Surprise, exaggerated on his face by a pain he had antic.i.p.ated, made the squire glare hideously.
"Confound it, that"s what they say to a prisoner in the box. Here"s a murder committed:--Are you the guilty person? Fact and question! Well, out with "em, both together."
"A father ain"t responsible for the sins of his children," said the farmer.
"Well, that"s a fact," the squire emphasized. "I"ve always maintained it; but, if you go to your church, farmer--small blame to you if you don"t; that fellow who preaches there--I forget his name--stands out for just the other way. You are responsible, he swears. Pay your son"s debts, and don"t groan over it:--He spent the money, and you"re the chief debtor; that"s his teaching. Well: go on. What"s your question?"
"A father"s not to be held responsible for the sins of his children, squire. My daughter"s left me. She"s away. I saw my daughter at the theatre in London. She saw me, and saw her sister with me. She disappeared. It"s a hard thing for a man to be saying of his own flesh and blood. She disappeared. She went, knowing her father"s arms open to her. She was in company with your son."
The squire was thrumming on the arm of his chair. He looked up vaguely, as if waiting for the question to follow, but meeting the farmer"s settled eyes, he cried, irritably, "Well, what"s that to me?"
"What"s that to you, squire?"
"Are you going to make me out responsible for my son"s conduct? My son"s a rascal--everybody knows that. I paid his debts once, and I"ve finished with him. Don"t come to me about the fellow. If there"s a greater curse than the gout, it"s a son."
"My girl," said the farmer, "she"s my flesh and blood, and I must find her, and I"m here to ask you to make your son tell me where she"s to be found. Leave me to deal with that young man--leave you me! but I want my girl."
"But I can"t give her to you," roared the squire, afflicted by his two great curses at once. "Why do you come to me? I"m not responsible for the doings of the dog. I"m sorry for you, if that"s what you want to know. Do you mean to say that my son took her away from your house?"
"I don"t do so, Mr. Blancove. I"m seeking for my daughter, and I see her in company with your son."
"Very well, very well," said the squire; "that shows his habits; I can"t say more. But what has it got to do with me?"
The farmer looked helplessly at Robert.
"No, no," the squire sung out, "no interlopers, no interpreting here.
I listen to you. My son--your daughter. I understand that, so far. It"s between us two. You"ve got a daughter who"s gone wrong somehow: I"m sorry to hear it. I"ve got a son who never went right; and it"s no comfort to me, upon my word. If you were to see the bills and the letters I receive! but I don"t carry my grievances to my neighbours. I should think, Fleming, you"d do best, if it"s advice you"re seeking, to keep it quiet. Don"t make a noise about it. Neighbours" gossip I find pretty well the worst thing a man has to bear, who"s unfortunate enough to own children."
The farmer bowed his head with that bitter humbleness which characterized his reception of the dealings of Providence toward him.
"My neighbours "ll soon be none at all," he said. "Let "em talk. I"m not abusing you, Mr. Blancove. I"m a broken man: but I want my poor lost girl, and, by G.o.d, responsible for your son or not, you must help me to find her. She may be married, as she says. She mayn"t be. But I must find her."
The squire hastily seized a sc.r.a.p of paper on the table and wrote on it.
"There!" he handed the paper to the farmer; "that"s my son"s address, "Boyne"s Bank, City, London." Go to him there, and you"ll find him perched on a stool, and a good drubbing won"t hurt him. You"ve my hearty permission, I can a.s.sure you: you may say so. "Boyne"s Bank." Anybody will show you the place. He"s a rascally clerk in the office, and precious useful, I dare swear. Thrash him, if you think fit."
"Ay," said the farmer, "Boyne"s Bank. I"ve been there already. He"s absent from work, on a visit down into Hampshire, one of the young gentlemen informed me; Fairly Park was the name of the place: but I came to you, Mr. Blancove; for you"re his father."
"Well now, my good Fleming, I hope you think I"m properly punished for that fact." The squire stood up with horrid contortions.
Robert stepped in advance of the farmer.
"Pardon me, sir," he said, though the squire met his voice with a prodigious frown; "this would be an ugly business to talk about, as you observe. It would hurt Mr. Fleming in these parts of the country, and he would leave it, if he thought fit; but you can"t separate your name from your son"s--begging you to excuse the liberty I take in mentioning it--not in public: and your son has the misfortune to be well known in one or two places where he was quartered when in the cavalry. That matter of the jeweller--"
"Hulloa," the squire exclaimed, in a perturbation.
"Why, sir, I know all about it, because I was a trooper in the regiment your son, Mr. Algernon Blancove, quitted: and his name, if I may take leave to remark so, won"t bear printing. How far he"s guilty before Mr.
