The Buccaneer Farmer - Harold Bindloss
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"Mr. Askew has not been trying to borrow," Hallam answered with a smile.
"Well, I promised to meet a friend and mustn't stop."
He went away and Thorn sat still, pondering. The other men went out by
and by and the room was quiet except for the rumble of traffic in the
street and the rattle of an electric fan. A waiter pulled down a blind
to shut out a bright sunbeam and Thorn found the shade and softened
noises from outside helpful to thought.
Gerald had used money belonging to the bank and borrowed from Hallam in
order to pay it back; although Thorn could not see what had persuaded the
latter to lend. It was strange, certainly, that Hallam had inquired about
Askew, but in the meantime he could let this go. Gerald was threatened by
a danger money could avert, and Thorn could help. If he did help, it
would give him a claim to Osborn's gratitude, although he could not tell
how far this would influence Grace. The Osborns cherished the
old-fashioned traditions of their class, and anything that touched one
touched all. Grace, however, was modern and rebellious, and Thorn knew
she did not like him much. He was not afraid to risk his money, but he
must not waste an opportunity he might not get again, and the opportunity
could be used in one of two ways.
He could free Gerald from his entanglements and, using no pressure, leave
her parents' gratitude to work on Grace. This was the proper line and
would enable him to play a generous part; had he been younger, he would
not have hesitated, but he saw a risk. He was beginning to look old and
unless Grace married him soon, must give her up. The other line, although
not attractive, promised greater security. Before he helped he must state
his terms and force Osborn to agree. Grace could not struggle, because
her refusal would involve the family in Gerald's disgrace. Thorn saw the
plan had drawbacks, but Grace was young and, if he indulged and petted
her, she would, no doubt, get to like him and forget his hardness. He had
heard of marriages made like this that turned out happily.
For a time he sat with his brows knitted and his mouth set. He would have
liked to be generous, but he loved the girl and could not force himself
to run the risk of losing her. Nevertheless, he honestly tried, and
afterwards remembered with strange distinctness the soft rattle of the
electric fan and the dull roll of traffic that throbbed in the quiet room
while he fought the losing fight. The sunbeam the waiter had shut out
crept on to another window and shone on the fluted pillars before he got
up. His face was very hard, for he had chosen his line and knew he must
take it without doubt or pity.
Going down to the hall, he called up Gerald's branch bank. A clerk who
was working late replied that Mr. Osborn had gone.
"I know," said Thorn, giving his name. "Make a note to tell him he need
not call on me to-morrow. I find I am unable to do what he requires."
"Very well," said the clerk. "I'll give him the message in the morning."
Thorn rang the bell and, leaving the box, asked for a railway guide.
There was nothing to be gained by stopping in London and he looked up the
best train for the north.
CHAPTER VII
GERALD'S RETURN
Thorn went home and waited, confident that Osborn would presently send
for him. The estate was heavily mortgaged, Osborn had no rich friends,
and when the blow fell would look to Thorn for the aid nobody else could
give. In the meantime, Osborn, enjoying a short relief from financial
strain, squandered in personal extravagance part of the sum he had
borrowed, and then set drainers, carpenters, and builders to work. He
liked spending and now tried to persuade himself that the money he was
laying out would give him some return. It ought to last until he had
finished the renovations his tenants demanded, and although difficulties
might arise afterwards, he would wait until they did. Indeed, his wife
and daughter found him better humored than he had been for long.
Then, one evening when the hay was harvested and the corn was ripening,
his satisfaction was rudely banished. Grace had gone to the lodge with a
message and stopped for a few minutes by the gate. The evening was calm
and one side of the placid tarn glittered in the light; the other was
dark, and soft blue shadows covered the fells behind. She heard the
languid splash of ripples on the stones and the murmur of a beck in a
distant ghyll. A strange restful tranquillity brooded over the dale.
Grace felt the calm soothing, for her thoughts were not a little
disturbed. She had met Thorn in the afternoon and noted a puzzling change
in his manner. So far, she had been able to check his cautious advances,
but she now remarked a new confidence that seemed to indicate he had some
power in reserve. She admitted that she might have imagined this, but it
troubled her.
Afterwards she had met Kit and the comfort the meeting gave her had
forced her to think. Their friendship had gone far; in fact, it had
reached a point friendship could not pass. Kit was not yet her lover, but
she thought he waited for a sign that she would acknowledge him when he
made his claim. She liked Kit; she had not met a man she liked so much.
