 
 in this wild thing's cry, an omen vouchsafed to her by 
 savage Pevensel. White and cold about the lips, she 
 rose up suddenly, went to the window, and looked out. 
 She could see the broken lattice lying at the foot of the 
 wall, and even imagined that the stains of Dan's blood 
 were visible upon the grass. How she hated and feared 
 the man! The thought of his coarse face and great, 
 heavy hands strengthened her in her passion to escape 
 from the forest. 
 
 Turning back into the room, she put one of Jeffray's 
 pistols into her bosom and hid the other under the 
 mattress of the bed. Then she buckled on her best 
 shoes, hooked up her cloak, and drew the hood forward 
 over her face. Very softly she crept down the stairs 
 into the kitchen, and listened for a moment outside 
 Ursula's door to discover whether the old woman was 
 awake or no. She heard the sound of deep and regular 
 breathing within, and knew that the dame was fast 
 asleep. The embers of the fire still glowed on the 
 hearth, and the kitchen reeked of Isaac's tobacco. 
 Creeping to the cottage door, she took down the bar 
 noiselessly and shot back the bolts. Without the world 
 seemed built up of magic, the moonlight flooding down 
 upon the orchards and the woods. Bess shut the door 
 gently, passed through the garden, and half ran across 
 the open grass-land betwixt the cottage and the for- 
 est. She took the path leading up towards the 
 heath about the Beacon Rock, and, gathering her cloak 
 
 184
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 round her. fled away into the moon - streaked shad- 
 ows. 
 
 It was early in the morning when Bess, who had asked 
 her way of a laborer trimming the hedges by the road, 
 came down from the high lands and saw Rodenham 
 village with its red-and-white walls and thatched roofs 
 in the valley. The smoke ascended from the chimneys 
 in purple threads towards the blue, and a haze of gold 
 hung over the woods and meadows, dimming the grand 
 outlines of the distant downs. Bess saw the priory 
 standing apart from the village amid the green billows 
 of its park and the shadows of its mighty trees. The 
 place looked very solemn and stately in the morning 
 light, and almost forbidding to her in the autocracy of 
 its solitude. She felt much like a beggar-woman as 
 she slipped through the lodge gates and passed under 
 the yews that stood there in massive and shadowy re- 
 pose. 
 
 Iron gates swinging on stone pillars, each topped 
 with a carved dragon, opened upon the terrace and 
 garden. Bess pushed in and passed on bravely towards 
 the Tudor porch, with its massive timbers, and roses 
 and acorns carved in oak. Each tall window of the 
 house seemed to stare at her superciliously, and the 
 peacocks strutting on the terrace in the sun were like 
 so many gaudy lackeys ruffling it about her. She 
 climbed the three steps, and laid her hand on the iron 
 bell-pull with a fluttering feeling at the heart. How 
 the rusty thing creaked and resisted her! Then the 
 rod slid so vigorously in its rusty sockets that the loud 
 and insistent clangor of the bell made Bess fancy that 
 the whole house was startled by her boldness. 
 
 An elderly woman in a mob-cap. her hair in curl 
 papers, opened the door to Bess. The servants had 
 fled the house, and Peter Gladden and his wife alone 
 remained to minister to JcfTray in his sickness. The 
 
 u i«5
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 butler was sitting by the open window of Richard's 
 room, watching for Surgeon Stott and Hstening to his 
 master's delirious mutterings. It was Mrs. Barbara 
 who opened the door to Bess that morning and stared 
 at her in some surprise. Mrs. Barbara was a sour- 
 tempered person, very sure of her own importance; nor 
 had the flight of her maids tended to sanctify her re- 
 sentful soul. 
 
 "Well, what d' you want, eh?" 
 
 Bess colored under the woman's curious stare. There 
 was nothing suggestive of courtesy in Mrs. Gladden's 
 manner. 
 
 "I have come to see Mr. Jeffray." 
 
 The woman's eyes studied the girl's person with 
 impertinent composure. She looked at Bess's hand- 
 some face, considered her clothes, and prepared for 
 circumspection in her dealings with so gypsyish a 
 wench. 
 
 "What's your name?" 
 
 "Bess Grimshaw." 
 
 "Grimshaw?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where do you come from?" 
 
 "Pevensel." 
 
 "And what's your business?" 
 
 Bess's eyes smouldered at such cross - questioning. 
 Mrs. Barbara's attitude was brusque and insolent. She 
 was in the habit of bullying the girls under her, and, 
 like an underling intrusted with some authority, she 
 made the most of it, and mistook impertinence for 
 dignity. 
 
 "I want to see Mr. Jeffray," quoth Bess, quietly 
 
 "You do, do you?" 
 
 "Mr. Jeffray knows my name." 
 
 Mrs. Barbara's brows contracted, and there was an 
 unpleasant glint in her brown eyes. 
 
 i86
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "And what may your business with the squire be?" 
 she asked, suspiciously. 
 
 Bess reddened and began to look fierce. 
 
 "My business is not yours," she retorted. "If you 
 will tell Mr. Jcffray that I am here he will see me." 
 
 Mrs. Gladden drew herself up, and expressed amaze- 
 ment that a gypsy wench should give herself such 
 mighty airs. 
 
 "Highty-tighty!" she exclaimed, with elevated nos- 
 trils; "are we on visiting terms at the priory? You 
 Grimshaws may have broken Mr. Jeff ray's head, but 
 you are not of the quality the young master receives. 
 Come. What d' you want? Money, eh? The back 
 door is the place for beggars." 
 
 Bess's natural dignity appeared to lift her out of the 
 squabble and to set her immeasurably above Mrs. Bar- 
 bara's papered head. 
 
 "I have come to speak with Mr. Jeffray, that is all," 
 she said, looking very haughtily into the elder woman's 
 face. "I have not come to beg or to wrangle with Mr. 
 Jeffray's servants." 
 
 "Servants! The impertinence of itl" 
 
 "I will bide here — till you have taken my name to 
 your master, madam." 
 
 Mrs. Gladdcn's nose suggested the presence of some 
 very unpleasant odor. She thrust her hands under her 
 dirty apron, and strove to look as portentous as her fat 
 and frowsy person would permit. 
 
 "Don't let me have any more of your impertinence, 
 young woman." she said. " Mr. Jeffray's in bed with the 
 small-i)ox. There's the long and short of it. I reckon 
 you had better be moving." 
 
 Bess's face had softened of a sudden, and there was a 
 pathetic drooping of her mouth. 
 
 "Mr. Jcffray— ill!" 
 
 "Didn't I say so, saucy! The poor young gentle- 
 
 187
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 man's quite out of his senses. Here is Mr. Gladden 
 coming down the stairs; he's good at persuading them 
 as are not wanted, to go." 
 
 But Bess did not wait for Peter Gladden's advent. 
 She turned away suddenly from Mrs, Barbara, and 
 went down out of the porch with a look as of pain upon 
 her face.
 
 XXI 
 
 BESS passed bnck in her red cloak between the 
 cedars with Mrs. Barbara's taunts still sounding 
 in her cars. She felt benumbed at heart, baffled and 
 very miserable, not knowing whither to turn for shelter 
 now that Jeffray's promise could have no fulfilment. 
 Mrs. Gladden's insolence had not hurt her so much as 
 the thought of Richard stricken down so suddenly by 
 this disease. Had but two days passed since he had 
 talked with her in Holy Cross, and gazed with such 
 earnestness upon her face.'' As she crossed the park 
 Bess looked back wistfully at the great house where 
 Jeffray lay sick of the fever. Her heart waxed very 
 tender towards the man, despite her wounded pride 
 and Mrs. Barbara's insolence. If only it had been her 
 lot to wait on Jeffray and spend her desire in such 
 sweet service! If he had only fallen sick in Ursula's 
 cottage and lain there to be nursed by her as she had 
 tended him that night not long ago! She felt desperate 
 enough for her own sake as she thought of Dan. Ursula 
 would have discovered her flight by now, and doubtless 
 the whole hamlet was as wise as Ursula. 
 
 Passing under the yews and out by the lodge gates, 
 she leaned against the park walls to rest and think. 
 She had little money in her y)ocket, and knew next to 
 nothing of the world. Where should she go, and how 
 should she come by food and shelter? The very 
 thought of returning to Pcvcnsel was an utter abhor- 
 rence to her soul, and now at Rodenham Priory she 
 
 189
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 could win no welcome. To hide herself from Dan and 
 Isaac, that was her whole desire. She would beg, 
 slave, feed pigs to escape their treachery until Jeffray 
 was recovered of his disease. 
 
 Much beset by her dreads and her dilemmas, she took 
 the road for Rodenham village after a last look at the 
 priory half hidden amid its trees. She felt tired and 
 hungry, having forgotten to take even a loaf with her 
 in her fever to be gone. Her shoes were dusty, her 
 mouth dry, for she had not drunk since dawn, when she 
 had taken water in her palms from a brook that ran 
 through the woods. She would go down to the village 
 to buy food, despite the danger that the boors might 
 set Dan on her track if he hunted her by way of Roden- 
 ham. Then, with her strength refreshed, she could 
 trudge on towards Rookhurst, and perhaps find refuge 
 as a servant in some farm-house. 
 
 As Bess was passing the garden gate of the rectory 
 above the church, she saw a fat gentleman in his shirt- 
 sleeves weeding the gravel path that wound up to the 
 house. The place looked very peaceful in the morning 
 light, with its tiled gables showing above chestnuts, 
 yews, and hollies, and a single trail of smoke ascending 
 from one tall chimney-stack. Bess conjectured that it 
 was the parsonage, and that the stout gentleman was 
 the incumbent. She knew nothing much of parsons 
 save that they preached on the ten commandments, 
 made wedlock honest, and baptized babies. Dr. Sugg's 
 red face was turned towards her as she stood outside 
 the gate looking wistfully in. The rector had a garden- 
 trug beside him and a hoe in his right hand. He was 
 proud of his flowers and fruit trees, and was more 
 severe on weeds than he was on sinners. 
 
 Bess was looking at Dr. Sugg very steadfastly. Surely 
 the old gentleman had a good-tempered face and a pair 
 of kindly eyes that were inclined to twinkle. Why 
 
 190
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 should she not lay the burden of her distress before his 
 broad, buckled shoes, and, V)einj,f a man of God, he should 
 be able to advise her. She turned in suddenly at the 
 gate, purposing to try the sincerity of the old gentle- 
 man's profession. 
 
 "May I speak with you, sir?" 
 
 Dr. Sugg stood up with several daisy roots in his 
 hand, and stared at Bess with his shrewd and genial 
 eyes. At the first glance, with her black hair and ruddy 
 face, she might have been taken for a gypsy. A closer 
 scrutiny suggested a more romantic and interesting 
 vagrant. The girl was strangely handsome, with a fine 
 carriage and almost the air of a great lady, and Dr. 
 Sugg always had an appreciative smile for a comely 
 woman. 
 
 "Well, Susan, what can I do for you?" 
 
 The rector addressed all young women as "Susan," 
 a fatherly and comprehensive pseudonyme that mingled 
 benignity with good -humor. Bess's lips parted in a 
 smile. The old gentleman's manner pleased her, and 
 she thought he appeared capable of being trusted. 
 
 "Are you a parson, sir?" 
 
 Dr. Sugg seemed amused by the blunt innocence of 
 the question. He threw the daisy roots into the trug, 
 and reached for his coat that was hanging on a neigh- 
 boring laurel, 
 
 "I happen to be the rector of Rodcnham, young 
 woman," he said, studying her with the professional 
 eye. 
 
 "Will you give me your advice, sir?" 
 
 " My advice is at your service, my dear, for what it is 
 worth." 
 
 Bess had come well within the gate. She stood be- 
 fore the rector, with her black hair peeping out from 
 under the hood of her cloak and her eyes fixed stead- 
 fastly on Dr. Sugg's face. The rector had never heard
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 a professional beggar ask him for his advice, and there 
 was much in the girl's manner that pleased him. He 
 had perused her lines admiringly, and noticed the beau- 
 tiful cleanliness of her clothes. It was not often that 
 so tall and fine a girl was to be seen trudging the high- 
 road through Rodenham. 
 
 "Well, my dear," he said, with a shrewd smile, "how 
 can I advise you ?" 
 
 Bess's eyes were still fixed frankly on his face. Their 
 expression convinced the reverend gentleman that this 
 red-mouthed Phoebe was telling the truth. 
 
 "My trouble is just this, sir," she confessed: "My 
 kinsfolk want to bully me into marriage against my 
 will, and I ran away from home last night, and came to 
 see Mr. Jeffray yonder, who had promised to be my 
 friend." 
 
 Parson Sugg elevated his eyebrows and noticed that 
 Bess was blushing prettily. 
 
 "Mr. Jeffray's ill with the small-pox," he said. 
 
 "So they told me, sir, at the house. It was a great 
 distress to me." 
 
 Dr. Sugg took snufiF, sneezed twice with emphasis, 
 and glanced at Bess with a curious twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 "Are you from Pevensel, my dear?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "One of the Grimshaws, eh?' 
 
 Bess nodded, and watched the stolid passage of 
 thought over the rector's good-natured countenance. 
 
 "And are you the girl, my dear, for whom Mr. Jeff ray 
 had his head broken in the woods?" 
 
 Bess laughed and colored, her eyes brightening won- 
 derfully. 
 
 "Mr. Jefifray saved me from my cousin Dan,*' she 
 confessed. 
 
 Dr. Sugg shook his head reprovingly, and yet smi/ed 
 as though he thoroughly sympathized with Mr. Richard 
 
 192
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 in the adventure. He had heard of the afTair from 
 Jeffray himself. His respect for the young squire was 
 soHd and sincere. Possibly it was this same affection 
 for his patron and a lively liking for this forest wench 
 that persuaded the good-natured old gentleman to in- 
 terest himself in her behalf. 
 
 "So Mr. Jeffray offered to play the protector to 
 you?" he asked. 
 
 "He is an honorable gentleman, sir." 
 
 " Egad, you are quite right, my dear. And this 
 would-be husband of yours, you don't fancy him, eh?" 
 
 The sincerity of her disrelish was passioned forth on 
 the girl's face. 
 
 "I hate him," she anwered, hotly, "for he has tried 
 to play many a coward's trick by me. It was only the 
 pistols Mr. Jeffray gave me that saved me last night. 
 I want to hide myself, sir, till Mr. Jeffray is recovered." 
 
 Dr. Sugg looked grave and not a little puzzled. The 
 girl's frank and childish trust in the master of Roden- 
 ham was certainly a charming Platonism, but one that 
 might lead to delicate complications, Richard Jeffray 
 might be a generous young gentleman, and a man of 
 honor, but he had hardly arrived at that patriarchal 
 and convincing age when romantic philanthropy be- 
 comes disinterested in the eyes of the world. Bess 
 Grimshaw's spirit pleased the old gentleman not a 
 little. He was a bom sportsman as well as a Christian, 
 and was honestly concerned for the girl's future. 
 
 "What's your age, my dear?" he asked, settling his 
 wig and brushing the snuff from his waistcoat. 
 
 "Two-and-twenty, sir." 
 
 "Can you milk and cook and use your needle?" 
 
 Bess smiled and confessed to all these accomplish- 
 ments. 
 
 "I would serve in a farm-house," she said, "to get 
 myself an honest home." 
 
 193
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Dr. Sugg appeared to be pondering the matter with 
 all the gravity he could gather. That he was justified 
 in abetting the girl's frank spirit of independence he 
 had no doubt at all. Besides, his efforts on her behalf 
 could not fail to please Richard Jeffray should that 
 gentleman recover. 
 
 " Listen to me, my dear," he said, at length. "Farmer 
 Pelham, of Beechhurst, needs a girl. He is an honest 
 fellow, and his wife is a kindly body. Supposing I take 
 my nag and see about the place for you?" 
 
 Bess looked as though she were ready to embrace 
 Dr. Sugg and his proposal at one and the same moment. 
 
 "I should bless the chance, sir," she said. 
 
 "That is spoken like a woman of sense." 
 
 "I don't mind about the pay, sir." 
 
 Dr. Sugg twinkled and patted the girl's shoulder. 
 
 "You leave it to me, my dear," he said. " I like your 
 honesty and the way you have trusted me. It is a 
 pleasure to help those who are willing to help them- 
 selves. You can make yourself comfortable at the 
 rectory for the day; my daughter Mary will make you 
 welcome. There, give me a kiss, my dear, to show your 
 good feeling." 
 
 And Bess kissed the old gentleman, a display of grati- 
 tude that might have shocked most grievously the more 
 straitlaced of Dr. Sugg's parishioners. 
 
 Mary Sugg assumed an air of mild and genteel hauteur 
 when her father brought Bess into the parlor and de- 
 sired his daughter to exercise his hospitality in the 
 girl's behalf. Like many plain and pious young women, 
 Mary Sugg was inclined to view beauty with suspicion 
 and to make of virtue a Madonna of Ugliness. She 
 conceived it to be distinctly indiscreet of her father 
 to introduce a strange girl into the house, especially 
 when Janet and Sarah, the housemaid and the cook, 
 had fled the place because of the small-pox. Mary Sugg 
 
 194
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 atoned for her fj^rimness. however, by being the pos- 
 sessor of a kind lieart and a sympathetic nature. She 
 made Bess a gracious Httle courtesy, and looked shyly 
 at the girl, who was gazing round the parlor, with its 
 solid Dutch furniture, its bookshelves, and its prints. 
 A tall clock ticked sententiously beside the door. The 
 chintz-curtained windows looked out upon the lawn 
 and flower-beds, where Dr. Sugg's daffodils and crocuses 
 were in bloom. 
 
 The rector took his daughter apart into the hall, and, 
 after closing the door, told Iut the whole of Bess's 
 trouble. Dr. Sugg was a great man when giving voice 
 to his opinions, and his daughter still believed him cer- 
 tain of a bishopric. Perhaps, also, it was Bess's very 
 virtuous disinclination to be married that impressed 
 Miss Mary's virgin heart. Besides, Richard Jeffray 
 had promised the girl help, and poor Mary thought Mr. 
 Richard one of the sweetest fellows in Christendom. 
 Therefore, she kissed her father and declared that she 
 approved heartily of his sentiments and his sensibility. 
 
 "Why should not the girl stay with us?" she said, of 
 a sudden, her tired eyes brightening. "Now that Janet 
 and Sarah have left us I should like some help, and I 
 do not want to get a woman up from the village." 
 
 Dr. Sugg slapped his thigh, and regarded Mary as 
 though she were a genius. 
 
 "Bless my soul," he said, "what a clodpoll I am, to 
 be sure. The ver\' thing, my dear. The wench has 
 been clear of the fever, and if she will stay with us 
 there is no need for me to ride to Beechhurst. Go in 
 and talk to her yourself, Mary." 
 
 Miss Sugg's sallow face had flushed a little. 
 
 "To be sure," she exclaimed, "she looks a very decent 
 young woman, clean and capable. I am surprised, sir — " 
 
 "Surprised, Mary?" asked the rector, with an amused 
 twinkle. 
 
 »95
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "That a girl out of Pevensel should look so neat and 
 
 respectable." 
 
 "Can any good thing come out of Nazareth, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 " Egad, many good things do originate from Nazareth, 
 my dear — more, I imagine, than from polite Jerusalem." 
 
 Mary Sugg returned to the parlor, and confessed with 
 some shy courtesy to Bess that the rector himself was 
 in need of a servant. Could Bess cook and milk and 
 mend stockings? Bess's eyes were fixed searchingly 
 on Miss Sugg's face for the moment as though probing 
 her sincerity. Contrasts that they were, there was a 
 gentleness and an air of quiet sympathy about the par- 
 son's daughter that appealed instinctively to the child 
 of the woods. She met Mary's offer in the spirit that 
 prompted it, and thanked her with a tremulous light in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Madam," she said, with simple stateliness, holding 
 out her hand and making poor Mary look utterly com- 
 monplace, "I thank you for your kindness and your 
 trust in me. I will serve you with all my heart." 
 
 There is magic in gratitude, and Mary, blushing shyly, 
 took Bess's hand and liked the girl unreservedly from 
 that moment. 
 
 "My father is a kind man," she said, a little con- 
 fusedly; "he is always ready to help those who are in 
 trouble." 
 
 "And I see that you are his daughter, madam." 
 
 "I hope I try to be worthy of him, my dear." 
 
 It was a quaint sight to see Mary Sugg with her awk- 
 ward little body and her ugly face mothering Bess, who 
 could have carried her in her arms like a child. Bess 
 seemed to become strangely sweet and gentle. Her 
 heart had gone out to this faded, shrivelled little person 
 with the quiet face and the pale, short-sighted eyes. 
 She was soon talking to Mary of her life in Pevensel, 
 
 196
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 and Miss Sugg's shocked face was a study in pained 
 propriety when she heard of Dan's brutaUty. Yet 
 Mary Sugg was a very simple and untainted young 
 woman for all her primness, and there was a certain in- 
 evitable ardor in Bess's personality that appealed to 
 good women and to children. 
 
 Mar)' took the girl into the kitchen, brewed her some 
 coffee, and saw that she ate an honest meal. Then she 
 showed her the whole house — the attic that was to be 
 her bedroom, the press where the clean linen was kept, 
 the closet where the pans and brushes were. She gave 
 Bess one of her own aprons, an old pair of house shoes, 
 and a cap. Bess had much of the practical in her con- 
 stitution, and, moreover, she was burning to prove her 
 gratitude to her friends. There was to be a leg of mut- 
 ton for Dr. Sugg's dinner that day. Bess bared her 
 brown forearms, fastened on her apron, and blessed old 
 Ursula for having taught her to be useful. Dr. Sugg 
 was delighted with her cooking and with the quiet and 
 graceful way she waited at table. Mary, a perfect 
 housewife herself, congratulated her father on their 
 refugee's success. 
 
 "The girl looks quite a lady," she said. "I must say 
 I am in love with her, though she has only been with 
 us half a day. I trust her terrible kinsfolk will not 
 trouble her here." 
 
 Dr. Sugg frowned and looked bellicose. 
 
 "The authority of this house," he answered, "is suffi- 
 cient to awe the rascals. My sympatliies are wholly 
 with the girl, my dear, and I shall protect her to the 
 best of my ability."
 
 XXII 
 
 THE old parsonage house, with its sombre atmos- 
 phere and its silence broken only by the ticking of 
 the great Dutch clock in the parlor, seemed to Bess a 
 secluded hermitage where she would be safe from her 
 kinsfolk and from the savagery of her forest lover. 
 The kitchen was in the wing at the back of the house, 
 shut off from the fields by Dr. Sugg's orchard and a 
 holly hedge, and parted on the west from the church- 
 yard by the garden and a high stone-wall. The very 
 consciousness of her nearness to Jeffray filled her with 
 contentment. She flitted about the brick-paved kitchen 
 singing to herself at times, and thinking of Jeffray as 
 she did her work. There was the cow to be called in 
 from the parsonage meadow and milked at dawn and 
 sunset. Mary Sugg herself answered the kitchen door 
 so that Bess's presence should be kept as secret as pos- 
 sible. Dr. Sugg alone went into Rodenham village, for 
 since the breaking out of the small-pox his daughter 
 had kept to the house and garden, leaving such busi- 
 ness as lay outside the rectory to her father. Bess 
 served her new friends with all the ardor of her nature. 
 She brushed Dr. Sugg's coat for him, buckled on his 
 shoes, and warmed his slippers. As for Miss Mary, she 
 had fallen coyly in love with their handsome hand- 
 maid, and treated her more as a friend than as a 
 servant. 
 
 Each day Dr. Sugg would trudge up to the priory 
 and make inquiries after Richard Jeffray 's health. For 
 
 198
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Bess it was the culminating:^ moment in the day when 
 she unlocked the front-door for the rector — for they kept 
 the door locked — saw him hang his hat in the hall, and 
 heard him remark with a twinkle that "Mr. Jeffray was 
 doing very well." Bess would turn back, in her red 
 petticoat, white cap and apron, into the kitchen and 
 sing softly to herself as she turned the joint on the spit, 
 polished the pewter, or peeled apples for a tart. As 
 yet she knew nothing of Jeffray 's betrothal to Miss 
 Hardacre, and in her simple and passionate way she let 
 her imagination roam at will. It was more a rare and 
 sensuous dream with the girl, a passing and repassing 
 of mysterious and alluring visions. Practical as she 
 was in the trivialities of life, she became a desirous- 
 eyed child of nature when love opened the gates of the 
 sunset and of the dawn. 
 
 As for Miss Mary Sugg, she was a very modest creat- 
 ure, and had grown to regard the passionate intoxica- 
 tions of life as bordering on indecency. Like many in- 
 evitable spinsters, she had become ashamed, as it were, 
 of her own sex, and the very reading of the banns in 
 church made her mouth straighten primly and her 
 hands clasp each other more chastely in her lap. The 
 parson's daughter appeared sincerely disturbed when 
 Bess spoke to her of her life in Pevensel. Prudence and 
 propriety! The very thought of such savagery as Dan's 
 sent a pious shiver through Miss Sugg's frame. She 
 admired Bess for her courage, and even looked up to 
 her with some sort of awe as to one who had survived 
 terrible tcmptings of the devil. Bess grew to trust the 
 prim, kindly little creature in the course of a few days. 
 She felt greatly moved to pet Miss Sugg, to stroke her 
 gentle face, and caress her as a child might caress some 
 smiling and delightful grandmother. Poor Mary took 
 Bess's attentif)ns with blushes and a secret sense of 
 pleasure. It had been her lot to be one of the odd 
 
 199
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 women in the world, slighted by every one with the 
 exception of Richard Jeffray and her father. 
 
 It has been said that Mary Sugg regarded matrimony 
 with suspicion, and though Miss Sugg had not the re- 
 motest hope of marrying Richard Jeff ray herself, she 
 had no liking for his betrothal to Jilian Hardacre. 
 Mary, like all women of sense, was something of a gos- 
 sip, and it was at Rodenham parsonage that Bess 
 learned at last of Jeffray's entanglement at Hardacre. 
 Mary was helping Bess to clean the silver and the 
 pewter in the pantry when she let the truth slip casual- 
 ly into the girl's ears. 
 
 Bess started, reddened, and went on polishing Dr. 
 Sugg's tankard as though the news had no concern for 
 her heart. 
 
 "I did not know Mr. Jeffray was to be married," she 
 said, frowning a little, and staring out of the narrow 
 window. 
 
 Miss Sugg, lost in her own reflections for the moment, 
 noticed nothing strained or unnatural in Bess's manner. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it will soon be quite an old affair," 
 she said, with a sigh. 
 
 "And is Miss Hardacre very handsome?" 
 
 "A matter of opinion, my dear." 
 
 "Mr. Jeffray is very much in love with her?" 
 
 Miss Sugg's mouth tightened primly. 
 
 "It is not my business," she said, quietly, "to inquire 
 into the warmth and nature of a gentleman's affections." 
 
 Poor Bess, her forecastings of the future were greatly 
 changed by those few words of Mary Sugg's. She woke 
 no longer in the morning with a rush of joy to hear the 
 thrushes singing in the parsonage garden. All her 
 quaint imaginings were past and gone, for she was 
 woman enough to feel the significance of this new 
 truth. A kind of hopelessness took possession of her, 
 a conviction that Jeffray had given her nothing but 
 
 200
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 pity, and that all her dreams had been made of mist. 
 Miss Hardacre was a great lady, and of course Mr. Jef- 
 fray was right in wishing to marry her. Bess went 
 about her work with a dull ache at her heart. She no 
 longer dreamed of the day when she should see Jeflfray 
 face to face again ; rather, she dreaded the very thought 
 of it, and grew full of a bitter humbleness that softened 
 her whole nature. Her one yearning was to be saved 
 from Dan and Isaac, to be left in peace awhile, unques- 
 tioned and alone. 
 
 It was the seventh evening of Bess's sojourn at the 
 parsonage. Dr. Sugg had gone down into the village 
 to visit certain of the villagers who were sick to death 
 of the fever, and Miss Sugg was sitting in her bedroom, 
 sewing. Bess had been sweeping the kitchen and pol- 
 ishing the pewter and the plate. The evening was full 
 of the splendor of spring, birds singing in every tree, 
 and the sky a great sheet of gold in the west. The gar- 
 den looked so green and fair with the sunlight shim- 
 mering through upon the grass, and daffodils asleep in 
 the shade, that Bess had opened the garden door and 
 looked up at the blue zenith and the golden west. The 
 broad beds would soon be ablaze with tulips, red and 
 white. Anemones and primroses were flowering in the 
 shrubVjery, and the gorsc on the heath above Rodcn- 
 ham was gilding the purple of the hills. 
 
 Halting suddenly as she crossed the grass, she fancied 
 that she caught the sound of footsteps close by in tin- 
 church-yard. The stone-wall that divided the burial- 
 ground, with its gray headstones and its yews, from the 
 parsonage garden, stood some seven feet high, and was 
 tufted along the summit with gillillower and grass. 
 Bess ran her eyes suspiciously along the edge that cut 
 the golf! of the western sky. Suddenly, just above her, 
 she saw a pair of hairy hands come over the wall, llic 
 fingers clawing at the stone- work to gain a surer lu)l<l. 
 
 U 20I
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 A fur cap jerked up above the wall; a face followed it, 
 the mouth agape, the eyes straining right and left into 
 the dusk. 
 
 Bess, standing stone-still, recognized Dan, her cousin. 
 He had a red handkerchief knotted about his forehead, 
 and a pad of lamb's-wool over his wounded ear. Her 
 fear of him made her like Lot's wife for the moment, as 
 she stood discovered on the open lawn. She was con- 
 scious only of the grin on the man's face, as he stared 
 at her, and of the great, hairy hands still gripping the 
 wall. 
 
 Her pistol! She felt in her bosom for it, and found 
 with a shock of horror that she had left it in the attic. 
 Dan, who had scrambled astride the wall, gave a hoarse 
 shout and waved his hand. Bess had turned and was 
 racing for the house. She heard Dan leap down from 
 the wall and come padding after her across the grass. 
 Mary Sugg's white and terrified face showed for a mo- 
 ment at one of the upper windows. The parson's 
 daughter saw two more men leap down from the church- 
 yard into the garden. 
 
 Bess stumbled over the step at the kitchen door, and 
 half fell across the threshold. She struggled up and in, 
 and clapped to the door, only to find Dan's weight heav- 
 ing against it before she could put up the bar. The 
 latch and bolt gave way Hke brittle wood, and Bess 
 herself was sent staggering against the wall. Before 
 she could recover, Dan's great arms were round her, his 
 face thrust close to hers, his breath beating on her cheek. 
 
 Bess struggled fiercely, beating one fist in his face, 
 and striving to untwine herself from his arms. He was 
 too strong for her, however, and she read the savage 
 delight of it in his eyes. Crushing Bess to him, and 
 lifting her off her feet, he carried her out into the gar- 
 den, mocking her as she pleaded, fought, and threat- 
 ened. 
 
 202
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Isaac, and Solomon, his brotlier, were waiting under 
 the holly hedge closing tlie orchard. They ran forward 
 to meet Dan, and set to to bind Bess's wrists and ankles, 
 while Dan held her down upon the grass. Isaac was 
 mocking her the while with an exultation that made 
 his smooth face seem diabolical under its white hair. 
 Bess, desperate, and struggling still, cursed him as he 
 held her left arm pinned against the ground while 
 Solomon knotted the cord about her wrist. 
 
 *'01d man," she said, "be sure that I shall kill you 
 some day." 
 
 Isaac, thrusting his hand into her hair, and twisting 
 a mass of it about his fingers, wrenched at the strands 
 till Bess cried out with pain. 
 
 "You would run away from us, eh! We'll cure you 
 of your tricks, my lady. This is the last time you'll 
 laugh at us, I guess." 
 
 "Devil—" 
 
 "That's as it may be, my dear. Quick, lad, tie up 
 her feet. I'll shove this rag in her mouth and tie the 
 cloth over it. That's the trick. Up with her, Dan, 
 she's yours now, I reckon." 
 
 Dan took Bess in his arms, hugging her tight to his 
 broad chest, and carried her through the orchard and 
 out into the meadow. Isaac and Solomon followed, 
 keeping a keen watch behind them to see whether they 
 were to be meddled with from the house. On the road 
 over Rodcnham heath old Isaac's wagon was waiting, 
 with three stout horses in the team. One of Solomon's 
 sons, Enoch, held the ropes. There was a ])ile of loose 
 straw in the wagon, and Dan, half throwing Bess in 
 over the tail-board, climbed in after her and covered 
 her with the straw. Isaac and Solomon clambered in 
 after him, and, whip]>ing up the horses, they went at a 
 trot for the wooded slopes of Pevcnscl.
 
 XXIII 
 
 RICHARD JEFFRAY'S recovery from the small-pox 
 was hailed by the tenants of the Rodenham estate 
 as nothing less than a public blessing. The farmers 
 were astute enough to know when they had a generous 
 "booby" for a landlord, a man who could easily be 
 cheated, and who was ready to listen to their grievances 
 instead of sensibly grinding the gold out of their tough 
 and materialistic hearts. Hence they listened with 
 unction to Dr. Sugg's thanksgiving sermon, and thanked 
 Providence when they realized that there would be no 
 raising of their rents. 
 
 Even the Lady Letitia experienced a comfortable 
 sensation when she read the good news in a letter from 
 Dr. Sugg, or, rather, when Parsons read it to her at a 
 distance of three paces, lest there should be any infec- 
 tion in the sheet. Jeff ray was an amiable relative who 
 might oblige her delicately on occasions. As for the 
 Hardacre folk, their sympathies were centred for the 
 moment in their own family, for Jilian was abed with 
 the small-pox, and Sir Peter and Mr. Lot were much 
 agitated in their minds as to how her precious com- 
 plexion would withstand the ravages of the disease. 
 
 There were flowers on the broad window -seat of 
 Jeffray's bedroom window, flowers that should have 
 testified to some gentle and soft-eyed presence in the 
 house. Who was it that had set those gorgeous king- 
 cups in that bowl of blue, filled those tall vases with 
 wild hyacinths, and ranged the tulips red and white in 
 
 204
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 pots along the window-ledge ? No woman's hand had 
 done the deed. Blunt Dick Wilson was the culprit on 
 this occasion. Wilson, whose creased and cynical face 
 had come back through Rodenham, tanned by the sea- 
 wind and the sun upon the downs. Peter Gladden had 
 shown no reluctance to delegate many of his duties to 
 his master's friend, and the painter had put aside his 
 brushes and busied himself with phials and feeding- 
 cups, spoons and red flannel, warming-pans and iced- 
 wine. 
 
 One May morning Richard sat at his open window, 
 looking over the park towards Rodenham village and 
 the purple slopes of Pevensel. There had been no May- 
 ing in the village that month, and the blackthorn and 
 the broom, the palm and wild-cherr}^ had escaped un- 
 broken, for though the pest appeared to have spent its 
 malice, death had entered many of the cottages. George 
 Gogg, of the Wheat Sheaf, had lost his daughter, a 
 plump, black - haired, bright - eyed wench, whose red 
 cheeks and red ribbons had turned many a young 
 farmer's head. Old Sturtevant, the cobbler, had gone 
 the way of all flesh, and several more of the villagers, 
 men, women, and children, were lying under the green- 
 sward in Rodenham church-yard. As for Jeffray, he 
 was but in a feeble way himself, and Surgeon Stott had 
 decreed it that he was to be troubled with no news 
 from the outer world as yet. 
 
 Richard, muflled up in a dressing-gown, with dusky 
 mottlings covering his thin face, sat before the open 
 window anrl looked out over the park. The disease 
 had seized him sharjjly, but not dangerously, and even 
 Richard had vanity enough to feel some satisfaction at 
 Surgeon Stott's verdict that he would be left with few 
 scars. There is a delicious languor in convalescence 
 when the world seems to spread itself anew before the 
 reawakened eyes, and life is reborn like a dream of re- 
 
 205
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 newed youth into the heart. Nature seems to welcome 
 the exile with smiling eyes and soft breathings of her 
 green-clad bosom. So might it have been for Richard 
 that spring day as he saw the great trees standing so 
 calm and still under the blue heavens, and the green 
 billows of the park a-glisten under the sun. 
 
 Sickness is held to solemnize the soul, to chasten the 
 understanding, and purge the passion out of man. It 
 is considered to be a season of severe self -judgment, 
 and of inward searchings of the heart, a season when 
 religious impulses should struggle to the surface, and 
 solemn promises be made to propitiate the god who 
 has granted health. Such is the orthodox exposition 
 of the doctrine of disease. The pious hand points to 
 the precipice that has provided the mortal with a 
 chance of realizing the abysses of the unknown. 
 
 But with Jeffray his recovery was as the coming 
 forth of a moth from the cramping sack of custom. 
 He had much to repent of in the past, but the repent- 
 ance was romantic rather than religious. It was a lift- 
 ing up of the hands to the light, not the wan and sickly 
 light of prosaic morality, but the glow of the instincts 
 that burn on the altar of nature, the life fire of love, of 
 wonder, and of worship. 
 
 It was towards Bess — Bess of the Woods — that Jeff- 
 ray's thoughts flew feverishly as he lay in bed or sat 
 propped up in his chair before the window. He yearned 
 to see that face again, to watch the light kindling in 
 the keen-sighted eyes, to hear the deep and husky 
 modulations of her voice. He was eager to learn 
 whether she were safe from Dan or no, and to tell her 
 why the tryst at Holy Cross had been broken. His 
 thoughts hovered more tenderly about her radiant face 
 bathed by the splendor of its dusky hair than about 
 Miss Jilian's tawny head. His recollections of Miss 
 Hardacre were neither satisfying to his soul nor flatter- 
 
 206
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ing to the future. He remembered lier as vain, peevish, 
 ready to wax petulant over trifles, selfishly jealous of 
 her own safety. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to spin a flimsy tissue of 
 words about Richard JefTray's thoughts. Probably his 
 illness had suffered his convictions to sink to the solid 
 earth instead of drifting feather-like in air. Frankly, 
 he discovered in himself a strong and aggressive disin- 
 clination to make Miss Jilian Hardacre his wife. It 
 was no great psychological problem, but merely a 
 question of nature asserting herself in the magic person 
 of poor Bess. Bess was a finer and lovelier being than 
 Miss Hardacre; she had more soul, more splendor of 
 outline, more womanly suggestivencss. And thus Mr. 
 Richard sat brooding in his chair, watching the clouds 
 drift across the blue, and wondering what the near 
 future had in store for him. 
 
 Perhaps Jeff^ray was not sorry to have his solitude 
 broken by the sound of Dick Wilson's heavy and delib- 
 erate footsteps in the gallery, and the shining of his red 
 face round the edge of the oak door. The painter wore 
 the same rusty suit of clothes, and he had been mourn- 
 ing his approaching ])arting with these well-worn re- 
 tainers, for Surgeon Stott had ordered him to burn 
 every shred of them before he left Rodenham. In 
 danger of being "nonsuited," Mr. Dick was eontem- 
 I)lating a descent upon the late Mr. Jeflfray's wardrobe, 
 since it was certain that he could not turn Adamite in 
 the cause of cleanliness, and perhaps end in a mad- 
 house by reason of his nudity. 
 
 Jeffray's pale face, with the shadow-rings under the 
 eyes, lighted up at Wilson's coming. The painter had 
 a roll of manuscript in his hand. He went and sat in 
 the window-seat, after pushing aside the bowl of king- 
 cups, and patted the roll of paper with peculiar and 
 amusing emphasis. 
 
 207
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "May I congratulate you, sir," he said, "on having 
 revived the spirit of the EHzabethans ?" 
 
 Jeffray colored, like a boy whose mother has caught 
 him inditing verses to a pretty milliner. 
 
 "What! You have been reading my epic, Dick?" 
 
