Читать книгу: «Ovington's Bank», страница 7

Perhaps the Squire now saw that he had made a mistake; or perhaps he was too angry to consider the matter. "Time I knew it?" he cried, as soon 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 getting what I've always given?"

"That's where it be!"

"Eh!"

"That's where it be! I'm getting what you gave thirty years agone! And you soaking in money, Master, and getting bigger rents and bigger profits. Ain't I to have my share of it?"

"Share of it!" the old man ejaculated, thunderstruck by an argument as new as the man's insolence. "Share of it!"

"Why not?" Thomas knew his case desperate, and was bent on having something to repeat to the awe-struck circle at the Griffin Arms. "Why not?"

"Why, begad?" the Squire exclaimed, staring at him. "You're the most impudent fellow I ever set eyes on!"

"You'll see more like me before you die!" Thomas answered darkly. "In hard 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 take all and us none?"

It was a revelation to the Squire. Share? Share with his men? Could there be a fool so foolish as to look at the matter thus? Laborers were laborers, and he'd always seen that they had enough in the worst times to keep soul and body together. The duty of seeing that they had as much as would do that was his; and he had always owned it and discharged it. If man, woman or child had starved in Garthmyle he would have blamed himself severely. But the notion that they should have more because times were good, the notion that aught besides the county rate of wages, softened by feudal charity, entered into the question, was a heresy as new to him as it was preposterous. "You don't know what you are talking about," he said, surprise diminishing his 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 to the summer-house a bit more, Master, and you'd learn. You'd ought to walk in the garden. There's goings-on and meetings and partings as you don't know, I'll go bail! But t'aint my business and I say nought. I do my work."

"I'll find another to do it this day month," said the Squire. "And you'll take that for notice, my man. You'll do your duty while you're here, and if I find one of the horses sick or sorry, you'll sleep in jail. That's enough. I want no more of your talk!"

He went into the house. Things had come to a pretty pass, when one of his men could face him out like that. The sooner he made a change and saw the rogue out of Garthmyle the better! He flung his stick into a corner and his hat on the table and damned the times. He would put the matter out of his mind.

But it would not go. The taunt the man had flung at him at the last haunted him. What did the rogue mean? And at whom was he hinting? Was Arthur working against him in his own house as well as opposing him out of doors? If so, by heaven, he would soon put an end to it! And by and by, unable to resist the temptation-but not until he had sent Thomas away on an errand-he went heavily out and into the terraced garden. He climbed to the raised walk and looked abroad, his brow gloomy.

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 running races under the hedgerows, or curling themselves up on sheltered banks. But the scene, which usually gratified him, failed to please to-day, for presently he espied a figure moving near the mill and made out 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 she should not be taking her pleasure. But the Squire's brow grew darker as he marked her lingering steps and uncertain movements. More than once he fancied that she looked behind her, and by and by with an oath he turned, clumped down the steps, and left the garden.

He had not quite reached the mill when she saw him descending to meet her. He fancied that he read guilt in her face, and his old heart sank at the sight.

"What are you doing?" he asked, confronting her and striking the ground 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 her voice. "I've been gathering-these, sir," she faltered, holding out her 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 hanging about to meet that young fool, I'll not have it. Do you hear? I'll not have it!"

She looked at him piteously, the color gone from her face. "I-I don't think-I understand, sir," she quavered.

"Oh, you understand well enough!" he retorted, his suspicions turned to certainty. "And none of your woman's tricks with me! I've done with Master Arthur, and you've done with him too. If he comes about the place he's to be sent to the right-about. That's my order, and that's all about it. Do you hear?"

She affected to be surprised, and a little color trickled into her cheeks. But he took this for one of her woman's wiles-they were deceivers, 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's to 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," she answered meekly. "I shall obey you if those are your orders."

He was surprised by the readiness of her assent, and he looked at her suspiciously. "Umph!" he grunted. "That sounds well, and it will be well for you, girl, if you keep to it. For I mean it. Let there be no mistake 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 no more. Only understand me, you've got to give him up."

"Yes, sir."

"From this day? Now, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

After that he had no more to say. He required obedience, and he should have been glad to receive it. But, to tell the truth, he was a little at a loss. Girls were silly-such was his creed-and it behoved them to be guided by their elders. If they did not suffer themselves to be guided, they must be brought into line sharply. But somewhere, far down in the old man's heart, and unacknowledged even by himself, lay an odd feeling-a feeling of something like disappointment. In his young days girls had not been so ready, so very ready, to surrender their lovers. He had even known them to fight for them. He was perplexed.

