It Is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade
son, I am threescore years and ten—a man of years and grief—grief for myself, grief still more for my nation and city. Men that are men pity us; men that are dogs have insulted us in all ages.”
“Well,” said the good-natured young man soothingly—“don't you vex yourself any more about it. Now you go in, and forget all your trouble awhile, please God, by my fireside, my poor old man.”
Isaac turned, the water came to his eyes at this after being insulted so; a little struggle took place in him, but nature conquered prejudice and certain rubbish he called religion. He held out his hand like the king of all Asia; George grasped it like an Englishman.
“Isaac Levi is your friend,” and the expression of the man's whole face and body showed these words carried with them a meaning unknown in good society.
He entered the house, and young Fielding stood watching him with a natural curiosity.
Now Isaac Levi knew nothing about the corn-factor's plans. When at one and the same moment he grasped George's hand, and darted a long, lingering glance of demoniacal hatred on Meadows, he coupled two sentiments by pure chance. And Meadows knew this; but still it struck Meadows as singular and ominous.
When, with the best of motives, one is on a wolf's errand, it is not nice to hear a hyena say to the shepherd's dog, “I am your friend,” and see him contemptuously shoot the eye of a rattlesnake at one's self.
The misgiving, however, was but momentary; Meadows respected his own motives and felt his own power; an old Jew's wild fury could not shake his confidence.
He muttered, “One more down to your account, George Fielding,” and left the young man watching Isaac's retreating form.
George, who didn't know he was gone, said:
“Old man's words seem to knock against my bosom, Mr. Meadows—Gone, eh?—that man,” thought George Fielding, “has everybody's good word, parson's and all—who'd think he'd lift his hand, leastways his stick it was and that's worse, against a man of three score and upward—Ugh!” thought George Fielding, yeoman of the midland counties—and unaffected wonder mingled with his disgust.
His reverie was broken by William Fielding just ridden in from Farnborough.
“Better late than never,” said the elder brother, impatiently.
“Couldn't get away sooner, George; here's the money for the sheep, 13 pounds 10s.; no offer for the cow, Jem is driving her home.”
“Well, but the money—the 80 pounds, Will?”
William looked sulkily down.
“I haven't got it, George! There's your draft again, the bank wouldn't take it.”
A keen pang shot across George's face, as much for the affront as the disappointment.
“They wouldn't take it?” gasped he. “Ay, Will, our credit is down, the whole town knows our rent is overdue. I suppose you know money must be got some way.”
“Any way is better than threshing out new wheat at such a price,” said William sullenly. “Ask a loan of a neighbor.”
“Oh, Will,” appealed George, “to ask a loan of a neighbor, and be denied—it is bitterer than death. You can do it.”
“I! Am I master here?” retorted the younger. “The farm is not farmed my way, nor ever was. No! Give me the plow-handle and I'll cut the furrow, George.”
“No doubt, no doubt!” said the other, very sharply, “you'd like to draw the land dry with potato crops, and have fourscore hogs snoring in the farmyard; that's your idea of a farm. Oh! I know you want to be elder brother. Well, I tell'ee what do; you kill me first, Bill Fielding, and then you will be elder brother, and not afore.”
Here was a pretty little burst of temper! We have all our sore part.
“So be it, George!” replied William, “you got us into the mud, elder brother, you get us out of the mire!”
George subdued his tone directly.
“Who shall I ask?” said he, as one addressing a bosom counselor.
“Uncle Merton, or—or—-Mr. Meadows the corn-factor; he lends money at times to friends. It would not be much to either of them.”
“Show my empty pockets to Susanna's father! Oh, Will! how can you be so cruel?”
“Meadows, then.”
“No use for me, I've just offended him a hit; beside he's a man that never knew trouble or ill luck in his life; they are like flints, all that sort.”
“Well, look here, I'm pretty well with Meadows. I'll ask him if you will try uncle; the first that meets his man to begin.”
“That sounds fair,” said George, “but I can't—well—yes,” said he, suddenly changing his mind. “I agree,” said he, with simple cunning, and lowered his eyes; but suddenly raising them, he said cheerfully, “Why, you're in luck, Bill; here's your man,” and he shot like an arrow into his own kitchen.
“Confound it,” said the other, fairly caught.
Meadows, it is to be observed, was wandering about the premises until such time as Robinson should return; and while the brothers were arguing, he had been in the barn, and finding old Merton there had worked still higher that prudent man's determination to break off matters between his daughter and the farmer of “The Grove.”
After the usual salutations William Fielding, sore against the grain, began:
“I did not know you were here, sir! I want to speak to you.”
“I am at your service, Mr. Willum.”
“Well, sir. George and I are a little short just at present; it is only for a time, and George says he should take it very kind if you would lend us a hundred pound, just to help us over the stile.”
“Why, Mr. Willum,” replied Meadows, “I should be delighted, and if you had only asked me yesterday, I could have done it as easy as stand here; but my business drinks a deal of money, Mr. Willum, and I laid out all my loose cash yesterday; but, of course, it is of no consequence—another time—good morning, Mr. Willum.”
Away sauntered Meadows, leaving William planted there, as the French say.
George ran out of the kitchen.
“Well?”
“He says he has got no money loose.”
“He is a liar! he paid 1,600 pounds into the bank yesterday, and you knew it; didn't you tell him so?”
“No; what use? A man that lies to avoid lending won't be driven to lend.”
“You don't play fair,” retorted George. “You could have got it from Meadows, if you had a mind; but you want to drive your poor brother against his sweetheart's father; you are false, my lad.”
“You are the only man that ever said so; and you durstn't say it if you weren't my brother.”
“If it wasn't for that, I'd say a deal more.”
“Well, show your high stomach to Uncle Merton, for there he is. Hy!—uncle!” cried William to Merton, who turned instantly and came toward them. “George wants to speak to you,” said William, and shot like a cross-bow bolt behind the house.
“That is lucky,” said Merton, “for I want to speak to you.”
“Who would have thought of his being about?” muttered George.
While George was calling up his courage and wits to open his subject, Mr. Merton, who had no such difficulties, was beforehand with him.
“You are threshing out new wheat?” said Merton, gravely.
“Yes,” answered George, looking down.