Wilson, who had been utterly unconscious of Jeffray at his elbow, laughed cynically, and watched Bess, who was thrusting aside the arm Dan offered her.
“Zounds!” he said, “the wench has a temper; she looks too fine to be broken by that boor. I never saw a woman seem less willing. Why, Richard, lad, what’s amiss with you, eh?”
Jeffray was lying back in the chaise, white as linen, with his eyes half closed. He had bitten his lower lip till the red blood showed in contrast to his gray, strained face.
“Let me drive you to the inn and get some brandy.”
“No, no, turn back home. I shall be better with the east wind blowing in my face.”
Jeffray lay back in the chaise with the landscape moving unmeaningly before his eyes. He felt numb and cold, utterly humiliated for Bess’s sake. Painter Dick, who had scarcely so much as heard of this Belphœbe of the woods, was the last person to suspect that the fierce-faced girl who had smitten her husband on the mouth had any tragic hold over Jeffray’s destiny. The eager joy in the loveliness of the May morning had overtaxed Richard’s strength. Wilson knew something of the exhaustion that may follow even an innocent intoxication of the senses.
As for Richard, he was as a man who had held some rich and precious vase between his hands, gazing at it wonderingly, only to find it slip and shatter itself in fragments at his feet. What had happened in the forest that Bess should have become Dan Grimshaw’s wife? Had she despaired of escaping the man, and in a fit of dumb indifference pledged her troth in token of surrender? Richard’s hope in her rebelled at such a paltry reading of the riddle. No, Bess had more heart, more pride than that. They had tricked her, Dan and old Isaac between them—Isaac, that white-haired and soft-voiced old devil whom he had once taken for a saint. They had tricked her, and this marriage had been the only end.
Question and counter-question played through Jeffray’s brain. Why had not Bess come to him for help? Perhaps the news of his illness had reached her; perhaps she had heard of his betrothal to Miss Hardacre? He had read that jealousy was a strong and subtle passion in a woman, but yet why should she be jealous, unless she loved him? His egotism might be confusing the inspiration. But—had Bess come to Rodenham while he was ill? The thought flashed through Jeffray like the news of a good friend’s death. Why had he never asked so simple a question—and yet surely Peter Gladden would have told him if such a thing had happened! And yet the news of Jilian’s illness had been kept from him till three days ago!