CHAPTER XXX
Meantime the old man, left to himself, sat for a while, deeply moved.He breathed quickly, wiping his brow from time to time with a handthat trembled, and for some minutes it was upon the last and the leastunwelcome aspect of the matter that he dwelt. So that was the pointof it all, was it? That was the end and the aim of this clandestine,this disgraceful intrigue! This conspiracy! They had made this sillywoman-child, soft like all her sex, their puppet, and using her theyhad thought that he, too, might be drawn into their game and used andexploited for their profit. But they had been mad, mad, as they wouldlearn, to think it. They must have been mad to dream of it. Ordesperate. Ay, that must be it. Desperate!
But as he grew cooler, and the first impulse, so natural in him, topin his enemies and shake them, began to lose its force, less pleasantaspects of the matter rose before him. For the girl and her nonsenseand her bad, bad behavior, he did not tell himself, he would notallow, that it was that which hurt him most. On the contrary, heaffected to put that from him--for the time. He told himself andstrove to believe that he could deal with it when it pleased him. Hecould easily put an end to that folly. Girls were only girls, andshe'd forget. He would deal with that later.
But Arthur's five thousand--that would be lost, if the girl's storywere true. Five thousand! It was a fine sum and a d--d pity! TheSquire's avarice rose in arms as he thought of it. Five thousand! Andthat silly woman, Arthur's mother--he would have to provide for her.She would be penniless, almost penniless.
And Arthur himself? Confound him, what had the lad been doing? Why hadhe been silent about the bank's difficulties and the peril in whichhis money stood? For, it was only two days ago that he had denied theexistence of any peril. And then, again, what was this story aboutthat unlucky night which had cost him his sight? If it really wasyoung Ovington who had come to his rescue and beaten off Thomas, whyhad not Arthur said so? Why had he never let fall a single word abouthim, never mentioned the young fellow's name, never given him thecredit that--that was certainly due to him, rogue as he was, if thisstory were true. There was something odd about that--the Squire moveduneasily in his chair--something underhand and--and fishy! He had aglimpse of Arthur in a new light, and he did not like what he saw.
He liked it almost less, if that were possible, than he liked anotherthing--the idea that this young Ovington's silence was creditable tohim. If it were indeed he who had done the thing, why had he beenquiet all this time, and never even said "I did it"? If a gentlemanhad behaved after that fashion, the Squire would have known what tothink of it. But that this low-bred young cub, who had behaved sodisgracefully to his daughter, should bear himself in that way--no, hewas not going to believe it. After all, the world wasn't turned upsidedown to that extent.
No! For in his connection with the girl the young scamp had shown whathe was--a sneaking, underhand, interloping puppy. In connection withhis girl! As he thought of it, the veins swelled on the Squire'sforehead and he shook with rage. His girl! "Damn him! Damn him!" hecried, trembling with passion. And again and again he cursed the manwho had dared to raise his eyes to a Griffin--who had stolen hischild's heart from him. No fate, no punishment, no lot was too bad forsuch a one. Help him! Help him, indeed!
The Squire laughed mirthlessly at the notion.
After that there remained only his daughter to think of, and as hecame back to her and to her share in the matter, more, far more thanhe wished, recurred to his memory: her prayers and her pleading, herclinging arms and her caresses, the tears that had fallen on hishands, her warm, slender body pressed against his. He could not forgetthe sound of her voice in his ears, nor the touch of her hand, nor thefeel of her body. Words that she had used returned and beat on his oldheart, and beat and beat again, tormenting him, trying him, softening,ay, softening him. He thought of the boy, dead these many years atAlexandria, and, yes, she was all that he had, all. And he must thwarther, he must make her unhappy. It was his duty. She knew not what sheasked. And she had behaved ill, ay, very ill.
But on that, with a vividness which the reflection had never assumedbefore--for the old man, like other old men, did not feel old--he sawthat he had but a very short span to live--a year or two, or it mightbe three or four years. The last page of his life was all but turned,the book was near its end. Two or three years and all that hetreasured would be hers. Even now he was dependent on her for care andaffection, and to the last he must be dependent. A little while andshe would be alone, her own mistress; and he who had ruled his landsand his people for more than half a century would be a memory. Amemory of what?
Again, and yet again, he felt her arms about his knees, her littlehead pressed against his breast. Again and yet again her tears, herprayers beat upon his heart. She was a silly woman-child, a fool; buta dear fool, made dear to him in the very hour of her misbehavior. Itwas his duty to deny her. It was for him to order, for her to obey.And yet, "He saved your life!" that cry so oft repeated, so oftendinned into his ears, that, too, came back to him. And before he wasaware of it he was wondering what manner of man this young fellow was,what spell he had woven about the girl, whence his power over her.
And why had the man been silent about that night? Had he in truthintended to beard him and claim her in the road that morning--whenthey met? He remembered it.
The son of that man, Ovington! Lord Almighty! It could hardly beworse. And yet "He saved your life!" The Squire could not get overthat--if it were true. If it were really true.
He thought upon it long, forced out of the usual current of his life.Miss Peacock, bringing up his frugal luncheon, found him silent, sunklow in his chair, his chin upon his breast. So he appeared when anyonestole in during the next two hours to attend to the fire or to lighthis pipe. Calamy, safe outside the door, uttered his misgivings. "It'sthe torpor," he told Miss Peacock, shaking his head. "That's how ittakes them before the end, miss. I've seen it often. The torpor! He'llnot be long now!"
Miss Peacock scolded the butler, but was none the less impressed, andpresently she sought Josina, who was lying down in her room with aheadache. She imparted her fears to the girl, and unwillingly Josrose, and bathed her face and tidied her hair, and by and by came out.She must take up the burden of life again.
