“WILL FIELDING is in the town; I'm to arrest him as agreed last night?”
“Hum! no!”
“Why I have got the judgment in my pocket and the constable at the
public hard by.”
“Never mind! he was saucy to me in the market yesterday--I was angry
and--but anger is a snare. What shall I gain by locking him up just now?
let him go.”
“Well, sir, your will is law,” said Crawley obsequiously but sadly.
“Now to business of more importance.”
“At your service, sir.”
But the business of more importance was interrupted by a sudden knock at
the outside door of Mr. Meadows' study.
“Well!”
A young lady to see you.
“A young lady?” inquired Meadows with no very amiable air, “I am
engaged--do you know who it is?”
“It is Farmer Merton's daughter, David says.”
“Miss Merton!” cried Meadows, with a marvelous change of manner. “Show
her up directly. Crawley, run into the passage, quick, man--and wait for
signals.” He bundled Crawley out, shut the secret door, threw open both
the others, and welcomed Susan warmly at the threshold. “Well, this is
good of you, Miss Merton, to come and shine in upon me in my own house.”
“I have brought your book back!” replied Susan, coloring a little; “that
was my errand, that is,” said she, “that was partly my errand.” She
hesitated a moment--“I am going to Mr. Levi.” Meadows' countenance fell.
“And I wouldn't go to him without coming to you; because what I have to
say to him I must say to you as well. Mr. Meadows, do let me persuade
you out of this bitter feeling against the poor old man. Oh! I know you
will say he is worse than you are; so he is, a little; but then consider
he has more excuse than you; he has never been taught how wicked it is
not to forgive. You know it--but don't practice it.”
Meadows looked at the simple-minded enthusiast, and his cold eye
deepened in color as it dwelt on her, and his voice dropped into the
low and modulated tone which no other human creature but this ever heard
from him. “Human nature is very revengeful. Few of us are like you. It
is my misfortune that I have not oftener a lesson from you; perhaps you
might charm away this unchristian spirit that makes me unworthy to be
your--your friend.”
“Oh no! no!” cried Susan, “if I thought so should I be here?”
“Your voice and your face do make me at peace with all the world,
Susan--I beg your pardon--Miss Merton.”
“And why not Susan?” said the young lady kindly.
“Well! Susan is a very inviting name.”
“La! Mr. Meadows,” cried Susan, arching her brows, “why, it is a
frightful name--it is so old-fashioned; nobody is christened Susan
nowadays.”
“It is a name for everything that is good and gentle and lovely--” A
moment more and passion would have melted all the icy barriers prudence
and craft had reared round this deep heart. His voice was trembling,
his cheek flushing; but he was saved by--an enemy. “Susan!” cried a
threatening voice at the door, and there stood William Fielding with a
look to match.
Rage burned in Meadows' heart. He said bruskly, “Come in,” and seizing a
slip of paper he wrote five words on it, and taking out a book flung it
into the passage to Crawley. He then turned toward W. Fielding, who by
this time had walked up to Susan. Was on the other side of the screen.
“Was told you had gone in here,” said William quietly, “so I came after
you.”
“Now that was very attentive of you,” replied Susan ironically. “It is
so nice to have a sensible young man like you following forever at one's
heels--like a dog.”
A world of quiet scorn embellished this little remark.
William's reply was happier than usual. “The sheep find the dog often in
their way, but they are all the safer for him.”
“Well, I'm sure,” cried Susan, her scorn giving way to anger.
Mr. Meadows put in: “I must trouble you to treat Miss Merton with proper
respect when you speak to her in my house.”
“Who respects her more than I?” retorted William; “but you see, Mr.
Meadows, sheep are no match for wolves when the dog is away--so the dog
is here.”
“I see the dog is here and by his own invitation; all I say is that if
the dog is to stay here he must behave like a man.”
William gasped at this hit; he didn't trust himself to answer Meadows;
in fact, a blow of his fist seemed to him the only sufficient answer--he
turned to Susan. “Susan, do you remember poor George's last words to me?
with a tear in his eye and his hand in mine. Well, I keep my promise
to him--I keep my eye upon such as I think capable of undermining my
brother. This man is a schemer, Susan, and you are too simple to fathom
him.”
