“Snub me, sir, snub me if I seem too forward. You can come by a license in a few days; there must be some obliging surrogate in the neighborhood. At the worst you can travel up to London, march to Doctors’ Commons, and secure a proper passport to the seventh heaven.”
Jeffray, pacing to and fro with his shoulders squared and the heels of his shoes coming down squarely on the polished floor, shook his head, and refused the suggestion.
“I have my reasons, Dick,” he said, “and I have thought the whole thing through for myself. Some years ago old Sugg could have married us here in my own house, and for my sake I should like to see Lord Hardwicke and his grandmotherly legislation damned. I want to get the girl away from all the pother that will be brewing, to save her from the tongues of our most Christian friends. To-morrow we drive to Lewes; the next day to the sea.”
Wilson rammed down the tobacco in his pipe with the end of his little finger, relit it at the candle, and puffed on reflectively.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I should like to know how you rescued the lady.”
And Jeffray told him, all save the way in which Dan Grimshaw met his death.
It was well after midnight when Peter Gladden lighted Jeffray to his room. Portmanteaus and valises were scattered about, some half filled, others yawning for the white linen, breeches, silk stockings, and clothes that covered the floor in confusion. Jeffray insisted on Gladden completing the packing before he went to bed. He had already discovered a polite and voiceless antagonism in the old man’s manner, as though Gladden persisted in believing that the romance was but the madness of an hour. He helped the butler to fill and strap the valises, and then dismissed him, ordering him to wake him at five.
The candles were still burning in the library when the dawn came creeping into the east. Wilson, rubbing his eyes as he woke from a short sleep, heard the rumbling of wheels as the great coach was drawn out of the coach-house into the stable-yard. There was the jingling of harness being cleaned, the sound of rough voices gossiping together, an occasional coarse laugh bursting out upon the misty air. The grooms were discussing their master’s love affair. Wilson yawned and stretched his limbs, climbed up out of his chair, snuffed the candles, and went out into the hall.
He met Jeffray coming down the oak stairs, a cloak over one arm, his sword under the other. As the men shook hands there was the sound of a door opening in the gallery above. Light footsteps came down the stairway; Bess, with her gray cloak over her shoulders, descended slowly towards the hall. She looked fresh and pure after her night’s rest, her eyes soft and dewy, her red lips parted in a smile. Jeffray waited for her at the foot of the stairs. He took her hand and kissed it, and led her into the dining-room, looking into her eyes.
“You are rested?” he asked her, with a pressure of the hand.