CHAPTER XLI
Arthur, after he had dropped from the post-chaise that morning, didnot at once move away. He stood on the crown of the East Bridge,looking down the river, and the turmoil of his feelings was such asfor a time to render thought of the future impossible, and even tohold despair at bay. The certainty that his plan would have succeededif it had not been thwarted by the very persons who would haveprofited by it, and the knowledge that but for their scruples all thathe had at stake in the bank would have been saved--this certainty andthis knowledge, with the fact that while they left him to bear theobloquy they had denied him the prize, so maddened him that for a fullminute he stood, grasping the stone balustrade of the bridge, andwhispering curses at the current that flowed smoothly below.
The sunshine and the fair scene did but mock him. The green meadows,and the winding river, and the crescent of stately buildings,spire-crowned, that, curving with the stream, looked down upon it fromthe site of the ancient walls, did but deride his misery. For, howmany a time had he stood on that spot and looked on that scene in dayswhen he had been happy and carefree, his future as sunny as thelandscape before him! And now--oh, the cowards! The cowards, who hadnot had the courage even to pick up the fruit which his daring hadshaken from the bough.
Ay, his daring and his enterprise! For what else was it? What had hedone, after all, at which they need made mouths? It had been but aloan he had taken, the use for a few weeks of money which was uselesswhere it lay, and of which not a penny would be lost! And again hecursed the weakness of those who had rendered futile all that he, thebolder spirit, had done, who had consigned themselves and him tofailure and to beggary. He had bought their safety at his own cost,and they had declined to be saved. He shook with rage, with impotentrage, as he thought of it.
Presently a man, passing over the bridge, looked curiously at him,paused and went on again, and the incident recalled him to himself. Heremembered that he was in a place where all knew him, where hismovements and his looks would be observed, where every second personwho saw him would wonder why he was not at the bank. He must be going.He composed his face and walked on.
But whither? The question smote him with a strange and chilly sense ofloneliness. Whither? To the bank certainly, if he had courage, wherethe battle was even now joined. He might fling himself into the fray,play his part as if nothing had happened, smile with the best, ignorewhat he had done and, if challenged, face it down. And there had beena time when he could have done this. There had been a time, whenClement had first alighted on him in town, when he had decided withhimself to play that role, and had believed that he could carry it offwith a smiling face. And now, now, as then, he maintained that he haddone nothing that the end did not justify, since the means could harmno one.
But at that time he had believed that he could count on the complicityof others, he had believed that they would at least accept the thingthat he had done and throw in their lot with his, and the failure ofthat belief, brag as he might, affected him. It had sapped his faithin his own standards. The view Clement had taken had slowly but surelyeclipsed his view, until now, when he must face the bank with a smile,he could not muster up the smile. He began to see that he hadcommitted not a crime, but a blunder. He had been found out!
He walked more and more slowly, and when he came, some eighty yardsfrom the bridge and at the foot of the Cop, to a lane on his leftwhich led by an obscure shortcut to his rooms, he turned into it. Hedid not tell himself that he was not going to the bank. He toldhimself that he must change his clothes, and wash, and eat somethingbefore he could face people. That was all.
He reached his lodgings, beneath the shadow of an old tower thatlooked over the meadows to the river, without encountering any one. Heeven stole upstairs, unseen by his landlady, and found the fire alightin his sitting-room, and some part of a meal laid ready on the table.He washed his hands and ate and drank, but instinctively, as he didso, he hushed his movements and trod softly. When he had finished hismeal he stood for a moment, his eyes on the door, hesitating. Shouldhe or should he not go to the bank? He knew that he ought to go. Butthe wear and tear of three days of labor and excitement, during whichhe had hardly slept as many hours, had lowered his vitality and sappedhis will, and the effort required was now too much for him. With asigh of relief he threw up the sponge, he owned himself beaten. Hesank into a chair and, moody and inert, he sat gazing at the fire. Hewas very weary, and presently his eyes closed, and he slept.
Two hours later his landlady discovered him, and the cry which sheuttered in her astonishment awoke him. "Mercy on us!" she exclaimed."You here, sir! And I never heard a sound, and no notion you werecome! But I was expecting you, Mr. Bourdillon. 'He won't be long,' Isays to myself, 'now that that plaguy bank's gone and closed--worseluck to it!"
"Closed, has it?" he said, dully.