This, however, did not imply that she was willing to marry him. Although
she now and then rebelled against conventions, she had inherited some of
Osborn's prejudices, and her mother sprang from old-fashioned land-owning
stock. Kit belonged to another class; the life he led was different. She
had been taught to enjoy cultivated idleness, broken by outdoor sports
and social amusements; but Kit was a worker, farming for money and
resolved to make his efforts pay. His wife must help and Grace did not
know if this daunted her or not.
Moreover, if she married Kit, she must quarrel with her parents. She knew
what Osborn thought about him. Had she been sure she loved Kit, the
choice would have been easier, but although she blushed as she mused,
this was too much to own. Yet he loved her, and after all--
She let the matter go and looked up, for there were steps in the shadowy
road. Then a figure came into the fading light, and she started and ran
to the gate.
"Gerald!" she exclaimed. "Why have you come home?"
"Somehow you don't feel flattered when people ask you why you came,"
Gerald rejoined with a forced smile. "It rather indicates surprise than
satisfaction."
"I am surprised," Grace admitted, trying to hide her vague alarm. "We
did not expect you. How did you getaway?"
"I took a week's leave. I haven't been very fit."
Grace gave him a sharp glance and thought he looked ill. His face was
pinched, his eyes were furtive, and his mouth was slack.
"What has been the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing very much," Gerald replied. "Mental strain, I expect. Managing a
bank is a big job and I'm not used to responsibility."
It looked as if his carelessness cost him an effort and Grace said
nothing. When they reached the house Gerald resumed: "You'll hear all
about it later. Is the chief at home?"
Grace nodded. They had seldom called Osborn father, but chief and head of
the clan, and she thought it significant that Gerald used the name he
often falteringly employed after boyish escapades. She began to feel that
there was something wrong.
"He's in the library," she said.
"That's satisfactory, as far as it goes," Gerald remarked, climbing the
steps. "The sooner I see him, the sooner I'll get through the thing." He
paused and gave Grace an anxious glance. "You'll stand by me? You
generally did."
"I suppose so," Grace agreed. "But I don't know your difficulties and
what you want."
"You will know soon," Gerald rejoined and shrugged his shoulders. "Well,
it's an awkward business; I've got to brace up."
He left her and went to the library, where Osborn sat at the big oak
table with some letters and a wine glass in front of him. The spacious
room was mostly in shadow, but a ray of fading light shone in through the
tall west window. Gerald avoided the illumination as he advanced, and
stopped in the gloom opposite Osborn, who straightened his body with a
jerk and upset the glass.
"Well?" he said harshly. "Why have you left the bank?"
"The wine is running across the table and on to your clothes.
Shall I ring?"
"No," said Osborn, pushing his chair back noisily. "Let it run! Stand
still or sit down. Tell me why you came."
"To begin with, I have left the bank for good."
"Ah," said Osborn grimly, "I suspected something like this! You mean they
turned you out? Well, you are consistent in your habits. You left school
in similar circumstances, you left Woolwich, and now--"
"I was not turned out, sir. They gave me a week's leave, but I
can't go back."
Osborn frowned. Things had been going well and he had thought himself
free from trouble for a time, but it looked as if he would get his worst
jar. He tried to preserve his calm and said with a touch of weariness:
"Tell me what has happened and keep as near the truth as is
possible for you."
Gerald told him, standing back in the shadow and not pausing to choose
his words. It was an ugly story that could not be toned down and he knew
if he stopped he could not go on again. Although Osborn said nothing, his
face got red and the veins on his forehead swelled, and Gerald found his
silence strangely daunting. When the latter stopped, Osborn got up and
stood, rather shakily, with his hand clenched.
"Get out of my sight, you despicable thief!" he cried. "My control is
going. If you stand and fidget there, I'll knock you down!"
"There wouldn't be much use in that, although I deserve it," Gerald
replied. "It's too late for excuses. The situation's dangerous. You have
got to help me out."
"I can't help," said Osborn in a strained, hoarse voice. "Why didn't you
leave the country instead of coming home?"
Gerald forced a nervous smile. "The reason ought to be obvious, sir; I
might be brought back. We must get over the need for me to go. You see,
the bill must be met. If it's dishonored, everybody who knows us will
have something to talk about."
"I thought you a fool," said Osborn bitterly. "You are a fool, but you
have a vein of devilish cunning. You steal and forge; and then expect to
shuffle off the consequences on to your relatives!"
