Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 63
The game soon finished, amid a chuckle from the parson, a bantering word from Greta, and a loud, forced laugh from Paul.
Parson Christian lifted from a shelf a ponderous tome bound in leather and incased in green cloth.
“I must make my day’s entry,” he said, “and get off to bed. I was astir before day-break this morning.”
Greta crept up behind the old man, and looked over his shoulder as he wrote:
“Nov. 21. — Retired to my lodging-room last night, and commended my all to God, and lay down, and fell asleep; but Peter minded the heifer that was near to calving; so he came and wakened me, and we went down and sealed her, and foddered her, and milked her. Spent all day plowing the low meadow, Peter delving potatoes. Called at the Flying Horse, and sat while I drank one pot of ale and no more, and paid for it. Received ten shillings from Lawyer Bonnithorne for funeral sermon, and one pound two from Bolton charity; also five shillings quarterage from Henry Walmsley, and seven from Robert Atkinson, and a penny to square accounts from Randal Alston, and so retired to my closet at peace with all the world. Blessed be God.”
The parson returned to its shelf the ponderous diary “made to view his life and actions in,” and called through the inner door for his bedroom candle. A morose voice answered “Coming,” and presently came.
“Thank you, Peter; and how’s the meeting-house, and who preaches there next Sunday, Peter?”
Peter grumbled out:
“I don’t know as it’s not yourself. I passed them my word as you’d exhort ‘em a’ Sunday afternoon.”
“But nobody has ever asked me. You should have mentioned the matter to me first, Peter, before promising. But never mind, I’m willing, though it’s a poor discourse they can get from me.”
Turning to Paul, who sat silent before the fire:
“Peter has left us and turned Methodist,” said the parson; “he is now Brother Peter Ward, and wants me to preach at the meeting-house. Well, I won’t say nay. Many a good ordained clergyman has been dissenting minister as well. Good-night to you.... Peter, I wish you to get some whipcord and tie up the reel of my fishing-rod — there it is, on the rafters of the ceiling; and a bit more cord to go round the handle of my whip — it leans against the leads of the neuk window; and, Peter, I’m going to go to the mill with the oats to-morrow, and Robin Atkinson has loaned me his shandry and mare. Robin always puts a bushel of grain into the box, but it’s light and only small feeding. I wish you to get a bushel of better to mix with it, and make it more worth the mare’s labor to eat it. Good-night all; good night.”
Peter grumbled something beneath his breath and shambled out.
“God bless him!” said Greta presently; and Paul, without lifting his eyes from the fire, said quietly:
“‘Christe’s lore, and His apostles twelve
He taught; but first he followed it himselve.’”
Then there was silence in the little vicarage. Paul sat without animation until Greta set herself to bewitch him out of his moodiness. Her bright eyes, dancing in the rosy fire-light that flickered in the room; her high spirits bubbling over with delicious teasing and joyous sprightliness; her tenderness, her rippling laughter, her wit, her badinage — all were brought to the defeat and banishment of Paul’s heaviness of soul. It was to no purpose. The gloom of the grave face would not be conquered. Paul smiled slightly into the gleaming eyes, and laughed faintly at the pouting lips, and stroked tenderly the soft hair that was glorified into gold in the glint of the fire-light; but the old sad look came back once and again.
Greta gave it up at last. She rose from the hassock at his feet.
“Sweetheart,” she said, “I will go to bed. You are not well to-night, or you are angry, or out of humor.”
She waited a moment, but he did not speak. Then she made a feeble feint of leaving the room.
At last Paul said:
“Greta, I have something to say.”
She was back at her hassock in an instant. The laughter had gone from her eyes, and left a dewy wistfulness.
“You are unhappy. You have been unhappy a long, long time, and have never told me the cause. Tell me now.”
The heavy face relaxed.
“What ever put that in your head, little one?” he asked, in a playful tone, patting the golden hair.
