BESS OF THE WOODS
BY
WARWICK DEEPING
AUTHOR OF
“THE SLANDERERS” “UTHER AND IGRAINE”
ETC.
LONDON AND NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
MCMVI
Copyright, 1906, by Harper & Brothers.
All rights reserved.
Published June, 1906.
TO
MY VERY DEAR FRIEND
JOHN CECIL RIX
BESS OF THE WOODS
I
Richard Jeffray thrust back his chair fromSir Peter Hardacre’s dining-table, and stood stiffand ill at ease, like a man but half sure of his owndignity. The Dutch clock had struck three, and thewinter sunlight was still flooding through the tall windowsupon the polished floor. A log-fire blazed on theirons; decanters and glasses glistened on the table abouta great china punch-bowl covered with green dragonsand blue mandarins.
It was early in the afternoon, and yet Parson Jessel’sgreat wig was flapping forward with an unsaintly tilt overthe pastor’s left eye. Sir Peter, a fat and tuberose-nosedaristocrat, in a blue coat and a brocaded waistcoat,sprawled in his arm-chair at the end of the table,his paunch abutting against the board, his full-bottomedwig flowing in slovenly profusion about his blotchy face.On the far side of the table, with his back to the fire,sat Mr. Lot Hardacre, a heavy-shouldered gentlemanin a scarlet hunting-coat and buckskin breeches, whoseculture was half that of a jockey, half that of a card-sharper.A long clay pipe drooped from the angle ofMr. Lot Hardacre’s mouth, and his coarse, chappedhands were stuffed into the pockets of his breeches.
Richard Jeffray bowed to these three gentlemen asthough he was not wholly at his ease. Sir Peter Hardacre’sungainly torpor suggested that he had fed largelyand too well.
“You will pardon me, Sir Peter,” he said, with aglance at Mr. Lot’s sodden and impudent face, “thedays are short, and I must be in the saddle. You willmake excuses for me to the ladies.”
The baronet puffed out his lips and elevated his eyebrowssleepily. Parson Jessel had already begun tosnore. Mr. Lancelot alone appeared to retain the sparklingsof intelligence in his protuberant blue eyes. Heremoved his pipe from his mouth, and winked at RichardJeffray with an air of benignant patronage.
“Sister Jilian’s above, cousin,” he said, “strummingon the harpsichord. We’re coarse