Complete works of hall c.., p.58
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 58
There was a slight spasm of his features at that moment, and his foot trailed more heavily as he went on. At a twist of the road he passed the Laird Fisher. The old man looked less melancholy than usual. It was as if the familiar sorrow sat a little more lightly to-night on the half-ruined creature.
“Good-neet to you, sir, and how fend ye?” he said almost cheerily.
Hugh Ritson responded briefly.
“So you’re not sleeping on the fell to-night, Matthew?” and as he spoke his eyes wandered toward the fell road.
“Nay; I’s not firing to-neet, for sure; my daughter is expecting me.”
Hugh’s eyes were now fixed intently on the road that crossed the foot of the fell to the west. The charcoal-burner was moving off, and, following at the same moment the upward direction of Hugh Ritson’s gaze, he said:
“It’s a baddish place yon, where your father is with Reuben and the lad, and it’s baddish weather that is coming, too — look at yon black cloud over Walna Scar.”
Then for an instant there was embarrassment in Hugh Ritson’s eyes, and he answered in a faltering commonplace.
“Ways me; but I must slip away home, sir; my laal lass will be weary waiting. Good-neet to you, sir; good-neet.”
“Good-night, Matthew, and God help you,” said Hugh in a tone of startling earnestness, his eyes turned away.
He had walked half a mile further, and reached the lonnin that led to the Ghyll, when he was almost overrun by Greta Lowther, who came tripping out of the gate of a meadow, her bonnet swinging over her arm, her soft, wavy hair floating over her white forehead, her cheeks colored with a warm glow, a roguish light in her eyes, and laughter on the point of bubbling out of her lips.
Greta had just given Paul Ritson the slip. There was a thicket in the field she had crossed, and it was covered with wild roses, white and red. Through the heart of it there rippled a tiny streak of water that was amber-tinted from the round shingle in its bed. The trunk of an old beech lay across it for ford or bridge. Underfoot were the sedge and moss; overhead the thick boughs and the roses; in the air, the odor of hay and the songs of birds. And Paul, the cunning rascal, would have tempted Greta into this solitude; but she was too shrewd, the wise little woman, to-be so easily trapped. Pretending to follow him in ignorance of his manifest design, she tripped back on tiptoe, and fled away like a lapwing over the noiseless grass.
When Greta met Hugh Ritson she was saying to herself, of Paul in particular, and of his sex in general: “What dear, simple, unsuspecting, trustful creatures they are!” Then she drew up sharply, “Ah, Hugh!”
“How happy you look, Greta!” he said, fixing his eyes upon her.
A new light brightened her sunny face. “Not happier than I feel,” she answered. She swung the arm over which the bonnet hung; the heaving of her breast showed the mold of her early womanhood.
Hugh Ritson’s mind had for the last half hour brooded over many a good purpose, but not one of them was now left.
“You witnessed a painful scene to-day,” he said, with some hesitation. “Be sure it was no less painful to me because you were there to see it.”
“Oh, I was so sorry,” said Greta, impetuously. “You mean with your father?”
Hugh bent his head slightly. “It was inevitable — I know that full well — but for my share in it I ask your pardon.”
“That is nothing,” she said; “but you took your father too seriously.”
“I took him at his word — that was all.”
“But the dear old man meant nothing, and you meant very much. He only wanted to abuse you a little, and perhaps frighten you, and shake his stick at you, and then love you all the better for it.”
“You may be right, Greta. Among the whims of nature there is that of making such human contradictions; but, as you say, I take things seriously — everything — life itself.”
He paused, and there was a slight trembling of the lip.
“Besides,” he went on in another tone, “it has been always so. Since our childhood — my brother’s and mine — there has not been much paternal tenderness wasted on me. I can hardly expect it now.”
“Surely that must be a morbid fancy,” Greta said in a distressed tone. The light was dying out of her eyes. She made one quick glance downward to where Hugh Ritson’s infirm foot trailed on the road, and then, in an instant of recovered consciousness, she glanced up, now confused and embarrassed, into his face.
