Complete works of hall c.., p.56
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 56
“The girl was a Catholic, Lowther a Protestant. A Catholic priest married them in Ireland. That was not a valid marriage by English law.”
Hugh smiled grimly.
“And Lowther had the marriage annulled?”
“He had fallen in love,” began Mr. Bonnithorne.
“This time with an heiress?” There was a caustic laugh.
Mr. Bonnithorne nodded. “Greta’s mother. So he—”
“Abandoned the first wife,” Hugh Ritson interrupted again.
Mr. Bonnithorne shook his head with an innocent expression.
“Wife? Well, he left her.”
“You talk of a son. Had they one?”
“They had,” said Mr. Bonnithorne, “and when the woman and child ... disappeared—”
“Exactly,” said Hugh Ritson, and he smiled. “What did Lowther then?”
“Married again, and had a daughter — Greta.”
“Then why the legacy?”
“Conscience-money,” said Mr. Bonnithorne, pursing up his mouth.
Hugh Ritson laughed slightly.
“The sort of fools’ pence the Chancellor of the Exchequer receives labeled ‘Income Tax.’”
“Precisely — only Lowther had no address to send it to.”
“He had behaved like a scoundrel,” said Hugh Ritson.
“True, and he felt remorse. After the second marriage he set people to find the poor woman and child. They were never found. His last days were overshadowed by his early fault. I believe he died broken-hearted. In his will — I drew it for him — he left, as I say, a sum to be paid to this son of his first wife — when found.”
Hugh Ritson laughed half mockingly.
“I thought he was a fool. A scoundrel is generally a fool as well.”
“Generally; I’ve often observed it,” said Mr. Bonnithorne.
“What possible interest of anybody’s could it be to go hunting for the son of the fool’s deserted wife?”
“The fool,” answered Mr. Bonnithorne, “was shrewd enough to make an interest by ordering that if the son were not found before Greta came of age, a legacy of double the sum should be paid to an orphanage for boys.”
Hugh Ritson’s respect for the dead man’s intelligence experienced a sensible elevation.
“So it is worth a legacy to the family to discover Greta’s half-brother,” he said, summing up the situation in an instant. “If alive — If not, then proof that he is dead.”
The two men had walked some distance, and reached the turning of a lane which led to a house that could be seen among the trees at the foot of a ghyll. The younger man drew up on his infirm foot.
“But I fail to catch the relevance of all this. When I mentioned that I was a second son you—”
“I have had hardly any data to help me in my search,” Mr. Bonnithorne continued. He was walking on. “Only a medallion-portrait of the first wife.” Mr. Bonnithorne dived into a breast-pocket.
“My brother Paul is living. What possible—”
“Here it is,” said Mr. Bonnithorne, and he held out a small picture.
Hugh Ritson took it with little interest.
“This is the portrait of the nun,” he said, as his eyes first fell on it, and recognized the coif and cape.
“A novice — that’s what she was when Lowther met her,” said Mr. Bonnithorne.
Then Hugh Ritson stopped. He regarded the portrait attentively; looked up at the lawyer and back at the medallion. For an instant the strong calm which he had hitherto shown seemed to desert him. The picture trembled in his hand. Mr. Bonnithorne did not appear to see his agitation.
“Is it a fancy? Surely it must be fancy!” he muttered.
Then he asked aloud what the nun’s name had been.
“Ormerod.”
There was a start of recovered consciousness.
“Ormerod — that’s strange!”
The exclamation seemed to escape inadvertently.
“Why strange?”
Hugh Ritson did not answer immediately.
“Her Christian name?”
“Grace.”
“Grace Ormerod? Why, you must know that Grace Ormerod happened to be my own mother’s maiden name!”
“You seem to recognize the portrait.”
Hugh Ritson had regained his self-possession. He assumed an air of indifference.
“Well, yes — no, of course not — no,” he said, emphatically, at last.
In his heart there was another answer. He thought for the moment when he set eyes on the picture that it looked like — a little like — his own mother’s face.
