CHAPTER IX
Spring was late that year. It was the third week in April before thelast streak of snow faded from the hills, or the showers of sleetceased to starve the land. Morning after morning the Squire tapped hisglass and looked abroad for fine weather. The barley-sowing mightwait, but the oats would not wait, and at a time when there shouldhave been abundant grass he was still carrying hay to the racks. Thelambs were doing ill.
Morning after morning, with an old caped driving-coat cast about hisshoulders and a shabby hunting-cap on his grey head, he would walkdown to the little bridge that carried the drive over the stream.There, a gaunt high-shouldered figure, he would stand, lookingmorosely out over the wet fields. The distant hills were clothed inmist, the nearer heights wore light caps, down the vale the clearrain-soaked air showed sombre woods and red soil, with here and therea lop-sided elm, bursting into bud, and reddening to match thefurrows. "We shall lose one in ten of the lambs," he thought, "and nota sound foot in the flock!"
One morning as he stood there he saw a man turn off the road and comeshambling towards him. It was Pugh, the man-of-all-work at theCottage, and in his disgust at things in general, the Squire cursedhim for a lazy rascal. "I suppose they've nothing to do," he growled,"that they send the rogue traipsing the roads at this hour!" Aloud,"What do you want, my man?" he asked.
Pugh quaked under the Squire's hard eyes. "A letter from the mistress,your honor."
"Any answer?"
Reluctantly Pugh gave up the hope of beer with Calamy the butler. "I'dno orders to wait, sir."
"Then off you go! I've all the idlers here I want, my lad."
The Squire had not his glasses with him, and he turned the letter overto no purpose. Returning to his room he could not find them, and thedelay aggravated a temper already oppressed by the weather. He shoutedfor his spectacles, and when Miss Peacock, hurrying nervously to hisaid, suggested that they might be in the Prayer Book from which he hadread the psalm that morning, he called her a fool. Eventually, it wasthere that they were found, on which he dismissed her with a flea inher ear. "If you knew they were there, why did you leave them there!"he stormed. "Silly fools women be!"
But when he had read the letter, he neither stormed nor swore. Hisanger was too deep. Here was folly, indeed, and worse than folly,ingratitude! After all these years, after forty years, during which hehad paid them their five per cent. to the day, five per cent. securedas money could not be secured in these harum-scarum days--to demandtheir pound of flesh and to demand it in this fashion! Withoutwarning, without consulting him, the head of the family! It was enoughto make any man swear, and presently he did swear after the manner ofthe day.
"It's that young fool," he thought. "He's written it and she's signedit. And if they have their way in five years the money will be gone,every farthing, and the woman will come begging to me! But no, madam,"with rising passion, "I'll see you farther before I'll pay down apenny to be frittered away by that young jackanapes! I'll go thismoment and tell her what I think of her, and see if she's theimpudence to face it out!"
He clapped on his hat and seized his cane. But when he had flung thedoor wide, pride spoke and he paused. No, he would not lower himself,he would not debate it with her. He would take no notice--that, byG--d, was what he would do. The letter should be as if it had not beenwritten, and as to paying the money, why if they dared to go to law hewould go all lengths to thwart them! He was like many in that day,violent, obstinate men who had lived all their lives among dependentsand could not believe that the law, which they administered to others,applied to them. Occasionally they had a rude awakening.
But the old Squire did not lack a sense of justice, which, obscured intrifles, became apparent in greater matters. This quality came to hisrescue now, and as he grew cooler his attitude changed. If the woman,silly and scatterbrained as she was, and led by the nose by thatimpudent son of hers--if she persisted, she should have the money, andtake the consequences. The six thousand was a charge; it must be metif she held to it. Little by little he accustomed himself to thethought. The money must be paid, and to pay it he must sell hischerished securities. He had no more than four hundred, odd--he knewthe exact figure--in the bank. The rest must be raised by selling hisIndia Stock, but he hated to think of it. And the demand, made withoutwarning, hurt his pride.
He took his lunch, a hunch of bread and a glass of ale, standing atthe sideboard in the dining-room. It was an airy room, panelled, likemost of the rooms at Garth, and the pale blue paint, which many a yearearlier had been laid on the oak, was dingy and wearing off in places.His den lay behind it. On the farther side of the hall was thedrawing-room, white-panelled and spacious, furnished sparsely andstiffly, with spindle-legged tables, and long-backed Stuart chairs setagainst the wall. It opened into a dull library never used, andcontaining hardly a book later than Junius' letters or Burke'sspeeches. Above, under the sloping roofs of the attics, were chests ofdiscarded clothes, wig-boxes and queerly-shaped carriage-trunks, whichnowadays would furnish forth a fancy-ball, an old-time collectionalmost as curious as that which Miss Berry once viewed under theattics of the Villa Pamphili, but dusty, moth-eaten, unregarded,unvalued. Cold and bare, the house owned everywhere the pinch of theSquire's parsimony; there was nothing in it new, and little that wasbeautiful. But it was large and shadowy, the bedrooms smelled oflavender, the drawing-room of potpourri, and in summer the wind blewthrough it from the hay-field, and garden scents filled the lowerrooms.
