“Jos is afraid of him, that’s all.” And laughing, “Oh, I’ve an arrow in my quiver, yet, mother. We shall see. But I must see Jos in the morning. Is Pugh there? I’ll write to her now and ask her to meet me at the stile at ten o’clock. Nothing like striking while the iron is hot.”
On the morrow he did not feel quite so confident. The sunshine and open weather of the day before had given place to rain and fog, and when, after crossing the plank-bridge at the foot of the garden, he took the field path which led to Garth, mist hid the more distant hills, and even the limestone ridge which rose to her knees. The vale had ceased to be a vale, and he walked in a plain, sad and circumscribed, bounded by ghostly hedges, which in their turn melted into grey space. That the day should affect his spirits was natural, and that his position should appear less hopeful was natural, too, and he told himself so, and strove to rally his courage. He strode along, swinging his stick and swaggering, though there was no one to see him. And from time to time he whistled to prove that he was free from care.
After all, the fact that it rained did not alter matters. Wet or dry he had saved the Squire’s life, and a man’s life was his first and last and greatest possession, and not least valued when near its end. He who saved it had a claim, and much—much must be forgiven him. Then, too, he reminded himself that the old man was no longer the hard, immovable block that he had been. The loss of sight had weakened him; he had broken a good deal in the last few months. He could be cajoled, persuaded, made to see things, and surely, with Josina’s help, it would not be impossible to put such a color on the—the loan of the securities as might make it appear a trifle. Courage! A little courage and all would be well yet.
He was still hopeful when he saw Josina’s figure, muffled in a cloak and poke-bonnet, grow out of the mist before him. The girl was waiting for him on the farther side of the half-way stile, which had been their trysting place from childhood; and what slight doubt he had felt as to her willingness to help him died away. He whistled a little louder, and swung his stick more carelessly, and he spoke before he came up to her.
“Hallo, Jos!” he cried cheerfully. “You’re before me. But I knew that I could count on you, if I could count on any one. I only came from London last night, and”—his stick over his shoulder, and his head thrown back—“I knew the best thing I could do was to see you and get your help. Why?” In spite of himself his voice fell a tone. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Arthur!” she said. That was all, but the two words completed what her look had begun. His eyes dropped. “How could you? How would you do it?”
“Why—why, surely you’re not going to turn against me?” he exclaimed.
“And he was blind! Blind! And he trusted you. He trusted you, Arthur.”
“The devil!” roughly—for how could he meet this save by bluster? “If we’re going to talk like that—but you don’t understand, Jos. It was business, and you don’t understand, I tell you. Business, Jos.”
“He does.”