They walked on. Mr. Bonnithorne’s constant smile parted his lips. Lifting his voice rather unnecessarily, he said:
“By the way, another odd coincidence! Would you like to know the name of Grace Ormerod’s child by Robert Lowther?”
Hugh Ritson’s heart leaped within him, but he preserved an outward show of indifference, and drawled:
“Well, what was it?”
“Paul.”
The name went through him like an arrow, then he said, rather languidly:
“So the half-brother of Greta Lowther, wherever he is, is named—”
“Paul Lowther,” said Mr. Bonnithorne. “But,” he added, with a quick glance, “he may — I say he may — be passing by another name — Paul something else, for example.”
“Assuredly — certainly — yes — yes,” Hugh Ritson mumbled. His all but impenetrable calm was gone.
They reached the front of the house, and stood in a paved court-yard. It was the home of the Ritsons, known as the Ghyll, a long Cumbrian homestead of gray stone and green slate. A lazy curl of smoke was winding up from one chimney through the clear air. A gossamer net of the tangled boughs of a slim brier-rose hung over the face of a broad porch, and at that moment a butterfly flitted through it. The chattering of geese came from behind.
“Robert Lowther was the father of Grace Ormerod’s child?” said Hugh Ritson, vacantly.
“The father of her son Paul.”
“And Greta is his daughter? Is that how it goes?”
“That is so — and half-sister to Paul.”
Hugh Ritson raised his eyes to Mr. Bonnithorne’s face.
“And of what age would Paul Lowther be now?”
“Well, older than you, certainly. Perhaps as old as — yes, perhaps as old — fully as old as your brother.”
Hugh Ritson’s infirm foot trailed heavily on the stones. His lips quivered. For a moment he seemed to be rapt. Then he swung about and muttered:
“Tut! it isn’t within belief. Thrusted home, it might betray a man, Heaven only knows how deeply.”
Mr. Bonnithorne looked up inquiringly.
“Pardon me; I fail, as you say, to catch the relevance.”
“Mr. Bonnithorne,” said Hugh Ritson, holding out his hand, “you and I have been good friends, have we not?”
“Oh, the best of friends.”
“At your leisure, when I have had time to think of this, let us discuss it further.”
Mr. Bonnithorne smiled assent.
“And meantime,” he said, softly, “let the unhappy little being we spoke of be sent away.”
Hugh Ritson’s eyes fell, and his voice deepened.
“Poor little soul — I’m sorry — very.”
“As for Greta and her lover — well—”
Mr. Bonnithorne nodded his head significantly, and left his words unfinished.
“My father is crossing the stack-yard,” said Hugh Ritson. “You shall see him in good time. Come this way.”
The shadows were lengthening in the valley. A purple belt was stretching across the distant hills, and a dark-blue tint was nestling under the eaves. A solitary crow flew across the sky, and cawed out its guttural note. Its shadow fell, as it passed, on two elderly people who were coming into the court-yard.
CHAPTER IV.
“It’s time for that laal Mr. Bonnithorne to be here,” said Allan Ritson.
“Why did you send for him?” asked Mrs. Ritson, in the low tone that was natural to her.
“To get that matter about the will off my mind. It’ll be one thing less to think about, and it has boddert me sair and lang.”
Allan spoke with the shuffling reserve of a man to whose secret communings a painful idea had been too long familiar. In the effort to cast off the unwelcome and secret associate, there was a show of emancipation which, as an acute observer might see, was more assumed than real.
Mrs. Ritson made no terms with the affectation of indifference. Her grave face became yet more grave, and her soft voice grew softer as she said:
“And if when it is settled and done the cloud would break that has hung over our lives, then all would be well. But that can never be.”
Allan tossed his head aside, and made pretense to smile; but no gleam of sunshine on his cornfields was ever chased so closely by the line of dark shadow as his smile by the frown that followed.
“Come, worrit thysel’ na’ mair about it! When I’ve made my will, and put Paul on the same footing with t’other lad, who knows owt mair nor we choose to tell?”
Mrs. Ritson glanced into his face with a look of sad reproach.
“Heaven knows, Allan,” she said; “and the dark cloud still gathers for us there.”
