It Is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade
they were all summoned to dinner, with a dash of asperity, by Sarah the stout farm servant.
Susan lingered an instant to speak to George. She chose an unfortunate topic. She warned him once more against Mr. Robinson.
“My father says that he has no business nor trade, and he is not a gentleman, in spite of his red and green cravat, so he must be a rogue of some sort.”
“Shall I tell you his greatest fault?” was the bitter reply. “He is my friend; he is the only creature that has spoken kind words to me to-day. Oh! I saw how cross you looked at him.”
Susan's eyes flashed, and the color rose in her cheek, and the water in her eyes.
“You are a fool, George,” said she; “you don't know how to read a woman, nor her looks, nor her words either.”
And Susan was very angry and disdainful, and did not speak to George all dinner-time.
As for poor George, he followed her into the house with a heart both sick and heavy.
This Berkshire farmer had a proud and sensitive nature under a homely crust.
Old Merton's words had been iron passing through his soul, and besides he felt as if everything was turning cold and slippery and gliding from his hand. He shivered with vague fears, and wished the sun would set at one o'clock and the sorrowful day come to an end.
CHAPTER II.
THE meal passed almost in silence; Robinson was too hungry to say a word, and a weight hung upon George and Susan.
As they were about to rise, William observed two men in the farmyard who were strangers to him—the men seemed to be inspecting the hogs. It struck him as rather cool; but apparently the pig is an animal which to be prized needs but to be known, for all connoisseurs of him are also enthusiastic amateurs.
When I say the pig I mean the four-legged one.
William Fielding, partly from curiosity to hear these strangers' remarks, partly hoping to find customers in them, strolled into the farmyard before his companions rose from the table.
The others, looking carelessly out of the window, saw William join the two men and enter into conversation with them; but their attention was almost immediately diverted from that group by the entrance of Meadows. He came in radiant; his face was a remarkable contrast to the rest of the party.
Susan could not help noticing it.
“Why, Mr. Meadows,” cried she, “you look as bright as a May morning; it is quite refreshing to see you; we are all rather down here this morning.”
Meadows said nothing, and did not seem at his ease under this remark.
George rose from the table; so did Susan; Robinson merely pushed back his chair and gave a comfortable little sigh, but the next moment he cried “Hallo!”
They looked up, and there was William's face close against the window.
William's face was remarkably pale, and first he tried to attract George's attention without speaking, but finding himself observed by the whole party, he spoke out.
“George, will you speak a word?” said he.
George rose and went out; but Susan's curiosity was wakened, and she followed him, accompanied by Meadows.
“None but you, George,” said William, with a voice half stern, half quivering.
George looked at his brother.
“Out with it,” cried he, “it is some deadly ill-luck; I have felt it coming all day, but out with it; what can't I bear after the words I have borne this morning?”
William hung his head.
“George, there is a distress upon the farm for the rent.”
George did not speak at first, he literally staggered under these words; his proud spirit writhed in his countenance, and with a groan, he turned his back abruptly upon them all and hid his face against the corner of his own house, the cold hard bricks.
Meadows, by strong self-command, contrived not to move a muscle of his face.
Up to this day and hour, Susan Merton had always seemed cool, compared with her lover; she used to treat him a little de haut en bas.
But when she saw his shame and despair, she was much distressed.
“George, George!” she cried, “don't do so. Can nothing be done? Where is my father?—they told me he was here. He is rich, he shall help you.” She darted from them in search of Merton; ere she could turn the angle of the house he met her.
“You had better go home, my girl,” said he gravely.
“Oh, no, no! I have been too unkind to George already,” and she turned toward him like a pitying angel with hands extended as if they would bring balm to a hurt soul.
Meadows left chuckling and was red and white by turns.
Merton was one of those friends one may make sure of finding in adversity.
“There,” cried he, “George, I told you how it would end.”
George wheeled round on him like lightning.
“What, do you come here to insult over me? I must be a long way lower than I am, before I shall be as low as you were when my mother took you up and made a man of you.”
“George, George!” cried Susan in dismay; “stop, for pity's sake, before you say words that will separate us forever. Father,” cried the peace-making angel, “how can you push poor George so hard and him in trouble! and we have all been too unkind to him to-day.”
Ere either could answer, there was happily another interruption. A smart servant in livery walked up to them with a letter. With the instinctive feeling of class they all endeavored to conceal their agitation from the gentleman's servant. He handed George the note, and saying, “I was to wait for an answer, Farmer Fielding,” sauntered toward the farm-stables.
“From Mr. Winchester,” said George, after a long and careful inspection of the outside.
In the country it is a point of honor to find out the writer of a letter by the direction, not the signature.
“The Honorable Francis Winchester! What does he write to you?” cried Merton, in a tone of great surprise. This, too, was not lost on George.
Human nature is human nature. He was not sorry to be able to read a gentleman's letter in the face of one who had bitterly reproached him, and of others who had seen him mortified and struck down.
“Seems so,” said George, dryly, and with a glance of defiance; and he read out the letter.
“George Fielding, my fine fellow, think of it again. I have two berths in the ship that sails from Southampton to-morrow. You will have every comfort on the voyage—a great point. I will do what I said for you” (“he promised me five hundred sheep and a run”). “I must have an honest man, and where can I find as honest a man as George Fielding?” (“Thank you, Mr. Winchester; George Fielding thanks you, sir.”) And there was something noble and simple in the way the young farmer drew himself up, and looked fearlessly in all his companions' eyes.
“You saved my life—I can do nothing for you here—and you are doing no good at 'The Grove'—everybody says so (“everybody says so!”—and George Fielding winced at the words).
“And it really pains me, my brave fellow, to go without you where I know I could put you on the way of fortune. My heart is pretty stout; but home is home; and be assured that I wait with some anxiety to know