"Ay, to be sure, this hour past." Which of course was not true, butmany things that were not true were being said in Aldersbury that day."And nothing else to be expected, I am told, though there's nobodyblames you, sir. You can't put old heads on young shoulders, askingyour pardon, sir, as I said to Mrs. Brown no more than an hour ago. Itwas her Johnny told me--he came that way from school and stopped tolook. Such a sight of people on Bride Hill, he said, as he never sawin his life, 'cept on Show Day, and the shutters going up just as hecame away."
He did not doubt the story--he knew that there was no other end to beexpected. "I am only just from London," he said, feeling that someexplanation of his ignorance was necessary. "I had no sleep lastnight, Mrs. Bowles, and I sat down for a moment, and I suppose I fellasleep in my chair."
"Indeed, and no wonder. From London, to be sure! Can I bring youanything up, sir?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Bowles. I shall have to go out presently, anduntil I go out, don't let me be disturbed. I'm not at home if any onecalls. You understand?"
"I understand, sir." And on the stairs, as she descended, a pile ofplates and dishes in her arms, "Poor young gentleman," she murmured,"it's done him no good. And some in my place would be thinking oftheir bill. But his people will see me paid. That's where the gentrycome in--they're never the losers, whoever fails."
For a few minutes after she had retired he dawdled about the room,staring through the window without seeing anything, revolving thenews, and telling himself, but no longer with passion, that the gamewas played out. And gradually the idea of flight grew upon him, andthe longing to be in some place where he could hide his head, where hemight let himself go and pity himself unwatched. Had his pockets beenfull he would have returned to London and lost himself in its crowds,and presently, he thought--for he still believed in himself--he wouldhave shown the world what he could do.
But he had spent his loose cash on the journey, he was almost withoutmoney, and instinct as well as necessity turned his thoughts towardshis mother. The notion once accepted grew upon him, and he longed tobe at the Cottage. He felt that there he might be quiet, that there noone would watch him, and stealthily--on fire to be gone now that hehad made up his mind--he sought for his hat and coat and let himselfout of the house.
There was no one in sight, and descending from the Town Wall by somesteps, he crossed the meadows to the river. He passed the water by aferry, and skirting the foot of the rising ground on the other side,he presently struck into the Garthmyle road a little beyond the WestBridge.
He trudged along the road, his hat drawn down to his eyes, hisshoulders humped, his gaze fixed doggedly on the road before him. Hemarched as men march who have had the worst of the battle, yet whom itwould be unwise to pursue too closely. At first he walked rapidly,taking where he could a by-path, or a short-cut, and though the hills,rising from the plain before him, were fair to see on this fine winterday, as the sun began to decline and redden their slopes, he had noeye for them or for the few whom he met, the road-man, or the carter,who, plodding beside his load of turnips or manure, looked up andsaluted him.
But when he had left the to
wn two or three miles behind he breathedmore freely. He lessened his pace. Presently he heard on the roadbehind him the clip-clop of a trotting horse, and not wishing to berecognized, he slipped into the mouth of a lane, and by and by he sawClement Ovington ride by. He flung a vicious curse after him and,returning to the road, he went on more slowly, chewing the sour cud ofreflection, until he came to the low sedgy tract where the Squire hadmet with his misadventure, and where in earlier days the old man hadmany a time heard the bittern's note.
He was in no hurry now, for he did not mean to reach the Cottage untilClement had left it, and he stood leaning against the old thorn tree,viewing the place and thinking bitterly of the then and the now. Andpresently a spark of hope was kindled in him. Surely all was notlost--even now! The Squire was angry--angry for the moment, and withreason. But could he maintain his anger against one who had saved hislife at the risk of his own? Could he refuse to pardon one, but forwhom he would be already lying in his grave? With a quick uplifting ofthe spirit Arthur conceived that the Squire could not. No man could beso thankless, so unmindful of a benefit, so ungrateful.
Strange, that he had not thought of that before! Strange--that underthe pressure of difficulties he had let that claim slip from his mind.It had restored him to his uncle's favor once. Why should it notrestore him a second time? Properly handled--and he thought that hecould trust himself to handle it properly--it should avail him. Lethim once get speech of his uncle, and surely he could depend on hisown dexterity for the rest.
