CHAPTER XXV
While the leaven of uneasiness, fermenting into fear, and liable atany moment to breed panic, worked in Aldersbury, turning the sallowbilious and the sanguine irritable--while the contents of the mail-bagand the _Gazette_ were awaited with growing apprehension, and inklingsof the truth, leaking out, were turning to water the hearts of thosewho depended on the speculators, life at Garth was proceeding afterits ordinary fashion. No word of what was impending, or might beimpending, travelled so far. No echo of the alarm that assailed theears of terrified men, forced on a sudden to face unimagined disaster,broke the silence of the drab room, where the Squire sat brooding, orof the garden where Josina spent hours, pacing the raised walk andlooking down on that strip of sward where the water skirted the ThirtyAcres wood.
That strip of sward where she had met him, that view from the gardenwere all that now remained to her of Clement, all that proved to herthat the past was not a dream; and they did much to keep hope alive inher breast, and to hold her firm in her resolve. So precious indeedwere the associations they recalled, that while, with the hardness ofa woman who loves elsewhere, she felt little sympathy with Arthur inhis disappointment, she actively resented the fact that he had chosento address her there, and so had profaned the one spot, on which withsome approach to nearness, she could dream of Clement.
Living a life so retired, and with little to distract her, she gaveherself to long thoughts of her lover, and lived and lived again thestolen moments which she had spent with him. It was on these that shenourished her courage and strengthened her will; for, bred tosubmission and educated to obey, it was no small thing that shecontemplated. Nor could she have raised herself to the pitch ofdetermination which she had reached had she not gained elevation fromthe thought that the matter now rested in her own hands, and that allClement's trust and all his dependence were on her. She must be trueto him or she would fail him indeed. Honor no less than love requiredher to be firm, let her timid heart beat as it might.
On wet days she sat in the Dutch summer-house, the squat tower withthe pyramidal roof and fox-vane on top, which flanked the raised walk,and had, when viewed from below, the look of a bastion. But the dayafter Ovington's return happened to be fine. It was one of those daysof mild sunshine and soft air, which occur in late autumn or earlywinter and, by reason of their rarity, linger in the memory; and shewas walking in the garden when, an hour before noon, Calamy came totell her that "the master" was asking for her. "And very peevish," headded, shaking his head as he stalked away under the apple-trees, "ashe's like to be, more and more till the end."
She overtook the man in the hall. "Is he alone, Calamy?" she asked.
"Ay, but your A'nt's been with him. He's for going up the hill."
"Up the hill?"
"Ay, he's one that will walk while he can. But the next time, I'mthinking," shaking his head again, "it won't be his feet he'll go outon."
"Mrs. Bourdillon has gone?"
"Ay, miss, she's gone--as we're all going," despondently, "sooner orlater. She brought some paper, for I heard her reading to him. Itwould be his will, I expect."
Josina thought the supposition most unlikely, for if her father wasclose with his money he was at least as close with his affairs. Aslong as she could remember he had held himself in a crabbed reserve,he had moved a silent master in a dependent world, even his rareoutbursts of anger had rather emphasized than broken his reticence.
And since the attack which had consigned him to darkness he had growneven more taciturn. He had not repelled sympathy; he had rendered itimpossible by ignoring the existence of a cause for it. While allabout him had feared for his sight and, as hope faded, had dreaded thequestion which they believed to be trembling on his lips, he hadeither never hoped, or, drawing his own conclusions, had abandonedhope. At any rate, he had never asked. Instead he sat--when Arthur wasnot there to enliven him or Fewtrell to report to him--wrapped in hisown thoughts, too proud to complain or too insensible to feel, andsilent. Whatever he thought, whatever he feared, he hid all behind animpenetrable mask; and whether pride or patience or resignation werebehind that mark, none knew. Complaint, pity, sympathy, these, heseemed to say, were for the herd. He had ruled; darkness andhelplessness had come upon him, but he was still the master.
Arthur might think that he failed, but those who were always about himsaw few signs of it. To-day, when Josina entered his room she foundhim on his feet, one hand resting on the table, the other on his cane."Get your hat and cloak," he said. "I am going up the hill."
So far his longest excursion had been to the mill, and Josina thoughtthat she ought to remonstrate. "Won't it be too far, sir?" she said.
"Do as I say, girl. And tell Calamy to bring my hat and coat."
