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.”