Hope awoke in him, and confidence. He squared his shoulders, he threwback his head, he strode on, he became once more the jaunty, gallant,handsome young fellow, whom women's eyes were wont to follow as hepassed through the streets. But, steady, not so fast. There was stillroom for management. He had no mind to meet Clement, whom he hated forhis interference, and he went a little out of the way, until he hadseen him pass by on his return journey. Then he went on. But it wasnow late, and the murmur of the river came up from shadowy depths, thesquat tower of the church was beginning to blend with the dark sky,lights shone from the cottage doors, when he passed over the bridge.He hastened on through the dusk, opened the garden-gate, and saw hismother standing in the lighted doorway. She had missed Clement, buthad gathered from the servant who had seen him that Arthur might beexpected at any moment, and she had come to the door with a shawlabout her head, that she might be on the look-out for him.
Poor Mrs. Bourdillon! She had passed a miserable day. She had herown--her private grounds for anxiety on Arthur's account, and thatanxiety had been strengthened by her last talk with Josina. She wassure that something was wrong with him, and this had so weighed on herspirits and engrossed her thoughts, that the danger that menaced thebank and her little fortune had not at first disturbed her. But as thetale of village gossip grew, and the rumors of disaster became moreinsistent, she had been forced to listen, and her fears once aroused,she had not been slow to awake to her position. Gradually Arthur'sabsence and her misgivings on his account had taken the second place.The prospect of ruin, of losing her all and becoming dependent on theSquire's niggard bounty, had closed her mind to other terrors.
So at noon on this day, unable to bear her thoughts alone, she hadwalked across the fields and seen Josina. But Josina had not been ableto reassure her. The girl had said as little as might be about Arthur,and on the subject of the bank was herself so despondent that she hadno comfort for another. The Squire had gone to town--for the firsttime since he had been laid up--in company with Sir Charles, andJosina fancied that it might be upon the bank business. But she hardlydared to hope that good could come of it, and Mrs. Bourdillon, whoflattered herself that she knew the Squire, had no hope. She hadreturned from Garth more wretched than she had gone, and had she beena much wiser woman than she was, she would have found it hard to meether son with tact.
When she heard his footsteps on the road, "Is it you?" she cried. Andas he came forward into the light, "Oh, Arthur!" she wailed, "whathave you brought us to? What have you done? And the times and timesI've warned you! Didn't I tell you that those Ovingtons----"
"Well, come in now, mother," he said. He stooped and kissed her on theforehead. He was very patient with her--let it be said to his credit.
"But, oh dear, dear!" She had lost control of herself and could notstay her complaints if she would. "You would have your way! And yousee what has come of it! You would do it! And now--what am I to sayto your uncle?"
"You can leave him to me," Arthur replied doggedly. "And for goodness'sake, mother, come in and shut the door. You don't want to talk to thevillage, I suppose? Come in."
He shepherded her into the parlor and closed the door on them. He wascold, and he went to the fire and stooped over it, warming his handsat the blaze.
"But the bank?"
"Oh, the bank's gone," he said.
She began to cry. "Then, I don't know what's to become of us!" shesobbed. "It's everything we have to live upon! And you know it wasn'tI signed the order to--to your uncle! I never did--it was you--wrotemy name. And now--it has ruined us! Ruined us!"
His face grew darker. "If you wish to ruin us," he said, "at any rateif you wish to ruin me, you'll talk like that! As it is, you'll notlose your money, or only a part of it. The bank can pay everyone, andthere'll be something over. A good deal, I fancy," putting the bestface on it. "You'll get back the greater part of it." Then, changingthe subject abruptly, "What did Clement Ovington want?"
"I don't--know," she sobbed. But already his influence was masteringher; already she was a little comforted. "He asked for you. I didn'tsee him--I could not bear it. I suppose he came to--to tell me aboutthe bank."
"Well," ungraciously, "he might have spared himself the trouble." Andunder his breath he added a curse. "Now let me have some tea, mother.I'm tired--dog tired. I had no sleep last night. And I want to seePugh before he goes. He must take a note for me--to Garth."
"I'm afraid the Squire----"
"Oh, hang the Squire! It's not to him," impatiently. "It's to Josina,if you must know."