The look of surprise crafty Meadows put on here, and William Fielding's
implied compliment to his own superior sagacity struck Susan as
infinitely ludicrous, and she looked at Meadows and laughed like a peal
of bells. Of course he looked at her and laughed with her. At this all
young Fielding's self-restraint went to the winds, and he went on--“But
sooner than that, I'll twist as good a man's neck as ever schemed in
Jack Meadows' shoes!”
At this defiance Meadows wheeled round on William Fielding and
confronted him with his stalwart person and eyes glowing with gloomy
wrath. Susan screamed with terror at William's insulting words and
at the attitude of the two men, and she made a step to throw herself
between them if necessary; but before words could end in blows a tap
at the study door caused a diversion, and a cringing sort of voice said
“May I come in?”
“Of course you may,” shouted Meadows; “the place is public. Anybody
walks into my room to-day, friend or foe. Don't ask my leave--come in,
man, whoever you are--Mr. Crawley; well, I didn't expect a call from you
any more than from this one.”
“Now don't you be angry, sir. I had a good reason for intruding on
you this once. Jackson!” Jackson stepped forward and touched William
Fielding on the shoulder.
“You must come along with me,” said he.
“What for?” inquired Fielding.
“You are arrested on this judgment,” explained Crawley, letting the
document peep a moment from his waistcoat pocket. William threw himself
into an attitude of defense. His first impulse was to knock the officer
down and run into another county, but the next moment he saw the folly
and injustice of this and another sentiment overpowered the honest
simple fellow--shame. He covered his face with both his hands and
groaned aloud with the sense of humiliation.
“Oh! my poor William!” cried Susan. “Oh! Mr. Meadows, can nothing be
done?”
“Why, Miss Merton,” said Meadows, looking down, “you can't expect me to
do anything for him. If it was his brother now, Lawyer Crawley shouldn't
ever take him out of my house.”
Susan flushed all over. “That I am sure you would, Mr. Meadows,” cried
she (for feeling obscured grammar). “Now see, dear William, how your
temper and unworthy suspicions alienate our friends; but father shan't
let you lie in prison. Mr. Meadows, will you lend me a sheet of paper?”
She sat down, pen in hand, in generous excitement. While she wrote Mr.
Meadows addressed Crawley. “And now a word with you, Mr. Crawley. You
and I meet on business now and then, but we are not on visiting terms
that I know of. How come you to walk into my house with a constable at
your back?”
“Well, sir, I did it for the best,” said Crawley apologetically. “Our
man came in here, and the street door was open, and I said, 'He is a
friend of Mr. Meadows, perhaps it would be more delicate to all parties
to take him indoors than in the open street.'”
“Oh, yes!” cried William, “it is bitter enough as it is, but that would
have been worse--thank you for arresting me here--and now take me away
and let me hide from all the world.”
“Fools!” said a firm voice behind the screen.
“Fools!” At this word and a new voice Susan started up from the table
and William turned his face from the wall. Meadows did more. “Another!”
cried he in utter amazement; “why my house is an inn. Ah!”
While speaking he had run round the screen and come plump upon Isaac
Levi seated in a chair and looking up in his face with stern composure.
His exclamation brought the others round after him and a group of
excited faces encircled this old man seated sternly composed.
“Fools!” repeated he, “these tricks were stale before England was a
nation. Which of you two has the judgment?”
“I, sir,” said Crawley, at a look from Meadows.
“The amount?”
“A hundred and six thirteen four.”
“Here is the money. Give me the document.”
“Here, sir.” Levi read it. “This action was taken on a bill of exchange.
I must have that too.”
“Here it is, sir. Would you like an acknowledgment, Mr. Levi,” said
Crawley obsequiously.
“No! foolish man. Are not these sufficient vouchers? You are free, sir,”
said Crawley to William with an air of cheerful congratulation.
“Am I? Then I advise you to get out of my way, for my fingers do itch to
fling you headforemost down the stairs.”
On this hint out wriggled Mr. Crawley with a semicircle of bows to the
company. Constable touched his frontlock and went straight away as if he
was going through the opposite wall of the house. Meadows pointed after
him with his finger and said to Levi, “You see the road--get out of my
house.”
The old man never moved from his chair, to which he had returned after
paying William's debts. “It is not your house,” said he coolly.
The other stared. “No matter,” replied Meadows sharply, “it is mine till
my mortgage is paid off.”
“I am here to pay it.”
“Ah!”
