Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Yes, there is — at three months. But I am afraid that my mother — —”

  “Surely she would not object under the circumstances. The increased income might be divided between you so that it would be to her profit as well as to your advantage to make the change. Three months, eh? Well, suppose we say the money to be paid and the articles of partnership to be signed four months from now?”

  Difficulties never loomed very large in this young man’s eyes. “Very good, sir,” he said. “Upon my honor, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “It won’t be all on your side,” the banker answered good-humoredly. “Your name’s worth something, and you are keen. I wish to heaven you could infect Clement with a tithe of your keenness.”

  “I’ll try, sir,” Arthur replied. At that moment he felt that he could move mountains.

  “Well, that’s settled, then. Send Rodd to me, will you, and do you see if I have left my pocket-book in the house. Betty may know where it is.”

  Arthur went through the bank, stepping on air. He gave Rodd his message, and in a twinkling he was in the house. As he crossed the hall his heart beat high. Lord, how he would work! What feats of banking he would perform! How great would he make Ovington’s, so that not only Aldshire but Lombard Street should ring with its fame! What wealth would he not pile up, what power would he not build upon it, and how he would crow, in the days to come, over the dull-witted clod-hopping Squires from whom he sprang, and who had not the brains to see that the world was changing about them and their reign approaching its end!

  For at this moment he felt that he had it in him to work miracles. The greatest things seemed easy. The fortunes of Ovington’s lay in the future, the cycle half turned — to what a point might they not carry them! During the last twelve months he had seen money earned with an ease which made all things appear possible; and alert, eager, sanguine, with an inborn talent for business, he felt that he had but to rise with the flowing tide to reach any position which wealth could offer in the coming age — that age which enterprise and industry, the loan, the mill, the furnace were to make their own. The age of gold!

  He burst into song. He stopped. “Betty!” he cried.

  “Who is that rude boy?” the girl retorted, appearing on the stairs above him.

  He bowed with ceremony, his hand on his heart, his eyes dancing. “You see before you the Industrious Apprentice!” he said. “He has received the commendation of his master. It remains only that he should lay his success at the feet of — his master’s daughter!”

  She blushed, despite herself. “How silly you are!” she cried. But when he set his foot on the lowest stair as if to join her, she fled nimbly up and escaped. On the landing above she stood. “Congratulations, sir,” she said, looking over the balusters. “But a little less forwardness and a little more modesty, if you please! It was not in your articles that you should call me Betty.”

  “They are cancelled! They are gone!” he retorted. “Come down, Betty! Come down and I will tell you such things!”

  But she only made a mocking face at him and vanished. A moment later her voice broke forth somewhere in the upper part of the house. She, too, was singing.

  CHAPTER VI

  Between the village and Garth the fields sank gently, to rise again to the clump of beeches which masked the house. On the farther side the ground fell more sharply into the narrow valley over which the Squire’s window looked, and which separated the knoll whereon Garth stood from the cliffs. Beyond the brook that babbled down this valley and turned the mill rose, first, a meadow or two, and then the Thirty Acre covert, a tangle of birches and mountain-ashes which climbed to the foot of the rock-wall. Over this green trough, which up-stream and down merged in the broad vale, an air of peace, of remoteness and seclusion brooded, making it the delight of those who, morning and evening, looked down on it from the house.

  Viewed from the other side, from the cliffs, the scene made a different impression. Not the intervening valley but the house held the eye. It was not large, but the knoll on which it stood was scarped on that side, and the walls of weathered brick rose straight from the rock, fortress-like and imposing, displaying all their mass. The gables and the stacks of fluted chimneys dated only from Dutch William, but tradition had it that a strong place, Castell Coch, had once stood on the same site; and fragments of pointed windows and Gothic work, built into the walls, bore out the story.

