THE SQUIRE MAKES A BARGAIN.
Another year had gone in gentle tranquillity--a year marked by
no shadow of trouble, doubt, or dissension in Joshua Haggard’s
household. Oswald had been true to his promise, and had held
religiously to his prescribed position as a friend of the family.
The simple uneventful life had glided on in its allotted course: the
tea-drinkings in the parlour; aunt Judith’s lectures on the economics
and duties of existence; dawdling evenings in the wilderness, in
which nothing progressed but the gray-worsted stocking on Naomi’s
shining needles, which, being only taken off to give place to another
stocking of exactly the same shape and colour, seemed to Oswald a
fair type of eternity; the Scripture-reading and exhortation at
eventide; the homely suppers and friendly partings with Naomi and
her father at the little wooden gate,--placid monotonous joys, which
had not yet begun to pall upon Oswald Pentreath. If there had been
any hollowness in Joshua’s life, any shams to be discovered in his
household, familiarity would have vulgarised this quiet home circle;
but all here was good and true. Even aunt Judith, though far from
pleasant, was at this stage of her existence transparent as the
daylight. There were no skeletons in cupboards for the stranger to
stumble upon unawares, no domestic dustholes to reveal themselves to
the disgusted explorer.
Very quiet and peaceful and passionless was this courtship which
was no courtship, and yet meant as much to the two actors in the
little comedy as if they had been lovers of the most romantic type,
and had never opened their mouths save to pour forth a torrent of
sentimentality. No cloistered nun was ever truer to her vow than
Naomi to the promise she had made her father that there should be no
talk of love or marriage between her and Oswald during this time of
probation; and Oswald, although given to occasional little gusts of
rebellion, was fain to submit and to accept his position with a good
grace.
‘I am like a shopboy in your father’s employment,’ he said. ‘If I
behave pretty well during my apprenticeship, and keep my fingers off
the sugar and figs, and refrain from extracting odd sixpences out of
the till, I am to be taken as a partner when I am out of my time. I
am on trial: isn’t that it, Naomi?’
‘It is your future happiness that is on trial, Oswald. If you can be
constant to friendship you will be constant to--’
‘Hush!’ cried the young man, putting his hand upon her lips. ‘The
forbidden word was nearly out.’
Naomi blushed and hastened the flight of her knitting-needles, whilst
Oswald laughed heartily at his small joke.
They were innocently happy together in these fair summer days, like
children in ignorance of all the world outside the narrow circle
of their individual lives, with not one thought or desire hidden
from each other, and finding it as natural to be together, to think
together, to hope together, and to dream together, as if they had
been a new Ferdinand and Miranda, and this quiet nook, Combhaven, an
enchanted island.
With Jim for their companion they wandered in the Squire’s wood and
park, and Herne had easy dreamy days in his loose-box, where he stood
with his head hanging down as if he had done with the world and had
not strength left in him for another mile; while Oswald taught Naomi
how to use her pencil in copying lopsided old elms with yawning
chasms in their trunks, or a little bit of rugged bank clothed with
ferns and bright with foxgloves. Her intense love of nature made art
easy to her.
It is not to be supposed that the life of Mr. Haggard’s daughter was
given over altogether to a blissful idleness such as this--to dreamy
afternoons in the wood, to the cultivation of Nature’s wildlings
in her wilderness, and to primitive efforts with a lead pencil.
She was up at five on these summer mornings, and helped Sally in
the performance of her house-cleaning till breakfast-time. It was
Naomi who arranged the parlours and polished the old mahogany tables
and bureaus, and brightened all the brasswork, and kept every bit
of old Chelsea or Battersea ware free from dust and stain. That
tall straight figure of hers was none the worse for assiduous
table-rubbing, which widened her chest and gave lissomness to her
limbs; and her clear pale complexion was all the better for early
hours and an active life. The flower-pots were in Naomi’s care, and
a withered leaf on fuchsia or geranium--fuchsias were new in those
days and esteemed highly by floriculturists--would have been a kind
of disgrace. She starched and ironed all the muslin curtains, and
aunt Judith’s idea of gentility demanded a great deal of decorative
drapery in starched muslin.
