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diff --git a/38990-0.txt b/38990-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f319058 --- /dev/null +++ b/38990-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17415 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ovington’s Bank, by Stanley J. Weyman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Ovington’s Bank + +Author: Stanley J. Weyman + +Release Date: February 26, 2012 [eBook #38990] +[Most recently updated: June 9, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Bowen + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVINGTON’S BANK *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +OVINGTON’S BANK + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + +THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF +THE NEW RECTOR +THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE +A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE +THE MAN IN BLACK +UNDER THE RED ROBE +MY LADY ROTHA +MEMOIRS OF A MINISTER OF FRANCE +THE RED COCKADE +SHREWSBURY +THE CASTLE INN +SOPHIA +COUNT HANNIBAL +IN KINGS’ BYWAYS +THE LONG NIGHT +THE ABBESS OF VLAYE +STARVECROW FARM +CHIPPINGE +LAID UP IN LAVENDER +THE WILD GEESE +THE GREAT HOUSE + + + + +OVINGTON’S BANK + +BY + +STANLEY J. WEYMAN + +Author of “A Gentleman of France,” “Count Hannibal,” +“The Castle Inn,” “The Great House,” etc., etc. + +NEW YORK +LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. +55 FIFTH AVENUE +1922 + +Copyright, 1922 +BY +STANLEY J. WEYMAN + +MADE IN THE UNITED STATES + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + CHAPTER XXVIII. + CHAPTER XXIX. + CHAPTER XXX. + CHAPTER XXXI. + CHAPTER XXXII. + CHAPTER XXXIII. + CHAPTER XXXIV. + CHAPTER XXXV. + CHAPTER XXXVI. + CHAPTER XXXVII. + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + CHAPTER XXXIX. + CHAPTER XL. + CHAPTER XLI. + CHAPTER XLII. + + + + +OVINGTON’S BANK + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +It was market day at Aldersbury, the old county town of Aldshire, and +the busiest hour of the day. The clock of St. Juliana’s was on the +point of striking three, and the streets below it were thronged. The +gentry, indeed, were beginning to take themselves homeward; a carriage +and four, with postillions in yellow jackets, awaited its letters +before the Post Office, and near at hand a red-wheeled tandem-cart, the +horses tossing their small, keen heads, hung on the movements of its +master, who was gossipping on the steps of Ovington’s Bank, on Bride +Hill. But only the vans bound to the more distant valleys had yet +started on their lagging journey; the farmers’ gigs, the hucksters’ +carts, the pack-asses still lingered, filling the streets with a +chattering, moving multitude. White-coated yeomen and their wives +jostled their betters—but with humble apologies—in the low-browed +shops, or hardily pushed smocked-frocks from the narrow pavements, or +clung together in obstinate groups in the roadway. Loud was the babel +about the yards of the inns, loudest where the taprooms poured forth +those who, having dined well, had also drunk deep, after the fashion of +our great-grandsires. + +Through all this medley and hubbub a young man threaded his way. He +wore a blue coat with gilt buttons, a waistcoat to match, and drab +trousers, and as he hurried along, his hat tilted back, he greeted +gentle and simple with the same laughing nod. He had the carriage of +one who had a fixed position in the world and knew his worth; and so +attractive was his smile, so gallant his confidence, that liking ran +before him, and two out of three of the faces that he encountered +mirrored his good humor. As he passed along the High Street, and +skirted the Market Place, where the quaint stone figure of an ancient +Prince, great in his day, looked down on the turmoil from the front of +the Market House, he glanced up at the clock, noted the imminence of +the hour, and quickened his pace. + +A man touched him on the sleeve. “Mr. Bourdillon, sir,” he said, trying +to stop him, “by your leave! I want to——” + +“Not now. Not now, Broadway,” the young man answered quickly. “I’m +meeting the mail.” And before the other had fairly taken in his words +he was a dozen paces away, now slipping deftly between two lurching +farmers, now coasting about the more obstinate groups. + +A moment later St. Juliana’s clock, hard put to it to raise its wheezy +voice above the noise, struck the hour. The young man slackened his +pace. He was in time, but only barely in time, for as he paused, the +distant notes of the guard’s bugle sprang like fairy music above the +turbid current of sound and gave notice that the coach was at hand. +Hurriedly gigs and carts drew aside, the crowd sought the pavements, +the more sober drew the heedless out of danger, half a dozen voices +cried “Look out! Have a care!” and with a last shrill Tantivy! Tantivy! +Tantivy! the four sweating bays, the leaders cantering, the wheelers +trotting, the bars all taut, emerged from the crest of the steep Cop, +and the Holyhead Mail, within a minute of its time, drew up before the +door of the Lion, the Royal Arms shining bravely from its red panels. + +Shop-keepers ran to their doors, the crowd closed up about it, the +yokels gaped—for who in those days felt no interest in its advent! By +that coach had come, eleven years before, the news of the abdication of +the Corsican and the close of the Great War. Laurelled and flagged, it +had thrilled the town a year afterwards with the tidings of Waterloo. +Later it had signalled the death of the old blind king, and later +still, the acquittal—as all the world regarded it—of Queen Caroline. +Ah, how the crowd had cheered then! And how lustily old Squire Griffin +of Garth, the great-uncle of this young man, now come to meet the mail, +had longed to lay his cane about their disloyal shoulders! + +The coachman, who had driven the eleven-mile stage from Haygate in +fifty-eight minutes, unbuckled and flung down the reins. The guard +thrust his bugle into its case, tossed a bundle of journals to the +waiting boys, and stepped nimbly to the ground. The passengers followed +more slowly, stamping their chilled feet, and stretching their cramped +limbs. Some, who were strangers, looked about them with a travelled +air, or hastened to the blazing fires that shone from the Lion windows, +while two or three who were at their journey’s end bustled about, +rescuing shawls and portmanteaux, or dived into inner pockets for the +coachman’s fee. + +The last to appear, a man, rather below the middle height, in a +handsome caped travelling-coat, was in no hurry. He stepped out at his +ease and found the young man who has been described at his side. “That +you, Arthur?” he said, his face lighting up. “All well?” + +“All well, sir. Let me take that!” + +“Isn’t Rodd here? Ah!” to a second young man, plainer, darker, and more +soberly garbed, who had silently appeared at his forerunner’s elbow. +“Take this, Rodd, will you?” handing him a small leather case. “Don’t +let it go, until it is on my table. All well?” + +“All well, sir, thank you.” + +“Then go on at once, will you? I will follow with Mr. Bourdillon. Give +me your arm, Arthur.” He looked about him as he spoke. One or two hats +were lifted, he acknowledged the courtesy with a smile. “Betty well?” + +“You’ll find her at the window looking out. All gone swimmingly, I +hope, sir?” + +“Swimmingly?” The traveller paused on the word, perhaps questioning its +propriety; and he did not continue until they had disengaged themselves +from the group round the coach. He and the young man came, though there +was nothing to show this, from different grades of society, and the one +was thirty years older than the other and some inches shorter. Yet +there was a likeness. The lower part of the face in each was strong, +and a certain brightness in the eyes, that was alertness in the younger +man and keenness in the elder, told of a sanguine temperament; and they +were both good-looking. “Swimmingly?” the traveller repeated when they +had freed themselves from their immediate neighbors. “Well, if you +choose to put it that way, yes. But, it’s wonderful, wonderful,” in a +lower tone, as he paused an instant to acknowledge an acquaintance, +“the state of things up there, my boy.” + +“Still rising?” + +“Rising as if things would never fall. And upon my word I don’t know +why, with the marvellous progress everything is making—but I’ll tell +you all that later. It’s a full market. Is Acherley at the bank?” + +“Yes, and Sir Charles. They came a little before time.” + +“Clement is with them, I suppose?” + +“Well, no, sir.” + +“Don’t say he’s away to-day!” in a tone of vexation. + +“I’m afraid he is,” Arthur admitted. “But they are all right. I offered +Sir Charles the paper, but they preferred to wait outside.” + +“D——n!” muttered the other, nodding right and left. “Too bad of the +boy! Too bad! No,” to the person who had lain in wait for Bourdillon +and now put himself in their way, “I can’t stop now, Mr. Broadway.” + +“But, Mr. Ovington! Just a——” + +“Not now!” Ovington answered curtly. “Call to-morrow.” And when they +had left the man behind, “What does he want?” + +“What they all want,” Arthur answered, smiling. “A good thing, sir.” + +“But he isn’t a customer.” + +“No, but he will be to-morrow,” the young man rejoined. “They are all +agog. They’ve got it that you can make a man’s fortune by a word, and +of course they want their fortunes made.” + +“Ah!” the other ejaculated drily. “But seriously, look about you, +Arthur. Did you ever see a greater change in men’s faces—from what they +were this time two years? Even the farmers!” + +“Well, they are doing well.” + +“Better, at any rate. Better, even they. Yes, Mr. Wolley,” to a stout +man, much wrapped up, who put himself in the way, “follow us, please. +Sir Charles is waiting. Better,” Ovington continued to his companion, +as the man fell behind, “and prices rising, and demand—demand spreading +in everything.” + +“Including Stocks?” + +“Including Stocks. I’ve some news for Sir Charles, that, if he has any +doubts about joining us, will fix him. Well, here we are, and I’m glad +to be at home. We’ll go in by the house door, Arthur, or Betty will be +disappointed.” + +The bank stood on Bride Hill, looking along the High Street. The +position was excellent and the house good. Still, it was no more than a +house, for in 1825 banks were not the institutions that they have since +become; they had still for rivals the old stocking and the cracked +teapot, and among banks, Ovington’s at Aldersbury was neither of long +standing nor of more than local repute. + +Mr. Ovington