Arthur saw in a moment that here was the opportunity, he needed, and he made haste to seize it. "The truth is, sir----" he said with a candor which was attractive. "I was going to speak to you about Josina, I have been wishing to do so for some time."
"Eh? Well?"
"I have said nothing to her. But it is possible that she may be aware of my feelings."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" the Squire said drily. It was impossible to say whether he was pleased or not.
"If I had your permission to speak to her, sir?" Arthur felt, now that he had come to the point, just the amount of nervousness which was becoming. "We have been brought up together, and I don't think that I can be taking you by surprise."
"And you think it will be no surprise to her?"
"Well, sir," modestly, "I think it will not."
"More ways of killing a cat than drowning it, eh? That's it, is it?
Haven't spoken, but let her know? And you want my leave?"
"Yes, sir, to ask her to be my wife," Arthur said frankly. "It has been my wish for some time, but I have hesitated. Of course, I am no great match for her, but I am of her blood, and----"
He paused. He did not know what to add, and the Squire did not help him, and for the first time Arthur felt a pang of uneasiness. This was not lessened when the old man asked, "How long has this been going on, eh?"
"Oh, for a long time, sir--on my side," Arthur answered. There was an ominous silence. The Squire might be taking it well or ill--it was impossible to judge. He had not changed his attitude and still sat, leaning forward, his hands on his stick, impenetrable behind his bandages. It struck Arthur that he might have been premature; that he might have put his favor to too high a test. It might have been wiser to work upon Josina, and wait and see how things turned out.
At last. "She'll not go out of this house," the Squire said. And he sighed in a way unusual with him, even when he had been at his worst.
"That's understood. There's room for you here, and any brats you may have. That's understood, eh?" sharply.
"Willingly, sir," Arthur answered. A great weight had been lifted from him.
"And you'll take her name, do you hear?"
"Of course, sir. I shall be proud to do so."
The Squire sighed, and again he was silent.
"Then--then I may speak to her, sir?"
"Wait a bit! Wait a bit!" The Squire had more to say, it appeared.
"You'll leave the bank, of course?"
Arthur's mind, trained to calculation, reviewed the position. Most heartily he wished--though he thought that Ovington's views were unnecessarily dark--that he could leave the bank. But he could not.
The moment when Ovington might have released him, when the cancellation of the articles had been possible, was past. The banker could no longer afford to cancel them, or to lose the five thousand pounds that Arthur had brought in.
He hesitated, and the old man read his hesitation, and was wroth. "You heard what I said?" he growled, and he struck his stick upon the floor. "Do you think I am going to have my daughter's husband counterskipping in Aldersbury? Cheek by jowl with every grocer and linen-draper in the town? Bad enough as it is, bad enough, but when you're Jos's husband--no, by G--d, that's flat! You'll leave the bank, and you'll leave it at once, or you're no son-in-law for me. I'll not have the name of Griffin dragged in the dirt."
Arthur had not anticipated this, though he might easily have foreseen it; and he cursed his folly. He ought to have known that the old question would be raised, and that it would revive the Squire's antagonism. He was like a fox caught in a trap, nay, like a fox that has put its own foot in the trap; and he had no time to give any but a candid answer. "I am afraid, sir," he said. "I mean--I am quite willing to comply with your wishes. But unfortunately there's a difficulty. I am tied to the bank for three years. At the end of three years----"
"Three years be d--d!" In a passion the Squire struck his stick on the floor. "Three years! I'm to sit here for three years while you go in and out, partner with Ovington! Then my answer is, No! No! Do you hear? I'll not have it."
The perspiration stood on Arthur's brow. Here was a _debacle!_ An end, crushing and complete, to all his hopes! Desperately he tried to explain himself and mend matters. "If I could act for myself, sir," he said, "I would leave the bank to-morrow. But the agreement----"
"Agreement? Don't talk to me of agreements! You could ha' helped it!"
the Squire snarled. "You could ha' helped it! Only you would go on!
You went in against my advice! And for the agreement, who but a fool would ha' signed such an agreement? No, you may go, my lad. As you ha'
brewed you may bake! You may go! If I'd known this was going on, I'd not ha' seen so much of you, you may be sure of that! As it is, Good-day! Good-day to you!"
It was indeed a _debacle_; and Arthur could hardly believe his ears, or that he stood in his own shoes. In a moment, in one moment he had fallen from the height of favor and the pinnacle of influence, and disowned and defeated, he could hardly take in the mischance that had befallen him. Slowly he got to his feet, and as soon as he could master his voice, "I'm grieved, sir," he answered, "more grieved than I, can say, that you should take it like this--when I have no choice.
