He took his inspiration from her on the instant.
“Bess,” he said, “do with me what you will. My honor is yours. You will trust me?”
She smiled at him, a soft light of pride and joy shining in her eyes.
“I will do all that you tell me,” she answered, with a sense of dependence.
“You are tired.”
“No, not now.”
So engrossed were they with each other that neither Bess nor Jeffray had heard the distant sound of wheels as the Hardacre coach rolled up from the lodge-gates towards the priory. The road was hidden from the two in the oak-wood. Only the gables and the tall chimneys showed between the trunks of the trees.
Jeffray took the path that led through beech-thickets to the north wall of the great garden. Bess set herself at his side as though this slightly built man held the threads of her fate firmly in his delicate yet sinewy hands. They walked together under the trees with the sunlight splashing through the fresh, green foliage, Bess telling Jeffray of her night’s adventure in Pevensel, and of the perils she had dared thereby.
They crossed the wooded hollow of the park, and entered the garden by a little gate in the red brick wall. To Jeffray the whole passage seemed a dream—strange, tragic, yet infinitely sweet. His hand touched Bess’s as they walked side by side amid the rose-trees. His fingers closed on hers for one swift moment, tightened as his eyes met hers, and then relaxed with pure regret. They approached the stairway leading to the terrace, holding a little apart, yet very conscious of each other’s nearness.
On the top step of the stair Jeffray halted suddenly. A coach was standing on the gravel drive before the house. On the terrace, not twenty paces away, and walking towards them, came Lot Hardacre with Mr. Robert Beaty at his side. Jeffray turned to Bess, but realized in an instant that all hope of concealment had gone. He pointed her to a stone seat at the end of the terrace, and, gathering his dignity, walked on to meet Lot Hardacre.