led the way into the house, and had barely removed his hat +when a girl flew down the wide oak staircase and flung herself upon +him. “Oh, father!” she cried. “Here at last! Aren’t you cold? Aren’t +you starving?” + +“Pretty well for that,” he replied, stroking her hair in a way that +proved that, whatever he was to others, he had a soft spot for his +daughter. “Pretty well for that, Betty.” + +“Well, there’s a good fire! Come and warm yourself!” + +“That’s what I can’t do, my dear,” he said, taking off his great coat. +“Business first.” + +“But I thought you had done all that in London?” pouting. + +“Not all, but some. I shall be an hour, perhaps more.” + +She shot a mutinous glance at Arthur. “Why can’t he do it? And Mr. +Rodd?” + +“You think we are old enough, Betty?” + +“Apprentices should be seen, and not heard!” she snapped. + +Arthur’s position at the bank had been hardly understood at first, and +in some fit of mischief, Betty, determined not to bow down to his +pretensions, had christened him the “Apprentice.” + +“I thought that that proverb applied to children,” he retorted. + +The girl was a beauty, dark and vivid, but small, and young enough to +feel the gibe. Before she could retaliate, however, her father +intervened. “Where’s Clement?” he asked. “I know that he is not here.” + +“Tell-tale!” she flung at Arthur. “If you must know, father,” mildly, +“I think that he’s——” + +“Mooning somewhere, I suppose, instead of being in the bank, as he +should be. And market day of all days! There, come, Bourdillon, I +mustn’t keep Sir Charles and Acherley waiting.” He led the way to the +rear of the hall, where a door on the left led into the bank parlor. +Betty made a face after them. + +In the parlor which lay behind the public office were two men. One, +seated in an arm-chair by the fire, was reading the _Morning Post_. The +other stood at the window, his very shoulders expressing his +impatience. But it was to the former, a tall, middle-aged man, stiff +and pompous, with thin sandy hair but kindly eyes, that Ovington made +the first advance. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir Charles,” +he said. “Very sorry. But I assure you I have not wasted a minute. Mr. +Acherley,” to the other, “pardon me, will you? Just a word with Sir +Charles before we begin.” + +And leaving Bourdillon to make himself agreeable to the impatient +Acherley, Ovington drew Sir Charles Woosenham aside. “I have gone a +little beyond my instructions,” he said in a low tone, “and sold your +Monte Reales.” + +The Baronet’s face fell. “Sold!” he ejaculated. “Parted with them? But +I never—my dear sir, I never——” + +“Authorized a sale?” the banker agreed suavely. “No, perfectly right, +Sir Charles. But I was on the spot and I felt myself responsible. There +was a favorable turn and—” forestalling the other as he would have +interrupted—“my rule is little and sure—little and sure, and sell on a +fair rise. I don’t think you will be dissatisfied with the +transaction.” + +But Sir Charles’s displeasure showed itself in his face. He was a man +of family and influence, honorable and straightforward, but his +abilities were hardly on a par with his position, and though he had at +times an inkling of the fact it only made him the more jealous of +interference. “But I never contemplated,” he said, the blood rising to +his face, “never for a moment, that you would part with the stocks +without reference to me, Mr. Ovington.” + +“Precisely, precisely—without your authority, Sir Charles—except at a +really good profit. I think that four or five hundred was mentioned? +Just so. Well, if you will look at this draft, which of course includes +the price of the stocks—they cost, if I remember, fourteen hundred or +thereabouts—you will, I hope—I really hope—approve of what I did.” + +Sir Charles adjusted his glasses, and frowned at the paper. He was +prepared to be displeased and to show it. “Two thousand six hundred,” +he muttered, “two thousand six hundred and twenty-seven!” his jaw +dropping in his surprise. “Two thousand six—really! Ah, well, I +certainly think—” with a quick change to cordiality that would have +amused an onlooker—“that you acted for the best. I am obliged to you, +much obliged, Mr. Ovington. A handsome profit.” + +“I felt sure that you would approve,” the banker assented gravely. +“Shall Bourdillon put the draft—Arthur, be good enough to place this +draft to Sir Charles Woosenham’s account. And tell Mr. Wolley and Mr. +Grounds—I think they are waiting—to come in. I ask your pardon, Mr. +Acherley,” approaching him in turn. + +“No plum for me, I suppose?” growled that gentleman, whom the gist of +the interview with Sir Charles had not escaped. He was a tall, +hatchet-faced, dissipated-looking man, of an old family, Acherley of +Acherley. He had been a dandy with Brummell, had shaken his elbow at +Watier’s when Crockford managed it, had dined at the Pavilion; now he +vegetated in the country on a mortgaged estate, and on Sundays attended +cock-fights behind the village public-house. + +“Well, not to-day,” Ovington answered pleasantly. “But when we have +shaken the tree a little——” + +“One may fall, you think?” + +“I hope so. You will be unlucky if one does not.” + +The two men who had been summoned came in, each after his fashion. +Wolley entered first, endeavoring to mask under a swaggering manner his +consciousness that he stood in the presence of his betters. A clothier +from the Valleys and one of Ovington’s earliest customers, he had +raised himself, as the banker had, and from the same stratum; but by +enlarging instead of selling his mill. During the war he had made much +money and had come to attribute his success a little more to his +abilities and a little less to circumstances than was the fact. Of late +there were whispers that in the financial storm of ’16, which had +followed the close of the war, he had come near the rocks; but if so he +had put a bold face on the crisis, and by steadily putting himself +forward he had impressed most men with a belief in his wealth. +“Afternoon, Sir Charles,” he grunted with as much ease as he could +compass. “Afternoon,” to Acherley. He took a seat at the table and +slapped down his hat. He was here on business and he meant to show that +he knew what business was. + +Grounds, who followed, was a man of a different type. He was a maltster +and had been a dairyman; a leading tradesman in the town, cautious, +penurious, timid, putting pound to pound without saying much about it, +and owning that respect for his superiors which became one in his +position. Until lately he had hoarded his savings, or put them into the +five per cents.; he had distrusted even the oldest bank. But progress +was in the air, new enterprises, new discoveries were the talk of the +town, the interest on the five per cents. had been reduced to four, and +in a rare moment of rashness, he had taken a hint dropped by Ovington, +had ventured, and won. He still trembled at his temerity, he still +vowed in wakeful moments that he would return to the old safe road, but +in the meantime easy gains tempted him and he was now fairly embarked +on modern courses. He was a byword in Aldersbury for caution and +shrewdness, and his adhesion to any scheme would, as Ovington well +knew, commend it to the town. + +He hung back, but, “Come, Mr. Grounds, take a seat,” said the banker. +“You know Sir Charles and Mr. Acherley? Sir Charles, will you sit on my +right, and Mr. Acherley here, if you please? Bourdillon, will you take +a note? We are met, as you know, gentlemen, to consider the formation +of a Joint Stock Company, to be called”—he consulted a paper—“the +Valleys Steam Railroad Company, for the purpose of connecting the +woollen business of the Valleys with the town, and of providing the +public with a superior mode of transport. The Bill for the Manchester +and Liverpool Railroad is on the point of passing, and that great +enterprise is as good as carried through. The Bill for the London and +Birmingham Railroad is before the House; a Bill for a line from +Birmingham to Aldersbury is preparing. Those projects are, gentlemen, +in stronger hands than ours, and it might seem to some to be too early +to anticipate their success and to provide the continuation we propose. +But nothing is more certain than that the spoils are to those who are +first in the field. The Stockton and Darlington Railway is proving what +can be done by steam in the transport of the heaviest goods. There a +single engine draws a load of fifty tons at the rate of six miles an +hour, and has been known to convey a load of passengers at fifteen +miles. Higher speeds are thought to be possible——” + +“I’ll never believe it!” Wolley growled, anxious to assert himself. + +“But not desirable,” Ovington continued blandly. “At any rate, if we +wait too long——” + +“There’s no talk of waiting!” Acherley exclaimed. Neither he nor Sir +Charles was in the habit of meeting on an equal footing the men with +whom they were sitting to-day; he found the position galling, and what +was to be done he was anxious should be done quickly. He had heard the +banker’s exordium before. + +“No, we are here to act,” Ovington assented, with an eye on Grounds, +for whose benefit he had been talking. “But on sober and +well-considered lines. We are all agreed, I think, that such a railroad +will be a benefit to the trade and district?” + +Now, to this proposition not one of those present would have assented a +year before. “Steam railroads?” they would have cried, “fantastic and +impossible!” But the years 1823 and 1824 had been years not only of +great prosperity but of abnormal progress. The seven lean years, the +years of depression and repression, which had followed Waterloo had +come to an end. The losses of war had been made good, and +simultaneously a more liberal spirit had been infused into the +Government. Men had breathed freely, had looked about them, had begun +to hope and to venture, to talk of a new world. Demand had overtaken +and outrun supply, large profits had been made, money had become cheap, +and, fostered by credit, the growth of enterprise throughout the +country had been marvellous. It was as if, after the frosts of winter, +the south wind had blown and sleeping life had everywhere awakened. Men +doubled their operations and still had money to spare. They put the +money in the funds—the funds rose until they paid no more than three +per cent. Dissatisfied, men sought other channels for their savings, +nor sought in vain. Joint Stock Companies arose on every side. +Projects, good and bad, sprang up like mushrooms in a night. Old lodes +and new harbors, old canals and