Mr. Goring’s nature may, or may not have been, as he described it; it is certain that the caresses and cajoleries of his lovely niece had an instantaneous effect upon him. His slow-witted suspicions melted completely under the spell of her touch.
“Well, my pretty,” he said, as they moved on, under the shadowy trees of the park, “maybe, if I’ve nothing else to do and things seem quiet, I’ll take a bit of a walk this afternoon. But you mustn’t count on it. If I do catch sight of ’ee, ’round Cæsar’s way, I’ll let ’ee know. But ’tisn’t a downright promise, mind!”
Gladys clapped her hands. “You’re a perfect love, uncle!” she cried jubilantly. “I wish I were Lacrima; I’d be ever, ever so nice to you!”
“Ye can be nice to me, as ’tis, sweetheart,” replied the farmer. “You and me have always been kind of fond of each other, haven’t us? But I reckon ye’d best be slipping off now, up to your house. I never care greatly for meeting your father by accident-like. He’s one of these sly ones that always makes a fellow feel squeamy and leery.”
That afternoon it happened that the adventurous Luke had planned a trip down to Weymouth, with a new flame of his, a certain Polly Shadow, whose parents kept a tobacco-shop in Yeoborough.
He had endeavoured to persuade his brother to accompany them on this little excursion, in the hope that a breath of sea-air might distract and refresh him; but James had expressed his intention of paying a visit to his gentle restorer, up at Wild Pine, who was now sufficiently recovered to enable her to sit out in the shade of the great trees.
The church clock had just struck three, when James Andersen approached the entrance to Nevil’s Gully.
He had not advanced far into the shadow of the beeches, when he heard the sound of voices. He paused, and listened. The clear tones of Ninsy Lintot were unmistakeable, and he thought he detected — though of this he was not sure — the nervous high-pitched voice of Philip Wone. From the direction of the sounds, he gathered that the two young people were seated somewhere on the bracken-covered slope above the barton, where, as he well knew, there were several shady terraces overlooking the valley.
Unwilling to plunge suddenly into a conversation that appeared, as far as he could catch its purport, to be of considerable emotional tension, Andersen cautiously ascended the moss-grown bank on his left, and continued his climb, until he had reached the crest of the hill. He then followed, as silently as he could, the little grassy path between the stubble-field and the thickets, until he came to the open space immediately above these fern-covered terraces.
Yes, his conjecture had been right. Seated side by side beneath the tall-waving bracken, the auburn-haired Ninsy and her anarchist friend were engaged in an absorbing and passionate discussion. Both of them were bare-headed, and the young man’s hand rested upon the motionless fingers of his companion, which were clasped demurely upon her lap. Philip’s voice was raised in intense and pitiful supplication.
“I’d care for you day and night,” Andersen heard him cry. “I’d nurse you when you were ill, and keep you from every kind of annoyance.”
“But, Philip dear,” the girl’s voice answered, “you know what the doctor said. He said I mustn’t marry on any account. So even if I had nothing against it, it wouldn’t be possible for us to do this.”
“Ninsy, Ninsy!” cried the youth pathetically, “don’t you understand what I mean? I can’t bear having to say these things, but you force me to, when you talk like that. The doctor meant that it would be wrong for you to have children, and he took if for granted that you’d never find anyone ready to live with you as I’d live with you. It would only be a marriage in name. I mean it would only be a marriage in name in regard to children. It would be a real marriage to me, it would be heaven to me, to live side by side with you, and no one able any more to come between us! I can’t realize such happiness. It makes me feel dizzy even to think of it!”
Ninsy unclasped her hands, and gently repulsing him, remained buried in deep thought. Standing erect above them, like a sentry upon a palisade, James Andersen stared gloomily down upon this little drama. In some strange way, — perhaps because of some sudden recurrence of his mental trouble, — he seemed quite unconscious of anything dishonourable or base in thus withholding from these two people the knowledge that he was overhearing them.
“I’ll take care of you to the end of my life!” the young man repeated. “I’m doing quite well now with my work. You’ll be able to have all you want. You’ll be better off than you are here, and you know perfectly well that as soon as your father’s free he’ll marry that friend of his in Yeoborough. I saw him with her last Sunday. I’m sure its only for your sake that he stays single. She’s got three children, and that’s what holds him back — that, and the thought that you two mightn’t get on together. You’d be doing your father a kindness if you said yes to me, Ninsy. Please, please, my darling, say it, and make me grateful to you forever!”
“I can’t say it, — Philip, dear, I can’t, I can’t”; murmured the girl, in a voice so low that the sentinel above them could only just catch her words. “I do care for you, and I do value your goodness to me, but I can’t say the words, Philip. Something seems to stop me, something in my throat.”
It was not to her throat however, that the agitated Ninsy raised her thin hands. As she pressed them against her breast a look of tragic sorrow came into her face. Philip regarded her wistfully.
“You’re thinking you don’t love me, dear, — and never can love me. I know that, well enough! I know you don’t love me as I love you. But what does that matter? I’ve known that, all the time. The thing is, you won’t find anyone who loves you as I do, — ready to live with you as I’ve said I will, ready to nurse you and look after you. Other people’s love will be always asking and demanding from you. Mine — oh, it’s true, my darling, it’s true! — mine only wants to give up everything to make you happy.”
Ninsy was evidently more than a little moved by the boy’s appeal. There was a ring of passionate sincerity in his tone which went straight to her heart. She bent down and covered her face with her hands. When at length she lifted up her head and answered him, there were tears on her cheeks, and the watchful listener above them did not miss the quiver in her tone.
“I’m sorry, Philip boy, more sorry than I can say, that I can’t be nicer to you, that I can’t show my gratitude to you, in the way you wish. But though I do care for you, and — and value your dear love — something stops me, something makes it impossible that this should happen.”
“I believe it’s because you love that fellow Andersen!” cried the excited youth, leaping to his feet in his agitation.
In making this movement, the figure of the stone-carver, silhouetted with terrible distinctness against the sky-line, became visible to him. Instinctively he uttered a cry of surprise and anger.
“What do you want here? You’ve been listening! You’ve been spying on us! Get away, can’t you! Get back to your pretty young lady — her that’s going to marry John Goring for the sake of his money! Clear out of this, do you hear? Ninsy’s sick of you and your ways. Clear off! or I’ll make you — eavesdropper!”
By this time Ninsy had also risen, and stood facing the figure above them. Every vestige of colour had left her cheeks, and her hand was pressed against her side. Andersen made a curious incoherent sound and took a step towards them.