  The road leaving the village made a right-angled turn round Garth and then, ascending, ran through the upper part of the Thirty Acres, skirting the foot of the rocks. Along the lower edge of the covert, between wood and water, there ran also a field-path, a right-of-way much execrated by the Squire. It led by a sinuous course to the Acherley property, and, alas, for good resolutions, along it on the afternoon of the very day which saw the elder Ovington at Garth came Clement Ovington, sauntering as usual.

  He carried a gun, but he carried it as he might have carried a stick, for he had long passed the bounds within which he had a right to shoot; and at all times, his shooting was as much an excuse for a walk among the objects he loved as anything else. He had left his horse at the Griffin Arms in the village, and he might have made his way thither more quickly by the road. But at the cost of an extra mile he had preferred to walk back by the brook, observing as he went things new and old; the dipper curtseying on its stone, the water-vole perched to perform its toilet on the leaf of a brook-plant, the first green shoots of the wheat piercing through the soil, an old laborer who was not sorry to unbend his back, and whose memory held the facts and figures of fifty-year-old harvests. The day was mild, the sun shone, Clement was happy. Why, oh, why were there such things as banks in the world?

  At a stile which crossed the path he came to a stand. Something had caught his eye. It was a trifle, to which nine men out of ten would not have given a thought, for it was no more than a clump of snowdrops in the wood on his right. But a shaft of wintry sunshine, striking athwart the tiny globes, lifted them, star-like, above the brown leaves about them, and he paused, admiring them — thinking no evil, and far from foreseeing what was to happen. He wondered if they were wild, or — and he looked about for any trace of human hands — a keeper’s cottage might have stood here. He saw no trace, but still he stood, entranced by the white blossoms that, virgin-like, bowed meek heads to the sunlight that visited them.

  He might have paused longer, if a sound had not brought him abruptly to earth. He turned. To his dismay he saw a girl, three or four paces from him, waiting to cross the stile. How long she had waited, how long watched him, he did not know, and in confusion — for he had not dreamed that there was a human being within a mile of him — and with a hurried snatch at his hat, he moved out of the way.

  The girl stepped forward, coloring a little, for she foresaw that she must climb the stile under the young man’s eye. Instinctively, he held out a hand to assist her, and in the act — he never knew how, nor did she — the gun slipped from his grasp, or the trigger caught in a bramble. A sheet of flame tore between them, the blast of the powder rent the air.

  “O my God!” Clement cried, and he reeled back, shielding his eyes with his hands.

  The smoke hid the girl, and for a long moment, a moment of such agony as he had never known, Clement’s heart stood still. What had he done? oh, what had he done at last, with his cursed carelessness! Had he killed her?

  Slowly, the smoke cleared away, and he saw the girl. She was on her feet — thank God, she was on her feet! She was clinging with both hands to the stile. But was she— “Are you — are you — —” he tried to frame words, his voice a mere whistle.

  She clung in silence to the rail, her face whiter than the quilted bonnet she wore. But he saw — thank God, he saw no wound, no blood, no hurt, and his own blood moved again, his lungs filled again with a mighty inspiration. “For pity’s sake, say you are not hurt!” he prayed. “For God’s sake, speak!”

  But the shock had robbed her of speech, and he f
eared that she was going to swoon. He looked helplessly at the brook. If she did, what ought he to do? “Oh, a curse on my carelessness!” he cried. “I shall never, never forgive myself.”

  It had in truth been a narrow, a most narrow escape, and at last she found words to say so. “I heard the shot — pass,” she whispered, and shuddering closed her eyes again, overcome by the remembrance.

  “But you are not hurt? They did pass!” The horror of that which might have been, of that which had so nearly been, overcame him anew, gave a fresh poignancy to his tone. “You are sure — sure that you are not hurt?”

  “No, I am not hurt,” she whispered. “But I am very — very frightened. Don’t speak to me. I shall be right — in a minute.”

  “Can I do anything? Get you some water?”

  She shook her head and he stood, looking solicitously at her, still fearing that she might swoon, and wondering afresh what he ought to do if she did. But after a minute or so she sighed, and a little color came back to her face. “It was near, oh, so near!” she whispered, and she covered her face with her hands. Presently, and more certainly, “Why did you have it — at full cock?” she asked.

