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 hand that
trembled, and for some minutes it was upon the last and the least
unwelcome aspect of the matter that he dwelt. So that was the point of
it all, was it? That was the end and the aim of this clandestine, this
disgraceful intrigue! This conspiracy! They had made this silly
woman-child, soft like all her sex, their puppet, and using her they
had thought that he, too, might be drawn into their game and used and
exploited for their profit. But they had been mad, mad, as they would
learn, to think it. They must have been mad to dream of it. Or
desperate. Ay, that must be it. Desperate!
But as he grew cooler, and the first impulse, so natural in him, to pin
his enemies and shake them, began to lose its force, less pleasant
aspects of the matter rose before him. For the girl and her nonsense
and her bad, bad behavior, he did not tell himself, he would not allow,
that it was that which hurt him most. On the contrary, he affected to
put that from him—for the time. He told himself and strove to believe
that he could deal with it when it pleased him. He could easily put an
end to that folly. Girls were only girls, and she’d forget. He would
deal with that later.
But Arthur’s five thousand—that would be lost, if the girl’s story were
true. Five thousand! It was a fine sum and a d—d pity! The Squire’s
avarice rose in arms as he thought of it. Five thousand! And that 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 had
he been silent about the bank’s difficulties and the peril in which his
money stood? For, it was only two days ago that he had denied the
existence of any peril. And then, again, what was this story about that
unlucky night which had cost him his sight? If it really was young
Ovington who had come to his rescue and beaten off Thomas, why had not
Arthur said so? Why had he never let fall a single word about him,
never mentioned the young fellow’s name, never given him the credit
that—that was certainly due to him, rogue as he was, if this story were
true. There was something odd about that—the Squire moved uneasily in
his chair—something underhand and—and fishy! He had a glimpse 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 another
thing—the idea that this young Ovington’s silence was creditable to
him. If it were indeed he who had done the thing, why had he been quiet
all this time, and never even said “I did it”? If a gentleman had
behaved after that fashion, the Squire would have known what to think
of it. But that this low-bred young cub, who had behaved so
disgracefully to his daughter, should bear himself in that way—no, he
was not going to believe it. After all, the world wasn’t turned upside
down to that extent.
No! For in his connection with the girl the young scamp had shown what
he was—a sneaking, underhand, interloping puppy. In connection with his
girl! As he thought of it, the veins swelled on the Squire’s forehead
and he shook with rage. His girl! “Damn him! Damn him!” he cried,
trembling with passion. And again and again he cursed the man who had
dared to raise his eyes to a Griffin—who had stolen his child’s heart
from him. No fate, no punishment, no lot was too bad for such 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 he came
back to her and to her share in the matter, more, far more than he
wished, recurred to his memory: her prayers and her pleading, her
clinging arms and her caresses, the tears that had fallen on his hands,
her warm, slender body pressed against his. He could not forget the
sound of her voice in his ears, nor the touch of her hand, nor the feel
of her body. Words that she had used returned and beat on his old
heart, and beat and beat again, tormenting him, trying him, softening,
ay, softening him. He thought of the boy, dead these many years at
Alexandria, and, yes, she was all that he had, all. And he must thwart
her, he must make her unhappy. It was his duty. She knew not what she
asked. And she had behaved ill, ay, very ill.
But on that, with a vividness which the reflection had never assumed
before—for the old man, like other old men, did not feel old—he saw
that he had but a very short span to live—a year or two, or it might be
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 he treasured
would be hers. Even now he was dependent on her for care and affection,
and to the last he must be dependent. A little while and she would be
alone, her own mistress; and he who had ruled his lands and his people
for more than half a century would be a memory. A memory of what?
Again, and yet again, he felt her arms about his knees, her little head
pressed against his breast. Again and yet again her tears, her prayers
beat upon his heart. She was a silly woman-child, a fool; but a dear
fool, made dear to him in the very hour of her misbehavior. It was 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 often dinned into
his ears, that, too, came back to him. And before he was aware 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 truth
intended to beard him and claim her in the road that morning—when they
met? He remembered it.
The son of that man, Ovington! Lord Almighty! It could hardly be worse.