“Tell me now,” she said more eagerly. “Think of me as a woman fit to share your sorrows, not as a child to be pampered and played with, and never to be burdened with a man’s sterner cares. If I am not fit to know your troubles, I am not fit to be your wife. Tell me, Paul, what it is that has taken the sunshine out of your life.”
“The sunshine has not been taken out of my life yet, little woman — here it is,” said Paul, lightly, and he drew his fingers through the glistening hair.
The girl’s lucent eyes fell.
“You are playing with me,” she said gravely; “you are always playing with me. Am I so much a child? Are you angry with me?”
“Angry with you, little one? Hardly that, I think,” said Paul, and his voice sunk.
“Then tell me, sweetheart. You have something to say — what is it?”
“I have come to ask—”
“Yes?”
He hesitated. His heart was too full to speak. He began again.
“Do you think it would be too great a sacrifice to give up—”
“What?” she gasped.
“Do you remember all you told me about my brother Hugh — that he said he loved you?”
“Well?” said Greta, with a puzzled glance.
“I think he spoke truly,” said Paul, and his voice trembled.
She drew back with agony in every line of her face.
“Would it be ... do you think ... supposing I went away, far away, and we were not to meet for a time, a long time — never to meet again — could you bring yourself to love him and marry him?”
Greta rose to her feet in agitation.
“Him — love him! — you ask me that — you!”
The girl’s voice broke down into sobs that seemed to shake her to the heart’s core.
“Greta, darling, forgive me; I was blind — I am ashamed.”
“Oh, I could cry my eyes out!” she said, wiping away her tears. “Say you were only playing with me, then; say you were only playing; do say so, do!”
“I will say anything — anything but the same words again — and they nearly killed me to say them.”
“And was this what you came to say?” Greta inquired.
“No, no,” he said, lifted out of his gloom by the excitement; “but another thing, and it is easier now — ten times easier now — to say it. Greta, do you think if I were to leave Cumberland and settle in another country — Australia or Canada, or somewhere far enough away — that you could give up home, and kindred, and friends, and old associations, and all the dear past, and face a new life in a new world with me? Could you do it?”
Her eyes sparkled. He opened his arms, and she flew to his embrace.
“Is this your answer, little one?” he said, with choking delight. And a pair of streaming eyes looked up for a brief instant into his face. “Then we’ll say no more now. I’m to go to London to-morrow night, and shall be away four days. When I return we’ll talk again, and tell the good soul who lies in yonder. Peace be with him, and sweet sleep, the dear old friend!”
Paul lifted up his hat and opened the door. His gloom was gone; his eyes were alive with animation. The worn cheeks were aflame. He stood erect, and walked with the step of a strong man.
Greta followed him into the porch. The rosy fire-light followed her. It flickered over her golden hair, and bathed her beauty in a ruddy glow.
“Oh, how free the air will breathe over there,” he said, “when all this slavery is left behind forever! You don’t understand, little woman, but some day you shall. What matter if it is a land of rain, and snow, and tempest? It will be a land of freedom — freedom, and life, and love. And now, Master Hugh, we shall soon be quits — very soon!”
His excitement carried him away, and Greta was too greedy of his joy to check it with questions.
They stood together at the door. The night was still and dark; the trees were noiseless, their prattling leaves were gone. Silent and empty as a vacant street was the unseen road.
Paul held forth his hand to feel if it rained. A withered leaf floated down from the eaves into his palm.
Then a footstep echoed on the path. It went on toward the village. Presently the postman came trudging along from the other direction.
“Good-night, Tom o’ Dint!” cried Paul, cheerily.
Tom stopped and hesitated.
“Who was it I hailed on the road?” he asked.
“When?”
“Just now.”
“Nay, who was it?”
“I thought it was yourself.”
The little man trundled on in the dark.
“My brother, no doubt,” said Paul, and he pulled the door after him.
CHAPTER III.
The next morning a bright sun shone on the frosty landscape. The sky was blue and the air was clear.
