Windyridge Part 30

"They do if they arrange to do so, and keep their appointments," he replied provokingly. "I am fortunate in being acquainted with some of Miss Fleming's friends. I am sorry her letters leave something to be desired, but you need not be uneasy; she herself is as lively and fascinating as ever."

I should have liked to ask him who the friends were, for Rose has never mentioned them, and she had none who could possibly have been in the Cynic's set in the old days; but friends can generally be found when the occasion demands them. I said nothing, of course, and he looked at me quizzically.

"Your comments," he remarked, "if I may quote, are 'few and unsatisfactory.'"

It was true, but he need not have noticed it. The fact is, I had nothing to say at the moment. That being the case there was plainly nothing for it but to abuse _him_.

"You are the Cynic to-day," I said, "and I foresee that you are going to sharpen your wit upon poor me. But I am not in the mood. You see, it is Sunday, and in Windyridge we are subdued and not brilliant on Sundays."

Perhaps his ear caught the weariness in my voice, for I was feeling tired and depressed; at any rate his tone changed immediately.

"I saw at once you were off colour," he said, "and I was making a clumsy attempt to buck you up; but, seriously, have you no questions you wish to ask me about the old place?"

"I should like to know how matters are progressing with you," I said.

"I often wonder what the world thinks of your p.r.o.nunciation."

"The world knows nothing of it. I have never mentioned what I have done to anyone but you, and I do not propose to do so. As for myself--but what makes you wonder? Are you afraid I may have repented?"

"No," I replied, "you will never repent, you are not that sort. Not for one moment have I doubted your steadfastness."

"Thank you," he said simply; and then, after a moment's pause:

"I don't think it is anything to my credit. If I had been differently const.i.tuted the sacrifice would have entailed suffering, even if it had not proved too great for me. It was a lot of money, and if money is in any sense a man's G.o.d it must hurt him to lose so much. My G.o.d may be equally base, but it is not golden. In that respect I am like those ancient Athenians of whom Plato speaks, who 'bare lightly the burden of gold and of possessions,' though I fear I am not like them in despising all things except virtue. Besides, even now I am not exactly poor, for I have a good income."

"I have thirty s.h.i.+llings a week on the average," I interposed, "and I consider myself quite well to do."

"Exactly," he replied; "you and I take pleasure in our work for its own sake, and we are each paid, I suppose, fair value for what we do.

Having food and clothing and a roof to shelter us we have all that is necessary, but we have luxuries thrown in--true friends.h.i.+ps, for instance, which money cannot purchase. In my own case I am hoping to be quite wealthy if things turn out as I am beginning to dare to expect."

"I am glad to hear it," I said; "I am sure you deserve to succeed, and I trust you will be very happy in the possession of wealth when your expectation is realised."

He laughed, but with some constraint, I thought, and then said:

"We shall have to go in presently, Miss Holden, and before we do so, and whilst we are not likely to be interrupted, I have something to say to you which I find it difficult to mention."

I believe the colour left my face, and I know my stupid heart lost control of its beats again. His voice was so grave that I felt sure he had some communication to make which I should not relish, though I could not guess at its nature. I controlled myself with an effort, and encouraged him to proceed with an inquiring "Oh?"

He looked down at his boots for a moment and then continued:

"If it had not been for this I should not have come here this week-end, but I wanted to tell you what I have done, and to give you a message from one in whom you are interested. I have hesitated because I fear it may give you pain, though in one way it does not concern you in the slightest degree."

Why anything should give me pain which did not concern me was puzzling, and I wished the man would get to the story and skip the introduction.

I never could bear to have news "broken gently" to me, it always seems like a mere prolongation of the agony; but I did not dare to interrupt.

"I had to be in attendance at the Central Criminal Court last Tuesday,"

he continued; "and the case in which I was interested was delayed by one in which the prisoner on trial was a young fellow whom you know."

It was very silly of me, but the revulsion of feeling was so great that I nearly cried, though goodness only knows what I had been expecting.

The Cynic saw my emotion and mistook it for sympathy.

"I was afraid it would trouble you," he said kindly, "but you must not worry about it.

"The charge was quite an ordinary one and I had scarcely listened to the case at all, for my mind was occupied with what was to follow, but I heard sufficient to know that the man was one of a gang of sharpers, and that he had been caught red-handed whilst his companions had escaped. He had no one to defend him, but the judge nominated a junior who was present to be his counsel, and the lad did his best for him.

But the youth had been in trouble before, and it was likely to go hard with him. All at once my neighbour nudged me: 'He's meaning you, Derwent,' he said.

