CHAPTER XXIX
An hour after Arthur had left the house on the Monday morning Josinawent slowly up the stairs to her father's room. She was young and thestairs were shallow, but the girl's knees shook under her as shemounted them, as she mounted them one by one, while her hand trembledon the banister. Before now the knees of brave men, going on forlornhopes, have shaken under them, but, like these men, Josina went on,she ascended step by step. She was frightened, she was horriblyfrightened, but she had made a vow to herself and she would carry itout. How she would carry it out, how she would find words to blurt outthe truth, how she would have the courage to live through that whichwould follow, she did not know, she could not conceive. But her mindwas fixed.
She reached the shabby landing on which two or three sheep-skins laidat the doors of the rooms served for carpet, and there, indeed, shepaused awhile and pressed her hand to her side to still the beating ofher heart. She gazed through the window. On the sweep below, Calamywas shaking out the cloth, while two or three hens clucked about hisfeet, and a cat seated at a distance watched the operation withdignity. In the field beyond the brook a dog barked joyously as itrounded up some sheep. Miss Peacock's voice, scolding a maid, came upfrom below. All was going on as usual, going on callous and heedless:while she--she had that before her which turned her sick and faint,which for her, timid and subject, was almost worse than death.
And with her on this forlorn hope went no comrades, no tramp ofmarching feet, no watching eyes of thousands, no bugle note to cheerher. Only Clement's shade--waiting.
She might still draw back. But when she had once spoken there could beno drawing back. A voice whispered in her ear that she had betterthink it over--just once more, better wait a little longer to see ifaught would happen, revolve it once again in her mind. Possibly theremight be some other, some easier, some safer way.
But she knew what that whisper meant, and she turned from the windowand grasped the handle of the door. She went in. Her father wassitting beside the fire. His back was towards her, he was smoking hisafter-breakfast pipe. She might still retreat, or--or she might saywhat she liked, ask perhaps if he wanted anything. He would neversuspect, never conceive in his wildest moments the thing that she hadcome to confess. It was not too late even now--to draw back.
She went to the other side of the table on which his elbow rested, andshe stood there, steadying herself by a hand which she laid on thetable. She was sick with fear, her tongue clung to her mouth, her verylips were white. But she forced herself to speak. "Father, I havesomething--to tell you," she said.
"Eh?" He turned sharply. "What's that?" She had not been able tocontrol her voice, and he knew in a moment that something was wrong."What ha' you been doing?"
Now! Now, or never! The words she had so often repeated to herselfrang in her ears. "Do you know who it was," she said, "who saved youthat night, sir? The night you were--hurt?"
He turned himself a little more towards her. "Who? Who it was?" herepeated. "What art talking about, girl? Why, the lad, to be sure. Whoelse?"
"No, sir," she said, shaking from head to foot, so that the tablerocked audibly under her hand. "It was Mr. Ovington's son. And--and Ilove him. And he wishes to marry me."
The Squire did not say a word. He sat, his head erect still as astone.
"And I want--to help him," she added, her voice dying away with thewords. Her knees were so weak, that but for the support of the tableshe must have sunk on the floor.
Still the Squire did not speak. His jaw had fallen. He sat, arrestedin the attitude of listening, his face partly turned from her, hispipe held stiffly in his hand. At last, "Ovington's son wants to marryyou?" he repeated, in a tone so even that it might have deceived many.
"He saved your life!" she cried. She clung desperately to that.
"And you love him?"
"Oh, I do! I do!"
He paused as if he still listened, still expected more. Then in a lowvoice, "The girl is mad," he muttered. "My God, the girl is mad! Or Iam mad! Blind and mad, like the old king! Ay, blind and mad!" He letthe pipe fall from his hand to the floor, and he groped for his stickthat he might rap and summon assistance. But in his agitation he couldnot find the stick.
Then, as he still felt for it with a flurried hand, nature or despairprompted her, and the girl who had never caressed him in her life,never taken a liberty with him, never ventured on the smallestfamiliarity, never gone beyond the morning and evening kiss, timidlygiven and frigidly received, sank on the floor and clasped his knees,pressed herself against him. "Oh, father, father! I am not mad," shecried, "I am not mad. Hear me! Oh, hear me!" A pause, and then, "Ihave deceived you, I am not worthy, but you are my father! I haveonly, only you, who can help me! Have mercy on me, for I do love him.I do love him! I----" Her voice failed her, but she continued to clingto him, to press her head against his body, mutely to implore him, andplead with him.