new fisheries, were taken in hand, and +for all these there seemed to be capital. Shares rose to a premium +before the companies were floated, and soon the bounds of our shores +were found to be too narrow for British enterprise. At that moment the +separation of the South American countries from Spain fell out, and +these were at once seen to offer new outlets. The romantic were dazzled +with legends of mines of gold and pockets of diamonds, while the +gravest saw gain in pampas waving with wheat and prairies grazed by +countless herds. It was felt, even by the most cautious, that a new era +had set in. Trade, soaring on a continual rise in prices, was to know +no bounds. If the golden age of commerce had not begun, something very +like it had come to bless the British merchant. + +Under such circumstances the Valleys Railroad seemed a practical thing +even to Grounds, and Ovington’s question was answered by a general +assent. + +“Very good, gentlemen,” he resumed. “Then I may take that as agreed.” +He proceeded to enter upon the details of the scheme. The length of the +line would be fourteen miles. The capital was to be £45,000, divided +into 4500 shares of £10 each, £1 a share to be paid at once, the sum so +raised to be used for the preliminary expenses; £1 10s. per share to be +paid three months later, and the rest to be called up as required. The +directors’ qualification would be fifty shares. The number of directors +would be seven—the five gentlemen now present and two to be named, as +to whom he would have a word to say by-and-by. Mr. Bourdillon, of whose +abilities he thought highly—here several at the table looked kindly at +the young man—and who for other reasons was eminently fitted for the +position, would be secretary. + +“But will the forty-five thousand be enough, sir?” Grounds ventured +timidly. He alone was not directly interested in the venture. Wolley +was the tenant of a large mill. Sir Charles was the owner of two mills +and the hamlets about them, Acherley of a third. Ovington had various +interests. + +“To complete the line, Mr. Grounds? We believe so. To provide the +engine and coaches another fifteen thousand will be needed, but this +may be more cheaply raised by a mortgage.” + +Sir Charles shied at the word. “I don’t like a mortgage, Mr. Ovington,” +he said. + +“No, d——n a mortgage!” Acherley chimed in. He had had much experience +of them. + +“The point is this,” the banker explained. “The road once completed, we +shall be able to raise the fifteen thousand at five per cent. If we +issue shares they must partake, equally with ourselves, in the profits, +which may be fifteen, twenty, perhaps twenty-five per cent.” + +A twinkle of greed passed from eye to eye. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five +per cent.! Ho, ho! + +“The next question,” Ovington continued, “is important. We cannot use +the highway, the gradients and angles render that impossible. We must +acquire a right of way; but, fortunately, the estates we run over are +few, no more than thirteen in all, and for a full third of the distance +they are represented at this table.” He bowed gracefully to the two +landowners. “Sir Charles will, of course, be President of the Road and +Chairman of the Directors. We are fortunate in having at our head a +country gentleman who has”—he bowed again—“the enlightenment to see +that the landed interest is best served by making commerce contributory +to its well-being.” + +“But what about the game?” Sir Charles asked anxiously. “You don’t +think——” + +“On that point the greatest care will be taken. We shall see that no +covert is closely approached.” + +“And the—you won’t bring the line within sight of——” + +“Of the Park? God forbid! The amenities of every estate must be +carefully guarded. And, of course, a fair price for the right of way +will be agreed. Seven of the smaller landowners I have sounded, and we +shall have no trouble with them. The largest estate outstanding——” + +“Is my landlord’s, I’ll bet!” Wolley exclaimed. + +“Yes—is Garth. Mr. Griffin’s.” + +Wolley laughed rudely. “Garth? Ay, you’ll have your work cut out +there!” + +“Oh. I don’t know!” + +“I do. And you’ll find I’m right.” + +“Well, I hope——” + +“You may hope what you like!” Sir Charles shuddered at the man’s +brusqueness. “The Squire’s a hard nut to crack, and so you’ll find, +banker. If you can get him to do a thing he don’t wish to do, you’ll be +the first that ever has. He hates the name of trade as he hates the +devil!” + +The baronet sat up. “Trade?” he exclaimed. “Oh! but I am not aware, +sir, that this is—— Surely a railroad is on another footing?” Alarm was +written on his face. + +“Quite!” Ovington struck in. “Entirely different! Another thing +altogether, Sir Charles. There can be only one opinion on that.” + +“Of course, if I thought I was entering on anything like——” + +“A railroad is on an entirely different footing,” the banker repeated, +with an angry glance at Wolley, who, unrepentant, continued to stare +before him, a sneer on his face. “On an entirely different footing. +Even Mr. Griffin, prejudiced as I venture with all respect to think he +is—even he would agree to that. But I have considered the difficulty, +gentlemen, and I have no doubt we can surmount it. I propose to see him +on Monday, accompanied by Mr. Bourdillon, his great-nephew, and between +us I have no doubt that we shall be able to persuade him.” + +Acherley looked over his shoulder at the secretary, who sat at a small +table at Ovington’s elbow. “Like the job, Arthur?” he asked. + +“I think Sir Charles’s example will go a long way with him,” Bourdillon +answered. He was a tactful young man. + +The banker put the interruption aside. “I shall see Mr. Griffin on +Monday, and with your consent, gentlemen, I propose to offer him the +sixth seat at the Board.” + +“Quite right, quite right,” Sir Charles murmured, much relieved. + +“He’ll not take it!” Wolley persisted. + +“My dear sir!” + +“You will see I am right.” + +“Well, there are more ways than one. At any rate I will see him and +report to the next meeting, when, with the chairman’s approbation, we +shall draw up the prospectus. In that connection”—he consulted his +paper—“I have already received overtures from customers of the bank for +four hundred shares.” There was a murmur of applause and Grounds’s face +betrayed relief. “Then Sir Charles has put himself down for three +hundred.” He bowed deferentially to Woosenham. “Mr. Acherley for one +hundred and fifty, Mr. Wolley has taken up one hundred and twenty-five, +and Mr. Grounds—I have not heard from Mr. Grounds, and there is no +hurry. No hurry at all!” + +But Grounds, feeling that all eyes were on him, and feeling also +uncomfortable in his company, took the fence up to which he had been +brought. He murmured that he would take one hundred and twenty-five. + +“Excellent!” said Ovington. “And I, on behalf of the bank, propose to +take four hundred.” Again there was a murmur of applause. “So that +before we go to the public we have already one-third of the shares +taken up. That being so, I feel no doubt that we shall start at a +premium before we cut the first sod.” + +There followed a movement of feet, an outburst of hilarity. For this +was what they all wished to hear; this was the point. Chairs were +pushed back, and Sir Charles, who was as fearful for his prestige as +Grounds for his money, recovered his cheerfulness. Even Acherley became +good-humored. “Well, here’s to the Valleys Railroad!” he cried. “Damme, +we ought to have something to drink it in!” + +The banker ignored this, and Sir Charles spoke. “But as to the seventh +seat at the Board? We have not arranged that, I think?” He liked to +show that nothing escaped him, and that if he was above business he +could still, when he condescended, be a business man. + +“No,” Ovington agreed. “But I suggest that, with your permission, we +hold that over. There may be a big subscriber taking three or four +hundred shares?” + +“Quite so, quite so.” + +“Somebody may come forward, and the larger the applications the higher +the premium, gentlemen.” + +Again eyes glistened, and there was a new movement. Woosenham took his +leave, bowing to Wolley and Grounds, and shaking hands with the others. +Acherley went with him and Ovington accompanied them, bare-headed, to +Sir Charles’s carriage, which was waiting before the bank. As he +returned Wolley waylaid him and drew him into a corner. A conference +took place, the banker turning the money in his fob as he listened, his +face grave. Presently the clothier entered on a second explanation. In +the end Ovington nodded. He called Rodd from the counter and gave an +order. He left his customer in the bank. + +When he re-entered the parlor Grounds had disappeared, and Arthur, who +was bending over his papers, looked up. “Wolley wanted his notes +renewed, I suppose?” he said. The bank had few secrets for this shrewd +young man, who had learnt as much of business in eighteen months as +Rodd the cashier had learned in ten years, or as Clement Ovington would +learn in twenty. + +The banker nodded. “And three hundred more on his standing loan.” + +Arthur whistled. “I wonder you go on carrying him, sir.” + +“If I cut him loose now——” + +“There would be a loss, of course.” + +“Yes, but that is not all, lad. Where would the Railroad scheme be? +Gone. And that’s not all, either. His fall would deal a blow to credit. +The money that we are drawing out of the old stockings and the cracked +tea-pots would go back to them. Half the clothiers in the Valley would +shiver, and neither I nor you would be able to say where the trouble +would stop, or who would be in the _Gazette_ next week. No, we must +carry him for the present, and pay for his railway shares too. But we +shall hold them, and the profits will eventually come to us. And if the +railway is made, it will raise the value of mills and increase our +security; so that whether he goes on or we have to take the mills +over—which Heaven forbid!