Fleming we can"t tell as yet; but if Mr. Fleming holds him guilty of an offence, your son "ll bear the consequences, and what"s done will be done thoroughly. Proper counsel will be taken, as needn"t be said. Mr.
Fleming applied to you first, partly for your sake as well as his own.
He can find friends, both to advise and to aid him."
"You mean, sir," thundered the squire, "that he can find enemies of mine, like that infernal fellow who goes by the t.i.tle of Reverend, down below there. That"ll do, that will do; there"s some extortion at the bottom of this. You"re putting on a screw."
"We"re putting on a screw, sir," said Robert, coolly.
"Not a penny will you get by it."
Robert flushed with heat of blood.
"You don"t wish you were a young man half so much as I do just now," he remarked, and immediately they were in collision, for the squire made a rush to the bell-rope, and Robert stopped him. "We"re going," he said; "we don"t want man-servants to show us the way out. Now mark me, Mr.
Blancove, you"ve insulted an old man in his misery: you shall suffer for it, and so shall your son, whom I know to be a rascal worthy of transportation. You think Mr. Fleming came to you for money. Look at this old man, whose only fault is that he"s too full of kindness; he came to you just for help to find his daughter, with whom your rascal of a son was last seen, and you swear he"s come to rob you of money. Don"t you know yourself a fattened cur, squire though you be, and called gentleman? England"s a good place, but you make England a h.e.l.l to men of spirit. Sit in your chair, and don"t ever you, or any of you cross my path; and speak a word to your servants before we"re out of the house, and I stand in the hall and give "em your son"s history, and make Wrexby stink in your nostril, till you"re glad enough to fly out of it. Now, Mr. Fleming, there"s no more to be done here; the game lies elsewhere."
Robert took the farmer by the arm, and was marching out of the enemy"s territory in good order, when the squire, who had presented many changeing aspects of astonishment and rage, arrested them with a call.
He began to say that he spoke to Mr. Fleming, and not to the young ruffian of a bully whom the farmer had brought there: and then asked in a very reasonable manner what he could do--what measures he could adopt to aid the farmer in finding his child. Robert hung modestly in the background while the farmer laboured on with a few sentences to explain the case, and finally the squire said, that his foot permitting (it was an almost pathetic reference to the weakness of flesh), he would go down to Fairly on the day following and have a personal interview with his son, and set things right, as far as it lay in his power, though he was by no means answerable for a young man"s follies.
He was a little frightened by the farmer"s having said that Dahlia, according to her own declaration was married, and therefore himself the more anxious to see Mr. Algernon, and hear the truth from his estimable offspring, whom he again stigmatized as a curse terrible to him as his gouty foot, but nevertheless just as little to be left to his own devices. The farmer bowed to these observations; as also when the squire counselled him, for his own sake, not to talk of his misfortune all over the parish.
"I"m not a likely man for that, squire; but there"s no telling where gossips get their crumbs. It"s about. It"s about."
"About my son?" cried the squire.
"My daughter!"
"Oh, well, good-day," the squire resumed more cheerfully. "I"ll go down to Fairly, and you can"t ask more than that."
When the farmer was out of the house and out of hearing, he rebuked Robert for the inconsiderate rashness of his behaviour, and pointed out how he, the farmer, by being patient and peaceful, had attained to the object of his visit. Robert laughed without defending himself.
"I shouldn"t ha" known ye," the farmer repeated frequently; "I shouldn"t ha" known ye, Robert."
"No, I"m a trifle changed, may be," Robert agreed. "I"m going to claim a holiday of you. I"ve told Rhoda that if Dahlia"s to be found, I"ll find her, and I can"t do it by sticking here. Give me three weeks. The land"s asleep. Old Gammon can hardly turn a furrow the wrong way. There"s nothing to do, which is his busiest occupation, when he"s not interrupted at it."
"Mas" Gammon"s a rare old man," said the farmer, emphatically.
"So I say. Else, how would you see so many farms flourishing!"
"Come, Robert: you hit th" old man hard; you should learn to forgive."
"So I do, and a telling blow"s a man"s best road to charity. I"d forgive the squire and many another, if I had them within two feet of my fist."
"Do you forgive my girl Rhoda for putting of you off?"
Robert screwed in his cheek.
"Well, yes, I do," he said. "Only it makes me feel thirsty, that"s all."
The farmer remembered this when they had entered the farm.
"Our beer"s so poor, Robert," he made apology; "but Rhoda shall get you some for you to try, if you like. Rhoda, Robert"s solemn thirsty."