Hugh Ritson sat in his room at the back of the Ghyll, with its window looking out on the fell-side and on the river under the leafless trees beneath. The apartment had hardly the appearance of a room in a Cumbrian homestead. It was all but luxurious in its appointments. The character of its contents gave it something of the odor of a by-gone age. Besides books on many shelves, prints, pictures in water and oil, and mirrors of various shapes, there was tapestry on the inside of the door, a bust of Dante above a cabinet of black oak, a piece of bas-relief in soapstone, a gargoyle in wood, a brass censer, a mediaeval lamp with open mouth, and a small ivory crucifix nailed to the wall above the fire.
Hugh himself sat at an organ, his fingers wandering aimlessly over the keys, his eyes gazing vacantly out at the window. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said the player. Mr. Bonnithorne entered and walked to a table in the middle of the floor. Hugh Ritson finished the movement he was playing, and then arose from the organ and drew an easy-chair to the fire.
“Brought the deed?” he asked, quietly, Mr. Bonnithorne still standing.
“I have, my dear friend, and something yet more important.”
Hugh glanced up: through his constant smile Mr. Bonnithorne was obviously agitated. Dropping his voice, the lawyer added, “Copies of the three certificates.”
Hugh smiled faintly. “Good; we will discuss the certificates first,” he said, and drew his dressing-gown leisurely about him.
Mr. Bonnithorne began to unfold some documents. He paused; his eye was keen and bright; he seemed to survey his dear friend with some perplexity; his glance was shadowed by a certain look of distrust; but his words were cordial and submissive, and his voice was, as usual, low and meek. “What a wonderful man you are. And how changed! It is only a few months since I had to whip up your lagging spirits at a great crisis. And now you leave me far behind. Not the least anxious! How different I am, to be sure. It was this very morning my correspondent sent me the copies, and yet I am here, five miles from home. And when the post arrived I declare to you that such was my eagerness to know if our surmises were right that—”
Hugh interrupted in a quick, cold voice: “That you were too nervous to open his letter, and fumbled it back and front for an hour — precisely.”
Saying this, Hugh lifted his eyes quickly enough to encounter Mr. Bonnithorne’s glance, and when they fell again a curious expression was playing about his mouth.
“Give me the papers,” said Hugh, and he stretched forward his hand without shifting in his seat.
“Well, really, you are — really—”
Hugh raised his eyes again. Mr. Bonnithorne paused, handed the documents, and shuffled uneasily into a seat.
One by one Hugh glanced hastily over three slips of paper. “This is well,” he said, quietly.
“Well? I should say so, indeed. What could be better? I confess to you that until to-day I had some doubts. Now I have none.”
“Doubts? So you had doubts?” said Hugh, dryly “They disturbed your sleep, perhaps?”
The lurking distrust in Mr. Bonnithorne’s eyes openly displayed itself, and he gazed full into the face of Hugh Ritson with a searching look that made little parley with his smile. “Then one may take a man’s inheritance without qualm or conviction?”
Hugh pretended not to hear, and began to read aloud the certificates in his hand. “Let me see, this is first — Registration of Birth.”
Mr. Bonnithorne interrupted. “Luckily, very luckily, the registration of birth is first.”
Hugh read:
“Name, Paul. Date of birth, August 14, 1845. Place of birth, Russell Square, London. Father’s name, Robert Lowther. Mother’s name, Grace Lowther; maiden name, Ormerod.”
“Then this comes second — Registration of Marriage.”
Mr. Bonnithorne rose in his eagerness and rubbed his hands together at the fire. “Yes, second,” he said, with evident relish.
Hugh read calmly:
“Allan Ritson — Grace Ormerod — Register’s office, Bow Street, Strand, London — June 12, 1847.”
“What do you say to that?” asked Mr. Bonnithorne, in an eager whisper.
Hugh continued without comment. “And this comes last — Registration of Birth.”
“Name, Hugh — March 25, 1848 — Holme, Ravenglass, Cumberland — Allan Ritson — Grace Ritson (Ormerod).”
“There you have the case in a nutshell,” said Mr. Bonnithorne, dropping his voice. “Paul is your half-brother, and the son of Lowther. You are Allan Ritson’s heir, born within a year of your father’s marriage. Can anything be clearer?”