—the ground will be firmer. It went well?” + +“Splendidly! The way you managed them!” The lad laughed. + +“What is it?” + +“Grounds asked me if I did not think that you were like the pictures of +old Boney. I said I did. The Napoleon of Finance, I told him. Only, I +added, you knew a deal better where to stop.” + +Ovington shook his head at the flatterer, but was pleased with the +flattery. More than once, people had stopped him in the street and told +him that he was like Napoleon. It was not only that he was stout and of +middle height, with his head sunk between his shoulders; but he had the +classic profile, the waxen complexion, the dominating brow and keen +bright eyes, nay, something of the air of power of the great Exile who +had died three years before. And he had something, too, of his +ambition. Sprung from nothing, a self-made man, he seemed in his +neighbors’ eyes to have already reached a wonderful eminence. But in +his own eyes he was still low on the hill of fortune. He was still a +country banker, and new at that. But if the wave of prosperity which +was sweeping over the country and which had already wrought so many +changes, if this could be taken at the flood, nothing, he believed, was +beyond him. He dreamed of a union with Dean’s, the old conservative +steady-going bank of the town; of branches here and branches there; +finally of an amalgamation with a London bank, of Threadneedle Street, +and a directorship—but Arthur was speaking. + +“You managed Grounds splendidly,” he said. “I’ll wager he’s sweating +over what he’s done! But do you think—” he looked keenly at the banker +as he put the question, for he was eager to know what was in his +mind—“the thing will succeed, sir?” + +“The railroad?” + +“Yes.” + +“I think that the shares will go to a premium. And I see no reason why +the railroad should not do. If I did not think so, I should not be +fostering it. It may take time and, of course, more money than we +think. But if nothing occurs to dash the public—no, I don’t see why it +should not succeed. And if it does it will give such an impetus to the +trade of the Valleys, three-fourths of which passes through our hands, +as will repay us many times over.” + +“I am glad you think so. I was not sure.” + +“Because I led Grounds a little? Oh, that was fair enough. It does not +follow from that, that honesty is not the banker’s only policy. Make no +mistake about that. But I am going into the house now. Just bring me +the note-issue book, will you? I must see how we stand. I shall be in +the dining-room.” + +But when Arthur went into the house a few minutes later he met Betty, +who was crossing the hall. “Your father wanted this book,” he said. +“Will you take it to him?” + +But Betty put her hands behind her back. “Why? Where are you going?” + +“You have forgotten that it is Saturday. I am going home.” + +“Horrid Saturday! I thought that to-night, with father just back——” + +“I wouldn’t go? If I don’t my mother will think that the skies have +fallen. Besides, I am riding Clement’s mare, and if I don’t go, how is +he to come back?” + +“As you go at other times. On his feet.” + +“Ah, well, very soon I shall have a horse of my own. You’ll see, Betty. +We are all going to make our fortunes now.” + +“Fortunes?”—with disdain. “Whose?” + +“Your father’s for one.” + +“Silly! He’s made his.” + +“Then yours—and mine, Betty. Yours and mine—and Clement’s.” + +“I don’t think he’ll thank you.” + +“Then Rodd’s. But, no, we’ll not make Rodd’s. We’ll not make Rodd’s, +Betty.” + +“And why not Mr. Rodd’s?” + +“Never mind. We’ll not make it,” mischievously. “I wonder why you’ve +got such a color, Betty?” And as she snatched the book from him and +threatened him with it, “Good-bye till Monday. I’m late now, and it +will be dark before I am out of the town.” + +With a gay nod he vanished through the door that led into the bank. She +looked after him, the book in her hand. Her lip curled. “Rodd indeed!” +she murmured. “Rodd? As if I should ever—oh, isn’t he provoking!” + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +The village of Garthmyle, where Arthur had his home, lay in the lap of +the border hills more than seven miles from Aldersbury, and night had +veiled the landscape when he rode over the bridge and up the village +street. The squat church-tower, firm and enduring as the hopes it +embodied, rose four-square above the thatched dwellings, and some +half-mile away the rider could discern or imagine the blur of trees +that masked Garth, on its sister eminence. But the bounds of the +valley, in the mouth of which the village nestled, were obscured by +darkness; the steep limestone wall which fenced it on one side and the +more distant wooded hills that sloped gently to it on the other were +alike hidden. It was only when Arthur had passed through the hamlet, +where all doors were closed against the chill of a January night, and +he had ridden a few paces down the hillock, that the lights of the +Cottage broke upon his view. Many a time had they, friendly beacons of +home and rest, greeted him at that point. + +Not that Arthur saw them as beacons, for at no time was he much given +to sentiment. His outlook on life was too direct and vivid for that, +and to-day in particular his mind was teeming with more practical +thoughts, with hopes and plans and calculations. But the lights meant +that a dull ride over a rough road was at an end, and so far they gave +him pleasure. He opened the gate and rode round to the stable, gave up +the horse to Pugh, the man-of-all-work, and made his way into the +house. + +He entered upon a scene as cheerful as any lights shining on weary +traveller could promise. In a fair-sized room a clear grate held a coal +fire, the flames of which danced on the red-papered walls. A kettle +bubbled on the hob, a tea-tray gleamed on the table, and between the +two a lady and gentleman sat, eating crumpets; the lady with much +elegance and a napkin spread over her lavender silk dress, the +gentleman in a green cutaway coat with basket buttons—a coat that ill +concealed the splashed gaiters for which he had more than once asked +pardon. + +But fair as things looked on the surface, all was not perfect even in +this pleasant interior. The lady held herself stiffly, and her eyes +rested rather more often than was courteous on the spatter-dashes. +Secretly she thought her company not good enough for her, while the +gentleman was frankly bored. Neither was finding the other as congenial +as a first glance suggested, and it would have been hard to say which +found Arthur’s entrance the more welcome interruption. + +“Hallo, mother!” he said, stooping carelessly to kiss her. “Hallo, +Clement.” + +“My dear Arthur!” the lady cried, the lappets of her cap shaking as she +embraced him. “How late you are! That horrid bank! I am sure that some +day you will be robbed and murdered on your way home!” + +“I! No, mother. I don’t bring the money, more’s the pity! I am late, am +I? The worse for Clement, who has to ride home. But I have been doing +your work, my lad, so you mustn’t grumble. What did you get?” + +“A brace and a wood-pigeon. Has my father come?” + +“Yes, he has come, and I am afraid has a wigging in store for you. +But—a brace and a wood-pigeon? Lord, man,” with a little contempt in +his tone, “what do you do with your gun all day? Why, Acherley told me +that in that rough between the two fallows above the brook——” + +“Oh, Arthur,” Mrs. Bourdillon interposed, “never mind that!” She had +condescended sufficiently, she thought, and wished to hear no more of +Clement Ovington’s doings. “I’ve something more important to tell you, +much more important. I’ve had a shock, a dreadful shock to-day.” + +She was a faded lady, rather foolish than wise, and very elegant: one +who made the most of such troubles as she had, and the opening her son +now heard was one which he had heard often before. + +“What’s the matter now, mother?” he asked, stooping to warm his hands. + +“Your uncle has been here.” + +“Well, that’s no new thing.” + +“But he has behaved dreadfully, perfectly dreadfully to me.” + +“I don’t know that that is new, either.” + +“He began again about your refusal to take Orders, and your going into +that dreadful bank instead.” + +Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “That’s one for you, Clement.” + +“Oh, that wasn’t the half,” the lady continued, unbending. “He said, +there was the living, three hundred and fifty a year, and old Mr. +Trubshaw seventy-eight. And he’d have to sell it and put in a stranger +and have quarrels about tithes. He stood there with his great stick in +his hand and his eyes glaring at me like an angry cat’s, and scolded me +till I didn’t know whether I stood on my head or my heels. He wanted to +know where you got your low tastes from.” + +“There you are again, Clement!” + +“And your wish to go into trade, and I answered him quite sharp that +you didn’t get them from me; as for Mr. Bourdillon’s grandfather, who +had the plantations in Jamaica, it wasn’t the same at all, as everybody +knows and agrees that nothing is genteeler than the West Indies with +black men to do the work!” + +“You confounded him there, mother, I’m sure. But as we have heard +something like this before, and Clement is not much interested, if that +is all——” + +“Oh, but it is not all! Very far from it!” Mrs. Bourdillon’s head shook +till the lappets swung again. “The worst is to come. He said that we +had had the Cottage rent-free for four years—and I’m sure I don’t know +who has a better right to it—but that that was while he still hoped +that you were going to live like a gentleman, like the Griffins before +you—and I am sure the Bourdillons were gentry, or I should have been +the last to marry your father! But as you seemed to be set on going +your own way and into the bank for good—and I must say I told him it +wasn’t any wish of mine and I’d said all I could against it, as you +know, and Mr. Clement knows the same—why, it was but right that we +should pay rent like other people! And it would be thirty pounds a year +from Lady Day!” + +“The d—d old hunks!” Arthur cried. He had listened unmoved to his +mother’s tirade, but this touched him. “Well, he is a curmudgeon! +Thirty pounds a year? Well, I’m d—d! And all because I won’t starve as +a parson!” + +But his mother rose in arms at that. “Starve as a parson!” she cried. +“Why, I think you are as bad, one as the other. I’m sure your father +never starved!” + +“No, I know, mother. He was passing rich on four hundred pounds a year. +But that is not going to do for me.” + +“Well, I don’t know what you want!” + +“My dear mother, I’ve told you before what I want.” Arthur was fast +regaining the good temper that he seldom lost. “If I were a bishop’s +son and could look to be a bishop, or if I were an archdeacon’s son +with the prospect of a fat prebend and a rectory or two with it, I’d +take Orders. But with no prospect except the Garthmyle living, and with +tithes falling——” + +“But haven’t I told you over and over again that you have only to +make-up to—but there, I haven’t told you that Jos was with him, and I +will say this for her, that she looked as ashamed for him as I am sure +I was! I declare I was sorry for the girl and she not daring to put in +a word—such an old bear as he is to her!” + +“Poor Jos!” Arthur