I am sorry for my own sake."
"Ay, ay!" with grim irony. "I can believe that."
"And sorry for Josina's."
He could think of no further plea at the moment--he must wait and hope for the best; and he moved towards the door, cursing his folly, his all but incredible folly, but finding no remedy. His hand was on the latch of the door when "Wait!" the old man said.
Arthur turned and waited; wondering, even hoping. The Squire sat, looking straight before him, if that might be said of a blind man, and presently he sighed. Then, "Here, come back!" he ordered. But again for awhile he said no more, and Arthur waited, completely in the dark as to what was working in the other's mind. At last. "There, maybe I've been hasty," the old man muttered, "and not thought of all. Will you leave the bank when you can, young man?"
"Of course, I will, sir!" Arthur cried.
"Then--then you may speak to her," the Squire said reluctantly, and he marked the reluctance with another sigh.
And so, as suddenly as he had raised the objection, he withdrew it, to Arthur's intense astonishment. Only one conclusion could he draw--that the Squire was indeed failing. And on that, with a hastily murmured word of thanks, he escaped from the room, hardly knowing whether he walked on his head or his feet.
Lord, what a near thing it had been. And yet--no! The Squire--it must be that--was a failing man. He had no longer the strength or the stubbornness to hold to the course that his whims or his crabbed humor suggested. The danger might not have been so real or substantial, after all.
Yet the relief was great, and coming on Miss Peacock, who was crossing the hall with a bowl in her hand, he seized her by the waist and whirled her round, bowl and all. "Hallo, Peacock! Hallo, Peacock!" he cried in the exuberance of his joy. "Where's Jos?"
"Let go!" she cried. "You'll have it over! What's come to you?"
"Where's Jos? Where's Jos?"
"Good gracious, how should I know? There, be quiet," in pretended anger, though she liked it well enough. "What's come to you? If you must know, she's moping in her room. It's where I find her most times when she's not catching cold in the gardenhouse, and her father's noticed it at last. He's in a pretty stew about her, and if you ask me, I don't think that she's ever got over that night."
"I'll cure her!" Arthur cried in a glow, and he gave Miss Peacock another twirl.
But he had no opportunity of trying his cure that evening, for Jos, when she came downstairs, kept close to her father, and it was not until after breakfast on the morrow that he saw her go into the garden through the side-door, a relic of the older house that had once stood there. To frame it a stone arch of Tudor date had been filled in, and on either side of this, outlined in stone on the brick wall, was a pointed window of three lights. But Arthur's thoughts as he followed Jos into the garden were far from such dry-as-dust matters. The reaction after fear, the assurance that all was well, intoxicated him, and in a glow of spirits that defied the November day he strode down the walk under boughs that half-bare, and over leaves that half-shrivelled, owned alike the touch of autumn. He caught sight of a skirt on the raised walk at the farther end of the garden and he made for it, bounding up the four steps with a light foot and a lover's haste. A handsome young fellow, with a conquering air!
Jos was leaning on the wall, a shawl about her shoulders, her eyes bent on the mill and the Thirty Acres; and her presence in that place on that not too cheerful morning, and her pensive stillness, might have set him wondering, had he given himself time to think. But he was full of his purpose, he viewed her only as she affected it, and he saw nothing except what he wished to see. When, hearing his footsteps, she turned, her color did not rise--and that too might have told him something. But had he spared this a thought, it would only have been to think that her color would rise soon enough when he spoke.
"Jos!" he cried, while some paces still separated them. "I've seen your father! And I've spoken to him!" He waved his hand as one proclaiming a victory.
But what victory? Jos was as much in the dark as if he had never paid court to her in those far-off days. "Is anything the matter?" she asked, and she turned as if she would go back to the house.
But he barred the way. "Nothing," he said. "Why should there be? On the contrary, dear. Don't I tell you that I've spoken to the Squire?
And he says that I may speak to you."
"To me?" She looked at him candidly, with no inkling in her mind of what he meant.
"Yes! My dear girl, don't you understand? He has given me leave to speak to you--to ask you to be my wife?" And as her lips parted and she gazed at him in astonishment, he took possession of her hand. The position was all in favor of a lover, for the parapet was behind her, and she could not escape if she would; while the ordeal through which he had passed gave this lover an ardor that he might otherwise have lacked. "Jos, dear," he continued, looking into her eyes, "I've waited--waited patiently, knowing that it was useless to speak until he gave me leave. But now"--after all, love-making with that pretty startled face before him, that trembling hand in his, was not unpleasant--"I come to you--for my reward."
"But, Arthur," she protested, almost too much surprised for words, "I had no idea----"