She obeyed him, and a minute later they left the house by the yarddoor. He walked with a firm step, his hand sometimes on her shoulder,sometimes on her arm; but aware how easily she might forget to warnhim of an obstacle, or to allow for his passage, she accompanied himwith her heart in her mouth. Yet she owned a certain sweetness in hisdependence on her, in the weight of his hand on her shoulder, in hisnearness.
Before they left the yard he halted. "Look in the pig-styes," he said."Tell me if that idle dog has cleaned them?"
She went and looked, and assured him that they were in their usualstate. He grunted, and they moved on. Passing beneath the gable end ofthe summer-house they descended the steep, rutted lane which led tothe mill. "The first day of the year was such a day," the Squiremuttered, and raised his face that the sun might fall upon it.
When they came to the narrow bridge beside the mill, with itsroughened causeway eternally shaken by the roar and wet with the sprayof the overshot wheel, she trembled. There was no parapet, and thebridge was barely wide enough to permit them to pass abreast. But heshowed no fear, he stepped on to it firmly, and on the crown hehalted. "Look what water is in the pound," he said.
"Had I not better wait--till you are over, sir?"
"Do as I say, girl! Do as I say!" He struck his cane impatiently onthe stones.
She left him unwillingly, and more than once looked back, but alwaysto see him standing, gaunt and slightly stooping, his sightless eyesbent on the groaning, laboring wheel, on the silvery cascade thatpoured over its black flanges, on the fragment of rainbow thatglittered where the sun shot the spray with colors. He was seeing itall, as he had seen it a thousand times: in childhood, when he hadlingered and wondered before it, fascinated by the rush and awed bythe thunder of the falling water; in youth, when with gun or rod hehad just glanced at it in passing; in manhood, when it had come to beone of the amenities of the property, and he had measured itscondition with an owner's eye; ay, and in later life, when to see ithad been rather to call up memories, than to form new impressions.Now, he would never see it again with his eyes, and he knew it. Andyet he had never seen it more clearly than he did to-day, as he stoodin darkness, with the cold breath of the water-fall on his cheek.
She grasped something of this as she hurried back, and satisfied as tothe pound he went on. They ascended the lane which, on the fartherside of the brook, led to the highway, and crossing the road began toclimb the rough track, that wound up through that part of the covertwhich was above the road.
Here and there a clump of hollies, a spreading yew, a patch of youngbeech to which the leaves still clung, blocked the view, but for themost part the eye passed unobstructed athwart trees stripped offoliage, and disclosing here a huge boulder, there a pile ofmoss-grown stones. A climb of a third of a mile, much of it steep,brought them without mishap--though a hundred times she trembled lesthe should trip--to the abrupt glacis of sward that fringed, and inplaces ran up into, the limestone face.
It was broken by huge stones, precariously stayed in their descent, orby outcrops of rock from which sprang slender birches, light,graceful, their white bark shining.
"Are we clear of the wood?" he asked, lifting his face to meet thebreeze.
"
Yes, sir."
He turned leftwards. "There's a flat stone with a holly to north ofit. D'you see it? I'll sit there."
She led him to it and he sat down on the stone, his stick between hisknees, the sunshine on his face. She sat beside him, and as she lookedover the expanse of pleasant vale and the ring of hills that compassedit about, the sense of his blindness moved her almost to tears. Attheir feet Garth, its red walls, its buildings and yards and policies,lay as on a plan. Beyond it, the tower of Garthmyle Church rosein the middle distance, a few thatched roofs peeping through thehalf-leafless trees about it. Leftwards the valley narrowed as theWelsh hills closed in, while to their right it melted into the smilingplain with its nestling villages, its rows of poplars, its shiningstreams. She fancied that he had been in the habit of coming to thisplace, and the thought that he saw no more from it now than when hesat in his room below, that he viewed nothing of the bright landscapespread beneath her own eyes, swelled her breast with pity. She couldhave cast her arms about him and wept as she strove to comforthim--could have sworn to him that while he lived her eyes should behis! Ay, she could have done this, all this--if he had been other thanhe was!
Perhaps it was as well--or perhaps it was not as well--that she didnot give way to the impulse. For presently in a voice as dry as usual,"Do you see the gable of Wolley's Mill, girl? Carry your eyes right ofthe hill, over the coppice at the corner of Archer's Leasow?"
She told him that she could see it.
"That's two miles away. It's the farthest I own in that direction, butthere's a slip of Acherley's land between us and it. Now look down thevalley--d'you see five poplars in a row?"
"Yes, sir, I see them."
