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 perfumed note from Miss Jilian bidding him visit her at last at Hardacre. Jeffray, who felt cold and reluctant 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 undercurrent in the romance. He counted on his cousin’s impressionable 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 her ability. She had crimped her short aureole of hair, daubed her cheeks, salved her lips, and used pearl powder 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 diffusing 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. Pushing back the chair, she stood up, trembling, her hands opening and closing, her lips dry. She saw Jeffray standing on the threshold, one hand on his sword-hilt, 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. Jeffray 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 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.