“Principal and interest calculated up to twelve o'clock this eleventh
day of March. It wants five minutes to twelve. I offer you principal
and interest--eight hundred and twenty-two pounds fourteen shillings and
fivepence three farthings before these witnesses--and demand the title
deeds.”
Meadows hung his head, but he was not a man to waste words in mere
scolding. He took the blow with forced calmness as who should say, “This
is your turn--the next is mine.”
“Miss Merton,” said he, almost in a whisper, “I never had the honor to
receive you here before and I never shall again. How long do you give me
to move my things?”
“Can you not guess?” inquired the other with a shade of curiosity.
“Why, of course you will put me to all the inconvenience you can. Come,
now, am I to move all my furniture and effects out of this great house
in twenty-four hours?”
“I give you more than that.”
“How kind! What, you give me a week perhaps?” asked Meadows
incredulously.
“More than that, you fool! Don't you see that it is on next Lady-day
you will be turned into the street. Aha! woman-worshiper, on Lady-day!
A tooth for a tooth!” And the old man ground his teeth, which were white
as ivory, and his fist clinched itself, while his eye glittered, and he
swelled out from the chair, and literally bristled with hate--“A tooth
for a tooth!”
“Oh, Mr. Levi,” said Susan sorrowfully, “how soon you have forgotten my
last lesson!”
Meadows for a moment felt a chill of fear at the punctiliousness of
revenge in this Oriental whom he had made his enemy. To this succeeded
the old hate multiplied by ten; but he made a monstrous effort and drove
it from his face down into the recesses of his heart. “Well,” said he,
“may you enjoy this house as I have done this last twelvemonth!”
“That does you credit, good Mr. Meadows,” cried simple Susan, missing
his meaning. Meadows continued in the same tone, “And I must make shift
with the one you vacate on Lady-day.”
“Solomon teach me to outwit this dog.”
“Come, Mr. Levi, I have visited Mr. Meadows and now I am going to your
house.”
“You shall be welcome, kindly welcome,” said the old man with large and
flowing courtesy.
“And will you show me,” said Susan very tenderly, “where Leah used to
sit?”
“Ah!”
“And where Rachel and Sarah loved to play?”
“Ah me! Ah me! Ah me! Yes! I could not show another these holy places,
but I will show you.”
“And will you forget awhile this unhappy quarrel and listen to my
words?”
“Surely I shall listen to you; for even now your voice is to my ear like
the wind sighing among the cedars of Lebanon, and the wave that plays at
night upon the sands of Galilee.”
“'Tis but the frail voice of a foolish woman, who loves and respects
you, and yet,” said Susan, her color mantling with enthusiasm, “with it
I can speak you words more beautiful than Lebanon's cedars or Galilee's
shore. Ay, old man, words that make the stars brighter and the sons
of the morning rejoice. I will not tell you whence I had them, but you
shall say surely they never came from earth, selfish, cruel, revengeful
earth, these words that drop on our hot passions like the dew, and speak
of trespasses forgiven, and peace and goodwill among men.”
Oh! magic of a lovely voice speaking the truths of Heaven! How still the
room was as these goodly words rang in it from a pure heart. Three men
there had all been raging with anger and hate; now a calming music fell
like oil upon these human waves, and stilled them.
The men drooped their heads, and held their breath to make sure the
balmy sounds had ceased. Then Levi answered in a tone gentle, firm, and
low (very different from his last), “Susanna, bitterness fades from my
heart as you speak; but experience remains.” He turned to Meadows, “When
I wander forth at Lady-day she shall still be watched over though I be
far away. My eye shall be here, and my hand shall still be so over you
all,” and raising his thin hand, he held it high up, the nails pointing
downward. It looked just like a hawk hovering over its prey. “I will
say no bitterer word than that to-day;” and in fact he delivered this
without apparent heat or malice.
“Come, then, with me, Susanna--a goodly name, it comes to you from the
despised people. Come like peace to my dwelling, Susanna--you know not
this world's wiles as I do, but you can teach me the higher wisdom that
controls the folly of passion and purifies the soul.”
The pair were gone, and William and Meadows were left alone. The latter
looked sadly and gloomily at the door by which Susan had gone out. He
was in a sort of torpor. He was not conscious of William's presence.
