"So have you," he says. "You used to snub me shamefully. You will never snub me again, will you, Amaranth? "
She smiles into his radiant eyes, then crimsons a little, and rebukes Tim for being fidgety.
Ardyn Home has not yet put the love of his life into definite words. He is waiting till some business matters connected with his coming of age are settled, and he can acquaint Mr. Glyn with his exact position. These two, drifting together on the sunshiny waters, are not yet publicly engaged; but everyone knows -- they know themselves -- that they belong to each other, and herein is poor Mrs. Glyn's greatest comfort.
Ardyn holds out his hand for hers, and together they float on, between the rushes and wild flowers. It seems but a brief moment before they reach the island; but in later years those moments of quiet, peaceful, untroubled drifting hand in hand seem stamped and photographed upon the heart of both.
"Oh, Ardyn, see the hawthorn on the island!" cries Amaranth, joyously. "I never knew the trees so full before."
She springs lightly from the boat, her presence shaking the white bloom from the branches as she passes among them. Ardyn sees her face shining out like a bride's from beneath a rich silvery veil of the may.
The sight is too much for Ardyn. He fastens the boat, and springs up the bank, and is hastening to her side when they become conscious of a distant, echoing "Coo-ee," which is the signal when Amaranth is wanted home.
"There is Dickey, running on the opposite bank," says Ardyn. "Coo-ee, Dickey! speak up. What's the matter?"
Dickey, red-headed and out of breath, has neared the island by diving under certain hedges and clearing various fences, and racing along the banks of the river.
"Oh, Ardyn," says Amaranth, with a gasp; "something has happened to Eddie."
"Miss Amaranth!" shrieks Dickey. "A young man give me threepence to find you, and fetch you home."
"A young man!" repeats Ardyn, suddenly interested in the conversation.
"Yes, that there young man with the stiff collars. I've to fetch Miss Amaranth home this minute. Matthew Gummer says as he wants to see her very particular."
"Oh, it's only the young man from father's office," says Amaranth, looking a little annoyed. "Whatever can he want me for? But perhaps Father has sent for a jar or a specimen. I know where his things are. Come, Ardyn, we'll see what Matthew Gummer wants."
But she shrinks a little in her inmost heart from the interview; for Matthew Gummer, her father's clerk, has favoured her with admiring looks on several occasions, and she fears he once sent her a valentine. Amaranth has a vague sense that he is about to make her a declaration of undying love, and she tries, all the way home, to compose a negative sufficiently dignified, kindly, gentle, and decisive.
Chapter 2
In Amaranth's Garden
Matthew Gummer is in the garden, pacing the lawn in expectant agitation.
"Doesn't he look ridiculous?" says Amaranth, lightly, pettishly. "I wonder if he's quite right in his mind. It seems so odd for him to want to speak to me."
"I'll stay close at hand," says Ardyn. "Come back as soon as you can, dear; and if Gummer shows symptoms of being demented, remember I'm within call."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of him," says Amaranth, springing onto the river bank, and regarding with dignity the red face and embarrassed manner of the excited young clerk.
"A thousand pardons, miss, but could I have a word with you? I took the liberty of waiting in the garden, not wishing your ma -- you see, it's a private matter, miss."
"I certainly am a little puzzled, Mr. Gummer," says Amaranth, as proudly as her sunny nature can manage, "to understand why you sent Dickey for me today. I have a friend -- Mr. Home -- waiting on the river. Had you not better go back to the office and do your work? I don't think you can have anything private to say to me, Mr. Gummer."
She speaks with a mixture of pity and rebuke, unwilling to wound him too deeply by the rejection it is her duty to make to his addresses.
"Oh, yes I have, miss; only I am so confused this afternoon I scarce know how to begin. If you'd be so good as to give me a little time.... It's dreadfully hot for the time of the year."
He wipes his damp, troubled brow with a handkerchief not a little inky. Amaranth treasures the incident for Eddie's amusement, but tries not to laugh. His distress is so evident and sincere.
"Mr. Gummer, it may save you some trouble if I tell you at once it can never be," says Amaranth, colouring, and shaking her head. "You must not think I'm proud or unkind. Of course I know how good you are to your grandparents, and you are all very respectable and that sort of thing. But, Mr. Gummer, you must not think of me like that. It can never, never be. I shall never marry anybody unless -- at least...."