He pulled himself up, for Gerald's coolness was steadying. "However, I
must understand. What will happen when the lender finds you cannot pay?"
"The usual course would be for him to go to the endorser," Gerald replied
and added with some awkwardness: "I mean the man whose name I used. His
signature's a guarantee and makes him liable. Still, as Hallam's a
tactful fellow, it's possible he'll first come to you."
"Do you mean he's suspicious?"
"I don't know. He took off an extortionate discount for a very
short loan."
"How much did he lend you?"
"The bill was for two thousand pounds."
Osborn made a helpless gesture. "I can't pay. The money I borrowed is
partly spent and the rest must go for wages and material. You can't put
wages off--"
He stopped and sat down limply. The shock was beginning to tell. He felt
dull and had no reserve of moral strength to sustain him now his fury had
gone. Gerald saw this and knew that guidance must come from him. He
waited, however, and Osborn went on:
"It's ridiculous that we should be ruined for two thousand pounds; but
there it is! If I try to borrow from my friends, I must tell why I need
the money. And I don't know who would lend."
"Thorn might," Gerald suggested meaningly. "I asked him and he wouldn't,
but I don't think his refusal was final."
"Ah!" said Osborn, with a start. "Why do you think it was not?"
"I imagine he has another plan; he means to wait until it's obvious we
must have his help. Then he can ask what he likes."
For a moment, Osborn's anger blazed up again. "I see where you are
leading, you contemptible cur! You expect your sister to pay for you!"
"It would be a good marriage," said Gerald, awkwardly. "I thought you
wanted it."
"Stop!" exclaimed Osborn, and rested his elbows on the table, with his
shoulders bent.
He had wanted Grace to marry Thorn, but his domineering temper did not
carry him as far as Gerald thought. He had hoped that by and by Grace
would consent; it was ridiculous to imagine she would long refuse to see
the advantages that were plain to him, but to force her to pay for her
brother's fault was another thing. Although Grace was rebellious, he had
some love for her. In fact, he revolted from the plan and felt he hated
Thorn for the pressure he could use. He was nearly resigned to letting
things go and facing the threatened disaster.
For a minute or two, he did not move and Gerald got horribly cramped as
he stood opposite. The room was getting dark and Osborn's figure was
indistinct, but his quietness hinted at a struggle, Gerald began to feel
anxious, because he had not expected his father to hesitate. At length
Osborn looked up.
"You haven't told me whose name you used."
"Askew's," said Gerald, with a tremor. He knew he could use no stronger
argument, but felt afraid.
"Askew's!" shouted Osborn, straightening his bent shoulders with a savage
jerk. "This is more than I can bear. Was there nobody you could rob but
the man who has plotted against me since he came home from school?" He
stopped and gasped as if his rage were choking him and it was some
moments before he went on: "You have given the fellow power to humble us
and drag our name in the mud. Can't you imagine how he'll exult? Our
honor in Askew's hands! It's unthinkable!"
"If the bill isn't met, the holder will apply to Askew," Gerald said as
coolly as he could.
Osborn's muscles relaxed and he sank back into his limp pose. His hand
shook as he wiped his wet forehead.
"You have said enough. Leave me alone. I must try to think."
Gerald went out and drew a deep breath when he reached the landing. He
felt shaky and ashamed, but knew he had won. The shutting of the door
gave Osborn some relief. The anger and disgust Gerald excited had
confused his brain, but now the lad had gone he saw no light. There was
but one way of escape, and this a way it was almost unthinkable that he
should take. The strange thing was he should hate it so much, for he had
never indulged his children or thought about their happiness. Yet he
shrank from forcing his daughter to marry Thorn, whom he approved while
she did not.
He might, perhaps, for the girl's sake, have sacrificed his pride; but
there was an obstacle before which his courage melted. If Thorn did not
help, Askew would know his disgrace and Osborn did not expect him to be
merciful. His rancor against Askew had by degrees become a blind,
illogical hate that made it impossible for him to see anything Kit did in
its proper light. Feeling as he did, he imagined Kit would rejoice in the
opportunity for humbling him.
All the same, knowing the fight was hopeless, he struggled against the
conviction that he must beg help from Thorn. In many ways, he liked Alan,
but he was hard and Osborn dreaded his firmness now. Yet he could help
and there was nobody else. It got dark, but Osborn did not move. A faint
breeze came up and moaned about the house, and presently a moonbeam stole
into the room. Osborn sat still, with his head bent and his arms spread
out across the table. Sometimes he burned with anger against Gerald and
sometimes he scarcely felt anything at all.
