Stanley Weyman - Ovington's Bank

"Nothing very bad," he rejoined. But more than ever, more than before, his conscience accused him. He felt that the shame which burned her face and in a moment gave way to the pallor of fear was the measure of his guilt; and in proportion as he winced under that knowledge, and under the knowledge that it was she who must pay the heavier penalty, he took blame to himself and was strengthened in his resolve. "Listen, Jos," he said bravely. "Listen! And let me tell you what I mean. And, dearest, do not tremble as you are trembling. I am not going to tell him to-day. But tell him I must some day-and soon, if we do not wish him to learn it from others."

She shuddered. All had been so bright, so new, so joyous; and now she was to pay the price. And the price had a very terrible aspect for her. Fate, a cruel, pitiless fate, was closing upon her. She could not speak, but her eyes, her quivering lips, pleaded with him for mercy.

He had expected that, and he steeled himself, showing thereby the good metal that was in him. "Yes," he said firmly, "we must, Jos. And for a better reason than that. Because if we do not, if we continue to deceive your father, he will not only have reason to be angry with you, but to despise me; to look upon me as a poor unmanly thing, Jos, a coward who dared not face him, a craven who dared not ask him for what he valued above all the world! Who stole it from him in the dark and behind his back! As it is he will be angry enough. He will look down upon me, and with justice. And at first he will say 'No,' and I fear he will separate us, and there will be no more meetings, and we may have to wait. But if we are brave, if we trust one another and are true to one another-and, alas, you will have to bear the worst-if we can bear and be strong, in the end, believe me, Jos, it will come right."

"Never," she cried, despairing, "never! He will never allow it!"

"Then-"

"Oh," she prayed, "can we not go on as we are?"

"No, we cannot." He was firm. "We cannot. By and by you would discover that for yourself, and you, as well as he, would have cause to despise me. For consider, Jos, think, dear. If I do not seek you for my wife, what is before us? To what can we look forward? To what future? What end? Only to perpetual alarms, and some day, when we least expect it, to discovery-to discovery that will cover me with disgrace."

She did not answer. She had taken her hands from him, she had taken herself from him. She leant on the stile, her face hidden. But he dared not give way, nor would he let himself be repulsed; and very tenderly he laid his hand on her shoulder. "It is natural that you should be frightened," he said. "But if I, too, am frightened; if, seeing the proper course, I do not take it, how can you ever trust me or depend on me? What am I then but a coward? What is the worth of my love, Jos, if I have not the courage to ask for you?"

"But he will want to know-" her shoulders heaved in her agitation, "he will want to know-"

"How we met? I know. And how we loved? Yes, I am afraid so. And he will be angry with you, and you will suffer, and I shall be God knows how wretched! But if I do not go to him, how much more angry will he be! And how much more ground for anger will he have! If we continue to meet it cannot be long kept from him, and then how much worse will it be! And I, with not a word to say for myself, with no defence, no plea! I, who shall not then seem to him to be even a man."

"But he is so-so hard!" she whispered, her face still hidden.

"I know, dear. And so firmly set in his prejudice and his pride. I know. He will think me so far below you; he hates the bank and all connected with it. He holds me a mere clerk, not one of his class, and low, dear, I know it. But" – his voice rose a tone-"I am not low, Jos, and you have discovered it. And now I must prove it to him. I must prove it. And to make a beginning, I must be no coward. I must not be afraid of him. For you, the times are past when he could ill-treat you. And he loves you."

"He is very hard," she murmured. It was his punishment throughout, that though his heart was wrung for her he could not bear her share of the suffering. But he dared not and he would not give way. "He will make me give you up."

He had thought of that and was ready for it. "That must depend upon you," he said very soberly. "For my part, dear-but my part is easy-I shall never give you up. Never! But if the trial be too sore for you who must bear the heavier burden, if you feel that our love is not worth the price you must pay, then I will never reproach you, Jos, never. If you decide on that I will not say one word against it; no, nor think one harsh thought of you. And then we need not tell him. But we must not meet again."

She trembled; and it was natural, it was very natural, that she should tremble. It was an age when discipline was strict and even harsh, and she had been bred up in awe of her father, and in that absolute subjection to him of which the women about her set the example. Children were then to be seen and not heard. Girls were expected to have neither wills nor views of their own. And in her case this was not all. The Squire was a hard man. He was a man of whom those about him stood in awe, and who if he had any of the softer affections hid them under a mask of unpleasing reserve. Proud as he was of his caste, he kept his daughter short of money and short of clothes. He saw her go shabby without a qualm, and penniless, and rejoiced that she could not get into mischief. If she lost a shilling on an errand or overpaid a bill, he stormed and raved at her. Had she run up a debt he would have driven her from the room with oaths. So that if, under the dry husk, there was any kernel, any softer feeling-either for her or for the young boy who had died in his first uniform at Alexandria-she had no clue to the fact, and certainly no suspicion of it.

Nor was even this the whole. One thing was known to Josina which was not known to Clement. Garth was entailed upon her. Even the Squire could not deprive her of the estate, and in the character of his heir she wore for the old man a preciousness with which affection had nothing to do. What he might have permitted to his daughter was matter for grim conjecture. But that he would ever let his heiress, her whose hand was weighted with the rents of Garth, and with the wide lands he loved-that he would ever let her wed at her pleasure or out of her class-this appeared to Josina of all things the most unlikely.

It was no wonder then that the girl hesitated before she answered, or that Clement's face grew grave, his heart heavy, as he waited. But he had that insight into the feelings of others which imagination alone can give, and while she wavered or seemed to waver, he felt none of the resentment which comes of wounded love. Rather he was filled with a great pity for her, a deep tenderness. For it was he who was in fault, he told himself. It was he who had made the overtures, he who had wooed and won her fancy, he who had done this. It was his selfishness, his thoughtlessness, his imprudence which had brought them to this pass, a pass whence they could neither advance without suffering nor draw back with honor. So that if she who must encounter a father's anger proved unequal to the test, if the love, which he did not doubt, was still too weak to face the ordeal, it did not lie with him to blame her-even on this day when bird and flower and leaf sang love's pæan. No, perish the thought! He would never blame her. With infinite tenderness, forgiving her beforehand, he touched her bowed head.

At that, at that touch, she looked up at last, and with a leap of the heart he read her answer in her eyes. He read there a love and a courage equal to his own; for, after all, she was her father's daughter, she too came of an old proud race. "You shall tell him," she said, smiling through her tears. "And I will bear what comes of it. But they shall never separate us, Clem, never, never, if you will be true to me."