CHAPTER X

They were standing on the narrow strip of sward between the wood and the stream, which the gun accident had for ever made memorable to them. The stile rose between them, but seeing that his hands rested on hers, and his eyes dwelt unrebuked on her conscious face, the barrier was but as the equator, which divides but does not separate; the sacrifice to propriety was less than it seemed. Spring had come with a rush, the hedges were everywhere bursting into leaf. In the Thirty Acres which climbed the hill above them, the thrushes were singing their May-day song, and beside them the brook rippled and sparkled in the sunshine. All Nature rejoiced, and the pulse of youth leapt to the universal rhythm. The maiden's eyes repeated what the man's lips uttered, and for the time to love and to be loved was all in all.

"To think," he murmured, "that if I had not been so awkward we should not have known one another!" And, silly man, he thought this the height of wisdom.

"And the snowdrops!" She, alas, was on the same plane of sapience. "But when-when did you first, Clem?"

"From the first moment we met! From the very first, Jos!"

"When I saw you standing here? And looking-"

"Oh, from long before that!" he declared. And his eyes challenged denial. "From the hour when I saw you at the Race Ball in the Assembly Room-ages, ages ago!"

She savored the thought and found it delicious, and she longed to hear it repeated. "But you did not know me then. How could you-love me?"

"How could I not? How could I see you and not love you?" he babbled. "How was it possible I should not? Were we not made for one another? You don't doubt that? And you," jealously, "when, sweet, did you first-think of me?"

Alas, she could only go back to the moment when she had tripped heart-whole round the corner of the wood, and seen him standing, solitary, wrapped in thought, a romantic figure. But though, to her shame, she could only go back to that, it thrilled her, it made her immensely happy, to think that he had loved her first, that his heart had gone out to her before she knew him, that he had chosen her even before he had spoken to her. Ay, chosen her, little regarded as she was, and shabby, and insignificant amid the gay throng of the ballroom! She had been Cinderella then, but she had found her glass slipper now-and her Fairy Prince. And so on, and so on, with sweet and foolish repetitions.

For this was the latest of a dozen meetings, and Love had long ago challenged Love. Many an afternoon had Clement waited under the wood, and with wonder and reverence seen the maid come tripping along the green towards him. Many a time had he thought a seven-mile ride a small price to pay for the chance, the mere chance, of a meeting, for the distant glimpse of a bonnet, even for the privilege of touching the pebble set for a token on the stile. So that it is to be feared that, if market days had found him more often at his desk, there had been other days, golden days and not a few, when the bank had not held him, when he had stolen away to play truant in this enchanted country. But then, how great had been the temptation, how compelling the lure, how fair the maid!

No, he had not played quite fairly with his father. But the thought of that weighed lightly on him. For this that had come to him, this love that glorified all things, even as Spring the face of Nature, that filled his mind with a thousand images, each more enchanting than the last, and inspired his imagination with a magic not its own, – this visited a man but once; whereas he would have long years in which he might redeem the time, long years in which he might warm his father's heart by an attendance at the desk that should shame Rodd himself! Ay, and he would! He would! Even the sacrifice of his own tastes, his own wishes seemed in his present mood a small surrender, and one he owed and fain would pay.

For he was in love with goodness, he longed to put himself right with all. He longed to do his duty to all, he who walked with a firmer step, who trod the soil with a conquering foot, who found new beauties in star and flower, he, so happy, so proud, so blessed!

But this being his mood, there was a burden which weighed on him, and weighing on him more heavily every day, and that was the part which he was playing towards the Squire. It had long galled him, when absent from her; of late it had begun to mar his delight in her presence. The role of secret lover had charmed for a time-what more shy, more elusive, more retiring than young love? And what more secret? Fain would it shun all eyes. But he had now reached a farther stage, and being honest, and almost quixotic by nature, he could not without pain fall day by day below the ideals which his fancy set up. To-day he had come to meet Josina with a fixed resolve, and a mind wound to the pitch of action; and presently into the fair pool of her content-yet quaking as he did so lest he should seem to hint a fault-he cast the stone.

"And now, Jos," he said, his eyes looking bravely into hers, "I must see your father."

"My father!" Fear sprang into her eyes. She stiffened.

"Yes, dear," he repeated. "I must see your father-and speak to him. There is no other course possible."

