CHAPTER VI.

TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.

Nearly a fortnight elapsed after Tom’s last interview with the Squire before he was again invited to Pincote, and after what had passed between himself and Mr. Culpepper he would not go there again without a special invitation. It is probable that the Squire would not have sent for him even at the end of a fortnight had he not grown so thoroughly tired of having to cope with Mrs. McDermott single-handed that he was ready to call in assistance from any quarter that promised relief. He knew that Tom would assist him if only a hint were given that he was wanted to do so. And Tom did relieve him; so that for the first time for many days the Squire really enjoyed his dinner.

Notwithstanding all this, matters were so arranged between the Squire and Mrs. McDermott that no opportunity was given Tom of being alone with Jane even for five minutes. The first time this happened he thought that it might perhaps have arisen from mere accident. But the next time he went up to Pincote he saw too clearly what was intended to allow him to remain any longer in doubt. That night, after shaking hands with Tom at parting, Jane found in her palm a tiny note, the contents of which were three lines only. “Should you be shopping in Duxley either to-morrow or next day, I shall be at the toll-gate on the Snelsham road from twelve till one o’clock.”

Next day, at half-past twelve to the minute, Jane and her pony-carriage found themselves at the Snelsham toll-gate. There was Tom, sure enough, who got into the trap and took the reins. He turned presently into a byroad that led to nowhere in particular, and there earned the gratitude of Diamond by letting him lapse into a quiet walk which enabled him to take sly nibbles at the roadside grass as he crawled contentedly along.

Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then Tom spoke. “Jane,” he said, and it was the first time he had ever called her by her Christian name, “Jane, your father has forbidden me to make love to you.”

It seemed as if Jane had nothing to say either for or against this statement. She only breathed a little more quickly, and a lovelier colour flushed her cheeks. But just then Diamond swerved towards a tempting tuft of grass. The carriage gave a slight jerk, and Tom fancied—but it might be nothing more than fancy—that, instinctively, Jane drew a little closer to him. And when Diamond had been punished by the slightest possible flick with the whip between his ears, and was again jogging peacefully on, Jane did not get farther away again, being, perhaps, still slightly nervous; and when Tom looked down there was a little gloved hand resting, light as a feather, on his arm. It was impossible to resist the temptation. Dispensing with the whip for a moment he lifted the little hand tenderly to his lips and kissed it. He was not repulsed.

“Yes, dearest,” he went on, “I am absolutely forbidden to make love to you. I can only imagine that your aunt has been talking to your father about us. Be that as it may, he has forbidden me to walk out with you, or even to see you alone. The reason why I asked you to meet me to-day was to tell you of these things.”

Still Jane kept silence. Only from the little hand, which had somehow found its way back on to his arm, there came the faintest possible pressure, hardly heavy enough to have crushed a butterfly.

“I told him that I loved you,” resumed Tom, “and he could not say that it was a crime to do so. But when I told him that I had never made love to you, or asked you to marry me, he seemed inclined to doubt my veracity. However, I set his mind at rest by giving him my word of honour that, even supposing you were willing to have me—a point respecting which I had very strong doubts indeed—I would not take you for my wife without first obtaining his full consent to do so.”

Here Diamond, judging from the earnestness of Tom’s tone that his thoughts were otherwhere, and deeming the opportunity a favourable one to steal a little breathing-time, gradually slackened his slow pace into a still slower one, till at last he came to a dead stand. Admonished by a crack of the whip half a yard above his head that Tom was still wide awake, he put on a tremendous spurt—for him—which, as they were going down hill at the time, was not difficult. But no sooner had they reached a level bit of road again than the spurt toned itself down to the customary slow trot, with, however, an extra whisk of the tail now and then which seemed to imply: “Mark well what a fiery steed I could be if I only chose to exert myself.”

“All this but brings me to one point,” said Tom: “that I have never yet told you that I loved you, that I have never yet asked you to become my wife. To-day, then—here this very moment, I tell you that I do love you as truly and sincerely as it is possible for man to love; and here I ask you to become my wife. Get along, Diamond, do, sir.”

“Dearest, you are not blind,” he went on. “You must have seen, you must have known, for a long time past, that my heart—my love—were wholly yours; and that I might one day win you for my own has been a hope, a blissful dream, that has haunted me and charmed my life for longer than I can tell. I ought, perhaps, to have spoken of this to you before, but there were certain reasons for my silence which it is not necessary to dilate upon now, but which, if you care to hear them, I will explain to you another time. Here, then, I ask you whether you feel as if you could ever learn to love me, whether you can ever care for me enough to become my wife. Speak to me, darling—whisper the one little word I burn to hear. Lift your eyes to mine, and let me read there that which will make me happy for life.”

Except these two, there was no human being visible. They were alone with the trees, and the birds, and the sailing clouds. There was no one to overhear them save that sly old Diamond, and he pretended to be not listening a bit. For the second time he came to a stand-still, and this time his artfulness remained unreproved and unnoticed.

Jane trembled a little, but her eyes were still cast down. Tom tried to see into their depths but could not. “You promised papa that you would not take me from him without his consent,” she said, speaking in little more than a whisper. “That consent you will never obtain.”

“That consent I shall obtain if you will only give me yours first.”

He spoke firmly and unhesitatingly. Jane could hardly believe her ears. She looked up at him in sheer surprise. For the first time their eyes met.

“You don’t know papa as well as I do—how obstinate he is—how full of whims and crotchets. No—no; I feel sure that he will never consent.”

“And I feel equally sure that he will. I have no fear on that score—none. But I will put the question to you in another way, in the short business-like way that comes most naturally to a man like me. Jane, dearest, if I can persuade your father to give you to me, will you be so given? Will you come to me and be my own—my wife—for ever?”

