LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

a whimper.

      “I thank him! Take my bag, boy, and I'll follow in half an hour.”

      Sarah brought out the bag and opened it, and, weeping bitterly, put into it a bottle with her name on a bit of paper tied round the neck, to remind poor George he was not forgotten at “The Grove,” and then she gave George the key and went sadly in, her apron to her eyes.

      And now George fixed his eye on his brother William, and said to him, “Wilham, will you come with me, if you please?”

      “Ay, George, sure.”

      They went through the farmyard side by side; neither spoke, and George took a last look at the ricks, and he paused, and seemed minded to speak, but he did not, he only muttered “not here.” Then George led the way out into the paddock, and so into the lane, and very soon they saw the village church. William wondered George did not speak. They passed under the yewtree into the churchyard. William's heart fluttered. They found the vicar's cow browsing on the graves. William took up a stone. George put out his hand not to let him hurt her, and George turned her gently into the lane; then he stepped carefully among the graves. William followed him, his heart fluttering more and more with vague fears. William knew now where they were going, but what was George going to say to him there? his heart beat faint-like. By-and-by the brothers came to this—

      [Drawing of Grave]

      The grave was between the two men—and silence—both looked down.

      George whispered, “Good-by, mother! She never thought we should be parted this way.” Then he turned to William and opened his mouth to say something more to him; doubtless that which he had come to say, but apparently it was too much for him. I think he feared his own resolution. He gasped and with a heavy sigh led the way home. William walked with him, not knowing what to think or do or say; at last he muttered, “I wouldn't go, if my heart was here!”

      “I shall go, Will,” replied George, rather sternly as it seemed.

      When they came back to the house they found several persons collected.

      Old Fielding, the young men's grandfather, was there; he had made them wheel him in his great chair out into the sun.

      Grandfather Fielding had reached the last stage of human existence. He was ninety-two years of age. The lines in his face were cordage, his aspect was stony and impassible, and he was all but impervious to passing events; his thin blood had almost ceased to circulate in his extremities; for every drop he had was needed to keep his old heart a-beating at all, instead of stopping like a clock that has run down.

      Meadows had returned to see George off, and old Merton was also there, and he was one of those whose hearts gave them a bit of a twinge.

      “George,” said he, “I'm vexed for speaking unkind to you to-day of all days in the year; I didn't think we were to part so soon, lad.”

      “No more about it, uncle,” faltered George; “what does it matter now?”

      Susan Merton came out of the house; she had caught her father's conciliatory words; she seemed composed, but pale; she threw her arms round her father's neck.

      “Oh! father,” said she imploringly, “I thought it was a dream, but he is going, he is really going. Oh! don't let him go from us; speak him fair, father, his spirit is so high!”

      “Susan!” replied the old farmer, “mayhap the lad thinks me his enemy, but I'm not. My daughter shall not marry a bankrupt farmer, but you bring home a thousand pounds—just one thousand pounds—to show me you are not a fool, and you shall have my daughter and she shall have my blessing.”

      Meadows exulted.

      “Your hand on that, uncle,” cried George, with ardor; “your hand on that before Heaven and all present.”

      The old farmer gave George his hand upon it.

      “But, father,” cried Susan, “your words are sending him away from me.”

      “Susan!” said George sorrowfully but firmly, “I am to go, but don't forget it is for your sake I leave you, my darling Susan—to be a better man for your sake. Uncle, since your last words there is no ill-will; but (bluntly) I can't speak my heart before you.”

      “I'll go, George, I'll go; shan't be said my sister's son hadn't leave to speak his mind to letbe who atool,* at such a time.”

      *Let be who it will. Cui libet.

      Merton turned to leave them, but ere he had taken two steps a most unlooked-for interruption chained him to the spot. An old man, with a long beard and a glittering eye, was among them before they were aware of him; he fixed his eye upon Meadows, and spoke a single word—but that word fell like a sledge-hammer.

      “No!!” said Isaac Levi in the midst. “No!!” repeated he to John Meadows.

      Meadows understood perfectly what “No” meant; a veto upon all his plans, hopes and wishes.

      “Young man,” said Isaac to George, “you shall not wander forth from the home of your fathers. These old eyes see deeper than yours (and he sent an eye-stab at Meadows); you are honest—all men say so—I will lend you the money for your rent, and one who loves you (and he gave another eye-stab at Meadows) will bless me.”

      “Oh! yes, I bless you,” cried Susan innocently.

      The late exulting Meadows was benumbed at this.

      “Surely Heaven sends you to me,” cried Susan. “It is Mr. Levi, of Farnborough.”

      Here was a diversion. Meadows cursed the intruder, and his own evil star that had raised him up so malignant an enemy.

      “All my web undone in a moment,” thought he, and despair began to take possession of him.

      Susan, on the other hand, was all joy and hope; William more or less despondent.

      The old Jew glanced from one to another, read them all, and enjoyed his triumph.

      But when his eye returned to George Fielding he met with something he had not reckoned upon.

      The young man showed no joy, no emotion. He stood immovable, like a statue of a man, and when he opened his lips it was like a statue speaking with its marble mouth.

      “No! Susan. No! old man. I am honest, though I'm poor—and proud, though you have seen me put to shame near my own homestead more than once to-day. To borrow without a chance of paying is next door to stealing; and I should never pay you. My eyes are opened in spite of my heart. I can't farm 'The Grove' with no grass, and wheat at forty shillings. I've tried all I know, and I can't do it. Will there is dying to try, and he shall try, and may Heaven speed his plow better than it has poor George's.”

      “I am not thinking of the farm now, George,” said William. “I'm thinking of when we were boys, and used to play marbles—together—upon the tombstones.” And he faltered a little.

      “Mr. Levi! seems you have a kindness for me. Show it to my brother when I'm away, if you will be so good.”

      “Hum?” said Isaac doubtfully. “I care not to see your stout young heart give way, as it will. Ah, me! I can pity the wanderer from home. I will speak a word with you, and then I will go home.”

      He drew George aside, and made him a secret communication.

      Merton called Susan to him, and made her promise to be prudent, then he shook hands with George and went away.

      Now Meadows, from the direction of Isaac's glance, and a certain half-surprised half-contemptuous look that stole over George's face, suspected that his enemy, whose sagacity he could no longer doubt, was warning George against him.

      This made him feel very uneasy where he was, and this respectable man dreaded some exposure of his secret. So he said hastily, “I'll go along with you, farmer,” and in a moment was by Merton's side, as that worthy stopped to open the gate that led out of George's premises. His feelings were anything but

Скачать книгу