It is her turn to become embarrassed now, for she feels she has all but confessed, "I am nearly engaged to Ardyn."
"Oh, Miss Glyn," says Gummer, opening his light blue eyes, and flushing in some surprise, and speaking more briskly than hitherto, "you quite misunderstand me. My business is not of that nature at all. I wasn't thinking of anything of the sort indeed, miss."
"I beg your pardon," says Amaranth, turning away from him, her face like a peony. She could bite her tongue out at this instant. Why doesn't the lawn give way and swallow her up?
"No, indeed, Miss Amaranth. At my present low rate of wages I shouldn't be justified in any such ideas. Fifteen shillings a week and find yourself, and two old people to help. Well, it don't go far, miss, though they eats as little as any old folks in the kingdom, considering they're such fine, hearty specimens of eighty and over. What I ventured to request a little private conversation about, miss, don't concern matters of the heart. I wanted to ask you, miss, if you know what's become of your father?"
"Oh, is that all?" says Amaranth, relieved. "I haven't seen him since breakfast time. Of course he is either at the office, or else getting specimens somewhere out in the countryside."
"He wasn't thinking of any London journey, miss, to your knowledge, then?"
"Of course not. Father in London! I doubt if he has been there twice since I've been born. I believe Father would lose himself there! But perhaps," she adds, excitedly, "his publishers may have telegraphed to him to come. They may see that his work is a splendid success, and they may want to pay him immediately! Mr. Gummer, has father gone to London, and does Mother know why? Something must surely have happened concerning his book!"
"Stop a bit, Miss Amaranth, I'm thinking it's no use upsetting Mrs. Glyn yet awhile. Folks say she's looking ill. That's the reason I asked for you. I didn't like upsetting Mrs. Glyn."
"If you have any bad news, Mr. Gummer," says Amaranth, drawing up her slim young figure, and trying to look strong and capable, "tell me. You did quite right not to worry Mother." But she casts wistful eyes towards the river. If only Ardyn could stand by her now, and hold her hands as she prepares to hear the worst! It may be that the London publishers have actually gone so far as to say No to Mr. Glyn's request that they will undertake to publish his wonderful work.
"Well, you see, miss," says Matthew Gummer, fidgeting with hands and feet uncomfortably, "I dare say you know that the gov -- that your father never would keep a bank account."
"We have had very little money," says Amaranth, simply, "to put in the bank. Mother said that we wanted to use our money as soon as we had it, and Father has often said that a friend of his put some money in a bank, and soon after it failed, and he lost it all. Father has a prejudice against banking his money. Though I don't know," she adds, thoughtfully, "if he might not have changed his mind, had he had some money to bank. Father always gives his money to Mother; and if she has any to keep, she keeps it in a drawer of her davenport. But, Mr. Gummer, why do you want to talk about this now?"
"I dare say you know, miss, that your father was chosen long ago for treasurer of the fund for the new church out at Forest Moor. Glyn and Son have had a deal to do with Church matters for many a year, and he seemed the proper person to manage the whole thing. Mon
ey has been coming in pretty slow, considering the meetings the rector has called about it; but they tell me at the Bank there was a matter of five hundred pounds to Mr. Glyn's credit, as treasurer of the fund."
"Yes, Mr. Gummer. Go on."
Amaranth is staring at him now, with blanched face and a beating heart. He looks as frightened as herself, and sinks his voice a little lower.
"It seems, miss, your father drew out that money yesterday, and took it all out in gold. The rector happened to be in the Bank at the time, but was on his way to town, and couldn't stop to talk to your father just then, though he wondered to hear him say he had come to draw out all that had been paid to his credit, as treasurer of the fund. Well, the rector came round to the office about eleven today. Your father had left at ten, and the rector's been backwards and forwards, fidgety-like; and at last, he's had a sort of confidential chat with me, and told me all this. Nobody seems to have seen your father today, miss, except the station porters, and they say he caught the 10.30 express to London, and had a black bag with him."
There is a long silence. The winds that sway the lilacs seem to Amaranth to be moaning in fright and pain.