She perked up a little at that--she had always some hope of Josina;and the return to everyday life, the clatter of the tray as it wasbrought in, the act of giving him his tea and seeing that he had whathe liked, the mere bustling about him, did more to restore her. Thelighted room, the blazing fire, the cheerful board--in face of thesethings it was hard to believe in ruin, or to fancy that life would notbe always as it had been. She began again to have faith in him.
And he, whose natural bent it was to be sanguine, whose spirits hadalready rebounded from the worst, shared the feeling which heimparted. That she knew the worst was something; that, at any rate,was over, and confidently, he began to build his house again. "Youwon't lose," he said, casting back the locks from his forehead withthe gesture peculiar to him. "Or not more than a few hundreds atworst, mother. That will be all right. I'll see to that. And myuncle--you may leave him to me. He's been vexed with me before, andI've brought him round. Oh, I know him. I've no doubt that I canmanage him."
"But Josina?" timidly. "D'you know, she was terribly low,Arthur--about something yesterday. She wouldn't tell me, but there wassomething. She didn't seem to want to talk about you."
He winced, and for a moment his face fell. But he recovered himself,and, "Oh, I'll soon put that right," he answered confidently. "I shallsee her in the morning. She's a good soul, is Josina. I can count onher. Don't you fret, mother. You'll see it will all come right--with alittle management."
"Well, I know you're very clever, Arthur. But Jos----"
"Jos is afraid of him, that's all." And laughing, "Oh, I've an arrowin my quiver, yet, mother. We shall see. But I must see Jos in themorning. Is Pugh there? I'll write to her now and ask her to meet meat the stile at ten o'clock. Nothing like striking while the iron ishot."
On the morrow he did not feel quite so confident. The sunshine andopen weather of the day before had given place to rain and fog, andwhen, after crossing the plank-bridge at the foot
of the garden, hetook the field path which led to Garth, mist hid the more distanthills, and even the limestone ridge which rose to her knees. The valehad ceased to be a vale, and he walked in a plain, sad andcircumscribed, bounded by ghostly hedges, which in their turn meltedinto grey space. That the day should affect his spirits was natural,and that his position should appear less hopeful was natural, too, andhe told himself so, and strove to rally his courage. He strode along,swinging his stick and swaggering, though there was no one to see him.And from time to time he whistled to prove that he was free from care.
After all, the fact that it rained did not alter matters. Wet or dryhe had saved the Squire's life, and a man's life was his first andlast and greatest possession, and not least valued when near its end.He who saved it had a claim, and much--much must be forgiven him.Then, too, he reminded himself that the old man was no longer thehard, immovable block that he had been. The loss of sight had weakenedhim; he had broken a good deal in the last few months. He could becajoled, persuaded, made to see things, and surely, with Josina'shelp, it would not be impossible to put such a color on the--the loanof the securities as might make it appear a trifle. Courage! A littlecourage and all would be well yet.
He was still hopeful when he saw Josina's figure, muffled in a cloakand poke-bonnet, grow out of the mist before him. The girl was waitingfor him on the farther side of the half-way stile, which had beentheir trysting place from childhood; and what slight doubt he had feltas to her willingness to help him died away. He whistled a littlelouder, and swung his stick more carelessly, and he spoke before hecame up to her.
"Hallo, Jos!" he cried cheerfully. "You're before me. But I knew thatI could count on you, if I could count on any one. I only came fromLondon last night, and"--his stick over his shoulder, and his headthrown back--"I knew the best thing I could do was to see you and getyour help. Why?" In spite of himself his voice fell a tone. "What'sthe matter?"
"Oh, Arthur!" she said. That was all, but the two words completed whather look had begun. His eyes dropped. "How could you? How would you doit?"
"Why--why, surely you're not going to turn against me?" he exclaimed.
"And he was blind! Blind! And he trusted you. He trusted you, Arthur."
"The devil!" roughly--for how could he meet this save by bluster? "Ifwe're going to talk like that--but you don't understand, Jos. It wasbusiness, and you don't understand, I tell you. Business, Jos."
"He does."
Two words only, but they rang a knell in his ears. They gripped him inthe moment of his swagger, left him bare before her, a culprit, dumb.
"He has felt it terribly! Terribly," she continued. "He was blind, andyou deceived him. Whom can he trust now, Arthur?"
He strove to rally his confidence. He could not meet her gaze, but hetapped a rail of the stile with his stick. "Oh, but that's nonsense!"he said. "Nonsense! But, of course, if you are against me, if you arenot going to help me----"
"How can I help you? He will not hear your name."