An hour later, having determined how he would act, the old man walkedacross to the Cottage. As he approached the plank-bridge which crossedthe river at the foot of the garden he caught a glimpse of a petticoaton the rough lawn. He had no sooner seen it than it vanished, and hewas not surprised. His face was grim as he crossed the bridge, andwalking up to the side door struck on it with his cane.
She was all of a tremble when she came to him, and for that he wasprepared. That did not surprise him. It was due to him. But heexpected that she would excuse herself and fib and protest and shifther ground, and pour forth a torrent of silly explanations, as in hisexperience women always did. But Mrs. Bourdillon took him aback bydoing none of these things. She was white-faced and frightened, but,strange thing in a woman, she was dumb, or nearly dumb. Almost all shehad to say or would say, almost all that he could draw from her wasthat it was her letter--yes, it was her letter. She repeated thatseveral times. And she meant it? She meant what she had written? Yes,oh yes, she did. Certainly, she did. It was her letter.
But beyond that she had nothing to say, and at length, harshly, butnot as harshly as he had intended, "What do you mean, then," he asked,"to do with the money, ma'am, eh? I suppose you know that much?"
"I am putting it into the bank," she replied, her eyes averted."Arthur is going--to be taken in."
"Into the bank?" The Squire glared at her. "Into Ovington's?"
"Yes, into Ovington's," she answered, with the courage of despair."Where he will get twelve per cent. for it." She spoke in the tone ofone who repeated a lesson.
He struck the floor with his cane. "And you think that it will be safethere? Safe, ma'am, safe?"
"I hope so," she faltered.
"Hope so, by G--d? Hope so!" he rapped out, honestly amazed. "Andthat's all. Hope so! Well, all I can say is that I hope you mayn'tlive to regret your folly. Twelve per cent. indeed! Twelve----"
He was going to say more, but the silly woman burst into tears andwept with such self-abandonment that she fairly silenced him. Afterwatching her a moment, "Well, there, there, ma'am, it's no good cryinglike that," he said irritably. "But damme, it beats me! It beats me.If that is the way you look at it, why do you do it? Why do you do it?Of course you'll have the money. But when it's gone, don't come to mefor more. And don't say I didn't warn you! There, there, ma'am!" movedby her grief, "for heaven's sake don't go on like that! Don't--Godbless me, if I live to be a hundred, if I shall ever understandwomen!"
He went away, routed by
her tears and almost as much perplexed as hewas enraged. "If the woman feels like that about it, why does she callup the money?" he asked himself. "Hope that it won't be lost! Hope,indeed! No, I'll never understand the silly fools. Never! Hope,indeed! But I suppose that it's that son of hers has befooled her."
He saw, of course, that it was Arthur who had pushed her to it, andhis anger against him and against Ovington grew. He would take hisbalance from Ovington's on the very next market day. He would go backto Dean's, though it meant eating humble pie. He thought of otherschemes of vengeance, yet knew that when the time came he would notact upon them.
He was in a savage mood as he crossed the stable-yard at Garth, andunluckily his eye fell upon Thomas, who was seated on a shaft in acorner of the cart-shed. The man espied him at the same moment andhurried away a paper--it looked like a newspaper--over which he hadbeen poring. Now, the Squire hated idleness, but he hated still moreto see a newspaper in one of his men's hands. A laborer who could readwas, in his opinion, a laborer spoiled, and his wrath blazed up.
"You d--d idle rascal!" he roared, shaking his cane at the man."That's what you do in my time, is it! Read some blackguard twopennytrash when you should be cleaning harness! Confound you, if I catchyou again with a paper, you go that minute! D'you hear? D'you thinkthat that's what I pay you for?"
The worm will turn, and Thomas, who had been spelling out an inspiringspeech by one Henry Hunt, did turn. "Pay me? You pay me littleenough!" he answered sullenly.
The Squire could hardly believe his ears. That one of his men shouldanswer him!
"Ay, little enough!" the man repeated impudently. "Beggarly pay, and'tis time you knew it, Master."
The Squire gasped. Thomas was a Garthmyle man, who ten years beforehad migrated to Lancashire. Later he had returned--some said that hehad got into trouble up north. However that may be, the Squire hadwanted a groom, and Thomas had offered himself at low wages and beentaken. The village thought that the Squire had been wrong, for Thomashad learned more tricks in Manchester than just to read the newspaper,and, always an ill-conditioned fellow, was fond of airing his learningin the ale-house.
Perhaps the Squire now saw that he had made a mistake; or perhaps hewas too angry to consider the matter. "Time I knew it?" he cried, assoon as he could recover himself. "Why, you idle, worthless vagabond,do you think that I do not know what you're worth? Ain't you gettingwhat I've always given?"
"That's where it be!"
"Eh!"
"That's where it be! I'm getting what you gave thirty years agone! Andyou soaking in money, Master, and getting bigger rents and biggerprofits. Ain't I to have my share of it?"
"Share of it!" the old man ejaculated, thunderstruck by an argument asnew as the man's insolence. "Share of it!"
"Why not?" Thomas knew his case desperate, and was bent on havingsomething to repeat to the awe-struck circle at the Griffin Arms. "Whynot?"