 "I have, sir, I have. I discovered it in the library, 
 and you will pardon the friendly curiosity that prompted 
 me to bury my nose in it." 
 
 Jeff ray laughed shyly, and lay back with his hands 
 clasped behind his head. The painter had unfolded 
 the roll, and, holding it before him, with a quaint and 
 sententious pride, read the three opening stanzas of the 
 poem, 
 
 "There is life for you," he said, warmly, "The divine 
 utterance, the gushing out of song." 
 
 Jeffray's face was still red under his waving hair. He 
 laughed, the quiet, pleased laugh of aspiring yet in- 
 credulous youth, and looked at Wilson with affectionate 
 amusement. 
 
 " I am glad you like the work, Dick," he said. " Heav- 
 en knows, I have copied nobody, and yet my lines seem 
 childish when set beside Pope's or Dryden's." 
 
 "Childish, sir, and if they are childish, you should 
 thank Heaven for their innocence. As for Pope, he's 
 nothing but a pedant setting prose on stilts, and trying 
 to make her tread a stately measure. Why, sir, his 
 poetry is like a respectable old lady knitting epigrams 
 together on her needles. Dash his preciseness, and his 
 pompous and ponderous conceit! Set him beside Will 
 Shakespeare, and you will hear an artificial waterfall 
 trying to thunder against the sea." 
 
 Jeff ray smiled, and stretched out his hand for the 
 manuscript. He glanced at the neat and sensitive 
 writing with satisfaction, moving his lips the while as 
 though reading certain of his favorite passages over to 
 himself. 
 
 208
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "But what woukl the critics say of them?" he asked. 
 
 "Critics, sir!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Wilson blew his nose with great vigor, and grimaced 
 as though he had swallowed vinegar. He reached for 
 a volume of the Annual Register, that was lying on the 
 table beside Jeflfray's chair, and opened the book at the 
 place dedicated to verse. 
 
 "Here, sir," he said, holding the volume at arm's- 
 length and declaiming, sententiously, through his nose — 
 " here is the sort of stuff we English feed the imaginative 
 passion on. 
 
 •"TO A ROBIN 
 
 "'Sweet social bird! Whose soft harmonious lays 
 Swell the glad song of thy Creator's praise, 
 Say. art thou conscious of approaching ills? 
 Fell winter's storms, the pointed blast that kills?' 
 
 "There, sir, there's the proper pedantic stuflf for you. 
 It puzzles me to think what our English woods would 
 be Uke if all the 'sweet social birds' sang in that fash- 
 ion. And can you tell me, sir, why winter is always 
 'fell' with these gentlemen, and any poor thrush 'a 
 member of the feathered tribe'? Damn it, why can't 
 they call a wind a wind, instead of 'Black Boreas's 
 breath,' or some such scholarly twaddle? I tell you, 
 Richard, this sort of stuff sickens me; it is like looking 
 at some painted and behooped old hag, and trying to 
 think she's a pretty shepherdess. Why, sir, your verses 
 arc as different from them as the scent of new-mown 
 hay from the scent of a beauty's pomade-box. They 
 smell of the downs and of the woods and the sea, sir — 
 they do that, by gad!" 
 
 Jeffray was watching the strenuous ])lay of thought 
 on Wilson's countenance. 
 
 209
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Then you do not think, Dick, that my poetry would 
 be popular?" 
 
 An indescribable flash of ironical amusement leaped 
 across the painter's face. 
 
 "Popular!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "No, sir; plain people who love nature and the truth 
 are not popular in these learned days. Why, were I 
 to paint one of your Sussex landscapes with the dawn 
 coming up over the downs a great gush of gold, not a 
 soul would look at it; but if I took Lady Tomfool, 
 draped her, shoved her in front of a bit of a Greek tem- 
 ple, made her strike some silly attitude, and called her 
 Juno or Proserpine, or Alcestis returned from Hades, 
 all the silly women would crowd round and gape at it, 
 and declare that I had a most classic style." 
 
 Jeff ray laughed, and lay back with a thoughtful light 
 in his eyes, as he watched the cloud shadows playing 
 over the sunny heights of Pevensel. Wilson was drum- 
 ming on the window-sill with his fingers, and still hold- 
 ing the Annual Register upon his knee. He was watch- 
 ing Richard with a grave and bent-browed tenderness, 
 seeming to see in him the spirit of the coming age, when 
 fine gentlemen would give up the carrying of muffs and 
 the writing of odes in imitation of Horace. Men would 
 wake again to the beauty that lived in the woods and 
 upon the mountains. But for the present, Wilson had 
 other duties to perform beside the praising of Jeffray's 
 poetry. He had been intrusted by Surgeon Stott with 
 the responsibility of breaking the news of Miss Hard- 
 acre's illness to his host. He had desired to put the 
 lad in as good spirits as possible before flinging the un- 
 pleasant confession in his face. 
 
 "There is no doubt, Richard," he said, slowly, "that 
 you have the true fire in you. Go on, sir, go on as you 
 have begun, and let the big-bellied academicals snort 
 
 2IO
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 and blow rhetoric throu^'h their noses. But the Muses 
 must go flower-gathering for a moment; I have another 
 matter on my mind this morning." 
 
 There was a forced and suspicious cheerfulness in 
 Wilson's voice that made Richard Jeff ray turn his eyes 
 to him from the slopes of Pevensel. The painter had 
 something of the air of a nurse, who was about to ad- 
 minister physic to a child, pretending barefacedly the 
 while that it was sweet and palatable as sugared milk. 
 Wilson's eyes were fixed on the Annual Register in his 
 hand ; he was turning the leaves and glancing perfunc- 
 torily from page to page. 
 
 " You are not the only sick person in the neighbor- 
 hood, Richard," he said, significantly; "they say that 
 love is wondrous sympathetic, and that your Corydon 
 can feel the toothache that is swelling in his Chloe's 
 cheek." 
 
 Jeffray stared at Wilson with vague surprise. 
 
 "What do you mean, Dick?" he asked. 
 
 "Mean, sir! Why, your betrothed, like the sweet 
 lady that she is, has been keeping you company in the 
 matter of boluses and bleedings, that is all." 
 
 "Jilianill?" 
 
 Wilson nodded and exercised his facial muscles in 
 the production of a reassuring smile. 
 
 "Miss Hardacre caught the small-])ox, sir," he ex- 
 plained, "but she is facing it famously, and Stott de- 
 clares her to be out of danger. Let me assure you, 
 Richard, that there is no need for you to distress your- 
 self about the lady. Stott forbade me to mention her 
 illness to you until he felt convinced that she would re- 
 cover." 
 
 Jeffray leaned back in his chair with a sigh, frowned, 
 and stared fixedly out of the window. 
 
 "I must have given it to lu-r. Diik," he said. 
 
 Wilson shut the book up with a snap. 
 
 21 I
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Nonsense!" he retorted. "Why imagine such a 
 thing? Nothing is to be gained by saddhng one's self 
 with hypothetical responsibilities." 
 
 The sensitive lines about Jeff ray's mouth had deep- 
 ened, and there was a strained look about his eyes. 
 Wilson, who was watching him affectionately, misread 
 the whole meaning of the mood. He assumed Richard 
 to be in love with Miss Jilian, and magnified his friend's 
 distress like the warm-hearted fellow that he was. 
 
 "Dick." 
 
 "Well, sir?" 
 
 "Has she had it badly? Will it — will it disfigure 
 her?" 
 
 Wilson shut one eye and sniffed, an expression 
 peculiar to him in moments of deep feeling. 
 
 "Confound it!" he said, cheerfully, "why heap up 
 imaginery woes, sir? Stott has said nothing about 
 scars. Besides, my dear friend, the lady will recover, 
 and that is the great thing, eh?" 
 
 Jeffray lay back heavily in his chair. 
 
 "Yes, that is the great thing," he answered.
 
 XXIV 
 
 THREE clays after hearing of Jilian's illness, Jcffray 
 took his first drive with Wilson, in a light chaise 
 that his father had used when his increasing feebleness 
 had debarred him from the saddle. Dame Meg, the 
 most sedate mare in the stable, was between the traces, 
 with Wilson, who was equal to ruling so amiable a lady, 
 in possession of the reins. They rattled through the 
 park and turned down towards Rodenham village, in- 
 tending to follow the Lewes coach-road as far as the 
 lane that branched off to Thomey Chapel, a hamlet 
 lying under the southern slopes of Pevensel. Jeffray, 
 who felt the fog shifting from his brain as they rolled 
 along under the open sky, dilated to Wilson on the 
 beauties of the place, insisting that he must paint it, 
 and that he, Richard, would be the purchaser of the 
 picture. He had been striving to persuade the painter 
 to pass the summer at the priory, a kindness that Mr. 
 Dick's pride found some difficulty in accepting. 
 
 As they drove down into Rodenham village several 
 of the women ran out to courtesy to the young squire 
 and grin congratulations at him on his recovery. Rich- 
 ard bowed to them with a pleasant color rising in his 
 cheeks. He was a man whose natural desire was to be 
 loved and trusted by his fellows, and any affection that 
 was shown to him inevitably kindled a kindred feeling 
 in his heart. On the steps of the Wheat Sheaf they 
 saw George Gogg standing, his hands thrust into his 
 breeches-pockets under his apron, and a blackened clay 
 
 213
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 pipe between his teeth. Jeff ray bade Wilson draw up 
 before the inn while he spoke sympathetically to the 
 old man on the loss of his daughter. George Gogg's 
 face looked flushed and sodden as though he had been 
 drinking heavily to drown his thoughts. His blue eyes, 
 that seemed to see everything and understand nothing, 
 stared blankly at the roofing of the village pump. 
 
 "Well, sir," he said, "Parson Sugg tells me as how it 
 is God's way of doing things, and I reckon it is a com- 
 fortable sort of notion that no man can quarrel with. 
 I mus' say my poor wench was a purty wench, and I 
 reckon she won't disgrace 'em up above in the matter 
 of looks. Anyway, the angels have got her, sir, for she 
 was a gal as never did nobody any harm. Her old fa- 
 ther can best say 'hallelujah,' and think a bit more of 
 trying to climb up after her, and with Parson Sugg's 
 leave, sir, I'll hang on to his coat-tails till I feel a bit 
 surer of my feet. Will it please your honor to take a 
 glass of wine?" 
 
 Jeffray shook Gogg's hand sympathetically, and de- 
 clined the courtesy. 
 
 "You have your boy, Gogg," he said, kindly. 
 
 "Yes, I have the boy, sir, and he's a stocky lad, 
 though a bit fond of helping himself to other folk's 
 fruit. I am glad to see your honor looking so fit and 
 hearty." 
 
 "Thank you, Gogg, I am nearly myself again." 
 
 "And I hope, sir, you will be soon saying the same of 
 your good lady — Miss Hardacre." 
 
 Jeffray's face hardened at the innkeeper's words; the 
 frank, beaming look died out of the eyes, the angles of 
 the sensitive mouth sank instantly. Even this fat 
 fool's suavity seemed to summon before his eyes all 
 those grim and staring sentimentalities that hemmed 
 him in like a crowd of attorneys. George Gogg's round 
 person vanished with its white - stockinged legs and 
 
 214
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 dirty apron, and in its place Jeff ray beheld the im- 
 placable Sir Peter and Mr. Lot's red and arrogant face. 
 A small crowd of children had gathered about the 
 chaise, their natural impertinence suppressed by a 
 hoped for largesse of pence. Jeffray threw some cop- 
 pers among them as Wilson flapped the reins on Dame 
 Meg's back. The brats scrambled and fought for the 
 money, one urchin, a head taller than the rest, conclud- 
 ing the scramble by forcing the pennies from the fists 
 of the feebler competitors. Richard's munificence had 
 wrought more woe than pleasure. There was much 
 blubbering and squealing, much running together of 
 angry mothers, ready to squabble over their children's 
 feuds. 
 
 There was an amused glint in Wilson's eyes as he 
 caught a glimpse of Jeffray 's melancholy face. 
 
 "See, sir," he said, "the evils of too promiscuous a 
 generosity. There is about as much evil caused in this 
 world by giving as by grinding. As to that pretty 
 superstition with regard to the beautiful innocence of 
 childhood, it is about as outrageous a myth as ever rose 
 out of the affectations of maternity. Children are gen- 
 erally worse than animals, sir, since they inherit all the 
 devilish and human cunning of their ancestors." 
 
 Jeffray lay back in the chaise as though he were 
 weary. 
 
 "What it means to be an idealist!" he said. 
 
 "Live on a desert island and you may succeed," 
 quoth the jKiinter, with a smile. 
 
 The day was one of those magical days in May when 
 the earth seems radiant as for a bridal. A pearly haze 
 hung like a great veil of gossamer, tempering the blue 
 of the cloudless heavens. The wind that came from 
 the east was scarcely strong enough to set the bluebells 
 nodding in the woods, or to scatter the fading black- 
 thorn blossom from the boughs. Despite his unlovely 
 
 2'5
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 recollections of Rodenham village, Jeffray's spirit kin- 
 dled as the chaise threaded the green, and he saw the 
 chaffinches darting in the hedgerows, and the larks 
 shivering and singing in the sun. Over the ploughed 
 lands the crops were thrusting up a myriad emerald 
 spears, and already the buttercups were gilding the 
 quiet meadows. 
 
 They came to the lane that branched off from the 
 high-road, and wound over green hills and plunged into 
 forest hollows towards the hamlet of Thorney Chapel. 
 The woods rose up before them with all the deepening 
 mystery of May as Dame Meg drew the chaise between 
 the hedgerows. Dome on dome, and height on height, 
 the trees were piled towards the blue. The spirits of 
 spring were spinning everywhere, bronze for the oak, 
 silver and gold for the poplar and the willow, shimmer- 
 ing green for the birch, beech, and thorn. Yonder a 
 great larchwood rose solemn and stiff beneath a thou- 
 sand emerald spires. Dark yews and pines stood black 
 amid the lighter multitude. About the pillared fore- 
 courts of the forest the gorse was fringed and seamed 
 with gold. Purple orchids had speared through their 
 sheaths. Bluebells dusted each lush green knoll. The 
 broom blazed like living fire. 
 
 The lane had turned down from the woods into a 
 shallow valley that ran east and west under the shad- 
 ows of Pevensel. Meadow-land filled it, with here and 
 there a pine thicket isleted amid the green, while astride 
 the road lay the hamlet of Thorney, some half a score 
 timbered cottages huddled about a tumble-down inn. 
 To the east of the hamlet, and divided from it by a 
 small stream and a fourteen-acre meadow, stood Thor- 
 ney Chapel, a squat, sombre-colored building of stone 
 with an open belfry and a wooden porch. 
 
 A few frowsy women, with children hanging about 
 their skirts, were loitering outside the chapel -gate as 
 
 216
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 the chaise came down the hill towards the hamlet. 
 Wilson, who had a keen scent for all the human in- 
 terests of life, however trite and humble they mi^dit 
 seem, prophesied that a country wedding was in prog- 
 ress. 
 
 "To be sure. May is an unlucky month," he said, with 
 a smile, "but the sun will shine on the bride; and, con- 
 found it, sir, the majority of wedded couples might have 
 been tied together hi May to judge by the unlucky show 
 they make in after life. See, they seem to be coming 
 out; the brats and the shes are pointing their noses up 
 the path. Let's stop, sir, and watch." 
 
 The chapel burial-ground was bounded by a low stone- 
 wall, and within two gnarled thorns and a few yews 
 watched over the lichened stones that looked distinctly 
 irreverent in their convivial attitudes. The bell in the 
 open belfry began to clang vigorously. The women 
 and children crowded round the gate, elbowing one an- 
 other to enjoy one of the rare and elemental sights life 
 in such a wilderness provided. 
 
 Wilson had drawn the chaise up under one of the 
 thorn-trees that overhung the wall. He tilted his hat 
 on to the back of his head, dropped the reins, and wiped 
 his forehead with a red cotton handkerchief. 
 
 "This would have been a chance for that knave 
 Herrick," he said, with a wink. "His muse was wan- 
 ton, but his life was chaste, so he said, sir, the fo.x. 
 He should have been a pleasant old pagan, should 
 Rol)ert Herrick. He and Mr. Ovid would have made 
 Miss Venus a lovely pair of twins." 
 
 Richard, leaning forward slightly in the chaise, was 
 watching the folk who were filing out of the cha])cl 
 porch while the bell creaked to and fro in the belfry 
 overhead. There were half a dozen lads and nun with 
 flowers in their hats and green jackets on their backs, 
 chuckling and elbowing one another outside the porch. 
 as 2'7
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Richard saw the bride come out upon the bridgegroom's 
 arm, a tall, black-haired girl gowned in green, with a 
 garland of flowers on her head, rosemary and ribbons 
 in her bosom. Her face looked strained and white in 
 the sun, her dark eyes sullen and restless, like the eyes 
 of one afraid. Her hand was laid lightly on the sleeve 
 of the bridegroom's coat, and she seemed to hold apart 
 from him, as though there were more hate in her heart 
 than love. 
 
 There was a shout from the lads and men. 
 
 "The garters — the garters — " 
 
 It was a coarse custom in some country-sides that the 
 oafs should scramble for the bride's ribbons. One lad, 
 bolder than the rest, seized hold of the bride's gown, 
 and began to fumble about her ankles. The others 
 followed him, and amid much coarse laughter, strug- 
 gling and scrambling, the garters were torn from below 
 the bride's knees. She stood motionless the while, her 
 face flushing crimson, her teeth biting into her lips. 
 
 Jeffray's face was like the face of a man undergoing 
 torture. It was Bess — Bess of the Woods, mocked by 
 this ribaldry, Bess looking miserable and fierce as any 
 Cassandra wedded against her will. Richard's eyes 
 were fixed on her face as she moved on down the path 
 beside Dan — Dan dressed out in his best clothes, rose- 
 mary in his button-hole and ribbons in his hat. Bess 
 held her head very high, looking neither to the right 
 hand nor the left. A few children threw flowers at her 
 as she passed, but she seemed neither to notice them 
 nor the stupid, curious faces at the gate. Limping be- 
 hind her, bareheaded, came Isaac Grimshaw, his white 
 hair shining in the sun. Solomon and his sons followed 
 with old Ursula and the rest of the forest-folk. 
 
 At the gate Black Dan turned suddenly, clawed Bess's 
 waist, and put up his great, hairy face, sweating with 
 satisfaction, for the bride's kiss. What followed seemed 
 
 218
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 swift as tlu' flash of a swallow across the calm surface 
 of a pond. Jeftray, looking with terrible earnestness 
 at Bess, saw her face flush scarlet and a fierce flare of 
 hate stream up into her eyes. She twisted herself free 
 of Dan of a sudden, and swept him a blow with the back 
 of the hand across the mouth. 
 
 There was a loud burst of laughter from the crowd at 
 the gate. Dan's face darkened, as though he were 
 minded to return the blow had not Isaac limped in be- 
 tween them and cursed Bess in an undertone. Old 
 Ursula was beginning to snivel, and at the same instant 
 Bess's eyes fell on the chaise waiting under the shadow 
 of the thorn. She stood rigid, staring at Jeff ray, her 
 mouth working, her bosom rising and falling. For the 
 moment the look in her eyes was as the look of a hunted 
 thing ready to run for shelter to Jeffray's feet. Then 
 the soul seemed to ebb out of her again. She hung her 
 head as though ruined and ashamed, and swayed out 
 of the gate, her hands hanging limply at her sides. 
 Dan followed her, grinning and slouching his heavy 
 shoulders. Isaac, Ursula, and the rest crowded behind 
 them along the road. 
 
 Wilson, who had been utterly unconscious of Jeffray 
 at his elbow, laughed cynically, and watched Bess, who 
 was thrusting aside the arm Dan offered her. 
 
 "Zounds!" he said, "the wench has a temper; she 
 looks too fine to be broken by that boor. I never saw 
 a woman seem less willing. Why, Richard, lad, what's 
 amiss with you, eh?" 
 
 Jeffray was lying back in the chaise, white as linen, 
 with his eyes half closed. He had bitten his lower lip till 
 the red blood showed in contrast to his gray , strained face. 
 
 "I am faint, Dick, nothing more." 
 
 "Let me drive you to the inn and get some brandy." 
 
 " No, no, turn back home. I shall be better with the 
 east wind blowing in my face." 
 
 2 19
 
 XXV 
 
 JEFFRAY lay back in the chaise with the landscape 
 moving unmeaningly before his eyes. He felt numb 
 and cold, utterly humiliated for Bess's sake. Painter 
 Dick, who had scarcely so much as heard of this Bel- 
 phoebe of the woods, was the last person to suspect 
 that the fierce-faced girl who had smitten her husband 
 on the mouth had any tragic hold over Jeff ray's destiny. 
 The eager joy in the loveliness of the May morning had 
 overtaxed Richard's strength. Wilson knew something 
 of the exhaustion that may follow even an innocent in- 
 toxication of the senses. 
 
 As for Richard, he was as a man who had held some 
 rich and precious vase between his hands, gazing at it 
 wonderingly, only to find it slip and shatter itself in 
 fragments at his feet. What had happened in the 
 forest that Bess should have become Dan Grimshaw's 
 wife? Had she despaired of escaping the man, and in 
 a fit of dumb indifference pledged her troth in token of 
 surrender? Richard's hope in her rebelled at such a 
 paltry reading of the riddle. No, Bess had more heart, 
 more pride than that. They had tricked her, Dan and 
 old Isaac between them — Isaac, that white-haired and 
 soft-voiced old devil whom he had once taken for a 
 saint. They had tricked her, and this marriage had 
 been the only end. 
 
 Question and counter - question played through Jef- 
 fray's brain. Why had not Bess come to him for help ? 
 Perhaps the news of his illness had reached her; per- 
 
 220
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 haps she had heard of his betrothal to iMiss Hardacrc? 
 He had read that jealousy was a strong and subtle pas- 
 sion in a woman, but yet why should she be jealous, 
 unless she loved him? His egotism might be confusing 
 the inspiration. But — had Bess come to Rodenham 
 while he was ill ? The thought flashed through Jeffray 
 like the news of a good friend's death. Why had he 
 never asked so simple a question — and yet surely Peter 
 Gladden would have told him if such a thing had hap- 
 pened! And yet the news of Jilian's illness had been 
 kept from him till three days ago! 
 
 It was nearly noon when the spire of Rodenham 
 church rose up against the blue. Dame Meg was going 
 lazily, the reins slack upon her loins. Wilson, who was 
 whistling an old Jacobite song, glanced curiously at 
 Jeffray from time to time, wondering what made the 
 lad look so fierce. 
 
 "You seem more yourself again, Richard," he said. 
 
 Jeffray changed his posture restlessly and unbuttoned 
 his cloak. It is not easy to confide at times even in the 
 best of friends, and sensitive mortals shrink from the 
 first explanatory plunge. Jeffray had not the heart to 
 unburden himself of his misery at that moment. 
 
 "I am well enough now, Dick," he said, quietly. 
 
 "You looked tleuccfl green, sir, down by the cha])cl." 
 
 " F'aintness — nothing more." 
 
 Wilson's words seemed to send Jcffray's thoughts 
 winging back to the chapel in the valley. He remem- 
 bered the whole scene as though it had been burned 
 into his brain with fire. That look, so shamed and 
 piteous, that Bess had given him, as though she yearned 
 to him from amid the ruins of her pride! There would 
 be the brutal bride — ale, the lewd jesting, the drinking, 
 the rough, clownish games. Then would come scram- 
 bling for the bride's ribbons and for the rosemary she 
 had worn. Her clean shift would be laid out on the 
 
 221
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 bed all decked with bays and flowers. Cake and wine 
 would be taken betwixt the bellowing of coarse and in- 
 decent songs. 
 
 Peter Gladden's placid and imperturbable face seemed 
 to offer an unconscious admonition towards calmness 
 as he came forward to help his master out of the chaise. 
 Jeffray appeared to have become oblivious of the fact 
 that he was a convalescent ; he brushed Gladden's arm 
 aside, threw off his cloak, and tossed it aside in the 
 porch. 
 
 "Gladden," he said, with a peculiar tightness about 
 the mouth, "I want to speak with you alone in the 
 library." 
 
 "At once, sir?" 
 
 There was just the faintest shade of curiosity upon 
 the butler's face. 
 
 "Yes, Gladden, at once. Dick, you will excuse me, 
 I have some private business on hand." 
 
 Wilson, who was rubbing Dame Meg's black muzzle 
 and wondering what spiritual quicksilver had diffused 
 itself in Jeffray's blood, looked hard at Richard, and 
 warned him not to try his strength too greatly. 
 
 "You must keep an eye on your master. Gladden," 
 he said, with a twinkle. "I thought we should have 
 had him in a dead faint on the road this morning." 
 
 The butler was still standing in the porch, leaning 
 forward slightly from the hips, with an expression of 
 deferential concern on his colorless face. 
 
 " Dr. Sugg is in the garden, sir," he interposed. " Shall 
 I tell him that you are tired or request him to wait till 
 I have received your orders in the library." 
 
 Jeffray frowned and hesitated a moment. 
 
 "I will see the rector, Gladden," he said. "Attend 
 me in the library in half an hour." 
 
 Wilson, who was pulling Dame Meg's ears, watched 
 Jeffray go lightly along the terrace as though he had 
 
 222
 
 BESS OP THE WOODS 
 
 forgotten such tritles as fever, physics, and small-pox 
 scars. The Hushed alertness of Richard's face, his rest- 
 less yet decisive manner, puzzled the painter not a little. 
 It was as though he had drunk of some wonderful elixir 
 since they had turned back from Thorney Chapel after 
 the rustic wedding. 
 
 Jeff ray, passing the warm walls and high gables of 
 the house as the clock m the turret chimed twelve, 
 went down from the terrace towards the green lawns 
 and the flowering shrubberies, and saw Dr. Sugg, in 
 the distance, holding a critical and appreciative nose 
 over his tulip beds and banks of gilliflower. The bor- 
 ders were gay under the glare of the sun, yet to Richard 
 the red tulips recalled the blood -red flower that Bess 
 had plucked at Holy Cross in her dream. 
 
 Sugg's jovial and rviddy face, with its apple cheeks 
 and merry, black eyes, was turned towards Jeff ray as 
 he came down the box-edged path. His broad and 
 humanistical mouth wreathed itself into a hearty smile 
 as he held out both his hands to the squire. 
 
 "Thank Heaven, sir," he said, "that I find you look- 
 ing so alive and well. I had heard less flattering ac- 
 counts of you. I am rejoiced to see you so speedily 
 recovered." 
 
 Jeffray's sympathies leaped out to this jovial oUl fel- 
 low with his twinkling eyes, and shrewd, smiling mouth. 
 
 "I am mending fast," he said, as Ik- blushed and 
 grijipcd the rector's hands; "and I am glad to see you, 
 sir, at last. Stott has forbidden me visitors hitherto, 
 as you know, but I can turn the tables on him n(AV. 
 How is Mary? — well, and untouched, eh?" 
 
 Sugg's face beamed heartily. 
 
 " Indeed, sir, Mary is Martha-like as ever. She sent 
 you all her good wishes in my pocket. It is good to 
 know that you are with us once more, Richard." 
 
 They turned by mutual and tacit consent towards 
 
 223
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 the arbor of clipped yews that stood at the upper end 
 of the gravel walk. The beds cut in the glistening, dew- 
 drenched turf of the lawns were full of pansies and 
 auriculas, whose gold-and-purple faces shone like rich 
 enamels in the sun. The fountain below the terrace, 
 a slim wood - nymph in the nude, was throwing spray 
 from a cypress bough held above her head. Peacocks 
 were sunning themselves upon the balustrades, and the 
 white pigeons coquetted and basked on the red-tiled roof 
 of the columbary. 
 
 The rector took out his snuffbox as they seated them- 
 selves in the arbor, and, after a proper and dignified 
 amount of snuffing and dabbing, returned the tortoise- 
 shell case reflectively to his waistcoat -pocket. The 
 courtly expressions of sympathy with regard to Miss 
 Hardacre's illness were duly forthcoming, and were 
 met by Jeffray with all the sensibility and grace that 
 he could muster. The rector laid his hat on the seat 
 beside him, smoothed his wig, and approached Jeffray 
 on the very subject that was filling the romanticist's 
 heart. 
 
 "Will it tire you, sir," he said, "if I mention a mat- 
 ter to you that has much exercised my mind of 
 late?" 
 
 Jeffray imagined that Sugg was for discussing the 
 outbreak of small-pox in Rodenham and the necessity 
 for keeping the pest-house in proper repair for the 
 future. The rector nodded consentingly, but confessed 
 to a more delicate and picturesque inspiration. 
 
 "Perhaps you may remember, sir," he said, "the girl, 
 Bess Grimshaw, who caused you to come by a broken 
 head in Pevensel?" 
 
 Jeffray shot a rapid glance at Dr. Sugg's face, and 
 felt the blood rushing tumultuously to his cheeks. 
 
 "Yes, I remember her," he said, steadying himself. 
 "The girl was not treated well in the hamlet, and, to be 
 
 224
 
 BE3S OF THE WOODS 
 
 frank with you, I was sorry for licr, and promised her 
 help." 
 
 "So I understood, sir," quoth the rector, tersely. 
 
 Jeffray had moved to the end of the seat where he 
 could lean against the hedge of yew. He felt himself 
 trembling in most unmanly fashion, and was wonder- 
 ing whether his emotion was evident to the parson. 
 Dr. Sugg's eves appeared fixed reflectively on a distant 
 tulip bed, and he sat with his hands together, his elbows 
 resting on his knees. 
 
 "May I ask whether it is true, sir," he continued, 
 "that you offered to give the girl a home at Rodcn- 
 ham?"' 
 
 Jeffray's face was still afire. He had to steady him- 
 self before he could reply. 
 
 "That is the truth," he said, slowly, "and I have 
 even been wondering whether Bess Grimshaw could 
 have come to the priory while I was ill." 
 
 "She did come, sir," quoth Dr. Sugg, rubbing his 
 hands together solemnly. 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "And when they frightened her away I took her in 
 at the parsonage, for the poor lass had run away from 
 home rather than marry a man whom she piously 
 hated." 
 
 The rector turned suddenly and looked witli perfect 
 innocence into Jeffray's face. Its strained and restless 
 expression startled the good man considerably, as did 
 the dull gleam in the sunken eyes. 
 
 "I hope I am not vexing your infirmity, sir," he said, 
 with some concern. 
 
 Jeffray, shaking himself free from his thoughts, met 
 Sugg's stare with quiet composure. 
 
 "Rector," he said, "tell me all you know about this 
 
 Kirl." 
 
 Sugg, pocketing his Christian curiosity for the mo- 
 
 225
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ment, told Jeffray, very simply, how Bess had stopped 
 to speak to him at the parsonage gate, how he had felt 
 pity for her, and by Mary's advice taken her as a ser- 
 vant. He confessed his liking for poor Bess, and spoke 
 with some heat of the way she had been ambuscaded 
 and snatched away out of his house. 
 
 "Well, sir," said the rector, at the end of the recital, 
 "I was not a little vexed by the rough handling the 
 girl received. She was a handsome, well-spoken lass, 
 and gracious and kind as could be to Mary. My daugh- 
 ter saw the whole thing, sir, and blubbered over it all 
 night. But what could I do, sir? I had no authority 
 over the young woman's person. I suppose by now 
 they have forced her to marry that oaf of a cousin." 
 
 "I saw Bess married this morning," Jeffray said, 
 quietly. 
 
 Dr. Sugg twitched his eyebrows, 
 
 "Indeed, sir — indeed!" 
 
 "Wilson and I were out driving and happened to 
 turn down to Thomey Chapel. The wedding - party 
 was coming out, and I suppose Mr. Mossop had been 
 conducting the service. I can assure you, sir, that it 
 was something of a shock to me." 
 
 The rector drummed on his knees with his right fist, 
 and looked at Jeffray with a certain amount of puzzled 
 sympathy. He was at loss to know why the master of 
 Rodenham should feel himself so deeply concerned in 
 the matter, nor was it usual for a young gentleman of 
 birth to take a brotherly interest in a girl of Bess's 
 station. The suspicion glimmered across the rector's 
 mind that there might have been some unlawful pas- 
 sage of romance between the two, but he dismissed it 
 as an insult to his belief in Jefiray's honor. 
 
 Richard himself had been touched by the reflection 
 that Dr. Sugg might be concerned about his motives. 
 Flushing at the thought, he marched out his forces 
 
 226
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 boldly to the sound of the drum, like a general who is 
 not ashamed cither of his cause or of his men. 
 
 "Rector," he said, "I suppose there is nothing in the 
 world so convincing as the truth. I toll you, as man 
 to man, that I have felt very tenderly towards this 
 girl, for she saved my life, sir, and has had much to 
 bear. I hold that reverence for the purity of woman- 
 hood is a virtue more honorable than the giving of 
 gold. Therefore, I was shocked at the thought that 
 this young girl should be sacrificed to the unclean appe- 
 tite of a coarse and loose-mouthed savage. The fellow 
 fiUcM;! her with dread and with disgust. That is why I 
 strove to save her from this shame." 
 
 Sugg's round face beamed sympathetically. 
 
 "And by the ever-living prophets, sir, I shake your 
 hand on it." 
 
 Jcffray's eyes had kindled. 
 
 "Moreover," he said, earnestly, "I believe that there 
 is a secret connected with the girl's birth. She is no 
 Grimshaw, or I am no gentleman. I know that she 
 has recollections of another and distant past. I wanted 
 to save her from this savage, but they have tricked her, 
 and I am sorry." 
 
 The rector dived for his snufTbox and vented his 
 feelings disguisedly therein. 
 
 "I agree with you, 1 agree with you, sir," he said, 
 "she's a fine lass; the more's the pity, the more's the 
 pity. God knows what will become of her in the future!" 
 
 "Sugg," said JefFray, "1 hope to save her yet." 
 
 When the rector had gone with a hearty grip of his 
 muscular fist, Richard made his way to the library and 
 found Peter (iladden waiting for him, suave and sub- 
 servient. The tenor of the interview astonished the 
 butler not a little. What had come to the young 
 master that he looked so stern and masterful and spoke 
 in a way that made poor Gladden's ears tingle? 
 
 337
 
 XXVI 
 
 THE white curtains with red roses flowered on them 
 were half drawn over the windows of Miss Hard- 
 acre's bedroom. Miss Jihan's room smelled mildly of 
 musk and lavender-water, and there were flowers in 
 the vases upon the mantle-shelf and in the cream- 
 colored Wedgwood bowl upon the French occasional 
 table. The bed was spread with a red silk quilt, the 
 turned-down sheets looking white as milk when con- 
 trasted with the expanse of red below. The panels on 
 the walls were painted with garlands, cherubs' heads, 
 and silly, fat Cupids straddling lambs. The door of the 
 robe-cupboard was open, showing a hanging-garden of 
 gowns. 
 
 On a couch by one of the windows lay Miss Jilian 
 herself, wrapped in a pale-green bed-gown, red slippers 
 on her feet, and one of Mr. Richardson's novels in her 
 hands. Through the open window came the constant 
 drone of the bees that were working the honeysuckle 
 under the window-ledge. The monotonous clicking of 
 a needle imitated the ticking of a death-scarab against 
 the wainscoting. A little old woman in a white mob- 
 cap and a black-stuff gown sat sewing at a little dis- 
 tance from the couch, her red-knuckled hands moving 
 busily over the lace and linen in her lap. Every now 
 and again her peering, short-sighted eyes would fix 
 themselves with a mute, inquiring kindliness on Miss 
 Hardacre's face, as though her thoughts were busy as 
 her hands. 
 
 228
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Alas for Miss Jilian's tawny fleece of hair! The golden 
 masses had fallen to the shears, and nothing but a sharp, 
 crisp aureole remained. On a little table beside the 
 couch lay a black silk mask, a hand-mirror, a powder 
 box and puff, and a rosewood case that told of Dutch 
 pink and Chinese paints, lip -salves, wash -balls, and 
 ointments scented with orange and with jessamine. 
 Even these inanimate things gave a pathetic signifi- 
 cance to the scene, hinting at the havoc disease had 
 wrought upon poor Jilian's comeliness. The truth was 
 evident enough to the most casual of glances. Angry 
 pits disfiguring cheeks and forehead, eyes injected and 
 inflamed, the lids red and half empty as to lashes. 
 
 It was plain that Mr. Richardson's sentimentalities 
 tended rather to aggravate Miss Hardacre's troubles to 
 herself. She laid down the book betimes, took up her 
 glass, toyed with it awhile as though dreading its can- 
 dor, and then compelled herself to snatch a glimpse at 
 her own face. She frowned at the reflection, and put 
 the glass aside with a gesture of impatience. Poor 
 child, the chastening she was receiving seemed over- 
 hard and malicious despite the fact that she had been 
 courting bitterness by the cultivation of her own vani- 
 ties. For Jilian, a month's sickness had changed the 
 whole complexion of earth and of heaven. She had 
 none of the comfortable religious spirit in her that cre- 
 ates a passive heroism out of the renunciation of her 
 own comeliness. She was of the world, and loved every 
 pretty stitch and glistening gew-gaw and silken flower 
 in its gay attire, and saw nothing in quiet sanctity that 
 could recompense her soul. 
 
 The little old woman in black had been blinking her 
 eyes and fidgeting with her work, while Miss llardacrc 
 was suff^ering the ordeal of looking for the hundredth 
 time at her own face. Jilian's own maid had refused 
 to attend on her mistress at the very beginning of her 
 
 229
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 illness, and old Mrs. Martha, who had handled both 
 Lot and his sister in their infancy, had been brought 
 from the cottage, where she had been pensioned, to 
 nurse Jilian through the small-pox. 
 
 Mrs. Martha was unable to restrain the impatience 
 of her loyalty and pride when Miss Hardacre's hand 
 wavered once more towards the mirror. She jumped 
 up very briskly for so shrivelled an old lady, toddled 
 across the polished floor, snatched up the mirror, and 
 plunged it into the pocket of her voluminous apron. 
 
 "The good Lord knows, my dear," she said, with the 
 aflfectionate familiarity of an old servant — "the good 
 Lord knows why you should be for making yourself 
 vaporish and miserable with this paltry bit of glass! 
 You should forget to look into a mirror, my dear, and 
 in a month you won't be so much afraid of your own 
 pretty face. I've seen ladies as have had the small- 
 pox before, haven't I ? And very decent faces they 
 managed to keep after it, though I'll warrant they 
 were more like plum dumplings afore the pock-marks 
 healed." 
 
 Jilian lay back looking piteously about the mouth, 
 as though she were trying not to believe a word of 
 what this silly old woman said. Mrs. Martha had 
 toddled back to her chair with the air of a grandmother 
 who has done her duty by a peevish child. 
 
 "I hope you may be right, Martha," said Miss Hard- 
 acre, miserably; "to be sure I look ugly enough now to 
 make Mr. Richard go off into a faint." 
 
 Mrs. Martha seated herself in her chair with solid 
 precision. She fingered her work irritably, and con- 
 tinued her declaiming as though some imaginary per- 
 son were threatening her constantly with contradictions. 
 
 "And I should like to know who Mr. Richard Jeffray 
 is, to give himself airs before a Hardacre of Hardacre ? 
 His grandfather was an 'iron man,' as we all know, I 
 
 230
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 reckon; he made his money by turning the country- 
 side upside down, and cutting down all the trees. And 
 hasn't Mr. Jeftray been down with the small-pox himself, 
 and didn't he give it to you, sure ; for you must have had 
 it of him, my dear, or I never heard Parson Jessel read 
 the Bible. As for your purty face, my dear, it '11 just 
 mend superb with all the fine stufifs you may be using 
 in that there box. And the hair always grows stronger, 
 like a tree, for being pruned. And maybe Mr. Jeftray 
 may be worse off than you in the matter of scars." 
 
