There was nothing in Mr. Hardacre’s manner at first to betray the fact that he carried a possible declaration of war in his pocket. It was his policy to assume with the most glaring good-humor that Richard was thirsting to see Miss Jilian, even though she might appear red and disfigured about the face.
“We can’t cool your fever just yet, Richard,” he said, after an exchange of cousinly courtesies. “Poor Jill has had it rather bad, you know, and looks a bit weak about the eyes as yet. But, Lor’, when a young fellow’s in love, a pimple or two makes precious little difference.”
Lot showed his teeth, stared, and nudged Jeffray meaningly with his elbow. Their familiarity appeared complete; nevertheless, his cousin did not expand in the sun of Mr. Hardacre’s confidence. There was a compressed look about his mouth, a suggestion of sullenness in his eyes. All these genialities only exaggerated his aversion. He was no longer the lad whom Lot had bullied and teased of old, and his cousin’s loud patronage made his stiffening individuality revolt. His heart was afire for Bess at the moment, and she seized on the pity that should have been Jilian’s.
“I am vexed that your sister has been ill,” he said, speaking with sensible effort and with but little flow of feeling.
Mr. Lot stiffened at the remark. His blue eyes seemed to grow more prominent, as though the cold steadiness of Jeffray’s manner had put him suddenly on the alert.
“You will have to come and comfort Jill,” he said, staring hard at Richard, as though to watch for any betrayal of rebellion.
“Certainly, Lot, as soon as she will see me.”
“She had it of you, you know, cousin; you will have to make it up to her for a damaged complexion.”
Richard shuddered at the coarse suggestiveness of Lot’s words. There was something in his cousin’s manner that made him see of a sudden how cunningly the Lady Letitia had forecasted the future. Jilian’s comeliness had suffered, and the Hardacres were prepared to hold him like a culprit to his oath.
“I can promise you, cousin,” he said, bluntly, “that I shall not fail in doing my duty.”
There was an unconscious tinge of irony in the retort that penetrated Mr. Hardacre’s skin. He reddened a little, thrust out his lower lip, and looked at Jeffray with sinister shrewdness.