The old man took a step or two on the gravel path, and dropped his gray head. His voice deepened:
“Tha says reet, mother,” he said, “tha says reet. Ey, it saddens my auld days — and thine forby!” He took a step or two more, and added: “And na lawyer can shak’ it off now. Nay, nay, never now. Weel, mother, our sky has been lang owerkessen; but, mind ye,” lifting his face and voice together, “we’ve had gude crops if we tholed some thistles.”
“Yes, we’ve had happy days, too,” said Mrs. Ritson.
At that moment there came from across the vale the shouts of the merrymakers and the music of a fiddle. Allan Ritson lifted his head, nodded it aside jauntily, and smiled feebly through the mist that was gathering about his eyes.
“There they are — wrestling and jumping. I mind me when there was scarce a man in Cummerlan’ could give me the cross-buttock. That’s many a lang year agone, though. And now our Paul can manish most on ‘em — that he can.”
The fiddle was playing a country dance. The old man listened; his face broadened, he lifted a leg jauntily, and gave a sweep of one arm.
Just then there came through the air a peal of happy laughter. It was the same heart’s music that Hugh Ritson and Mr. Bonnithorne had heard in the road. Allan’s face brightened, and his voice had only the faintest crack in it as he said:
“That’s Greta’s laugh! It is for sure! What a heartsome lass yon is! I like a heartsome lassie — a merrie touch, and gone!”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ritson, soberly; “Greta is a winsome girl.”
It was hardly spoken when a young girl bounded down upon them, almost breathless, yet laughing in gusts, turning her head over her shoulder and shouting:
“Hurrah! Beaten, sir! Hurrah!”
It was Greta Lowther; twenty years of age, with fair hair, quick brown eyes, a sunny face lighted up with youthful animation, a swift smile on her parted lips — an English wild white rose.
“I’ve beaten him,” she said. “He challenged me to cross Windybrowe while he ran round the Bowder stone, but I got to the lonnin before he had crossed the bridge.”
Then, running to the corner of the lane, she plucked off her straw hat, waved it about her head, and shouted again in an accent of triumph:
“Hurrah! hurrah! beaten, sir, beaten!”
Paul Ritson came running down the fell in strides of two yards apiece.
“Oh, you young rogue — you cheated!” he cried, coming to a stand and catching his breath.
“Cheated?” said Greta, in a tone of dire amazement.
“You bargained to touch the beacon on the top of Windybrowe, and you didn’t go within a hundred yards of it.”
“The beacon? On Windybrowe?” said the girl, and wondrous perplexity shone in her lovely eyes.
Paul wiped his brow, and shook his head and his finger with mock gravity at the beautiful cheat.
“Now, Greta, now — now — gently—”
Greta looked around with the bewildered gaze of a lost lambkin.
“Mother,” said Paul, “she stole a march on me.”
“He was the thief, Mrs. Ritson; you believe me, don’t you?”
“Me! why I never stole anything in my life — save one thing.”
“And what was that, pray?” said Greta, with another mighty innocent look.
Paul crept up to her side and whispered something over her shoulder, whereupon she eyed him largely, and said with a quick smile:
“You don’t say so! But please don’t be too certain of it. I’m sure I never heard of that theft.”
“Then here’s a theft you shall hear of,” said Paul, throwing one arm about her neck and tipping up her chin.
There was a sudden gleam of rosy, roguish lips. Old Allan, with mischief dancing in his eyes, pretended to recover them from a more distant sight.
“Er — why, what’s that?” he said; “the sneck of a gate, eh?”
Greta drew herself up.
“How can you — and all the people looking — they might really think that we were — we were—”
Paul came behind, put his head over one shoulder, and said:
“And we’re not, are we?”
“They’re weel matched, mother, eh?” said Allan, turning to his wife. “They’re marra-to-bran, as folks say. Greta, he’s a girt booby, isn’t he?”
Greta stepped up to the old man, and with a familiar gesture laid a hand on his arm. At the same moment Paul came to his side. Allan tapped his son on the back.
“Thou girt lang booby,” he said, and laughed heartily. All the shadows that had hung over him were gone. “And how’s Parson Christian?” he asked in another tone.
