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 amazed that you have not disturbed yourself to visit me, though three days have passed since your return from Tunbridge. Such discourtesy stands in need of explanation. I desire your presence at Hardacre to-morrow before noon. Do not presume to disappoint me.
“Jilian.”
Jeffray read the letter through twice, and then, holding 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 recognized the better.
At Hardacre the red may and the laburnum’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 pinnacles crocketed with ivory and coral. Copper beeches gleamed in the sun. Peonies and poppies were in flower 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 improved 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 announced, swept him a fine courtesy, and then seated herself on a settle by the harpsichord. She noticed that the man looked sad and sullen, stiff and constrained, 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 melancholy 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 enlightened 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 consideration at your hands.”