Julia And Her Romeo: A Chronicle Of Castle Barfield Part 5

'You won't refuse to do so little, after doing so much,' pleaded the young man. 'Why, it was at your house that I used to meet her, when we were children together, and you first christened us Romeo and Juliet.'

'A name o' bad omen, my dear. I wish I hadn't gi'en it to you now.'

'For niver was a story o' more woe, Than this o' Jewliet an' her Romeo.'

'I don't believe much in omens,' said d.i.c.k. 'But you will tell Julia that I am here, won't you? It's the last time, for ever so long.'

'I'll tell her,' said Mrs. Rusker. 'But don't stay here; goo down to the Five Ash. Mr. Mountain's gone to Burmungem, an' he'll come across this way when he comes back. You must tek a bit o' care, d.i.c.k, for the gell's sake.'

'I'll take care, dear. It's good-bye this time, Aunt. You've been very good to me always, and I shan't forget your kindness while I'm away. And you'll be good to Julia, too, while--while I'm away, won't you?'

Mrs. Rusker's objections had never had any heart in them, and had been merely perfunctory, and such as she conceived her age and semi-maternal authority compelled her to make. She was wholly given over to d.i.c.k and Julia, and all her simple craft was for their service. She kissed him, and cried over him, and so they parted, he bound for the Five Ash field, and she for the farmhouse.

'Why, lacsaday, Jenny, whativer is the matter?' asked Mrs. Mountain, when her visitor entered her sitting-room, and gave her tear-stained cheek to her old friend's embrace. Julia, a lithe, graceful girl, rose at the query from the other side of the little table, and came to Mrs.

Rusker's side.

'Why, you're cryin',' continued the elder woman. 'What is it, my dear, as has upset you i' this wise?'

'Well, my dear,' said Mrs. Rusker, wiping her eyes and smoothing her dress, as if her grief was done with and put away, 'it ain't a trouble as I expects sympathy from you in.'

Mother and daughter exchanged glances.

'It must be a queer sort o' trouble, then,' said Mrs. Mountain; 'an'

you might tell me what it is afore you say that, Mrs. Rusker, arter all these 'ears as we'n knowed each other.'

'Well, if you must know, I've jist sin young Reddy, i' the road, jist outside the Five Ash.' Julia's hand was on her shoulder as she spoke, and she felt the soft touch tremble. 'He's a-leavin' Barfield, agoin' to London, for a long time.'

'Oh, that's the matter, is it? Well, I don't know anythin' agin the young man, barrin' as he is a Reddy. An' for the matter o' that, though o' course a woman has no ch'ice but to stand by the kin as her marries into, I niver found much harm in 'em, unless it is as they're a bit stuck up. I know as you was allays fond on him, an' I hope the young man 'll do well. I've often said to Samson as it was all rubbidge, a-keepin'

up a old quarrel like that, as keeps two dacent fam'lys at daggers drawn. Theer, theer, let Julia get you a cup o' tay, an' let's talk o'

somethin' cheerful.'

'I'll go and send it in to you,' said Julia. She exchanged one quick glance of intelligence with the widow as she left the room. The old woman had done her errand, and Julia knew where to seek her lover.

She found her hat in the hall, and slipped out by the back way, after directing the servant to take in the required refreshment to Mrs.

Busker. It was bright moonlight now, and as she ran lightly across the Five Ash field in her white summer dress, d.i.c.k, waiting in the shelter of the hedge, saw her plainly, and advanced to meet her.

'Oh, d.i.c.k, is it true?'

He took her in his arms and kissed her before he answered. 'Yes, dear, it's true. I am going to London.'

'But why so suddenly, so soon?'

'I must, dear. It is my own choice. I am going to study, to fit myself to take my place in the world, and to find a home for you. Be brave, dear. It is only for a little time.'

'It is all so sudden.'

'Yes. I had hoped to stay a little longer, to see more of you, to get used to my happiness before I lost it. But my father suspects, I am sure, if he does not know, and I dared not refuse. It hurts me to go, but what can I do? You know the man he is. And there is only one thing in the world that your father would help him to do--to separate us. I must go away and make a home for you with my own hands; we can expect no help from them. If we are true to each other we shall be happy yet. Our love may end the ridiculous family squabble which has lasted all these generations. But it would be madness to speak yet.'

'It is that which makes me so unhappy, d.i.c.k. Why am I not like other girls? Why can't you come to the farm and ask my father's leave to court me, as other girls' sweethearts do, and as you would like to do? I can't help feeling that this is wrong, meeting you in secret, and being engaged to you against my father's will, without his knowledge.'

'The quarrel is not of our making, Julia. We only suffer by it. I hope we shall bring it to an end, and teach two honest men to live at peace together, as they ought. Why, you're crying.'

Her tears had been running quietly for some minutes past, but at this she began to sob unrestrainedly. d.i.c.k comforted her in the orthodox fashion, and in that sweet employment almost succeeded in forgetting his own sorrow. He drew bright pictures of the future: youth held the palette, and hope laid on the colour. Two or three years of partial separation--so little--and he would have a livelihood in his hand, and could offer her a safe asylum from parental tyranny, and bid his own people either to accept the situation or renounce him, as they might choose. He was quite heroic internally about the whole business. He felt the promise of the coming struggle brace his nerves, and he was more than ready for the test. Young love is selfish at the best, and the heroic likeness of himself doing battle with the world of London half obliterated the pitiful figure of the poor girl, left at home, with nothing to fill her heart but dreams. For him, the delight of battle; for her, long months of weary waiting.

