Richard Jeffray was entertaining some of his Sussex neighbors under the especial patronage of the Lady Letitia. The Hardacre coach had rolled over the priory bridge before dusk to deposit Sir Peter, Mr. Lancelot and the fair Jilian at Richard’s porch. The Perkabys, of Rookhurst, were present with their three sleepily handsome daughters, dark odalisques who spoke slowly and looked love. Dr. Sugg bustled to and fro in his best gown, beaming upon every one, and shaking the powder out of his full-bottomed wig. Squire Bilson had driven over with his wife and son from Marling to take snuff with Squire Rokeley of Marvelscombe, whose harriers were the boast of all the Sussex Nimrods. Some half a score lesser folk completed the assemblage—a lawyer, a few young gentlemen of sporting tastes, Mary Sugg, Dr. Sugg’s daughter, and several elderly ladies whose plumes nearly swept the star-dusted ceiling.
Richard in black, with white silk stockings and silver buckled shoes, his hair powdered and caught up at the back with a black velvet bow, stood behind his aunt’s chair as the guests came to pay their respects to the venerable dowager. The Lady Letitia might have stood for the high priestess of fashion with her immense toupé, her gorgeous damasks, her rouge and patches, her diamonds and her portentous fan. It was the Lady Letitia herself who had devised the “rout,” her nephew having consented in the innocence of his heart. He had never seen the Lady Letitia campaigning before, and had no notion of the strategies and ambuscades she had planned that night. From the moment that the first guest had been announced by Peter Gladden, the dowager had taken the function to herself, and ousted her nephew from all premiership or authority.
The elder men had gathered about one of the fires, and were discussing the past hunting season, Squire Rokeley posing as chief mentor and critic. The ladies were bobbing their plumes, smirking and chattering together, while Miss Julia Perkaby, who had been besought by the Lady Letitia with much graciousness to seat herself at the harpsichord, thrilled the assemblage with her rich contralto. Miss Jilian Hardacre had established herself on a causeuse by the wall, with Mr. Richard standing by her, looking aristocratic and even distinguished in his black coat, frilled shirt, knee-breeches and silk stockings.
Miss Jilian was a plump and comely woman, with masses of auburn hair decked out with artificial flowers and ribbons, a pair of experienced gray eyes, a full bosom and a simpering red mouth. She wore a white gown flowered with violets, a green hoop, white satin slippers, an abundance of lace, and a chain of garnets about her throat. There were three patches upon her face, one above the delightful dimple on her left cheek, one to the right of the round chin, another above her right eyebrow. But for a slight thinness of the neck, the sternomastoid muscles showing too patently, and some faint wrinkles about the eyes, Miss Jilian contradicted the Lady Letitia’s insinuations very charmingly.
Richard, bending over this delightful morsel of old-world perfume and affectation, was unbosoming himself of delicate inquiries as to her health.
“I hope you have been afflicted with no more headaches,” he was asking with true lover-like solicitude. “Sir Peter appeared uncommonly distressed about you a week ago.”
Miss Jilian’s gray eyes searched Richard’s face suspiciously for the moment. Had that wretch Lot told him the truth about that horrible cosmetic? No. The lad was as ingenuous and sincere as any Galahad.
“La, Richard,” she said, fluttering her ivory fan painted with Cupids and peacocks, “it is strange that you should remember the days when I keep my bed.”
“Are they not sunless days?” quoth Mr. Richard, with a fine bow.
“Oh, Richard, I am sure you are poking fun at me.”