 Jilian looked round the room wearily, her eyes rest- 
 ing at last on the tulips and jonquils in the blue bowl, 
 an offering from Rodenham. The old woman had ut- 
 tered manv of the thoughts in her busy, cackling way 
 that had been moving in Miss Ilardacre's brain itself. 
 Had not Jeffray given her the disease, and was it not 
 his duty to be all the more tender and sympathetic in 
 consequence ? Jilian almost hoped that he had been 
 more disfigured than herself so that his senses should 
 have no cause to boast. And then, after all, her face 
 would be fairer to look upon when her hair had grown 
 and the red pock-marks had paled. 
 
 "So you have heard, Martha," she asked, "of other 
 ladies losing their scars?" 
 
 The old woman moistened her lips with a shaq) and 
 vipcrish tongue. 
 
 "I mind Lady Hankinson a-taking of the small-pox, 
 my dear. She was a mighty fine woman in lur day, 
 and kept my lord in order with her looks. Well, she 
 had the gentlemen round her like flies at the routs, just 
 as much as ever. She wasn't quite so smooth and 
 creamy, my dear, but she was a fine lady with as fine 
 a pair of eyes as ever made a man feel hot as a live 
 coal. And she had a figure, too; one of them big, 
 duchessy-looking ladies she was. as would make you 
 think as they'd need extra webbing in their beds." 
 
 231
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jilian smiled more optimistically, and, taking a fan 
 from the table, spread its painted sticks and seemed 
 inclined to rehearse some of her charming affectations. 
 
 "The small-pox can't spoil a gentlewoman's figure, 
 Martha," she said. 
 
 " Don't you fret, my dear. Men like a slim waist and 
 a plump bosom. And there ain't a lady in Sussex with 
 hair like yours. And your nose is there with a purty 
 eye peeping out like a jewel on either side, and a little 
 red mouth below it as any gentleman would be proud to 
 kiss. Don't you fret yourself about young Mr. Jeffray, 
 my dear." 
 
 And Jilian, finding herself cheered and inspirited by 
 the old woman's flattering assertions, became ready as 
 we all are to believe those things which are pleasant 
 to the heart. 
 
 Much the same problem was discussed that night by 
 Sir Peter and Mr. Lancelot as they drank their punch, 
 with the ancestral faces peering down at them gravely 
 from the walls. The light from the candles in their 
 silver stands glimmered on the polished table that shone 
 like brown water. The casements were open, the heavy 
 red curtains undrawn, and a nightingale was singing 
 in the shrubbery below the terrace. The punch-bowl, 
 with its green dragons and blue mandarins, steamed 
 near Sir Peter's portly paunch. Mr. Lot slouched in 
 his chair as usual, with his hands thrust deep into his 
 pockets and a clay pipe hanging out of the corner of 
 his mouth. He smiled very shrewdly at his father from 
 time to time, chuckled, and delivered himself of some 
 forcible and oracular remarks. 
 
 "I take it that you had better see the lad," quoth 
 the baronet, as he ladelled out another glass of punch. 
 "You can see what temper he shows, Lot, whether he's 
 inclined to shy or not." 
 
 Mr. Lancelot twisted his mouth into an expressive 
 
 232
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 pucker, and appeared inspired by a sense of his own 
 cleverness. 
 
 "I'll snaffle him, sir," he said. 
 
 "Poor Jill's a deuced fright, but for God's sake, boy, 
 don't tell her I said so." 
 
 "She'll wipe the spots out a bit in time. Give the 
 girl a chance." 
 
 Sir Peter j:^runtcd laboriously, and unfastened the 
 lower buttons of his waistcoat. His mottled face ap- 
 peared heavy and lugubrious despite his frequent re- 
 versions to the punch -bowl and his confidence in his 
 son's astuteness. 
 
 "It's deuced hard luck on the wench, Lot," he said; 
 "and Richard gave her the ugly face, there's no deny- 
 ing it." 
 
 "I'll rub that truth into him, sir, never fear." 
 
 "He's a nice, gentle lad." 
 
 "Richard wants stroking the right way, sir, and 
 taking on the high poetic horse. He's a man of senti- 
 ment, and he'll swallow the stuflf like senna, and thrive 
 on it, by gad! I know my mount, sir," and Mr. Lot 
 laid a tat forefinger along his nose. 
 
 "Well, well," said the baronet, reflectively, "I don't 
 want the lass jilted again; we've had enough of it be- 
 fore. And Dick JelTray's a pleasant lad with a useful 
 pot of money to his name." 
 
 "Don't I know the color of a guinea, sir?" quoth Mr. 
 Lot, with a thick laugh. 
 
 It may easily be gathered that Richard JefTray was 
 soon favored with a state visit from Mr. Lancelot Hard- 
 acre. Richard had been dreading some such inter- 
 view not a little, even as a sensitive spirit dreads con- 
 tact with the boisterous, blustering, physical barbarian. 
 Richard's revulsion from the responsibilities he had 
 created for himself in the past harl waxed tenfold in 
 strength since his discovery of Bess's shame. His sense 
 i6 233
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 of bondage chafed his pride, the more so, perhaps, be- 
 cause he was honest enough to acknowledge the truth 
 of his obHgation. 
 
 There was always a suggestion of patronage in Mr. 
 Lot's manner that presupposed his cousin to be but half 
 a man. It was so that morning when he dismounted 
 before the priory porch. The genial swagger of the 
 man, the glare of his red coat, the crunching of his heavy 
 boots upon the gravel inspired JefTray with an instinc- 
 tive antagonism. Mr. Lot had squeezed his cousin's 
 hand heartily enough and rallied him upon his looks. 
 They walked the terrace together, for Richard had gone 
 out to meet Lancelot at the porch. 
 
 There was nothing in Mr. Hardacre's manner at first 
 to betray the fact that he carried a possible declaration 
 of war in his pocket. It was his policy to assume with 
 the most glaring good-humor that Richard was thirst- 
 ing to see Miss Jilian, even though she might appear 
 red and disfigured about the face. 
 
 '"We can't cool your fever just yet, Richard," he said, 
 after an exchange of cousinly courtesies. "Poor Jill 
 has had it rather bad, you know, and looks a bit weak 
 about the eyes as yet. But, Lor', when a young fel- 
 low's in love, a pimple or two makes precious little dif- 
 ference." 
 
 Lot showed his teeth, stared, and nudged Jeff ray 
 meaningly with his elbow. Their familiarity appeared 
 complete; nevertheless, his cousin did not expand in the 
 sun of Mr. Hardacre's confidence. There was a com- 
 pressed look about his mouth, a suggestion of sullen- 
 ness in his eyes. All these genialities only exaggerated 
 his aversion. He was no longer the lad whom Lot had 
 bullied and teased of old, and his cousin's loud patron- 
 age made his stiffening individuality revolt. His heart 
 was afire for Bess at the moment, and she seized on the 
 pity that should have been Jilian's. 
 
 234
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I am vexed that your sister has been ill," he said, 
 speaking with sensible effort and with but little flow of 
 feeling. 
 
 Mr. Lot stiffened at the remark. His blue eyes 
 seemed to grow more prominent, as though the cold 
 steadiness of Jeff ray's manner had put him suddenly 
 on the alert. 
 
 "You will have to come and comfort Jill," he said, 
 staring hard at Richard, as though to watch for any 
 betrayal of rebellion. 
 
 "Certainly, Lot, as soon as she will see me." 
 
 "She had it of you, you know, cousin; you will have 
 to make it u]) to her for a damaged complexion." 
 
 Richard shuddered at the coarse suggestiveness of 
 Lot's words. There was something in his cousin's 
 manner that made him see of a sudden how cunningly 
 the Lady Letitia had forecasted the future. Jilian's 
 comeliness had suffered, and the Hardacres were pre- 
 pared to hold him like a culprit to his oath. 
 
 "I can promise you, cousin," he said, bluntly, "that 
 I shall not fail in doing my duty." 
 
 There was an unconscious tinge of irony in the retort 
 that penetrated Mr. Hardacre's skin. He reddened a 
 little, thrust out his lower lip, and looked at Jeffray 
 with sinister shrewdness. 
 
 "Duty, sir; that is a damned poor word for n lover 
 to use! 
 
 Jeffray flushed. 
 
 "I meant it in the honorable sense, Lot," he said, 
 more kindly. 
 
 "Egad, sir, I should hope so," quoth the fire-eater, 
 thrusting his chin forward over his cravat. " You gave 
 my sister the small-pox, sir, and if you are anything of 
 a fellow you will behave decently to her and not from 
 any confounded sense of duty. I am right there, Rich- 
 ard, I reckon." 
 
 235
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jeffray, feeling humiliated, shackled, yet inwardly 
 rebellious, looked his cousin full in the face, and gave 
 him his answer frankly and with some heat. 
 
 "I am a gentleman. Lot, and therefore you may 
 spare your hectoring." 
 
 "Deuce take you, sir; I suppose I may feel for my 
 sister, eh?" 
 
 The two men were eying each other like dogs half 
 inclined to fight. 
 
 "At present, sir," quoth Jeffray, reddening and 
 throwing back his head, "your sister's honor is in my 
 keeping." 
 
 Lot Hardacre stared at him in silence for a moment. 
 He was wondering how Jeffray had come by so much 
 spirit as to stand up to a man who had always bustled 
 him. 
 
 "Well, that's spoken like a man," he confessed, 
 
 "Jilian and I are betrothed, are we not?" 
 
 "By gad, you are." 
 
 "Then, sir, I am not conscious of having given you 
 any excuse as yet to question my honor."
 
 XXVII 
 
 THE rebel spirit is quickly astir when a man's in 
 love, and so it was with Jcffray after his sparring 
 with Mr. Lot. That gentleman's red-visaged and swag- 
 gering hauteur had irritated Richard not a little, and 
 he was in no temper to be driven at the sword's- 
 point to the altar. Already he was waxing world-wise 
 enough to recognize the truth that Mr. Lot was ready 
 to presume upon his supposed timidity. The suspicion 
 awoke a sense of resistance in Jeffray, an instinctive 
 feeling of antagonism that was only human. Left to 
 his own sensitive and generous impulses, he would prob- 
 ably have found no great difficulty in bringing himself 
 before Miss Jilian's feet. Her brother's threatening in- 
 terference checked the free flow of pity, and made 
 Richard Jcffrav recoil and consider the future for him- 
 self. 
 
 He was still in a fever about Bess, and unable to bear 
 with any calmness the thought of her sacrifice to the 
 lewd cunning of her cousin. Jeffray felt that his word 
 had been pledged to the girl, pledged for her honor's 
 sake, and that he had failed through circumstance to 
 keep his pledge. The bond was as real to him as his 
 betrothal to Miss Hardacre, and far more real in the 
 matter of romance. On the one hand, he recognized a 
 perfunctory and half-pitying sense of duty ; on the 
 other, all the passionate chivalry that had lain latent 
 till now within his heart. 
 
 Why should he not desire t(j befriend the girl in her 
 
 237
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 trouble? Was there any dishonor in the desire, and 
 need the world know how much tenderness must needs 
 be locked and hidden in his heart ? He would not make 
 love to her or court her love in turn. And yet was it 
 not possible that he might succor her in her distress, 
 comfort her, lighten her lot a little? He might even 
 protect her from Dan's brutality, should that savage 
 give him a reasonable and an honorable excuse. Bess 
 was married. So far there was an impenetrable bar- 
 rier between them. He could not break the gate of 
 fate, but he might touch her hands between the bars. 
 
 Nothing was more natural, therefore, to such philoso- 
 phy than that Jeffray should signalize his return to the 
 saddle by a pilgrimage through Pevensel in quest of 
 Bess. The brisk delight of a canter over the purpling 
 moors was itself a joy to a man who had been three 
 weeks abed. How the larks sang, and how the broom 
 flashed and glittered in the wind! The cloud galleons 
 bellied out their white sails over the crests of the downs. 
 The diverse greens, checkering the landscape, seemed 
 dusted with gold-dust by the daughters of the dawn. 
 The day brought back to him the warm, romantic 
 splendor of the south, the memory of Sicilian skies and 
 the islds of Greece, a-dream in the blue ^gean. 
 
 Richard rode down to the weir-pool, and found no 
 life there save a heron standing in the shallows, the 
 bird rising on its heavy wings and flapping away above 
 the trees. He crossed at the ford and rode in and out 
 among the ruins, scanning the ivied windows and search- 
 ing behind the crumbling piers that were bearded with 
 ferns. No Bess was there, though the very grasses 
 seemed to smell of the sweet woodland odor of her 
 clothes. Jeffray came into the refectory that was ren- 
 dered the more mysterious by her dream, but found no 
 red flower blooming, no swarthy girl waiting to lift up 
 her face to his. 
 
 238
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 He abandoned Holy Cross at last, but loitered at the 
 pool a moment. The water lay like glass above the 
 curling cornice that thundered down into the crackling 
 foam below. The grass -land was ablaze with gold, 
 deep, dewy, the grass -land of a dream. Jeffray was 
 wondering within himself whether he should take the 
 path that led up towards the hamlet, in the hope that 
 Bess might be coming to the ruins. Crossing the ford 
 again, he plunged upward into the woods, not guessing 
 at the moment that his heart's desire was very near. 
 
 It was at the winding down of the path into a little 
 dell in the midst of a larch-wood that Richard, with a 
 sudden leap of the heart, saw a streak of color coming 
 amid the trees. The tall, stiff trunks crowded all around 
 the dell that lay like a green bowl under the vaultings 
 of the boughs above. Wild hyacinths spread a blue 
 mist over the lush, green grass, and a few late wind-flow- 
 ers were scattered like snow-flakes under the trees. 
 
 Jeffray had reined in instinctively. Bess was coming 
 down the path, walking with her head bowed down, 
 breaking a dead bough in pieces between her hands. 
 She wandered aimlessly from side to side, as though life 
 had little purpose for her now. A red scarf covered her 
 shoulders and was knotted over her bosom, her brown 
 neck bare, the black masses of her hair shining in the 
 sunlight, an errant strand or two falling down each cheek. 
 
 Jeffray 's black mare tossed her head, the rattling of 
 the bit and bridle causing Bess to start ami look up 
 rapidly. She had come to a place where the knotted 
 roots of a fir ran across the path, the grounil falling 
 away on the farther side and making a species of rough 
 dais. She stood motionless, leaning forward slightly, 
 her eyes fixed on Jeffray with wondering steadfastness. 
 For a moment they looked at each other, with no sound 
 to break the silence save the soughing of the wind in the 
 tree-tops overhead. 
 
 239
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jeff ray dismounted, left the mare loose, and went 
 slowly towards Bess. Her eyes were still fixed steadily 
 on his, yet she seemed to quail a little and grow pale 
 as he drew near to her. Richard could see her trembling 
 excitement, her hands opening and shutting spasmodi- 
 cally as she stood above him in all the swarthy splendor 
 of her loveliness. 
 Bess. 
 
 She gave a sudden, low cry, twisted away from him, 
 and, throwing her arms up against the trunk of the fir, 
 leaned against it with her cheek against the rough, 
 brittle bark. Jeffray's hands fell limp to his sides. 
 He stood looking at Bess helplessly, as though shocked 
 and baffled by her deep distress, knowing not for the 
 moment what to do or say. 
 
 It was not long before she seemed to master herself, 
 and, falling aside from the trunk of the tree, turned a 
 dull and almost sullen face to his. 
 
 "I did not think I should see you to-day," she said, 
 with monotonous steadiness. 
 
 Richard, hot and cold by turns, watched her ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 "I came to try and find you, Bess," he answered. 
 
 "Find me!" 
 
 There was an indescribable ring of self-scorn in her 
 voice, though she carried her head more bravely and 
 labored less with her breathing. 
 
 "Am I worth finding, Mr. Jeffray?" 
 
 "I have been much troubled for your sake, Bess." 
 
 She flashed a wonderful look at him, her eyes light- 
 ing up like water in the sun. It was sympathy she 
 needed, and the flow of a friend's words. 
 
 "Ah, you are very good to me," she said. 
 
 " I gave you a promise; I failed to keep it, and I am 
 sorry." 
 
 Jeffray stood like a man confessing his dishonor, for 
 
 240
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 the girl's self-shame had shaken him, and her eyes were 
 fixed upon his face. She stepped down with sudden 
 noiselessness and stood close to Jeff ray, bending tow- 
 ards him a little. 
 
 "I know," she said, hurriedly. "Yes, you were ill; 
 you could not help me; it was no fault of yours. You 
 would have helped me, yes; I know that, and — and I 
 thank you." 
 
 She hung her head again, and swung away from him 
 with a look of miserable and overjDOwering shame. 
 Her eyes were dull and tearless, her mouth bitter and 
 very sullen. Jeff ray stretched out his hand and touched 
 her arm. 
 
 "Be.ss." 
 
 She turned her head and looked at him with longing, 
 the color rising to her face. 
 
 "Bess, I can't bear it, this misery of yours. I heard 
 all after I saw you at Thomey Chapel. They tricked 
 you, Dan and Isaac together. It should have been 
 otherwise had I not been in bed." 
 
 A peculiar light kindled in the girl's eyes. It seemed 
 bom of wonder, of incredulity, and some subtle and up- 
 rushing joy. Was her shame bitter, then, to this earnest- 
 faced man, so bitter that it could make him stammer, 
 grow fierce, and look at her in a way that made her 
 whole body tingle ? Warmth seemed to spread from 
 her heart, up through her brown neck, through all her 
 flesh till she felt alive to the eyes that gazed at hers. 
 
 "Mr. Richard—" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She drooped a little towards him, her hands hang- 
 ing passive, her lips growing full and tender again, her 
 eyes losing all their thick and sullen thoughtfulncss. 
 
 " I have been very miserable. I had one joy left to 
 me—" 
 
 " Bess." 
 
 241
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "The hope that I might see — see you — again. Yes, 
 every day, every day when I could escape from Dan, 
 I have come down through the woods to Holy Cross." 
 
 Jeffray was standing with his head thrown back, his 
 eyes fixed on Bess's face. She moved still nearer to 
 him, speaking hurriedly, passionately, as though afraid 
 that he might stay her words. 
 
 "Yes, they took me away. I fought, but they were 
 too strong for me. Dan had tried to bring me to shame, 
 and I had run away — to you — to save me. And then, 
 and then — you can see — you can understand — " 
 
 She threw up her arm with a great catching of her 
 breath and covered her face. Jeff ray, feeling like a 
 man who has drunk of the wine of the immortals, held 
 out both his hands to her with a hoarse cry. 
 
 "Bess. Listen to me. Before God — I want to help 
 you." 
 
 She rocked to and fro a moment, then dropped her 
 arm, and looked at him with an almost childish trust. 
 
 "I must see you again, see you — soon." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Not at Holy Cross, no, it is too near. There is the 
 Hermit's Rock in the yew valley — above Thorn ey 
 Chapel—" 
 
 Jeffray had straightened up with the air of a man 
 ready to march with a forlorn hope. 
 
 "I know it," he said. 
 
 "It is a wild place. I can fool Dan. I will be pa- 
 tient." 
 
 She seemed to be plotting it all with all the passionate 
 and ready ardor of her heart. To Jeffray even this 
 perilous and solemn complicity was very sweet. His 
 reason appeared to have been heated to white heat 
 and cooled again hke a tempered sword to serve him. 
 
 She looked at him dearly, as though he held all the 
 warmth and light that life could give. 
 
 242
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I will ride to the vew valley every evening — till — " 
 "Till?" 
 
 "You can come." 
 
 A great sigh escaped her. She drooped her face 
 nearer to his. her lips apart, her eyes shining. 
 "I shall come," she said.
 
 XXVIII 
 
 MEANWHILE, Richard received a sealed and per- 
 fumed note from Miss Jilian bidding him visit her 
 at last at Hardacre. Jeffray, who felt cold and reluc- 
 tant when he read the letter, did not guess how much 
 plotting and planning, how many fears and heart- 
 searchings had been squandered over that simple sheet 
 of paper. Poor Jilian had been pressed by Lot to send 
 for Jeffray before her inclination was mature. She had 
 desired to wait till her face was fairer, but her Ulysses 
 of a brother willed it otherwise, being suspicious of 
 Richard's faith. He argued that it would be better 
 for the lad to see Jilian soon and be impressed by the 
 trouble he had brought on her. Jeffray was an amiable 
 fellow with a wealth of sentiment in his blood. And 
 then when Miss Hardacre's looks improved, as improve 
 they would, her cousin might be so charmed with the 
 change as to fall in love with the betterment of the 
 bargain. There would have been much wisdom in Lot's 
 strategy had he not been ignorant of the subtle under- 
 current in the romance. He counted on his cousin's im- 
 pressionable good-nature, and he might have counted on 
 it with some confidence but for the existence of Bess of 
 the Woods. 
 
 It was as unpropitious a moment as fate could have 
 found for thrusting him back upon his allegiance to 
 poor Jilian. 
 
 Miss Hardacre had spent two hours at her toilet that 
 morning, and had warred with nature to the best of 
 
 244
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 her ability. She had crimped her short aureole of hair, 
 daubed her cheeks, salved her lips, and used pearl pow- 
 der for her neck and arms. She wore a green gown that 
 morning covered with red carnations, a red silk hoop, 
 and a band of black velvet about her throat. In the 
 dusk she might have passed for a comely woman, but 
 the full glare of day dissolved the dream. 
 
 Jilian chose the red parlor for the receiving of her 
 betrothed, since the coloring of the room was red, 
 damask curtains tempering the white light and dif- 
 fusing a glow over her face. Seated on a high-backed 
 chair before the harpsichord, she let her fingers idle 
 over the keys, while she listened every now and again 
 for the sound of hoofs on the gravel space before the 
 house. It was a little before noon when she heard the 
 clangor of hoofs passing under the gate-tower into the 
 paved court -yard. To ease her nervousness and the 
 sense of tightness over her heart, she broke into a ditty 
 from the " Beggar's Opera," her eyes brightening with 
 the fever of waiting. She heard Lot's voice rising from 
 the hall below, the sound of footsteps on the stairs, a 
 quiet knocking at the door. The handle rattled. Push- 
 ing back the chair, she stood up, trembling, her hands 
 opening and closing, her lips dry. She saw Jcffray 
 standing on the threshold, one hand on his sword-liilt, 
 the other holding the lappet of his coat. 
 
 "Richard!" 
 
 Unconsciously, Jilian had put all the strained self- 
 shame of her poor soul into the cry. She took two steps 
 forward, holding out her hands. Jeff ray closed the door 
 slowly, like a man seeking to compose his thoughts. 
 He turned and looked at Jilian. Unwittingly, in her 
 agitation, she had taken her stand where a sunbeam 
 slanted full upon her face, disclosing all its seamed and 
 pitted ugliness with a brilliance that was almost brutal. 
 
 A woman's eyes are quick in piecing together the 
 
 245
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 emotions on a man's face. She saw Jeffray start, saw 
 him catch his breath, saw the critical yet instinctive 
 repulsion in his eyes. He appeared to conquer himself 
 by an effort, yet the smile he gave her was soulless and 
 unreal. She said nothing as he came forward, bent, 
 and kissed her hand. 
 
 "Richard, mon cher, and are you glad to see me?" 
 
 She spoke very softly to him, as she turned aside and 
 walked a little unsteadily to a settle standing by the 
 harpsichord. Jeffray felt a great flush of shame and a 
 miserable sense of reluctance that made him gauche 
 and clumsy. He followed her as though under com- 
 pulsion, and sat down beside her on the settle. 
 
 "Of course I am glad to see you, Jilian," he said. 
 
 Miss Hardacre's hands were fidgeting in her lap. She 
 had prepared a gay and airy part, but all her brave 
 impudence and coquetry seemed to have deserted her. 
 She was too conscious of her ugliness ; the inspiration of 
 vanity was dead within her. The pretty puppet could 
 no longer ply her fan, flash her gray eyes, simper, and 
 show her teeth. She seemed to realize of a sudden 
 that courteous pity alone could make a man look 
 kindly at her face. Jeffray's first stare had told her 
 that. 
 
 "I have been very ill, Richard," she said, almost 
 humbly, looking at him a moment as for sympathy, and 
 then lowering her eyes. 
 
 Jeffray was sitting very stiffly on the settle, looking 
 like a man who had been offered a cup of poison or the 
 renunciation of his faith. 
 
 "I know; I am sorry; it was all my fault," he an- 
 swered her. 
 
 There was a lack of tone and of vitality about the 
 reply that made Jilian shrink. 
 
 "I am not what I was, Richard," she said, pressing 
 her handkerchief against her lips and leaving a ver- 
 
 246
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 milion stain on the cambric; "no doubt you find me 
 greatly changed." 
 
 Her eyes challenged him with the shallow despair of 
 a vain woman. Jefifray reddened, and could not meet 
 her look as he stammered out feeble contradictions. 
 
 "You are not recovered yet, Jilian, and Lot hinted 
 that I might find you a little changed. I am sorry; be- 
 lieve me, I am. Why, you don't look so pale as I ex- 
 pected, nor yet so thin. We shall soon have you well 
 and handsome again, and all the women round about 
 will be for envying you." 
 
 It was a poor and jerky apology enough, and Miss 
 Hardacre was not for one moment deceived by it. The 
 boy was shocked, disgusted, even as she had feared he 
 would be. and no doubt he was wondering how he 
 could marry such a painted hag. Jilian imagined that 
 she understood the whole of Jeffray's heart, and that 
 he shrank from her just as the rest of the world might 
 shrink. From humiliation her mood turned suddenly 
 towards impatience, and from impatience to reproach- 
 ful bitterness. 
 
 "It is very hard, Richard," she said, keeping her 
 eves fixed upon her satin slippers. 
 '"Hard, Jilian?" 
 
 She flashed up petulantly, her eyes beginning to 
 glitter. 
 
 "To be sure, I am ugly now, an old fright; I shall 
 never be pretty again. Don't deny it, Richard; I .saw 
 it all in your eyes from the first moment. Yes, I am 
 ugly, and very miserable, and it is hard and bitter and 
 cruel. I am beginning to hate myself just as every- 
 body else will hate me." 
 
 Jeflray hung his head, looked as ashamed and con- 
 trite as though every word accused him of dishonor. 
 Yet for the life of him he ((jiild not forget Bess Grim- 
 shaw's face, the scent of her clothes, the glimmer of her 
 
 247
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 hair. The generous hypocrisies died unuttered on his 
 tongue. His sincerity grappled him; he was sorry for 
 JiHan, but he could not do his pity justice. 
 
 "It is all my fault," he said, dejectedly. 
 
 Miss Hardacre's fingers were crushing her handker- 
 chief into a ball. The interview was proving too bitter 
 to her, and she was beginning to revolt against Jeffray's 
 apathy. Why did he not try to comfort her? She 
 would never have believed that Richard had so hard a 
 heart. 
 
 "You are very cold, cousin," she said. 
 
 Jeff ray blushed, and looked almost afraid to meet 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Of course, men change. They only care for a 
 pretty face, and love only so long as the woman pleases 
 them. Is not that so, Richard?" 
 
 "For God's sake, Jilian, don't talk like this — " 
 
 "Yes, yes, that is very well, but can I — a woman — 
 help seeing the truth?" 
 
 Jeffray drew a deep breath and leaned back against 
 the harpsichord. 
 
 "I know it is all my fault," he said, "and I am very 
 miserable over what has happened. Leave me alone a 
 moment, and let me take it all in. I am just as un- 
 happy as you are, Jilian; it is no use my pretending 
 that I do not see the change in you." 
 
 Jeffray, full of the egotism of a man in love, could 
 not have spoken more biting words. Jilian started as 
 though he had struck her, rose up from the settle with 
 a sudden dignity and restraint that made Richard ap- 
 pear wholly in the wrong. She made him a sHght 
 courtesy, turned on her heel, and walked towards the 
 door. 
 
 "To be sure, you must think it over, cousin," she 
 said, with a vicious sneer; "remember that I am ugly, 
 and remember also that you have told me so." 
 
 248
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Jilian!" 
 
 "Think it over, sir, but do not imap;inc that I am 
 going to be thrown aside Hke a soiled shoe. I have 
 more pride, more conceit, than that. No, I have no 
 wish to have all the women jeering and laughing behind 
 my back. You understand me, Richard, eh? Very 
 good. Think it over, by all means, but remember that 
 we are betrothed." 
 
 "I have not forgotten it, Jilian." 
 
 "Very good, cousin. I will excuse you from the 
 discomfort of studying my ugliness any further to- 
 day. Sir Peter and Lot will be glad to see you to 
 dinner." 
 
 When Jcffray left Hardacrc House that afternoon, 
 after enduring a somewhat embarrassing interview 
 with Sir Peter and Mr. Lot, he was filled with mingled 
 feelings of recklessness and shame. He almost de- 
 tested Jilian for her reproachful bitterness and her 
 threats, forgetting to pity her now that she had shown 
 the will to govern him. Moreover, Lancelot, who had 
 seen his sister in one of the galleries after her meeting 
 with Richard, had treated his cousin with ominous and 
 threatening courtesy. Three months ago Jcffray would 
 have blushed crimson at the thought of wounding the 
 sensibilities of his kinsfolk. Any suggestion of per- 
 sonal dishonor that his conscience might then have 
 fiung at him would have brought him to the peniten- 
 tial kissing of Miss Jilian's hands. Now, the swarthy 
 splendor of a single face had blinded him to all else as 
 a great light blinds the eyes. He hated Sir Peter, he 
 hated Lancelot, he hated his old self, he almost hated 
 Jilian. Was he not to see Bess that very evening? 
 Was not Pevcnsel before him with all its mystery, its 
 glamour, its romance? 
 
 But Jcffray did not find Bess in the valley of yews 
 that evening. She had Iktii unable to escape Dan's 
 17 249
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 vigilance and had bided at home, hoeing the weeds in 
 the garden sullenly. As for Richard, he rode back to 
 Rodenham very sad and weary, and feeling sick and 
 faint as though he had overtaxed his strength.
 
 XXIX 
 
 SURGEON STOTT, that blue-coated member of the 
 company of surgeons, pounced upon Jeffray next 
 morning, and dehvered a most professional condemna- 
 tion of his patient's method of convalescence. 
 
 "Too much riding — too much riding, sir, eh? Hard- 
 acre House yesterday; fourteen miles there and back! 
 Not very gentle exercise, to be sure." 
 
 Richard Jeffray had the mopes that morning, and 
 Stott fully believed that he knew the cause thereof. 
 He sniffed, pulled out his gold repeater, and sat with 
 his head cocked on one side as he held Jeffray 's wrist 
 between his thumb and fat, pink fingers. 
 
 "I am going to order you to The Wells, sir," he said, 
 bluntly. 
 
 "The Wells!" 
 
 "Yes, for the good of both parties. Pardon the sug- 
 gestion, but ladies need time for proper and reasonable 
 convalescence. Let there be an interlude, Mr. Jeffray; 
 I recommend it as a man of sentiment." 
 
 Jeffray caught the surgeon's meaning, and discovered 
 himself not so very prejudiced against the proposal, in 
 that it offered him time for procrastinating with the 
 future. He had had but little sleep the previous night, 
 with Jilian's scarred face haunting him and her pa- 
 theticisms and her sneers ringing changes in his brain. 
 He experienced an almost tierce desire to escape for 
 a while from the importunate responsibilities of the 
 present. 
 
 25»
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Very probably, Stott, the change would do me 
 good," he said. 
 
 "Certainly, sir, certainly; pack your books away, and 
 leave the thinking part of you at home. That is my 
 advice — take it or leave it, as you like." 
 
 Jeffray flattered the surgeon by acknowledging his 
 authority, and by straightway deciding to join the Lady 
 Letitia at The Wells for one month. He was glad of 
 the excuse to commend himself to Jilian by letter, plead- 
 ing ill-health and Surgeon Stott's advice. He imagined 
 that his absence might prepare Miss Hardacre for a pos- 
 sible parting, and at least he would gain leisure to face 
 the future calmly and without haste. 
 
 He rode out that same evening, and found Bess in 
 the valley of yews, a dusky fiord that ran from the 
 green levels about Thorney Chapel into the towering 
 gloom of Pevensel. Hundreds of yews were crowded 
 about piled-up rocks that looked like the broken towers 
 and battlements of a ruin. A path ran amid the trees, 
 leading to a little glade where a pool covered with the 
 white stars of the water-crowfoot glimmered before the 
 old, rock-cut hermitage. 
 
 She started up on seeing him, the blood in her cheeks, 
 sunlight in her eyes. Jeffray was as red as Bess, the 
 sense of her nearness adding the charm of strangeness 
 to the meeting. 
 
 "So you have found your way?" 
 
 She held out her hands, and Jeffray took them, brown 
 and rough-skinned as they were. They seemed to smell 
 of new mown hay and milk to him, and of the pots of 
 musk that grow in cottage windows. 
 
 "I rode here last night, but you did not come." 
 
 "No, I could not get free from Dan." 
 
 They stood looking at each other awhile in silence, 
 as though letting the subtle consciousness of love steal 
 in upon their hearts. All about them the brown trunks 
 
 252
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 of the yews broke into sheaves of dusky pinnacles and 
 slender spires. The silence of the place was as the 
 silence of some sacred wood. The grass grew green and 
 deep in the glade, while the thickets above seemed 
 dusted with lapis lazuli, so thick were the bluebells. 
 
 Bess seated herself on a stone beside the pool, Jcflfray 
 lying in the grass at her feet. The happy abandon- 
 ment of children was theirs, for the sordidness of life 
 seemed far from them for the moment. Bess's eyes 
 darkened a little when Jcffray told her of Surgeon 
 Stott's warning to him that morning, but there was no 
 distrust upon her face. Stott's month at The Wells 
 was dwindling to vanishing point in Jcffray 's mind as 
 he talked to Bess, and watched the play of feeling on 
 her face. 
 
 It was then that Bess spoke for the first time to Jcf- 
 fray of Miss Hardacre. She had thought often of the 
 great lady in her silks and brocades queening it in the 
 stately house guarded by its ancestral trees. Bess 
 wished to hear Jcffray speak of this woman whom he 
 was to marry, and to watch his eyes to see whether they 
 lit up like a lover's eyes. 
 
 Jeffray's face and mood changed on the instant; he 
 was no longer the dreamer watching the sun sinking 
 behind the yews. 
 
 "Why do you ask me about Miss Hardacre?" 
 
 Bess saw that the thought was bitter to him, and yet 
 felt glad at heart. 
 
 "I know," she said, slowly, "you are to marry her." 
 
 "Who told you that?" 
 
 "Miss Sugg, before — " 
 
 "Before you married Dan?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 JefTray turned, and leaned upon one hand, looking at 
 the pfxjl and the reflection of the sky that colored the 
 water. 
 
 253
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Did you believe it?" he asked her, quietly. 
 
 "Yes, I had to." 
 
 "What did you think?" 
 
 "I thought it wonderful that you should have been 
 so kind to me." 
 
 Jeffray plucked at the long grass with his hands, and 
 laughed, and the note of bitterness in his laughter made 
 her understand all that was hidden in his heart. 
 
 "You were generous to me, Bess," he said, grimly; 
 "and how often I have hated myself, you cannot tell. 
 Still, child — " and he looked up at her with brightening 
 eyes — "it is not for me to put the weight upon your 
 shoulders. I do not know whether I shall marry this 
 fine lady. Let us forget her to-night, you and I." 
 
 He might have told Bess that he hated Jilian, for her 
 woman's instinct had seized the truth, a secret joy find- 
 ing rebellion easy in her heart. Jeffray had no love for 
 the woman he was to marry, a confession that Bess had 
 almost hoped to hear. She felt now that she could lean 
 on Jeffray, and look perhaps for a more mysterious 
 thing than pity. 
 
 Bess understood but vaguely what the future might 
 devise. It was sufficient for her to know that Jeffray 's 
 thoughts were hers and not Miss Hardacre's. A great 
 barrier seemed to have been beaten down between them, 
 and she felt happier that night than she had felt for 
 many days. They talked on as the twilight gathered, 
 Hke children beside a deep and treacherous river, the 
 one bank rich with sunshine, the other a chaos of Hght 
 and shade. As yet they would not dare the deeps. 
 Sufficient unto the hour was their joy in each other's 
 presence. 
 
 When the twilight deepened, Bess went away through 
 the solemn yews, smiling to herself over the new hope 
 born within her heart, while Jeffray rode back like one 
 in a^.dream through the darkening thickets, and the long, 
 
 254
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 odorous grass towards his home. Before noon next day 
 he had shaken Dick Wilson by the hand, and was trav- 
 elling over the heavy Sussex roads, Peter Gladden won- 
 dering why his master looked so sad. 
 
 The night after Bess's meeting with JefTray in the 
 yew valley, Dan told his wife that he was going out 
 after wild duck to the Holy Cross pools, and, shouldering 
 his gun, left Bess alone to go to bed. The sky was clear, 
 with a full moon swinging up in the east above the 
 tangled boughs of the pines. Dan slipped away to old 
 Isaac's cottage with his black spaniel at his heels, and, 
 keeping under the shadows of the orchard, knocked at 
 the heavy door. A candle was burning in the lower 
 room, the pewter and china, the brass work, and quaint 
 furniture showing through the curtainless window. A 
 figure rose up from an arm-chair before the fire, stopped 
 a moment by the table to snuff the candle. Then the 
 bolts were shot back, and Isaac's white head came peer- 
 ing out into the moonlight. He had a lantern in one 
 hand and a canvas-bag in the other, while with a keen 
 glance at Dan he jerked his head in the direction of an 
 out-house standing in the garden. 
 
 "Get the pick and spade, lad." 
 
 Isaac slammed the door after him by the bobbin-cord, 
 and waited by the garden-gate while Dan groped in the 
 shed for the tools. Finding tlicm at last, he swung the 
 spade and pick over one shoulder, and carried the gun 
 sloped over the other. They set off together in the 
 moonlight and took a southward path that plunged into 
 the deeps of Pevcnsel. 
 
 Bess was creaming the milk in the little dairy next 
 morning when Dan came in to her, grinning and look- 
 ing goo<l -humore<l. His clumsy shoes were foul with 
 muck from the byre, his shirt open, showing his hairy 
 chest He hugged Bess, flattening his coarse lips on her 
 cheek, the girl taking the kiss with dull-eyed self-restraint. 
 
 255
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I've got a present for ye, Bess." 
 
 The wife kept her color and looked calmly at her hus- 
 band. 
 
 "Ay, and a purty one. You shall be giving me three 
 smacks for it. Come, fetch a glimpse." 
 
 He fumbled in his pocket, his eyes fixed the while on 
 the girl's face. Bess saw a scrap of gold in his palm, 
 green stones shining like a dog's eyes in the light. 
 Dan chuckled, his hairy and sweating chest heaving. 
 He held the brooch out to her. 
 
 "There's a purty bauble! A flash bit of stuff! How 
 be you liking it, Bess?" 
 
 She took it from Dan's palm, and, as by instinct, 
 pinned it on the red handkerchief that covered her 
 bosom. The man's clumsy courting reminded her by 
 contrast of Richard Jeffray. She hated her husband's 
 sweating bulk and the stare of his eyes. 
 
 "I hke it well enough, Dan," she said. 
 
 "Now don't you be for asking questions. Give me 
 the kisses, wench. Lud, but I like ye; I like every 
 limb and tooth of ye, Bess." 
 
 Dan kissed her twice, though she shuddered as his 
 hairy arms crushed her against his chest. When Dan 
 had gone she shook her clothes as though to rid them 
 of the scent of him, and dashed water from the pump 
 into her face. Then she took the brooch, and, standing 
 before the lattice -window with the great beams dark 
 overhead, gazed at it a long while, holding it in the 
 hollow of her hand. 
 
