VC -- A Chronicle of Castle Barfield and of the Crimea | Page 7

it in time to hear the threats and innuendoes which
had brought such trouble to her boy. It was a hundred to one that young
Polson Jervase would have been less disturbed if his mother, hearing
these things, had not fallen to trembling and weeping and wringing her
hands; for he argued, naturally, that she would not have been so
dreadfully upset if she had not feared at least that there was some
ground for the words which had been spoken in her hearing.
General Boswell had his concern in the matter, also. He was an
admirable soldier, but a wretched man of business; and his monetary
affairs had never prospered until he had entrusted them to the hands of
the cousins Jervase & Jervoyce. Little by little he had been drawn on
until the greater part of his investments lay at their control.
And now for the pretty girl who is staring with so alarmed and white a
visage on the tumult of the hall. This is General Boswell's daughter,
sole child of a late marriage, and the apple of his eye. She has been
wandering quite consciously towards an engagement with young
Polson; and expects him, with excellent reason, to declare himself at
almost any hour. She knows of her father's association with Jervase &
Jervoyce, and, indeed, it has been a familiar thing to her ever since she
came to be of an age to understand.
Thus the brief and terrible colloquy between the cousins translates itself
variously for every listener.
To John Jervase it cries out of guilt detected.
To Polson Jervase it speaks of half-a-dozen things at once; it awakes
with a crushing sense of certainty that late suspicion; it tells him of the
ruin of the one man whom he most loves and honours in this narrow

world--not his father, but the grey old father of his sweetheart; it tells
him in an instant of a life of narrow means for the girl he loves; it hurls
his own hopes in the mire, and makes the very thought of them a
dishonour; it snatches from him the bright prospect of the career on
which he has set his heart, the gate to which stood wide open but a
moment earlier. And all this in the tick of a watch, in the space of time
filled by one agonised beat of the heart.
For the girl, whatever it may mean hereafter, it means for the moment
nothing more than a confused leaping of two thoughts in one. Her mind
is conscious only of a mingled cry of 'Polson!' and of 'Father!'
So Guilt stares at Guilt, and Terror and Suspicion stare at both of them;
and the roaring wind and lashing rain make exclamation dumb.
Jervase was the first to recover himself. He thrust his cousin on one
side, and butted towards the open door; but he strove in vain to close it,
until his son and the General lent their aid. The hall was sown with
broken glass and fragments of picture frames, and here and there an
engraving lay wet and crumpled, but not even the housewife regarded
these things for the time being.
John Jervase turned from the final struggle with the door, and looked
about him. His face had lost its ruddy tint. His eyes stared, his mouth
twitched, and his lips were of the colour of lead. The swaggering
jocundity of his manner had all gone. The very stature of the man
seemed changed, and the square width of his shoulders was shrunk and
rounded. He moistened his leaden lips three times with his tongue, and
each time tried to speak in vain.
'Come in,' he said at last, in a harsh and rasping voice. And they all
moved automatically into the parlour, he leading them.
They grouped there at the end of the centre table, and the instinct of the
trembling housewife so far awoke within her that she closed the door,
lest the servants and hangers-on about the house should hear what she
knew was coming.

James Jervoyce, a mean-statured man, of meaner feature, with his hair
plastered about his forehead by the rain, and the water dripping from
his cape, stood as the centre of all eyes. His face was of the hue of grey
paper, and he gasped for breath, and trembled.
'Pol,' said John Jervase, waving his right hand blindly, 'give me--give
me the decanter and a tumbler.'
Both lay near at hand, and Jervase, having primed himself with a great
gulp of neat brandy, spoke again.
'Now, James,' he asked, 'what's the matter? What do you mean by
coming here to scare a peaceful house in this wild fashion?'
The accent was the accent of his youth, the broadest speech of the
Castle Barfield region. James