Richard smiled a little ruefully, pressed his cousin’s red hand again, and accompanied him to the porch. Mr. Lot mounted on the terrace, flashed a keen look at his cousin, and took leave of him with boisterous good-humor.
“Get to the windward of her, Richard,” he said, meaningly. “Give her a broadside or two and she’ll strike. Damn it, cousin, don’t be a charity boy in your own house.”
“To-morrow, Lot—”
“I’ll do my best, Richard, by gad, I will. Lot Hardacre’s your friend, cousin, don’t you doubt it.”
Richard watched his kinsman ride away, and then went back to the library somewhat hot about the eyes. He was glad that the quarrel was ending so peaceably, and what an angel of sweetness Miss Jilian was, to be sure! Yes, he was ready to go down on his knees and ask her pardon, yet—why did Bess’s face flash up before him of a sudden? Well, he would go down to the Wheat Sheaf and tell Wilson what had happened. And then—then he must do battle with Aunt Letitia.
XIV
Jeffray, much impressed by Mr. Lancelot’s brotherly ardor, trudged down across the park that evening and took the road to Rodenham village. The Shrovetide cock-throwing was at an end, and beer had succeeded to brutality. Villagers were shouting and singing in front of the inn, where a fuddled old fiddler with a wooden leg sat perched on a barrel, scraping away at his violin. The red, hairy faces, with their animal laughter and their vociferous mouths, made the master of Rodenham shudder. A number of lads and wenches were racing and scrimmaging on the green, tumbling one another upon the grass, their coarse laughter sounding through the village. Jeffray pushed through the crowd towards the inn, holding his head high and turning his flushed face neither to the right nor the left. He found Wilson in the private parlor dining on steak and potatoes, with a pot of porter at his elbow. The painter sprang up and gripped Jeffray’s hand as the lad blurted out the result of his conference with Mr. Lot. Wilson’s rough face brightened. He wiped his great mouth, and looked at Richard with affection.
“Ah, sir,” he said, “I am glad to hear the sky is clearing. There is a weight, Richard, a great weight off my mind. I was not afraid, sir, of Mr. Hardacre’s sword, but I was afraid of injuring your happiness.”
Jeffray sat down and talked to Wilson, while the painter, after blunt apologies, went on with his dinner. Richard was for having Wilson back at Rodenham, but the honest fellow would consent to no such diplomatic error.
“No, no, Richard,” he said, after a pull at the pot, “I am best away, sir, at such a crisis, though I thank you heartily for your kindness. I shall tramp on to Lewes and see more of these glorious fellows—the downs. I have money in my purse, and, egad, what irony, I won some of it from your august aunt at cards. I believe she let me win it, sir, to keep me in a good temper, and the cash will pay for the portrait I painted. I shall come back by this road, Richard, and if I slink in for a meal at Rodenham you must not be amazed.”