At length, he got up, and with an effort went upstairs. Half an hour
later, a heavy sleep that came as a reaction after the shock closed his
eyes and banished his troubles for a time.
CHAPTER VIII
GRACE'S CONFIDENCE
On the day after Gerald's return Osborn shut himself up in his library.
If he could raise two thousand pounds, it would save him from agreeing to
the demand Thorn would, no doubt, make, and although he really knew the
thing was impossible, he sought desperately for a way of escape. He was
careless about money, and, for the most part, left his business to his
agent, but he wanted to find out how he stood before he went to Hayes.
There was no obvious reason for his doing so, but he had begun to suspect
that Hayes was not as devoted to his interests as he had thought. His
wife and Grace distrusted the fellow, and although they knew nothing
about business, Osborn admitted that the advice they had sometimes given
him had been sound.
The involved calculations he made gave him fresh ground for disturbance.
It was plain that he could borrow no more money and the sum he had
received for the last mortgage had nearly gone. He might perhaps get
together three or four hundred pounds, at the risk of letting builders
and drainers go unpaid, but this was not enough. After a time, he put
away his books in a fit of hopeless anger and drove across to see Hayes
at the market town.
The interview was short and disappointing. Osborn could not tell Hayes
why he needed money and found him unusually firm. He proved that the
estate was heavily overburdened, fresh loans were impossible, and stern
economy must be used if it was to be saved from bankruptcy. To some
extent, Osborn had expected this, but had cherished a faint hope that
Hayes might lend him enough to satisfy Gerald's creditor. He could not
force himself to ask for a loan outright, and Hayes had been strangely
dull about his cautious hints. Osborn believed the fellow could have
helped him, but as he had shown no wish to do so there was nothing to be
said. He drove home in a downcast mood and sent for Gerald.
"I can't get the money," he said. "You know the man you dealt with. Is
there any hope of his renewing the bill?"
"I'm afraid there is none, sir," Gerald replied.
"When he made the loan he knew you were a bank-clerk and had no money."
"I expect he did know, but thought you had some."
Osborn sighed. His anger had gone and a dull, hopeless dejection had
taken its place. He felt as if he and Gerald were accomplices in a
plot against Grace, and did not resent the lad's insinuation that they
stood together. The Osborns did stand together, and he hoped Grace
would see her duty.
"Well," he said, "the payment is not due just yet. I'll wait a little
and then write to the fellow."
It was a relief to put the thing off, but he found no comfort as the days
went by, and although he shrank from taking Mrs. Osborn into his
confidence, his moody humor gave her a hint. Besides, he was not clever
at keeping a secret and now and then made illuminating remarks. Mrs.
Osborn, although reserved, was shrewd and she and Grace, without
consulting each other, speculated about the trouble that obviously
threatened the house. By degrees, their conjectures got near the truth
and at length Mrs. Osborn nerved herself to ask her husband a few blunt
questions. He had not meant to tell her all until he was forced, but was
taken off his guard and told her much. Afterwards she sent for Grace.
When Grace heard the story her face got very white and she looked at her
mother with fear in her eyes.
"I suspected something, but this is worse than I thought," she said in a
low strained voice. "But Alan is an old friend; it is not very much for
him to do and perhaps he will be generous."
Mrs. Osborn was sitting rather limply on the stone bench on the terrace,
but she roused herself.
"He is hard and I think will understand what his help is worth. He
knows there is nobody else. Besides, if we accept this favor, we
cannot refuse--"
"Oh," said Grace, "it's unbearable! I never liked Alan; I feel I hate him
now." She paused and gave Mrs. Osborn an appealing glance. "But you
cannot think I ought to agree, mother? There must be another way!"
Mrs. Osborn shook her head. "I cannot see another way, and many girls in
our class have married men they did not like, though I had hoped for a
better lot for you. With us, women do not count; the interests of the
family come first."
"That means the men's interests," Grace broke out. "Father has been
reckless all his life and now Gerald has dragged our name in the mud. He
is to be saved from the consequences and I must pay!"
"It is unjust," Mrs. Osborn agreed. "So far as that goes, there is no
more to be said. But when one thinks of the disgrace--Gerald hiding in
America, or perhaps in prison!"