"I can tell you how--quite easily, if you will let me explain?"
She shook her head.
"But you can. If you are willing, that is. Of course, if you arenot----"
"What can I do? He knows all."
"You can remind him of what I did for him," he answered eagerly. "Isaved his life. He would not be alive now but for me. You can tell himthat. Remind him of that, Jos. Tell him that sometime after dinner,when he is in a good humor. He owes his life to me, and that's not asmall thing--is it? Even he must see that he owes me something. What'sa paltry thousand or two thousand? And I only borrowed them; he won'tlose a penny by it--not a penny!" earnestly. "What's that in returnfor a man's life? He must know----"
"He does know!" she cried; and the honest indignation in her eyes, theindignation that she could no longer restrain, scorched him. For thiswas too much, this was more than even she, gentle as she was, couldbear. "He does know all--all, Arthur!" she repeated severely. "That itwas not you--not you, but Clement, Mr. Ovington, who saved him! Andfought for him--that night! Oh, Arthur, for shame! For shame! I didnot think so meanly of you as this! I did not think that you would robanother----"
"What do you mean?" He tried to bluster afresh, but the stick shook inhis hand. "Confound it, what do you mean?"
"What I say," she answered firmly. "And it is no use to deny it, formy father knows it. He knows all. He has seen Clement----"
"Clement, eh?" bitterly. "Oh, it's Clement now, is it?" He was whitewith rage and chagrin, furious at the failure of his last hope. "It'sthat way, is it? You have gone over to that prig, have you? And he'stold you this?"
"Yes."
"And you believe him?"
"I do."
"You believe him against me?"
"Yes," she said, "for it is the truth, Arthur. I know that he wouldnot tell me anything else."
"And I? Do you mean to say that I would?"
She was silent.
It was check and mate, the loss of his last piece, the close of thegame--and he knew it. With all in his favor he had made one falsemove, then another and a graver one, and this was the end.
He could not face it out. There was no more to be said, nothing moreto be done, only shame and humiliation if he stayed. He flung a wordof passionate incoherent abuse at her, and before she could reply heturned his back on her and strode away. Sorrowfully Jos watched him ashe hurried along the path, cutting at the hedge with his stick,cursing his luck, cursing the trickery of others, cursing at last,perhaps, his own folly. She watched him until the ghostly hedges andthe misty distances veiled him from sight.
Ten minutes later he burst in upon his mother at the Cottage anddemanded twenty pounds. "Give it me, and let me go!" he cried. "Do youhear? I must have it! If you don't give it me, I shall cut my throat!"
Scared by his manner, his haggard eyes, his look of misery, the poorwoman did not even protest. She went upstairs and fetched the sum heasked for. He took it, kissed her with lips still damp with rain, andbidding her send his clothes as he should direct--he would write toher--he hurried out.
CHAPTER XLII
"I wun't do it! I wun't do it!" the Squire muttered stubbornly. "Mudand blood'll never mix. Shape the chip as you will, 'tis part of theblock! Girls' whimsies are women's aches, and they that's older mustjudge for them. She'd only repent of it when 'twas too late, and I'vepaid my debt and there's an end of it."
From the hour of that scene at Ovington's he had begun to recover.From that moment he began to wear a stiff upper lip and to give hisorders in hard, sharp tones, as he had been wont to give them in dayswhen he could see; as if, in truth, his irruption into the life of thetown and his action at the bank had re-established him in his owneyes. Those about him were quick to see the change--he had taken, saidthey, a new lease of life. "Maybe, 'tis just a flicker," Calamyobserved cautiously; but even he had to admit that the flame burnedhigher for a time, and privately he advised the new man who filledThomas's place "to hop it when the master spoke," or he'd hop it tosome purpose.
The result was that there was a general quickening up in the oldhouse. The master's hand was felt, and things moved to a liveliertime. To some extent pride had to do with this, for the rumor of theSquire's doings in Aldersbury had flown far and wide and made him thetalk of the county. He had saved the bank. He had averted ruin fromhundreds. He had saved the country-side. He had paid in thirty, forty,fifty thousand pounds. Naturally his people were proud of him.
