Cousin Henry

“I have a conscience, my dear, on this matter,” said an old gentleman to a young lady, as the two were sitting in the breakfast parlour of a country house which looked down from the cliffs over the sea on the coast of Carmarthenshire.

“And so have I, Uncle Indefer; and as my conscience is backed by my inclination, whereas yours is not⁠—”

“You think that I shall give way?”

“I did not mean that.”

“What then?”

“If I could only make you understand how very strong is my inclination, or disinclination⁠—how impossible to be conquered, then⁠—”

“What next?”

“Then you would know that I could never give way, as you call it, and you would go to work with your own conscience to see whether it be imperative with you or not. You may be sure of this⁠—I shall never say a word to you in opposition to your conscience. If there be a word to be spoken it must come from yourself.”

There was a long pause in the conversation, a silence for an hour, during which the girl went in and out of the room and settled herself down at her work. Then the old man went back abruptly to the subject they had discussed. “I shall obey my conscience.”

“You ought to do so, Uncle Indefer. What should a man obey but his conscience?”

“Though it will break my heart.”

“No; no, no!”

“And will ruin you.”

“That is a flea’s bite. I can brave my ruin easily, but not your broken heart.”

“Why should there be either, Isabel?”

When Mr. Apjohn had taken his departure, and the servants had gone to their beds, the butler having barred and double-barred the door after his usual manner, Cousin Henry still sat alone in the book-room. After answering those questions from Mr. Apjohn, he had spoken to no one, but still sat alone with a single candle burning on the table by his elbow. The butler had gone to him twice, asking him whether he wanted anything, and suggesting to him that he had better go to his bed. But the heir, if he was the heir, had only resented the intrusion, desiring that he might be left alone. Then he was left alone, and there he sat.

His mind at this moment was tormented grievously within him. There was a something which he might do, and a something which he might not do, if he could only make up his mind. “Honesty is the best policy!” “Honesty is the best policy!” He repeated the well-known words to himself a thousand times, without, however, moving his lips or forming a sound. There he sat, thinking it all out, trying to think it out. There he sat, still trembling, still in an agony, for hour after hour. At one time he had fully resolved to do that by which he would have proved to himself his conviction that honesty is the best policy, and then he sat doubting again⁠—declaring to himself that honesty itself did not require him to do this meditated deed. “Let them find it,” he said to himself at last, aloud. “Let them find it. It is their business: not mine.”

But she escaped. “No, not that,” she said. “It must not be so, Mr. Owen;⁠—it must not. It cannot be so.”

“Tell me one thing, Isabel, before we go any further, and tell me truly. Do you love me?”

She was standing about six feet from him, and she looked hard into his face, determined not to blush before his eyes for a moment. But she could hardly make up her mind as to what would be the fitting answer to his demand.

“I know,” said he, “that you are too proud to tell me a falsehood.”

“I will not tell you a falsehood.”

“Do you love me?” There was still a pause. “Do you love me as a woman should love the man she means to marry?”

“I do love you!”

“Then, in God’s name, why should we not kiss? You are my love and I am yours. Your father and mother are satisfied that it should be so. Seeing that we are so, is it a disgrace to kiss? Having won your heart, may I not have the delight of thinking that you would wish me to be near you?”

“You must know it all,” she said, “though it may be unwomanly to tell so much.”

“Know what?”

“There has never been a man whose touch has been pleasant to me;⁠—but I could revel in yours. Kiss you? I could kiss your feet at this moment, and embrace your knees. Everything belonging to you is dear to me. The things you have touched have been made sacred to me. The Prayerbook tells the young wife that she should love her husband till death shall part them. I think my love will go further than that.”

Oh! if he were only back in London, and his cousin reigning at Llanfeare!

John Griffith, from Coed, had promised to call upon him; but when three weeks had passed by, he had not as yet made his appearance. Now, on one morning he came and found his landlord alone in the book-room. “This is kind of you, Mr. Griffith,” said Cousin Henry, struggling hard to assume the manner of a man with a light heart.

“I have come, Mr. Jones,” said the farmer very seriously, “to say a few words which I think ought to be said.”

“What are they, Mr. Griffith?”

“Now, Mr. Jones, I am not a man as is given to interfering⁠—especially not with my betters.”

“I am sure you are not.”

“And, above all, not with my own landlord.” Then he paused; but as Cousin Henry could not find an appropriate word either for rebuke or encouragement, he was driven to go on with his story. “I have been obliged to look at all those things in the Carmarthen Herald.” Then Cousin Henry turned deadly pale. “We have all been driven to look at them. I have taken the paper these twenty years, but it is sent now to every tenant on the estate, whether they pay or whether they don’t. Mrs. Griffith, there, in the kitchen has it. I suppose they sent it to you, sir?”

“Yes; it does come,” said Cousin Henry, with the faintest attempt at a smile.

“And you have read what they say?”

“Yes, the most of it.”

“It has been very hard, sir.” At this Cousin Henry could only affect a ghastly smile. “Very hard,” continued the farmer. “It has made my flesh creep as I read it. Do you know what it all means, Mr. Jones?”

“There won’t be any⁠—barrister?” asked Cousin Henry, showing the extent of his fear by his voice and his countenance.

“Oh, dear, no; they won’t be here till the assizes. A barrister never sees his own client. You’ll go in as a witness, and will have nothing to do with the barristers till you’re put up face to face before them in the witness-box. Mr. Balsam is a very mild gentleman.”

“He is employed by me?”

“Oh, yes; he’s on our side. His own side never matters much to a witness. It’s when the other side tackles you!”

“Who is the other side?” asked Cousin Henry.

“Haven’t you heard?” The voice in which this was said struck terror to the poor wretch’s soul. There was awe in it and pity, and something almost of advice⁠—as though the voice were warning him to prepare against the evil which was threatening him. “They have got Mr. Cheekey!” Here the voice became even more awful. “I knew they would when I first heard what the case was to be. They’ve got Mr. Cheekey. They don’t care much about money when they’re going it like that. There are many of them I have known awful enough, but he’s the awfullest.”

“He can’t eat a fellow,” said Cousin Henry, trying to look like a man with good average courage.