She knows that the rector -- Ardyn's uncle -- is a high-principled man, with a keen sense of right and wrong, the very last man to attempt to cover a misdeed, or shelter a criminal. Confused thoughts crowd into her mind of pressing trades people, worrying debts, little fretting needs and cares, which, somewhat selfishly, she had tried to avoid as far as possible, content to know that "Mother will manage." Suppose these anxieties had been too much for her father? Suppose his mind has been over-balanced, and in a time of weakness he has taken this money, and fled far away from all his cares?
Amaranth sees the horror in her eyes reflected in the clerk's. She pictures policemen hovering about their dear old home. She sees her father's portrait here and there on police station walls as wanted for theft! What will come to her then she knows not. Her girlhood suddenly seems to disappear, and in its place she seems possessed of a hard, cold, loveless nature, bitter against all the world, most hard and bitter towards him who had seemed to her hitherto the best and tenderest of fathers.
"And he has always taken round the collection bag in church," she thinks, scornfully. "Oh, well may infidels point the finger at Christianity like this! The churchwarden, the church-goer, is a thief, and I am his child!"
"Miss Amaranth, let me get you some water," says the clerk, anxiously. "The first thing to think about is, how to break this news to Mrs. Glyn. Come, don't be so down-hearted, miss. As I said to the rector, the fact that Mr. Glyn drew out the money and has gone to town don't prove there's anything wrong, though the rector will have it there's been foul play. You know Mr. Glyn and the rector never did pull together somehow. Perhaps Mr. Glyn will be back this evening. But it's my duty to tell you, miss, that at the railway station the porters noticed he looked dreadfully ill and nervous."
"I will break it to Mother," says Amaranth, in a voice that seems changed even to her own hearing. "Father had a dislike to going up to town, and something strange has happened for him to go so suddenly."
"You know, miss," says Matthew Gummer consolingly, "he may be out of his mind, and then he'd get off. He told me he was very anxious about his book, and had had little sleep of late. Ah, here comes Mr. Home! Miss Glyn isn't feeling very well just now."
"Don't touch me, Ardyn," says Amaranth, shrinking away from hi. "Don't come to The Bower any more. Ask your uncle the reason why."
She leaves the two together, both gazing after her in concern, though Matthew Gummer in his heart is well assured she has every reason for her horror and despair.
"How am I to tell Mother that Father is a thief!" she asks herself, dragging weary steps between the daffodils and marigolds. Suddenly she catches sight of her young brother Eddie, in his little wheelchair. He calls her name, and turns to her, but she only sees the black cloud that has fallen over all the boy's future life, and shivering, reflects that henceforth he is branded like herself, as the child of a thief.
"Please, miss," says Susan at the garden door, "the rector's come. He's with missus, and it's my opinion something dreadful's been happening to master. I never thought no good would come of them live creatures in the study, and all that pen and ink. Maybe master's been and drowned himself in the river, miss. It happened in the last place but one where I lived afore I came here"
But Amaranth, angered at the thought that Mr. Bigham, the rector, should be the first to pour his suspicions into her mother's heart, has turned hastily to the parlour. Tim, the dog, who has followed her up the garden, squeezes himself in with her through the door.
Mr. Bigham, a tall, portly, fine-looking clergyman, is standing beside the table, his stern, severe features bent over a letter he holds in his hands.
Her mother appears to Amaranth as though she had just fainted, or was about to faint. Amaranth wonders how she can find neither words nor tears to console her mother now. Her own wrongs seem so terrible, so lifelong that her mind seems capable of but one thought -- her father's sin has severed her from Ardyn.
"Somebody has told you," says Mrs. Glyn, to her daughter; "but it's not true. Amaranth, do not believe it. It is all a mistake. Do not think this of your father. It is all my fault. I ought not to have troubled him with household worries. He grew ill and nervous, and already he was upset about his book. Mr. Bigham, I know why he drew that money out. The night before last he dreamt it was unsafe at the Bank. It was only a dream, but it made him nervous. He told me in the morning of his dream, and now I see why he drew it out yesterday."
"Coupled with his disappearance, madam," says Mr. Bigham, "the fact looks very suspicious. I must remind you again of this letter I have just received from him from town. There are just a few but significant words: 'The money has gone. I cannot account for it, think of me what you will. I cannot face Bryantwood. I leave England tonight.'"
Mrs. Glyn lays her aching head upon her hands, and Tim steals up to her, and licks her face.