"My God!" he ejaculated. He sat upright, stiff, looking before himwith sightless eyes; as far as he could withholding himself from her,but not actively repelling her. After an interval, "Tell me," hemuttered.
That, even that, was more than she had expected from him. He had notstruck her, he had not cursed her, and she took some courage. She toldhim in broken words, but with sufficient clearness, of her firstmeeting with Clement, of the gun-shot by the brook, of her narrowescape and the meetings that had followed. Once, in a burst of rage,he silenced her. "The rascal! Oh, the d--d rascal!" he cried, and sheflinched. But she went on, telling him of Clement's resolve that hemust be told, of that unfortunate meeting with him on the road, andthen of that second encounter the same night, when Clement had come tohis rescue. There he stopped her.
"How do you know?" he asked. "How do you know? How dare you say----"And now he did make a movement as if to repel her and put her fromhim.
But she would not be repulsed. She clung to him, telling him of thecoat, of the great stains that she had seen upon it; and at last, "Whydid you hide this?" broke from him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
She told him that she had not known, that the part which Clement hadtaken on that night was new to her also.
"But you see him?" he snarled, speaking a little more like himself."You see him!"
"Twice only--twice only since that night," she vowed. "Indeed, indeed,sir, only twice. Once he came to speak to you and tell you, but youwere ill, and I would not let him. And yesterday he came to--to giveme up, to say good-bye. Only twice, sir, as God sees me! He would not.He showed me that we had been wrong. He said," sobbing bitterly, "thatwe must be open or--or we must be nothing--nothing to one another!"
"Open? Open!" the Squire almost shouted. "D--d open! Shutting thestable door when the horse is gone. D--n his openness!" And then,"Good Lord! Good Lord!" with almost as much amazement as anger in hisvoice. That all this should have been going on and he know nothingabout it! That his girl, this child as he had deemed her, should havebeen doing this under his very eyes! Under his very eyes! "Good Lord!"But then rage got the upper hand once more, and he cursed Clement withpassion, and again made a movement as if he would rise and throw heroff. "To steal a man's child! The villain!"
"Oh, don't call him that!" she cried. "He is good, father. Indeed,indeed, he is good. And he saved your life."
He sat back at that, as if her words shifted his thoughts to anothermatter. "Tell me again," he said, sternly, but more calmly. "He toldyou this tale yesterday, did he? Well, tell me as he told you, do youhear? And mind you, if you're lying, you slut, he or you, 'twill comeup! I am blind, and you may think to deceive me now as you havedeceived me before----"
"Never, never again, sir!" she vowed. Then she told him afresh, frompoint to point, what she had learned on the Sunday.
"Then the lad didn't come up till after?"
"Arthur? No, sir. Not till after Thomas was gone. And it was Clementwho followed Thomas to Birmingham and got the money back." For Clementhad told her that also.
When she had don
e, the Squire leant forward and felt again for hisstick, as if he were now equipped and ready for action. "Well, youbegone," he said, harshly. "You begone, now. I'll see to this."
But, "Not till you forgive me," she entreated, holding him close, andpressing her face against his unwilling breast. "And there's more,there's more, sir," in growing agitation, "I must tell you. Be good tome, oh, be good to me! Forgive me and help him."
"Help him!" the Squire cried, and this time he was indeed amazed. "Ihelp him! Help the man who has gone behind my back and stolen my girl!Help the man who--let me go! Do you hear me, girl! Let me get up, youshameless hussy!" growing moment by moment more himself, as herecovered from the shock of her disclosure, and could measure itsextent. "How do I know what you are? Or what he mayn't have done toyou? Help, indeed? Help the d--d rascal who has robbed me? Who hasdared to raise his eyes to my girl--a Griffin? Who----"
"He saved your life," she cried, pleading desperately with him, thoughhe strove to free himself. "Oh, father, he saved your life! And I lovehim! I love him! If you part us I shall die."
He could not struggle against her young strength, and he gave up theattempt to free himself. He sank back in his chair. "D--n the girl!"he cried. He sat silent, breathing hard.
