man,” said Isaac to George, “you shall not wander forth from the home of your fathers. These old eyes see deeper than yours (and he sent an eye-stab at Meadows); you are honest—all men say so—I will lend you the money for your rent, and one who loves you (and he gave another eye-stab at Meadows) will bless me.”
“Oh! yes, I bless you,” cried Susan innocently.
The late exulting Meadows was benumbed at this.
“Surely Heaven sends you to me,” cried Susan. “It is Mr. Levi, of Farnborough.”
Here was a diversion. Meadows cursed the intruder, and his own evil star that had raised him up so malignant an enemy.
“All my web undone in a moment,” thought he, and despair began to take possession of him.
Susan, on the other hand, was all joy and hope; William more or less despondent.
The old Jew glanced from one to another, read them all, and enjoyed his triumph.
But when his eye returned to George Fielding he met with something he had not reckoned upon.
The young man showed no joy, no emotion. He stood immovable, like a statue of a man, and when he opened his lips it was like a statue speaking with its marble mouth.
“No! Susan. No! old man. I am honest, though I'm poor—and proud, though you have seen me put to shame near my own homestead more than once to-day. To borrow without a chance of paying is next door to stealing; and I should never pay you. My eyes are opened in spite of my heart. I can't farm 'The Grove' with no grass, and wheat at forty shillings. I've tried all I know, and I can't do it. Will there is dying to try, and he shall try, and may Heaven speed his plow better than it has poor George's.”
“I am not thinking of the farm now, George,” said William. “I'm thinking of when we were boys, and used to play marbles—together—upon the tombstones.” And he faltered a little.
“Mr. Levi! seems you have a kindness for me. Show it to my brother when I'm away, if you will be so good.”
“Hum?” said Isaac doubtfully. “I care not to see your stout young heart give way, as it will. Ah, me! I can pity the wanderer from home. I will speak a word with you, and then I will go home.”
He drew George aside, and made him a secret communication.
Merton called Susan to him, and made her promise to be prudent, then he shook hands with George and went away.
Now Meadows, from the direction of Isaac's glance, and a certain half-surprised half-contemptuous look that stole over George's face, suspected that his enemy, whose sagacity he could no longer doubt, was warning George against him.
This made him feel very uneasy where he was, and this respectable man dreaded some exposure of his secret. So he said hastily, “I'll go along with you, farmer,” and in a moment was by Merton's side, as that worthy stopped to open the gate that led out of George's premises. His feelings were anything but pleasant when George called to him:
“No, sir! stop. You are as good a witness as I could choose of what I have to say. Step this way, if you please, sir.”
Meadows returned, clinched his teeth, and prepared for the worst, but inwardly he cursed his uneasy folly in staying here, instead of riding home the moment George had said “Yes!” to Australia.
George now looked upon the ground a moment; and there was something in his manner that arrested the attention of all.
Meadows turned hot and cold.
“I am going—to speak—to my brother, Mr. Meadows!” said he, syllable by syllable to Meadows in a way brimful of meaning.
“To me, George?” said William, a little uneasy.
“To you!—Fall back a bit.” (Some rustics were encroaching upon the circle.)
“Fall back, if you please; this is a family matter.”
Isaac Levi, instead of going quite away, seated himself on a bench outside the palings.
It was now William's turn to flutter; he said, however, to himself, “It is about the farm; it must be about the farm.”
George resumed. “I've often had it on my mind to speak to you, but I was ashamed, now that's the truth; but now I am going away from her I must speak out, and I will—William!”
“Yes, George?”
“You've taken—a fancy—to my Susan, William!”
At these words, which, though they had cost him so much to say, George spoke gravely and calmly like common words, William gave one startled look all round, then buried his face directly in his hands in a paroxysm of shame.
Susan, who was looking at George, remonstrated loudly, “How can you be so silly, George! I am sure that is the last idea poor William—”
George drew her attention to William by a wave of the hand.
She held her tongue in a moment, and turned very red, and lowered her eyes to the ground. It was a very painful situation—to none more than to Meadows, who was waiting his turn.
George continued: “Oh, it is not to reproach you, my poor lad. Who could be near her, and not warm to her? But she is my lass, Will, and no other man's. It is three years since she said the word. And though it was my hard luck there should be some coolness between us this bitter day, she will think of me when the ocean rolls between us if no villain undermines me—”
“Villain! George!” groaned William. “That is a word I never thought to hear from you.”
“That's why I speak in time,” said George. “I do suppose I am safe against villainy here.” And his eye swept lightly over both the men. “Anyway, it shan't be a mistake or a misunderstanding; it shall be villainy if 'tis done. Speak, Susanna Merton, and speak your real mind once for all.”
“Oh! George,” cried Susan, fluttering with love; “you shall not go in doubt of me. We are betrothed this three years, and I never regretted my choice a single moment. I never saw, I never shall see, the man I could bear to look on beside you, my beautiful George. Take my ring and my promise, George.” And she put her ring on his little finger and kissed his hand. “While you are true to me, nothing but death shall part us twain. There never was any coolness between us, dear; you only thought so. You don't know what fools women are; how they delight to tease the man they love, and so torment themselves ten times more. I always loved you, but never as I do to-day; so honest, so proud, so unfortunate; I love you, I honor you, I adore you, oh! my love!—my love!—my love!!”
She saw but George—she thought but of George—and how to soften his sorrow, and remove his doubts, if he had any. And she poured out these words of love with her whole soul—with blushes and tears and all the fire of a chaste and passionate woman's heart. And she clung to her love; and her tender bosom heaved against his; and she strained him, with tears and sighs, to her bosom; and he kissed her beautiful head; and his suffering heart drew warmth from this heavenly contact.
The late exulting Meadows turned as pale as ashes, and trembled from head to foot.
“Do