Her voice broke. She was silent for a few moments and then resumed: "Your
father's is the conventional point of view that I was taught to accept
but which I begin to doubt. I must choose between my daughter and my son;
the son who carries on the house. If Gerald escapes, his punishment falls
on you. The choice is almost too hard for flesh and blood."
"I know," said Grace, with quick sympathy. "It is horrible!"
"Well," said Mrs. Osborn, "the line I ought to take is plain--Tarnside
will be Gerald's; our honor must be saved. But I do not know. If you
shrink from Alan--"
"If he insists, I shall hate him always. Yet, it looks as if there
was no use in rebelling. I feel as if I had been caught in a snare
that tightens when I try to break loose. I understand why a rabbit
screams and struggles until it chokes when it feels the wire. It's
like that with me."
Mrs. Osborn bent her head. "My dear! My dear!" Then she looked up
irresolutely with tears in her eyes. "I cannot see my duty as I thought.
The convention is that my son should come first, but you are nearer to me
than Gerald has been for long. I feel numb and dull; I cannot think.
Perhaps to-morrow I may see--"
Grace got up and kissed her. "Then, we will wait. If no help comes, I
suppose I must submit."
She went away with a languid step and Mrs. Osborn, sinking back in a
corner of the bench, looked across the lawn with vacant eyes. In a sense,
she had shirked her duty and failed her husband, but she had long given
way to him and was now beginning to rebel.
Grace afterwards looked back with horror on the disturbed evening and
sleepless night, and the morning brought her no relief. She could not
resign herself to the sacrifice she thought she would be forced to make,
and her mother told her that Osborn had sent a note to Thorn and a man
from London would arrive in the evening. It was plain that Alan must be
persuaded to help Gerald before the other came.
In the afternoon she walked up the dale, without an object, because it
was impossible to stop in the house. After a time she heard a dog bark
and, stopping by an open gate, saw Kit swinging a scythe where an old
thorn hedge threw its shadow on a field of corn. He was cutting a path
for the binder and for a minute or two she stood and watched.
Kit had taken off his jacket and his thin blue shirt harmonized with the
warm yellow of the corn and the color of his sunburnt skin. The thin
material showed the fine modeling of his figure as his body followed the
sweep of the gleaming scythe. The forward stoop and recovery were marked
by a rhythmic grace, and the crackle of the oat-stalks hinted at his
strength. His face was calm and Grace saw his mind dwelt upon his work.
He looked honest, clean, and virile, but she turned her head and
struggled with a poignant sense of loss. She knew now what it would cost
her to let him go.
Then his dog ran up and Kit, putting down his scythe, came to the gate.
He gave her a searching glance, but she was calm again and began to talk
about the harvest. He did not seem to listen, and when she stopped said
abruptly: "You are standing in the sun. Come into the shade; I'll make
you a seat."
She went with him, knowing this was imprudent but unable to resist, and
he threw an oat-stook against the bank and covered it with his coat.
Grace sat down and he studied her thoughtfully.
"I want you to tell me what's the matter," he said.
"How do you know I have anything to tell?"
"Perhaps it's sympathy, instinct, or something like that. Anyhow, I do
know, and you may feel better when you have told me. It's now and then a
relief to talk about one's troubles."
Grace was silent. Her heart beat fast and she longed for his sympathy,
and his nearness gave her a feeling of support; but she could not tell
him all her trouble. He waited with a patience that somehow indicated
understanding, and she looked about. The tall oats rippled before the
wind and soft shadows trailed across the hillside. When the white clouds
passed, the dale was filled with light that jarred her hopelessness.
"As you haven't begun yet, I'll make a guess," said Kit. "Things have
been going wrong at Tarnside since Gerald came home? Well, if you can
give me a few particulars, it's possible I can help."
His steady glance was comforting and Grace's reserve gave way. It was
humiliating, and in a sense disloyal, to talk about Gerald, but her pride
had gone and she was suddenly inspired by a strange confidence. Perhaps
Kit could help; one could trust him and he was not the man to be daunted
by obstacles.
"Yes," she said vaguely; "it's Gerald--"
"So I thought," Kit remarked. "Very well. You had better tell me all you
know, or, anyhow, all you can."
She gave him a quick glance to see what he meant, but his brown face was
inscrutable, and with an effort, talking fast in order to finish before
her courage failed, she narrated what she had heard. She could not, of
course, tell him all, and, indeed, Mrs. Osborn's story left much to be
explained.