She was too late; he had read her thought. A faint smile parted her lips; and the light of his own eyes was cold.
“No; not that,” he said; “I ask no pity in that regard — and need none. Nature has given my brother a physique that would shame a Greek statue, but he and I are quits — perhaps more than quits.”
He made a hard smile, and she flushed deep with shame of having her thought read.
“I am sorry if I conveyed that,” she said, slowly. “It must have been quite unwittingly. I was thinking of your mother. She is so good and tender to everybody. Why, she is the angel of the country-side. Do you know what name they’ve given her?”
Hugh shook his head.
“Saint Grace! Parson Christian told me — it seems it was my own dear mother who christened her.”
“Nevertheless, there has not been much to sweeten my life, Greta,” he said.
His voice arrested her; it was charged with unusual feeling. She made no answer, and they began to walk toward the house.
After a few steps Greta remembered the trick that she had played on Paul, and craned her beautiful neck to see over the stone cobble-hedge into the field where she had left him.
Hugh observed her intently.
“I hear that you have decided. Is it so, Greta?” he said.
“Decided what?” she asked, coloring again.
He also colored slightly, and answered with a strained quietness.
“To marry my brother.”
“If he wishes it — I suppose he does — he says so, you know.”
Hugh looked earnestly into the girl’s glowing face, and said with deliberation:
“Greta, perhaps there are reasons why you should not marry Paul.”
“What reasons?”
He did not reply at once, and she repeated her question. Then he said in a strange tone:
“Just and lawful impediments, as they say.”
Greta’s eyes opened wide in undisguised amazement.
“Impossible — you cannot mean it,” she said with her customary impetuosity. She glanced into Hugh’s face, and misread what she saw there. Then she began to laugh; at first lightly, afterward rather boisterously, and said with head averted, and almost as if talking to herself, “No, no; he is nothing to me but the man I love.”
“Do you then love him?”
Greta started.
“Do you ask?” she said. The amazement in the wide eyes had deepened to a look of rapture. “Love him?” she said; “better than all the world beside.” The girl was lifted out of herself. “You are to be my brother, Hugh, and I need not fear to speak so.”
She swung her bonnet on her arm, just to preserve composure by some distracting exercise.
Hugh Ritson stopped, and his face softened. It was a perplexing smile that sat on his features. While he had talked with Greta there had run through his mind, as a painful undertone, the thought of Mercy Fisher. He had now dismissed the last of his qualms respecting her. To be tied down for life to a mindless piece of physical prettiness — what man of brains could bear it? He had yielded to a natural impulse — true! That moment of temptation threatened painful consequences — still true! What then? Nothing! Was the dead fruit to hang about his neck forever? Tut! — all natural law was against it. Had he not said that he was above prejudice? So was he above the maudlin sentiment of the “great lovers of noble histories.” The sophistry grew apace with Greta’s beautiful countenance before him. Catching at her last word, he said:
“Your brother — yes. But did you never guess that I could have wished another name?”
The look of amazement returned to her eyes; he saw it and went on:
“Is it possible that you have not read my secret?”
“What secret?” she said in a half-smothered voice.
“Greta, if your love had been great love, you must have read my secret just as I have read yours.” In a low tone he continued: “Long ago I knew that you loved, or thought you loved, my brother. I saw it before he had seen it — before you had realized it.”
The red glow colored her cheeks more deeply than before. She had stopped, and he was tramping nervously backward and forward.
“Greta,” he said again, and he fixed his eyes entreatingly upon her, “what is the love that scarcely knows itself? — that is the love with which you love my brother. And what is the tame, timid passion of a man of no mind? — that is the love which he offers you. What is your love for him, or his for you? — what is it, can it be? Love is not love unless it is the love of true minds. That was said long ago, Greta, and how true it is!” He went on quickly, in a tone of dull irritation: “All other love is no better than lust. Greta, I understand you. It is not for a rude man like my brother to do so.” Then in an eager voice he said: “Dearest, I bring you a love undreamed of among these country boors.”