The house-linen was also in Naomi’s charge, and many a modern
housekeeper who gives thirty or forty guineas for a dinner-dress
might blush on comparing her linen-closet with that roomy
lavender-scented repository at the head of the staircase where
Naomi kept her glistening tablecloths and Irish-linen sheets and
pillow-cases, all neatly marked by her own hands and laid in orderly
piles along the broad oak shelves. Naomi had the care of her father’s
and brother’s wardrobes, and kept everything in neat repair, taking
as much pains with a difficult job of darning as a young lady of
the present day would devote to an elaborate achievement in _point
Turque_ or _point de Venise_. Naomi made her own dresses, which were
not uselessly numerous, and occasionally confectioned some decorative
article for aunt Judith, who required to be propitiated with an
industrious effort of that kind now and then.
It will be seen, therefore, that when Mr. Haggard’s daughter enjoyed
the sweets of Arcadian leisure she had fairly earned the privilege
of idleness. No unhemmed duster cried out against her, no buttonless
shirt lurking in drawer or wardrobe bore witness to her neglect. Life
smiled at her with its serenest smile, and no accusing twinge of
conscience reminded her of a forgotten duty.
Whether the Squire had known of his son’s attachment to the
dissenter’s daughter from the time when Oswald’s visits to the
Haggards became frequent, or whether the fact revealed itself to
him suddenly this summer through the gossip of Combhaven, would be
difficult to decide. The Squire was a gentleman who could be as blind
as a mole when it pleased him, or as sharp-sighted as a ferret if
sharp-sightedness suited his purpose. On this occasion he played the
mole and pretended to know nothing, until one midsummer day, when he
pounced upon his son at dinner-time with a sudden charge.
‘So, sir, you have been deceiving me,’ he exclaimed; ‘you have taken
advantage of the liberty I give you to form low acquaintance.’
‘What do you mean by low acquaintance?’ asked Oswald, turning pale.
‘I associate with none who can be called by that name.’
‘What, sir! are you not hail-fellow-well-met with that grocer
Haggard?’
‘I thought you professed republican sentiments, sir, and despised the
petty differences of social rank.’
‘So I do, when a duke undersells me by letting his land at so low
a rate that mine will hardly bring me three per cent; but I don’t
want my son and heir to keep company with counter-jumpers. Trade
is an honourable calling, I’m republican enough to admit that; but
this friend of yours is a Jack-of-all-trades, and deals in fire and
brimstone on Sundays. I might forgive him for being a grocer, but I
can’t forgive him for being a canting hypocritical knave.’
‘Why should you call him that? You don’t know him; and you, who have
no religion at all, cannot be prejudiced against him because he is a
dissenter.’
‘I call him canter and hypocrite because he trades on his piety, and
sells his tea and sugar and candles faster than any other tradesman
on the strength of his Sunday ranting.’
Oswald kept his temper with an effort. Abuse of Joshua Haggard was
more than a man who loved Naomi could meekly bear.
‘I happen to know Mr. Haggard thoroughly,’ he said, ‘and I know that
he is honest as a trader and earnest as a preacher--that piety with
him is no sham put on to serve a purpose--that in the old days, when
persecution was the reward of faith, he would have testified to his
belief at the stake. Yes, sir, this homely village shopkeeper is of
the stuff that martyrs are made of.’
‘I wish there were any probability of the wear and tear of this
stuff being roughly tested,’ retorted the Squire. ‘These dissenters
are very fond of howling about fire and brimstone in a remote and
shadowy future. I should like to see them brought face to face with
a pile of blazing fagots in the present. However, this is wide of the
purpose, young gentleman. I want to know what you mean by courting
this Methodist’s daughter.’
‘What courtship generally means, sir--the prelude to marriage.’