Hugh remained silently intent on the documents. “Were these copies made at Somerset House?” he asked.
Mr. Bonnithorne nodded.
“And your correspondent can be relied upon?”
“Assuredly. A solicitor in excellent practice.”
“Was he told what items he had to find, or did he make a general search?”
“He was told to find the marriage or marriages of Grace Ormerod and to trace her offspring.”
“And these were the only entries?”
Mr. Bonnithorne nodded again.
Hugh twirled the papers in his fingers, and then placed two of them side by side. His face wore a look of perplexity. “I am puzzled,” he said.
“What puzzles you?” said Mr. Bonnithorne. “Can anything be plainer?”
“Yes. By these certificates I am two and a half years younger than Paul. I was always taught that there was only a year between us.”
Mr. Bonnithorne smiled, and said in a superior tone:
“An obvious ruse.”
“You think a child is easily deceived — true!”
Mr. Bonnithorne preserved a smiling face.
“Now, I will proceed to the payment of the legacy, and you, no doubt, to the institution of your claim.”
“No,” said Hugh Ritson, with emphasis, rising to his feet.
“You know that if a bastard dies seized of an estate, the law justifies his title. He is then the bastard eigne. You must eject this man.”
“No,” said Hugh Ritson again. The lawyer glanced up inquiringly, and Hugh added: “That shall come later. Meantime the marriage must be brought about.”
“Your own marriage with Greta?”
“Paul’s.”
“Paul’s?” said Mr. Bonnithorne, the very suppression of his tone giving it additional emphasis.
“Paul’s,” repeated Hugh with grim composure. “He shall marry her.”
The lawyer had risen once more, and was now face to face with Hugh Ritson, glancing into his eyes with eager scrutiny.
“You cannot mean it?” he said at length.
“And why not?” said Hugh, placidly.
“Because Paul is her brother — at least, her half-brother.”
“They don’t know that.”
Mr. Bonnithorne’s breath seemed to be arrested.
“But we know it, and we can’t stand by and witness their marriage!” he said at length.
Hugh Ritson leaned with his back to the fire. “We can, and shall,” he said, and not a muscle of his face moved.
Mr. Bonnithorne surveyed his friend from head to foot, and then his own countenance relaxed.
“You are trifling; but it will be no trifle to them when they learn that their billing and cooing must end. And from such a cause, too. It will be a terrible shock. The only question is, whether it would not be more humane to say nothing of the impediment until we have brought about another match. Last night, at Parson Christian’s, I did what I could for you.”
Hugh smiled in return; a close observer might have seen that his was a cold mockery of the lawyer’s own smile.
“Yes, you were always humane, Bonnithorne, and now your sensibilities are shocked. But when I spoke of marriage I meant the ceremony. Nothing more.”
Mr. Bonnithorne’s eyes twinkled.
“I think I understand. You intend to separate them at the church door — perhaps at the altar rail. It is a shocking revenge. My very skin creeps!”
Hugh laughed lightly, and walked to the window. A slant of sunshine fell on his upturned face. When he turned his head and broke silence he spoke in a deep, harsh voice.
“I was humane, too. When she spoke of marriage with Paul, I hinted at an impediment. She ridiculed the idea; scoffed at it.” Another light laugh, and then a stern solemnity. “She insulted me — palpably, grossly, brutally. What did she say? Didn’t I tell you before? Why, she said — ha! ha! would you believe it? — she said she’d rather marry a plowboy than such a gentleman as me. That was her very word.”
Hugh Ritson’s face was now dark with passion, while laughter was on his lips.
“She shall marry her plowboy, to her lifelong horror and disgrace. I promised her as much, and I will keep my word!”
“A terrible revenge!” muttered the lawyer, twitching uneasily at his finger-nails.
“Tut! You don’t know to what lengths love may go. Even the feeble infant hearts of men whose minds are a blank can carry them any length in the devotion or the revenge of love!” He paused, and then added in a low tone, “She has outraged my love!”