Now the said William had a misgiving; in the country a man's roof is
sacred; he had affronted Meadows under his own roof, and then Mr. Levi
had come and affronted him there, too. William began to doubt whether
this was not a little hard, moreover he thought he had seen Meadows
brush his eye hastily with the back of his hand as Susan retired. He
came toward Meadows with his old sulky, honest, hang-the-head manner,
and said, “Mr. Meadows, seems to me we have been a little hard upon you
in your own house, and I am not quite easy about my share on't.” Meadows
shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly.
“Well, sir--I am not the Almighty to read folk's hearts--least of all
such a one as yours--but if I have done you wrong I ask your pardon.
Come, sir, if you don't mean to undermine my brother with the girl you
can give me your hand, and I can give you mine--and there 'tis.”
Meadows wished this young man away, and seeing that the best way to
get rid of him was to give him his hand, he turned round, and, scarcely
looking toward him, gave him his hand. William shook it and went away
with something that sounded like a sigh. Meadows saw him out, and locked
the door impatiently; then he flung himself into a chair and laid his
beating temples on the cold table; then he started up and walked wildly
to and fro the room. The man was torn this way and that with rage, love
and remorse.
“What shall I do?” thus ran his thoughts. “That angel is my only refuge,
and yet to win her I shall have to walk through dirt and shame and every
sin that is. I see crimes ahead; such a heap of crimes, my flesh creeps
at the number of them. Why not be like her, why not be the greatest
saint that ever lived, instead of one more villain added to so many?
Let me tear this terrible love out of my heart and die. Oh! if some one
would but take me by the scurf of the neck and drag me to some other
country a million miles away, where I might never see my tempter again
till this madness is out of me. Susan, you are an angel, but you will
plunge me to hell.”
Now it happened while he was thus raving and suffering the preliminary
pangs of wrong-doing that his old servant knocked at the outside of the
door and thrust a letter through the trap; the letter was from a country
gentleman, one Mr. Chester, for whom he had done business. Mr. Chester
wrote from Lancashire. He informed Meadows he had succeeded to a very
large property in that county--it had been shockingly mismanaged by
his predecessor; he wanted a capable man's advice, and moreover all the
estates thereabouts were compelled to be surveyed and valued this year,
which he deplored, but since so it was he would be surveyed and valued
by none but John Meadows.
“Come by return of post,” added this hasty squire, “and I'll introduce
you to half the landed proprietors in this county.”
Meadows read this and seizing a pen wrote thus:
“DEAR SIR--Yours received this day at 1 p.m., and will start for your
house at 6 P.M.”
He threw himself on his horse and rode to his mother's house. “Mother, I
am turned out of my house.”
“Why, John, you don't say so?”
“I must go into the new house I have built outside the town.”
“What, the one you thought to let to Mr. James?”
“The same. I have got only a fortnight to move all my things. Will you
do me a kindness now, will you see them put into the new house?”
“Me, John! why I should be afraid something would go wrong.”
“Well, it isn't fair of me to put this trouble on you at your age; but
read this letter--there is fifteen hundred pounds waiting for me in the
North.”
The old woman put on her spectacles and read the letter slowly. “Go,
John! go by all means! I will see all your things moved into the new
house--don't let them be a hindrance; you go. Your old mother will take
care your things are not hurt moving, nor you wronged in the way of
expense.”
“Thank you, mother! thank you! they say there is no friend like a
mother, and I dare say they are not far wrong.”
“No such friend but God--none such but God!” said the old woman with
great emphasis and looking Meadows in the face with a searching eye.
“Well, then, here are the keys of the new house, and here are my keys. I
am off tonight, so good-by, mother. God bless you!”
He had just turned to go, when by an unusual impulse he turned, took
the old woman in his hands, almost lifted her off the ground, for she
weighed light, and gave her a hasty kiss on the cheek; then he set her
down and strode out of the house about his business.
When curious Hannah ran in the next moment she found the old lady in
silent agitation. “Oh, dear! What is the matter, Dame Meadows?”
“Nothing at all, silly girl.”
“Nothing! And look at you all of a tremble.”
“He took me up all in a moment and kissed me. I dare say it is
five-and-twenty years since he kissed me last. He was a curly-headed lad
then.”
So this had set the poor old thing trembling. She soon recovered her
firmness and that very evening Hannah and she slept in John's house, and
the next day set to and began to move his furniture and prepare his new
house for him.