‘What, you, Oswald Pentreath, seriously intend to marry a grocer’s
daughter?’
‘Certainly, my dear father, if she will have me. I think you should
be flattered that your son shows himself so apt a disciple of your
gospel of liberty.’
The Squire, who had lived through that all-uprooting whirlwind in
history, the French Revolution, had often preached second-hand Marat
and Danton to his son, to say nothing of second-hand Wilkes. But he
was not prepared to have his opinions cast back in his teeth after
this practical fashion.
‘Then you mean to marry this girl?’ he said.
‘I do, sir. I shall be sorry if my marriage offends you, but as it
is a matter which involves the happiness of my life you must not be
angry if I choose for myself.’
‘A pretty choice for a gentleman’s son!’ exclaimed the Squire.
‘Supposing it were a bad choice, which I deny, what opportunities
have I had for making a better? You have chosen to live your own
life--you have shut yourself up in this house and isolated yourself
from your fellow-men. You have kept me so complete a pauper, that I
could not venture to make a friend in my own station lest I should
be put to open shame some day on account of my empty pockets. I have
accepted the life patiently enough. I have assumed a pride that I
never felt, to save myself from humiliation. I have fenced myself
round with a dogged reserve, to escape the degradation of being
patronised by men who are my inferiors in all but purse.’
‘How much money can this person of yours give his daughter?’ asked
the Squire, suddenly changing his note.
‘That is a question I have never thought of asking.’
‘Humph!’ muttered the aggravated father. ‘You ought to have been a
prince in a fairy tale. You’ve about as much sense as that young man
who picked up the glass slipper, and offered to marry the first woman
who could get her foot into it. Now hark ye, sir, if Joshua Haggard
can give his daughter five thousand pounds on her wedding-day--no
settlements or rubbish of that sort, mind you--you can marry her
without let or hindrance from me, and you can bring her home here.
One young woman won’t make much difference in the housekeeping, I
suppose, for the first year or so.’
‘I don’t know about the five thousand pounds,’ replied Oswald,
‘but I thank you for the friendliness of your offer. I believe Mr.
Haggard has saved money; but I should not like him to think I had any
expectation of gain in proposing for his daughter.’
He told his father of his promise to Joshua, and under what
conditions he was received in the minister’s household.
‘I have another year to serve before my apprenticeship is finished,’
he said. ‘I shall give you proper notice of my marriage, you may be
assured.’
‘That’s dutiful; but be sure you don’t marry without a dowry. A
few thousand pounds spent on improvements as the leases run out
would raise our rents five-and-twenty per cent. As far as my own
inclination goes, I’d as leave you married the grocer’s daughter as
the finest lady in the land, or leaver. I want no fine lady here to
waste and squander, to find fault with the old-fashioned furniture,
and quarrel with the old servants, and spend a fortune on new-fangled
flowers with Latin names, as some do.’
Oswald was deeply grateful for thus much favour; and father and son
spent the rest of the evening in the friendliest manner, the old
Squire prosing about his estate, the rents he got as against the
rents he ought to get, leases that were nearly run out, and leases
that had a long time to run; but not by one word did he hint at money
saved and invested.
‘I sometimes wonder what becomes of your rental, father,’ said
Oswald. ‘We seem to spend so little, and yet you never have any
money.’
‘Ah,’ groaned the Squire, ‘I was a fool in my time; I’ve had to pay
for my folly. And you don’t suppose that a house like this is kept up
for nothing--servants to pay, two horses in the stable; and we all
eat and drink, remember.’
‘I should have thought four hundred a year would pay for everything.’
‘Should you?’ cried the Squire ironically. ‘You know no more of
figures than a baby. Wait till I’m under the sod, and see how far
four hundred a year will go in a barrack of a house like this.’
‘But the empty rooms don’t eat and drink, father, if we do.’
‘I can’t argue with a fool,’ cried the Squire testily.