"Why, begad?" the Squire exclaimed, staring at him. "You're the mostimpudent fellow I ever set eyes on!"
"You'll see more like me before you die!" Thomas answered darkly. "Inhard times didn't we share 'em and fair clem? And now profits are up,the world's full of money, as I hear in Aldersbury, and be you to takeall and us none?"
It was a revelation to the Squire. Share? Share with his men? Couldthere be a fool so foolish as to look at the matter thus? Laborerswere laborers, and he'd always seen that they had enough in the worsttimes to keep soul and body together. The duty of seeing that they hadas much as would do that was his; and he had always owned it anddischarged it. If man, woman or child had starved in Garthmyle hewould have blamed himself severely. But the notion that they shouldhave more because times were good, the notion that aught besides thecounty rate of wages, softened by feudal charity, entered into thequestion, was a heresy as new to him as it was preposterous. "Youdon't know what you are talking about," he said, surprise diminishinghis anger.
"Don't I?" the man answered, his little eyes sparkling with spite."Well there's some things I know as you don't. You'd ought to go tothe summer-house a bit more, Master, and you'd learn. You'd ought towalk in the garden. There's goings-on and meetings and partings as youdon't know, I'll go bail! But t'aint my business and I say nought. Ido my work."
"I'll find another to do it this day month," said the Squire. "Andyou'll take that for notice, my man. You'll do your duty while you'rehere, and if I find one of the horses sick or sorry, you'll sleep injail. That's enough. I want no more of your talk!"
He went into the house. Things had come to a pretty pass, when one ofhis men could face him out like that. The sooner he made a change andsaw the rogue out of Garthmyle the better! He flung his stick into acorner and his hat on the table and damned the times. He would put thematter out of his mind.
But it would not go. The taunt the man had flung at him at the lasthaunted him. What did the rogue mean? And at whom was he hinting? WasArthur working against him in his own house as well as opposing himout of doors? If so, by heaven, he would soon put an end to it! And byand by, unable to resist the temptation--but not until he had sentThomas away on an errand--he went heavily out and into the terracedgarden. He climbed to the raised walk and looked abroad, his browgloomy.
The day had mended and the sun was trying to break through the clouds.The sheep were feeding along the brook-side, the lambs were runningraces under the hedgerows, or curling themselves up on shelteredbanks. But the scene, which usually gratified him, failed to pleaseto-day, for presently he espied a figure moving near the mill and madeout that the figure was Josina's. From time to time the girl stooped.She appeared to be picking primroses.
It was the idle hour of the day, and there was no reason why sheshould not be taking her pleasure. But the Squire's brow grew darkeras he marked her lingering steps and uncertain movements. More thanonce he fancied that she looked behind her, and by and by with an oathhe turned, clumped down the steps, and left the garden.
He had not quite reached the mill when she saw him descending to meether. He fancied that he read guilt in her face, and his old heart sankat the sight.
"What are you doing?" he asked, confronting her and striking theground with his cane. "Eh? What are you doing here, girl? Out with it!You've a tongue, I suppose?"
She looked as if she could sink into the ground, but she found hervoice. "I've been gathering--these, sir," she faltered, holding outher basket.
"Ay, at the rate of one a minute! I watched you. Now, listen to me.You listen to me, young woman. And take warning. If you're hangingabout to meet that young fool, I'll not have it. Do you hear? I'll nothave it!"
She looked at him piteously, the color gone from her face. "I--I don'tthink--I understand, sir," she quavered.
"Oh, you understand well enough!" he retorted, his suspicions turnedto certainty. "And none of your woman's tricks with me! I've done withMaster Arthur, and you've done with him too. If he comes about theplace he's to be sent to the right-about. That's my order, and that'sall about it. Do you hear?"
She affected to be surprised, and a little color trickled into hercheeks. But he took this for one of her woman's wiles--they weredeceivers, all of them.
"Do you mean, sir," she stammered, "that I am not to see Arthur?"
"You're neither to see him nor speak to him nor listen to him! There'sto be an end of it. Now, are you going to obey me, girl?"
She looked as if butter would not melt in her mouth. "Yes, sir," sheanswered meekly. "I shall obey you if those are your orders."
He was surprised by the readiness of her assent, and he looked at hersuspiciously. "Umph!" he grunted. "That sounds well, and it will bewell for you, girl, if you keep to it. For I mean it. Let there be nomistake about that."
"I shall do as you wish, of course, sir."
"He's behaved badly, d--d badly! But if you are sensible I'll say nomore. Only understand me, you've got to give him up."
"Yes, sir."
"From this day? Now, do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." r />
After that he had no more to say. He required obedience, and he shouldhave been glad to receive it. But, to tell the truth, he was a littleat a loss. Girls were silly--such was his creed--and it behoved themto be guided by their elders. If they did not suffer themselves to beguided, they must be brought into line sharply. But somewhere, fardown in the old man's heart, and unacknowledged even by himself, layan odd feeling--a feeling of something like disappointment. In hisyoung days girls had not been so ready, so very ready, to surrendertheir lovers. He had even known them to fight for them. He wasperplexed.