The candles were quenched in Bess’s room; her gay clothes were laid out ready for the morrow. Jeffray rose at last from the window-seat, rang the bell for Gladden, and ordered him to have candles carried to his room. Down in the street an old man with flapping brim of his hat turned down over his face, had been loitering to and fro under the shadows of the houses. He limped away as the church clocks struck ten, turned into the opening of a narrow alley, and entered the doorway of a low tavern. Isaac Grimshaw was in Lewes. His son was dead, his brother Solomon taken, the secret of the treasure betrayed by Bess. He had seen the girl drive with Jeffray through the town, had watched her enter several of the shops, and lodge at the Star Inn with her lover. Isaac had talked to one of the stable-men in the yard. He had heard that the coach was ordered for the morning, and that Jeffray and Bess were bound for Newhaven to take passage for France. XLVI It was early next morning when they left the town of Lewes behind upon its hill, and took the road winding across the flats towards the sea. The clouds were heavy over the downs that day, checkering the slopes with sunlight and with shadow. The Ouse burnished the broad pastures where the cattle browsed; and the green corn, dusted with scarlet poppies, waved and rippled in the freshening wind. What zest had there been in the day for Bess since she had first wakened in the great bed to hear the clocks of Lewes striking, and the chatterings of the starlings on the tiles! The strange stir of the town, the piled-up roofs and white-faced gables, the breadth and beauty of the room she woke in charmed all her senses. She had put on those gay clothes thrice dear to her woman’s heart by reason of their love-given sanctity. The picture the mirror had made of her had made her smile and blush at her own image. And Jeffray’s eyes had proved more eloquent than any mirror. Then had come much running to and fro of servants, stir and bustle as the coach rattled out into the streets. The joyous reality of it all had included even the valedictory radiance of the landlord’s face, the barking of the dogs, the shouting of the urchins who had capered and turned somersaults for pence. It had been life at last for her, life, generous, bubbling to the brim. So thickly had new impressions been thrust upon Bess that she lay back in the corner of the coach, and let her heart realize its dreams. Jeffray, who was watching her, saw that her silence betrayed no sadness. He was half sunk in a reverie himself, with the jingling of the harness and the thunder of the wheels. He watched Bess, and let the past drift before his eyes, and set its seal upon the glamour of the present.