Oswald was very glad to have got over the revelation of his
engagement to Naomi so easily. That condition about a dowry was
something of a stumbling-block; but he felt assured that Joshua did
not mean his daughter to be portionless, and there was plenty of time
for all business-like discussion. He felt happier in his wooing after
that talk with his father--more at ease with Naomi, better satisfied
with himself.
The Squire was a practical man, and having made up his mind upon
a subject, was not slow in putting his ideas into action. Three
days after having come to an understanding with his son, the old
man presented himself at Joshua Haggard’s front-door in the drowsy
afternoon. Sally, the maid-of-all-work, started back as if she had
seen a vision on opening the door to that formidable visitor. She had
just sense enough to usher Mr. Pentreath into the best parlour, and
just strength enough to totter to the opposite room, where Naomi sat
at her plain sewing. There was a drizzling rain falling from the dull
gray sky, and no possibility of Arcadian rambles on this particular
afternoon. Jim was in the shop, being inducted into the mysteries of
stock-taking.
‘It’s the Squire,’ gasped Sally, ‘and he wants to see your father.’
Naomi grew pale at the announcement. Oswald had told her nothing
about that talk with his father, the Squire’s condition about the
dowry being a hindrance to any such confidence. Naomi thought that
the Squire had come to remonstrate. This happy year that was nearly
ended was to be the beginning and end of her delight. Some crushing
stroke was about to fall, annihilating love and happiness. No one
had a good word for the Squire, and she could only think of him as a
tyrant and an enemy.
She opened the door of communication with the shop.
‘You are wanted, father. Mr. Pentreath has called to see you,’ she
said faintly.
‘Tell him I shall come in to tea.’
‘It’s not Oswald, father; it’s old Mr. Pentreath.’
‘What, the Squire! then I must come at once. You’d better do no more
till I come back, Jim; you’ll only get things in a muddle.’
And Jim, nothing loth to be released from his labours, shut the
big account-book with a slam, jumped off his high stool, and came
whistling out of the counting-house, a little railed-in pen at the
end of the shop.
‘I’ll wash my hands and come to the Squire directly, Naomi,’ said
Joshua; and then, seeing the girl’s pale face, he stopped to pat
her gently on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be frightened, my dear; the
Squire can do us no harm. We have been honest and straightforward
throughout.’
‘I feel as if he had come to end my dream, father.’
‘Life is something more than a dream, Naomi; and a good woman’s
happiness is not to be blown away by the breath of a bad man.’
He went out to the back premises to wash his hands; and then, in no
wise discomposed by his visitor’s importance, made his appearance
in the parlour, where the Squire was peering at the fly-leaf of
the family Bible, on which Joshua’s marriage and the birth of his
two children were recorded. Mr. Pentreath, who knew the names and
histories of his neighbours for forty miles round Combhaven, was
pleased to see that Naomi’s mother had been a Penrose--a name which
implied the probability of a dowry, the Penroses being wealthy
farmers on the other side of Rockmouth.
He greeted the minister with unusual affability.
‘I hope I didn’t disturb you in your business occupations, Mr.
Haggard,’ he began graciously. ‘I have wished to call upon you for
ever so long; but I am a busy man myself, as I daresay you know--my
own steward and bailiff; pay all my accounts with my own hands, and
see to every detail--the only way to make a moderate estate thrive.
Pray be seated, my dear sir; I want a friendly talk with you,’
concluded the Squire, ensconcing himself in the large chintz-covered
arm-chair, chintz daintily clean and smelling of lavender.
Joshua drew out one of the ponderous mahogany chairs from the wall,
and seated himself opposite his guest.
‘Now I suppose, Mr. Haggard, though you and I have never met on
friendly terms before, we know as much about each other as if we
had been living under the same roof for the last ten years. Nobody
has any secrets in a place like Combhaven. You know that I was what
is called wild in my youth; that I spent a good deal of money--very
wild that--and mortgaged my estate in order to drink and gamble with
a pack of ruffians whom I thought wits and fine gentlemen then, and
whom I regard with ineffable contempt now. The only thing that has
remained to me from those days is a certain liberality of opinion,
which places me above the level of these country bumpkins you and I
have the misfortune to live amongst.’