And she--she had told him, and she still lived! She had told him andhe had not cursed her, he had not struck her to the ground, he had noteven succeeded in putting her from him! She had told him, and theworld still moved about her, his gold watch, which lay on the table ona level with her head, still ticked, the dog still barked in the fieldbelow. Miss Peacock's voice could still be heard, invoking Calamy'spresence. She had told him, and he was still her father, nay, if shewas not deceived, he was more truly her father, nearer to her, moreher own, than he had ever been before.
Presently, "Ovington's son! Ovington's son!" he muttered in a tone ofwonder. "Good God! Couldn't you find a man?"
"He is a man," she pleaded, "indeed, indeed, he is!"
"Ay, and you are a woman!" bitterly. "Fire and tow! A few kisses andyou are aflame for him. For shame, girl, for shame! And how am I to besure it's no worse? Ain't you ashamed of yourself?"
She shivered, but she was silent.
"Deceiving your father when he was blind!"
She clung to him. He felt her trembling convulsively.
After that he sat for a time as if exhausted, suffering her embrace,and silent save when at rare intervals an oath broke from him, or, ina gust of passion, he struck his hand on the arm of his chair. Once,"My father would ha' spurned you from the house," he cried, "youjade." She did not answer, and a new idea striking him, he sat upsharply. "But what--what the devil is all this about? What's all this,if it's over and--and done with?" His tone was almost jubilant. "Ifhe's off with it? Maybe, girl, I'll forgive you, bad as you've been,if--if that's so. Do you say it's over?"
"No, no!" she cried. "He came----"
"You told me----"
"He came to say good-bye to me, because----" And then in words themost moving that she could find, words sped from her heart, winged byher love, she explained Clement's errand, the position at the bank,the crisis, the menace of ruin, the need of help.
The Squire listened, his business instincts aroused, until he graspedher meaning. Then he struck his hand on the table. "And he thoughtthat I should help them!" he cried, with grim satisfaction. "Hethought that, did he?" And he would not listen to her protests that itwas not Clement, that it was not Clement, it was she who--"He thoughtthat? I see it now, I see it all! But the fool, the fool, to thinkthat! Why, I wouldn't stretch out my little finger to save his fatherfrom hell! And he thought that? He took me for as big a fool as thesilly girl he had flattered and lured, and thought he could use, tosave them from perdition! As if he had not done me harm enough! As ifhe hadn't stolen my daughter from me, he'd steal my purse! Why, hemust be the most d--d impudent, cunning thief that ever trod shoeleather. He must be a cock of a pretty hackle, indeed. He should gofar, by G--d, with the nerve he has. Far, by G--d! My daughter firstand my purse afterwards! This son of an upstart, whose grandfatherwould have sat in my servants' hall, he'd steal my----"
"No, no!" she protested.
"Yes, yes! Yes, yes! But he'll find that he's not got a girl to dealwith now! Help him? Save his bank? Pluck him from the debtors' prisonhe's due to rot in! Why, I'll see him--in hell first!"
She had risen and moved from him. She was standing on the other sideof the table now. "He saved your life!" she cried. And she, too, waschanged. She spoke with something of his passion. "He saved yourlife!" she repeated, and she stamped her foot on the floor.
"Well, the devil thank him for it!" the Squire cried with zest. "Andyou," with fresh anger, "do you begone, girl! Get out of my roombefore you try my patience too far!" He waved his stick at her. "Go,or I'll call up Calamy and have you put out! Do you hear? Do you hear?You ungrateful, shameless slut! Go!"
She had fancied victory, incredible, unhoped-for-victory to be almostwithin her grasp; and lo, it was dashed from her hand, it was fartherfrom her than ever. And she could do no more. Courage, strength, hopewere spent, shaken as she was by the emotions of the past hour. Shecould no no more; a little more and he might strike her. She crept outweeping, and went, blinded by her tears, up the stairs, up, stair bystair, to hide herself in her room. There had been a moment when shehad fancied that he was melting, but all had been in vain. She hadcome close to him, but in the end he had put her from him. He hadthrust her farther from him than before. Her only consolation, ifconsolation she had, was that she had spoken, that the truth wasknown, that she had no longer any secret to weigh her down. But shehad failed.