"Oh, Steve, Steve!" they hear her cry, "I could have managed. I could have borne anything. I could have struggled on, but I cannot lose you, Steve. We have never, never been apart!"
"Mother," says Amaranth, speaking for the first time, "Mr. Bigham is here; do you forget? Mr. Bigham must not lose this money. The subscribers must not be cheated."
"No, no," says Mrs. Glyn, springing up. "Mr. Bigham, I know you have always thought my husband a visionary and un-businesslike. But he is no thief."
"Well, well," says the clergyman, soothingly, "who shall estimate the power of temptation? I have already told you, madam, that in consideration of our long acquaintance, if the money is replaced in the Bank no steps will be taken as to pursuit and punishment."
Mrs. Glyn flushes proudly. Amaranth has never seen such a look on her mother's face before.
"I will sell the shares that are the source of my personal income. The five hundred pounds will be replaced in the Bank. Have no fear on that score. But my husband is innocent."
"Mother," says Amaranth, believing her to be delirious, -- or else how could she doubt his guilt after that letter to the rector? -- "you're making yourself ill. You must come and lie down now. Mr. Bigham, the money subscribed will be paid to the last farthing. Mother cannot talk anymore now. She must take some rest."
"No, Amaranth," says Mrs. Glyn, putting her gently aside, "there is no more rest for me till I've found him. My place is at your father's side. I will find my husband, though all the rest of the world forsakes him."
Chapter 3
Amaranth's Decision
"I am not at all surprised to hear it. It's just what I expected all along. As I often said to Rebecca, if the man has taken to writing books, depend upon it he's in difficulties. And when a person in difficulties is tempted, ah, my dear, I always said Stephen Glyn was not the proper treasurer for the new Church."
Mrs. Bigham, the rector's wife, moves uneasily on her couch. She is an invalid, and sees and
knows little of the outside life of Bryantwood, beyond the echoes that float to her quiet room. But lying there, hour after hour, she has time to think and love and sympathize, and her heart is aching for Mrs. Glyn and her children today.
It makes her uncomfortable to see the face of her visitor, Miss Jane Grimwood, conversationally excited, decorously grieved, but just a little exultant at the fulfilment of her premonitions. "There is no proof of Mr. Glyn's guilt," says Mrs. Bigham, hesitatingly, for she is timid by nature and weakened by illness. "He may have lost the money he drew out. This trouble may be misfortune rather than fault. But in any case, Miss Jane, it is very, very sad for dear Mrs. Glyn and Amaranth and Eddie."
"May their afflictions be blessed to their spiritual welfare," says her visitor, piously. "I must say I was a good deal astonished to find the family absent from church yesterday. Let us hope that this trouble may be the means of their eternal good. I have often remarked to Rebecca that Amaranth Glyn seems a giddy, worldly, thoughtless girl, inclined to trust to the deceitfulness of youth and good looks. Perhaps this trial is intended to convict her spiritually, and if it be the means of her conversion..."
"Amaranth is a sweet, loving girl," says Mrs. Bigham. "A little thoughtless perhaps, but she is only eighteen, and has never known real sorrow until now. Heaven help her, poor dear child! And I believe, Miss Jane, the child has truly spiritual instincts. She has believed in the goodness of God and loved Him from her cradle. Amaranth is very dear to me, and I have been glad and satisfied to know she would one day be as my own."
"Ah," says Miss Grimwood, a little eagerly, "but of course that can never be now. A clergyman's career cannot be too free from spot and blemish; and it would never do for your promising nephew Ardyn, on the eve of entering the Church, to ally himself with the child of one who is really within danger of the law. Surely Mr. Bigham would never give his consent to so fatal an engagement."
"We have not discussed the matter yet," says Mrs. Bigham; "but I am much mistaken in Ardyn if his affection for his old playmate be of a nature that any circumstances can change."
She has some vague idea that Miss Grimwood has long intended handsome, clever Ardyn Home for her own niece Rebecca, who has a good deal to do with district and parish work, and manages the school library with Ardyn, when he is at home. Mrs. Bigham has made a pet of Amaranth from a child, and will champion her cause so far as her strength allows. But the effort she has made has already started a headache, and it is a relief to her when Mr. Bigham comes in and invites Miss Grimwood to inspect some new parish tracts in his study.