“Country boors!” she repeated in a half-stifled whisper.
He did not hear her. His vehement eyes swam, and he was dizzy.
“Greta, dearest, I said there has been little in my life to sweeten it. Yet I am a man made to love and to be loved. My love for you has been mute for months; but it can be mute no longer. Perhaps I have had my own impediment, apart from our love for Paul. But that is all over now.”
His cheeks quivered, his lips trembled, his voice swelled, his nervous fingers were riveted to his palm. He approached her and took her hand. She seemed to be benumbed by strong feeling. She had stood as one transfixed, a slow paralysis of surprise laying hold of her faculties. But at his touch her senses regained their mastery. She flung away his hand. Her breast heaved. In a voice charged with indignation, she said:
“So this is what you mean! I understand you at last!”
Huge Ritson fell back a pace.
“Greta, hear me — hear me again!”
But she had found her voice indeed.
“Sir, you have outraged your brother’s heart as surely as if at this moment I had been your brother’s wife!”
“Greta, think before you speak — think, I implore you!”
“I have thought! I have thought of you as your sister might think, and spoken to you as my brother. Now I know how mean of soul you are!”
Hugh broke in passionately:
“For God’s sake, stop! I am an unforgiving man.”
His nostrils quivered, every nerve vibrated.
“Love? You never loved. If you knew what the word means you would die of shame where you stand this instant.”
Hugh lost all control.
“I bid you beware!” he said in wrath and dismay.
“And I bid you be silent!” said Greta, with an eloquent uplifting of the hand. “You offer your love to a pledged woman. It is only base love that is basely offered. It is bad coin, sir, and goes back dishonored.”
Hugh Ritson regained some self-command. The contractions were deep about his forehead, but he answered in an imperturbable voice:
“You shall never marry my brother!”
“I will — God willing!”
“Then you shall marry him to your lifelong horror and disgrace.”
“That shall be as Heaven may order.”
“A boor — a hulking brute — a bas—”
“Enough! I would rather marry a plowboy than such a gentleman as you!”
Face to face, eye to eye, with panting breath and scornful looks, there they stood for one moment. Then Greta swung about and walked down the lonnin.
Hugh Ritson’s natural manner returned instantly. He looked after her without the change of a feature, and then turned quietly into the house.
CHAPTER VI.
There was a drowsy calm in the room where Mr. Bonnithorne sat at lunch. It was the little oak-bound parlor to the right, in which he had begun the conversation with old Allan Ritson that had been interrupted by the announcement of the Laird Fisher. Half of the window was thrown up, and the landscape framed by the sash lay still as a picture. The sun that had passed over Grisedale sent a deep glow from behind, and the woods beneath took a restful tone. Only the mountain-head was white where it towered into the sky and the silence.
Mrs. Ritson entered and sat down. Her manner was meek almost to abjectness. She was elderly, but her face bore traces of the beauty she had enjoyed in youth. The lines had grown deep in it since then, and now the sadness of its expression was permanent. She wore an old-fashioned lavender gown, and there was a white silk scarf about her neck. Her voice was low and tremulous, yet eager, as if it were always questioning.
With downcast head, and eyes bent on her lap, where her fingers twitched nervously as she knitted without cessation, she sat silent, or put meek questions to her guest.
Mr. Bonnithorne answered in smiles and speeches of six words apiece. Between each sparse reply he addressed himself afresh to his lunch with an appetite that was the reverse of sparse. All the while a subdued hum of many voices came up from the booth in the fields below.
At length Mrs. Ritson’s anxiety overcame the restraint of her manner.
“Mr. Bonnithorne,” she said, “do let the will be made to-night. Urge Mr. Ritson, when he returns, to admit of no further delay. He has many noble qualities, but procrastination is his fault. It has been ever so.”
Mr. Bonnithorne paused with a glass half raised to his lips, and lifted his eyes instead.
