He turned himself a little more towards her. "Who? Who it was?" he repeated. "What art talking about, girl? Why, the lad, to be sure. Who else?"
"No, sir," she said, shaking from head to foot, so that the table rocked audibly under her hand. "It was Mr. Ovington's son. And--and I love him. And he wishes to marry me."
The Squire did not say a word. He sat, his head erect still as a stone.
"And I want--to help him," she added, her voice dying away with the words. Her knees were so weak, that but for the support of the table she must have sunk on the floor.
Still the Squire did not speak. His jaw had fallen. He sat, arrested in the attitude of listening, his face partly turned from her, his pipe held stiffly in his hand. At last, "Ovington's son wants to marry you?" he repeated, in a tone so even that it might have deceived many.
"He saved your life!" she cried. She clung desperately to that.
"And you love him?"
"Oh, I do! I do!"
He paused as if he still listened, still expected more. Then in a low voice, "The girl is mad," he muttered. "My God, the girl is mad! Or I am mad! Blind and mad, like the old king! Ay, blind and mad!" He let the pipe fall from his hand to the floor, and he groped for his stick that he might rap and summon assistance. But in his agitation he could not find the stick.
Then, as he still felt for it with a flurried hand, nature or despair prompted her, and the girl who had never caressed him in her life, never taken a liberty with him, never ventured on the smallest familiarity, never gone beyond the morning and evening kiss, timidly given and frigidly received, sank on the floor and clasped his knees, pressed herself against him. "Oh, father, father! I am not mad," she cried, "I am not mad. Hear me! Oh, hear me!" A pause, and then, "I have deceived you, I am not worthy, but you are my father! I have only, only you, who can help me! Have mercy on me, for I do love him.
I do love him! I----" Her voice failed her, but she continued to cling to him, to press her head against his body, mutely to implore him, and plead with him.
"My God!" he ejaculated. He sat upright, stiff, looking before him with sightless eyes; as far as he could withholding himself from her, but not actively repelling her. After an interval, "Tell me," he muttered.
That, even that, was more than she had expected from him. He had not struck her, he had not cursed her, and she took some courage. She told him in broken words, but with sufficient clearness, of her first meeting with Clement, of the gun-shot by the brook, of her narrow escape and the meetings that had followed. Once, in a burst of rage, he silenced her. "The rascal! Oh, the d--d rascal!" he cried, and she flinched. But she went on, telling him of Clement's resolve that he must be told, of that unfortunate meeting with him on the road, and then of that second encounter the same night, when Clement had come to his rescue. There he stopped her.
"How do you know?" he asked. "How do you know? How dare you say----"
And now he did make a movement as if to repel her and put her from him.
But she would not be repulsed. She clung to him, telling him of the coat, of the great stains that she had seen upon it; and at last, "Why did you hide this?" broke from him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
She told him that she had not known, that the part which Clement had taken on that night was new to her also.
"But you see him?" he snarled, speaking a little more like himself.
"You see him!"
"Twice only--twice only since that night," she vowed. "Indeed, indeed, sir, only twice. Once he came to speak to you and tell you, but you were ill, and I would not let him. And yesterday he came to--to give me up, to say good-bye. Only twice, sir, as God sees me! He would not.
He showed me that we had been wrong. He said," sobbing bitterly, "that we must be open or--or we must be nothing--nothing to one another!"
"Open? Open!" the Squire almost shouted. "D--d open! Shutting the stable door when the horse is gone. D--n his openness!" And then, "Good Lord! Good Lord!" with almost as much amazement as anger in his voice. That all this should have been going on and he know nothing about it! That his girl, this child as he had deemed her, should have been doing this under his very eyes! Under his very eyes! "Good Lord!"
But then rage got the upper hand once more, and he cursed Clement with passion, and again made a movement as if he would rise and throw her off. "To steal a man's child! The villain!"
"Oh, don't call him that!" she cried. "He is good, father. Indeed, indeed, he is good. And he saved your life."
He sat back at that, as if her words shifted his thoughts to another matter. "Tell me again," he said, sternly, but more calmly. "He told you this tale yesterday, did he? Well, tell me as he told you, do you hear? And mind you, if you're lying, you slut, he or you, 'twill come up! I am blind, and you may think to deceive me now as you have deceived me before----"
"Never, never again, sir!" she vowed. Then she told him afresh, from point to point, what she had learned on the Sunday.
"Then the lad didn't come up till after?"
"Arthur? No, sir. Not till after Thomas was gone. And it was Clement who followed Thomas to Birmingham and got the money back." For Clement had told her that also.
When she had done, the Squire leant forward and felt again for his stick, as if he were now equipped and ready for action. "Well, you begone," he said, harshly. "You begone, now. I'll see to this."
But, "Not till you forgive me," she entreated, holding him close, and pressing her face against his unwilling breast. "And there's more, there's more, sir," in growing agitation, "I must tell you. Be good to me, oh, be good to me! Forgive me and help him."