  “God knows!” he owned. “It was unpardonable. But that is what I am! I am a fool, and forget things. I was thinking of something else, I did not hear you come up, and when I found you there I was startled.”

  “I saw.” She smiled faintly. “But it was — careless.”

  “Horribly! Horribly careless! It was wicked!” He could not humble himself enough.

  She was herself now, and she looked at him, took him in, and was sorry for him. She removed her hands from the rail, and though her fingers trembled she straightened her bonnet. “You are Mr. Ovington?”

  “Yes. And you are Miss Griffin, are you not?”

  “Yes,” smiling tremulously.

  “May I help you over the stile? Oh, your basket!”

  She saw that it lay some yards away, blackened by powder, one corner shot away; so narrow had been the escape! He had a feeling of sickness as he took it up. “You must not go on alone,” he said. “You might faint.”

  “Not now. But I shall not go on. What — —” Her eyes strayed to the wood, and curiosity stirred in her. “What were you looking at so intently, Mr. Ovington, that you did not hear me?”

  He colored. “Oh, nothing!”

  “But it must have been something!” Her curiosity was strengthened.

  “Well, if you wish to know,” he confessed, shamefacedly, “I was looking at those snowdrops.”

  “Those snowdrops?”

  “Don’t you see how the sunlight touches them? What a little island of light they make among the brown leaves?”

  “How odd!” She stared at the snowdrops and then at him. “I thought that only painters and poets, Mr. Wordsworth and people like that, noticed those things. But perhaps you are a poet?”

  “Goodness, no!” he cried. “A poet? But I am fond of looking at things — out of doors, you know. A little way back” — he pointed up-stream, the way he had come— “I saw a rat sitting on a lily leaf, cleaning its whiskers in the sun — the prettiest thing you ever saw. And an old man working at Bache’s told me that he — but Lord, I beg your pardon! How can I talk of such things when I remember —— ?”

  He stopped, overcome by the recollection of that through which they had passed. She, for her part, was inclined to ask him to go on, but remembered that this, all this was very irregular. What would her father say? And Miss Peacock? Yet, if this was irregular, so was the adventure itself. She would never forget his face of horror, the appeal in his eyes, his poignant anxiety. No, it was impossible to act as if nothing had happened between them, impossible to be stiff and to talk at arm’s length about prunes and prisms with a person who had all but taken her life — and who was so very penitent. And then it was all so interesting, so out of the common, so like the things that happened in books, like that dreadful fall from the Cobb at Lyme in “Persuasion.” And he was not ordinary, not like other people. He looked at snowdrops!

  But she must not linger now. Later, when she was alone in her room, she could piece it together and make a whole of it, and think of it, and compass the full wonder of the adventure. But she must go now. She told him so, the primness in her tone reflecting her thoughts. “Will you kindly give me the basket?”

  “I am going to carry it,” he said. “You must not go alone. Indeed you must not, Miss Griffin. You may feel it more by and by. You may — go off suddenly.”

  “Oh,” she replied, smiling, “I shall not go off, as you call it, now.”

  “I will only come as far as the mill,” humbly. “Please let me do that.”

  She could not say no, it could hardly be expected of her; and she turned with him. “I shall never forgive myself,” he repeated. “Never! Never! I shall dream of the moment when I lost sight of you in the smoke and thought that I had killed you. It was horrible! Horrible! It will come back to me often.”

  He thought so much of it that he was moving away without his gun, leaving it lying on the ground. It was she who reminded him. “Are you not going to take your gun?” she asked.

  He went back for it, covered afresh with confusion. What a stupid fellow she must think him! She waited while he fetched it, and as she waited she had a new and not unpleasant sensation. Never before had she been on these terms with a man. The men whom she had known had always taken the upper hand with her. Her father, Arthur even, had either played with her or condescended to her. In her experience it was the woman’s part to be ordered and directed, to give way and to be silent. But here the parts were reversed. This man — she had seen how he looked at her, how he humbled himself before her! And he was — interesting. As he came back to her carrying the gun, she eyed him with attention. She took note of him.