‘I count it no misfortune to live where I do, Mr. Pentreath. I have
an honest liking for most of my neighbours, a warm affection for some
of them.’
‘Ah, you are Christian-like by profession,’ sneered the Squire.
‘I suppose the animal creation in Combhaven as good as any other
cattle of the same breed; but when one has lived with men who think
for themselves, and interchange ideas of some sort--no matter how
spurious or how shallow--when they talk, these sons of the soil
are but poor company. However, as I was saying, my friends of
’ninety-five robbed me of my money, and gave me nothing but their
freedom of thought in exchange. The school I graduated in held that a
shopkeeper was as good as a landowner any day.’
‘The school I belong to holds that all men are equal in the presence
of their Creator,’ replied Joshua quietly; ‘but we are not the less
ready to respect distinctions of class upon earth, and to honour our
superiors.’
‘Yet you allowed my son to come courting your daughter.’
‘Under such restrictions as would enable him and me to be very sure
that he was in earnest before I suffered him to marry her.’
‘Upon my word, sir, you carry things with a high hand. And it never
occurred to you to consult my feelings in respect to this alliance?’
‘I considered your son old enough to make his own election.’
‘Perhaps you did not know that I could disinherit him if he offended
me?’
‘Yes, Mr. Pentreath. I knew your estate to be unentailed, and your
power to dispose of your property unlimited; but as I value your
son for what he is himself, rather than for any possibility of
inheritance, this consideration had no influence upon me.’
‘You mean to tell me that you would marry your daughter to a
penniless gentleman?’
‘I mean to tell you that I would marry her to an honest man who
honestly loved her, and trust to Providence for finding him an
occupation and a livelihood.’
‘You would make him turn preacher, perhaps?’
‘Not unless he had the gift and vocation for such a calling. I would
rather tie a linen apron round his waist and teach him to sell tea
and sugar.’
‘A Pentreath turned village grocer!’ cried the Squire; ‘that would
be pushing freedom of opinion to its utmost. Well, Mr. Haggard, I
admire your independence, and I am not going to interfere with my
son’s courtship of your daughter. He shall marry her if he likes and
you like, and he shall have Pentreath Grange and all that belongs
thereto in due time. There may be some of my neighbours who will
call me a fool for this indulgence of a young man’s fancy; but as my
neighbours and I have never been on very friendly terms, I can afford
to let them say hard things of me behind my back. Oswald may marry
that handsome daughter of yours and bring her home to the Grange as
soon as he pleases. And now, Mr. Haggard, having settled the main
question we can proceed to details. How much money--you’re a warm
man, I know, my good friend--how much, now, do you mean to give this
only daughter?’
‘That is a question I have never asked myself.’
‘Perhaps not; but it is a question you must have expected somebody
else to ask you sooner or later. My son has no more idea of life’s
realities than a bread-and-butter miss at boarding-school. He would
never ask you such a question. It’s my duty as a man of the world
to think for him in this matter. You must have saved a good bit of
money, Mr. Haggard. Your father had the business before you; and
while you were roaming about the hills preaching to the miners and
suchlike, he was selling tea at twelve shillings a pound. He left
you something comfortable, I know, and your wife brought you a tidy
little bit of money--didn’t she, now?’
‘My wife did not come to me empty-handed.’
‘Of course not; a sensible man like you would not marry a pretty
face with an empty pocket. Now, to be perfectly frank with you, I am
anxious that my son should be in a position to improve his estate.
There’s a great deal might be done for a few thousands--building
larger barns, draining the low-lying meadows, and so forth. The money
would not be squandered, my good friend. Your grandchildren would
profit by any sacrifice you might make.’
