Jeffray walked on for a while in silence, his horse’s bridle over his arm. Peter Gladden had hinted at mysteries with regard to the forest-folk, and confessed that no one knew how the Grimshaws came by their money. Could Bess have been stolen away as a child in gypsy fashion? Were her memories of the sea, the great ship, and the rest mere dawn dreams or the dim evidences of her origin? He glanced at her as she swung along at his side, her strong chin up, her keen eyes watching the darkening woods. He had never seen a Sussex wench bear herself like Mistress Bess. “Bess,” he said, suddenly. Her eyes flashed round to him. “There is something about you that makes me believe that you are not of the Grimshaw stock.” “Ah—” “You look as though you had been born to be a great lady, and not Mother Ursula’s niece.” By the light in Bess’s eyes and the softness about her mouth, the innocent flattery seemed very sweet to her. “Do you know what made me tell you all this, Mr. Jeffray?” she asked. “No—” “Because you are one of the great folk—and because I—am nothing.” Jeffray missed her meaning for the moment, and then caught a subtle something in the girl’s eyes that made him hold his breath. “God knows, Bess,” he said, “whether you are a Grimshaw or no. I have as much honor for you as though you were my sister.” She colored and looked a little peevish about the mouth. “Thank you, Mr. Jeffray,” she answered. They had come out upon the heath that smiled in the evening light. The deep azure of the east curved up beyond. The woods stood a rare purple below them, and a few plover were flapping and wailing over the moor. “Bess,” said the man, looking in her face. She glanced at him and waited. “You will count me your friend?” “Ah—I have done so—already.” “And I want to talk with you again.” “I can be by the abbey.” “On Monday—about four?” “Yes. I can be there.” They stood looking at each other in silence, as though there were some regret in either heart that the sun had sunk below the hills. It was growing dusk apace. Richard fumbled with his bridle and made as though to go. They were standing quite close to each other in the dusk, Bess’s eyes fixed upon Jeffray’s face, her lips half parted as though she were about to speak. “I have not told you my dream,” she said, with a little laugh. “St. Agnes’s dream?” “Yes. I will tell it to you on Monday.” Jeffray held out his hand to her. She was stooping a little, and her look suggested that she would have liked Richard to kiss her. The man remembered Miss Jilian Hardacre of a sudden, and he gazed at Bess as though some intangible barrier were between them. “Good-night.” “Good-night, Bess. I will think of you—till next time.” XVI