 A rush of strange memories had flooded back into 
 her brain, dim and tantalizing, yet full of meaning. 
 This was the brooch she remembered at the throat of 
 the tall lady who had run to comfort her when she had 
 fallen and cut her knees as a little child. How had 
 Dan come by it ? To whom had it belonged ?
 
 XXX 
 
 JEFFRAY had taken lodgings at Tunbridgc Wells 
 over a stationer's shop, Peter Gladden, pompously 
 indefatigable, having discharged all the petty pre- 
 liminaries for his master. The windows of the parlor 
 gave a slanting view of the Pantiles, and a broad 
 glimpse of the common, gilded with gorse, its may-trees 
 bursting into snow, the rocks sleeping like toads on the 
 sunny slopes. The woods of Bridge bristled beyond, 
 and Crowborough Beacon climbed purple into the south- 
 western sky. The village with its biblically-named hills 
 seemed gay with spruce gentlemen, beflowered ladies, 
 lackeys, and such gaudy beetles. The frivolous little 
 Sybaris nestled amid the dazzling freshness of spring, 
 orchards still white upon the slopes, flowers thick in 
 every meadow. 
 
 It was a dewy morning after rain, the landscape 
 a-shimmer in the sun when Peter Gladden shaved and 
 valeted his master, and prepared him for a parade upon 
 the Pantiles and the public walks where he might study 
 the life of the yilace. JclTray, who still wore black and 
 dressed without great respect to fashion, discovered 
 himself scrutinized with some closeness by the smart 
 idlers whose lives appeared consecrated to studying the 
 shape of a buckle or the cock of a hat. 
 
 Jeffray sat down on a seat in the jjublii- walk aiul 
 watched the peojjle go to and fro. A strutting, wad- 
 dling crowd it was, picturesque at a distance, with its 
 brocades and colors, but, like a bold and splashing 
 
 257
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 picture, disclosing its artifices and its flaws to the close 
 observer. The men, with a few signal exceptions, ap- 
 peared to belong to that indefinable order of beings 
 who combined the semi-sentimental spirit of libertinism 
 with the coarse arrogance of an aristrocratic animal. 
 What thrusting out of elbows was there; what dehcate 
 dabbings of the nose with lace; what strutting and 
 smirking; what showing off of legs and gesturings with 
 white ruffled hands! It was a clever crowd, too, with 
 the exception of a few clumsy squires who lumbered 
 through it, and the open-mouthed toadies gaping and 
 ready like stupid codfish for "my lord's joke." Shallow 
 and superficial seemed the gay, epigrammatic philosophy 
 of such people. Jeffray felt that fashion was justified 
 of her children, and that even the pageantry of life 
 could not make such mumming bearable. 
 
 At three o'clock Jeffray dined at a quiet "ordinary" 
 preparatory to paying a state call on the Lady Letitia. 
 He took his meal in a little white-fronted inn whose 
 casements opened on trim lawns, fruit-trees, and white 
 palings. The beds cut in the grass were bright with 
 pansies, stocks, and arabis. A broad brick path led up 
 to the trellised porch. 
 
 Even in this quaint, black -beamed old place the same 
 feeling of artificiality haunted him. The bobbing, 
 scurrying waiter was a servile offence against liberty, 
 while at a table in one corner three young exquisites 
 were discussing the virtues of a new shoe-buckle and 
 the piquances of the latest demi-mondaine of the place. 
 The proprietor of the inn, a fat, tallow-faced foreigner 
 in black, scuttled hither and thither, and beamed with 
 delight when Jeffray spoke to him in Italian. Richard 
 felt that the fellow would have licked the dust off any 
 great, little gentleman's shoes had his highness honored 
 him with such an order. Money, impudence, and osten- 
 tation were the only noble necessities amid such sur- 
 
 258
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 foundings. Beggared, sea-stained Ulysses would have 
 had the dogs set on him in such a pace. 
 
 Richard, after being conducted to the gate by the 
 proprietor, who jabbered Italian, and appeared ready 
 to embrace his patron had not etiquette intervened, 
 strolled down the village towards the Pantiles, and 
 looked for the house where the Lady Lctitia was stay- 
 ing. A rat-tat from a brass knocker on a green front 
 door brought Jeilray face to face with the dowager's 
 footman in cerise and buff. The man's smug face re- 
 laxed into a grin as he bowed Richard into the narrow 
 hall, and surrendered him to the urbanity of Mr. Par- 
 sons. The Lady Lctitia was at home, and expected a 
 few folk of some conscxjuence to tea and cards. The 
 major-domo dared to assure Richard that her ladyship 
 would be rejoiced at seeing him. 
 
 When Jeffray was ushered into his aunt's room, he 
 found the old lady seated alone at one of the windows 
 overlooking the Pantiles. Two card - tables were set 
 out at the upper end, and a great silver tray ladened 
 with choice china in blue and gold stood on a gate- 
 legged table by the fire. For the rest, the room ap- 
 peared shabby and colorless, the gilding on the walls 
 dull and cracked, the carpet worn, the brocades and 
 tayjestrics faded. Certainly its atmosphere was one of 
 genteel elegance, and in a fashionable health resort even 
 a grocer's parlor was considered elegant. It Wcis the 
 inmates who mattered, not the upholstery and the 
 chandeliers. 
 
 The Lady Lctitia received her nephew with absolute 
 effusion. She tottered up, putting aside her stick, and 
 held out two gouty hands to him with the smile of a 
 most amiable of grandmothers. The recollection of 
 her hurried (light from Rodenham did not ap])ear to 
 disturb her equanimity, for the old lady had grown ac- 
 customed to forgetting "incidents" in her day. She 
 
 259
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 kissed Jeff ray on both cheeks, leaving in each case a 
 patch of powder behind, and then held him at arm's 
 length, gazing in his face. 
 
 "Ha, ha, mon cher; why, you look quite brave and 
 well, though a little thin. By the Queen of Hearts, I am 
 overjoyed at seeing you, with hardly a spot or a pock- 
 mark either! You are a credit to your physician, 
 Richard ; all's well that ends well ; a wise proverb. And 
 when did you arrive, sir? What, last night! To be 
 sure, Richard, you ought to have shown yourself to a 
 poor old woman earlier. And how is the dear Jilian, 
 is she with you?" 
 
 The Lady Letitia, still talking, subsided again into 
 her chair. She looked very yellow and ugly despite 
 her rouge, and she was short of breath, as Richard 
 noticed. Age seemed to be gaining fast on her, and 
 even a liberal remittance from her bankers could not 
 keep her from growing feeble. Jeffray was astonished 
 at the change that even two months had wrought in her. 
 Her fierce, peering eyes were bright as ever, but he 
 could see that her hands trembled, and that a senile 
 tremor was shaking the feathers in her "head." 
 
 "Sit down, nephew, sit down. And how does Miss 
 Jilian Hke The Wells, sir? You ought to have brought 
 her to see me, Richard." 
 
 Jeffray had settled himself on a stool by the window. 
 He was watching the gay stream of color in the walk 
 below, one hand playing with the hilt of his sword. 
 
 "Jilian is at Hardacre, aunt," he said. 
 
 "Indeed, sir, indeed!" 
 
 "I was ordered here for my health by Surgeon Stott. 
 It seems a gay place, madam. I have never before seen 
 so many butterflies flitting about together." 
 
 The Lady Letitia's keen and angular face had taken 
 on an expression of vivid alertness. Her birdlike eyes 
 twinkled over her nephew's face. Certainly he ap- 
 
 260
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 peared more melancholy and self - centred than ever, 
 and spoke listlessly, as though some trouble were weigh- 
 ing on his mind. The old lady's insatiable curiosity 
 was awake on the instant. It was her fate to be for- 
 ever prying and peering into the affairs of others. 
 
 "I hope dear Jilian is well, Richard." 
 
 "Not very well, aunt." 
 
 "Eh, eh! What's been the matter?" 
 
 "Miss Hardacre has had the small-pox." 
 
 "The small-pox!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The old lady's eyes glittered shrewdly. She sat with 
 her hands on the crook of her stick, looking at Rich- 
 ard with penetration. There were cynical and amused 
 wrinkles about her mouth. Jeffray's melancholy, his 
 air of abstraction, expressed infinite things to the Lady 
 Letitia. She could have chuckled over the apparent 
 fulfilment of her prophecies. Miss Jilian, doubtless, had 
 had her complexion shattered, and Mr. Richard was feel- 
 ing utterly out of love with her. 
 
 "Hum, Richard, mon cher, pardon me, but you look 
 worried, troubled. Will you not confide in an old wom- 
 an, eh? I have seen a great deal of the world." 
 
 Jeffray, who had been leaning with one elbow on the 
 window-sill, and drumming on the glass with his fingers, 
 turned suddenly, looking vexed and half ashamed. He 
 had still enough mock pride left in him to resent the 
 steady conviction that his elderly relative had warned 
 him very shrewdly. He had always half despised the 
 worldly old Jezebel, but she seemed to have the laugh 
 of him for the moment. 
 
 "To tell you the truth, madam," he said, unbosom- 
 ing himself with clumsy bru.squencss and with an effort, 
 "Jilian has been much disfigured." 
 
 The Lady Letitia leaned forward on her stick. 
 
 "There, there, mon cher Richard, 1 understand." 
 
 261
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I gave it to her." 
 
 "And now you love her no longer, nephew, eh? Do 
 not contradict me, sir, I can see it in every line of your 
 face. Poor boy! poor boy! It is a mercy that you are 
 not married." 
 
 Jeffray, who had been writhing and reddening before 
 the old lady's eyes, started and flashed a questioning 
 look at her as the last words were uttered. 
 
 "A mercy, madam!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Of course, my dear." 
 
 Jeffray's upper lip tightened, and he looked sullen 
 about the eyes. 
 
 "It was all my fault," he said. "I suppose I ought 
 to act like a man of honor. I ought to marry her, I 
 know." 
 
 The Lady Letitia actually broke out into a merry 
 laugh. Her eyes twinkled, and she tapped on the floor 
 applaudingly with her stick. 
 
 "Richard, mon cher, when will you learn to put on 
 the breeches?" 
 
 "Madam!" 
 
 "Lud, sir, when will you discover that these silly 
 sentiments, these toys of honor, are only idols invented 
 and decorated by us women to delude and impress the 
 callow male. We must get husbands, and keep 'em, 
 if we can. Foh, sir, better marry a red-cheeked, bounc- 
 ing wench who wants you because you are a man, than 
 a fine spinister who is hunting for a household and for 
 money." 
 
 Jeffray, sentimentalist that he was, looked surprised 
 and even shocked. 
 
 "Why, madam, you are a lady yourself, one of a 
 class, and can you talk like this?" 
 
 The dowager chuckled with cynical delight. 
 
 "Come, come, Richard; I have played the game, 
 have I not? I have schemed and plotted, tilted my 
 
 262
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 nose, and nistlcd my silken skirts. Yes, yes. But I 
 know what it is worth, sir; I know the value of a pawn, 
 a bishop, and a king. I have studied the moves, the 
 openings, the finesse, the checkmate. It is only a game 
 that we polite and religious gamblers cultivate. Do not 
 be deluded, sir. Hearts are not broken at five-and- 
 thirty; they are leather at twenty when the modesty 
 dries up. Do you think that Miss Hardacre would 
 marry you if you were a common attorney or a penni- 
 less ensign ? No, no. The illusions have gone. It is 
 comfort, carriages, servants, baubles, money for cards. 
 That is her disease, Richard." 
 
 Jeffray hung his head and stroked his chin, yet dis- 
 covered, despite his sensibility, a comforting flavor in 
 the old hdy's words. 
 
 "It may be so," he said, with the air of a fatalist. 
 
 The Lady Letitia, however, saw nothing inevitable in 
 the marriage. She cackled with the greatest good humor, 
 and tapped Jefi'ray's knee with the point of her stick. 
 
 "Dear Lord, Richard, don't pull such a very long 
 face. Do you think you are the first man who has 
 grown tired of the angel ? There is not a more schem- 
 ing, artful, intrigue-eaten veteran in the county. Why 
 should you marry her because she wants your money ? 
 As for a betrothal, nephew, sensible people ought to re- 
 gard it as a state trial, a bargain that either may break 
 with honor, when it seems likely to prove a bad one. 
 Let the scandal - mongers go hang. When you have 
 money, Richard, you need not be afraid of people's 
 tongues. Cock your hat at them all, step out and 
 swagger. And how does the noble Lancelot behave to 
 you, sir?" 
 
 Jefl ray's mouth hardened as he remembered his 
 cousin's red face and overbearing manner. The Lady 
 Letitia had struck the right chord. The look on her 
 nephew's face applauded her diplomacy. 
 
 263
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Do not be browbeaten by that oaf, Richard," she 
 continued, with much spirit. "Lot Hardacre is a fine 
 fellow to set himself up as a judge of honor. Why, he 
 has jilted three girls to my knowledge, and is content 
 now to amuse himself with farmers' daughters, without 
 the burdens of matrimony. Stand up to him, nephew; 
 rattle your sword. The more you show your teeth in 
 this world the better will people respect you. The 
 Christian fool is a poor creature. He gets an abun- 
 dance of kicks, sir, and, by Heaven! he deserves them. 
 Ah, here is my dear friend. Dean Stubbs. Nephew, 
 you must stay and drink tea with us, and take a hand 
 at cards."
 
 XXXI 
 
 THE following morning a letter came to Richard 
 from Hardacre, a carefully sealed epistle smelling 
 strangely of musk. He stared at it like a spendthrift 
 eying an unpayable bill, opened the letter as he sipped 
 his chocolate, spread it on the tray before him, and read 
 it grudgingly at his leisure. He was no longer moved to 
 kiss the place where Miss Jilian's hand had rested. The 
 sentimental infatuation had withered in a week. It had 
 never possessed roots in the natural soil. The letter 
 ran: 
 
 "My dear Richard, — 1 was a little surprised to receive the 
 note that informed me that you were proceeding to Tunbridgc 
 Wells for your health. Was it shame or delicacy of fcelinj; 
 that prevented you from takinj^ leave of me in person ? You 
 must rememl)cr how little sympathy you showed me when we 
 first met after my illness. I am ready to pardt)n you, how- 
 ever, and shall expect more sensibility in you in the future. 
 
 '■ DouV)tless you will be rejoiced to hear that I am in good 
 health, and that my poor complexion promises to improve. 
 The great Dr. Buflin visited me yesterday. He had travelled 
 down by private coach to Lady Poisons, and Lancelot rode 
 over to desire him to call on me at Hardacre. His opinion 
 proved t') l>e most sympathetic and comforting, so that you 
 can rejoice with me in my fresh flow of si)irits. 
 
 "Is that terrible oUl woman — your aunt — at The Wells? 
 Let me warn you against her, Richard. She has led a wicked 
 life, and has no respect for God ^^T the truth." 
 
 Here followed certain very proper expressions of 
 affection that made Jeffray wince and color. The 
 letter ended with a veiled threat, the significance of 
 i8 265
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 which the man was world-wise enough to understand. 
 He suspected, and suspected rightly, that Miss Hard- 
 acre was not singly responsible for the document be- 
 fore him. He had received letters from Jilian of old, 
 formless, feeble, and vaporish things, indifferent as to 
 spelling, commonplace as to style. Richard imagined 
 that some family friend had collaborated with her in 
 the production of the letter, and his docility was not in- 
 creased by the impression. 
 
 Needless to say the Lady Letitia was permitted to 
 read the epistle, and the unflattering reference to her 
 morals brought the light of battle into the old lady's 
 eyes. She smiled very grimly at her nephew, tapped 
 on the floor with her crooked stick, and desired him to 
 state what he thought of Miss Hardacre's letter. Rich- 
 ard had been watching the people parading on the 
 Pantiles, looking morose and melancholy, a man with 
 a growing grievance. 
 
 "You will see, madam," he said, turning restlessly in 
 his chair, "that Miss Hardacre's complexion is likely to 
 improve." 
 
 The dowager sniffed, and made an irritable gesture 
 with the letter. 
 
 "So she writes, Richard," she retorted. 
 
 "Dr. Buffin is a physician of experience." 
 
 "An old mollycoddle, sir, fit to treat a cold in the 
 head. He is one of those gentlemen who takes two 
 guineas for telling people just what they wish to hear. 
 But supposing the lady's complexion mends, Richard, 
 will your love mend with it?" 
 
 This was a home- thrust, and Jeff ray's face betrayed 
 his inability to parry it. He played with his watch- 
 chain and seals, and looked blank pessimism so far as 
 his affection for Miss Hardacre was concerned. 
 
 "I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself," he 
 confessed, 
 
 266
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Nonsense, mon cher, nonsense." 
 
 "I cannot help my instincts." 
 
 "Exactly, sir, exactly. Supposing now that you 
 were set down in front of an ugly china cat, and were 
 told that unless you admired and adored it eternally 
 you would be the most dishonorable rascal in Christen- 
 dom. What should you think, sir? — what should you 
 think?" 
 
 The sally drew a smile even from Richard's mel- 
 ancholy. 
 
 "I should feel that the command was unreasonable," 
 he said. 
 
 "Of course, Richard, no one can accomplish the im- 
 possible. Love has wings of fire, sir, it does not crawl 
 like a spider in a web. And supposing now that you 
 hesitated about adoring the same china cat, and that a 
 great, red -faced bully stood over you with a whip, and 
 swore he'd thrash you into admiring the monstrosity, 
 what would you do then, Richard, eh ? — what would you 
 do then?" 
 
 "Rebel, I suppose," confessed the catechumen, with 
 a frown. 
 
 Though sitting as a disciple at his aunt's feet, JefTray 
 had no great ditliculty in amusing himself reflectively 
 in the village. He walked on the Pantiles, watched the 
 little comedies of life, listened to the music, dineil at 
 the various inns, and modestly refused the ogling in- 
 vitations of sundry damsels in gay gowns and gaudy 
 hats. Twice he attended at the Assembly Rooms with 
 the Lady Letitia, and was not a little amused to find 
 that the old lady had already discovered a rich and 
 pretty rival to outshine Miss Jilian. Jcffray's pulses 
 remained unstirred by this new nereid. He danced 
 with her twice, found her amiable and conmionplace, 
 and laughe(J with modest incredulity when the dowager 
 rallied him on his chances. A young man in love might 
 
 267
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 vote Dame Venus herself a very prosaic and ordinary 
 person. 
 
 Jeflfray's favorite haunt was a rock on the Common, 
 where he could bask in the sun, and look into the blue 
 distance towards Pevensel. Bess was in his thoughts 
 always; in truth, she was thought itself, the very blood 
 within his brain. He rehearsed her every pose, gest- 
 ure, and expression, the simple and half-tender words 
 that she had spoken to him, the way her eyes grew full 
 of light when they met his. He remembered her bath- 
 ing at Holy Cross, a white pillar of loveliness glimmer- 
 ing in the sun. He remembered her at Thorney Chapel, 
 fierce, miserable, and ashamed. Sweetest of all were 
 the memories of the night when she had bent over him 
 as he lay in bed, and the day when he had met her in 
 the larch-wood and she had poured out all her despair 
 into his ears. 
 
 What wonder that Miss Hardacre's influence grew 
 less and less, and that mere airy and fragile sentiments 
 weighed like gossamer against the gold of love. Time 
 and the Lady Letitia appeared to be clearing the meta- 
 physical fog from Jeffray's brain. The dark melted, the 
 noon Sim shone. True, he could not marry Bess, but 
 his love for her should save him from perjuring himself 
 by an alliance with Jilian. The truth was as plain as 
 an Egyptian obelisk against the desert sky. Why 
 should he shut his eyes and wander on, hating himself, 
 and hating Jilian. What — and did he not pity her? 
 Yes, in a vague and passive way, remembering ever 
 the Lady Letitia's cry of "money," and Mr. Lancelot's 
 insolent face. 
 
 It was the fourth day of Jeff ray's sojourn at The Wells 
 when the Lady Letitia succeeded in convincing him, 
 somewhat dramatically, of how he was being exploited 
 by the gentry at Hardacre. The dowager produced a 
 letter from her reticule and handed it to Richard with 
 
 268
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 a grim twinkle in her shrewd old eyes. It was a letter 
 written from a confidential friend of Lot Hardacre's 
 to a confidential friend of the Lady Letitia's. Jeffray's 
 betrothal had been broached in a gossip between the 
 dowager and her confidant, and the letter had been 
 confided to the old lady's care, on the understanding she 
 was on no account to disclose its contents to her nephew. 
 The Lady Letitia's Jesuitical conscience disposed very 
 easily of the promise, and Jeffray was admitted behind 
 the scenes. 
 
 The passages that concerned him ran as follows: 
 
 "Jill Hardacrc, that gay spinster, has had the small-pox, and 
 looks — so folks say — like a pitted orange with a wig. She is 
 betrothed, as you have probably heard, to a wealthy young 
 sapling whose grandsire made a fortune in iron. It seems that 
 the young gentleman is inclined to withdraw from the match, 
 since the sweet maid is grievously disfigured. But our friend 
 Lancelot thinks otherwise in the matter. Jilt my sister, sir, 
 egad, but you may bet your last guinea that he won't. The 
 lad is a soft young fool, and will faint, damme, at the sight of a 
 sword." 
 
 "So you see, sweet coz, that the noble Lot intends 
 to pin the calf to his promise in swaggering fashion. 
 Well, Jill Ilardacre has had her day, and this promises 
 to be her last and final hunting-party. Now or never 
 is the cry. The Hardacrcs want money, and the young 
 squircling has a veritable pot of gold. Amusing, eh? 
 Life is a merry jest, to be sure." 
 
 When Richard had read the letter tlirough he handed 
 it back very quietly to the dowager. His face had 
 hardened to that white, expressionless mobility that 
 bespeaks action. The mouth was no longer soft and 
 plastic, the eyes full of melancholy and reflective doubt. 
 
 "Well, Richard, what is to be done?" 
 
 JetTray stood up and stretched himself. 
 
 "Take fencing lessons," he said, curtly. 
 
 269
 
 II 
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 'Ah ha, that is the right spirit!" 
 I could handle a sword in Italy, but am stiff and 
 out of play. I suppose there is a fencing-master in the 
 place?" 
 
 The old lady's eyes glittered, and she looked at her 
 nephew approvingly. 
 
 "Yes, a Frenchman, a wonderful fellow, I believe. I 
 will tell Parsons to go at once and find where he lodges." 
 
 "Thanks, madam. I will have a week's practice with 
 him before I retvurn to Rodenham."
 
 XXXII 
 
 THE lilac had fallen and the roses were in bloom 
 when Jefifray took a stately and affectionate leave 
 of the Lady Lctitia, and journeyed back to Rodenham 
 with Peter Gladden in his coach and four. The dowager 
 had appeared sincerely sorry at Richard's departure. 
 He had refused to permit her to repay him the two 
 hundred guineas that she had borrowed at Rodenham; 
 moreover, he had made the old lady several handsome 
 presents, lace and jewelry being still acceptable to 
 the belle of seventy. Day by day the Lady Lctitia 
 diligently applauded Jeffray's strengthening spirit of 
 revolt, trumpeting in his ears the preposterous insolence 
 of Mr. Lancelot's contempt, and bidding him work out 
 his own salvation. Her only regret appeared to have 
 been that Richard had refused her the joy of choosing 
 him a wife. 
 
 Dick Wilson remarked the change in Jeffray when 
 they walked in the garden on the evening of his return. 
 The man's face and figure appeared to have gained 
 alertness and decision. There was a new suppleness 
 and grace about his carriage that contrasted with the 
 half -slouching and dreamy melancholy that had bur- 
 dened him before. His eyes wore keen and alive to 
 the things about him. He carried his head high, and 
 gpoke with more decision than of old. 
 
 " I must confess, sir," said the painter, frankly, "that 
 the air of Tunbridge seems to have suited you." 
 
 JcfTray smiled as they paced the terrace side by side. 
 
 271
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I have been taking fencing lessons, Dick," he said. 
 
 "Fencing lessons, sir?" 
 
 "From D'Aiglan, the Frenchman. He has done me 
 a great deal of good. I am ready for any emergency." 
 
 Wilson elevated his eyebrows expressively, and look- 
 ed at Jeff ray with curious intentness. 
 
 " I always thought that you were a man of peace, sir," 
 he said. 
 
 Jeff ray laughed rather grimly, and, drawing Wilson 
 away into the yew walk, told him briefly the whole tenor 
 of his love affair with Miss Hardacre. He was begin- 
 ning to learn that truth and the sword are much akin, 
 and that brave candor is often more magical than senti- 
 mental secretiveness. Wilson, much astonished, plodded 
 to and fro at Jeffray's side, fingering his chin and emit- 
 ting an expressive interjection from time to time. He 
 was a broad-minded student of the world's whims and 
 weaknesses, and his sympathies were wholly with Jef- 
 fray in the matter. 
 
 "What are you going to do, sir?" he asked at last. 
 
 "Tell the truth as kindly as I can, Dick, and defy 
 this fire-eating cousin of mine. I have no intention of 
 financing the family by marrying the daughter." 
 
 "You have made up your mind, eh?" 
 
 "I am tired, Dick, of contemplating a Hfe-long hy- 
 pocrisy." 
 
 Wilson brushed the tobacco ash and snuff from his 
 waistcoat, whistled a few lines of a favorite ditty, and 
 then laid his hand on Jeffray's shoulder. 
 
 "I think you are right, sir," he said. 
 
 "Thanks, Dick, thanks." 
 
 "There is too much damned trafficking in matrimony 
 in this world. I shall never forget old Hogarth's preach- 
 ing. Unless God and the heart are in the thing, the 
 bond is but a pledge to the devil." 
 
 Jeffray looked Wilson straight in the eyes. 
 
 272
 
 BESS OF THE UOODS 
 
 " I am glad to hear you speak like this, Dick," he said; 
 "it strengthens mc." 
 
 "And I am glad, sir," quoth the painter, "that you 
 are one of the few people who can tell the truth." 
 
 Meanwhile Bess had been watching and waiting in 
 Pevensel for Jeffray's return, eager to show him the 
 brooch that Dan had given her — a cross within a cir- 
 cle of gold studded with emeralds. The brooch had 
 proved to her that her memories of the past were not 
 mere dreams begotten out of restless fancy of childhood. 
 Perhaps old Ursula was not her aunt, and perhaps Dan 
 and the forest -folk had no blood communion with her, 
 as she had been taught to believe. Once she showed 
 the brooch to Ursula, watching the old woman's wrin- 
 kled face keenly the while. The crone had peered at it 
 with some uneasiness, working her toothless mouth and 
 fidgeting at her apron - strings with her fingers. She 
 had asked Bess how she had come by the bauble, and, 
 being told that it was Dan's present, she had held up 
 her hands, turned her back on the girl, and refused to 
 utter another word on the matter. Ursula's attitude 
 puzzled Bess. She went solemn-eyed through the early 
 days of June, thinking of JefTray and the past, and won- 
 dering what would happen in the future. 
 
 Twice she had quarrelled fiercely with Dan since he 
 had given her the brooch, and it was only by grappling 
 her passions down that she could keep her hands from 
 shedding blood. Silence and an attitude of meek sub- 
 mission went sorely against the temper of her soul. It 
 was only the dire necessity for dissimulation that held 
 her quiet under her husl;>and's bullyings. For bully 
 her he did after the fashion of a great, clumsy savage, 
 proud of his own huge strength and the prerogatives 
 there<jf. It pleased the oaf to fancy that he was tam- 
 ing Bess as he would have tamed a bad-tempered filly; 
 that he was breaking her spirit, and fastening his bond- 
 
 273
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 age upon her with the masterful complacency of a lord 
 and a possessor. Like a great ape he would grin and 
 mock her, tweak her hair, pinch her arms, twit her 
 with his triumph, and gloat over the passivity that 
 seemed to flatter his strength. Now and again Bess's 
 anger would blaze up in hot revolt, a passion-play that 
 lent a charm to the brute pride of conquest. He be- 
 lieved that he had tamed and subdued the girl, not 
 suspecting that he was only stacking the pent-up fire 
 within her heart. 
 
 It was not till Jeffray had ridden on three successive 
 evenings to the yew valley that Bess was able to slip 
 away from the hamlet to meet him. It was a still 
 evening in June, the grass knee -deep in the golden 
 meadows, the scent of the white may heavy on the air. 
 The voices of the birds alone broke the deep silence of 
 the summer woods. The black spires of the yews and 
 their massive limbs were streaked and eyeleted with the 
 flooding gold of the western sky. 
 
 Jeffray came first to the trysting-place, feehng like a 
 man who has drunk a bumper of sparkling wine. He 
 tethered his horse deep in one of the thickets, and went 
 and stood in the entry of the Hermit's Cave, a rough 
 chamber cut in the rock, with a low doorway and a 
 mere slit of a window. The air was damp, pungent, 
 and refreshing. Below lay the pool covered with white 
 water -weed, where the old recluse of yore had drawn 
 his water and kept his fish. There was still the outline 
 of a cross cut in the wall of the chamber, and a broken 
 bench of stone jutted out beneath the window. 
 
 Richard straightened suddenly as he leaned against 
 the rough jamb of the doorway, and stood Hstening 
 with a smile hovering about his mouth. Some one 
 was singing in the yew wood — an old country song, 
 simple and full of pathos. The mellow and half-husky 
 voice rose and fell amid the shadows of the trees. 
 
 274
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Soon he saw her coming down the path, the pjnarlod 
 and rugged trunks and spreading boughs building a 
 sun - splashed colonnade towards the pool. Jcffray 
 went down through the tall grass and met the girl at 
 the edge of the wood. 
 
 They did not touch each other's hands, but stood 
 quite close together, smiling shyly like a pair of children. 
 Neither seemed to have a single word to say for the 
 moment. It was all silent intuition with them, a 
 glance, a sense of nearness, a rush of blood to the face. 
 They turned and walked towards the great stone by 
 the pool. Bess sat down there. • Richard found him- 
 self beside her, a foot of the bare rock between them. 
 
 The girl's eyes were searching his face. 
 
 "You look quite brown and strong," she said. 
 
 "Yes, I am strong again," he answered her. 
 
 "Have you ridden here — before?" 
 
 "The two past evenings. I had a feeling that I 
 should find you to-night." 
 
 "Dan went out into the woods, and so — I came." 
 
 They sat in silence a moment, looking at each other, 
 and hearing no sound save the occasional plash of a fish 
 leaping in the pool. Bess's fingers were feeling for the 
 brooch at her bosom. She un])inned it, and, holding it 
 in her palm, held it out to JefTray with a smile. 
 
 " Dan has given me this," she said. 
 
 Their fingers touched and lingered an instant in the 
 contact. 
 
 "It is the brooch I remember — " 
 
 "Yes—" 
 
 "At the tall lady's throat who was near mc when I 
 was a little child." 
 
 Jcffray, who was staring at the thing, glanced up 
 suddenly into Bess's face. A look of mute inquiry, of 
 significant sympathy, flashed between them. 
 
 "How did the brooch come to Dan?" asked the man. 
 
 275
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "Strange. Perhaps — " 
 
 "Dan went out one night, and gave me this in the 
 morning. Where it came from I cannot tell, unless 
 Isaac, his father, gave it him." 
 
 Jeff ray sat in thought, balancing the brooch in his 
 palm, and gazing out over the still waters of the pool. 
 Bess watched him, her hands resting on the stone, her 
 brown forearms bare to the elbow. 
 
 "Bess," he said to her at last. 
 
 She swayed slightly towards him, her eyes on his. 
 
 "Can you discover how Dan came by the brooch?" 
 
 She frowned, and her mouth hardened; it was not in 
 her heart to seek anything from Dan. 
 
 " I will not ask anything from him," she said. 
 
 "Why not, Bess?" 
 
 "Because I hate him, hate him night and day." 
 
 Richard looked at her almost wistfully. 
 
 "Yet you may learn something of your past from 
 him," he said. 
 
 "Yes—" 
 
 "You may be no Grimshaw, Bess; you look to have 
 finer blood in you than theirs." 
 
 Bess lifted her head as though some ennoblement 
 would be very sweet to one who felt the shame of her 
 present lot. Any such discovery would lift her nearer 
 to Jeffray and lessen that gulf between them that was 
 ever stretched before her pride. 
 
 "I will try," she said at last — "try what I can learn 
 from Dan. He is a great fool, though he is so strong." 
 
 "And you do not love him any better?" 
 
 "Love Dan?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ah, is there any heart in me that I should love the 
 brute! I have felt near killing him before now." 
 
 Scarcely had this burst of passion spent itself in 
 
 276
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 words when Bess's face j:;rew bleak and set. She held 
 up a hand and sat listening, rigid yet alert. J eti ray- 
 could hear nothing, for his ears were less quick to the 
 sounds of the forest than the girl's. Only by the look 
 of strained intentncss on her face could he tell that she 
 caught sounds that did not reach his hearing. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked her, in a whisper. 
 
 "I hear a dog panting in the wood." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Where is your horse?" 
 
 "Well out of sight of the path." 
 
 "Good. Listen to that!" 
 
 The rapid sound of some brute beast's breathing 
 drew near out of the silence of the wood. Even Jeffray 
 could hear it as he sat with his eyes fixed on Bess's face. 
 Then a whistle shrilled out from the darkness of the 
 trees, seeming to make the still air quiver. It was 
 Dan's whistle, and the panting was th-- panting of his 
 dog. 
 
 Quick as thought Bess started up, beckoned to Jef- 
 fray, and ran through the grass towards the hermitage. 
 The man followed her, glancing back over his shoulder 
 at the impenetrable shadows of the yews. Bess sprang 
 in up the low steps of the doonvay, seized Richard's 
 wrist as he entered after her, and, with her face close to 
 his, spoke in a whisper. 
 
 "It is Dan, curse him!" 
 
 "He may not see us." 
 
 "The devil must have put it into the fool's head to 
 come this way." 
 
 "Shall 1 slip out and leave you?" 
 
 Bess understood the spirit that prompted him, and 
 that it was not cowardice that inspired the question. 
 They were still very close to each other, Bess's stray 
 side curls brushing Jeffray *s cheek. 
 
 "Stay with mc," she said. 
 
 277
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Bess!" 
 
 "Stay." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 She flashed a wonderful look at him of a sudden 
 and tightened her fingers for one moment about his 
 wrist. Jeffray colored as he drew his sword and 
 watched Bess move towards the window. Stepping 
 back to where the inner wall of the room lay in deep 
 shadow, he heard the panting of the dog and the rasp 
 of Dan's gruff voice as he called the brute to heel. 
 
 Bess drew back from the window and came gliding 
 along the wall towards Jeffray. He understood that 
 she had caught a glimpse of Dan or of the dog, and that 
 their one hope was that the man might pass by and 
 keep the spaniel at his heel. Bess drew close to Jeffray 
 and leaned back against the wall where the darkness 
 lay. Their hands touched and held each other. A 
 strong thrill passed up Jeffray's arm. He could feel 
 the warmth of Bess's body as she half leaned against 
 him. She was holding her breath and watching the 
 stretch of sward that showed through the doorway. 
 
 Again they heard Dan calling to the dog. He was 
 passing by the pool, and they could catch his heavy 
 foot-falls on the grass. The footsteps ceased of a sud- 
 den, and they could hear the panting of the dog quite 
 near. Jeffray felt the pressure of Bess's fingers. They 
 looked into each other's eyes — one long look that seemed 
 to challenge fate. 
 
 Dan's harsh hail rang out again, 
 
 "Heel, Doll, heel— you bitch!" 
 
 The spaniel whimpered wistfully. They heard her 
 move through the long grass, splash through the shal- 
 lows of the pool, the sound of her breathing growing 
 less and less. They saw Dan go striding past the door- 
 way, his gun over his shoulder, a hare dangling by the 
 legs from his left hand. In a flash he was gone, the 
 
 278
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 black spaniel padding at his heels and looking back rest- 
 lessly from time to time. 
 
 Bess gave a great sigh and leaned heavily against 
 Jeffray. Somehow the man's arm had crept round her, 
 and he felt the full ebb and flow of her breath. The 
 warmth of her body seemed to steal into him with a 
 sense of nearness and of contact. Her head was half 
 resting on his shoulder, her hair brushing his cheek. 
 
 "Bess." 
 
 She turned her head and looked up at him, half weari- 
 ly, yet with a tired tenderness. Her eyes seemed doubly 
 bright in the cool darkness of the place, 
 
 "He has gone." 
 
 "Thank God."
 
 XXXIII 
 
 THE abominable and discourteous indifference dis- 
 played by the master of Rodenham would have 
 been sufficient to incense a less selfish person than Miss 
 Jilian Hardacre. Three days had passed since Jeffray 
 had returned from The Wells, and yet he had not so 
 much as presented himself at the house of his betrothed. 
 No gentleman's behavior could have been more deserv- 
 ing of censure, and Miss Hardacre had shed angry tears 
 over the indecent remissness of her lover. As for 
 Brother Lot, the gathering cloud of thunder on his face 
 would have honored the solemn temper of an Epic. 
 Sir Peter and his son took counsel together in the di- 
 lemma, and the elder restrained his hot-headed Rupert 
 of a son from galloping straightway to the charge. Sir 
 Peter declared against an immediate recourse to meth- 
 ods of moral torture lest Mr. Richard should complain 
 of provocation. A letter should be despatched from 
 the fair Jilian, requiring Jeffray to pay his respects to 
 her or challenge the peril of her severe displeasure. • 
 
 When Jeffray returned from the yew valley that night, 
 he found that a servant had left a letter for him from 
 Hardacre. From the warm fragrance of the summer twi- 
 light he came into the old library where Gladden had lit 
 the candles in the silver candlesticks. Jeffray threw open 
 the window and stood for a moment looking out into 
 the night. A myriad stars were shining in the dusky 
 vault of blue; dew was in the air; a faint, fresh perfume 
 ascended out of the earth. In the thickets nightingales 
 
 280
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 were singing, and a streak of gold still gleamed in the 
 west. 
 
 Jilian's letter was in his hand. He turned back from 
 the window with a great sigh, and sat down before the 
 bureau where the candles were burning. It was no de- 
 sire of his to read what was written in his betrothed 's 
 letter. He could picture the bitter words it might 
 contain, and his own conscience hinted at reproaches. 
 Why had Jilian written to him that night, the night of 
 all nights, when the stars seemed afire and the earth 
 smelled of love ? Could not the rich joy of it have been 
 his without this note of discord ? 
 
 Almost savagely he broke the seal and tore open the 
 covering. There was no tremor about his hands as he 
 held the sheet towards the light of the candles. 
 
 "Richard, — I am ainazcd that yf)u have not disturbed your- 
 self to visit me, though three days have passed since your re- 
 turn from Tunbridjre. Such discourtesy stands in need of 
 explanation. I desire your presence at Ilardacre to-morrow 
 before noon. Do not presume to disai)point me. 
 
 " JlLIAN." 
 
 Jeffray read the letter through twice, and then, hold- 
 ing it for an instant in the flame of one of the candles, 
 tossed it burning on to the polished floor, and saw it 
 blacken to a film of quivering ash. A grim yet half- 
 humorous smile hovered about his mouth. On the 
 morrow he would tell Jilian the truth, and if the noble 
 Lot desired a quarrel, the sooner the feud were recog- 
 nized the better. 
 
 At Hardacre the red may and the labunuiin's gold 
 shone out from dewy depths of green. The white may 
 and the mountain-ash were covered as with driven snow. 
 In the park the chestnuts stood like huge green pin- 
 nacles crocketed with ivory and coral. Copper beeches 
 gleamed in the sun. Peonies and poppies were in flower 
 
 19 2til
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 below the terrace, and the walls of the old house itself 
 were red with a hundred roses. 
 
