“Drat this box, it be made up o’ corners.” Jeffray, who had caught nothing but the man’s mutterings and their surly looks, went down the steps to help Bess from the coach. Her eyes were sparkling with the excitement of it all, and the color had come back to her cheeks. Captain George gave her a clumsy bow as she passed him on the footway, and winked at Gladden behind his master’s back. Jeffray took Bess into the parlor, where tobacco smoke still hung like a sea-fog, dimming the air. He opened one of the lattices, as the landlord brought in wine and glasses on a tray, a cold chicken, fruit, a great white loaf of bread. He looked suspiciously at the gray sky as he laid the table, the sign-board creaking and groaning on its hinges, the wind whistling and sighing in the chimneys. “Bad weather for summer, sir.” Jeffray nodded, and poured out Bess a glass of wine. “May I be wishing, sir, that the lady don’t mind a rough sea?” Bess glanced at Richard, and smiled, without fear. “I would rather go,” she said. “The weather looks uncommon dirty.” “True, landlord. What sort of sea-boat is the _Sussex Queen_?” The innkeeper pursed up his lips, and stood with his hands folded under his apron. “Good as most, sir, I suppose,” he said. “Rather rickety in her spars, I have heard. Perhaps the lady would be wishing to stay the night? We have a good room up-stairs, and could make ye very comfortable.” The insinuation was not without its charm, but Bess shook her head as Jeffray questioned her with his eyes. “No, I am not afraid,” she said. “Thanks, landlord, I think we will slip across before the weather holds us back.” It was well past noon when Bess and Jeffray went down to the quay, and found the _Sussex Queen_ moored close in with a gangway from the quay to her quarter-deck. All Bess’s bridal-baggage had been hauled on board, the new trunks filled with the rich stuffs, laces, and brocades that Jeffray had bought for her at Lewes. Two boats’ crews of Newhaven men were already getting out the hawsers to tow the _Sussex Queen_ into the open sea. Jeffray took leave of Gladden, who had followed them from the inn, and pressed some money into the old man’s hand. “Good-bye, Gladden,” he said, joyous and untroubled, “you shall hear from me in France. Mr. Wilson has my affairs in hand.” “Good-bye, sir, good-bye. May you get safe across. I don’t like the look of the weather—” “Ah, we are not afraid of it, Gladden. Look to my father’s books. Mr. Bitson, of Lincoln’s Inn, will see that certain moneys are paid to you quarterly. I want the old house to look well for the day when we shall return. Good-bye,” and he crossed the gangway. Gladden stood watching, Jeffray’s money still in his palm, as the seamen cast off the ropes and the Newhaven men tugged at their oars. The hawsers tightened, and rose dripping above the water; the ship began to glide from the quay, and to move towards the narrow vista of foam-ribbed sea that showed beyond the harbor’s mouth.