"That's our boundary towards the town. Behind us we march with thewatershed. Facing us--the boundary is the far fence of Whittall's farmat the foot of the hills."
"The black and white house, sir?"
"Ay. Well, look at it, girl. There's five thousand acres and a bitover; and there's two hundred and ninety people living on it--there'sbarely one of them I don't know. I've looked after them, but I've notcosseted them, and don't you cosset them. And it's not only thepeople; there's not a field I don't know nor a bit of coppice that Ican't see, nor a slate roof that I have not slated, and the Lord knowshow much of it I've drained. It's been ours, the heart of it sinceQueen Bess, and part of it since Mary; sometimes logged with debt, andthen again cleared. I came into it logged, and I've cleared it. It'scome down, sometimes straight, sometimes sideways, but always in aman's hands. Well, it will soon be in a girl's. In two or three years,more or less, it will be yours, my girl. And do you mark what I say toyou this day. You're the heir of tail, and I couldn't take it fromyou, if I would--but do you mark me!" He found her hand and gripped itso hard as to give her pain, but she would not wince. "Don't you partwith an acre of it! Not with an acre of it! Not with an acre of it! Doyou hear me, girl; or I think I'll turn in my grave! If you are biddento do it when your son comes of age, you think of me and of this day,and don't put your hand to it! Hold to the land, hold to the land, andthey as come after you shall hold up their heads as we have held ours!It isn't money, it isn't land bought with money, it's the land that'scome down, that will keep Griffins where Griffins have been. When I amgone do you mark that! Whatever betide, let 'em say what they like,don't you be one of those that sell their birthright, the right togovern, for a mess of pottage!"
"I will remember, sir!" she said with tears. "I will, I will indeed!"
"Ay, never forget it, don't you forget this day. I ha' brought you upthe hill on purpose to show you that. For fifty years I have sparedand lived niggardly and put shilling to shilling to clear that landand to drain it and round it--and may be, for Acherley is a randomspendthrift, I'll yet add that strip of his to it! I've lived for theland, that those who come after me may govern their corner as Griffinshave governed it time out of mind. I've done my duty by the people andthe land. Don't you forget to do yours."
She told him earnestly that she never would--she never would. Afterthat he was silent awhile. He let her hand go. But presently, andwithout warning, "Why don't you ha' the lad?"
Josina was surprised and yet not surprised; or if surprised at all, itwas at her own calmness. Her color ebbed, but she neither trembled norfaltered. She had not even to summon up the thought of Clement. Thecharge to which she had just listened clothed her with a dignity whichthe prospect, spread before her eyes and insensibly raising her mindto higher issues, helped to support. "I couldn't, sir," she saidquietly. "I do not love him."
"Don't love him?" the Squire repeated--yet not half so angrily as sheexpected. "What's amiss with him?"'
"Nothing, sir. But I do not love him."
"Love? Bah! Love'll come! Maids ha' naught to do with love! Whenthey're married love'll come fast enough, I'll warrant! The lad'sstraight and comely and a proper age--and what else do you want? Whatelse do you want, eh? He's of your own blood, and if he's wild ideas'tis better than wild oats, and he'll give them up. He's promised methat, or I'd never ha' said yes to him! Why, girl!" with suddenexasperation, "'twas only the other day you were peaking and pulingfor him! Peaking and puling like a sick sparrow, and I was saying, no!And now--why, damme, what do you mean by it?"
"It was all a mistake, sir," she said with dignity. "I never did thinkof him, or wish for him. It was a mistake."
"A mistake! What do you mean?"
"You bade me think no more of him, and I obeyed. But--but I never hadany thought of him."
That did irritate the old man; it seemed to him that she played withhim. In a rage he struck his cane on the ground. "Damme!" heexclaimed. "That's womanlike all over! Give her what she wants and shedoesn't want it. But, see here, I'll not have it, girl. I know yourflimsies and you've got to have him! Do you hear?"
He was enraged by this queer twist in her, and he blustered. But hisanger--and he felt it--lacked something of force. He did not know howto bring it to bear. And when she did not reply to him at once, "Doyou forget that he saved my life?" he cried, dropping to a lowerlevel. "D'you forget that, you ungrateful wench?"
"But he did not save mine, sir!" she answered, with astonishingspirit. "Yet it is mine that you ask me to give him. And indeed,indeed, sir, he does not love me."
