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.
Her eyes flashed round to him.
“There is something about you that makes me believe that you 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. Jeffray?” she asked.
“No—”
“Because you are one of the great folk—and because I—am nothing.”