 As before, Jilian received Richard in the red parlor, 
 dressed in her best silks and damasks, and looking more 
 the great lady now that her pride had entered zealously 
 into the play. Her complexion appeared to have im- 
 proved under the arts of the toilet, but the scars and the 
 seams could not be hid. She had made her father and 
 Lancelot promise that they would leave Jeffray to her 
 devices that day. She desired to treat with him at 
 her own discretion, and to leave male blusterings and 
 high-handedness to the future. 
 
 Jilian rose from her chair when Richard was an- 
 nounced, swept him a fine courtesy, and then seated 
 herself on a settle by the harpsichord. She noticed 
 that the man looked sad and sullen, stifE and con- 
 strained, with no brightening of the eyes. He stood 
 before her with his hat under his arm, fingering the 
 silver buttons on his coat, and staring at her in melan- 
 choly silence. He was thinking how strange and elusive 
 a thing was personality, in that a peevish and swarthy 
 face should have changed the temper of his life within 
 three months. 
 
 "You have sent for me," he said, quietly. 
 
 The crude formality of these opening words enlight- 
 ened Miss Hardacre as to the sentiments she might find 
 in him. His face was firm and immobile as marble, 
 and an extreme and studied dignity chastened his 
 habitual and good-natured grace. 
 
 "Yes, I have sent for you, Richard," she said, eying 
 him critically. "It is time that I received some con- 
 sideration at your hands." 
 
 Jeffray flushed slightly and bowed to her. For the 
 moment there was an uncomfortable and unnerving pause. 
 Jilian was playing irritably with her fan, an indescrib- 
 able expression of restrained impatience on her face. 
 
 282
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Well, sir, have you nothiivjj to say for yourself?" 
 
 Jeffray appeared to straighten his body, braee back 
 his shoulders for the inevitable confession. He looked 
 straight at Jilian, as though compelling himself to the 
 uttennost candor. 
 
 "I have something to tell you, Jilian," he said. 
 
 Miss Hardacre was alert on the instant, an unenviable 
 glint in her eyes, one satin slipper tapping on the floor. 
 
 "Ah, yes, kichard, I know quite well what you are 
 going to say to me. And so you think, sir, that you 
 can toss me aside like a soiled shoe!" 
 
 A shadow as of pain passed across JeflFray's face. 
 
 "Jilian! Believe me, it is no easy thing for me to 
 speak of what has been working in my mind." 
 
 The lady tossed her head, sneered till her teeth 
 showed, and then broke out into a titter. 
 
 "And so, Richard, you find that you have been mis- 
 taken." 
 
 "That is the truth, Jilian." 
 
 "And do you not think it a pity, sir, that you did 
 not discover this — some months ago?" 
 
 JefTray, hanging his head and looking very miserable, 
 walked to the window and stood staring out of it in 
 silence. The landscape stretched gray and meaning- 
 less before his eyes, so hustled was he by his own 
 thoughts. Jilian was watching him with a rapacious 
 air, her painted face looking old and almost shrewish. 
 Truth, like the shield in the fable, bore a dilTcrcnt 
 blazoning to these two who studied it from opposing 
 situations. 
 
 Presently Jeffray turned from the window, walked 
 back into the middle of the room, with the look of a 
 man determined to speak the last word. 
 
 "It is not easy," he began, "to confess that one has 
 been mistaken." 
 
 "Not easy, Kichard, eh?" 
 
 2«3
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "My sense of honor — " 
 
 "Your sense of honor, Richard, compels you to make 
 excuses." 
 
 Jeffray colored at the taunt. 
 
 "Jilian, I have not come to make excuses." 
 
 "Ah, no, of course not!" 
 
 "My conscience will not let me play the hypocrite." 
 
 "Your conscience, Richard! Ah, this is beautiful!" 
 
 It was easy to see that the man's attitude of tragic 
 self-righteousness roused all the scorn in the woman's 
 nature. Jeffray did not appear to realize how dis- 
 honorable his sentiments were when viewed in the calm 
 light of impartial reason. He was disgustingly confi- 
 dent of his own honor. His smug conceit exasperated 
 the lady. 
 
 "Richard," she said, her voice sounding harsh and 
 strained. 
 
 Jeffray faced her steadily. 
 
 "You have come to tell me that you are not going 
 to marry me. That is so, is it not?" 
 
 " I have come to confess that my love is no longer 
 what it was." 
 
 "Did I not say so, cousin? What is the use of our 
 clipping and trimming our phrases ? To put it bluntly, 
 you are sick of me." 
 
 Jeffray regarded her as though trying to read her 
 thoughts. 
 
 "I can only acknowledge my own guilt," he said. 
 
 Miss Hardacre's mouth gave a vicious twist. 
 
 "Then I may as well warn you, Richard," she re- 
 torted, "that you must consult Sir Peter in the matter." 
 
 "Sir Peter?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 Richard gave a frank shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 "What has Sir Peter to do with our marriage?" he 
 said. "It is no business compact. I cannot promise 
 
 284
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 things to your father which I cannot promise here to 
 you." 
 
 Such dignified innocence became more exasperating 
 each moment to the lady by the harpsichord. Yet she 
 still smiled scornfully at her betrothed as though her 
 superior knowledge of the world justified her in despis- 
 ing him. 
 
 "You misunderstand the whole matter, Richard," 
 she said. "You have promised to marry me, and you 
 gained my father's consent to the marriage. His 
 authority must be consulted, though I can assure you, 
 sir, he is not the man to suffer his daughter's affections 
 to be trifled with. I am a weak woman, Richard, and 
 my honor, since you seem so careless of it, had better 
 remain in my father's keeping." 
 
 JefTray, looking white and stem, understood whither 
 Miss Hardacre's strategy was tending. He rallied him- 
 self, made her a polite bow, and confessed that he 
 could suffer no parental interference. 
 
 "I have nothing to discuss with Sir Peter," he said. 
 
 "Nothing!" 
 
 " I cannot recognize his authority, Jilian, nor can your 
 father coerce my conscience. It is a miserable busi- 
 ness, but one cannot save the wine when the fiask is 
 broken." 
 
 This last sally dissipated the lady's remaining self- 
 control. Was there ever such a puritanical and cant- 
 ing young hypocrite? He would be quoting the Bible 
 and the marriage service to her in a moment to prove 
 that his dishonor was a commendable virtue. Quiver- 
 ing with the impatience of her spite, she started up, 
 and flashed a look at Jcffray that was more significant 
 than a judicial ruling. 
 
 "Drat your conscience, Richard," she said. "I tell 
 you, sir, that you are fickle and dishonorable, and tiiat 
 you have trificd with my afTections. I may have lost 
 
 285
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 some of my good looks, sir, but I am still a woman, to 
 be treated with courtesy and not with cowardly lies 
 and excuses." 
 
 "Jilian!" 
 
 "Do not call me Jilian, sir. I refer you instantly to 
 my father. And if you slink and dare not face him, I 
 can promise you that my brother is a man of courage. 
 I may be a weak woman, Mr. Jeffray, a woman who 
 has treated you too kindly, and worn her heart upon 
 her sleeve, but I am not to be trifled with as though I 
 were some common farmer's daughter. I tell you that 
 you have insulted my affections, sir, compromised my 
 honor and the honor of my family." 
 
 Jeffray stood stock-still in the middle of the room, 
 staring at Miss Hardacre's red and angry face. Her 
 fury had transfigured her, as though some witch's wand 
 had changed her from smiHng youth into a fierce and 
 scolding shrew. Few women look well when they are 
 the creatures of wrath, and Jeffray was astonished and 
 repelled by the transformation he beheld before him. 
 Three months ago he would have been on his knees at 
 Jilian's feet. Now he reahzed that she could look old, 
 vixenish, and ugly. 
 
 "I am sorry you have spoken like this," he said. 
 
 "Sorry, sir — sorry! Nonsense; you don't care the 
 price of a new pin. I am disgusted, sir — disgusted at 
 the miserable lies you have the impudence to throw 
 at me. I thought you a gentleman, sir. I find that 
 you are a villain." 
 
 Jeffray crushed his hat between his hands, restrained 
 himself by a great effort, and bowed to her with all the 
 dignity he could command. 
 
 "I think that I had better take my leave of you," 
 he said, coldly. 
 
 "Ah, do so, by all means. Your righteous self-con- 
 ceit sickens me." 
 
 286
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Madam, 1 came to try ami tell you the truth as 
 courteously as I could." 
 
 Miss Hardacre pointed him to the door. 
 
 "Tell me no more lies," she said; "as for your con- 
 science — I snap my fingers at it." 
 
 Jeffray, mortified and not sorry to escape, bowed 
 once more to the lady, antl left her to her tears, her 
 smelling-salts, and her brother.
 
 XXXIV 
 
 THE evening of the day that Jeffray rode to break 
 his betrothal with Miss Hardacre, Isaac Grimshaw 
 came Hmping across from his cottage to find Dan plas- 
 tering new tiles on the roof of his small byre. Isaac 
 stood at the foot of the ladder, squinting up at his son 
 against the evening sunlight, his white hair shining 
 under his hat, 
 
 Dan pressed a tile home upon its bed of plaster, and, 
 laying his trowel on the roof, looked down at his father. 
 
 "What be ye a-wanting?" he asked, scratching his 
 beard with a black thumb nail. 
 
 Isaac was frowning and looking fierce and out of 
 humor. 
 
 "Come down, lad, I ain't going to bellow at ye." 
 
 Dan climbed down and stood with one hand on the 
 ladder, staring inquisitively into his father's face. It 
 was not often that Isaac's complacency was ruffled by 
 a grievance. His arbitrary nature found few foul winds 
 to trouble him in Pevensel. 
 
 "What's amiss, dad?" 
 
 "That damned old she-dog Ursula's in a pet." 
 
 Dan grunted sympathetically. 
 
 "She be growing daft fast," he said. 
 
 "So I say, lad, but the old fool has a tongue, and a 
 meddlesome tongue, too, bad blood to her. She might 
 be doing us a deal of harm unless we quiet her silly old 
 soul." 
 
 "What be Ursula whining for?" 
 
 288
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Guineas, lad; she be as sweet on the gold dirt as 
 Solomon on his liquor." 
 
 Isaac leaned against the wall of the byre and ex- 
 plained the nature of the old woman's grievance. The 
 gist of it was that Isaac had never given her the eighty 
 guineas that he had promised her on Bess's marriage. 
 Ursula Grimshaw was slipping into her dotage, and, like 
 many an old creature in that maudlin December of life, 
 she had waxed querulous and testy, jealous of her rights 
 and greedy of her due. Her love of gold had increased 
 with the waning of her intellect, and she was forever 
 bemoaning Bess's absence and grumbling at her brother 
 for cheating her of her rights. Isaac, who was never 
 eager to disburse gold, and had kept the real secret of 
 their wealth from all save Ursula and Dan, his son, 
 had met the old woman's complaints with banter, and 
 chuckled at her demand for the guineas he had prom- 
 ised. Ursula, however, had flown at last into a fit of 
 senile rage, spread her claws, and spluttered like a cat. 
 She would have the money, or Isaac should repent of 
 cheating her because she was old and feeble. Had not 
 Dan given Bess the brooch of emeralds ? The girl should 
 hear the whole truth unless the money was forthcoming. 
 With dramatic spite, Ursula had tottered up out of her 
 chair, shaken her stick at Isaac, and cackled out threats 
 that had made her brother change his tone. 
 
 "We must fetch another bag out of the chest, lad," 
 Isaac said, at the end of the recital, "unless you arc for 
 giving up the guineas I gave ye." 
 
 Dan scratched his head and frowned at the sugges- 
 tion. 
 
 " Drat the old hussy," he retorted, " I'll give her none 
 of my guineas. I l)e wanting a new wagon ami new 
 gear, and the girl '11 be wasting a jjowcrful lot of money." 
 
 Isaac's face suggested the thought that a tap with an 
 axe on the old lady's crown wouUl have solved the diffi- 
 
 289
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 culty as clearly as possible. He suppressed the tempta- 
 tion towards violence, however, and bade Dan call at 
 his cottage that night after it was dark. They would 
 go to the Monk's Grave and bring back the gold that 
 should keep old Ursula quiet. 
 
 Bess had been vexing her ingenuity to discover how 
 she might charm from Dan the secret of the brooch. 
 This golden bauble starred with its emerald eyes seemed 
 to her the one talisman that could break the silence of 
 the past. She had tried to charm some confession from 
 old Ursula, but the dame would tell Bess nothing, de- 
 spite her grievance against Isaac. Thus when Dan, 
 surly and morose, came in to Bess at supper-time, and 
 told her curtly that he would be out with his gun that 
 night, the girl grew keen and alert as a deer that scents 
 peril on the wind. 
 
 Had not Dan given her the brooch on the morning 
 after his last night out with his gun in Pevensel ? She 
 remembered that he had brought no birds back with 
 him in the morning, and the more Bess pondered it, 
 the more suspicious she grew of her husband's hon- 
 esty. To be sure Dan would be out in the forest at 
 night now and again, and she more than suspected that 
 he was in league with the land smugglers who worked 
 from the sea up through Pevensel. Thorney Chapel 
 was notorious in the neighborhood, and it was whispered 
 that the parson had once locked a hard-pressed cargo 
 in the vestry. Bess assured herself that there was some 
 secret to be discovered. She made up her mind to fol- 
 low Dan, and to see where he went that night in Pevensel. 
 
 After supper, looking meek and innocent, she took 
 her candle, bade Dan good-night, and went up to bed. 
 Bolting the door after her, she sat down on the chest 
 to listen, after throwing a gray cloak over her shoulders 
 and buckling on her shoes ready for the adventure. 
 Half an hour passed before she heard Dan stumping 
 
 290
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 to and fro in the kitchen beneath. She licard him take 
 his gun down from the beam, call to his black spaniel, 
 and unlatch the door. Swift and sure-footed she was 
 out of the bedroom, and down the creaking stairs into 
 the kitchen. The wood fire was burning brightly on 
 the irons, the light twinkling on the pewter, and playing 
 with the shadows in the dark comers of the room. She 
 tried the door softly — found that Dan had locked it and 
 taken the key. With a feeling of tense excitement, 
 Bess unlatched the casement, climbed out on to the 
 ledge, and slipped down into the garden. She stood 
 listening a moment, cowering under the shadow of the 
 wall, and looking out into the dark. She could see a 
 light twinkling behind the kitchen window of Isaac's 
 cottage and hear voices coming gruffly out of the gloom. 
 Stooping, and gliding under cover of the rose-bushes 
 and the pea-sticks to the garden gate, she slipped out 
 and passed along under the shadows of the apple-trees. 
 
 The voices came from the direction of Isaac's cottage. 
 Bess recognized the old man's impatient treble, Dan 
 answering him curtly in his gruff bass. The candle 
 went out of a sudden, and she heard the yelp of a 
 dog and the closing and locking of a door. Two dim 
 figures showed in the murk before her. They moved 
 away towards the woods. Bess, running forward on 
 the edge of the orchard, reached Isaac's cottage and 
 crouched under the window, listening. She caught the 
 whimpering of a dog, and knew that Dan had left the 
 spaniel locked in the cottage. It would he safer for her 
 to follow them now that they were alone. 
 
 Brushing past the spreading bracken, halting, listen- 
 ing, peering from behind the great tnmks, Bess fol- 
 lowed the voices that led her through the forest. The 
 scent of pines drifted through the warm darkness, while 
 here and there a ghostly may-tree shed fragrance from 
 its white dome. Soon Bess saw a light gleam out and 
 
 291
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 go jigging and waving through the darkness. Isaac 
 had ht his lantern. Bess blessed him for it, knowing 
 that it would help her in the chase. She walked warily, 
 her arched feet a-tingle with a sense of peril and ad- 
 venture, her eyes watching the light that flashed and 
 fled beyond the trees. 
 
 It was a mile before Isaac and his son came to the 
 glade where a white-trunked fir grew on the Monk's 
 Knoll. They set the lantern down on the grass. Dan 
 handling the spade, while Isaac squatted on the trunk 
 of a fallen tree. 
 
 Bess, seeing that the light had become stationary 
 among the trees, drew near slowly, slipping from trunk 
 to trunk. Fearful of treading on dead wood and hear- 
 ing it snap in the deathly stillness of the forest, she felt 
 the ground with her foot each time before putting her 
 weight upon it. At the edge of the glade bracken and 
 white chervil and goutweed were growing. Bess, go- 
 ing down on her hands and knees, crawled slowly to 
 where a low bush stood, and, drawing her hood forward 
 over her face, looked out over the glade. 
 
 The lantern threw a vague circle of light over the 
 grass barred with the black shadows cast by its frame. 
 Bess could see old Isaac sitting hunched on the dead 
 tree. He had lit his pipe, and a faint glow showed 
 above the brown bowl, the smoke wreathing upward 
 into the dark. The light from the lantern fell upon 
 Dan, who had thrown off his coat and was working in 
 his shirt. The bull neck and the hairy chest were 
 showing, though the level of the Hght hardly reached 
 his face. 
 
 Bess, crouching under the bush, which was a thorn, 
 and holding her breath, saw Dan thrust his spade into 
 the pile of earth beside the hole, catch something that 
 Isaac threw to him, and bend his broad shoulders over 
 the pit. The light from the lantern fell on his black 
 
 292
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 and frowsy head and the swelHng curves of his hair)^ 
 forearms. Bess heard the cUck of a shooting lock. 
 Dan reached deep into the hole and swung something 
 that jingled on to the grass. Then he stood up, wiping 
 his forehead with his forearm, and staring round into 
 the darkness of the woods. 
 
 Isaac had reached for the bag of monej'' when Bess, 
 who was drawing back into the deeper shadow, set her 
 hand on a dead thorn-bough. The spikes stabbed her 
 palm. With the sudden pain of it she drew her breath 
 in through her teeth with a slight and sibilant sound. 
 She crouched down behind the thorn -bush, but both 
 Dan and Isaac had heard her. The elder man was 
 peering right and left like an old hawk, Dan stooping 
 a little and staring straight to where Bess lay hid. He 
 picked up the lantern and came striding round the 
 edge of the glade, looking fiercely into the dark. Isaac 
 had snatched up the gun and cocked it. 
 
 Bess, crouching behind the thorn-bush, trembled like 
 a frightened hare. Dan was only twenty paces away, 
 the lantern darting out arms of light into the forest. 
 He would certainly see her if he passed the place, and 
 with the swift instinct of the moment she chose the in- 
 stant fortune of flight. Starting up like a wild thing 
 from cover, she scurried back among the trees and took 
 the winding path V)y which they had come. 
 
 Dan, giving a snort like a startled horse, dropped the 
 lantern, flung up one arm, and plunged after her. He 
 had seen the dark figure flit in among the trees, and 
 could hear the crackling of twigs under her hurrying 
 feet. With his mouth open and his hands clawing the 
 air, he ran, rolling clumsily at the hips like a fat ketch 
 in a heavy sea. Bess had twenty yards start of him 
 and no more, and, quick and strong as she was, her 
 skirts and cloak hindered her. 
 
 Bess heard him thudding in her wake, breathing hard 
 
 293
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 like an angry bull. The trees sped by, solemn and un- 
 troubled, the winding path seemed to have no ending. 
 Plod, plod, plod, came the heavy foot-falls at her heels 
 till she felt like a child chased by an ogre. Strain as 
 she would she could not outpace the man, and she 
 knew enough of Dan's doggedness to guess the end. 
 
 After all, why should she run from her own husband ? 
 She had merely caught him uncovering money in the 
 forest, and there was no reason why he should suspect 
 her. Halting suddenly and struggling for her breath, 
 with her hands to her bosom, she stood in the middle 
 of the path and laughed a shrill, breathless laugh as 
 the man came up with her. 
 
 "Ha, Dan, I have led you a dance, hey!" 
 Dan stopped dead with a great oath, then came close 
 to her, panting, and glaring in her face. 
 
 "What be you doing in the forest, you she-dog?" 
 "I may follow my husband when he goes hunting." 
 Dan, with a curse, lifted up his great fist, struck her 
 in the face, and bent over her as she lay half-stunned 
 by tke blow.
 
 XXXV 
 
 DAN dragji^cd Bess up by the wrist, and, seeing that 
 she was dazed and faint, let her lean for a moment 
 against a tree. The girl had been half stunned by the 
 blow he had given her; blood was trickling from her 
 mouth, her head drooping upon her bosom. 
 
 Dan, who was biting his nails and looking the creature 
 of fury and indecision, turned on her at last, and, taking 
 her by the cloak, dragged her back along the path. 
 Bess had no spirit left in her for the moment. Faint, 
 dizzy, and unable to think, she was yet conscious of the 
 fact that she was utterly at her husband's mercy. 
 Dan dragged her along roughly, cursing her when she 
 stumbled, and shifting his grip from her cloak to her 
 arm. She felt his fingers bruising the flesh as he 
 gripped the muscles, grinding his teeth and shaking her 
 now and again as though she were a child. 
 
 Dan brought his wife to the Monk's Grave again. 
 From afar they saw the light of the lantern blinking 
 through the forest, for Isaac had relit it and was stand- 
 ing on guard with his gun at full -cock. Dan gave a 
 shout as he dragged Bess through the undergrowth, 
 careless of how the boughs and briers smote and scratcli- 
 cd her face. Isaac came limping uj) the glade tow- 
 ards them, the lantern in one hand, the gun in the 
 other. 
 
 "Who be it, Dan?" he asked. 
 
 Dan laughwl and held the girl out at arm's-length 
 towards his father. Isaac lifted the lantern. The 
 
 295
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 light flashed upon Bess's face with its wild and shadowy 
 eyes and bleeding mouth. 
 
 "Bess!" 
 
 "A pretty trick she's been playing us, father." 
 
 " Odds my life, how much have you seen, wench — how 
 much have you seen?" 
 
 He set the lantern down, seized Bess by the bosom 
 of her gown, and shook her. 
 
 "Speak, you she-dog, what were you spying on us 
 for?" 
 
 Bess shivered and her lips twitched, 
 
 "I followed Dan," she said. 
 
 "The deuce— you did!" 
 
 "I saw him throw the money out." 
 
 She broke suddenly into half-hysterical laughter, the 
 mirthless and uncontrollable laughter of one unnerved 
 by shock. Isaac threw her back from him so roughly 
 that she reeled and staggered against Dan. Bess felt 
 her husband's hands over her bosom, gripping her so 
 that she stood with her back to him and could not move. 
 Isaac was limping to and fro before them, handling his 
 gun, flashing now and again a fierce look at Bess. For 
 the moment she understood but vaguely what was pass- 
 ing in the old man's mind. 
 
 Isaac faced them suddenly, his eyes glinting from a 
 net-work of wrinkles. 
 
 "Stand aside, lad," he said, his fingers contracting 
 about the stock of the gun. 
 
 Bess felt Dan's arms tighten about her body. 
 
 "What be ye thinking of, father?" he asked. 
 
 "Stand aside." 
 
 Bess, with a sudden flash of dread, understood the 
 fierce purpose in him, and her terror swept away all 
 other feelings for the instant. She twisted herself round 
 in Dan's arms and clung to him desperately, looking 
 up into his face. 
 
 296
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "No, no," she panted, "hold me, Dan; dear God, 
 don't let the old man shoot me." 
 
 Dan's arms were fast about her, ami he faced his 
 father, who was poking the gun forward and licking his 
 lips. 
 
 "Odd's my life, stand aside from the she-dog." 
 
 Dan kept his post, feeling the pressure of his wife's 
 anns and the terror of her appealing face. 
 
 "Put the gun down, father," he said. 
 
 Isaac hesitated. Bess cast a rapid glance at him 
 over her shoulder. 
 
 "I'll not tell," she said. "I'll not tell." 
 
 Dan still held her fast and kept his eyes fixed on 
 his father's face. 
 
 "Put the gun down," he said, with a hoarse oath. 
 
 Isaac lowered the muzzle and came a step nearer to 
 his son. 
 
 "Ye great fool," he said, "will yc trust to a woman's 
 word!" 
 
 "I'll not have ye shoot my wife like a dog," quoth 
 the younger man, fierce with the pride of ownership. 
 
 Isaac uncocked the gun and threw it from him with 
 a curse. 
 
 "As ye will, as ye will," he said, limping rapidly to 
 and fro in his agitation. "I have heard o' kings losing 
 their crowns from the curse of a woman's tongue." 
 
 Dan had freed Bess. He sprang forward and picked 
 up the gun. 
 
 "Ye shall not be doing murder this night, father," 
 he said. 
 
 The dawn was creeping uj) over Pevensel when Isaac, 
 Dan, and Bess came through the woods towards the 
 hamlet. The forest was full of mist and silence, vague 
 and ghostly vapor standing in tlic glades. The stars 
 sank back as the gray light increased in the vault above. 
 Then came the first whinij)er of a waking l)ird, followed 
 
 ao 297
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 as by magic by the shrill piping from a thousand throats. 
 The whole vast wilderness seemed to grow great with 
 sound. The trees stood as though listening, their huge 
 polls shrouded in mysterious vapor. From the east a 
 gradual glory of gold swam up into the heavens, flash- 
 ing over the misty hills, touching all the dewy greenness 
 of the woods with light. 
 
 Isaac limped along in front, sniffing the air, and dart- 
 ing rapid glances from side to side. Bess and her hus- 
 band followed him, the girl white and silent, her black 
 hair in a tangle, her eyes dark with the perilous fortime 
 of the night. She walked wearily, looking neither to 
 the right hand nor the left, but watching old Isaac limp- 
 ing in the van. Dan, dour and sullen, strode at her side, 
 his gun over one shoulder, spade and pick over the other. 
 
 Not till he reached his own doorway did Isaac turn 
 and face the two who followed him. He gave a fierce 
 glance at Bess, a questioning look at Dan, and, unlock- 
 ing the door of the cottage, went in without a word. 
 They heard the merry whimpering of the dog, the jingle 
 of money, the sound of the old man rummaging in a 
 cupboard. When he came out again there were pistols 
 in his belt. 
 
 "Take her home, lad," he said, curtly, 
 
 Dan nodded Bess towards the cottage beyond the 
 orchard. She walked on slowly, Dan setting himself 
 beside his father as they followed under the trees. Bess 
 heard them talking together in undertones, the old 
 man's voice suave and insinuating, Dan's gruff and 
 obstinate. When they came through the garden, with 
 its monthly roses dashed with dew and all its green 
 life fragrant and full of a summer freshness, Dan laid a 
 hand on Bess's shoulder, unlocked the door, and pushed 
 her over the threshold. He bade her sit down in the 
 heavy. oak chair, while Isaac sank with a tired grunt on 
 the settle by the window. Dan brought Bess a mug of 
 
 298
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 water and a hunch of bread and commanded her to eat.' 
 She obeyed mechanically, wondcrinir what they wore 
 going to do with her. Isaac and his son watched licr 
 in silence. 
 
 When she had made a meal, Dan went out to the shed 
 behind the cottage and brought back some fathoms of 
 stout cord. He ordered Bess to hold out her hands. 
 There was no sign of hesitation on his sullen, black- 
 bearded face. He tied Bess's hands together, bound 
 her about the body and the ankles to the chair, Isaac 
 watching with silent satisfaction. When Dan had 
 bound her thus he went out with his father, locking 
 the door after him, and left Bess to the fellowship of her 
 thoughts. 
 
 Isaac turned into his cottage for a moment to count 
 out the eighty guineas he had promised Ursula and to 
 lock the rest of the gold in his strong box at the bottom 
 of the oak hutch. He did not doubt that the money 
 would put the old lady in the best of tempers, and that 
 he could safely confide in her concerning Bess. Isaac 
 rejoined Dan in the garden, and they moved away tow- 
 ards Ursula's cottage whose stone -wall and thatched 
 roof showed amid the dark trunks and drooping branches 
 of the pines. The old woman was in bed when Isaac 
 knocked at the door. A lattice opened overhead, and 
 a red beak and a pair of beady eyes under a pink night- 
 cap appeared, with a few wisps of gray hair falling 
 about a yellow and skinny neck. Isaac spoke a few 
 words to her and jingled the money. The face popped 
 in again and they heard Ursula hobbling down the 
 stairs. She had tied on a red petticoat and thrown a 
 black shawl over her shoulders. Isaac went into her 
 when she had unlx^lted the door, leaving Dan leaning 
 against the wall with his hands deep in his breeches- 
 pockets. 
 
 Isaac remained with the old woman half an hour or 
 
 2';9
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 more, the sound of their voices steaHng out on the 
 morning silence. He appeared in the best of tempers 
 when he emerged from the cottage, slapped Dan on the 
 shoulder, and limped away with him towards the ham- 
 let, smiling to himself as though pleased with his own 
 cleverness. 
 
 "The money's tickled her into a good temper, lad," 
 he said. "I told her about the wench, and she took it 
 very quiet." 
 
 Dan cocked an eye shrewdly at his father. 
 
 "We waste a powerful lot of patience on the women," 
 he retorted. 
 
 Isaac wagged his head and looked particularly wise 
 and saintly for the moment. 
 
 "I reckon we'd better shift the money," he said. 
 
 As they rounded the corner of Ursula's cow-house 
 Isaac's glance lighted on a man who was standing in 
 the garden before his cottage. The fellow was busy 
 throwing pebbles at the upper casements, imagining 
 that the owner was still asleep within. As Dan and 
 Isaac crossed the open stretch of grass-land that ran 
 like a broad highway through the hamlet, the man 
 standing in the garden caught sight of them as he 
 turned to gather a fresh handful of pebbles from the 
 path. He looked at them suspiciously for the moment, 
 then waved his cap and came striding towards them 
 over the grass. He was a rough, strongly built fellow, 
 with the keen yet foxy air of a born poacher, his bushy 
 brown beard and whiskers hiding fully half of his red 
 and sun-tanned face. 
 
 "Hallo, Jim! What brings you this way, eh?" 
 
 The man grinned, and glanced first at Isaac and then 
 at Dan. 
 
 "It be probable, Master Grimshaw, that we shall be 
 running the 'osses' through to-morrow." 
 
 "So— so!" 
 
 300
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Mus Garston be a-wanting to see ye both down at 
 Thorney Chapel. There be a fat load comin' through, 
 and Mus Garston he'll share like a gentleman." 
 
 Isaac's gray eyes gave that peculiar twinkle that told 
 those who knew him that he was in the sweetest of 
 tempers. He was never backward where money might 
 be made, and he had no objection to cheating the Cus- 
 toms occasionally, provided that the adventure was 
 worth the risk. Mus Garston was one of the finest 
 land smugglers on the southern coast — a keen, black- 
 eyed fellow, who loved the game better than he loved 
 his soul. Bess, too, was safe, bound to the chair in 
 Dan's cottage. Tiiey could join Garston's men and 
 leave the girl to be dealt with at their leisure. 
 
 "We'll come, Jim," he said. "Come in and have a 
 bite of food and a pull at the ale-pot." 
 
 The poacher capped Isaac, for Grimshaw was a man 
 of some circumstance among the night -moths of Pev- 
 ensel. They went, the three of them, into Isaac's cot- 
 tage, and were soon gossiping over their bacon, brown 
 bread, and ale. When they had ended the meal, Isaac 
 whispered a few words into his son's ear, and Dan, 
 wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, marched off 
 to his cottage to look at Bess. 
 
 He found her much as they had left her, sitting 
 stiffly in the chair, and gazing out of the window. Her 
 face brightened a little when Dan entered, and she tried 
 to smile at him as though for welcome. The man ap- 
 peared in no mood to pity her. He felt the cords 
 about her wrists and ankles, stared at her a moment in 
 silence, stroking his beard with the palm of his hand. 
 
 "Dan," she said, with a wistful drooping of the 
 mouth. 
 
 Her husband's dark eyes were hard and without light. 
 
 "What are you going to do with mc?" 
 
 "Do with ye?" 
 
 301
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Dan frowned as he turned towards the door. 
 
 "Keep ye from playing more tricks," he said. "You 
 will bide there safe, I reckon, till we come back." 
 
 Bess said never a word to him, but it was with a 
 sinking heart that she heard Dan shut and lock the 
 door. What would they do with her when they re- 
 turned? Of a surety she had discovered some great 
 secret that had lain hid in the deeps of Pevensel. What 
 if her meddling should bring her to her death .''
 
 XXXVI 
 
 A\ hour passed, clra,c:c;in.2; its linked minutes like a 
 ^ snake crawling lazily in the lonji; grass under the 
 summer sun. 
 
 Bess, bound fast to the chair, sat like one weak after 
 a long illness, the sunlight falling on the floor, to be re- 
 flected upon the brown beams of the old room. The 
 girl's face looked white and apathetic against the dark 
 background of an old linen-press. Her eyes stared out 
 steadily through the window at the green woods bathed 
 in sunshine, and the white clouds sailing slowly north 
 across the infinite azure of the June sky. The life fire 
 had burned low in her since Dan had struck her down 
 in the woods. The shock of the night had not yet 
 lifted from her heart. Old Isaac's pitiless gray eyes 
 still haunted her, and she remembered the gleam of the 
 barrel of the gun. 
 
 This same evening she was to have met Jeflray at 
 Hfjly Cross, and the thought stirred the blood in her a 
 little. She lay l)ack in the chair, resting her head upon 
 the rail, and taking her breath in deeply with slow, 
 sighing inspirations. The memories of her last meet- 
 ing with Jcffray began to work in her with quickening 
 force. All the sweet complicity of the plot set the 
 cords of her heart vibrating. If he but knew, if he had 
 but guessed how Dan had treated her! If he were only 
 wise as to her jjresent ijcril! 
 
 With the increasing sense of her own powerlessncss 
 the spirit of revolt in her waxed but the more import- 
 
 3o:i
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 unate. Why should she be made the creature of this 
 man's passions? She seemed to feel again the great 
 fist, swinging with all the brutality of the man's nature, 
 and crashing into her face. All the ignominies of the 
 past weeks rose up to taunt and madden her. All 
 her hate and loathing waxed fiercer as she thought of 
 her helpless yearning towards Jeff ray. She began to 
 struggle and twist in the chair, striving to get her 
 teeth to the knots about her wrist. Dan had fastened 
 them down to the front stretcher of the chair, and 
 wrestle and strain as she would she could not reach 
 them. 
 
 What could she do to free herself from the shame 
 and the dread that encompassed her? Scream! Yes, 
 but who would hear her, and who would help her if 
 they heard ? Ursula ? Poor doddering Ursula i Doubt- 
 less she had been locked safely in her cottage, and Bess 
 mistrusted the old woman's courage when Isaac's will 
 had been declared law. Incensed the more by her own 
 thoughts, she struggled again and again with the cords, 
 twisting and straining till the oak chair rocked and 
 creaked. The muscles stood out under the brown skin 
 of her forearms. Her bruised lips began to bleed again 
 as she held her breath, struggling and working her body 
 from side to side. 
 
 Another hour passed. The bees droned on, the 
 smell of the garden came in upon the breeze. Not a 
 voice reached her from the hamlet. Silence prevailed 
 save for the murmur of the insects, the vague rustling 
 of the leaves, the steady, mocking tick of the old clock 
 against the wall. The woods rolled up before her, 
 their green splendor heightened by the blaze of the 
 June sunlight. The very calm of the place seemed to 
 intensify the passionate despair in her own heart. 
 
 Suddenly some new sound drifted to Bess's ears. 
 She twisted forward in the chair, straining at the cords. 
 
 304
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Some one was moving towards the cottage; Bess heard 
 the rustle of feet in the long grass. Was it Dan return- 
 ing, or old Isaac with those pistols in his belt? The 
 footsteps stopped at the garden-gate. Bess could see 
 neither the gate nor the path from where she sat. The 
 latch lifted ; some one was coming up the brick-paved 
 path. She heard the sound of breathing, the sound of 
 a hand trying the locked door. For a moment silence 
 held. Then with the rustling of clothes against the 
 wall of the cottage a round - backed figure showed 
 blurred by the sunlight at the window, a hook-nosed 
 face looked in at Bess through the open lattice. 
 
 It was Ursula. 
 
 Bess, leaning forward in the chair, stared at the old 
 woman with a swift flooding of blood into her face. 
 
 "Is that you, mother?" 
 
 Instinctively she had chosen the word that she had 
 used to Ursula when she was a child. There was a 
 husky and vibrating wistfulness in the voice that 
 seemed to carry strange and simple pathos. 
 
 Ursula was standing at the window, wringing her 
 hands together. For two hours past she had been the 
 creature of indecision, halting between fear of Isaac 
 and great dread of the hints that the old man had cast 
 into her ears. 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 Ursula began to whimper as she looked in at the 
 girl, the impotence of her dotage showing in her 
 face. 
 
 "What! — they have bound ye to the chair?" 
 
 "I can't stir, mother." 
 
 "Oh, dear Lord! what shall I do?" 
 
 "Are we alone?" 
 
 "They be all away save Solomon," she answered. 
 
 Bess's face strained j)ainfully towards the window. 
 
 "Where is Solomon?" she asked. 
 
 305
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Ursula still twisted her hands together and peered 
 round her suspiciously. 
 
 "Chopping firewood in his shed. I sHpped round 
 through the trees. Lord o' mercy, what's to be done — 
 what's to be done!" 
 
 Bess's strength of purpose increased with Ursula's 
 indecision. 
 
 "Mother," she said, in a whisper. 
 
 "Ay, child." 
 
 "Ye've always been kind to me. Will ye let them 
 bury me in the forest with a bullet in my heart?" 
 
 Ursula began to sway to and fro, pressing her hands 
 to her bosom, whimpering and muttering like one de- 
 mented. 
 
 "Why did ye meddle, Bess — why did ye meddle?" 
 
 "Isaac wanted to shoot me by the Monk's Grave." 
 
 "He be a fierce man, be Isaac." 
 
 " Dan stood for me then ; he'll not stand for me again. 
 Isaac will shoot me; I've seen death in his eyes." 
 
 Ursula stretched herself across the window-sill with 
 her head between her hands. Her distress was pitiable 
 in its impotence. Bess watched her, realizing that her 
 one hope rested on the feeble and faltering courage of 
 this crooked and half-witless creature. 
 
 "Mother," she said, hoarsely. 
 
 Ursula darted up her head and looked at Bess. 
 
 "Climb in through the window." 
 
 "Lord have mercy on me, how can a poorold cripple, 
 climb in to ye?" 
 
 "Mother, you must." 
 
 "I can't, I can't, wench; how can I?" 
 
 "Try, now try for Bess's sake. My blood will be 
 upon you if Isaac has his way." 
 
 The words seemed to strike Ursula full in the face. 
 She stood shaking, blinking her eyes, and working her 
 loose, inturned lips together. Then she thrust her arms 
 
 306
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 over the sill, gripped the wooden ledge within, and tried 
 to drag herself to the level of the window. Bess watched 
 the wrinkled and trembling head straining forward upon 
 its yellow neck. The sinews stood out in the sticks of 
 foreanns, the feet scraped and worked against the wall. 
 Slowly Ursula dragged herself up and through so that 
 she could get one knee upon the ledge. She lay there 
 panting a moment, looking at Bess. 
 
 "Quick, mother, quick!" 
 
 Ursula drew her left knee up on to the window-ledge, 
 knelt, and, getting on her feet, crouched half within the 
 opening of the lattice. There was a wooden stool under 
 the window. Ursula caught one foot in her petticoat 
 in the descent, lurched forward, and came tumbling on 
 the floor. Her forehead struck the brick-work heavily. 
 For a moment she lay groaning and twitching, Bess 
 gazing at her in an agony of helpless dread. 
 
 Ursula was shaken but not stunned. She struggled 
 up on her hands and knees, looking round her with a 
 vacant pathos that might have appeared ludicrous at 
 any other time. Bess was bending forward in the 
 chair. 
 
 "Quick, mother, a knife!" 
 