“Pardon me, madame,” he said, with the customary smile which failed to disarm his words; “this is for certain reasons a subject I can hardly discuss with — with — with a woman.”
And just then a peacock strutted through the court-yard, startling the still air with its empty scream.
Mrs. Ritson colored deeply. Even modesty like hers had been put to a severe strain. But she dropped her eyes again, finished a row of stitches, rested the steel needle on her lip, and answered quietly:
“Surely a woman may talk of what concerns her husband and her children.”
The great man had resumed his knife and fork.
“Not necessarily,” he said. “It is a strange and curious fact that there is one condition in which the law does not recognize the right of a woman to call her son her own.”
During this prolonged speech, Hugh Ritson, fresh from his interview with Greta Lowther, entered the room, and stretched himself on the couch.
Mrs. Ritson, without shifting the determination of her gaze from the nervous fingers in her lap, said:
“What condition?”
Mr. Bonnithorne twisted slightly, and glanced significantly at Hugh as he answered:
“The condition of illegitimacy.”
Something supercilious in the tone jarred on Mrs. Ritson’s ear. She looked up from her knitting, and said:
“What do you mean?”
Bonnithorne placed his knife and fork with precision over his empty plate, used his napkin with deliberation, coughed slightly, and said: “I mean that the law denies the name of son to offspring that has been bastardized.”
Mrs. Ritson’s face grew crimson, and she rose to her feet.
“If so, the law is cruel and wicked,” she said in a voice more tremulous with emotion.
Mr. Bonnithorne leaned languidly back in his chair, ejected a long “hem” from his overburdened chest, inserted his fingers in the armpits of his waistcoat, looked up, and said: “Odd, isn’t it?”
Unluckily for the full effect of Mr. Bonnithorne’s subtle witticism, Paul Ritson, with Greta at his side, appeared in the door-way at the moment of its delivery. The manner more than the words had awakened his anger, and the significance of both he interpreted by his mother’s agitated face. In two strides he stepped up to where the great man sat, even now all smiles and white teeth, and laid a powerful hand on his arm.
“My friend,” said Paul, lustily, “it might not be safe for you to speak to my mother again like that!”
Mr. Bonnithorne rose stiffly, and his shifty eyes looked into Paul’s wrathful face.
“Safe?” he echoed with emphasis.
Paul, his lips compressed, bent his head, and at the same instant brought the other hand down on the table.
Without speaking, Mr. Bonnithorne shuffled back into his seat. Mrs. Ritson, letting fall her knitting into her lap, sat and dropped her face into her hands. Paul took her by the arm, raised her up, and led her out of the room. As he did so, he passed the couch on which Hugh Ritson lay, and looked down with mingled anger and contempt into his brother’s indifferent eyes.
When the door closed behind them, Hugh Ritson and Mr. Bonnithorne rose together. There was a momentary gleam of mutual consciousness. Then instantly, suddenly, by one impulse, the two men joined hands across the table.
CHAPTER VII.
The cloud that had hung over Walna Scar broke above the valley, and a heavy rain-storm, with low mutterings of distant thunder, drove the pleasure-people from the meadow to the booth. It was a long canvas tent with a drinking-bar at one end, and stalls in the corners for the sale of gingerbreads and gimcracks. The grass under it was trodden flat, and in patches the earth was bare and wet beneath the trapesing feet of the people. They were a mixed and curious company. In a ring that was cleared by an athletic plowman the fiddler-postman of Newlands, Tom o’ Dint, was seated on a tub turned bottom up. He was a little man with bowed legs and feet a foot long.
“Now, lasses, step forret! Dunnot be blate. Come along with ye, any as have springiness in them!”
The rough invitation was accepted without too much timidity by several damsels dressed in gorgeous gowns and bonnets. Then up and down, one, two, three, cut and shuffle, cross, under, and up and down again.
“I’ll be mounting my best nag and comin’ ower to Scara Crag and tappin’ at your window some neet soon,” whispered a young fellow to the girl he had just danced with.