‘Good,’ said Joshua Haggard thoughtfully. ‘I think that, upon those
conditions, I might give Naomi three thousand pounds for her portion.’
‘Not half enough for those necessary improvements. If you could say
six thousand, now--’
‘Impossible. I have a son to think about.’
‘Your son will succeed to your business.’
‘For which he must have sufficient capital. We are wholesale dealers
in a small way, remember, Mr. Pentreath, and supply a good many
village shopkeepers.’
‘Of course. What a splendid business yours must be! You can give your
daughter six thousand without feeling it.’
‘I could not give her so much without injustice to my boy, and
nothing could tempt me to that.’
‘Pshaw! your business will have doubled itself before your son
inherits it. Do you want to make him a millionaire?’
‘I want to act fairly between him and his sister. The utmost I could
give Naomi, either on her marriage or at my death, would be four or
five thousand pounds.’
‘Say five and consider it settled,’ cried the Squire eagerly.
‘And I should expect you to settle land of the same value on my
daughter, the rent of the same to be paid to her separate use and
maintenance during her life, and the property to descend to her
children, with reversion to her husband if she dies childless.’
The Squire’s countenance fell, and his small eyes sparkled angrily.
‘Why, this is taking a mortgage on my land!’ he exclaimed.
‘No, Mr. Pentreath; it is only taking care of my daughter. She is
incapable of spending such an income on herself, and her receipt of
the money would be doubtless a mere form; but I want to feel that I
have given my five thousand pounds to her positively, and not to her
husband or her father-in-law. Should she be widowed early, the estate
so settled would serve to keep her. Should you take it into your head
to disinherit your son, the income from his wife’s settlement would
keep him out of the workhouse.’
‘You are a man of business, Mr. Haggard,’ exclaimed the Squire,
divided between disappointment and admiration.
‘I should be sorry to be in business if I were not. There is
Mallowfield Farm, now; I have heard that valued at five thousand
pounds. Settle Mallowfield on my daughter, and Oswald shall have the
five thousand on his wedding-day, which is as much as to say you
shall have the money to spend on barns or drainage.’
‘Mallowfield!’ gasped the Squire, ‘the most compact bit of property
on the estate!’
‘I can keep my five thousand pounds and my daughter, Mr. Pentreath.’
‘There isn’t better land in the county than those low-lying pastures.
Well, I’ll turn it over in my mind, friend Haggard. If you would say
six thousand, now--’
‘I never say more than I mean.’
‘Come now, I came here prepared to be liberal. Your daughter shall
have Mallowfield. How canny of you to pitch upon the best of my
farms! And look ye, Mr. Haggard, we’ll have the settlements drawn up
next week, and you and I will dance at our children’s wedding before
harvest-home.’
‘No, Mr. Pentreath; I told your son he must wait two years for my
daughter. He has another year to wait before he calls her wife.’
‘Pshaw! you are as bad as that old gentleman in the Bible who served
his son-in-law such a shabby trick. Why shouldn’t these young people
be married out of hand?’
‘I don’t believe in hasty marriages, sir. My wife and I had been
promised to each other three years before we were married.’
‘But here, where there is no impediment--’
‘There is difference of rank. I want to feel very sure that your son
is in earnest--that there is no possibility of after-regrets. He has
stood firm for a year, and I believe he loves my daughter. Let him be
constant to that attachment for one year more, and I shall be content
to trust him with her future. She is very precious to me. I cannot
let her go lightly.’
‘Egad, I daresay it’s the five thousand he won’t let go,’ thought the
Squire.
He ceded the point with a tolerable grace, eager as he had been to
get the grocer’s money into his clutches. After all, it might be
well to have time to weigh the matter quietly--to see if there were
no better match possible for Oswald, no more money to be made in
the open market of matrimony. He was in bad odour among the county
people, and had held himself aloof from them churlishly, not taking
the trouble to assoilzie himself and get rid of that evil taint left
by the past, as he might have done by a little deference to popular
prejudices. His unpopularity had reflected itself upon Oswald, and
the young man had grown up without a companion or a friend, and quite
outside that charmed circle in which rich young spinsters revolve.