 Ursula picked herself up, and went tottering round 
 the room, holding her head between her hands. She 
 moved to the dresser, dragged out one drawer after 
 another, and came back at last with a horn-handled 
 knife in her hand. Bess never shifted her eyes from 
 the old woman's face. 
 
 "My wrist, here, the cord — cut it." 
 
 Ursula tumbled on her knees, sawed at the rope 
 shakily, and stabbed Bess's wrist in her clumsy fright. 
 The sight of bloorl startled her. vShc dropped the knife, 
 and sat on her heels, gaping at Bess. 
 
 "Cut the rope, mother; ye haven't hurt me." 
 
 Ursula picked up the knife and sawed at the cord 
 
 307
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 again, Bess straining at it to keep in taut. Blood was 
 trickling slowly down her fingers; that was nothing. 
 Strand by strand the thin rope gave under the edge of 
 the knife. A last twist of the girl's strong arm and her 
 hand was free. 
 
 She took the knife from Ursula instantly, cut the 
 cords about her other wrist and ankles, careless of how 
 she hurt herself in her haste. A stifled cry came from 
 Ursula as Bess rose free of the oak chair. The old 
 woman had tottered forward and fallen in a faint upon 
 the floor. 
 
 Bess stood staring at her in mute vexation, then 
 went on her knees beside her, turning Ursula upon her 
 back, and chafing her hands. The old woman gave no 
 single sign of consciousness, but lay there with her 
 mouth open and her eyes shut, the pallor of her face 
 contrasting with the red bricks in the floor. Bess 
 gazed at her, hesitating. What should she do ? Leave 
 Ursula to Isaac's anger, and take time and its precious 
 fortune to herself ? Solomon Grimshaw might be hang- 
 ing about the cottage; every moment Bess thought to 
 see a face looking at her through the open lattice. 
 
 Desperate, she ran to the window and looked out. 
 The garden seemed asleep in the sunshine; no one was 
 to be seen. In the distance she fancied she could catch 
 the sharp play of Solomon's bill as he split the pine- 
 boughs in his woodshed. With necessity for her in- 
 spiration, she turned back to Ursula, lifted her easily 
 in her strong arms, carried her to the window, and 
 lowered her unceremoniously by her skirts into the 
 garden. Then she climbed out after her, picked Ursula 
 up again, for she was nothing but a sack of skin and 
 bone, and, passing round to the back of the garden, 
 broke away into the woods that rose close about the 
 cottage. Casting a half circle through the trees, breath- 
 ing hard through her set teeth, and stopping often to 
 
 308
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 listen, she drew towards Ursula's cottage with the 
 woman still unconscious in her arms. Interminable 
 minutes seemed to pass before she came through the 
 pine - thickets to the cottage, raised the latch of the 
 door, and carried Ursula within. 
 
 Bess laid her down on the settle before the fire, and, 
 kneeling, saw that Ursula showed signs of a return to 
 consciousness. The eyes opened, the hands groped out 
 towards the girl's face. Bess bent and kissed the old 
 woman upon the mouth. 
 
 "Mother, mother — " 
 
 Ursula stared at her vacantly as though trying to re- 
 member what had happened. Bess gave her no mo- 
 ment to delay. She was fearful, and grew more fearful 
 each instant of Dan's return. 
 
 " See, I have brought you back to your own cottage," 
 she said; "now — I must go. Remember, when Isaac 
 comes back — you know nothing, you have not been 
 near Dan's house. They may think I broke free by 
 myself." 
 
 Ursula nodded, sighed, and put her hands to her head. 
 
 "I've saved ye, child," she said. 
 
 "God bless you for it, mother! I must go." 
 
 Bess kissed Ursula again, smoothed her gray hair for 
 her, and, starting up, turned towards the door. She 
 closed it softly after her, and, looking round warily, 
 darted across the open stretch of grass-land for the far- 
 ther woods. She would take the path for the Beacon 
 Rock, strike across the heath, and reach the road for 
 Rodenham. Her one hope of safety was with Jcffray. 
 He would defend her against Isaac and against Dan. 
 
 Bess had barely reached the trees when Solomon 
 Grimshaw sauntered out from the wood.shed, wiping his 
 forehead with his bare forearm. He caught sight ol 
 Bess as she slipped into the woods, gave a shout, and 
 started after her. Bess heard the shout, stopped, and 
 
 30(J
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 glanced back over her shoulder. She saw Solomon 
 running towards her, shaking his fist. One look was 
 sufficient. Bess gathered up her skirts and ran, her 
 gray cloak melting away amid the trees, her ankles in 
 their red stockings flashing under her green petticoat. 
 Solomon was but a lame old horse; she could out-dis- 
 tance him easily in the woods.
 
 XXXVII 
 
 THAT same evening while Bess sat bound in Dan's 
 cottage in the deeps of Pevenscl, there was much 
 weighing of words in the dining-room at Hardacre. 
 
 Dr. Jessel, rector and chaplain, sat at the polished 
 table, with paper, ink, and pouneet-box before him, and 
 a much-nibbled quill in his tist. For years he had 
 acted as the confidential scribe and scholarly supervisor 
 of letters to the household of Hardacre, and he had 
 been called in that morning to prepare a certain epistle, 
 guided by the baronet's personal discretion. Sir Peter 
 faced the parson across the table, and advised him 
 magisterially as to the contents of the letter. 
 
 Mr. Lancelot was pacing the room behind his fa- 
 ther's chair, cocking his sword under his coat-tails, ex- 
 panding his chest and swinging his shoulders with an 
 air of exuberant self-satisfaction. He appeared to feel 
 no little contempt for Parson Jessel and the baronet as 
 they squabbled and argued over the phrasing of this 
 momentous letter. The parson's classic and elegant 
 style was not flexible and fierce enough to adapt itself 
 to Sir Peter's temper. The chai)lain was a diplomat 
 and a literary sycophant by nature. His Ciceronian 
 txste revolted from Sir Peter's blunt and brutal methods 
 of expression. 
 
 The baronet leaned back at last with his thumbs in 
 his waistcoat-pockets, hiccoughed, and regarded Jessel 
 with evident irritatif^n. 
 
 "Put it down, Jessel," he said; "put it down — 1 say.
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 I ain't going to draw my ale mild for fear of scalding 
 the young scoundrel's stomach. Call a blackguard a 
 blackguard, sir, when he deserves it. You're too 
 damned polite, Jessel. Give it him hot on the last 
 page. I'm right there, ain't I, Lot?" 
 
 Mr. Lancelot came to a halt behind his father's chair, 
 fixed his eyes on the parson's face, and upheld Sir 
 Peter. 
 
 "Put in plenty of brimstone, Jessel," he said. "Rub 
 it in, man — rub it in." 
 
 "That's the tune. Lot," said the baronet, warmly. 
 "I'm dry to the lungs with haggling with ye. Con- 
 found this scholarly niceness, I say! Call a cur a cur, 
 sir, and have done with it." 
 
 The chaplain screwed up his mouth with a whimsical 
 expression of resignation, shook his wig, and put pen 
 to paper. He scratched away for a minute or so to the 
 baronet's dictation, finished with a flourish, shook the 
 pouncet-box over the page, and leaned back in his 
 chair with the letter in his hand. 
 
 "Shall I read the epistle to you, gentlemen?" he 
 asked, clearing his throat. 
 
 "Ay, fire away," quoth Sir Peter; "it ought to be as 
 good as swearing at the young devil in person." 
 
 Dr. Jessel proceeded to the reading of the letter with 
 full nasal unction, striving to crush its literary crudities 
 beneath an episcopaHc diction. Sir Peter twinkled and 
 beamed, gurgling and patting his stomach suggestively 
 when some very palatable sentence tickled his native 
 sense of humor. Mr. Lot leaned his elbows on the back 
 of his father's chair, and joined heartily in the old gen- 
 tleman's enjoyment of the word-feast. At the conclu- 
 sion of Dr. Jessel's essay in declamation the baronet 
 exploded with characteristic gusto. 
 
 "Deuce take it, sir, that ought to make the young 
 devil shake in his shoes. He'll feel a bit liverish after 
 
 312
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 our brimstone, Jcssel, ch ? Seal it up, man. And may 
 a good lifter on the rump go with it." 
 
 The chaplain sealed up the letter gracefully, and de- 
 livered it with a bow to Mr. Lot. 
 
 "May you shine, sir," he said, "as the noble Achilles 
 shone before Troy." 
 
 Mr. Lot swaggered to the sideboard, poured himself 
 out a glass of wine, and tossed it down with an em- 
 phatic tilt of the elbow. 
 
 "You'll do. Lot — you'll do," said the baronet. 
 
 Mr. Hardacre appeared troubled by no doubts as to 
 the triumph of his cause. 
 
 "The lad will just crawl, sir," he said; "he ain't fit 
 for anything but scribbling verses." 
 
 Love and hate being thus romantically mingled, 
 Bess's woodland tenderness and Jilian's sickly spite, 
 Providence, that cup-bearer to kings and peasants, pre- 
 pared to deliver the goblet into Jeffray's hands. Nor 
 was there a league between the two influences as they 
 approached the man that day; Bess skipping brown- 
 footed over the heather, the Hardacre coach rolling 
 with its heroic burden over the rough and dusty road. 
 
 Richard Jeff ray, abandoning Wilson to Butler's 
 "Iludibras" and a pipe of Virginia in the library, had 
 turned out to wander in the park. He was to meet 
 Bess at Holy Cross that evening, and the vexed riddle 
 with him was the riddle of the future. The thunder- 
 cloud that he knew must be gathering at Hardacre 
 loomed to his imagination across the northern sky. 
 He would see the lightnings of the Sussex Zeus flashing 
 vengeance out of the heavens. Lot Hardacre was not 
 the demigod to remain irlle for lack of bluster. He 
 would descend ujwn Rodenham, strut and swagger, 
 ruffle it like any scoundrel modelled upon the manhood 
 of old White Friars. 
 
 The Hanlacre i^n^blem was plain enough to him; 
 " 313
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 its solution rested on a frank flouting of Mr. Lance- 
 lot's tyranny. With Bess, however, Jeffray's thoughts 
 found themselves groping through twilight towards a 
 distant dawn. The play had opened with all the fair 
 inevitableness that makes for tragedy. How was it to 
 be developed? Above all, how was it to end? Three 
 alternatives met Jeffray at the moment. Renuncia- 
 tion, mere intrigue, and a grand defying of the gods. 
 
 Turning back at last towards the house, whose tall 
 chimney - stacks and gables glimmered between the 
 chestnuts and the cedars of the park, Jeffray followed a 
 path that led by a rough bridge over a brook into a 
 short stretch of woodland on the side of the hill. It 
 appeared to be a fragment of the old forest of the weald 
 that had escaped through the centuries from the iron- 
 founder's furnaces. The oaks stood at a noble distance 
 from one another, the short and mighty boles breaking 
 into the giant grandeur of their knotted limbs. The 
 sweeping canopies of foliage rolled and met from tree 
 to tree. Beneath them bracken grew. Beyond, panels 
 of blue sky and silvery landscape closed in this sylvan 
 temple of old Time. 
 
 As Jeffray idled through the wood he heard a voice 
 caUing him suddenly by name. The cry startled him 
 as though it had echoed the voices of his inmost thoughts. 
 He started back, looked, and saw a woman's figure 
 moving towards him under the trees. She came on 
 swiftly, a kind of tired endurance on her face, her eyes 
 turned steadily towards him, like the eyes of one 
 straining towards sanctuary. It was Bess. 
 
 Jeffray felt the hot blood streaming to his face. He 
 went forward to meet her, the green -wood filling for 
 him with a double mystery. Bess held out a hand 
 towards him. He saw that she looked white and tired, 
 her eyes shining in her pale face with the fever of some 
 strong emotion. He marked her bruised lips, the strip 
 
 314
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 of blood-stained linen round her wrist. The girl's face 
 told him that somethini; grim had happened. 
 
 She came straight to him with no hesitating look, 
 came to him as though he were the one man on earth 
 whom she could trust. Her strength seemed to fail her 
 when she was within reach of Jeffray's hands. She 
 tottered and caught her breath. In a moment the 
 man's arms were holding her. The impulse justified 
 him, as did the tired head that drooped towards his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "What has happened, Bess? Tell me everything." 
 
 Jeffray's eyes had lost all the shadows of indecision. 
 The girl was leaning on him, trusting her womanhood 
 within his arms. 
 
 "Bess." 
 
 "Ah— 1" 
 
 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." 
 
 315
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 lon- 
 ger 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?" 
 
 Jeff ray 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 pre- 
 served 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 Hght of pride and joy shin- 
 ing in her eyes. 
 
 "I will do all that you tell me," she answered, with 
 a sense of dependence. 
 
 316
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "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 en- 
 tered 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 walk- 
 ing 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, 
 an<l, gathering his dignity, walked on to meet Lot Hard- 
 acre.
 
 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 meas- 
 ure 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 
 
 318
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 abuse spreailing itself before him, the char£!jes of cow- 
 ardice and dislionor awakening in him a fcehng of quiet 
 contempt. JelYray read the letter through without one 
 single shock of compunction or of shame. He folded 
 it up again composedly, knowing that Lot was watch- 
 ing him, and taking therefore a pride in flouting his 
 cousin's curiosity. 
 
 "I am much honored by Sir Peter Ilardacre'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 un- 
 worthy 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 justi- 
 fied by my own conscience. I do not love your sister, 
 sir, I have no intention of doing her the great wrong of 
 perjuring myself Ity promising to marry licr." 
 
 Mr. Lot took three strides to the left and three strides 
 back again, as though setting to a partner in a dance. 
 Il<- turned and faced Jeffray again, his eyes glinting 
 with anger, his clinched fists quivering with the inclina- 
 tion 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 in- 
 fernal scoundrel." 
 
 Jeffray, cooling in contrast to his cousin's indigna- 
 tion, bowed to him, an(J ccjndesccnded to smile. 
 
 319
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "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." 
 
 JefEray 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 con- 
 temptuous 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 af- 
 fections, 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 
 
 320
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 further the quarrel. Jellray 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 Jcffray reappear- 
 ed 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 Boss. 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." 
 
 Jeflfray Vjent, 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 scat against the balustrade. She knelt on it, ])rrss- 
 ing her hands to her bosom, her eyes following JefTray 
 as he passed down with the others from the terrace. 
 
 321
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Mr. Beaty and Dick Wilson chose their ground im- 
 mediately below the stairway where the old turf spread 
 a crisp green under their feet. The swords were meas- 
 ured, 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 Jeff ray, smiling rather con- 
 temptuously as he ran his eyes over his cousin's slim 
 and graceful figure. 
 
 Jeff ray 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 con- 
 trasted with Mr. Hardacre's shoulder - swinging swag- 
 ger and all the flourish and gusto of his self-con- 
 ceit. 
 
 They saluted and began. Bess, leaning on the bal- 
 ustrading 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. Jeff ray 
 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 alert- 
 
 322
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ness and precision that betrayed how well he had 
 profited by his schoolinfj 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 Jetfray's 
 sword ever at point against him. W^hat, 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 jmt 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 
 litlicness 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 pa.ss 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, 
 iKi lunged in under Lot's swerving blade, and ran him 
 tlirough 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 
 
 3^3
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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. Jeff ray, 
 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 sav- 
 agely at Jeff ray, 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, losmg patience at last as 
 he reahzed 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 de- 
 feat, 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." 
 
 324
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Bob Bcaty knelt supporting; Lot's shoulders and 
 pressing his hand over the frothini,' 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 Rook- 
 hurst. 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 fright- 
 ened 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 jjos- 
 tilion 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. 
 
 y
 
 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 show- 
 ing 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 aloof- 
 ness 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. 
 
 326
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I can trust you, Dick," he said. 
 
 " I hope so, sir. I have seen something of the world." 
 
 "Wait for me in the hbrary." 
 
 Wilson nodded. 
 
 "I will be with you in an hour." 
 
 Jeff ray, 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 mc; 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 mean- 
 ing for him now that Lot Ilardacre'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 saifl, holding his sword between his hands, 
 "I never loved this woman. Do y(ju believe me when 
 I tell you that?" 
 
 She colored, and her eyes flashed up to liis. 
 
 "Yes, I believe it." 
 
 327
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 " 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, Jeff ray 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 re- 
 spectful 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. Grim- 
 shaw'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 ap- 
 peared all deference and submission. 
 "Gladden." 
 
 328
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "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 
 aflfair with Miss Jilian. JcfTray 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 roimding 
 of sentences, Jeffray told Wilson the tale of Hess of the 
 Woods, how she had been forced to marry Dan, and of 
 the mystery that ajjjjeared 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 ex- 
 " 329
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 pressively from time to time, watching Jeff ray 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 Jeff ray's 
 rapid passes. 
 
 There was a short silence at the end of Jeffray's con- 
 fessional. Wilson sat motionless in his chair, pulling 
 at his pipe and staring out of the window. 
 
 "Well, sir, well?" he said at last. 
 
 Jeff ray 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. 
 
 Jeff ray stayed his striding from wall to wall, and stood 
 with one hand gripping the back of the painter's chair. 
 
 "The woman's Hfe 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. 
 
 Wilson bowed down his head and half turned towards 
 the window. He laid his pipe upon the sill, thrust his 
 hands into his breeches-pockets, and stood with sloped 
 shoulders, the attitude of a man bowed down by thought- 
 He appeared almost afraid of facing Jeffray. There 
 was so much grimness in the denouement that he 
 flinched for the moment from hazarding an opinion.
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "A grave step, sir," he said at last. 
 
 "Grave for us both, Dick." 
 
 "How much does the girl know?" 
 
 "She knows everything." 
 
 "Is she ready to be advised by you?" 
 
 "We have taken a night to search our hearts." 
 
 Wilson was not one of those creatures who carry 
 their prejudices and opinions about with them like 
 samples of snuff and insist on presenting them to 
 friends and acquaintances. He was not a moral person 
 in the ecclesiastical sense. A man of the world, he 
 knew the thousand entanglements that are cast about 
 those who dare to depart from the paths of propriety. 
 
 "Have you thought the matter over, sir?" he said 
 at last, laying his hand with a look of affection on 
 Jeffray's shoulder. 
 
 "I am ready to face it, Dick," he answered. 
 
 "It is a great lottery, sir — a great lottery." 
 
 Jeffray's lips twitched, but his face never lost its de- 
 termination. 
 
 "I love this woman, Dick," he said, simply; "I would 
 risk my immortal soul for her. How can I send her 
 back to this brute of a husband ? What have I to lose 
 in Sussex ? If poor Lot dies, I cannot rest here with 
 his blood upon my hands. The girl's life, too, is in 
 danger. They meant to shoot her, Dick — shoot her — 
 by Heaven, that they shall not! How can I turn her 
 away at such an hour?" 
 
 Wilson shook his head and stared sadly through the 
 open window. 
 
 "It is a great lottery, lad," he said — "a great lot- 
 tery." 
 
 Jcffray drew close to him and held out his hand. 
 
 "Then, Dick," he said, "I can take my destiny like a 
 brave man. Better to stand for the trutli — than shirk 
 it for a lie. May 1 call you still my friend '("
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Wilson turned with something between a snort and a 
 sigh. 
 
 "Egad, sir, I will remain your friend despite all the 
 women in Christendom." 
 
 And the two men shook hands. 
 
 Jeffray, remembering what had happened at the par- 
 sonage, and realizing that the Grimshaws of Pevensel 
 were desperate men, determined to remain on the 
 watch all night with pistols and a drawn sword on the 
 table before him. Bess was alone in the great bedroom, 
 sleeping in the very bed, with its carved pillars and red 
 silk canopy, in which Jeffray had been born. Wilson 
 stumped off to his room about midnight, after talking 
 over with Jefifray the events of the day, and hstening 
 for the twelfth time to Richard's passionate assertion 
 that Bess had not come of a peasant stock. 
 
 When Wilson had taken his candle and gone to bed, 
 Jeffray settled himself in the library, unlocked the 
 bureau, and prepared for the composing of several let- 
 ters. He wrote to the Lady Letitia at The Wells, in- 
 forming her of the result of his quarrel with the Hard- 
 acres. He wrote also to Jilian a single letter, expressing 
 his sorrow that he should have spilled her brother's 
 blood. 
 
 Feverish with the ever-flowing current of his thoughts, 
 he went and seated himself before the open window of 
 the library. The night was calm and windless, blessed 
 by the faces of a thousand stars. The trees slumbered 
 about the house; the scent of roses and of honeysuckle 
 hung heavy on the air. 
 
 Jeffray turned and looked round the shadowy room. 
 The candles on the table where the pistols lay were 
 burning steadily towards their silver sockets. The 
 books ranged close along the walls seemed to recall 
 unnumbered memories of the past. There were the 
 books he had loved and leaned over as a boy — Mande- 
 
 333
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ville's travels, old Froissart, Chaucer's tales, Shake- 
 speare, Milton, and Tlic Book of Martyrs. There on the 
 bureau lay the brown-covered Thomas h Kcmpis that 
 had been daily in his dead father's hands. Jcffray 
 seemed to see the old man's figure moving dimly in the 
 dusk, with Roger, his black spaniel, at his heels. Poor 
 Roger lay in the rose garden under a red rose - tree. 
 The bent but stately figure in its black coat, white ruf- 
 fles, and cravat, with the heavy peruke falling on cither 
 side of the pale and courtly face, had vanished hardly 
 a year ago from the old house. Jeffray wondered like 
 a child whether his father could see him still, whether 
 he was grieved by his son's madness. 
 
 As Jcffray watched on the dawn began to creep up 
 into the eastern sky. The trees about the house, still 
 wrapped in the mystery of the night, stood outlined 
 against a broadening sheet of gold. The chanting of 
 birds flooded up from the thickets; wild life began to 
 wake; the stars sank back behind the deepening blue 
 of day. Rabbits scurried over the dew-drenched grass- 
 land of the park and came and went amid the bracken. 
 Blackbirds bustled and chattered in the garden. The 
 woods flashed and kindled. Vapors of rose flushed the 
 opalescent bosoms of the clouds. 
 
 Jcffray leaned his elbows on the window - sill and 
 watched the deepening of the dawn. It was myste- 
 riously strange to him, instinct with a new and pro- 
 phetic beauty. How still the whole world seemed save 
 for the singing of the birds! The garden, with its many 
 colors of gold and scarlet, azure, purple, and white, 
 spread itself like some rich tapestry for the coming of 
 the daughters of the dawn. The greiit cedars still 
 seemed asleep. The cypresses and yews were webbed 
 with gold, 
 
 Jcffray started suddenly, anfl half turned in his chair. 
 Some one was stirring in the silent house; he heard a 
 
 333
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 door open, swift footsteps upon the stairs. They came 
 down and down into the half darkness of the hall like 
 light descending into some ancient tower. Jeffray 
 sprang up and went towards the door. A flood of light 
 streamed down through one of the traceried windows 
 of the hall. It fell upon the stairway and the polished 
 woodwork of the floor, making the black timber seem 
 like glistening water. 
 
 Down the stairs came Bess. Her black hair was 
 gathered up in masses about her pale and wistful face. 
 Her eyes, that looked like the eyes of one who had been 
 long awake, were turned yearningly towards him. 
 
 "Bess." 
 
 She came more slowly down the last few steps, the 
 sunlight falling on her face, her lips apart, her eyes 
 shining. 
 
 "I could not sleep." 
 
 She stood before him, breathing deeply, and gazing 
 in his face. 
 
 " I could not sleep, and I felt that I must come to you. 
 You told me that you would watch till the morning." 
 
 Jeffray's face was in the shadow, but there was no 
 mistaking the expression thereon. 
 
 "I have made up my mind, Bess," he said. 
 
 She looked at him, gave a low cry, and stretched out 
 her hands. 
 
 "You will not send me back to him!" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Let me be your servant — anything; do not send me 
 away. I will go with you anywhere. I will go with 
 you to the end of the world." 
 
 So the dawn came for them, while in Pevensel Dan 
 and old Isaac had been toihng through the night. They 
 had taken the treasure - chest from the Monk's Grave 
 and buried it deep in the woods towards Holy Cross. 
 They knew that Bess had fled to Rodenham, for Solo- 
 
 334
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 mon had followed her through the woods, and had met 
 a carter on the road who had passed the ^'irl on the 
 heath. A laborer had seen a woman climb the palings 
 of the park, and Solomon had tramped home to his 
 brother with the news. Isaac had sworn that Dan's 
 wife should be recovered, but first they had buried the 
 treasure in a place unknown to Bess.
 
 XL 
 
 FOR an hour Jeffray walked alone in the garden 
 that morning, thinking over the future and his 
 duty to Bess. He had sworn to his own heart that 
 she should not fall again into her husband's hands, 
 and yet in the making of this vow he had taken a grave 
 step on the path of life. Jeffray was in no temper to 
 be scared by calumny or slander. He had fought his 
 fight and proved his power to act according to his 
 conscience. His thoughts were not for himself that 
 morning, but for the woman whose life was pledged to 
 him for love. 
 
 About ten o'clock he left the garden for the library, 
 and, opening his bureau, wrote a long letter to his attor- 
 ney at Lincoln's Inn. Then he unlocked an old dower- 
 chest that stood beside the fireplace, and lifted out the 
 strong-box where he kept what money he required. 
 Wilson, who was smoking at the window, watched him 
 counting out the gold pieces and the notes upon the 
 table. The lad was so serious and intent on it that the 
 painter realized how grimly he was in earnest. 
 
 "Three hundred guineas, Dick — three hundred guineas. 
 Enough powder and shot to serve for the time being." 
 
 Wilson took his pipe-stem from between his teeth. 
 
 "Plenty of hard cash, sir," he said. "What are you 
 going to do with it? Hire some sly fox of a lawyer?" 
 
 Jeffray looked up with a frown. 
 
 " No, not that, Dick. I am preparing for what I hold 
 to be my duty." 
 
 336
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Well, sir, well?" 
 
 "I am going to save this woman from the past, and 
 act with honor for her, even though our love may come 
 to nothing." 
 
 Wilson sat up and looked hard at Jeffray, profoundly 
 interested in the problem-play before him. 
 
 "You can trust me, sir; what do you mean to do?" 
 
 "Make her a new life, Dick." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Money is nothing to me. I can give her all of it she 
 needs in this world, a home, and safety from all sordid 
 care and dread." 
 
 "Well, what then?" 
 
 Jeffray leaned back against the wall, and looked out 
 gravely through the open window. 
 
 "I have not found the end yet," he said. 
 
 Wilson nodded. 
 
 "She has trusted me; God help me to deserve her 
 trust." 
 
 As the morning wore on, Wilson noticed that an in- 
 creasing restlessness was taking possession of the rebel. 
 He grew moody, distraught, and silent, called for wine, 
 and wandered hesitatingly about the room. The 
 painter began to wonder whether Jeffray 's enthusiasm 
 was abating, and whether he was tempted to regard the 
 adventure in a more cold and calculating light. The 
 affair reminded the painter of love as it was pictured 
 in the old ballads. The beggar's daughter of Bethnal 
 Green could have had no more monstrously impossible 
 romance than this peasant girl in a Sussex forest. 
 
 Mr. Wilson's surmises, however, were utterly at fault, 
 though logic ujjheld them with an obvious display of 
 probabilities. It was his ignorance of Lot Ilardacre's 
 fate that was troubling Jeffray at the eleventh hour. 
 No news had come from Rookhurst, and his cousin 
 might have bled to death in the coach for all Jeffray 
 
 337
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 knew to the contrary. Bess's surrender, the bustle of 
 preparation, had carried Richard above the wreckage 
 of the past for the morning. The memory of Lot's 
 gray face and bloody body haunted him as the hours 
 passed by. 
 
 The restless stirrings of compunction were not to be 
 refused a hearing. Jeffray met his fears with the answer 
 of action. He would ride to Rookhurst, go to Stott's 
 house, and hear the truth from the surgeon's own lips. 
 
 "I cannot rest, Dick," he said, "until I have heard 
 the truth about poor Lot." 
 
 Wilson suggested that he might send a servant. 
 
 "Dick," quoth the younger man, sadly, "that would 
 be ungenerous of me. It was my sword that did the 
 deed." 
 
 "True, sir, true." 
 
 "You will remain on guard this afternoon? Bess is 
 in the blue parlor beyond the dining-room. You will 
 find my pistols in the library." 
 
 Wilson smiled as though amused at the responsibility 
 that was thrust upon him. 
 
 'I will play the Cerberus, sir," he said. "Go to 
 Rookhurst, and may you find Mr. Hardacre alive." 
 
 Jeffray saw Bess before he left the house, and ex- 
 plained the nature of his purpose to her. She was a 
 little loath for him to go, having learned to feel already 
 a sweet and strange security in his presence. He kissed 
 her, and smiled, not sorry in his heart that even the 
 small leave-takings of love could bring regret into the 
 .woman's eyes. She went with him to the terrace, and 
 parted from him with a pressure of the hand. 
 
 Jeffray recovered much of his fervor as he swung 
 through Rodenham and on towards Rookhurst. The 
 west wind set the woods a -whimper, the foxgloves 
 waving above the bracken. Dog-roses were threading 
 the hedge-rows, delicate in coloring as pink sea-shells. 
 
 338
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Honeysuckle trailed from the oak - saplings and the 
 hazels, and the fields were green with the rising corn. 
 In the meadows the hay rippled, sinuous as the sea under 
 the passing wind, and over the dense green of the sum- 
 mer woods sunlight and cloud shadows raced and played. 
 
 It was about four o'clock when Jcffray saw the little 
 town of Rookhurst straggling red-roofed down the slope 
 of a hill. A gray tower with a white-shingled spire 
 flashed up in the sunlight above the gables, chimneys, 
 and dormer-windows. There were orchards lying about 
 the town, and every house seemed overrun witli roses. 
 Meadows, still golden with buttercups, and afire with 
 sorrel and red clover, ran down to the stream that 
 flickered on towards the sea. 
 
 Jeffray rode down King Street into the market-place, 
 his horse's hoofs clattering on the round cobbles, quaint 
 casements opening through clematis and roses on either 
 hand. An Old World quiet, a calm air of contented in- 
 dolence seemed to hang over the red roofs of the lit- 
 tle town. The good people of Rookhurst took life as 
 though it was an endless June. The quiet shops were 
 cursed with no surfeit of customers, and the dogs slept 
 on the sunny side of the footway. The very clock in 
 the church-tower smote the quarters as though Time 
 were no demon to be obeyed. 
 
 Surgc^)n Stott's house stood in one corner of the 
 market-place, beyond the timbered pump-house, where 
 a few old men were basking on the benches. The 
 house was painted white, and had a flight of six red- 
 brick steps leading up to the green front-door. Red- 
 and-white chintz curtains were looped back from the 
 windows, and the window-boxes were filled with flow- 
 ers. JefTray walked his horse round the pump -house, 
 and saw that straw had been spread over the brown 
 cobbles to deaden sound. He was on the point of dis- 
 mounting when the green door opened, and Miss Jilian 
 
 3.^9
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 herself came down the steps, followed by a servant in 
 the Hardacre livery. 
 
 JefEray flushed up to the roots of his hair. The lady's 
 eyes had swept over him, flashing and scintillating with 
 scorn. Instinctively he had raised his hat to her, but 
 there was no flicker of recognition on her face. Strange- 
 ly enough, Jeflray's respect for Miss Hardacre deepened 
 of a sudden. He saw her trip round the market-place 
 in her big bonnet, the footman following her, and dis- 
 appear within the doorway of the Blue Boar, Rook- 
 hurst's most aristocratic inn. 
 
 Jeffray, sensitive to Miss Hardacre's scorn, hesitated 
 whether he should dismount and inquire at the house 
 for Mr. Lancelot. In the height of his indecision, the 
 green door opened again, and Surgeon Stott, in blue 
 coat and buckskin breeches, appeared upon the steps. 
 He bowed to Jeffray and lifted his hat. Richard wheeled 
 his horse round close to the footway, and looked ear- 
 nestly in the surgeon's face. 
 
 " Can I speak with you a moment, Stott ?" 
 
 The surgeon's features relaxed into a kindly smile. 
 He came down the six red steps, and stood on the 
 flagged footway, his fingers playing with the gold seals 
 that reposed upon his white waistcoat. 
 
 "How is my cousin, Stott. I have ridden over to 
 inquire?" 
 
 The gentleman in the blue coat half closed his eyes, 
 threw out his stomach, and cleared his throat. 
 
 " Mr. Hardacre has had a nasty mauling, sir," he said; 
 "but I have done the best for him." 
 
 "Will he recover?" 
 
 Surgeon Stott glanced searchingly at Jeffray. 
 
 "The lung was touched, sir, and he was bleeding like 
 a pig when they brought him in here yesterday. It is 
 my opinion, however, that Mr. Hardacre's vitality will 
 pull him through." 
 
 340
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Thank God," said the younger man, with genuine 
 and hearty rehef. 
 
 The surgeon's broad face beamed. He Hked Jcffray, 
 and felt that he was sincere in his spirit of regret. 
 
 "It was a narrow margin, sir," he said, "another 
 finger's-breadtli, and your sword would have touched 
 the heart. Young blood, Mr. Jeffray, young blood! 
 You gentlemen in the twenties are apt to be hot in the 
 head, and the mischief's sooner made than mended. I 
 have nothing to do with the quarrel, sir, and I hope the 
 incident will breed no ill-feeling between us." 
 
 Jeffray held out his hand to the surgeon. 
 
 "Why should it, Stott?" he said. "I am grateful to 
 you for saving my cousin's life. I will not explain the 
 nature of the quarrel ; you are probably wiser than I am 
 in some respects." 
 
 Stott gave Jeffray a shrewd look, and grimaced ex- 
 pressively in the direction of the Blue Boar. 
 
 "A lady, as usual, sir," he said, "though family dif- 
 ferences are no business of mine. I have to mend 
 bodies, sir, not to tinker at hearts." 
 
 "True," answered the younger man, thoughtfully, 
 "and whatever you may hear said against me in the 
 future, Stott, you may remember that I acted as my 
 honor desired. We are not always our own masters in 
 this world, sir; there is a thing called destiny that 
 pushes us forward through the thorns." 
 
 And with a last hand-shake, Jeffray clattered out of 
 Rookhurst market-place, feeling a happier man than 
 when he had entered it. 
 
 Clearing the streets of the little town, he saw that 
 heavy clouds were massing in the northwestern sky. 
 The atmosphere had been prcternaturally clear, the 
 domed foliage of the distant woods, the swell of the 
 southern downs standing out in beautiful distinctness 
 under the June sky. Old Gladden hud been grumbling
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 all the morning at the heat, prophesying thunder and a 
 heavy fall of rain. As Jeffray climbed slowly up the 
 long slope towards the forest ridge, the black outliers 
 moving ahead of the massive wall of vapor began to 
 stream across the sun. The whole landscape was 
 bathed in a strange splendor of slanting sunlight, the 
 woods and meadows lying a wondrous green under the 
 imminent gloom of the purple north. 
 
 Jeff ray pricked up his horse, and came at a fast trot 
 into Rodenham village. Already there were vague 
 mutterings running athwart the distant sky. Outside 
 the Wheat Sheaf Inn JefEray came upon some twenty 
 troopers of a regiment of Light-Horse drinking beer at 
 the wooden tables, their horses picketed upon the 
 green. Some of the men were watching the thunder- 
 clouds, reckoning on the drenching of the outer man as 
 they were moistening the inner. Their cornet, a dark- 
 faced youth with a hooked nose and a libidinous mouth, 
 came to the doorway of the inn with George Gogg as 
 Jeffray passed. The innkeeper saluted the Squire, the 
 officer staring at him with an insolence of militant 
 youth, as though remarking, "And who the devil may 
 you be?" Jeffray attached no significance to the in- 
 cident for the moment. He supposed that the troopers 
 were on the march, and that the cornet had called a 
 halt out of courtesy to the coming storm. 
 
 As Jeffray turned in under the yews at the park gate 
 he was stopped by the lodge-keeper's wife running out 
 in a red petticoat and a very slatternly pair of stays. 
 The woman, who was something of a drunkard, ap- 
 peared flushed and excited. She had the eager, officious 
 look of a common creature big with information. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Wilder, what is it?" 
 
 "My man's gone up to the house, your honor; there's 
 been a scrimmage at the priory." 
 
 Jeffray's face hardened on the instant. 
 
 342
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "A scrimmage! What do you mean ?" 
 
 The woman appeared to swell with the satisfaction 
 of her sensational confession. Her red and coarse- 
 featured face shone out at Jeffray with every suggestion 
 of ill omen. 
 
 "Mr. Gladden sent down word, sir, as how a number 
 of rough fellows from the forest have broke in, cut the 
 painter gentleman over the head, and trussed up the 
 young woman as was staying with ye." 
 
 Jeffray waited to hear no more. He insulted the 
 woman's eloquence by clajiping in his spurs and leaving 
 her standing open-mouthed and loose-bosomed in the 
 road. It was even as the lodge-keeper's wife had told 
 him. Jeffray entered the house to find Dick Wilson 
 propped! up on the library sofa with a bandaged and 
 bloody head. Bess was gone.
 
 XLI 
 
 DAN and old Isaac had been lying hid all day like a 
 couple of leopards in one of the sloping shrubberies 
 that closed in the garden on the west. Their patience 
 had been rewarded, for they had seen Bess appear for 
 that fatal moment upon the terrace when she had 
 taken leave of Jeffray when he rode to Rookhurst. 
 They had watched her return into the house, pass the 
 windows of the dining-room and seat herself at the 
 window of the blue parlor. Her own dreamy and pas- 
 sionate sense of security had delivered her into her 
 husband's hands. Dan and Isaac had crept round to 
 the eastern end of the terrace, entered with masterly 
 boldness at the porch door, and caught Bess alone in 
 the blue parlor. The girl had fought like a wild thing, 
 only to be stunned by Dan in savage impatience with a 
 blow from the hilt of his hanger. In the hall he had 
 come face to face with Dick Wilson rushing, pistols in 
 fists, from the library. The painter, nothing of a 
 marksman, had fired at Isaac and missed, and taken a 
 cut across the pate from Dan's hanger for his pains. 
 Peter Gladden, discreetly deaf to all this pother, had 
 only run to Mr. Wilson's help when he was assured 
 that such dangerous ruffians as the Grimshaws had de- 
 parted. Officious to the point of fanaticism when the 
 peril was past, he had scuttled away to rouse the grooms 
 in the stable, and had stormed and hectored when the 
 fellows displayed no overmastering desire to give chase 
 to the Grimshaws over Rodenham heath. 
 
 344
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 During Peter Gladdcn's explanations and Mr. Wilson's 
 condemnation of his own carelessness, the thunder- 
 storm had burst over the old house. Great lightning 
 cracks streamed across the sky; the wind labored and 
 gathered itself into spasmodic and mournful gusts; the 
 tall trees battled one with another; rain rattled on the 
 broad-leaved laurels and hollies. The very deeps of the 
 old house seemed to quiver beneath the mighty rever- 
 berations of the heavens. Gray sheets of rain dimmed 
 the landscape, and shrouded the struggling and wind- 
 tossed trees. 
 
 Gladden, querulous and uneasy, moved to the library 
 window and closed it against the rain. Jeffray was 
 standing motionless in the centre of the room, looking 
 at the bands of blood-blotched linen about Dick Wil- 
 son's head. He turned to the table abruptly, picked 
 up the pistols the painter had used so clumsily, and 
 glanced at the flints and the priming-pans. Going to 
 an old armoire that stood in the far comer, he opened it 
 and took out a leather belt that carried a powder-flask, 
 a bag of bullets, and a hunting-knife. He loaded and 
 primed the empty pistol, buckled the belt about his 
 body, and then spoke to Gladden in a quiet and de- 
 termined voice. 
 
 "Order the mare to be saddled," he said; "she will 
 stand the thunder better than Brown Will." 
 