“Well, quite well, and as dear an old soul as ever,” said Greta.
“He’s father and mother to thee baith, my lass. I never knew thy awn father. He was dead and gone before we coom’t to these parts. And thy mother, too, God bless her! she’s dead and gone now. But if this lad of mine, this Paul, this girt lang — Ah, and here’s Mr. Bonnithorne, and Hughie, too.”
The return of the lawyer and Hugh Ritson abridged the threat of punishment that seemed to hang on the old man’s lips.
Hugh Ritson’s lifted eyes had comprehended everything. The girl leaning over his father’s arm; the pure, smooth cheeks close to the swarthy, weather-beaten, comfortable old face; the soft gaze upward full of feeling; the half-open lips and the teeth like pearls; then the glance round, half of mockery, half of protest, altogether of unconquerable love, to where Paul Ritson stood, his eyes just breaking into a smile; the head, the neck, the arms, the bosom still heaving gently after the race; the light loose costume — Hugh Ritson saw it all, and his heart beat fast. His pale face whitened at that moment, and his infirm foot trailed heavily on the gravel.
Allan shook hands with Mr. Bonnithorne, and then turned to his sons. “Come, you two lads have not been gude friends latterly, and that’s a sair grief baith to your mother and me. You’re not made in the same mold seemingly. But you must mak’ up your fratch, my lads, for your auld folks’ sake, if nowt else.”
At this he stretched out both arms, as if with the intention of joining their hands. Hugh made a gesture of protestation.
“I have no quarrel to make up,” he said, and turned aside.
Paul held out his hand. “Shake hands, Hugh,” he said. Hugh took the proffered hand with unresponsive coldness.
Paul glanced into his brother’s face a moment, and said:
“What’s the use of breeding malice? It’s a sort of live stock that’s not worth its fodder, and it eats up everything.”
There was a scarcely perceptible curl on Hugh Ritson’s lip, but he turned silently away. With head on his breast, he walked toward the porch.
“Stop!”
It was old Allan’s voice. The deep tone betrayed the anger that was choking him. His face was flushed, his eyes were stern, his lips trembled.
“Come back and shak’ hands wi’ thy brother reet.”
Hugh Ritson faced about, leaning heavily on his infirm foot.
“Why to-day more than yesterday or to-morrow?” he said, calmly.
“Come back, I tell thee!” shouted the old man more hotly.
Hugh maintained his hold of himself, and said in a quiet and even voice, “I am no longer a child.”
“Then bear thysel’ like a man — not like a whipped hound.”
The young man shuddered secretly from head to foot. His eyes flashed for an instant. Then, recovering his self-control, he said:
“Even a dog would resent such language, sir.”
Greta had dropped aside from the painful scene, and for a moment Hugh Ritson’s eyes followed her.
“I’ll have no sec worriment in my house,” shouted the old man in a broken voice. “Those that live here must live at peace. Those that want war must go.”
Hugh Ritson could bear up no longer.
“And what is your house to me, sir? What has it done for me? The world is wide.”
Old Allan was confounded. Silent, dumb, with great staring eyes, he looked round into the faces of those about him. Then in thick, choking tones he shouted:
“Shak’ thy brother’s hand, or thou’rt no brother of his.”
“Perhaps not,” said Hugh very quietly.
“Shak’ hands, I tell thee.” The old man’s fists were clinched. His body quivered in every limb.
His son’s lips were firmly set; he made no answer.
The old man snatched from Mr. Bonnithorne the stick he carried. At this Hugh lifted his eyes sharply until they met the eyes of his father. Allan was transfixed. The stick fell from his hand. Then Hugh Ritson halted into the house.
“Come back, come back ... my boy ... Hughie ... come back!” the old man sobbed out. But there was no reply.
“Allan, be patient, forgive him; he will ask your pardon,” said Mrs. Ritson.
Paul and Greta had stolen away. The old man was now speechless, and his eyes, bent on the ground, swam with tears.
“All will be well, please God,” said Mrs. Ritson. “Remember, he is sorely tried, poor boy. He expected you to do something for him.’”
