But as he grew cooler, and the first impulse, so natural in him, to pin his enemies and shake them, began to lose its force, less pleasant aspects of the matter rose before him. For the girl and her nonsense and her bad, bad behavior, he did not tell himself, he would not allow, that it was that which hurt him most. On the contrary, he affected to put that from him--for the time. He told himself and strove to believe that he could deal with it when it pleased him. He could easily put an end to that folly. Girls were only girls, and she'd forget. He would deal with that later.
But Arthur's five thousand--that would be lost, if the girl's story were true. Five thousand! It was a fine sum and a d--d pity! The Squire's avarice rose in arms as he thought of it. Five thousand! And that silly woman, Arthur's mother--he would have to provide for her. She would be penniless, almost penniless.
And Arthur himself? Confound him, what had the lad been doing? Why had he been silent about the bank's difficulties and the peril in which his money stood? For, it was only two days ago that he had denied the existence of any peril. And then, again, what was this story about that unlucky night which had cost him his sight? If it really was young Ovington who had come to his rescue and beaten off Thomas, why had not Arthur said so? Why had he never let fall a single word about him, never mentioned the young fellow's name, never given him the credit that--that was certainly due to him, rogue as he was, if this story were true. There was something odd about that--the Squire moved uneasily in his chair--something underhand and--and fishy! He had a glimpse of Arthur in a new light, and he did not like what he saw.
He liked it almost less, if that were possible, than he liked another thing--the idea that this young Ovington's silence was creditable to him. If it were indeed he who had done the thing, why had he been quiet all this time, and never even said "I did it"? If a gentleman had behaved after that fashion, the Squire would have known what to think of it. But that this low-bred young cub, who had behaved so disgracefully to his daughter, should bear himself in that way--no, he was not going to believe it. After all, the world wasn't turned upside down to that extent.
No! For in his connection with the girl the young scamp had shown what he was--a sneaking, underhand, interloping puppy. In connection with his girl! As he thought of it, the veins swelled on the Squire's forehead and he shook with rage. His girl! "Damn him! Damn him!" he cried, trembling with passion. And again and again he cursed the man who had dared to raise his eyes to a Griffin--who had stolen his child's heart from him. No fate, no punishment, no lot was too bad for such a one. Help him! Help him, indeed!
The Squire laughed mirthlessly at the notion.
After that there remained only his daughter to think of, and as he came back to her and to her share in the matter, more, far more than he wished, recurred to his memory: her prayers and her pleading, her clinging arms and her caresses, the tears that had fallen on his hands, her warm, slender body pressed against his. He could not forget the sound of her voice in his ears, nor the touch of her hand, nor the feel of her body. Words that she had used returned and beat on his old heart, and beat and beat again, tormenting him, trying him, softening, ay, softening him. He thought of the boy, dead these many years at Alexandria, and, yes, she was all that he had, all. And he must thwart her, he must make her unhappy. It was his duty. She knew not what she asked. And she had behaved ill, ay, very ill.
But on that, with a vividness which the reflection had never assumed before--for the old man, like other old men, did not feel old--he saw that he had but a very short span to live--a year or two, or it might be three or four years. The last page of his life was all but turned, the book was near its end. Two or three years and all that he treasured would be hers. Even now he was dependent on her for care and affection, and to the last he must be dependent. A little while and she would be alone, her own mistress; and he who had ruled his lands and his people for more than half a century would be a memory. A memory of what?
Again, and yet again, he felt her arms about his knees, her little head pressed against his breast. Again and yet again her tears, her prayers beat upon his heart. She was a silly woman-child, a fool; but a dear fool, made dear to him in the very hour of her misbehavior. It was his duty to deny her. It was for him to order, for her to obey. And yet, "He saved your life!" that cry so oft repeated, so often dinned into his ears, that, too, came back to him. And before he was aware of it he was wondering what manner of man this young fellow was, what spell he had woven about the girl, whence his power over her.
And why had the man been silent about that night? Had he in truth intended to beard him and claim her in the road that morning--when they met? He remembered it.
The son of that man, Ovington! Lord Almighty! It could hardly be worse. And yet "He saved your life!" The Squire could not get over that--if it were true. If it were really true.
He thought upon it long, forced out of the usual current of his life. Miss Peacock, bringing up his frugal luncheon, found him silent, sunk low in his chair, his chin upon his breast. So he appeared when anyone stole in during the next two hours to attend to the fire or to light his pipe. Calamy, safe outside the door, uttered his misgivings. "It's the torpor," he told Miss Peacock, shaking his head. "That's how it takes them before the end, miss. I've seen it often. The torpor! He'll not be long now!"
Miss Peacock scolded the butler, but was none the less impressed, and presently she sought Josina, who was lying down in her room with a headache. She imparted her fears to the girl, and unwillingly Jos rose, and bathed her face and tidied her hair, and by and by came out. She must take up the burden of life again.
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