And doubtless the bold part he had played had given the old man afillip; others had stood by, while he, blind as he was, had assertedhimself, and acted, and rescued his neighbors from a great misfortune.But the stiffness he showed was not due to this only. It was assumedto protect himself. "I wun't do it! I wun't do it! It's not i'reason," he told himself over and over again; and in his own mind hefought a perpetual battle. On the one side contended the opinions of alifetime and the prejudices of a caste, the beliefs in which he hadbeen brought up, and a pride
of birth that had come down from anearlier day; on the other, the girl's tremulous gratitude, hersilence, the touch of her hand on his sleeve, the sound of her voice,the unceasing appeal of her presence.
Ay, and there were times when he was so hard put to it that he groanedaloud. No man was more of a law to himself, but at these times he fellback on the views of others. What would Woosenham say of it? How wouldhe hold up his hands? And Chirbury--whose peerage he respected, sinceit was as old as his own family, if he thought little of the man? AndUvedale and Cludde? Ay, and Acherley, who, rotten fellow as he was,was still Acherley of Acherley? They had held the fort so stoutly inAldshire, they had repelled the moneyed upstarts so proudly, they hadturned so cold a shoulder on Manchester and Birmingham! They had foundin their Peninsular hero, and in that little country churchyard wherethe maker of an empire lay resting after life's fever, so complete ajustification for their own claims to leadership and to power! And noone had been more steadfast, more dogged, more hide-bound in theirpride and exclusiveness than he.
Now, if he gave way, what would they say? What laughter would therenot be from one end of the county to the other, what sneers, what talkof an old man's folly and an old man's weakness! For it was not evenas if the man's father had been a Peel or the like, a Baring or aSmith! A small country banker, a man just risen from the mud--not evena stranger from a distance, or a merchant prince from God knows where!Oh, it was impossible. Impossible! Garth, that had been in the handsof gentlefolk, of Armigeri from Harry the Eighth, to pass into thehands, into the blood of--no, it was impossible! All the world ofAldshire would jeer at it, or be scandalized by it.
"I wun't do it!" said the Squire for the hundredth time. It was moreparticularly at the thought of Acherley that he squirmed. He despisedAcherley, and to be despised by Acherley--that was too much!
"Of course," said a small voice within him, "he would take the name ofGriffin, and in time----"
"Mud's mud," replied the Squire silently. "You can't change it."
"But he's honest," quoth the small voice.
"So's Calamy!"
"He saved----"
"And I ha' paid him! Damme, I ha' paid him! Ha' done!" And then, "It'sthat blow on the head has moithered me!"
Things went on in this way for a month, the Squire renewing his vigorand beginning to tramp his fields again, or with the new man at hisbridle-hand to ride the old grey from point to point, learning whatthe men were doing, inquiring after gaps, and following the manure tothe clover-ley, where the oats and barley would presently go in. Snowlay on the upper hills, grizzling the brown sheets of bracken, anddappling the green velvet of the sloping ling; the valley below wasfrost-bound. But the Squire had a fire within him, a fire of warringelements, that kept his blood running. He was very sharp with the menand scolded old Fewtrell. As for Thomas's successor, the lad learnedto go warily and kept his tongue between his teeth.
The girl had never complained; it seemed as if that which he had donefor her had silenced her, as if, she, too, had taken it for payment.But one day she was not at table, and Miss Peacock cut up his meat.She did not do it to his mind--no hand but Jos's could do it to hismind--and he was querulous and dissatisfied.
"I'm sure it's small enough, sir," Miss Peacock answered, feeblydefending herself. "You said you liked it small, Mr. Griffin."
"I never said I liked mince-meat! Where is the girl? What ails her?"
"It's nothing, sir. She's been looking a little peaky the last week ortwo. That's all. And to-day----"
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"It's only a headache, sir. She'll be well enough when the springcomes. Josina was always nesh--like her mother."
The Squire huddled his spoon and fork together, and pushed his plateaway, muttering something about d--d sausage meat. Her mother? How oldhad her mother been when she--he could not remember, but certainly amere child beside him. Twenty-five or so, he thought. And she wasnesh, was she? He sat, shaving his chin with unsteady fingers, eatingnothing; and when Calamy, hovering over his plate, hinted that he hadnot finished, he blew the butler out of the room with a blast oflanguage that made Miss Peacock, hardened as she was, hold up herhands. And though Jos was at breakfast next morning, and answered hisgrumpy questions as if nothing were amiss, a little seed of fear hadbeen sown in the Squire's mind that grew as fast as Jonah's gourd, andbefore noon threatened to shut out the sun.
