It was the fourth day of Jeffray’s sojourn at The Wells when the Lady Letitia succeeded in convincing him, somewhat dramatically, of how he was being exploited by the gentry at Hardacre. The dowager produced a letter from her reticule and handed it to Richard with a grim twinkle in her shrewd old eyes. It was a letter written from a confidential friend of Lot Hardacre’s to a confidential friend of the Lady Letitia’s. Jeffray’s betrothal had been broached in a gossip between the dowager and her confidant, and the letter had been confided to the old lady’s care, on the understanding she was on no account to disclose its contents to her nephew. The Lady Letitia’s jesuitical conscience disposed very easily of the promise, and Jeffray was admitted behind the scenes. The passages that concerned him ran as follows: “Jill Hardacre, that gay spinster, has had the small-pox, and looks—so folks say—like a pitted orange with a wig. She is betrothed, as you have probably heard, to a wealthy young sapling whose grandsire made a fortune in iron. It seems that the young gentleman is inclined to withdraw from the match, since the sweet maid is grievously disfigured. But our friend Lancelot thinks otherwise in the matter. Jilt my sister, sir, egad, but you may bet your last guinea that he won’t. The lad is a soft young fool, and will faint, damme, at the sight of a sword.” “So you see, sweet coz, that the noble Lot intends to pin the calf to his promise in swaggering fashion. Well, Jill Hardacre has had her day, and this promises to be her last and final hunting-party. Now or never is the cry. The Hardacres want money, and the young squireling has a veritable pot of gold. Amusing, eh? Life is a merry jest, to be sure.” When Richard had read the letter through he handed it back very quietly to the dowager. His face had hardened to that white, expressionless mobility that bespeaks action. The mouth was no longer soft and plastic, the eyes full of melancholy and reflective doubt. “Well, Richard, what is to be done?” Jeffray stood up and stretched himself. “Take fencing lessons,” he said, curtly. “Ah ha, that is the right spirit!” “I could handle a sword in Italy, but am stiff and out of play. I suppose there is a fencing-master in the place?” The old lady’s eyes glittered, and she looked at her nephew approvingly. “Yes, a Frenchman, a wonderful fellow, I believe. I will tell Parsons to go at once and find where he lodges.” “Thanks, madam. I will have a week’s practice with him before I return to Rodenham.” XXXII