 Gladden stared at his master incredulously. 
 
 ■' Do vou hear me. Gladden ?" 
 
 "I do, sir." 
 
 "Then obey my orders. (Juick with you, and see 
 that the brandy flask is filled and strapped to the 
 saddle with the holsters." 
 
 The butler slouched away, unbuttoning and button- 
 ing his coat in agitation. Wilson, who was weak from 
 loss of blocxl, and had been listening to JcfTray's orders, 
 staggered up from his chair, and faced his friend. 
 'i 345
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 " Where are you going, sir ?" he asked, almost roughly. 
 
 "To Pevensel, Dick." 
 
 "To Pevensel?" 
 
 "Where else — after what has happened?" 
 
 The painter stretched out his hands as though to 
 plant them appealingly on Jeffray's shoulders. Richard 
 drew two steps back from him with a slight frown. 
 
 "Are you mad, sir ? — are you mad ?" 
 
 "No, I am not mad, Dick." 
 
 "They will murder you, sir. I tell you they are des- 
 perate men." 
 
 "So am I, Dick," said the other, simply. 
 
 Wilson beat his left fist into his right palm. 
 
 "You can't ride out in such weather. Wait and get 
 help; take your servants with you if you must meddle 
 in this mad business." 
 
 Jeff ray appeared unmoved by the suggestion. 
 
 "I am taking my own life in my hands, Dick," he 
 said. "There is nothing else for me to do. They are 
 desperate men, you say; I grant it you. They will 
 murder this woman, Dick, and I, too — am desperate. 
 The law will not help me. I tell you I am going to 
 Pevensel to try and save her, though she be another 
 man's wife." 
 
 Wilson, with a helpless gesture, sank back into his 
 chair. 
 
 "I see that I waste my words," he said 
 
 "Good-bye, Dick; give me your hand." 
 
 " God keep you, sir, from getting your brains scattered 
 for the sake of a green petticoat." 
 
 The sky was breaking in the west when Jeffray 
 mounted his black mare, rode down through the park, 
 and passed the gibbet on Rodenham heath. A splen- 
 dor of rain - drenched gold streamed from under the 
 lifting edge of the clouds. The whole landscape grew 
 bathed in a flood of slanting light. The moorland and 
 
 346
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 the green woods flashed and ghttered; masses of wild 
 tawny vapor crowned the heights of Pevensel. Rain 
 was still falling lightly from the black clouds above, 
 but the mutterings of the thunder and the streaks of 
 fire were passing southward towards the sea. 
 
 Jeffray left the road below Beacon Rock and crossed 
 the heath towards the forest. His eyes, dark and alert 
 in his sallow face, searched the waste for signs of life. 
 A solitary plover flapped and wailed against the sun, 
 but for all else the wilderness and the welkin seemed 
 deserted. Soon Jeffray was riding down the long slope 
 that fell away towards the purlieus of the forest. He 
 found the path that Bess had shown him of old, and 
 passed in under the trees. 
 
 Pevensel was a magic wilderness that evening, with 
 the sunlight flooding through from the wet west, and 
 every bough glistening with dew. Under the pines the 
 damp mast shone a deep rich bronze. The scent of the 
 rain - drenched bracken and the pines steamed up into 
 the slanting sunlight. Jeffray had no eye for the mere 
 beauty of it at that moment. All tangible things were 
 without significance save when they prompted the vigil- 
 ance of the senses. The trees were a dumb and un- 
 meaning multitude, the sunlight a curse when it blurred 
 and obscured the distance. Jeffray had no vision before 
 him save the vision of Bess lying senseless and broken 
 in Dan's great arms. 
 
 A confused sound of voices came suddenly to Jeffray 
 through the forest, as he neared the broad ride known 
 as White Hind walk. He reined in to listen, heard 
 the gruff and angry growling of men's voices rising 
 from the deeps below him. Pushing on cautiously he 
 came to where the ride clove a great pathway through 
 the forest, and, ]mtting spurs to his mare, dashed across 
 it at a canter. As he flashed across the open he caught 
 a glimpse of a line of pack-horses being driven at a 
 
 347
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 trot along the ride some two hundred paces towards 
 the south. Men were cursing and belaboring the beasts 
 with sticks, the fierce and strenuous figures looming 
 dim and blurred under the light through the trees. 
 The significance of the thing flashed through Jeffray's 
 mind, as he held the mare well in hand and swung along 
 the winding path, dodging the swooping boughs as they 
 trailed above his head. He had seen a smuggling caval- 
 cade threading through the forest, in some peril of capt- 
 ure, to judge by the way the men were beating the 
 pack-horses. Jeffray remembered, at the same moment, 
 the cornet and the light - horse at Rodenham village. 
 There might be fighting afoot, and what if the Grimshaws 
 were entangled in the scrimmage ? 
 
 It was not long before the trees began to thin before 
 him, the open west shining a wall of amber pilastered 
 by the dark boles of the pines. Jeffray, growing cau- 
 tious, dismounted and led his mare aside from the path, 
 and tethered her in a slight hollow of the ground where 
 she was hidden from the path by undergrowth and 
 bracken. He took the pistols out of the holsters, re- 
 primed them, and pushed on towards the hamlet. 
 Looking down from the converging aisles of the forest, 
 he saw the green break in the woods lying calm and 
 quiet under the western sun. The place appeared de- 
 serted and silent, save for a few cows with swelling ud- 
 ders that were waiting at a byre-gate to be milked. 
 
 Jeffray's eyes fixed themselves upon the cottage 
 farthest from him. The gray walls were half hidden 
 by the apple-trees of old Isaac's orchard. The cottage 
 was Dan Grimshaw's cottage; Bess had spoken of it 
 to Jeffray, and he recognized it from her words. But 
 what was more significant to him for the moment was 
 that a man stood leaning against the rough fencing of 
 the garden with a musket lying in the crook of his left 
 arm. The sunhght flashed on the long barrel, and the 
 
 348
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 faint sound of the man's whistling came up to JcfTray 
 in the woods. He felt convinced, as he scanned the 
 hamlet, that the Grimshaws were entangled in the smug- 
 gling enterprise, that Bess was in the cottage, and that 
 they had left one of their men on guard. 
 
 There was no time to be wasted, and Jeffray, casting 
 a half circle round the clearing, came to the thickets 
 to the north of the cottage. The trees grew close to 
 the garden on the north and west. Crouching behind 
 the bracken, Jeffray won a clear view of the man lean- 
 ing against the fence. He was Enoch, Solomon Grim- 
 shaw's eldest son, a raw-boned lout, with a red beard 
 fringing his chin. He was whistling a country song, 
 dandling his musket lazily on his left arm, and taking 
 his duty very stolidly. 
 
 Jeffray 's wit served him at the crisis. He slipped 
 back from the bracken, and skirted round under the 
 trees till he came to the back of the cottage. There 
 was no second door to it, and the narrow lattices were 
 closed. He gained the back of the cottage, moved step 
 by step to the angle of the wall, and peered round it 
 with his pistols ready. An apple-tree half hid from 
 him the man leaning against the fence. The fellow 
 was still whistling stolidly, and seemed in no fear of a 
 surprise. 
 
 The grass path gave Jeffray the advantage that he 
 needed. He crept on till he reached the farther edge 
 of the cottage, and had the broad back of Solomon's 
 son in full view. Covering the man with one of his 
 pistols, he stamped his foot, and kept his finger tight 
 upon the trigger. 
 
 The man by the fence whippcil round as tluju^h he 
 had been touched on the shcjuUkr. The levelled {jistol, 
 with the black circle of the nuizzle covering him, aj)- 
 pearefl to astoni.sh him considerably. 
 
 "Put down your musket, or I fire." 
 
 349
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 The clear, tense tones rang out like a pistol-shot. 
 Solomon's son hesitated and obeyed. 
 
 "Hold up your hands." 
 
 A pair of dirty paws went up. 
 
 "March off ten paces." 
 
 Jeffray advanced on the fellow from the cottage. 
 His last command was obeyed with such exaggerated 
 nimbleness that Jeffray saw the sentinel take to his 
 heels and scud towards the woods. He held his fire, 
 and, reaching over the fence, possessed himself of the 
 abandoned musket. He had hardly turned back 
 towards the cottage when he heard the sound of shout- 
 ing coming from the forest. He ran up the path and 
 put his shoulders to the door of the cottage. It was 
 locked and the key was gone. Clinching his teeth, he 
 levelled the musket and blew in the lock. The door 
 yielded to him, and he crossed the threshold. 
 
 One rapid glance showed Bess lying full length upon 
 the oak table, bound wrist and ankle, the cords pass- 
 ing also about her body. The voices increased in vol- 
 ume rapidly. Jeffray ran to the door and looked out. 
 Pack-horses were being driven from the clearing into 
 the woods; men were rushing to and fro in the sunlight, 
 cursing, and cutting the bales from the beasts' backs. 
 Jeffray saw Solomon's son shouting and waving his arm 
 in the direction of Dan's cottage. Several figures 
 broke away from the mob of pack-horses and gathered 
 round the man. Jeffray slammed the door to, shot the 
 heavy bolts, snatched the wooden bar from the corner 
 and ran it through the staples. He turned back into 
 the room, took the knife from the sheath at his belt, and 
 cut the cords that bound Bess. 
 
 She struggled up, flung her arms round Jeffray, and 
 kissed him on the lips. 
 
 "They are coming," she said, hoarsely. 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 3SO
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Give mc the musket. I can fi^Oit." 
 
 JetTray gave the musket into her hands, looked at his 
 pistols, laid his sword upon the table and the belt that 
 carried the powder-flask and bullets. 
 
 "Load it," he said, quietly; "ram home several slui^s. 
 Kneel down behind the chair," 
 
 Bess, Ki^'i"!4 lii^^i ^ fierce love j^lancc, did as he com- 
 manded her. 
 
 "Watch the window; I will hold the door. Reload 
 for me if you can. We shall have the whole smuu;i^ling 
 crew on us in a moment." 
 
 Even as he spoke they heard the sound of men nm- 
 ning. Heavy footsteps came up the path towards the 
 cottage. They heard Dan's voice roaring at them, bid- 
 ding them open to him, or they would break down the 
 door.
 
 XLII 
 
 JEFFRAY stood gripping his pistols in the cottage 
 room, driven by strange stress of circumstances to 
 fight for a peasant girl against a crowd of cursing and 
 sweating smugglers. He had never stood forward as a 
 hero among his peers, those blue-eyed, plump-bellied 
 worthies who preached or swore in the pulpit and at 
 the dining-table. Slim, sensitive, yet strong now as a 
 band of steel, he waited, watching the door heave and 
 creak beneath the weight of Dan's great body. Bess, 
 kneeling behind her chair, was plying the ramrod. Her 
 eyes met Jeffray's for a moment, the gleam in them 
 speaking for her woman's heart. 
 
 Men were massing outside the cottage, brown handed, 
 brown faced, redolent of liquor and of the sweat of 
 action. Bess heard old Isaac's treble, warning the fel- 
 lows to keep clear of the window, and calHng for a beam 
 to break down the door. Jeffray saw the hole that he 
 had blown in the lock with the musket darkened by 
 the shadow of a man's head. The glittering white of 
 an eyeball showed through the rent. He stepped aside 
 from the stretch of floor that the hole commanded, 
 knowing that a pistol's snout might take the place of a 
 man's eye. Nor was he too swift in the conclusion. 
 There was a brisk report, a belching of smoke into the 
 room, and a ball flattened itself against the opposite 
 wall. Bess's eyes flashed round to see whether Jeffray 
 were hurt or no. He shook his head at her, smiled, 
 and pointed to the window. 
 
 A lull followed. Then there was much shouting and 
 
 352
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 a stampinc; of feet along the pathway to the cottage. 
 They were bringing up a wagon-pole to beat in the 
 door, and the oaken barrier shook and quivered at the 
 first charge. A second shout like the shout of sailors 
 heaving at a rope, a second swing of the pole, and the 
 door split in the centre. Jeffray levelled a pistol and 
 fired. He saw a contorted face sink back out of sight, 
 heard a cry of pain, and a volley of curses. Turning 
 quietly to the table he began recharging the empty 
 pistol. Bess was crouching behind her chair, the mus- 
 ket resting on the rail, its muzzle covering the window. 
 
 She gave a sudden sharp cry, and pressed her check 
 close to the stock. JcfTray, who was watching her, saw 
 her eyes gleam out, the white crook of her forefinger 
 tightening on the trigger. An echoing roar filled the 
 room. Smoke swirled about the beams, wreathed and 
 drifted into the corners. Jeflfray, looking towards the 
 window, saw nothing but a shattered lattice and blue 
 vapor curling out into the sunlight. He gazed hard at 
 Bess as he rammed home the bullet and sprinkled the 
 powder on the pan. She seemed unconscious for the 
 moment of his presence, a strange smile playing about 
 her mouth. 
 
 "Who was it?" he asked her. 
 
 She did not move or look at Jcflfray. 
 
 "A man. He was pointing a pistol at you through 
 the window." 
 
 "Is he down?" 
 
 "I saw him fall." 
 
 The shots from the cottage seemed to have sobered 
 the gentry for the moment. JelTray heard old Isaac 
 screaming and cursing, urging on the men to break in 
 the door. Gathering together in a bunch, they lunged 
 at it again with the wagon-pole, the door splitting 
 from floor to lintel and the pole starting fully three 
 feet into the room. JefTray had a confused \ision of 
 
 353
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 tanned throats and fierce faces, a brandished cutlass, 
 an upraised arm. He fired once, saw a red blotch 
 show on one sun-tanned cheek, and the men hesitate 
 and edge back from the broken door. The pole sank 
 and wedged itself between the rent planking; the shift- 
 ing figures melted away towards the garden-gate. 
 
 Loud cries had risen on the outskirts of the forest. 
 
 "Look out, lads, the redcoats; gather, gather!" 
 
 There was a scattering of pistol-shots, a confused 
 trampling of feet, the clear-ringing voice of a man 
 shouting orders. A bullet came crashing through the 
 cottage window to bury itself in one of the great beams 
 of the ceiling. Frightened horses were screaming and 
 cantering about the clearing, 
 
 Bess was standing by the table reloading the musket. 
 Jeff ray, with the empty pistol still smoking in his hand, 
 went to the window and looked out. He saw a man 
 crawling down the path on his hands and knees, cough- 
 ing and spitting blood, his head lolling from side to 
 side. The open space between the trees seemed a-swirl 
 for the moment with swords and plunging horses, a 
 tangle of redcoats and of blurred and dusky figures. 
 The smuggling folk and the troopers were stabbing and 
 cutting at one another amid the plunging pack-horses. 
 From the southern end of the clearing Jeffray saw a 
 mounted excise-ofhcer cantering up with some twenty 
 revenue men at his heels. They had tracked the 
 smuggling folk up from Thorney Chapel, while the cor- 
 net of Light-Horse, led by a spy, had brought his 
 troopers through the woods from Rodenham. Soon the 
 struggling knot of fustian and scarlet broke and spread 
 into scattering eddies. Figures went scudding from 
 the woods, some dropping and grovelling before they 
 reached the cover. The fight was over. The foresters 
 and the smuggling folk, such as were left of them, scat- 
 tered and fled for the sanctuary of the forest. • 
 
 354
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jeffray felt that Ross was near him, and turninj^ sharp- 
 ly he found her standing at his elbow. 
 
 "The revenue men," she siiid, in her husky voice, 
 putting her hands upon the sill and looking out through 
 the broken lattice. 
 
 Jeffray, conscious of the white and desirable face 
 that dreamed up at him out of a cloud of hair, thrilled 
 to the wild chann of it all, the uprushing of romance 
 into his brain. 
 
 "Bess," he said, smiling, "what are we to do?" 
 
 She looked at him half puzzled, smiling a little for 
 the sheer sweetness of having her head resting u^jon his 
 arm. 
 
 "We are free now, are we not, Richartl ?" 
 
 Jeffray pursed up his mouth grimly, and pointed to 
 the broken door. 
 
 "I have spilled blood," he said, "and kept a man 
 from the charge of his own wife. The law takes knowl- 
 edge of these things. Tell me, Bess, who was the man 
 you fired at through the window?" 
 
 She drew closer to Jeffray as though afraid. 
 
 "I do not know," she answered. 
 
 "Was it Dan?" 
 
 "I don't know — I don't know. Take me away," and 
 she clung to Jeffray like a frightened child. 
 
 Jeffray wrenched the two halves of the broken door 
 apart and thrust back the wagon-pole, so that there was 
 room for them to pass. He sheathed his sword, l)ucklc(l 
 on the belt with the powder-flask and huntinjj-knife, 
 and, picking up the pistols, looked round for Bess. She 
 had climbed the stairs, and Jeffray could hear her 
 moving to and fro in the room above, while the clock 
 on the kitchen mantle-shelf ticked on as though death 
 and desire were of no account. 
 
 The redcoats were securing such prisoners as they 
 had taken, while the revenue men gathered the pack- 
 
 355
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 horses together and broke into the cottages and out- 
 houses to ransack them to the very rafters. Jeffray 
 watched them at work through the broken door. Soon 
 he heard Bess descending the stairs. She had tidied 
 her clothes and bound up her hair, and thrown an old 
 cloak over her shoulders. He held the broken halves 
 of the door apart from Bess, and followed her down 
 the garden path. The dusk was fast falling, but 
 there was enough light to show the blood -stains on 
 the bricks. Bess shivered a little, drew up her petti- 
 coats and picked her way towards the gate. Jeffray 
 swung it back for her, and they passed out into the 
 open land that was still lit by the slanting sun- 
 light. 
 
 Bess came to a dead halt suddenly some ten paces 
 from the palings. She seized Jeffray's wrist, and stood 
 pointing to the body of a man lying in the long grass. 
 Her eyes had dilated, the pupils swimming black, and 
 awed under the long lashes. 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 Jeffray went a step nearer and gazed down at the man 
 lying in the grass. His head was twisted to one side, 
 the upper lip drawn up over the teeth in a snarling grin. 
 There was blood on the black beard, blood on the hairy 
 chest and on the shirt that flapped open from the mas- 
 sive throat. It was Dan who lay dead with a musket- 
 bullet through his chest. 
 
 Bess and Jeffray stood and looked into each other's 
 eyes. Her hand still gripped his wrist spasmodically. 
 He saw her lips move, saw the unuttered question in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "He is dead," he said, solemnly. 
 
 "Who, who?" 
 
 "Dan, your husband." 
 
 She tottered and clung to him, struggling for her 
 breath, yet still staring at the dead man in the grass. 
 
 356
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Jeflfray had one arm about her body. lie was as white 
 as Bess, yet the master of his own manhood. A shout 
 came to him across the clearing. Several red - coats 
 were approaching the cottage, led by an officer with his 
 sword drawn.
 
 XLIII 
 
 JEFFRAY, rising above the entanglements of the 
 moment, took Bess by the arm, and led her back 
 through the gate towards the cottage. He spoke a few 
 words to her, warning her to keep the manner of Dan's 
 death secret, and to leave the unravelling of the coil to 
 him. Bess, looking hke one in pain, sank down on the 
 rough bench beside the door. The shock of seeing her 
 dead husband's face had unnerved her utterly for the 
 moment. 
 
 Jeffray, turning from her with his mouth set, found 
 that the ofhcer and his troopers were already at the 
 gate, their red coats shining out against the dark back- 
 ground of the trees. Jeffray acted on the inspiration 
 of the moment. He walked coolly down the garden 
 path, took off his hat to the officer, to be surprised by 
 hearing his own name coming glibly from the soldier's 
 lips. 
 
 "Mr. Richard Jeffray, I believe?" 
 
 The civilian bowed. He recognized the officer as 
 the cornet of Light-Horse, whom he had seen lounging 
 in the doorway of the Wheat Sheaf Inn at Rodenham. 
 
 "I see, sir, that I am known to you." 
 
 The comet showed his regular white teeth in a good- 
 humored smile, and ordered his men to stand back some 
 paces. 
 
 "A mounted servant of yours," he said, "fell in with 
 us as we were crossing Rodenham heath. The fellow 
 appeared much. concerned about your safety." 
 
 358
 
 BE5S OF THE WOODS 
 
 The comet was studying Jcffray curiously with his 
 large and melancholy eyes. He had the dreamy and 
 sensuous look of a young man whose amiability made 
 him popular with women. It was evident that he had 
 been enlightened in some measure as to the nature of 
 Jeffray's romantic quest, and that being something of a 
 sensualist, he regarded the civilian with an erotic in- 
 terest. Jcffray knew not for the moment whether to 
 bless or curse Wilson and the butler for meddling in 
 his adventures. He looked hard at the soldier as though 
 to discover what species of man he had to deal with. 
 
 "Of one thing, sir, I am assured," he said, assuming 
 an air of candor, " that I have to thank you for rescuing 
 me from a very hot and dangerous comer." 
 
 The soldier bowed slightly, and smiled in his tired 
 and melancholy fashion. 
 
 "We were ordered to assist these revenue fellows," 
 he explained, "in rounding up one of the most savage 
 smuggling gangs in Sussex. I can only express my 
 satisfaction at having been able to assist a gentleman 
 whose courage had carried him into the enemy's lines." 
 
 Such stately civility appeared to promise well for the 
 adaptability of the comet's sentiments. Jcffray felt 
 by instinct that it would be expedient for him to tmst 
 the man, pretend to make a friend of him, and thus get 
 Bess safely out of Pevensel. 
 
 "1 suspect that we can understand each other, sir," 
 he said, with a boyish laugh, "and I hold myself fort- 
 unate in having been thrown in contact with a gentk- 
 man. If you will walk aside with me — I can explain." 
 
 The comet stood aside from the gate, and confessed 
 himself at Jeffray's service. He was one of those men 
 who never quarrel by inclination, and was indeed the 
 very creature JefTray needed, lazy, good-tempered, 
 wiger for popularity, a man tinged with a sentimental 
 devotion towards women, a devotion that bowed down 
 
 359
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 before a dimpled chin, and capitulated smilingly to a 
 pair of mischievous eyes. 
 
 "I am at your service, sir," he said, bowing, 
 
 Jeff ray took the soldier at his word, and, with an air 
 of unpremeditated abstraction, marched him straight 
 for Dan Grimshaw's body. The exquisite son of Mars 
 started at the sight of the contorted face shining a 
 dead white from the grass. He touched the body a 
 little contemptuously with his foot, sniffed, and shrugged 
 his padded shoulders. 
 
 "Another poor devil shot," he said. 
 
 Jeffray bent over the body as though it were new 
 and strange to him. 
 
 "Hit in the chest," he said, reflectively. "Your men 
 were firing pretty briskly into the mob." 
 
 "They fired on us first, sir," quoth the comet, as 
 though moved to justify his orders. 
 
 "I don't doubt it. Some of your shots came into 
 the cottage where I was cornered with the girl whose 
 life I was trying to save." 
 
 With much parade of mystery Jeffray unfolded to 
 the sentimental youth as much of the past as suited 
 the occasion. He told how he had come to be blockaded 
 in the cottage, and confessed that he had been com- 
 pelled to fire on the smuggling folk in self-defence. 
 Concerning Dan's death he was discreetly silent, nor 
 did he divulge the fact that Bess had helped him to 
 hold the cottage. The comet listened with the most 
 serious and sympathetic attention, stroking the silver 
 facings of his coat, and never so much as dreaming to 
 wink at Jeffray. 
 
 " I am not astonished, sir," he said, at the end thereof, 
 "that the lady should be a little shaken after such ad- 
 ventures." 
 
 "Your sympathy does you credit," returned Jeffray, 
 with a bow. 
 
 360
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "May I ask what is to be done with the lady?" 
 
 "I desire to disentangle her from such painful sur- 
 roundings, and place her under my housekeeper's care 
 at Rodenham." 
 
 The cornet looked sadly at Jeff ray, as though tak- 
 ing him for a very eccentric person or a most human 
 and devoted fool. Being an amiable and sentimental 
 creature, and not given to legal methods of reflection, 
 he showed himself very ready to assist Jcffray with the 
 true courtesy of a cavalier. 
 
 "Shall I lend you two troopers and a guide," he said, 
 "to convey you to Rodenham? Is the lady fit to 
 travel?" 
 
 Jeff ray accepted the suggestion. 
 
 "I thank you for your courtesy," he said; "the ride 
 will take the girl away from her own thoughts. I shall 
 be verN^ grateful to you if you will make inquiries as 
 to her husband — Daniel Grimshaw, and the old man, 
 Isaac. If you discover any facts bearing upon the 
 mystery of the girl's past I shall be eager to receive 
 them. My own marc is tethered in the woods. One 
 of the pack-horses would carry the lady." 
 
 The soldier proved himself the very perfection of a 
 Pandar in scarlet and silver. He would as soon have 
 assisted in so romantic an intrigue, for such he fully 
 believed it to be, as have perused one of the most in- 
 teresting passages in the life of one of Mr. Fielding's 
 heroes. Jeffray's mare was discovered safely hidden in 
 the woods where he had left her. One of the pack- 
 horses was saddled and Bess mounted thereon. Two 
 troopers and a guide were ordered to put themselves 
 at Jeffray's service. 
 
 "I wish you g(jod speed, sir," .said the cornet, bowing 
 and raising his hat to Bess. 
 
 Jeffray, charmed by the young man's urbanity, 
 shook him heartily by the hand. 
 
 «4 3^i
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "You will do me the honor of dining with me to- 
 morrow?" he asked. 
 
 The cornet bowed, his brown eyes brightening with 
 momentary relish. 
 
 "Certainly, if my duties permit the pleasure," he 
 said, smiHng a tired smile. 
 
 Into the sweet dusk of the wet woods rode Jeffray 
 with Bess beside him. The western sky was still 
 streaked with gold beyond the trees, but the woods be- 
 fore them were tangled deeps of mysterious gloom. 
 All the June perfumes of the earth streamed out from 
 the brakes and thickets, mingling with the pungent 
 breath of the pines. Bluish vapor filled the hollows, 
 merging into the deep purple of the forest's shadows. 
 Here and there some rain-pool in the grass was touched 
 with the faint light from the western sky. An infinite 
 languor seemed to weigh upon the calm and misty 
 trees. There was still the dull drip of the storm's dew 
 from ten thousand branches, the rhythmic plashing of 
 water upon the bracken and the grass. 
 
 The two red-coats and the rough laborer who acted 
 as guide moved some twenty paces ahead of Jeffray 
 and the girl. There was still some peril of their falHng 
 in with the folk who had been scattered from the 
 hamlet, and the troopers kept their carbines ready. 
 Jeffray held the bridle of Bess's horse, so that they 
 were very close in the dusk. Bess had recovered from 
 her faintness of an hour ago. Jeffray had given her 
 brandy from his flask, though she had refused the bread 
 and meat one of the soldiers had brought her from old 
 Isaac's cottage. The day's burden of dread seemed 
 to lift from her as they drew away from the ham- 
 let and its memories, and sank deeper and deeper 
 into the silence of the forest. She was near Jeffray; 
 sometimes her knee touched his. They could almost 
 hear each other breathing, while the sweet smell of 
 
 362
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 the wet woods steamed up like incense into the 
 nii^ht. 
 
 Jeffray appeared sunk in thought. He looked often 
 at Bess with kindlings of tenderness in his eyes. The 
 pleasurableness of life seemed to steal into either heart, 
 chastened by a melancholy born of the troubled hap- 
 penings of the day. They remembered, both of them, the 
 dead man lying in the grass. It seemed that the blood- 
 red flower of Bess's dream had colored forth the shed- 
 ding of Dan's blood. 
 
 As they crossed White Hind walk, Jeffray drew in 
 Bess's horse very close to him, stretched out his hand 
 and touched her arm. 
 
 "You are not unhappy, child?" he asked. 
 
 She hesitated a moment. 
 
 "No, no, not unhappy." 
 
 "You are thinking of Dan?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why should you pity him?" 
 
 "Ah, he was pointing his pistol at 5''0U — " 
 
 "It was for my sake, Bess, I know, I know." 
 
 He looked at her thoughtfully and half sadly as though 
 realizing how much she had dared to save his life. It 
 was a grim thing for a woman to have blood upon her 
 conscience, and that too — the blood of her own husband. 
 His tenderness deepened immeasurably towards Bess. 
 The guilt, whatever guilt there was, was his — not hers. 
 
 "There may still be danger for us," he said, gravely. 
 
 Bess looked at him as though all terror would melt 
 away before the calm strength upon his face. 
 
 "Is Isaac alive?" she asked, putting her hair back 
 from her forehead. 
 
 " I do not know," he an.swercd. 
 
 "If he should guess!" 
 
 " No one shall ever know that you fired the shot that 
 killed your husband." 
 
 3f>3
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Bess questioned him with her eyes. 
 
 "Should the law ever snatch at us," he continued, "I 
 shall swear that it was I who shot Dan Grimshaw." 
 
 "You would swear that?" she asked, her whole face 
 aglow. 
 
 "I would." 
 
 "Ah — I should love you better than to suffer that." 
 
 They rode on awhile in silence under the trees, the 
 dark figures of the troopers moving vaguely before 
 them, the stars above like silver bosses set in the vault- 
 ings of the forest. Often their eyes met ; the girl's white 
 face seemed to shine with an inward light through the 
 darkness of the woods. 
 
 "Bess," said the man, at last. 
 
 She watched him — and waited. 
 
 "Let us leave this riddle to rot in Pevensel. What 
 do I care whether you are of the Grimshaw blood or no!" 
 
 She held out her hands to him with a great sigh. 
 
 "Take me away from it all," she said. "I want you 
 — and nothing more." 
 
 A young moon was showing its silver crescent above 
 the trees when Bess and Jeffray came out upon the 
 heath. The two troopers and the guide were waiting 
 for them, their figures showing dimly against the sky- 
 line. Jeffray hailed the men, assured them that he 
 had no further need of an escort, and, giving them a 
 couple of guineas apiece, advised them to ride back and 
 rejoin their troop. The fellows pocketed the money, 
 and wished Jeffray a very good-evening. There might 
 be spoil to be had at the hamlet in Pevensel, rooms to be 
 rifled, hidden money to be unearthed. They turned 
 back with the guide into the woods, leaving Bess and 
 her man to ride on to Rodenham alone.
 
 XLIV 
 
 THUS Bess and Jcffray rode into Rodcnham together, 
 while the scent of the wet grass floated on the warm 
 air, and the great cedars smcUed of Lebanon. The storm 
 shower had beaten down the grass in places, so that in 
 the cfim light it seemed like the swirling eddies of a 
 restless sea. A night -jar whirred in the becchwoods 
 above the road. Rabbits scurried hither and thither. 
 Jeffray could faintly see the heads of his deer rising 
 above the bracken on the edge of the wood. 
 
 Soon the old house, black-chimneyed, a pile of shad- 
 ows, with here and there a window gleaming, rose up 
 before them out of the east. Bess drew her breath in 
 deeply, seeing that his eyes were fixed upon the place. 
 She was wondering whether he was sad at leaving such 
 a home to go alone with her into strange lands. 
 
 "Of what arc you thinking?" he asked her. suddenly. 
 
 "I was thinking of that," she said, pointing to the 
 house. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Can you leave it all for me?" 
 
 " Why not ?" he asked, with no wavering of his words. 
 
 "It is your home." 
 
 "And will be yours." 
 
 "Ah—" 
 
 " Some day, when the clouds are gone. We are young 
 yet; we can take our home with us in our hearts." 
 
 She looked at him very dearly, yet with some sadness 
 in her eyes. 
 
 3(^5
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "I am wondering," she said. 
 
 "Yes, what are you wondering, Bess?" 
 
 "Whether I can make you happy, I who am so poor 
 and ignorant." 
 
 "I have no doubts," he said, "no doubts whatsoever." 
 
 As they rode up to the terrace with the gardens and 
 shrubberies dim and full of perfume under the night sky, 
 Dick Wilson and Gladden came out from the porch. 
 Wilson gave Jeff ray a hearty hail, running forward with 
 out-stretched hand, his eyes twinkling below the band- 
 ages that swathed his head. 
 
 "Egad, sir," he said, "I am glad to see you alive. 
 The wilful man has won his way." 
 
 Jeffray had dismounted, but Bess was still on her 
 horse looking down half shyly, half haughtily at the 
 painter, as though mistrusting the good-will of her 
 lover's friend. Wilson, who had the instinct of chivalry 
 quick and warm under his ugly exterior, went to her 
 with a twinkle in his eyes, and, bowing in the most im- 
 pressive fashion, took her hand and kissed it. 
 
 "May I ask your pardon, madam," he said, quaintly, 
 "for having proved such a dunderhead of a fellow this 
 afternoon?" 
 
 Bess eyed him questioningly. 
 
 "You have been wounded?" she asked. 
 
 "A slight cut, a slight cut across the pate with a 
 hanger. I am a clumsy fool at my weapons. May I 
 have the honor of helping you to dismount ?" 
 
 Bess was down beside him before the words were half 
 passed his lips. She stood at her full height before the 
 painter, the light from one of the windows falling on 
 her face. Wilson understood of a sudden how this tall, 
 proud-faced forest child had set Jeffray 's manhood in 
 a blaze. 
 
 Jeffray, who had been speaking to Gladden, came 
 back and laid his hand on Wilson's shoulder. 
 
 366
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "This is Mrs. Elizabeth Grimshaw, Dick," he said, 
 with the pride of a lover; "you have been paying your 
 respects to her." 
 
 "I have, sir, I have," quoth the painter with a bow. 
 
 Bess, who had taken a liking to this ugly but honest- 
 eyed man, smiled at him, and held out a hand. 
 
 "I thank you for having helped us," she said. 
 
 "Don't thank mc, madam," retorted the painter, 
 bluntly. "Mr. Richard here is quite capable of fight- 
 ing his own battles." 
 
 They laughed — the three of them, Bess and Jeffray 
 looking into each other's eyes. Wilson still studying 
 with inevitable admiration the face and figure of the 
 woman who had changed a dreamer into a man of fire 
 and action. Peter Gladden was waiting at the hall- 
 door, smirking, and rubbing his smooth chin with his 
 fingers. Jeffray, giving his hand to Bess, led her with an 
 Old-World courtliness up the steps and into the house. 
 The butler stood aside, bowing and fixing his eyes 
 deferentially upon his master's shoes. He cast a peer- 
 ing, birdlike glance at Bess after she had passed, 
 grinned as he caught Mr. Wilson's eye, and smothered 
 the smirk instantly as the painter's stare snubbed him. 
 Jeffray led Bess to the dining-room where supper had 
 been spread hastily upon the table. He drew back a 
 chair for her. dismissed (iladden, who came in with a 
 mincing shuffle, and prepared to wait on Bess in jierson. 
 
 "You must cat," he said, bending slightly over her 
 chair. 
 
 She lay back and looked at him, her eyes shining 
 through her half-closed lashes. 
 
 "I am not hungry." 
 
 "No, but you must keep up your strength. I will 
 carve you some venison, and here is good red wine. I 
 shall stand behind your chair 111! I am satisfied with 
 you. And then — " 
 
 367
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "And then?" she said, smiling with her eyes. 
 
 "I shall send you above to bed. The coach will be 
 ready for us at seven. Come now, you must humor 
 me; I have the guarding of your health." 
 
 An hour later Bess was lying under the crimson 
 canopy in the great bed above, her limbs between the 
 white sheets, her black hair in a love tangle on the 
 pillow. Jeffray had called Gladden to him in the 
 dining-room, and given him his orders. Poor Gladden 
 imagined that the family dignity must be sinking very 
 deep into the mire. He met the amazing foolhardiness 
 of it all with melancholy stoicism, finished the contents 
 of a half - emptied wine - bottle when his master had 
 gone, and confessed to himself that time and women 
 can wreck empires. 
 
 Jeffray found Dick Wilson in the library, lighting his 
 pipe at one of the candles, sucking in his cheeks, and 
 looking as solemn over the ceremony as though the 
 truth of immortality hung upon the proper kindling of 
 the weed. He cocked one eye at Jeffray, smiled, and 
 set himself with his back to the mantle-shelf, one white 
 cotton stocking in wrinkles half way down his leg, his 
 waistcoat fastened by two solitary buttons, the folds of 
 the bandage slipping over his left eyebrow. He puffed 
 away at his pipe, while Jeffray turned to the bureau, 
 unlocked it, and took out the letters he had written the 
 previous morning. 
 
 "You will see these delivered, Dick," he said, "after 
 I am gone?" 
 
 Wilson looked at his friend keenly. 
 
 "So you are going, sir?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, I have ordered the coach at seven. We have 
 no time to be married in England." 
 
 Wilson screwed up his lips and blew forth an ex- 
 pressive stream of smoke. 
 
 "What, you are going to be married!" 
 
 368
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Yes. The girl's husband is dead." 
 
 "The devil he is!" 
 
 "There has been a tussle between Garston's smut^- 
 glers and the King's men ; the fellow Grimshaw was 
 shot in the scrimmage." 
 
 A look of most unchristian satisfaction spread itself 
 over the painter's face. He stepped forward and held 
 out his hand. 
 
 "I congratulate vou, sir — I congratulate vou." 
 
 "Thanks, Dick."' 
 
 "The stumbling-block is removed out of the path of 
 propriety. And why, if I may ask you, must you be 
 in such an infatuated hurry to be gone?" 
 
 "There are reasons, Dick, that I cannot divulge to 
 you." 
 
 "Snub me, sir, snub me if I seem too forward. You 
 can come by a license in a few days; there must be 
 some obliging surrogate in the neighborhood. At the 
 worst you can travel up to London, march to Doctors' 
 Commons, and secure a proper passport to the seventh 
 heaven." 
 
 Jeff ray, pacing to and fro with his shoulders squared 
 and the heels of his shoes coming down squarely on the 
 polished floor, shook his head, and refused the suggestion. 
 
 "I have my reasons, Dick," he said, "and I have 
 thought the whole thing through for myself. Some 
 years ago old Sugg could have married us here in my 
 own house, and for my sake I should like to see Lord 
 Hardwicke and his grandmotherly legislation damned. 
 I want to get the girl away from all the pother that 
 will be brewing, to save her from the tongues of our 
 most Christian friends. To-morrow we drive to Lewes; 
 the next day to the sea." 
 
 Wilson rammed down the tobacco in his pipe with 
 the end of his little finger, relit it at the candle, and 
 puffed on reflectively. 
 
 3f'9
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Well, sir," he said, "I should like to know how you 
 rescued the lady." 
 
 And Jeff ray told him, all save the way in which Dan 
 Grimshaw met his death. 
 
 It was well after midnight when Peter Gladden 
 lighted JefiEray to his room. Portmanteaus and valises 
 were scattered about, some half filled, others yawning 
 for the white linen, breeches, silk stockings, and clothes 
 that covered the floor in confusion. Jeff ray insisted on 
 Gladden completing the packing before he went to bed. 
 He had already discovered a polite and voiceless an- 
 tagonism in the old man's manner, as though Gladden 
 persisted in believing that the romance was but the 
 madness of an hour. He helped the butler to fill and 
 strap the valises, and then dismissed him, ordering him 
 to wake him at five. 
 
 The candles were still burning in the library when 
 the dawn came creeping into the east. Wilson, rub- 
 bing his eyes as he woke from a short sleep, heard the 
 rumbling of wheels as the great coach was drawn out 
 of the coach-house into the stable-yard. There was 
 the jingling of harness being cleaned, the sound of 
 rough voices gossiping together, an occasional coarse 
 laugh bursting out upon the misty air. The grooms 
 were discussing their master's love affair. Wilson 
 yawned and stretched his limbs, climbed up out of his 
 chair, snuffed the candles, and went out into the hall. 
 