"'What's that?' I asked.

"'I have just asked the prisoner if he has anyone who can speak to his character, and he says you know him slightly,' said the recorder with a smile.

"'To the best of my knowledge I never saw the man in my life before,' I replied.

"'Yes, you have, Mr. Derwent,' the prisoner said in a low voice--and you will understand what silence there was in the court--'you have seen me working at Windyridge 'All, sir, afore I sank to this. You remember, sir, I was allus known as Ginty.'"

I started, and the Cynic continued: "I looked at him closely then, and saw that it was indeed he, Ginty, ten years older than he was a year ago: haggard, seamed with lines of care, unkempt, but, unless I am mistaken, not altogether hardened.

"I turned to the recorder. 'I do know the prisoner, sir,' I said, 'but I did not recognise him, and therefore I have not paid attention to the case;' and as briefly as I could I told the court how he had been led astray. It was you, Miss Holden, who described it all so graphically, you may remember, and I repeated the story as you told it, and I pleaded hard for the young chap. He got off with three months, which was less than might have been expected."

"Poor Ginty!" I interrupted. "I wonder if his mother will hear of it.

I suppose news of that kind rarely filters through the walls of a workhouse?"

"No walls are impervious to bad news," he replied, "but Ginty's concern was less for his mother than for his sweetheart, Sarah Ann. At bottom I believe Ginty is penitent, and would like to break with the rogues who have led him on; but the poor beggar is weak-willed, and the easy prey of his bl.u.s.tering companions. I managed to get an interview with him, and he wished me to ask you to tell the girl everything, and to beg her to pity and forgive him; and he promises to turn over a new leaf, and will marry her eventually if she is willing."

"Sarah Ann must not be told at present," I replied; "she is far from well, and the shock might be too much for her. She is a highly emotional girl, who would go into violent hysterics incontinently."

"Well," he said, "I can leave the matter to your discretion. I have fulfilled my promise, and I am sure you will do what is best. Would it be possible to tell the girl's mother?--if she has a mother."

"She has a mother," I answered, "but she is a woman entirely dest.i.tute of tact. To tell her would be to publish the news to the whole village, and to have it conveyed to Sarah Ann in the crudest manner conceivable. I think it will be best to hold back the message until I have a fitting opportunity of delivering it to the girl herself. But believe me, the present time is most inopportune."

"I do believe you," he said, "and I suppose it is hardly likely that information will reach the village in any other way. 'Ill news flies fast,' but the case was too insignificant to be reported in the provincial papers. Anyhow, we must take the risk, and you can deliver your soul of the message when you think fit. I am sorry to have laid this burden upon you."

"I accept it willingly," I said, "and am glad that I can be of service to these poor young folk."

I had a pleasant evening with the squire and the Cynic, both of whom were at their best in discussing disendowments, in regard to which they held opposite views. The squire showed the possession of a wealth of knowledge which aroused my admiration, and he was so courteous in argument, so magnanimous and altogether gentlemanly, that I could have hugged him for very pride; but I am bound to say that I think the Cynic had the best of it. He is just as generous and courtly as the squire, and he is absolutely sure of his facts and figures; but when he does corner his opponent he does not gloat over him. In my judgment--and I am sure I am impartial, for I like them both so much--he was more convincing than the squire; but then I don't think I ever met a more convincing speaker. Of course I have met very few good speakers, but I doubt if there are many to surpa.s.s Mr. Derwent.

He took me home about ten o'clock, and I saw that the village had got some new excitement, but the Cynic's presence barred me from partic.i.p.ating in it. At the cottage, however, I learned everything, for a gossip had, as usual, hastened to tell Mother Hubbard the news, and she was still discussing it on my arrival, though my invalid ought to have been in bed.

n.o.body in Windyridge takes a Sunday newspaper, but a visitor from Airlee had left a _News of the World_ at Smiddles's, and after his departure Smiddles had glanced down its columns and found a report of Ginty's trial and sentence. Mrs. Smiddles, bursting with importance, hurried off to impart the information to Sar'-Ann's mother. Sar'-Ann's mother, as might have been antic.i.p.ated, had expressed her opinion of Ginty's moral character in loud and emphatic language which echoed round the village and awakened a like response.

I closed the door wearily on the woman and went to bed, for it was too late to see Sar'-Ann that night. I wish I had made the endeavour now, for with the morning there came news that distressed me terribly.

Sar'-Ann's baby had been born at midnight, and poor Sar'-Ann was dead!

CHAPTER XXVII

MOTHER HUBBARD HEARS THE CALL