"Then why should he want you?" he retorted. "But he'll soon make yousure of that, if you'll let him. And you've got to take him. You'vegot to take him. Let's ha' no more words about it. I've said theword."
"But I've not, sir," she replied, with that new and astonishingcourage of hers. "And I cannot say it. I am grateful to him, I shallever be grateful to him for saving you--and he is my cousin. But hedoes not love me, he has never made love to me. And am I, yourdaughter, to--to accept him, the moment it suits him to marry me?"
That touched the Squire's pride. It gave him to think. "Never madelove to you?" he exclaimed. "What do you mean, girl?"
"Until he came to me in the garden on Tuesday he never--he never gaveme reason to think that he would come. Am I," with a tremor ofindignation in her voice, "of so little account, is that which youhave just told me that I may some day bring to him so little, that Imust put all in his hand the moment he chooses to lift it?"
The Squire was bothered by that, and "You are like all women!" heexclaimed. "I don't know where to ha' you. That's where it is. Youtwist and you turn, and you fib----"
"I am not fibbing, sir."
"And you've as many quirks as--as a hunted hare. There's no holdingyou! My father would ha' locked you up with bread and water till youdid what you were told, and my mother'd ha' boxed your ears till sheput some sense into you. But we're a d--d silly generation. We're toosoft!"
She minded this little, as long as he did not put her to the supremetest; as long as he did not ask her if there was anyone else, anyother lover. But his mind was now busy with Arthur. Was it true thatthe young spark was thinking more of Garth than of the girl? More ofthe heiress than of the sweetheart? More of lucre than of love? If so,d--n his impudence! He deserved w
hat he had got! From which point itwas but a step to thoughts of the bank. Ay, Arthur was certainly onewho had his plans for getting on, and getting on in ways to which noGriffin had stooped before. Was this of a piece with them?
The doubt had a cooling effect upon him. While Josina trembled lestthe fateful question should still be put, and clenched her littlehands as she summoned up fortitude to meet it--while she tried tostill the fluttering of her heart, the old man relapsed into thought,muttered inarticulately, fell silent.
She would have given much to know the direction of his thoughts.
At last, "Well, you're so clever you must settle your own affairs," hegrumbled. "I'm d--d if I understand either of you, girl or man. In mytime if a wench said No, we took her and hugged her till she said Yes!We didn't go to her father. But since the old king died there's no redblood in the country--it's all telling and no kissing. There, I'vedone with it. Maybe when he turns his back on you, you'll be wantinghim fast enough."
"No, sir, never!" she answered, overwhelmed by a victory so complete.
"Anyway, don't come fretting to me if you do! Your aunt told me thatyou were pining for him, but I'm hanged if she knows more than Ido--or happen you don't know your own mind. Now look out, and tell meif they've finished thatching that wagoner's cottage at the Bache?"
"Yes, sir. I can see the new straw from here," she said.
"Have they brought it down over the eaves?"
"I'm afraid I can't see that. It's too far."
"Mind me to ask Fewtrell. Now get me home. Where's your arm? I'll godown through the new planting."
"But it's not so safe, sir," she remonstrated. "There's the stonestile, and----"
"When I canna get over the stone stile I'll not come up the hill. Iwant to see the planting. D'you take me that way and tell me if therabbits ha' got in. March, girl!"
She obeyed him, but in fear and trembling, for there was not only theawkward stile to climb, but the track ran over outcrops of rocks onwhich even a careful walker might slip. However, he crossed the stilewith ease, aided less by her arm than by his own memory of its shape,and of every stone that neighbored it; and it was only over thetreacherous surface of the rock that he showed himself reallydependent on her care. Memory could not help him here, and here itwas, as he leant on her shoulder, that she felt, her breast swellingwith pity, the real, the blood tie between them. Her heart went out tohim, and her eyes were dim with tears when at length they stood againon the high road, and viewed, on a level with themselves but dividedfrom them by the trough of green meadows in which the brook ran, thegables and twisted chimneys, the buttressed walls, that gave to Garthits air of a fortress.
The girl gazed at it, the old man's hand still on her shoulder. It washer home: she knew no other, she had never been fifty miles from it.It stood for peace, safety, protection. She loved it--never more thannow, and never as much as now. And never as much as now had she lovedher father; never before had she understood him so well. The last hourhad wrought a change, dimly suspected by both, in their relations.They stood on a level--more on a level, at any rate; with no gulfbetween them but the natural interval of years, a green valley as itwere, which the eyes of understanding and the light foot of love couldcross at will.