And yet “He saved your life!” The Squire could not get over that—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, sunk
low in his chair, his chin upon his breast. So he appeared when anyone
stole in during the next two hours to attend to the fire or to light
his pipe. Calamy, safe outside the door, uttered his misgivings. “It’s
the torpor,” he told Miss Peacock, shaking his head. “That’s how it
takes them before the end, miss. I’ve seen it often. The torpor! He’ll
not be long now!”
Miss Peacock scolded the butler, but was none the less impressed, and
presently she sought Josina, who was lying down in her room with a
headache. She imparted her fears to the girl, and unwillingly Jos rose,
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, heavy
step descending the stairs below her. She looked down the well of the
staircase, and to her astonishment she saw her father going down before
her, stair by stair, his hand on the rail, a paper and his stick in the
other hand. It was not the first time that he had done such a thing,
but hitherto some one had always gone with him, to aid him should aid
be necessary.
Josina’s first impulse was to hurry after him, but seeing the paper in
his hand and recognizing, as she fancied, the agreement that he had
signed on the Saturday, she followed him softly, without letting him
know that she was there. He reached the foot of the staircase, and with
an accustomed hand he groped for and found the door of the dining-room.
He pushed open the door and went in. He closed the door behind him, and
distinctly—the house was very quiet, it was the dead of the
afternoon—she heard him turn the key in the lock.
That alarmed her, for if he fell or met with an accident, there would
be a difficulty in assisting him. She moved to the door and listened.
She heard him passing slowly and carefully across the floor, she heard
the table creak under his hand, as he reached it. A moment later her
ear 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 in
his 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 head
bent low. What could he be doing? And would he be able to find the door
again?
Presently the silence was broken by an oath, followed by a rustling
sound, as if he were handling papers. This lasted for quite a minute,
and then there came from the room a strange, half-strangled cry, a cry
that stopped the beating of her heart. She seized the handle of the
door 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 at
random, striking against the table, overturning a chair. She trembled
for him; he might fall at any moment, and the door was locked. But he
did 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 on
that cheerless December day, but it was enough to show her that the
Squire’s face was distorted and drawn, altered by some strange shock.
And he was shaking in all his limbs. The moment that she touched him he
gripped her arm, and “Come here! Come here!” he ordered, his voice
piping and high. “Lock the door! Lock the door, girl!” And when she had
done this, “Do you see that cupboard? D’you see it?”
She was alarmed, for, whatever might be its cause, she was sure that
the excitement under which he labored was dangerous for him. But she
had 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 not known,
but she showed no surprise. “Yes, I see it, sir,” she said. She put his
arm through hers, striving to calm him by her presence.
He drew her across the room till they stood before the cupboard. “Do
you see a box?” he demanded, hardly able to articulate the words in his
haste. “Ay? Then do you look in it, girl! Look in it. What is there 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 laid his
trembling hand on it. She looked into it. “It is empty, sir,” she said.
“Empty? Quite empty?”
“Yes, sir, quite empty.”
“Nothing in it?” desperately. “Are you sure, girl? Can you see nothing?
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,” he
exclaimed. “Look! Look all about, girl! Look! Ah,” and there was
something like agony in the cry, “curse this blindness! I am helpless,
helpless as a child! Can you see no papers—on the floor, wench! Thin
papers? 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 in
irrepressible agitation. “Look! Look ’em over. Two papers—thin
papers—no great size they are.”
She saw that there was something very much amiss, and she searched
carefully, but there were no loose papers to be seen. There were boxes
on one shelf and bundles of deeds below them, and a great many packets
of letters on a shelf above them, but all tied up. She could see no
loose papers. None!
He seemed on the verge of collapse, but a new thought came to his
support, and he drew her, almost as if he could see, to the other side
of 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 his
will, and with a tremulous curse he gave the key to her, and obeying
his half-intelligible directions, she unlocked and threw wide first the
panel and then the door of the second cupboard.
“Two small papers! Thin papers!” he reiterated. “Look! Look, girl! Are
they 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 showed
her that there were no two papers there, papers such as he had
described. 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 went
to the girl’s heart. “Then he has robbed me!” he said. “He has robbed
me! 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 a
shaking hand he sought for his handkerchief and wiped the moisture from
his lips. Then his hands fell until they rested on his lap, his chin
dropped on his breast. Two tears ran down his withered cheeks. “A
Griffin!” he whispered. “A Griffin! And he has robbed me!”