said. “She has not a very bright life of it. But +this does not interest Clement, and we’re keeping him.” + +The young man had indeed made more than one attempt to take leave, but +every time he had moved Mrs. Bourdillon had either ignored him, or by a +stately gesture had claimed his silence. He rose now. + +“I dare say you know my cousin?” Arthur said. + +“I’ve seen her,” Clement answered; and his mind went back to the only +occasion on which he had remarked Miss Griffin. It had been at the last +Race Ball at Aldersbury that he had noticed her—a gentle, sweet-faced +girl, plainly and even dowdily dressed, and so closely guarded by her +proud old dragon of a father that, warned by the fate of others and +aware that his name was not likely to find favor with the Squire, he +had shrunk from seeking an introduction. But he had noticed that she +sat out more than she danced; sat, indeed, in a kind of isolation, +fenced in by the old man, and regarded with glances of half-scornful +pity by girls more smartly dressed. He had had time to watch her, for +he also, though for different reasons, had been a little without the +pale, and he had found her face attractive. He had imagined how +differently she would look were she suitably dressed. “Yes,” he +continued, recalling it, “she was at the last Race Ball, I think.” + +“And a mighty poor time she had of it,” Arthur answered, half +carelessly, half contemptuously. “Poor Jos! She hasn’t at any time much +of a life with my beauty of an uncle. Twopence to get and a penny to +spend!” + +Mrs. Bourdillon protested. “I do wish you would not talk of your cousin +like that,” she said. “You know that she’s your uncle’s heiress, and if +you only——” + +Arthur cut her short. “There! There! You don’t remember, mother, that +Clement has seven miles to ride before his supper. Let him go now! +He’ll be late enough.” + +That was the end, and the two young men went out together. When Arthur +returned, the tea had been removed and his mother was seated at her +tambour work. He took his stand before the fire. “Confounded old +screw!” he fumed. “Thirty pounds a year? And he’s three thousand, if +he’s a penny! And more likely four!” + +“Well, it may be yours some day,” with a sniff. “I’m sure Jos is ready +enough.” + +“She’ll have to do as he tells her.” + +“But Garth must be hers.” + +“And still she’ll have to do as he tells her. Don’t you know yet, +mother, that Jos has no more will than a mouse? But never mind, we can +afford his thirty pounds. Ovington is giving me a hundred and fifty, +and I’m to have another hundred as secretary to this new Company—that’s +news for you. With your two hundred and fifty we shall be able to pay +his rent and still be better off than before. I shall buy a nag—Packham +has one to sell—and move to better rooms in town.” + +“But you’ll still be in that dreadful bank,” Mrs. Bourdillon sighed. +“Really, Arthur, with so much money it seems a pity you should lower +yourself to it.” + +He had some admirable qualities besides the gaiety, the alertness, the +good looks that charmed all comers; ay, and besides the rather uncommon +head for figures and for business which came, perhaps, of his Huguenot +ancestry, and had commended him to the banker. Of these qualities +patience with his mother was one. So, instead of snubbing her, “Why +dreadful?” he asked good-humoredly. “Because all our county fogies look +down on it? Because having nothing but land, and drawing all their +importance from land, they’re jealous of the money that is shouldering +them out and threatening their pride of place? Listen to me, mother. +There is a change coming! Whether they see it or not, and I think they +do see it, there is a change coming, and stiff as they hold themselves, +they will have to give way to it. Three thousand a year? Four thousand? +Why, if Ovington lives another ten years what do you think that he will +be worth? Not three thousand a year, but ten, fifteen, twenty +thousand!” + +“Arthur!” + +“It is true, mother. Ay, twenty, it is possible! And do you think that +when he can buy up half a dozen of these thickheaded Squires who can +just add two to two and make four—that he’ll not count? Do you think +that they’ll be able to put him on one side? No! And they know it. They +see that the big manufacturers and the big ironmasters and the big +bankers who are putting together hundreds of thousands are going to +push in among them and can’t be kept out! And therefore trade, as they +call it, stinks in their nostrils!” + +“Oh, Arthur, how horrid!” Mrs. Bourdillon protested, “you are growing +as coarse as your uncle. And I’m sure we don’t want a lot of vulgar +purse-proud——” + +“Purse-proud? And what is the Squire? Land-proud! But,” growing more +calm, “never mind that. You will take a different view when I tell you +something that I heard to-day. Ovington let drop a word about a +partnership.” + +“La, Arthur, but——” + +“A partnership! Nothing definite, nothing to bind, and not yet, but in +the future. It was but a hint. But think of it, mother! It is what I +have been aiming at all along, but I didn’t expect to hear of it yet. +Not one or two hundred a year, but say, five hundred to begin with, and +three, four, five thousand by and by! Five thousand!” His eyes sparkled +and he threw back the hair from his forehead with a characteristic +gesture. “Five thousand a year! Think of that and don’t talk to me of +Orders. Take Orders! Be a beggarly parson while I have that in my +power, and in my power while I am still young! For trust me, with +Ovington at the helm and the tide at flood we shall move. We shall +move, mother! The money is there, lying there, lying everywhere to be +picked up. And we shall pick it up.” + +“You take my breath away!” his mother protested, her faded, delicate +face unusually flushed. “Five thousand a year! Gracious me! Why, it is +more than your uncle has!” She raised her mittened hands in protest. +“Oh, it is impossible!” The vision overcame her. + +But “It is perfectly possible,” he repeated. “Clement is of no use. He +is for ever wanting to be out of doors—a farmer spoiled. Rodd’s a mere +mechanic. Ovington cannot do it all, and he sees it. He must have +someone he can trust. And then it is not only that I suit him. I am +what he is not—a gentleman.” + +“If you could have it without going to the bank!” Mrs. Bourdillon said. +And she sighed, golden as was the vision. But before they parted his +eloquence had almost persuaded her. She had heard such things, had +listened to such hopes, had been dazzled by such sums that she was +well-nigh reconciled even to that which the old Squire dubbed “the +trade of usury.” + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Meanwhile Clement Ovington jogged homeward through the darkness, his +thoughts divided between the discussion at which he had made an +unwilling third, and the objects about him which were never without +interest for this young man. He had an ear, and a very sharp one, for +the piping of the pee-wits in the low land by the river, and the owl’s +cadenced cry in the trees about Garth. He marked the stars shining in a +depth of heaven opened amid the flying wrack of clouds; he picked out +Jupiter sailing with supreme dominion, and the Dog-star travelling +across the southern tract. His eye caught the gleam of water on a +meadow, and he reflected that old Gregory would never do any good with +that ground until he made some stone drains in it. Not a sound in the +sleeping woods, not the barking of a dog at a lonely homestead—and he +knew every farm by name and sight and quality—escaped him; nor the +shape of a covert, blurred though it was and leafless. But amid all +these interests, and more than once, his thoughts as he rode turned +inwards, and he pictured the face of the girl at the ball. Long +forgotten, it recurred to him with strange persistence. + +He was an out-of-door man, and that, in his position, was the pity of +it. Aldersbury School—and Aldersbury was a very famous school in those +days—and Cambridge had done little to alter the tendency: possibly the +latter, seated in the midst of wide open spaces, under a wide sky, the +fens its neighbors, had done something to strengthen his bent. +Bourdillon thought of him with contempt, as a clodhopper, a rustic, +hinting that he was a throwback to an ancestor, not too remote, who had +followed the plough and whistled for want of thought. But he did +Clement an injustice. It was possible that in his love of the soil he +was a throwback; he would have made, and indeed he was, a good +ploughman. He had learnt the trick with avidity, giving good money, +solid silver shillings, that Hodge might rest while he worked. But, a +ploughman, he would not have turned a clod without noticing its +quality, nor sown a seed without considering its fitness, nor observed +a rare plant without wondering why it grew in that position, nor looked +up without drawing from the sky some sign of the weather or the hour. +Much less would he have gazed down a woodland glade, flecked with +sunlight, without perceiving its beauty. + +He was, indeed, both in practice and theory a lover of Nature; +breathing freely its open air, understanding its moods, asking nothing +better than to be allowed to turn them to his purpose. Though he was no +great reader, he read Wordsworth, and many a line was fixed in his +memory and, on occasions when he was alone, rose to his lips. + +But he hated the desk and he hated figures. His thoughts as he stood +behind the bank counter, or drummed his restless heels against the legs +of his high stool, were far away in fallow and stubble, or where the +trout, that he could tickle as to the manner born, lay under the caving +bank. And to his father and to those who judged him by the bank +standard, and felt for him half scornful liking, he seemed to be an +inefficient, a trifler. They said in Aldersbury that it was lucky for +him that he had a father. + +Perhaps of all about him it was from that father that he could expect +the least sympathy. Ovington was not only a banker, he was a banker to +whom his business was everything. He had created it. It had made him. +It was not in his eyes a mere adjunct, as in the eyes of one born in +the purple and to the leisure which invites to the higher uses of +wealth. Able he was, and according to his lights honorable; but a +narrow education had confined his views, and he saw in his money merely +the means to rise in the world and eventually to become one of the +landed class which at that time monopolized all power and all +influence, political as well as social. Such a man could only see in +Clement a failure, a reversion to