By that time Miss Peacock had disappeared, and Josina went down alone.Half-way down the upper flight she halted, for she heard a slow, heavystep descending the stairs below her. She looked down the well of thestaircase, and to her astonishment she saw her father going downbefore her, stair by stair, his hand on the rail, a paper and hisstick in the other hand. It was not the first time that he had donesuch a thing, but hitherto some one had always gone with him, to aidhim should aid be necessary.
Josina's first impulse was to hurry after him, but seeing the paper inhis hand and recognizing, as she fancied, the agreement that he hadsigned on the Saturday, she followed him softly, without letting himknow that she was there. He reached the foot of the staircase, andwith an accustomed hand he groped for and found the door of thedining-room. He pushed open the door and went in. He closed the doorbehind him, and distinctly--the house was very quiet, it was the deadof the afternoon--she heard him turn the key in the lock.
That alarmed her, for if he fell or met with an accident, there wouldbe a difficulty in assisting him. She moved to the door and listened.She heard him passing slowly and carefully across the floor, she heardthe table creak under his hand, as he reached it. A moment later herear caught the jingle of a bunch of keys.
His visit had a purpose, then. He might be going to deposit the lease,but she could not imagine where. His papers were in his own room or inhis bedroom. And Calamy had the wine, it could not be that he wanted.For a moment her thoughts reverted to her own trouble, and she sighed.Then she caught again the jingle of keys, and she listened, her headbent low. What could he be doing? And would he be able to find thedoor again?
Presently the silence was broken by an oath, followed by a rustlingsound, as if he were handlin
g papers. This lasted for quite a minute,and then there came from the room a strange, half-strangled cry, a crythat stopped the beating of her heart. She seized the handle of thedoor and turned it, shook it. But the door, as she knew, was locked,and, terrified, she cried, "Father! Father! What is it? What is it?"She beat on the door.
He did not answer, but she heard him coming towards her, moving atrandom, striking against the table, overturning a chair. She trembledfor him; he might fall at any moment, and the door was locked. But hedid not fall. He reached the door and turned the key. The door opened.She saw him.
Her fears had not been baseless. The light in the doorway was poor onthat cheerless December day, but it was enough to show her that theSquire's face was distorted and drawn, altered by some strange shock.And he was shaking in all his limbs. The moment that she touched himhe gripped her arm, and "Come here! Come here!" he ordered, his voicepiping and high. "Lock the door! Lock the door, girl!" And when shehad done this, "Do you see that cupboard? D'you see it?"
She was alarmed, for, whatever might be its cause, she was sure thatthe excitement under which he labored was dangerous for him. But shehad her wits about her, and the nerved herself to do what he wanted.She saw the open cupboard, of the existence of which she had notknown, but she showed no surprise. "Yes, I see it, sir," she said. Sheput his arm through hers, striving to calm him by her presence.
He drew her across the room till they stood before the cupboard. "Doyou see a box?" he demanded, hardly able to articulate the words inhis haste. "Ay? Then do you look in it, girl! Look in it. What isthere in it? Tell me, girl. Tell me quick! What is in it?"
The box, its lid raised, stood on the shelf before him, and he laidhis trembling hand on it. She looked into it. "It is empty, sir," shesaid.
"Empty? Quite empty?"
"Yes, sir, quite empty."
"Nothing in it?" desperately. "Are you sure, girl? Can you seenothing? Nothing?"
"Nothing, sir, I am quite sure," she said. "There is nothing in it."
"No papers?"
"No, sir, no papers."
An idea seemed to strike him. "They may ha' fallen on the floor," heexclaimed. "Look! Look all about, girl! Look! Ah," and there wassomething like agony in the cry, "curse this blindness! I am helpless,helpless as a child! Can you see no papers--on the floor, wench! Thinpapers? No? Nor on the shelves?"
"No, sir. There is the lease you signed on Saturday. That is all."
"For God's sake, make no mistake, make no mistake, girl!" he cried inirrepressible agitation. "Look! Look 'em over. Two papers--thinpapers--no great size they are."
She saw that there was something very much amiss, and she searchedcarefully, but there were no loose papers to be seen. There were boxeson one shelf and bundles of deeds below them, and a great many packetsof letters on a shelf above them, but all tied up. She could see noloose papers. None!
He seemed on the verge of collapse, but a new thought came to hissupport, and he drew her, almost as if he could see, to the other sideof the hearth. There he felt for and found the moulding of the panel,he fumbled for the keyhole. But his shaking hands would not do hiswill, and with a tremulous curse he gave the key to her, and obeyinghis half-intelligible directions, she unlocked and threw wide firstthe panel and then the door of the second cupboard.
"Two small papers! Thin papers!" he reiterated. "Look! Look, girl! Arethey there? Some one may have moved them. He may have put them here.Search, girl, search!"
But though she obeyed him, looking everywhere, a single glance showedher that there were no two papers there, papers such as he haddescribed. She told him what she saw--the bundles of ancient deeds,the tarnished plate, the jewel cases.
"But no--no loose papers?"
"No, sir, I can see none."
Convinced at last, he uttered an exceeding bitter cry, a cry that wentto the girl's heart. "Then he has robbed me!" he said. "He has robbedme! A Griffin, and he has robbed me! Get--get me a chair, girl."
Horrified, she helped him to a chair, and he sank into it, and with ashaking hand he sought for his handkerchief and wiped the moisturefrom his lips. Then his hands fell until they rested on his lap, hischin dropped on his breast. Two tears ran down his withered cheeks. "AGriffin!" he whispered. "A Griffin! And he has robbed me!"
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