A silk purse could not be made out of a sow's ear. But a good leatherpurse, that might pass in time--the lad was stout and honest. And hisfather, mud, certainly, and mud of the pretentious kind that theSquire hated: mud that affected by the aid of gilding to pass for fineclay. But honest? Well, in his own way, perhaps: it remained to beseen. And times were changing, changing for the worse; but he couldnot deny that they were changing. So gradually, slowly, unwelcome atthe best, there grew up in the old man's mind the idea of surrender.If the money were paid back, say in three months, say in sixmonths--well, he would think of it. He would begin to think of it. Hewould begin to think of it as a thing possible some day, at some verydistant date--if there were more peakiness. The girl did not whine,did not torment him, did not complain; and he thought the more of herfor that. But if she ailed, then, failing her, there was no one tocome after him at Garth, no one of his blood to follow him--exceptthat Bourdillon whelp, and by G--d he should not have an acre or arood of it, or a pound of it. Never! Never!
Failing her? The Squire felt the air turn cold, and he hung,shivering, over the fire. What if, while he sought to preserve thepurity of the old blood, the old traditions, he cut the thread, andthe name of Griffin passed out of remembrance, as in his long life hehad known so many, many old names pass away--pass into limbo?
Ay, into limbo. He saw his own funeral procession crawl--a long blacksnake--down the winding drive, here half-hidden by the sunken banks,there creeping forth again into the light. He saw the bleak sunshinefall on the pall that draped the farm-wagon, and heard the slow heavynote of the Garthmyle bell, and the scuffling of innumerable feet thatalone broke the solemn silence. If she were not there at window ordoor to see it go, or in the old curtained pew to await its coming--ifthe church vault closed on him, the last of his race and blood!
He sat long, thinking of this.
And one day, nearly two months after his visit to the bank--in themeantime he had been twice into town at the Bench--he was riding onthe land with Fewtrell at his stirrup, when the bailiff told him thatthere was a stranger in the field.
"Which field?" he asked.
"Where they ha' just lifted the turnips," the man said. "Oh!" said theSquire. "Who is it? What's he doing there?"
"Well, I'm thinking," said Fewtrell, "as it's the young gent I've seenhere more 'n once. Same as asked me one day why we didn't drill 'em inwider."
"The devil, he did!" the Squire exclaimed, kicking up the old mare,who was leaning over sleepily.
"Called 'em Radicals," said Fewtrell, grinning. "Them there RadicalSwedes," says he. "Dunno what he meant. 'If you plant Radicals, bestplant 'em Radical fashion,' says he."
"Devil he did!" repeated the Squire. "Said that, did he?"
"Ay, to be sure. He used to come across with a gun field-way fromAcherley; oh, as much as once a week I'd see him. And he'd know everycrop as we put in, a'most same as I did. Very spry he was about it,I'll say that."
"Is it the banker's son?" asked the Squire on a sudden suspicion.
"Well, I think he be," Fewtrell answered, shading his eyes. "He begoing up to the house now."
"Well, you can take me in," to the groom. "I'll go by the gap."
The groom demurred timidly; the grey might leap at the gap. But theSquire was obstinate, and the old mare, who knew he was blind as wellas any man upon the place, and knew, too, when she could indulge in afrolic and when not, bore, him out delicately, stepping over thethorn-stubs as if she walked on eggs.
He was at the door in the act of dismounting when Clement appeared."D'you want me?" the old man asked bluntly.'
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p; "If you please, sir," Clement answered. He had walked all the way fromAldersbury, having much to think of and one question which lay heavyon his mind. That was--how would it be with him when he walked back?
"Then come in." And feeling for the door-post with his hand, theSquire entered the house and turned with the certainty of longpractice into the dining-room. He walked to the table as firmly as ifhe could see, and touching it with one hand he drew up with the otherhis chair. He sat down. "You'd best sit," he said grudgingly. "I can'tsee, but you can. Find a chair."
"My father has sent me with the money," Clement explained. "I have acheque here and the necessary papers. He would have come himself, sir,to renew his thanks for aid as timely as it was generous and--andnecessary. But"--Clement boggled a little over the considered phrase,he was nervous and his voice betrayed it--"he thought--I was tosay----"
"It's all there?"