Still no answer. Only imperceptibly she crept a little closer to his side—a very little. He took that for his answer. First one arm went round her and then the other. He drew her to his heart, he drew her to his lips; he kissed her and called her his own. And she? Well, painful though it be to write it, she never reproved him in the least, but seemed content to sit there with her head resting on his shoulder, and to suffer Love’s sweet punishment of kisses in silence.

It is on record that Diamond was the first to move.

While standing there he had fallen into a snooze, and had dreamt that another pony had been put into his particular stall and was at that moment engaged in munching his particular truss of hay. Overcome by his feelings, he turned deliberately round, and started for home at a gentle trot. Thus disturbed, Tom and Jane came back to sublunary matters with a laugh, and a little confusion on Jane’s part. Tom drove her back as far as the toll-gate and then shook hands and left her. Jane reached home as one in a blissful dream.

Three days later Tom received a note in the Squire’s own crabbed hand-writing, asking him to go up to Pincote as early as possible. He was evidently wanted for something out of the ordinary way. Wondering a little, he went. The Squire received him in high good humour and was not long in letting him know why he had sent for him.

“I have had some fellows here from the railway company,” he said. “They want to buy Prior’s Croft.”

Tom’s eyebrows went up a little. “I thought, sir, it would prove to be a profitable speculation by-and-by. Did they name any price?”

“No, nothing was said as to price. They simply wanted to know whether I was willing to sell it.”

“And you told them that you were?”

“I told them that I would take time to think about it. I didn’t want to seem too eager, you know.”

“That’s right, sir. Play with them a little before you finally hook them.”

“From what they said they want to build a station on the Croft.”

“Yes, a new passenger station, with plenty of siding accommodation.”

“Ah! you know something about it, do you?”

“I know this much, sir, that the proposal of the new company to run a fresh line into Duxley has put the old company on their mettle. In place of the dirty ram-shackle station with which we have all had to be content for so many years, they are going to give us a new station, handsome and commodious; and Prior’s Croft is the place named as the most probable site for the new terminus.”

“Hang me, if I don’t believe you knew something of this all along!” said the Squire. “If not, how could you have raised that heavy mortgage for me?”

There was a twinkle in Tom’s eyes but he said nothing. Mr. Culpepper might have been still further surprised had he known that the six thousand pounds was Tom’s own money, and that, although the mortgage was made out in another name, it was to Tom alone that he was indebted.

“Have you made up your mind as to the price you intend to ask, sir?”

“No, not yet. In fact, it was partly to consult you on that point that I sent for you.”

“Somewhere about nine thousand pounds, sir, I should think, would be a fair price.”

The Squire shook his head. “They will never give anything like so much as that.”

“I think they will, sir, if the affair is judiciously managed. How can they refuse in the face of a mortgage for six thousand pounds?”

“There’s something in that, certainly.”

“Then there are the villas—yet unbuilt it is true—but the plans of which are already drawn, and the foundations of some of which are already laid. You will require to be liberally remunerated for your disappointment and outlay in respect of them.”

“I see it all now. Splendid idea that of the villas.”

“Considering the matter in all its bearings, nine thousand pounds may be regarded as a very moderate sum.”

“I won’t ask a penny less.”

“With it you will be able to clear off both the mortgage and the loan of two thousand, and will then have a thousand left for your expenses in connection with the villas.”

The Squire rubbed his hands. “I wish all my speculations had turned out as successful as this one,” he said. “This one I owe to you, Bristow. You have done me a service that I can never forget.”

Tom rose to go. “Mrs. McDermott quite well, sir?” he said, with the most innocent air in the world.

“If the way she eats and drinks is anything to go by, she was never better in her life. But if you take her own account, she’s never well—a confirmed invalid she calls herself. I’ve no patience with the woman, though she is my sister. A day’s hard scrubbing at the wash-tub every week would do her a world of good. If she would only pack up her trunks and go, how thankful I should be!”

“If you wish her to shorten her visit at Pincote, I think you might easily persuade her to do so.”

“I’d give something to find out how. No, no, Bristow, you may depend that she’s a fixture here for three or four months to come. She knows—no woman alive better—when she’s in comfortable quarters.”

“If I had your sanction to do so, sir, I think that I could induce her to hasten her departure from Pincote.”

The Squire rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

“You are a queer fellow, Bristow,” he said, “and you have done some strange things, but to induce my sister to leave Pincote before she’s ready to go will cap all that you’ve done yet.”

“I cannot of course induce her to leave Pincote till she is willing to go, but after a little quiet talk with me, it is possible that she may be willing, and even anxious, to get away as quickly as possible.”

The Squire shook his head. “You don’t know Fanny McDermott as well as I do,” he said.

“Have I your permission to try the experiment?”

“You have—and my devoutest wishes for your success. Only you must not compromise me in any way in the matter.”

“You may safely trust me not to do that. But you must give me an invitation to come and stay with you at Pincote for a week.”

“With all my heart.”

“I shall devote myself very assiduously to Mrs. McDermott, so that you must not be surprised if we seem to be very great friends in the course of a couple of days.”

“Do as you like, boy. I’ll take no notice. But she’s an old soldier, is Fan, and if for a single moment she suspects what you are after, she’ll nail her colours to the mast, defy us all, and stop here for six months longer.”

“It is, of course, quite possible that I may fail,” said Tom, “but somehow I hardly think that I shall.”

“We’ll have a glass of sherry together and drink to your success. By-the-by, have you contrived yet to purge your brain of that lovesick tomfoolery?”

“If, sir, you intend that phrase to apply to my feelings with regard to Miss Culpepper, I can only say that they are totally unchanged.”

“What an idiot you are in some things, Bristow!” said the Squire, crustily. “Remember this—I’ll have no lovemaking here next week.”

“You need have no fear on that score, sir.”