  He was not handsome, as Arthur was. He had not Arthur’s sparkle, his brilliance, his gay appeal, the carriage of the head that challenged men and won women. But he was not ugly, he was brown and clean and straight, and he looked strong. He bent to her as if he had been a knight and she his lady, and his eyes, grey and thoughtful — she had seen how they looked at her.

  Now, she had never given much thought to any man’s eyes before, and that she did so now, and criticised and formed an opinion of them, implied a change of attitude, a change in her relations and the man’s; and instinctively she acknowledged this by the lead she took. “It seems so strange,” she said half-playfully — when had she ever rallied a man before?— “that you should think of such things as you do. Snowdrops, I mean. I thought you were a banker, Mr. Ovington.”

  “A very bad banker,” he replied ruefully. “To tell the truth, Miss Griffin, I hate banking. Pounds, shillings, and pence — and this!” He pointed to the country about them, the stream, the sylvan path they were treading, the wood beside them, with its depths gilded here and there by a ray of the sun. “A desk and a ledger — and this! Oh, I hate them! I would like to live out of doors. I want” — in a burst of candor— “to live my own life! To be able to follow my own bent and make the most of myself.”

  “Perhaps,” she said with naïveté, “you would like to be a country gentleman?” And indeed the lot of a country gentleman in that day was an enviable one.

  “Oh no,” he said, his tone deprecating the idea. He did not aspire to that.

  “But what, then?” She did not understand. “Have you no ambition?”

  “I’d like to be — a farmer, if I had my way.”

  That surprised as well as dashed her. She thought of her father’s tenants and her face fell. “Oh, but,” she said, “a farmer? Why?” He was not like any farmer she had ever seen.

  But he would not be dashed. “To make two blades of grass grow where one grew before,” he answered stoutly, though he knew that he had sunk in her eyes. “Just that; but after all isn’t that worth doing? Isn’t that better than burying your head in a ledger and counting other folk’s money while the sun shines out of doors, and th
e rain falls sweetly, and the earth smells fresh and pure? Besides, it is all I am good for, Miss Griffin. I do think I understand a bit about that. I’ve read books about it and I’ve kept my eyes open, and — and what one likes one does well, you know.”

  “But farmers — —”

  “Oh, I know,” sorrowfully, “it must seem a very low thing to you.”

  “Farmers don’t look at snowdrops, Mr. Ovington,” with a gleam of fun in her eyes.

  “Don’t they? Then they ought to, and they’d learn a lot that they don’t know now. I’ve met men, laboring men who can’t read or write, and it’s wonderful the things they know about the land and the way plants grow on it, and the live things that are only seen at night, or stealing to their homes at daybreak. And there’s a new wheat, a wheat I was reading about yesterday, Cobbett’s corn, it is called, that I am sure would do about here if anyone would try it. But there,” remembering himself and to whom he was talking, “this can have no interest for you. Only wouldn’t you rather plod home weary at night, feeling that you had done something, and with all this” — he waved his hand— “sinking to rest about you, and the horses going down to water, and the cattle lowing to be let into the byres, and — and all that,” growing confused, as he felt her eyes upon him, “than get up from a set of ledgers with your head aching and your eyes muddled with figures?”

  “I’m afraid I have not tried either,” she said. But she smiled. She found him new, his notions unlike those of the people about her, and certainly unlike those of a common farmer. She did not comprehend all his half-expressed thoughts, but not for that was she the less resolved to remember them, and to think of them at her leisure. For the present here was the mill, and they must part. At the mill the field-path which they were following fell into a lane, which on the right rose steeply to the road, on the left crossed a cart-bridge, shaken perpetually by the roar and wet with the spray of the great mill-wheel. Thence it wound upwards, rough and stony, to the back premises of Garth.