the yeoman type, and own with sorrow +the irony of fortune that so often delights to hand on the sceptre of +an Oliver to a “Tumble-down-Dick.” + +Only from Betty, young and romantic, yet possessed of a woman’s +intuitive power of understanding others, could Clement look for any +sympathy. And even Betty doubted while she loved—for she had also that +other attribute of woman, a basis of sound common-sense. She admired +her father. She saw more clearly than Clement what he had done for them +and to what he was raising them. And she could not but grieve that +Clement was not more like him, that Clement could not fall in with his +wishes and devote himself to the attainment of the end for which the +elder man had worked. She could enter into the father’s disappointment +as well as into the son’s distaste. + +Meanwhile Clement, dreaming now of a girl’s face, now of a new drill +which he had seen that morning, now of the passing sights and sounds +which would have escaped nine men out of ten but had a meaning for him, +drew near to the town. He topped the last eminence, he rode under the +ancient oak, whence, tradition had it, a famous Welshman had watched +the wreck of his fortunes on a pitched field. Finally he saw, rising +from the river before him, the amphitheatre of dim lights that was the +town. Descending he crossed the bridge. + +He sighed as he did so. For to him to pass from the silent lands and to +enter the brawling streets where apprentices were putting up the +shutters and beggars were raking among heaps of market garbage was to +fall half way from the clouds. To right and left the inns were roaring +drunken choruses, drabs stood in the mouths of the alleys—dubbed in +Aldersbury “shuts”—tradesmen were hastening to wet their profits at the +Crown or the Gullet. When at last he heard the house door clang behind +him, and breathed the confined air of the bank, redolent for him of +ledgers and day-books, the fall was complete. He reached the earth. + +If he had not done so, his sister’s face when he entered the +dining-room would have brought him to his level. + +“My eye and Betty Martin!” she said. “But you’ve done it now, my lad!” + +“What’s the matter?” + +“Father will tell you that. He’s in his room and as black as thunder. +He came home by the mail at three—Sir Charles waiting, Mr. Acherley +waiting, the bank full, no Clement! You are in for it. You are to go to +him the moment you come in.” + +He looked longingly at the table where supper awaited him. “What did he +say?” he asked. + +“He said all I have said and d—n besides. It’s no good looking at the +table, my lad. You must see him first and then I’ll give you your +supper.” + +“All right!” he replied, and he turned to the door with something of a +swagger. + +But Betty, whose moods were as changeable as the winds, and whose +thoughts were much graver than her words, was at the door before him. +She took him by the lapel of his coat and looked up in his face. “You +won’t forget that you’re in fault, Clem, will you?” she said in a small +voice. “Remember that if he had not worked there would be no walking +about with a gun or a rod for you. And no looking at new drills, +whatever they are, for I know that that is what you had in your mind +this morning. He’s a good dad, Clem—better than most. You won’t forget +that, will you?” + +“But after all a man must——” + +“Suppose you forget that ‘_after all_,’” she said sagely. “The truth is +you have played truant, haven’t you? And you must take your medicine. +Go and take it like a good boy. There are but three of us, Clem.” + +She knew how to appeal to him, and how to move him; she knew that at +bottom he was fond of his father. He nodded and went, knocked at his +father’s door and, tamed by his sister’s words, took his scolding—and +it was a sharp scolding—with patience. Things were going well with the +banker, he had had his usual four glasses of port, and he might not +have spoken so sharply if the contrast between the idle and the +industrious apprentice had not been thrust upon him that day with a +force which had startled him. That little hint of a partnership had not +been dropped without a pang. He was jealous for his son, and he spoke +out. + +“If you think,” he said, tapping the ledger before him, to give point +to his words, “that because you’ve been to Cambridge this job is below +you, you’re mistaken, Clement. And if you think that you can do it in +your spare time, you’re still more mistaken. It’s no easy task, I can +tell you, to make a bank and keep a bank, and manage your neighbor’s +money as well as your own, and if you think it is, you’re wrong. To +make a hundred thousand pounds is a deal harder than to make Latin +verses—or to go tramping the country on a market day with your gun! +That’s not business! That’s not business, and once for all, if you are +not going to help me, I warn you that I must find someone who will! And +I shall not have far to look!” + +“I’m afraid, sir, that I have not got a turn for it,” Clement pleaded. + +“But what have you a turn for? You shoot, but I’m hanged if you bring +home much game. And you fish, but I suppose you give the fish away. And +you’re out of town, idling and doing God knows what, three days in the +week! No turn for it? No will to do it, you mean. Do you ever think,” +the banker continued, joining the fingers of his two hands as he sat +back in his chair, and looking over them at the culprit, “where you +would be and what you would be doing if I had not toiled for you? If I +had not made the business at which you do not condescend to work? I had +to make my own way. My grandfather was little better than a laborer, +and but for what I’ve done you might be a clerk at a pound a week, and +a bad clerk, too! Or behind a shop-counter, if you liked it better. And +if things go wrong with me—for I’d have you remember that nothing in +this world is quite safe—that is where you may still be! Still, my +lad!” + +For the first time Clement looked his father fairly in the face—and +pleased him. “Well, sir,” he said, “if things go wrong I hope you won’t +find me wanting. Nor ungrateful for what you have done for us. I know +how much it is. But I’m not Bourdillon, and I’ve not got his head for +figures.” + +“You’ve not got his application. That’s the mischief! Your heart’s not +in it.” + +“Well, I don’t know that it is,” Clement admitted. “I suppose you +couldn’t——” he hesitated, a new hope kindled within him. He looked at +his father doubtfully. + +“Couldn’t what?” + +“Release me from the bank, sir? And give me a—a very small capital +to——” + +“To go and idle upon?” the banker exclaimed, and thumped the ledger in +his indignation at an idea so preposterous. “No, by G—d, I couldn’t! +Pay you to go idling about the country, more like a dying duck in a +thunder-storm, as I am told you do, than a man! Find you capital and +see you loiter your life away with your hands in your pockets? No, I +couldn’t, my boy, and I would not if I could! Capital, indeed? Give you +capital? For what?” + +“I could take a farm,” sullenly, “and I shouldn’t idle. I can work hard +enough when I like my work. And I know something about farming, and I +believe I could make it pay.” + +The other gasped. To the banker, with his mind on thousands, with his +plans and hopes for the future, with his golden visions of Lombard +Street and financial sway, to talk of a farm and of making it pay! It +seemed—it seemed worse than lunacy. His son must be out of his mind. He +stared at him, honestly wondering. “A farm!” he ejaculated at last. +“And make it pay? Go back to the clodhopping life your grandfather +lived before you and from which I lifted you? Peddle with pennies and +sell ducks and chickens in the market? Why—why, I don’t know what to +say to you?” + +“I like an outdoor life,” Clement pleaded, his face scarlet. + +“Like a—like a——” Ovington could find no word to express his feelings +and with an effort he swallowed them down. “Look here, Clement,” he +said more mildly; “what’s come to you? What is it that is amiss with +you? Whatever it is you must straighten it out, boy; there must be an +end of this folly, for folly it is. Understand me, the day that you go +out of the bank you go to stand on your own legs, without help from me. +If you are prepared to do that?” + +“I don’t say that I could—at first.” + +“Then while I keep you I shall certainly do it on my own terms. So, if +you please, I will hear no more of this. Go back to your desk, go back +to your desk, sir, and do your duty. I sent you to Cambridge at +Butler’s suggestion, but I begin to fear that it was the biggest +mistake of my life. I declare I never heard such nonsense except from a +man in love. I suppose you are not in love, eh?” + +“No!” Clement cried angrily, and he went out. + +For he could not own to his father that he was in love; in love with +the brown earth, the woods, and the wide straggling hedge-rows, with +the whispering wind and the music of the river on the shallows, with +the silence and immensity of night. Had he done so, he would have +spoken a language which his father did not and could not understand. +And if he had gone a step farther and told him that he felt drawn to +those who plodded up and down the wide stubbles, who cut and bound the +thick hedge-rows, who wrought hand in hand with Nature day in and day +out, whose lives were spent in an unending struggle with the soil until +at last they sank and mingled with it—if he had told him that he felt +his kinship with those humble folk who had gone before him, he would +only have mystified him, only have angered him the more. + +Yet so it was. And he could not change himself. + +He went slowly to his supper and to Betty, owning defeat; acknowledging +his father’s strength of purpose, acknowledging his father’s right, yet +vexed at his own impotence. Life pulsed strongly within him. He longed +to do something. He longed to battle, the wind in his teeth and the +rain in his face, with some toil, some labor that would try his +strength and task his muscles, and send him home at sunset weary and +satisfied. Instead he saw before him an endless succession of days +spent with his head in a ledger and his heels on the bar of his stool, +while the sun shone in at the windows of the bank and the flies buzzed +sleepily about him; days arid and tedious, shared with no companion +more interesting than Rodd, who, excellent fellow, was not amusing, or +more congenial than Bourdillon, who patronized him when he was not +using him. And in future he would have to be more punctual, more +regular, more assiduous! It was a dreary prospect. + +He ate his supper in morose silence until Betty, who had been quick to +read the upshot of the interview in his face, came behind him and +ruffled his hair. “Good boy!” she whispered, leaning over him. “His +days shall be long in the land!” + +“I wish to heaven,” he answered, “they were in the land! I am sure they +will be long enough in the bank!” But after that he recovered his +temper. