Jeffray was standing with his head thrown back, his eyes fixed on Bess’s face. She moved still nearer to him, speaking hurriedly, passionately, as though afraid that he might stay her words. “Yes, they took me away. I fought, but they were too strong for me. Dan had tried to bring me to shame, and I had run away—to you—to save me. And then, and then—you can see—you can understand—” She threw up her arm with a great catching of her breath and covered her face. Jeffray, feeling like a man who has drunk of the wine of the immortals, held out both his hands to her with a hoarse cry. “Bess. Listen to me. Before God—I want to help you.” She rocked to and fro a moment, then dropped her arm, and looked at him with an almost childish trust. “I must see you again, see you—soon.” “Where?” “Not at Holy Cross, no, it is too near. There is the Hermit’s Rock in the yew valley—above Thorney Chapel—” Jeffray had straightened up with the air of a man ready to march with a forlorn hope. “I know it,” he said. “It is a wild place. I can fool Dan. I will be patient.” She seemed to be plotting it all with all the passionate and ready ardor of her heart. To Jeffray even this perilous and solemn complicity was very sweet. His reason appeared to have been heated to white heat and cooled again like a tempered sword to serve him. She looked at him dearly, as though he held all the warmth and light that life could give. “I will ride to the yew valley every evening—till—” “Till?” “You can come.” A great sigh escaped her. She drooped her face nearer to his, her lips apart, her eyes shining. “I shall come,” she said. XXVIII Meanwhile, Richard received a sealed and perfumed note from Miss Jilian bidding him visit her at last at Hardacre. Jeffray, who felt cold and reluctant when he read the letter, did not guess how much plotting and planning, how many fears and heart-searchings had been squandered over that simple sheet of paper. Poor Jilian had been pressed by Lot to send for Jeffray before her inclination was mature. She had desired to wait till her face was fairer, but her Ulysses of a brother willed it otherwise, being suspicious of Richard’s faith. He argued that it would be better for the lad to see Jilian soon and be impressed by the trouble he had brought on her. Jeffray was an amiable fellow with a wealth of sentiment in his blood. And then when Miss Hardacre’s looks improved, as improve they would, her cousin might be so charmed with the change as to fall in love with the betterment of the bargain. There would have been much wisdom in Lot’s strategy had he not been ignorant of the subtle undercurrent in the romance. He counted on his cousin’s impressionable good-nature, and he might have counted on it with some confidence but for the existence of Bess of the Woods. It was as unpropitious a moment as fate could have found for thrusting him back upon his allegiance to poor Jilian.