It was no doubt of him, but only the rooted longing for a.s.surance of his love, that made her ask,

'You won't forget me, d.i.c.k, in London?'

Forget her! His repet.i.tion of the word, his little laugh of loving scorn, were answer enough, though he found others, and arguments unanswerable, to clinch them. How could he forget the sweetest, dearest girl that ever drew the breath of life, the prettiest and the bravest?

She spoke treason against herself in asking such a question. He could no more forget her in London than Romeo, Juliet in Mantua. She laughed a little at his recalling the old story, from which Mrs. Jenny had drawn so many ill.u.s.trations of the course of their love since they were children. It recalled the old woman to their minds.

'I shall write to you every week, and send the letters under cover to her,' said d.i.c.k. 'And you may be sure that I shall find--or make--plenty of opportunities to run down here from time to time. There is a coach every day to Birmingham.'

They had been walking slowly all this time. It was night now, the last gleam of sunset had faded, the stars were l.u.s.trous overhead, and a yellow moonlight flooded the surrounding country. A long distance off, faint but clear in the dead hush of the summer night, they heard, but did not mark, the beat of horses' hoofs approaching them.

'I must go, d.i.c.k,' said Julia. 'It is late, and they will wonder where I am No, let me go now, while I have the strength.'

He took her in his arms again, and her head dropped on his shoulder, and the tears began to run afresh. He held her close, but in that last moment of parting could find no word of comfort, only dumb caresses. The hoof-beats were near at hand now, just beyond the bend of the road.

They rounded the corner, and broke on the lovers' ears with a loud and startling suddenness. The girl broke away, and ran through the gate into the field with a stifled sob. d.i.c.k turned, and walked down the road in the direction of the approaching horseman. The moon was at the full, and shone broadly upon his face and figure.

'Hullo!' cried the rider, in gruff challenge, and pulling his horse into d.i.c.k's path, reined in. The young man looked up and recognised Samson Mountain. Flight would have been as useless as ignominious, and it had never been d.i.c.k's way out of any difficulty.

'Well?' he asked curtly, and stood his ground.

'Is that my daughter?' demanded Mountain, pointing with his heavy whip after the white figure glinting across the field. 'Spake the truth for once, though you be a Reddy.'

'It's a habit we have,' said d.i.c.k quietly. His calm almost surprised himself. 'Yes.'

Mountain had always been of a heavy build, and of late years had increased enormously in girth and weight. But his wrath at this confirmation of his half guess stirred him so, that before the sound of the word had well died out on the air he had dismounted, and came at the young man with his riding-whip flourished above his head.

'Don't do that, sir.' d.i.c.k spoke in a low voice, though quickly; and there was something in his tone which brought the weapon harmlessly to the farmer's side again. 'It is your daughter. We love each other, and she has promised to be my wife.'

Mountain staggered, as if the words had been a pistol bullet or a stab, and struck furiously. Quick as was d.i.c.k's parry, he only half saved himself, his hat spun into the road, and the whip whistled within an inch of his ear. He made a step back, and stopped a second furious stroke. The whip broke in the old man's hand, and he flung the remaining fragment from him with a curse.

'I can't strike you, sir,' said d.i.c.k. 'You're her father.' Mountain's choking breath filled in the pause, and d.i.c.k went on: 'You know well enough there's not another man in England I'd take that from.'

'You're a coward, like all your tribe,' said Mountain.

'Not at all, I a.s.sure you, sir,' said d.i.c.k calmly. 'If you like to send anybody else with that message, I'll talk to him. Let us talk sensibly.

What harm have I ever done you? Or my father either? Why should two honest families keep up this ridiculous story, which ought to have been buried ages back? Why not let bygones be bygones? I love your daughter.

I am a young man yet, sir, with my way to make in the world, and I am going away to London to study. I met your daughter to-night to say goodbye to her, and if you had not come I should have gone away and said nothing until I could come and claim her, with a home worthy of her to take her to.

But since you know, I speak now. We love each other, and intend to marry.'

'Oh!' said Mountain. He had gone all on a sudden as cool as d.i.c.k, and nothing but his stertorous breathing hinted of the rage which filled him. 'That's it, is it? Then, if you're finished, hear me. I ain't got the gift o' the gab as free as you, but I can mek plain my meanin', p'raps. I'd rather see her a-layin' theer '(he pointed with a trembling hand at the ground between them); 'I'd rather lay her there, dead afore my eyes, an' screw her in her coffin a'terwards, than you or any o' your kin should as much as look at her, wi' my goodwill. And now you've got your answer, Mr. Fair an' Fine. Remember it, an' look out for yourself.

For, by the Lord! 'he went on, with a solemn malignity doubly terrible in a man whose pa.s.sion was ordinarily so violent, 'if iver I ketch you round my house again, I'll put a bullet atween thy ribs as sure as my naame's Samson Mountain.'

With this, he took his horse by the bridle, and pa.s.sed through the gate, leaving the young man to his own reflections. He took the beast to the stable, delivered him into the care of a servant, and made straight for the parlour, where his wife and Mrs. Rusker were seated at an early supper.