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +In remote hamlets a few churches still recall the fashion of Garthmyle. +It was a wide church of two aisles having clear windows, through which +a flood of cold light fell on the whitewashed walls, and on the maze of +square pews, some colored drab, some a pale blue, through which narrow +alleys, ending in culs-de-sac, wound at random. The Griffin memorials, +though the earliest were of Tudor date, were small and mean, and the +one warm scrap of color in the church was furnished by the faded red +curtain which ran on iron rods round the Squire’s pew and protected his +head from draughts. That curtain was watched with alarm by many, for at +a certain point in the service it was the Squire’s wont to draw it +aside, and to stand for a time with his back to the east while his hard +eyes roved over the congregation. Woe to the absentees! His scrutiny +completed, with a grunt which carried terror to the hearts of their +families, he would draw the curtain, turn about again, and compose +himself to sleep. + +In its severity and bleakness the church fairly matched the man, who, +old and gaunt and grey, was its central figure; who, like it, embodied, +meagrely and plainly as he dressed, the greatness of old associations, +and like it, if in a hard and forbidding way, owned and exacted an +unchanging standard of duty. + +For he was the Squire. Whatever might be done elsewhere, nothing was +done in that parish without him. The parson, aged and apathetic, knew +better than to cross his will—had he not to get in his tithes? The +farmers were his tenants, the overseers rested in the hollow of his +hand. Hardly a man was hired and no man was relieved, no old wife sent +back to her distant settlement, no lad apprenticed, but as he pleased. +He was the Squire. + +On Sundays the tenants waited in the churchyard until he arrived, and +it was this which deceived Arthur when, Mrs. Bourdillon feeling unequal +to the service, he reached the church next morning. He found the porch +empty, and concluding that his uncle had entered, he made his way to +the Cottage pew, which was abreast of the great man’s. But in the act +of sitting down he saw, glancing round the red curtain, that Josina was +alone. It struck him then that it would be pleasant to sit beside her +and entertain himself with her conscious face, and he crossed over and +let himself into the Squire’s pew. He had the satisfaction of seeing +the blood mount swiftly to her cheeks, but the next moment he found the +old man—who had that morning sent word that he would be late—at his +elbow, in the act of entering behind him. + +It was too late to retreat, and with a face as hot as Josina’s he +stumbled over the straw-covered footstool and sat down on her other +hand. He knew that the Squire would resent his presence after what had +happened, and when he stood up his ears were tingling. But he soon +recovered himself. He saw the comic side of the situation, and long +before the sermon was over, he found himself sufficiently at ease to +enjoy some of the _agréments_ which he had foreseen. + +Carved roughly with a penknife on the front of the pew was a heart +surmounting two clasped hands. Below each hand were initials—his own +and Josina’s; and he never let the girl forget the August afternoon, +three years before, when he had induced her to do her share. She had +refused many times; then, like Eve in the garden, she had succumbed on +a drowsy afternoon when they had had the pew to themselves and the +drone of the preacher’s voice had barely risen above the hum of the +bees. She had been little more than a child at the time, and ever since +that day the apple had been to her both sweet and bitter. For she was +not a child now, and, a woman, she rebelled against Arthur’s power to +bring the blood to her cheeks and to play—with looks rather than words, +for of these he was chary—upon feelings which she could not mask. + +Of late resentment had been more and more gaining the upper hand with +her. But to-day she forgave. She feared that which might pass between +him and his uncle at the close of the service, and she had not the +heart to be angry. However, when the dreaded moment came she was +pleasantly disappointed. When they reached the porch, “Take my seat, +take my meat,” the Squire said grimly. “Are you coming up?” + +“If I may, sir? + +“I want a word with you.” + +This was not promising, but it might have been worse, and little more +was said as the three passed, the congregation standing uncovered, down +the Churchyard Walk and along the road to Garth. + +The Squire, always taciturn, strode on in silence, his eyes on his +fields. The other two said little, feeling trouble in the air. +Fortunately at the early dinner there was a fourth to mend matters in +the shape of Miss Peacock, the Squire’s housekeeper. She was a distant +relation who had spent most of her life at Garth; who considered the +Squire the first of men, his will as law, and who from Josina’s +earliest days had set her an example of servile obedience. To ask what +Mr. Griffin did not offer, to doubt where he had laid down the law, was +to Miss Peacock flat treason; and where a stronger mind might have +moulded the girl to a firmer shape, the old maid’s influence had +wrought in the other direction. A tall meagre spinster, a weak replica +of the Squire, she came of generations of women who had been ruled by +their men and trained to take the second place. The Squire’s two wives, +his first, whose only child had fallen, a boy-ensign, at Alexandria, +his second, Josina’s mother, had held the same tradition, and Josina +promised to abide by it. + +When the Peacock rose Jos hesitated. The Squire saw it. “Do you go, +girl,” he said. “Be off!” + +For once she wavered—she feared what might happen between the two. But +“Do you hear?” the Squire growled. “Go when you are told.” + +She went then, but Arthur could not restrain his indignation. “Poor +Jos!” he muttered. + +Unluckily the Squire heard the words, and “Poor Jos!” he repeated, +scowling at the offender. “What the devil do you mean, sir? Poor Jos, +indeed? Confound your impudence! What do you mean?” + +Arthur quailed, but he was not lacking in wit. “Only that women like a +secret, sir,” he said. “And a woman, shut out, fancies that there is a +secret.” + +“Umph! A devilish lot you know about women!” the old man snarled. “But +never mind that. I saw your mother yesterday.” + +“So she told me, sir.” + +“Ay! And I dare say you didn’t like what she told you! But I want you +to understand, young man, once for all, that you’ve got to choose +between Aldersbury and Garth. Do you hear? I’ve done my duty. I kept +the living for you, as I promised your father, and whether you take it +or not, I expect you to do yours, and to live as the Griffins have +lived before you. Who the devil is this man Ovington? Why do you want +to mix yourself up with him? Eh? A man whose father touched his hat to +me and would no more have thought of sitting at my table than my butler +would! There, pass the bottle.” + +“Would you have no man rise, sir?” Arthur ventured. + +“Rise?” The Squire glared at him from under his great bushy eyebrows. +“It’s not to his rise, it’s to your fall I object, sir. A d—d silly +scheme this, and one I won’t have. D’you hear, I won’t have it.” + +Arthur kept his temper, oppressed by the other’s violence. “Still, you +must own, sir, that times are changed,” he said. + +“Changed? Damnably changed when a Griffin wants to go into trade in +Aldersbury.” + +“But banking is hardly a trade.” + +“Not a trade? Of course it’s a trade—if usury is a trade! If +pawn-broking is a trade! If loan-jobbing is a trade! Of course it’s a +trade.” + +The gibe stung Arthur and he plucked up spirit. “At any rate, it is a +lucrative one,” he rejoined. “And I’ve never heard, sir, that you were +indifferent to money.” + +“Oh! Because I’m going to charge your mother rent? Well, isn’t the +Cottage mine? Or because fifty years ago I came into a cumbered estate +and have pinched and saved and starved to clear it? Saved? I have +saved. But I’ve saved out of the land like a gentleman, and like my +fathers before me, and not by usury. Not by money-jobbing. And if you +expect to benefit—but there, fill your glass, and let’s hear your +tongue. What do you say to it?” + +“As to the living,” Arthur said mildly, “I don’t think you consider, +sir, that what was a decent livelihood no longer keeps a gentleman as a +gentleman. Times are changed, incomes are changed, men are richer. I +see men everywhere making fortunes by what you call trade, sir; making +fortunes and buying estates and founding houses.” + +“And shouldering out the old gentry? Ay, damme, and I see it too,” the +Squire retorted, taking the word out of his mouth. “I see plenty of it. +And you think to be one of them, do you? To join them and be another +Peel, or one of Pitt’s money-bag peers? That’s in your mind, is it? A +Mr. Coutts? And to buy out my lord and drive your coach and four into +Aldersbury, and splash dirt over better men than yourself?” + +“I should be not the less a Griffin.” + +“A Griffin with dirty hands!” with contempt. “That’s what you’d be. And +vote Radical and prate of Reform and scorn the land that bred you. And +talk of the Rights of Men and money-bags, eh? That’s your notion, is +it, by G—d?” + +“Of course, sir, if you look at it in that way——” + +“That’s the way I do look at it!” The Squire brought down his hand on +the table with a force that shook the glasses and spilled some of his +wine. “And it’s the way you’ve got to look at it, or there won’t be +much between you and me—or you and mine. Or mine, do you hear! I’ll +have no tradesman at Garth and none of that way of thinking. So you’d +best give heed before it’s too late. You’d best look at it all ways.” + +“Very well, sir.” + +“Any more wine?” + +“No, thank you.” Arthur’s head was high. He did not lack spirit. + +“Then hear my last word. I won’t have it! That’s plain. That’s plain, +and now you know. And, hark ye, as you go out, send Peacock to me.” + +But before Arthur had made his way out, the Squire’s voice was heard, +roaring for Josina. When Miss Peacock presented herself, “Not you! Who +the devil wants you?” he stormed. “Send the girl! D’you hear? Send the +girl!” + +And when Josina, scared