three days after hearing of jilian’s illness, jeffray 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, intending to follow the lewes coach-road as far as the lane that branched off to thorney 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. richard 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 pipe between his teeth. jeffray 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 comfortable 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 father 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 declined 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 dirty apron, and in its place jeffray beheld the implacable 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 coppers 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, concluding 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 generally 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 painter, 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 blackthorn blossom from the boughs. despite his unlovely recollections of rodenham village, jeffray’s spirit kindled 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, shimmering green for the birch, beech, and thorn. yonder a great larchwood rose solemn and stiff beneath a thousand 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 shadows 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 thorney 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 the chaise came down the hill towards the hamlet. wilson, who had a keen scent for all the human interests of life, however trite and humble they might seem, prophesied that a country wedding was in progress.
“to be sure, may is an unlucky month,” he said, with a smile, “but the sun will shine on the bride; and, confound it, sir, the majority of wedded couples might have been tied together in 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 another 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 wanton, but his life was chaste, so he said, sir, the fox. he should have been a pleasant old pagan, should robert 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 chapel porch while the bell creaked to and fro in the belfry overhead. there were half a dozen lads and men with flowers in their hats and green jackets on their backs, chuckling and elbowing one another outside the porch. richard saw the bride come out upon the bridegroom’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, struggling 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, rosemary 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 behind 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 swift as the flash of a swallow across the calm surface of a pond. jeffray, 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 between 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 jeffray, 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.”