 He met Jeffray coming down the oak stairs, a cloak 
 over one arm, his sword under the other. As the men 
 shook hands there was the sound of a door opening in 
 the gallery above. Light footsteps came down the 
 stairway; Bess, with her gray cloak over her shoulders, 
 descended slowly towards the hall. She looked fresh 
 and pure after her night's rest, her eyes soft and dewy, 
 her red lips parted in a smile. Jeffray waited for her 
 at the foot of the stairs. He took her hand and kissed 
 
 370
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 it, and led her into the dining-room, looking into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "You are rested?" he asked her, with a pressure of 
 the hand. 
 
 "Yes— quite." 
 
 "We shall start in an hour or two. We have much 
 to do at Lewes." 
 
 Bess looked at her clothes, her short skirt and green 
 petticoat, and then glanced at Jeffray. 
 
 "I have thought of all that," he said, smiling. 
 
 "Ah—" 
 
 "You shall look as fine a lady as any in Sussex. 
 Silks and brocades, Bess, you shall have them all." 
 
 In the midst of all the bustle of preparation, a trooper 
 of the Light -Horse Regiment came cantering through 
 the park with a letter for Richard Jeffray tucked under 
 his white belt. Wilson saw the speck of scarlet from 
 the terrace, and, walking down the drive, met the man 
 as he reined up before the iron gates closing the garden. 
 The trooper produced his letter and explained that he 
 had been told to deliver it into Mr. Jeffray's hands. 
 Jeffray himself appeared on the terrace at the same 
 moment, and the painter, beckoning to him, turned 
 back with the soldier. 
 
 "A letter for you, sir," he said, as Jeffray came up to 
 them. 
 
 The trooper saluted, and delivered the despatch. 
 Jeffray ordered him to ride round to the stable and 
 have his horse watered, and rubl)ed down with straw. 
 
 "From your cornet, I presume?" he asked. 
 
 The man nodded and rode on in the direction of the 
 stables. 
 
 Jeffray and the painter wont back to the terrace and 
 
 > leaned against the balustrade. There was an anxious 
 
 frown on Jeffray 's face as he broke the seal, and spread 
 
 the letter on the stone coping before him. He ran his 
 
 37>
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 eyes over the straggling and ill-formed sentences, his 
 face clearing as he neared the end. 
 
 "Sir, — Having promised to obtain for you any information 
 bearing upon Mrs. Elizabeth Grimshaw's past, I send you a 
 rough copy of an extraordinary confession made to me by an 
 old woman we found tied to a chair in one of the cottages. I 
 cannot promise you how much truth there is in her tale, but 
 on searching the place called the Monk's Grave, we discovered 
 that the turf some twenty paces from the old tree that grows on 
 the mound there, had been trampled down quite recently. On 
 digging we found the earth very loose, as though it had been 
 lately turned, also a ragged piece of sail cloth, but no treasure. 
 It is probable that the money has been taken up and hidden 
 elsewhere, and the suspicion is strengthened by the fact that 
 the old man, Isaac Grimshaw, is still at large. The man whom 
 we found dead in the grass has been sworn to as Mrs. Elizabeth 
 Grimshaw's husband. 
 
 "I trust that these facts will be of interest to you. 
 
 "Unfortunately my diities here prevent me from dining with 
 you to-day. I take the liberty of postponing the pleasure till 
 to-morrow, 
 
 "James Jellicoe, 
 " Cornet in his Majesty's — Regiment of Horse." 
 
 Enclosed within the letter, Jeffray found a page torn 
 from a pocket-book, and covered with the cornet's boy- 
 ish writing. He held it towards Wilson, and they 
 spelled it out together, experiencing some difficulty in 
 deciphering the sentences that seemed to have been 
 written in the dusk. 
 
 Statement made by Mrs. Ursula Grimshaw this ist day of 
 July, 17—: 
 
 "I am Isaac Grimshaw's sister. The girl Bess, my nephews 
 wife, is not of our blood. Twenty years ago come Michaelmas, 
 four sailor men came into the forest with a treasure chest, arms, 
 and a young child. They lodged in my brother Isaac's cottage, 
 and he and they talked much together. The chest contained 
 much money and precious things. My brother Isaac and his 
 son John, who has been dead these fifteen years, murdered 
 these four sailors when they were drunk, and buried their bodies 
 
 372
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 in the forest. We kept the child as one of us, and called her 
 Bess, and hid the treasure in the woods. 
 
 "My brother Isaac told me that the four sailors had mur- 
 dered the captain and crew of their ship, also a King's ofhcer 
 and his wife who were passengers. Bess, who was the lady's 
 child, they saved out of pity, and because she was scarcely 
 three years old. The ship whose name I never knew, was 
 scuttled in a fog off Beachy Head, the four sailor men coming 
 ashore in the jolly-boat with the treasure and the child. The 
 chest was buried in the forest near a place known as the Monk's 
 Grave. This, God help me! is all I know. I have kept this 
 secret twenty years." 
 
 Jeffray and the painter looked hard into each other's 
 eyes when they had read the confession tlirough. There 
 was a shght flush as of triumph on Jcff"ray's face, as he 
 held out his hand exultantly to Wilson. 
 
 "We go to Lewes after all," he said. 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 " I shall send a letter back by the trooper to Comet 
 Jellicoe, thanking him, and saying that I have gone to 
 Lewes on legal business. We will cross the water to- 
 morrow, God helping us!" 
 
 Wilson gave his friend a keen look, and tapped the 
 letter with his finger. 
 
 "There is still a mystery here, sir," he said. 
 
 "What does it matter, Dick — what does it matter?" 
 
 "If this be true—" 
 
 "True! Why, damn it, Dick, I have always believed 
 it true. Do you think that girl was born in a hovel?"
 
 XLV 
 
 THE turret clock was striking seven when the 
 coach swung out of the stable -yard, and, turning 
 on the gravel -drive before the house, drew up with 
 rattling harness before the porch. The luggage lay 
 piled upon the roof, a loaded blunderbuss hanging in 
 the straps before the back seat. Both the coachman 
 and the serving-man beside him were armed. Peter 
 Gladden, cloaked, and with a couple of pistols swinging 
 in his tail-pockets, stood with his hand on the handle 
 of the door. 
 
 Jeffray, his sword under his left arm, handed Bess 
 down the steps to the coach. Dick Wilson followed 
 them, striving not to look lugubrious, his blue eyes set 
 staringly in his sun-tanned face. Bess tripped into the 
 coach; Jeffray halted with one foot on the step, and 
 held out his hand to his friend with a smile. 
 
 "Good-bye, Dick," he said, "and God bless you." 
 
 Wilson's powerful fist closed upon Jeffray's brown 
 and sinewy fingers. 
 
 "God go with you, too, sir," he retorted, a little 
 thickly. "I'll see to your business. The fellow in 
 Lincoln's Inn shall have your letter, and we'll forward 
 all news between us to France." 
 
 Jeffray gave a last grip to the painter's hand, and 
 sprang into the coach. 
 
 "There is the letter to my bankers, Dick," he said, 
 when Gladden had closed the door, "deliver it in per- 
 son. A portion of it concerns yourself." 
 
 374
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Concerns me, sir?" 
 
 " Yes, Dick — good-bye — good -bye." 
 
 "God go with you both, sir, and may you be happy!" 
 
 Peter Gladden cUmbed to the back seat. The whip 
 cracked, the horses strained at the traces, the heavy 
 wheels ground into the gravel. The great coach rolled 
 away on its high springs, leaving the old house bowercd 
 up amid its trees, moated by shrubs and the thousand 
 faces of its flowers. Dick Wilson ran to the end of the 
 terrace, flapping a red - cotton handkerchief. Jeffray, 
 leaning out of the window, waved to him in turn, Bess 
 looking over her lover's shoulder. Wilson was still 
 standing there when a cedar hid the gardens and ter- 
 race-way from sight. Gable and chimney-stack and 
 lozenged - casement sank away behind the trees; only 
 a faint trail of blue smoke in the heavens showed where 
 the old house stood. 
 
 Jeffray, with a melancholy light in his brown eyes 
 for the moment, sighed and turned back towards Bess. 
 She was leaning fonvard slightly, her elbows resting on 
 her knees, her head thrown back, her white throat show- 
 ing. She seemed oblivious for the moment of Jeffray 's 
 presence. 
 
 "Bess." 
 
 She dropped her hands with a start, and lay back in 
 the coach, looking at him very dearly. 
 
 "Well, we are on the road," said the man, smiling. 
 
 Her lips quivered, her eyes flashed up to his. 
 
 "To-night we shall be at Lewes." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And to-morrow wc shall see the sea." 
 
 Bess stretched out her hand to him. Jeffray took it 
 and held it in his, feeling it warm and dewy, full of the 
 swift moving blood of youth. 
 
 "Ursula has confessed," he said, looking in her eyes. 
 
 "Ursula?" 
 
 375
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Yes—" 
 
 "Is it of Dan?" 
 
 Jeffray's calm face reassured her as she leaned tow- 
 ards him with sudden dread. 
 
 "No," he said, "I had a letter from the King's officer 
 an hour ago; they had found Ursula tied to a chair in 
 her cottage, and hearing that Dan was dead — and her 
 kinsfolk scattered, she made a confession about the past. 
 You are no Grimshaw, Bess, but some one's child from 
 over the sea." 
 
 Jeffray told her all that had been laid bare in the old 
 woman's confession, Bess lying back in the comer of 
 the coach, her eyes looking out at the country that was 
 sweeping by. Her fingers crept round Jeffray's wrist, 
 and contracted spasmodically as though she wished to 
 realize that he was near. The wild and fantastic tale 
 unfolded itself before her, the great ship sunk at sea, 
 the murder of the four sailors in the forest, the hiding 
 of the treasure, the beginning of her own life in Pevensel. 
 She began to understand much that had puzzled her 
 of old, why Isaac had been mad for her to marry Dan, 
 and why the old man had wished to kill her after she 
 had watched them uncovering the chest by the Monk's 
 Grave. 
 
 "Richard," she said, very softly, still looking out of 
 the window. 
 
 He bent towards her with great tenderness. 
 
 "Who was my mother?" 
 
 "Bess, I do not know." 
 
 "Did they kill her?" 
 
 This time Jeffray's hand fastened upon the girl's. 
 
 "I fear so," he said, gravely. 
 
 "She was a lady?" 
 
 "Yes, so Ursula believed. It was your mother who 
 wore the brooch your husband gave you. We may 
 learn more of the past if the treasure is discovered." 
 
 376
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 There was silence between them for a moment. Ress 
 was breathing deeply, her face shining white under her 
 black hair as she sufTercd the revelation to sink slowly 
 into her soul. Jcffray, still hoKling 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 cver>'thing. 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 surrepti- 
 tiously with a bottle of wine that he had hidden under 
 his cloak. Bess and Richard turned their faces towards 
 the green slopes of Pevenscl, 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 purj^le mist against the blue. On the 
 right, a good mile from the high-road, stood Thorney 
 Chapel where Bess and Dan Grimshaw had been mar- 
 ried. 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 i)(jrch, 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 sulTered. 
 
 The moniing sped for them swiftly, like a river run- 
 's 377
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ning 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 ham- 
 lets 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 flam- 
 ing martyrdom were passed. Soon Tom the Excise- 
 man would be holding forth on the noble rights of 
 scavengers and cooks. 
 
 The Rodenham coach rolled up the High Street, 
 
 378
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 eastle. Peter Gladden 
 sprang down and appeared at the window. Across the 
 narrow pavement at the comer 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 there- 
 on. Gladden, standing hat in hand, assured his master 
 as to the excellence of the establishment. 
 
 Jetfray 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 JefTray 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 Jeff ray'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. Il 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 
 
 379
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 genius could contrive. Bess was standing in the mid- 
 dle 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 deli- 
 cate 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 
 
 380
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 show herself in the dresses. She would look ravishing; 
 yes, monsieur should not be disappointed. 
 
 Perhaps an hour passed, Jeff ray scrutinizing Madame 
 Michael's merchandise with the prejuiliced eye of a 
 man in love. These pretty stuffs had no significance 
 beyond Bess's beauty. They were interesting by rea- 
 son 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 Mich- 
 ael's girl-apprentices were giggling and chattering in the 
 room above. Jeff ray 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. Ma- 
 dame 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 adoralile did she ai)pear in all these 
 pretty traj^pings. The wiUl, 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, 
 
 3«i
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 pre- 
 sent 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 Glad- 
 den'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 else- 
 where. Trunks were purchased at a saddler's near the 
 
 382
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 castle-gate. Then came more delicate and mysterious 
 matters. JefYray thnist 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 at- 
 tended her back across the pavement to the coach. 
 Jeff ray 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 pre- 
 pared for. The landlord came out in person to do the 
 honor of his house. He bowed, rubbed his hands to- 
 gether, set himself and his whole establishment at Jeff- 
 ray'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 ship- 
 ping. The weather was perfect, and a brig was sailing 
 for France the very next day. There would be no diffi- 
 culty ah>out a passage. 
 
 Bess and Jeffray supped together in llieir 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 ol<l 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 
 
 3«3
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 clocks smote the hours. From the narrow streets and 
 passageways the murmur of voices, the rumbHng 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 tow- 
 ards 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 mov- 
 ing 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 
 
 384
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 chimney-stacks of the old town. The charm of the 
 day's beautv stirred about him Hkc the scent of flowers 
 stealing up into the night. Bess wouKl be sleeping her 
 pure sleep for him, to rise and return, radiant and de- 
 sirable with the dawn. Soon she would be his wife. 
 The ver}' 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. Jcffray 
 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 jimped away as the church clocks struck ten, turned 
 into the opening of a narrow alley, and entered the door- 
 way of a low tavern. Isaac Grimshaw was in Lewes. 
 His son was dead, his brother Solomon taken, the se- 
 cret of the treasure betrayed by Bess. He had seen the 
 girl drive with Jcffray 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 fi»r b'rance.
 
 XLVI 
 
 IT was early next morning when they left the town 
 of Lewes behind upon its hill, and took the road 
 winding across the fiats towards the sea. The clouds 
 were heavy over the downs that day, checkering the 
 slopes with sunlight and with shadow. The Ouse bur- 
 nished 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 pict- 
 ure 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 
 
 3S6
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 let her heart realize its dreams. Jeffray, who was 
 watching her, saw that her silence betrayeil no sadness. 
 He was half sunk in a reverie himself, with the jini^linj^ 
 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. Every- 
 thing 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 nmning out with a glinting of pis- 
 tol-barrels in the sunlight. The younger of the two set 
 him.self in the middle of the road, rmd waved his arm to 
 signal the coach to sttjj). It was tlu-n that Peter (Glad- 
 den dirl one f)f the few \n)U\ things of his life, more from 
 sudden impulse jjcrhaps than from any sujxrabundance 
 of courage. Picking uj) Iln- blundrrbuss, he leaned for- 
 ward over the baggagi- on the rcjof, mi<l, ihancing tlu' 
 
 3H7
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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 thunder- 
 ing down upon him. 
 
 Gladden's shot from the top of the coach was the first 
 hint that JefEray 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 
 
 388
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 fifty yards away, and going at a gallop towards the 
 sea. 
 
 Jcffray 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 pulle(i 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 !)utt." 
 
 Enoch was half fainting and too distrnught with ()ain 
 to give much heed to Isaac's curses. The old in;in took 
 
 3«9
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 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.
 
 XLVTI 
 
 THE sky Rrcw more heavily clouded as Bess and 
 Jeffray ncarcd 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 hcx^ded 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 rat- 
 tling and banging with the wind. Jcffray 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, arc you much of a sailor?" 
 
 She smilc<l at him and shook her head. 
 
 "How should I remember? It is so long ago. I am 
 not afraid," ancl her eyes delighted him. 
 
 "We may have a rough passage." 
 
 " I am uscfi to storms — " 
 
 "Ciod knows, dear, yes!" and he held her hand. 
 
 The coach drew up before an inn close to the quay, 
 
 391
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 with a few sailors lounging on the benches under the 
 windows, and a weathered sign-board bearing a rude 
 painting of the "King Harry" creaking on its rusty 
 hinges above the door. 
 
 Jeffray sprang out of the coach and crossed the foot- 
 way with his sword under his arm. A few hairy and 
 inquisitive faces were pressed against the windows of 
 the tap-room. Jeffray eyed them keenly, ahve to the 
 possibilities of old Grimshaw's malice. He looked 
 round the tap-room as he entered, scanning the sailors, 
 who smoked their pipes and gtared at him in turn. He 
 found the innkeeper coming down the dark passage 
 from the kitchen, a little man, bald, buckled, and white- 
 aproned, with a red wart in the middle of his forehead. 
 
 "Good-morning, landlord. I hear a brig is to sail for 
 France to-day." 
 
 The innkeeper bowed, rubbed his double chin, and 
 pointed Jeffray to the door of the parlor. The sound of 
 voices came from the room, bluff with the burliness of 
 the sea. 
 
 "Captain George, of the Sussex Queen, is within, sir," 
 he said, pushing open the door, and giving Jeffray a 
 glimpse into the foggy atmosphere of the room. Richard 
 walked in. 
 
 "Thanks. Captain George, I believe?" 
 
 A big man in a blue coat and white breeches, with 
 dirtier buckles on still dirtier shoes, rose cumbrously 
 from a leather-backed chair, and held out a paw to the 
 Squire of Rodenham. A second seafaring gentleman 
 occupied the oak settle, and spat rhythmically on the 
 floor, while the reek of tobacco battled with the abomi- 
 nable odor of stale beer. 
 
 "I'm Captain George, sir, to be sure." 
 
 Jeffray took stock of the red-faced and loose-jointed 
 seaman, and summed him up as a sloven and a drunkard. 
 
 "You are sailing to-day for France, captain?" 
 
 392
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Well, sir. that's as it may be," and the courtier 
 knocked out his pipe, and spat into the empty ^rate. 
 
 "1 desire passage for two, a lady and myself." 
 
 Captain George's mate had sidled to the window, and 
 was peering like a bird at the hurrying sky. 
 
 "Looks uncommon dirty," he remarked, thrusting 
 out his lower lip. 
 
 "It does, mate, to be sure," and the master of the 
 Sussex Qiiccn appeared to have made one of the dis- 
 coveries of his life. 
 
 Jeffray showed impatience, and glanced at the sky in 
 turn. 
 
 "Maybe the gentleman's in a partic'lar hurry," and 
 the worthy at the window looked profound as he saw 
 Bess in the coach. 
 
 Captain George accepted the hint. 
 
 "To be sure; my cargo ain't full, sir. I was just 
 about thinking of letting my boat lie another week in 
 port." 
 
 Jeffray understood the methods of these hard- 
 mouthed men of the sea. They were apt at a bargain, 
 and ready to invent difficulties in order to draw more 
 gold. He fell back upon the desired argument, and 
 consented to be plundered in the interests of romance. 
 
 "I can pay you well, captain," he said. 
 
 "To Vje sure," came the inevitable response. 
 
 "You can fix your own passage-money, within rea- 
 son." 
 
 "Well, captain, I reckon that's a gentleman's offer," 
 and the seaman by the window took snuff, and sneezed 
 as though it were a joy to him. 
 
 Jeffray pulled out his purse and sat down l)efc)re the 
 black oak table. 
 
 "Then you will sxiil to-day?" he said. 
 
 "Well, maybe I will." 
 
 The glitter of Jeffray's guineas decided the issue, and 
 «6 3'>i
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Captain George wiped his mouth, gathered up the 
 money, and stufifed it into the leather purse he wore 
 buckled to his belt. 
 
 Opening the parlor door he bawled at the men who 
 were lounging in the tap-room, and ordered them to 
 carry "my lord's" baggage down to the quay. 
 
 Jeffray, who had conceived no very high opinion of 
 the captain of the Sussex Queen, felt that his pistols 
 were safe, and buckled on his sword. It was not as 
 though Captain George had to sail them to the Indies. 
 Sloven and drunkard that he seemed, the fellow could 
 do no great mischief in a day's sail across the Channel. 
 Yet even Jeffray, landsman that he was, could not but 
 mark the sinister spoiHng of the weather as he stood on 
 the inn steps and caught a glimpse of the gray sea be- 
 yond the harbor mouth. It was possible to judge by 
 the faces of the sailors who were hauling the boxes 
 down from the top of the coach that they were none 
 too eager to leave the tap-room of the King Harry. 
 
 "Curse the old tub," quoth one with silver earrings 
 and a face like leather, "a fine prize cruise for the cap'n 
 if he can hold the old hulk together between Beachy 
 and Dieppe." 
 
 " Dieppe, mate, Calais Roads, more like. What's the 
 young cockerel in such a hurry for, eh?" 
 
 The man with the earrings jerked his thumb over 
 his shoulder in the direction of the coach. 
 
 "Pair of black eyes, mate. Running across the 
 water, most probable, with another gen'leman's Susan." 
 
 "The young fool!" 
 
 " Drat this box, it be made up o' corners." 
 
 Jeffray, who had caught nothing but the man's mut- 
 terings and their surly looks, went down the steps to 
 help Bess from the coach. Her eyes were sparkling 
 with the excitement of it all, and the color had come 
 back to her cheeks. Captain George gave her a clumsy 
 
 394
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 bow as she passed him on the footway, and winked at 
 Gladden behind his master's back. 
 
 Jeffray took Boss into the parlor, where tobacco smoke 
 still hung like a sea-fog, dimming the air. He opened 
 one of the lattices, as the landlord brought in wine and 
 glasses on a tray, a cold chicken, fruit, a great white 
 loaf of bread. He looked suspiciously at the gray sky 
 as he laid the table, the sign-board creaking and groan- 
 ing on its hinges, the wind whistling and sighing in the 
 chimneys. 
 
 "Bad weather for summer, sir." 
 
 Jetlray nodded, and poured out Bess a glass of wine. 
 
 " May I be wishing, sir, that the lady don't mind a 
 rough sea ?" 
 
 Bess glanced at Richard, and smiled, without fear. 
 
 "I would rather go," she said. 
 
 "The weather looks uncommon dirty." 
 
 "True, landlord. What sort of sea -boat is the Sussex 
 Qiicen ?" 
 
 The innkeeper pursed up his lips, and stood with his 
 hands folded under his apron. 
 
 "Good as most, sir, I suppose," he said. "Rather 
 rickety in her spars, I have heard. Perhaps the lady 
 would be wishing to stay the night ? We have a good 
 room up-stairs, and could make ye very comfortable." 
 
 The insinuation was not without its charm, l)ut Bess 
 shook her head as Jeffray questioned her with his eyes. 
 
 "No, I am not afraid," she .said. 
 
 "Thanks, landlord, 1 think we will slip across before 
 the weather h(jlds us back." 
 
 It was well past noon when Bess and Jeffray went 
 down to the quay, and found the Sussex Queen moored 
 close in with a gangway from the quay to her quarter- 
 deck. All Bess's bridal -baggage ha<l been hauled on 
 board, the new trunks filled with the: rich stuffs, lac-es, 
 and brocades that Jeffray had bought for her at Lewes. 
 
 395
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Two boats' crews of Newhaven men were already getting 
 out the hawsers to tow the Sussex Queen into the open 
 sea. Jeff ray took leave of Gladden, who had followed 
 them from the inn, and pressed some money into the 
 old man's hand. 
 
 "Good-bye, Gladden," he said, joyous and untroubled, 
 "you shall hear from me in France. Mr. Wilson has 
 my affairs in hand." 
 
 "Good-bye, sir, good-bye. May you get safe across. 
 I don't like the look of the weather — " 
 
 "Ah, we are not afraid of it. Gladden. Look to my 
 father's books. Mr. Bitson, of Lincoln's Inn, will see 
 that certain moneys are paid to you quarterly. I want 
 the old house to look well for the day when we shall 
 return. Good-bye," and he crossed the gangway. 
 
 Gladden stood watching, Jeffray's money still in his 
 palm, as the seamen cast off the ropes and the New- 
 haven men tugged at their oars. The hawsers tightened, 
 and rose dripping above the water; the ship began to 
 glide from the quay, and to move towards the narrow 
 vista of foam-ribbed sea that showed beyond the har- 
 bor's mouth. 
 
 Captain George had taken Bess to the state cabin 
 under the poop, a dark den of a place whose stern 
 windows gave a last view of the little town and the 
 green flats that stretched beyond. Jeffray stayed with 
 her a moment, and then went on deck, to find the Sussex 
 Queen gliding out from the harbor's mouth. Captain 
 George was standing on the quarter-deck, trumpet in 
 hand. The boatswain's whistle piped, and the men 
 went swarming up the rigging to loose the sails, and 
 give the ship her wings for France. 
 
 Bess joined Jeffray on the quarter-deck, with her old 
 scarlet cloak about her, and the hood turned forward 
 over her coal-black hair. They stood close together, 
 looking at the stretch of gray and white-maned sea. 
 
 396
 
 BE5S OF THE WOODS 
 
 It was cheerless and threatening, a wild waste of waters 
 tossing under a sullen sky. The sails were bellying out 
 above, anil the bluff bows of the brig began to plunge 
 and bullet with the waves. Soon the Newhaven men 
 dropped the tow-ropes, and pulled back to harbor with 
 a faint cheer. The whistling breeze, the creaking and 
 straining of the cordage, the salt spume flying with the 
 wind, even these could not chill the hearts of the two 
 who watched the white shores dwintUing beyond the 
 waves. They stood close to the bulwarks, Bess with 
 her cloak wrapped round her and Jeffray's arm about 
 her body. England was sinking into the north, and 
 the cliffs grew gray and ghostly under the hurrying sky. 
 
 Bess turned and looked into Jeffray's eyes, wondering 
 whether there was any sadness for him in this going 
 forth into the unknown. He seemed to guess what was 
 in her heart, and holding her close to him, gazed back 
 towards England with a quiet smile. 
 
 " Bess, I am thinking that you are safe with me at 
 last." 
 
 "Isaac cannot follow us over the sea." 
 
 " No, we arc rid of the past. And you are not afraid ?" 
 
 "No, I am very happy." 
 
 He buttoned the red cloak close about lur tliroat, 
 for the wind was keen and the scud flying. 
 
 "Take a last look at England f(jr some years," he 
 said. 
 
 Peter Gladden and the Rodenham servants were still 
 drinking and gossiping at the Royal ll;in\, whi'n Isaac 
 Grimshaw came limping down the street, with the brim 
 of his battered beaver flapjiing ovir his face, and his 
 holly stick tapping the stones. He looked worn out 
 and weary, yet spiteful to the hist stride. Isaac saw 
 the Rodenham coach waiting outside the inn, and his 
 face flushed almost boyishly, iis though Bess and her 
 lover were still within reach of his pistol's snout. Sliiik- 
 
 397
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 ing past the Royal Harry and meeting the full fluster 
 of the wind, he made for the quay where a few fisher- 
 men were idling before the warehouses. Isaac hailed 
 a tall fellow in heavy sea-boots and a filthy smock, and 
 stood leaning on his stick, and looking back at the inn 
 with the great coach waiting in the roadway. 
 
 "Good -day, mate; fresh breeze this. Any shipping 
 moving?" 
 
 The man in the smock leaned against a windlass as 
 though for a gossip, and then cocked his head towards 
 the sea. 
 
 "Sussex Queen, Cap'n George, sailed an hour ago." 
 
 "Any passengers, mate?" 
 
 "Lady and gen'leman, came in the coach yonder. 
 Took a lot o' stuff aboard." 
 
 Isaac leaned heavily on his stick for a moment, one 
 hand fumbling at the butts of the pistols under his 
 coat. The fellow in the smock stared at him, and then 
 went on talking, beating one heavy boot on the stone 
 paving of the quay. 
 
 "Damned rough weather comin'. Rather be ashore 
 meself than out in the Channel with this sou'wester." 
 
 Isaac nodded, yet did not follow what the fellow said. 
 
 " You look cold, father; have a nip at the Royal Harry. 
 What — " He stopped open-mouthed, for Isaac had 
 turned, and was limping away towards the town. The 
 sailor watched him curiously, thinking the old man in 
 his dotage, and that he had wasted his pity on such a 
 crab-apple. He saw Isaac cross the roadway and dis- 
 appear up an alley that led towards the low cliffs above 
 the beach. 
 
 Old Grimshaw's body seemed like a dry leaf quiver- 
 ing in the wind as he forced his way forward against 
 the growing gale. A haze of rain was drifting over 
 the sea, yet far beyond the gray fringe thereof the 
 vague whiteness of a sail showed above the foam. 
 
 398
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Isaac, breathless and half fainting, leaned upon his 
 stick, and stared out over the waste of waters. The 
 rain came beating on him, and the wind lliekeil the wet 
 brim of his hat into his face. But still he stood there 
 like some inexorable harbinger of evil, and cursed Bess 
 and the ship that carried her towards the shores of 
 France.
 
 XLVIII 
 
 THE storm that swept the Channel in the summer of 
 17 — , was long remembered by the folk along the 
 Sussex coast. Hail fell in many places, and fierce 
 squalls of wind, like huge beasts galloping with the 
 lesser herd, uprooted trees, sent chimneys crashing 
 through the roofs, and scattered tiles in many a street. 
 At one village the church-spire fell, and all along the 
 coast ran the rumor of ships lost and fishing - vessels 
 caught in the storm. 
 
 Off the French coast, and still tangled in the lifting 
 fringes of the night, the Sussex Queen lay rolling heavily 
 with the waves washing her lower decks. A squall had 
 struck her soon after sundown, beaten down her masts, 
 and left her drifting like a wounded gull with wings 
 trailing in the water. Two men had been killed by the 
 falling of the masts, and another washed overboard by 
 a heavy sea. All through the night the pumps had 
 been clanging, and water gushing from the brig's black 
 sides. 
 
 About two o'clock in the morning Captain George 
 lurched down the short stairway leading to the poop- 
 cabin. He was bleeding from a wound over the left 
 temple and had the look of a man who was utterly un- 
 nerved. Moreover, he smelled of liquor, and his great 
 raw hands trembled as he fumbled at the latch of the 
 cabin door. 
 
 A ship's lantern creaked and rocked from the beacon, 
 throwing an uncertain light about the cabin. Ever and 
 
 400
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 again the poop-windows were drenched and darkened 
 by the waves that broke over the stern of the sliip 
 Bess was half lying on her bunk, with her red cloak 
 wrapped round her. JetTray leaning against the bulk- 
 head, with the St. Thomas a Kcnipis, that had been his 
 father's, open in his hand. Captain George looked at 
 them as though half dazed, blood running down his 
 face to soak into his ragged beard. 
 
 "Well, captain, what news for us?" 
 
 "News!" and the man laughed with a spasmodic 
 croaking in the throat. " We're going to the bottom as 
 fast as the ship can take in water." 
 
 "The ship sinking!" 
 
 Captain George's hands had been working at the 
 buckle of his belt. 
 
 "Here, take it back, I say," and he threw the belt 
 and purse upon the floor; "take back your damned 
 money. But for the gold I should be safe in the King 
 Harr>', and not here to drown like a rat." 
 
 Jeffray looked at Bess and then at the unnerved sot, 
 who was leaning against the panelling by the door. A 
 wave struck the ship full on the poop, breaking the 
 glass in the windows, the black water pouring in upon 
 the floor. The lamp flared and spluttered with the 
 wind and spray, and the narrow cabin seemed full of 
 the gurgling and plashing of the sea. 
 
 Jeffray sprang f(jrward and laid his liand on the 
 captain's shoulder. 
 
 " Come, man, arc you going to drown without a fight ?" 
 
 The fellow shudtlered, and .shocjk the blood out of his 
 eyes. 
 
 "It ben't any use," he said, sullenly; "it bcn't any 
 
 use." 
 
 "By (}od, man, where's the English grit in you? 
 Why aren't the punijis working? Wi; can't be far from 
 the French coast now." 
 
 401
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 Captain George shook off Jeffray's hand. 
 
 "Let be," he said, savagely, "the men have got the 
 liquor out. They're sick of pumping, I tell ye, and 
 they're going down drunk, bad blood to 'em!" 
 
 Jeffray stood back against the table and looked at 
 the long-limbed sloven with a flash of scorn. The man 
 had no courage left in him; he was sulky and sodden 
 with his death grapple with the sea. Jeffray turned to 
 the bunk where Bess was lying, took out his pistols 
 from a vaHse, and levelled one of them calmly at the 
 captain's head. 
 
 "Take down the lantern," he said, quietly. 
 
 The man stared at the muzzle of Jeffray's pistol, and 
 hesitated. 
 
 "Take down the lantern, or by the love of God I'll 
 fire on you!" 
 
 Captain George climbed the table, and, swaying from 
 side to side, took down the lantern from its hook. 
 Jeffray turned and spoke to Bess, steadying himself 
 against the bunk as the ship rolled with the waves. 
 
 "God keep you, dear; it may be our last chance! I 
 must do my best." 
 
 She looked up at him and smiled. 
 
 "I am not afraid of the dark," she answered. 
 
 Jeffray had thrown his cloak over his shoulders, and 
 he kept his pistols covered so that the priming should 
 not be damped in the pans. 
 
 "Where are your men, captain?" 
 
 "In the fo'c'sle." 
 
 "Lead on, and let me see what I can do with them." 
 
 They went out together, Jeffray closing the cabin 
 door and calling back to Bess to shoot the bolts. Cap- 
 tain George, sulky and silent, leaned against the hand- 
 rail, shading the lamp behind his coat. To Jeffray it 
 seemed that the force of the wind had lessened, and 
 that the ship groaned and tumbled less in the troughs 
 
 402
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 of the sea. A wet moon shone out now and again 
 throuj^h the raj^jrcd clouds, Hghting up the dishevelled 
 waters that raced under the hurrying; sky. 
 
 Captain George and Jeffray took the lower deck 
 where the darkness was utter save for the lamp the sea- 
 man carried. The port-holes oozed with every thunder- 
 ing up of the sea, the perpetual thudding of the waves 
 reverberating through the body of the ship. Piled 
 about the shaft of the main-mast were the trunks and 
 boxes that the Rodcnham coach had brought from 
 Lewes, and Jeflfray looked at them with a tightening of 
 the mouth. There was a depth of pathos in the thought 
 that all these rich stuffs that he had bought for Bess 
 might be torn to shreds by the remorseless sea. The 
 pity of it strengthened all the manhood in him, and 
 made him realize for what he fought. 
 
 Captain George had halted suddenly, and stood 
 listening, the lantern swinging in his hand. 
 
 "D'yer hear 'em? It ben't no use, sir, I tell you, it 
 ben't no use." 
 
 Jeffray heard laughter and rough voices rising above 
 the racket of the storm. There was a note of fierce 
 defiance in the sound, as though the tired and disheart- 
 ened men were going to death with blasphemy upon 
 their lips. 
 
 Captain George shivered as though cold. 
 
 "They're getting the drink in 'cm," he said, ])ccring 
 forward into the darkness. 
 
 Jeffray pushed the coward forward. 
 
 "Our duty's clear, ' he said, "we must pitch Ihc 
 devil's juice into the sea." 
 
 A dirty lamp was burning in the fo'c'slc, the ill- 
 trimmed wick smoking and flaring in the wind. On 
 the floor sat three men, half naked, with a keg of rum 
 between them, and a tin cup jn'issing from hand to hand. 
 In one of the bunks, a man, whose back had been 
 
 403
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 broken by a falling spar, lay groaning and biting the 
 coat that covered him, in a paroxysm of pain. Near 
 him on an upturned bucket another fellow sat with his 
 head between his hands, as though the dread of death 
 were heavy on his soul. 
 
 Jeffray stood on the threshold, holding his pistols 
 behind his back. The rough faces, the faces of men 
 who drank to drown despair, were turned to him 
 half threateningly under the light of the flaring lamp. 
 The man in the bunk was groaning, and trying to 
 pray. From without came the roar and ferment of the 
 sea. 
 
 "Well, lads, tired of pumping, eh?" 
 
 They looked at him sullenly, as though resenting any 
 authority at such an hour. 
 
 "What d' yer want?" 
 
 "Pass the mug, Jim; let the dandy go to the devil." 
 
 Jeffray steadied himself against the door-post, and 
 brought his pistols from behind his back. He was cool 
 and resolute, a man whose grimness was not to be 
 denied. 
 
 "Drop that drink — drop it, or by Heaven, I'll send a 
 bullet through your body. 
 
 The men gaped at him, huddling back a little across 
 the floor, their eyes fixed on Jeffray 's unflinching face 
 and the pistol that covered them. 
 
 "Drop the drink. One — two — " 
 
 The man who held the tin mug, with neat rum swell- 
 ing over the lip thereof, let the thing fall as though it 
 burned his fingers. 
 
 "Good. Stand up, all of you. Now, Hsten to me." 
 
 They obeyed him sullenly, Hke men in whom utter 
 weariness of soul and body had numbed all strength 
 and self-respect. Jeffray understood the crude pes- 
 simism that possessed them. They had lacked lead- 
 ership, for the shivering sot who held the lamp had 
 
 404
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 been the first to confess defeat at the hands of the 
 sea. 
 
 "Come, lads, we'll have no more drinking. Captain 
 George, will you have the stuff thrown over into the 
 sea? Steady, steady, stand back for the captain." 
 
 The man who had been crouching on the bucket, 
 started up, and, pushing his comrades aside, seized on 
 the keg of rum and carried it to the door. 
 
 "I'm with you, sir," he said; "you've got the right 
 stuff in you, by damn, you have!" 
 
 From that moment Jeffray's personality dominated 
 the ship. He spoke to the men bluntly, bravely, and 
 the frank manliness of his words went home into each 
 rough heart. 
 
 "Come, lads," he said, " wc are all British to the bone. 
 Who says die ?" 
 
 He tossed his pistols aside on to a bunk, stripped off 
 his coat and waistcoat, and rolled up his sleeves. 
 
 "I'm one of you, and I'll work till my back breaks. 
 I have my lass on board, and I'll fight to the last before 
 1 sec her drown." 
 
 That touch of humanism perfected it. The men gave 
 him a cheer, shook the hands he held out to them, and 
 went to work like heroes at the pumps. 
 
 For an hour Bess knelt in the cabin under the poop 
 with Jeffray's St. Thomas d. Kcmpis in her hands. She 
 was listening, listening through the rush of wind and 
 waters, for any sound that might betray the purpose of 
 the night. All the past hayjpenings of the year seemed 
 to flash before her eyes, even as memories flash through 
 the brain of a drowning man. She held Jeffray's book 
 against her bosom, careless of how the water from the 
 broken windows s(jaked her dress. 
 
 Bess was growing cold and hopeless as she knelt, 
 when she heard a voice calling to her through the weak 
 cning wailing of the wind. 
 
 405
 
 BESS OF THE WOODS 
 
 "Bess! Bess!" 
 
 She sprang up and unlocked the door, to find herself 
 in JefTray's arms. 
 
 "We have won! We have won!" 
 
 He was drenched to the skin, but warm and aglow 
 with working at the pumps. 
 
 "The old ship will float." 
 
 "Thank God!" 
 
 "Come out with me and see the dawn." 
 
 She unclasped her cloak and wrapped it round him, 
 though he tried to protest against the deed. Together 
 they went out on the deck, and stood hand in hand, 
 sheltered by the bulwarks from the wind. In the east, 
 above the grayness of the sea, the first golden break- 
 ing of the day fired the clouds with burning light. The 
 storm was dying, and the Sussex Queen lay like a sick 
 woman who rests in peace after the delirium of the 
 night. 
 
 Jeflray stood with one arm about Bess's body, his 
 head thrown back as though in triumph. He pointed 
 southward over the sea to where, not a mile away, the 
 shores of France were lit by the rising sun. 
 
 "The sea gave you to me, dear," he said, "and I have 
 fought to save you from the sea." 
 
 Bess held close to him and smiled. 
 
 "I shall wear my wedding - clothes for you," she 
 answered. 
 
 THE END
 
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