Color, love, joy, all fled from her face. She shivered. "My father!" she stammered, pale to the lips. "Oh, it is impossible! It is impossible! You would not do it!" She would have withdrawn her hands if he had not held them. "You cannot, cannot mean it! Have you thought what you are saying?"

"I have, indeed," he said, sobered by her fear, and full of pity for her. "I lay awake for hours last night thinking of it. But there is no other course, Jos, no other course-if we would be happy."

"But, oh, you don't know him!" she cried, panic-stricken. And her terror wrung his heart. "You don't know him! Or what he will think of me!"

"Nothing very bad," he rejoined. But more than ever, more than before, his conscience accused him. He felt that the shame which burned her face and in a moment gave way to the pallor of fear was the measure of his guilt; and in proportion as he winced under that knowledge, and under the knowledge that it was she who must pay the heavier penalty, he took blame to himself and was strengthened in his resolve. "Listen, Jos," he said bravely. "Listen! And let me tell you what I mean. And, dearest, do not tremble as you are trembling. I am not going to tell him to-day. But tell him I must some day-and soon, if we do not wish him to learn it from others."

She shuddered. All had been so bright, so new, so joyous; and now she was to pay the price. And the price had a very terrible aspect for her. Fate, a cruel, pitiless fate, was closing upon her. She could not speak, but her eyes, her quivering lips, pleaded with him for mercy.

He had expected that, and he steeled himself, showing thereby the good metal that was in him. "Yes," he said firmly, "we must, Jos. And for a better reason than that. Because if we do not, if we continue to deceive your father, he will not only have reason to be angry with you, but to despise me; to look upon me as a poor unmanly thing, Jos, a coward who dared not face him, a craven who dared not ask him for what he valued above all the world! Who stole it from him in the dark and behind his back! As it is he will be angry enough. He will look down upon me, and with justice. And at first he will say 'No,' and I fear he will separate us, and there will be no more meetings, and we may have to wait. But if we are brave, if we trust one another and are true to one another-and, alas, you will have to bear the worst-if we can bear and be strong, in the end, believe me, Jos, it will come right."

"Never," she cried, despairing, "never! He will never allow it!"

"Then-"

"Oh," she prayed, "can we not go on as we are?"

"No, we cannot." He was firm. "We cannot. By and by you would discover that for yourself, and you, as well as he, would have cause to despise me. For consider, Jos, think, dear. If I do not seek you for my wife, what is before us? To what can we look forward? To what future? What end? Only to perpetual alarms, and some day, when we least expect it, to discovery-to discovery that will cover me with disgrace."

She did not answer. She had taken her hands from him, she had taken herself from him. She leant on the stile, her face hidden. But he dared not give way, nor would he let himself be repulsed; and very tenderly he laid his hand on her shoulder. "It is natural that you should be frightened," he said. "But if I, too, am frightened; if, seeing the proper course, I do not take it, how can you ever trust me or depend on me? What am I then but a coward? What is the worth of my love, Jos, if I have not the courage to ask for you?"

"But he will want to know-" her shoulders heaved in her agitation, "he will want to know-"

"How we met? I know. And how we loved? Yes, I am afraid so. And he will be angry with you, and you will suffer, and I shall be God knows how wretched! But if I do not go to him, how much more angry will he be! And how much more ground for anger will he have! If we continue to meet it cannot be long kept from him, and then how much worse will it be! And I, with not a word to say for myself, with no defence, no plea! I, who shall not then seem to him to be even a man."

"But he is so-so hard!" she whispered, her face still hidden.

"I know, dear. And so firmly set in his prejudice and his pride. I know. He will think me so far below you; he hates the bank and all connected with it. He holds me a mere clerk, not one of his class, and low, dear, I know it. But" – his voice rose a tone-"I am not low, Jos, and you have discovered it. And now I must prove it to him. I must prove it. And to make a beginning, I must be no coward. I must not be afraid of him. For you, the times are past when he could ill-treat you. And he loves you."

"He is very hard," she murmured. It was his punishment throughout, that though his heart was wrung for her he could not bear her share of the suffering. But he dared not and he would not give way. "He will make me give you up."

He had thought of that and was ready for it. "That must depend upon you," he said very soberly. "For my part, dear-but my part is easy-I shall never give you up. Never! But if the trial be too sore for you who must bear the heavier burden, if you feel that our love is not worth the price you must pay, then I will never reproach you, Jos, never. If you decide on that I will not say one word against it; no, nor think one harsh thought of you. And then we need not tell him. But we must not meet again."