"Yes, sir, principal and interest."
"Have you drawn a receipt?"
"Yes, sir, I've brought one with me. But if you would prefer that itshould be paid to Mr. Welsh--my father thought that that might be so?"
"Umph! All there, is it?"
"Yes, sir."
The old man did not speak for awhile. He seemed to be at a loss, andClement, who had other and more serious business on his mind, and hadhis own reasons for feeling ill at ease, waited anxiously. He wasdesperately afraid of making a false step.
Suddenly, "Who was your grandfather?" the Squire asked.
Clement started and colored. "He had the same name as my father," hesaid. "He was a clothier in Aldersbury."
"Ay, I mind him. I mind him now. And his father, young man?"
"His name was Clement," and foreseeing the next question, "he was ayeoman at Easthope."
"And his father?"
Clement reddened painfully. He saw only too well to what thesequestions were tending. "I don't know, sir," he said.
"And you set up--you set up," said the Squire, leaning forward andspeaking very slowly, "to marry my heiress?"
"No, sir, your daughter!" Clement said, his face burning. "If she'dnot a penny----"
"Pho! Don't tell me!" the old man growled, and to Clement'ssurprise--whose ears were tingling--he relapsed into silence again. Itwas a silence very ominous. It seemed to Clement that no silence hadever been so oppressive, that no clock had ever ticked so loudly asthe tall clock that stood between the windows behind him. "You know,"said the old man at last, "you're a d--d impudent fellow. You've nobirth, you're nobody, and I don't know that you've much money. You'vegone behind my back and you've stole my girl. You've stole her! Myfather'd ha' shot you, and good reason, before he'd ha' let it come tothis. But it's part my fault," with a sigh. "She've seen naught of theworld and don't know the difference between silk and homespun orwhat's fitting for her. You're nobody, and you've naught to offer--I'mplain, young gentleman, and it's better--but I believe you're a man,and I believe you're honest."
"And I love her!" Clement said softly, his eyes shining.
"Ay," drily, "and maybe it would be better for her if her fatherdidn't! But there it is. There it is. That's all that's to be said foryou." He sat silent, looking straight before him with his sightlesseyes, his hands on the knob of his stick. "And I dunno as I make muchof that--'tis easy for a man to love a maid--but the misfortune isthat she thinks she loves you. Well, I'm burying things as have beenmuch to me all my life, things I never thought to lose or part fromwhile I lived. I'm burying them deep, and God knows I may regret itsorely. But you may go to her. She's somewhere about the place.But"--arresting Clement's exclamation as he rose to his feet--"you'llha' to wait. You'll ha' to wait till I say the word, and maybe 'tisall moonshine, and she'll see it is. Maybe 'tis all a girl's whimsy,and when she knows more of you she'll find it out."
"God bless you, sir!" Clement cried. "I'll wait. I'm not afraid. I'veno fear of that. And if I can make myself worthy of her----"
"You'll never do that," said the old man sternly, as he bent lowerover his stick. He heard the door close and he knew that Clement hadgone--gone on wings, gone on feet lighter than thistle-down, gone,young and strong, his pulses leaping, to his love.
The Squire was too old for tears, but his lip trembled. It was notalone the sacrifice that he had made that moved him--the sacrifice ofhis pride, his prejudices, his traditions. It was not only theimmolation of his own will, his hopes and plans--his cherished plansfor her. But he was giving her up. He was resigning that of which hehad only just learned the worth, that on which in his blindness hedepended every hour, that which made up all of youth and brightnessand cheerfulness that was left to him between this and the end. He hadsent the man to her, and they would think no more of him. And in doingthis he had belied every belief in which he had been brought up andthe faith which he had inherited from an earlier day--and maybe he hadbeen a fool!
But by and by it appeared that they had not forgotten him, or one, atany rate, had not. He had not been alone five minutes before the dooropened behind him, and closed again, and he felt Josina's arms roundhis neck, her head on his breast. "Oh, father, I know, I know," shecried. "I know what you have done for me! And I shall never forgetit--never! And he is good. Oh, father, indeed, indeed, he is good!"
"There, there," he said, stroking her head. "Go back to him. But, mindyou," hurriedly, "I don't promise anything yet. In a year, maybe, I'lltalk about it."
THE END.
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