Still it might not be too late.
‘There are places where young fellows pick up heiresses,’ mused the
Squire: ‘Tunbridge Wells, or Bath, or Cheltenham, or Brighton--places
where a good-looking young man with a good old name and a patrimonial
estate might marry a fortune for the asking. But my son has no
brains. An adventurer without a sixpence would outmanœuvre him
anywhere.’
And then the Squire, composing his features into a satyr-like grin,
which was meant for a smile, asked to be presented to his future
daughter-in-law; whereupon Joshua opened the parlour-door and called
Naomi, who came from the opposite room, pale and trembling a little,
as if about to make the acquaintance of an ogre.
The shrivelled old Squire, with his large head and shrunken body,
was not altogether unlike the popular idea of the ogre family. His
gray hair straggled in sparse locks over his narrow brow, and he wore
a pigtail on his high collar of bottle-green velvet--velvet which
long and constant wear had made sleeker and more shiny than velvet
ought to be. Indeed, the pigtail, for the most part in motion like a
pendulum, made its impression upon the velvet.
At his waist the Squire wore a large bunch of keys and seals, which
he was wont to rattle as he talked. His large gold watch was known to
be the exactest timekeeper in Combhaven; and often when the whole
town had lapsed ignominiously to the rear of Greenwich time, Mr.
Pentreath’s bell might be heard ringing up his household in the bleak
wintry morning with a rigid exactitude to the very moment marked on
the dial at the National Observatory.
Very like an ogre looked the Squire as he drew Naomi’s head downward
to his withered old lips, and honoured her with the least agreeable
kiss she had ever had in her life.
‘God bless your handsome face!’ said the old man graciously. ‘From
this time forward you must think of me as your father.’
‘I never can have but one father, sir,’ answered Naomi gravely; ‘but
I shall always honour and love you, for your son’s sake.’
‘And you’ll come and live at the Grange very soon, my dear, I
hope, and keep those idle servants of mine in order’--this of the
hardest-working household in Combhaven--‘and look to the dairy. I
never have a morsel of butter worth eating. This obstinate father of
yours talks about Oswald waiting another year, but I see no reason
why you should not be married in a month.’
‘Father always knows best,’ said Naomi.
‘What a demure puss it is! If your father were going to be married
himself he’d be in a greater hurry, child. I’m an old man, and
may not live to see next summer, and I should like to dance at my
son’s wedding. That is to say, I should like to see him comfortably
married,’ said the Squire, correcting himself; ‘for as to wedding
dances, or any such tomfoolery, I never held with them. Life’s much
too serious a matter for its most solemn changes to be ushered in by
squeaking fiddles and lively jigs.’
Having settled a business matter to his satisfaction, and having, as
he believed, made himself eminently agreeable, Squire Pentreath took
his leave, escorted to the little green garden-gate by Joshua, and
contemplated from the other side of the open street by the landlord
of the First and Last.
‘Everything is settled, my dear,’ said Joshua, bending down to kiss
his daughter. ‘My sweet girl will be a lady--mistress of Pentreath
Grange, and with manifold opportunities of doing good in her
generation. But I hope she will never forget that before all and
above all she is a Christian, and that earthly blessings are but
charges and responsibilities in the sight of God.’
‘I should be something less than your daughter if I forgot that, my
dear father,’ answered Naomi tenderly.
Never had she loved her father so dearly as in this moment, when the
floodtide of happiness rushed in upon her soul with overwhelming
force.
‘Your lover has been true to you for a year, Naomi, and constant
under restrictions that some would think hard; let him but prove
steadfast for one year more, and I can give you to him without a
shadow of doubt.’
‘He will be steadfast, father,’ answered the girl firmly, replying
out of the fulness of her own faith, which she knew to be incapable
of change or wavering.