She trembled; and it was natural, it was very natural, that she should tremble. It was an age when discipline was strict and even harsh, and she had been bred up in awe of her father, and in that absolute subjection to him of which the women about her set the example. Children were then to be seen and not heard. Girls were expected to have neither wills nor views of their own. And in her case this was not all. The Squire was a hard man. He was a man of whom those about him stood in awe, and who if he had any of the softer affections hid them under a mask of unpleasing reserve. Proud as he was of his caste, he kept his daughter short of money and short of clothes. He saw her go shabby without a qualm, and penniless, and rejoiced that she could not get into mischief. If she lost a shilling on an errand or overpaid a bill, he stormed and raved at her. Had she run up a debt he would have driven her from the room with oaths. So that if, under the dry husk, there was any kernel, any softer feeling-either for her or for the young boy who had died in his first uniform at Alexandria-she had no clue to the fact, and certainly no suspicion of it.

Nor was even this the whole. One thing was known to Josina which was not known to Clement. Garth was entailed upon her. Even the Squire could not deprive her of the estate, and in the character of his heir she wore for the old man a preciousness with which affection had nothing to do. What he might have permitted to his daughter was matter for grim conjecture. But that he would ever let his heiress, her whose hand was weighted with the rents of Garth, and with the wide lands he loved-that he would ever let her wed at her pleasure or out of her class-this appeared to Josina of all things the most unlikely.

It was no wonder then that the girl hesitated before she answered, or that Clement's face grew grave, his heart heavy, as he waited. But he had that insight into the feelings of others which imagination alone can give, and while she wavered or seemed to waver, he felt none of the resentment which comes of wounded love. Rather he was filled with a great pity for her, a deep tenderness. For it was he who was in fault, he told himself. It was he who had made the overtures, he who had wooed and won her fancy, he who had done this. It was his selfishness, his thoughtlessness, his imprudence which had brought them to this pass, a pass whence they could neither advance without suffering nor draw back with honor. So that if she who must encounter a father's anger proved unequal to the test, if the love, which he did not doubt, was still too weak to face the ordeal, it did not lie with him to blame her-even on this day when bird and flower and leaf sang love's pæan. No, perish the thought! He would never blame her. With infinite tenderness, forgiving her beforehand, he touched her bowed head.

At that, at that touch, she looked up at last, and with a leap of the heart he read her answer in her eyes. He read there a love and a courage equal to his own; for, after all, she was her father's daughter, she too came of an old proud race. "You shall tell him," she said, smiling through her tears. "And I will bear what comes of it. But they shall never separate us, Clem, never, never, if you will be true to me."

"True to you!" he cried, worshipping her, adoring her. "Oh, Jos!"

"And love me a little always?"

"Love you? Oh, my darling!" The words choked him.

"It shall be as you say! It shall be always as you say!" She was clinging to him now. "I will do as you tell me! I will always-oh, but you mustn't, you mustn't," between tears and smiles, for his arms were about her now, and the poor ineffectual stile had ceased to be even an equator. "But I must tell you. I love you more now, Clement, more, more because I can trust you. You are strong and will do what is right."

"At your cost!" he cried, shaken to the depths-and he thought her the most wonderful, the bravest, the noblest woman in the world. "Ah, Jos, if I could bear it for you!"

"I will bear it," she answered. "And it will not last. And see, I am not afraid now-or only a little! I shall think of you, and it will be nothing."

Oh, but the birds were singing now and the brook was sparkling as it rippled over the shallows towards the deep pool.

Presently, "When will you tell him?" she asked; and she asked it, with scarce a quaver in her voice.

"As soon as I can. The sooner the better. This is Saturday. I will see him on Monday morning."

"But isn't that-market-day?" faintly. "Can you get away?"

"Does anything matter beside this?" he replied. "The sooner, dear, the tooth is pulled, the better. There is only, one thing I fear."

"I think you fear nothing," she rejoined, gazing at him with admiring eyes. "But what is it?"

"That someone should be before us. That someone should tell him before I do. And he should think us what we are not, Jos-cowards."

"I see," she answered thoughtfully. "Yes," with a sigh. "Then, on Monday. I shall sleep the better when it is over, even if I sleep in disgrace."

"I know," he said; and he saw with a pang that her color ebbed. But her eyes still met his and were brave, and she smiled to reassure him.

"I will not mind what comes," she whispered, "if only we are not parted."

"We shall not be parted for ever," he assured her. "If we are true to one another, not even your father can part us-in the end."