Richard was in the saddle early next morning and away for Hardacre with the spring sun streaming down upon the greens and purples of Pevensel. The bright zest of the day was in his blood, generous and blithe as the spirit of youth itself. He was eager to crave Jilian’s forgiveness, and to quit himself as his manhood prompted in the matter of saluting the Hardacre honor. Richard rode in the belief that he had shamed his kinswoman, and that he had bruised her kind heart by his aunt’s duplicity.
With the thickets of Pevensel towering on every hand, Jeffray’s thoughts sped back from Hardacre to the glowing face of Bess of the Woods. Richard, despite his sensitive obedience to the promptings of honor, could not think of the girl without a flush of feeling sweeping across his mind. Her face brought both mystery and gladness, deep witchery and a prophecy of pain. What was this tall, black-haired, lissome wench to him that she should make his heart beat louder as over the tragic breathing of some song? Richard, riding through Pevensel, strove to laugh such romantic memories away. Because the girl had a fine body and a passionate face, should he suffer his thoughts to dally with her in the deeps of her own mysterious woods? Yet despite his strainings after sanity he found himself wondering how she fared in the forest, whether Black Dan still pestered her, and whether she carried one of his pistols in her bosom?
In due course Jeffray came to Hardacre Chase where the oaks, gray and purple, with brown bracken beneath, strode down in giant companies upon the road. Mr. Lancelot, who had remained at home that morning in expectation of Jeffray’s coming, met his cousin as he rode up to the gate house. There was a cheering smile upon Mr. Hardacre’s face, for the inimitable Lot had no doubt at all of his sister’s willingness to forgive Richard Jeffray. Sir Peter, who happened to be standing in the oriel-window of the main gallery, had seen the young Squire of Rodenham ride up. The baronet and his son had discussed the problem that very morning.
“Good luck to ye, Richard,” said Mr. Lot, with confidential solemnity. “I have had a terrible tussle with Sir Peter. Egad, cousin, I had to sweat to persuade the governor to let you see Jill. I’ll take your horse. You know the room, Richard?”