"Help him!" the Squire cried, and this time he was indeed amazed. "I help him! Help the man who has gone behind my back and stolen my girl!
Help the man who--let me go! Do you hear me, girl! Let me get up, you shameless hussy!" growing moment by moment more himself, as he recovered from the shock of her disclosure, and could measure its extent. "How do I know what you are? Or what he mayn't have done to you? Help, indeed? Help the d--d rascal who has robbed me? Who has dared to raise his eyes to my girl--a Griffin? Who----"
"He saved your life," she cried, pleading desperately with him, though he strove to free himself. "Oh, father, he saved your life! And I love him! I love him! If you part us I shall die."
He could not struggle against her young strength, and he gave up the attempt to free himself. He sank back in his chair. "D--n the girl!"
he cried. He sat silent, breathing hard.
And she--she had told him, and she still lived! She had told him and he had not cursed her, he had not struck her to the ground, he had not even succeeded in putting her from him! She had told him, and the world still moved about her, his gold watch, which lay on the table on a level with her head, still ticked, the dog still barked in the field below. Miss Peacock's voice could still be heard, invoking Calamy's presence. She had told him, and he was still her father, nay, if she was not deceived, he was more truly her father, nearer to her, more her own, than he had ever been before.
Presently, "Ovington's son! Ovington's son!" he muttered in a tone of wonder. "Good God! Couldn't you find a man?"
"He is a man," she pleaded, "indeed, indeed, he is!"
"Ay, and you are a woman!" bitterly. "Fire and tow! A few kisses and you are aflame for him. For shame, girl, for shame! And how am I to be sure it's no worse? Ain't you ashamed of yourself?"
She shivered, but she was silent.
"Deceiving your father when he was blind!"
She clung to him. He felt her trembling convulsively.
After that he sat for a time as if exhausted, suffering her embrace, and silent save when at rare intervals an oath broke from him, or, in a gust of passion, he struck his hand on the arm of his chair. Once, "My father would ha' spurned you from the house," he cried, "you jade." She did not answer, and a new idea striking him, he sat up sharply. "But what--what the devil is all this about? What's all this, if it's over and--and done with?" His tone was almost jubilant. "If he's off with it? Maybe, girl, I'll forgive you, bad as you've been, if--if that's so. Do you say it's over?"
"No, no!" she cried. "He came----"
"You told me----"
"He came to say good-bye to me, because----" And then in words the most moving that she could find, words sped from her heart, winged by her love, she explained Clement's errand, the position at the bank, the crisis, the menace of ruin, the need of help.
The Squire listened, his business instincts aroused, until he grasped her meaning. Then he struck his hand on the table. "And he thought that I should help them!" he cried, with grim satisfaction. "He thought that, did he?" And he would not listen to her protests that it was not Clement, that it was not Clement, it was she who--"He thought that? I see it now, I see it all! But the fool, the fool, to think that! Why, I wouldn't stretch out my little finger to save his father from hell! And he thought that? He took me for as big a fool as the silly girl he had flattered and lured, and thought he could use, to save them from perdition! As if he had not done me harm enough! As if he hadn't stolen my daughter from me, he'd steal my purse! Why, he must be the most d--d impudent, cunning thief that ever trod shoe leather. He must be a cock of a pretty hackle, indeed. He should go far, by G--d, with the nerve he has. Far, by G--d! My daughter first and my purse afterwards! This son of an upstart, whose grandfather would have sat in my servants' hall, he'd steal my----"
"No, no!" she protested.
"Yes, yes! Yes, yes! But he'll find that he's not got a girl to deal with now! Help him? Save his bank? Pluck him from the debtors' prison he's due to rot in! Why, I'll see him--in hell first!"
She had risen and moved from him. She was standing on the other side of the table now. "He saved your life!" she cried. And she, too, was changed. She spoke with something of his passion. "He saved your life!" she repeated, and she stamped her foot on the floor.
"Well, the devil thank him for it!" the Squire cried with zest. "And you," with fresh anger, "do you begone, girl! Get out of my room before you try my patience too far!" He waved his stick at her. "Go, or I'll call up Calamy and have you put out! Do you hear? Do you hear?
You ungrateful, shameless slut! Go!"
She had fancied victory, incredible, unhoped-for-victory to be almost within her grasp; and lo, it was dashed from her hand, it was farther from her than ever. And she could do no more. Courage, strength, hope were spent, shaken as she was by the emotions of the past hour. She could no no more; a little more and he might strike her. She crept out weeping, and went, blinded by her tears, up the stairs, up, stair by stair, to hide herself in her room. There had been a moment when she had fancied that he was melting, but all had been in vain. She had come close to him, but in the end he had put her from him. He had thrust her farther from him than before. Her only consolation, if consolation she had, was that she had spoken, that the truth was known, that she had no longer any secret to weigh her down. But she had failed.