Bess seated herself on a stone beside the pool, Jeffray lying in the grass at her feet. The happy abandonment of children was theirs, for the sordidness of life seemed far from them for the moment. Bess’s eyes darkened a little when Jeffray told her of Surgeon Stott’s warning to him that morning, but there was no distrust upon her face. Stott’s month at The Wells was dwindling to vanishing point in Jeffray’s mind as he talked to Bess, and watched the play of feeling on her face.
It was then that Bess spoke for the first time to Jeffray of Miss Hardacre. She had thought often of the great lady in her silks and brocades queening it in the stately house guarded by its ancestral trees. Bess wished to hear Jeffray speak of this woman whom he was to marry, and to watch his eyes to see whether they lit up like a lover’s eyes.
Jeffray’s face and mood changed on the instant; he was no longer the dreamer watching the sun sinking behind the yews.
Bess saw that the thought was bitter to him, and yet felt glad at heart.
“I know,” she said, slowly, “you are to marry her.”
Jeffray turned, and leaned upon one hand, looking at the pool and the reflection of the sky that colored the water.
“Did you believe it?” he asked her, quietly.
“I thought it wonderful that you should have been so kind to me.”
Jeffray plucked at the long grass with his hands, and laughed, and the note of bitterness in his laughter made her understand all that was hidden in his heart.
“You were generous to me, Bess,” he said, grimly; “and how often I have hated myself, you cannot tell. Still, child—” and he looked up at her with brightening eyes—“it is not for me to put the weight upon your shoulders. I do not know whether I shall marry this fine lady. Let us forget her to-night, you and I.”
He might have told Bess that he hated Jilian, for her woman’s instinct had seized the truth, a secret joy finding rebellion easy in her heart. Jeffray had no love for the woman he was to marry, a confession that Bess had almost hoped to hear. She felt now that she could lean on Jeffray, and look perhaps for a more mysterious thing than pity.
Bess understood but vaguely what the future might devise. It was sufficient for her to know that Jeffray’s thoughts were hers and not Miss Hardacre’s. A great barrier seemed to have been beaten down between them, and she felt happier that night than she had felt for many days. They talked on as the twilight gathered, like children beside a deep and treacherous river, the one bank rich with sunshine, the other a chaos of light and shade. As yet they would not dare the deeps. Sufficient unto the hour was their joy in each other’s presence.