and trembling, came in her turn, “Shut the +door!” he commanded. “And listen! I’ve had a talk with that puppy, who +thinks that he knows more than his betters. D—n his impertinence, +coming into my pew when he thought I was elsewhere! But I know very +well why he came, young woman, sneaking in to sit beside you and make +sheep’s eyes when my back was turned. Now, do you listen to me. You’ll +keep him at arm’s length. Do you hear, Miss? You’ll have nothing to say +to him unless I give you leave. He’s got to do with me now, and it +depends on me whether there’s any more of it. I know what he wants, but +by G—d, I’m your father, and if he does not mend his manners, he goes +to the right-about. So let me hear of no more billing and cooing and +meeting in pews, unless I give the word! D’you understand, girl?” + +“But I think you’re mistaken, sir,” poor Jos ventured. “I don’t think +that he means——” + +“I know what he means. And so do you. But never you mind! Till I say +the word there’s an end of it. The puppy, with his Peels and his peers! +Men my father wouldn’t have—but there, you understand now, and you’ll +obey, or I’ll know the reason why!” + +“Then he’s not to come to Garth, sir?” + +But the Squire checked at that. Family feeling and the pride of +hospitality were strong in him, and to forbid his only nephew the +family house went beyond his mind at present. + +“To Garth?” angrily. “Who said anything about Garth? No, Miss, but when +he comes, you’ll stand him off. You know very well how to do it, though +you look as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth! You’ll see that he +keeps his distance. And let me have no tears, or—d——n the fellow, he’s +spoiled my nap. There, go! Go! I might as well have a swarm of wasps +about me as such folks! Pack o’ fools and idiots! Go into a bank, +indeed!” + +Jos did go, and shutting herself up in her room would not open to Miss +Peacock, who came fluttering to the door to learn what was amiss. And +she cried a little, but it was as much in humiliation as grief. Her +father was holding her on offer, to be given or withheld, as he +pleased, while all the time she doubted, and more than doubted, if he +to whom she was on offer, he from whom she was withheld, wanted her. +There was the rub. + +For Arthur, ever since he had begun to attend at the bank, had been +strangely silent. He had looked and smiled and teased her, had pressed +her hand or touched her hair, but in sport rather than in earnest, +meaning little. And she had been quick to see this, and with the +womanly pride, of which, gentle and timid as she was, she had her +share, she had schooled herself to accept the new situation. Now, her +father had taken Arthur’s suit for granted and humbled her. So Jos +cried a little. But they were not very bitter tears. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Arthur was taken aback by his uncle’s harshness, and he made haste to +be at the bank early enough on the Monday to anticipate the banker’s +departure for Garth. He was certain that to approach the Squire at this +moment in the matter of the railroad was to invite disaster, and he +gave Ovington such an account of the quarrel as he thought would deter +him from going over at present. + +But the banker had a belief in himself which success and experience in +the management of men had increased. He was convinced that +self-interest was the spring which moved nine men out of ten, and +though he admitted that the family quarrel was untimely, he did not +agree that as between the Squire and a good bargain it would have +weight. + +“But I assure you, sir, he’s like a bear with a sore head,” Arthur +urged. + +“A bear will come to the honey if its head be sore,” the banker +answered, smiling. + +“And perhaps upset the hive?” + +Ovington laughed. “Not in this case, I think. And we must risk +something. Time presses and he blocks the way. However, I’ll let it +stand over for a week and then I’ll go alone. We must have your uncle.” + +Accordingly a week later, discarding the tilbury and smart man-servant +that he had lately set up, he rode over to Garth, considering as he +journeyed the man whom he was going to meet and of whom, in spite of +his self-assurance, he stood in some awe. + +Round Aldersbury were larger landowners and richer men than the Squire. +But his family and his name were old, and by virtue of long possession +he stood high among the gentry of the county. He had succeeded at +twenty-two to a property neglected and loaded with debt, and his +father’s friends—this was far back in the old King’s reign—had advised +him to sell; let him keep the house and the home-farm and pay his debts +with the rest. But pride of race was strong in him, he had seen that to +sell was to lose the position which his forbears had held, and he had +refused. Instead he had set himself to free the estate, and he had +pared, he had pinched, he had almost starved himself and others. He had +become a byword for parsimony. In the end, having benefited much by +enclosures in the ’nineties, he had succeeded. But no sooner had he +deposited in the bank the money to pay off the last charge than the +loss of his only son had darkened his success. He had married again—he +was by this time past middle age—but only a daughter had come of the +marriage, and by that time to put shilling to shilling and acre to acre +had become a habit of which he could not break himself, though he knew +that only a woman would follow him at Garth. + +Withal he was a great aristocrat, a Tory of the Tories, stern and +unbending. Fear of France and of French doctrines and pride in his +caste were in his blood. The _Quarterly Review_ ranked with him after +his Bible, and very little after it. Reform under the most moderate +aspect was to him a shorter name for Revolution. He believed implicitly +in his class, and did not believe in any other class. Manufacturers and +traders he hated and distrusted, and of late jealousy had been added to +hatred and distrust. The inclusion of such men in the magistracy, the +elevation of Peel to the Ministry had made him fancy that there was +something in the Queen’s case after all; when Canning and Huskisson had +also risen to power he had said that Lord Liverpool was aging and the +Duke was no longer the man he had been. + +He was narrow, choleric, proud, miserly; he had been known to carry an +old log a hundred yards to add it to his wood-pile, and to travel a +league to look for a lost sixpence. He dressed shabbily, which was not +so much remarked now that dandies aped coachmen, as it had been in his +younger days; and he rode about his fields on an old white mare which +he was believed to hold in affection next after his estate and much +before his daughter. He ruled his parish with a high hand. He had no +mercy for poachers. But he was honest and he was just. The farmers must +pay the wage he laid down—it was a shilling above the allowed rate. But +the men must work it out, and woe betide the idle; they had best seek +work abroad, and heaven help them if a foreign parish sent them home. +In one thing he was before his time; he was resolved that no +able-bodied man should share in the rates. The farmers growled, the +laborers grumbled, there were hard cases. But he was obdurate—work your +worth, or starve! And presently it began to be noticed that the parish +was better off than its neighbors. He was a tyrant, but a just tyrant. + +Such was the man whom Ovington was going to meet, and from whose +avarice he hoped much. He had made his market of it once, for it was by +playing on it that he had lured the Squire from Dean’s, and so had +gained one of his dearest triumphs over the old Aldersbury Bank. + +His hopes would not have been lessened had he heard a dialogue which +was at that moment proceeding in the stable-yard at Garth to an +accompaniment of clattering pails and swishing besoms. “He’ve no +bowels!” Thomas the groom declared with bitterness. “He be that hard +and grasping he’ve no bowels for nobody!” + +Old Fewtrell, the Squire’s ancient bailiff, sniggered. “He’d none for +you, Thomas,” he said, “when you come back gallus drunk from Baschurch +Fair. None of your Manchester tricks with me, says Squire, and, lord, +how he did leather ’ee.” + +Thomas did not like the reminiscence. “What other be I saying!” he +snarled. “He’ve no bowels even for his own flesh and blood! Did’ee ever +watch him in church? Well, where be he a-looking? At his son’s moniment +as is at his elbow? Never see him, never see him, not once!” + +“Well, I dunno as I ’ave, either,” Fewtrell admitted. + +“No, his eyes is allus on t’other side, a-counting up the Griffins +before him, and filling himself up wi’ pride.” + +“Dunno as I couldn’t see it another way,” said the bailiff +thoughtfully. + +“What other way? Never to look at his own son’s moniment?” + +“Well, mebbe——” + +“Mebbe?” Thomas cried with scorn. “Look at his darter! He ain’t but +one, and he be swilling o’ money! Do he make much of her, James +Fewtrell? And titivate her, and pull her ears bytimes same as you with +your grand-darters? And get her a horse as you might call a horse? You +know he don’t. If she’s not quick, it’s a nod and be damned, same as to +you and me!” + +Old Fewtrell considered. “Not right out the same,” he decided. + +“Right out, I say. You’ve been with him all your life. You’ve never +knowed no other and you’re getting old, and Calamity, he be old too, +and may put up with it. But I don’t starve for no Squire, and I’m for +more wage. I was in Aldersbury Saturday and wages is up and more work +than men! While here I’m a-toiling for what you got twenty year ago. +But not me! I bin to Manchester. And so I’m going to tell Squire.” + +The bailiff grinned. “Mebbe he’ll take a stick same as before.” + +“He’d best not!” Thomas said, with an ugly look. “He’d best take care, +or——” + +“Whist! Whist! lad. You be playing for trouble. Here be Squire.” + +The Squire glared at them, but he did not stop. He stalked into the +house and, passing through it, went out by the front door. He intended +to turn right-handed, and enter the high-terraced garden facing south, +in which he was wont to take, even in winter, a few turns of a morning. +But something caught his eye, and he paused. “Who’s this?” he muttered, +and shading his eyes made out a moment later that the stranger was +Ovington. A visit from him was rare enough to be a portent, and the +figure of his bank balance passed through the Squire’s mind. Had he +been rash? Ovington’s was a new concern; was anything wrong? Then +another idea, hardly more welcome, occurred to him: had the banker come +on his nephew’s account? + +If so—however, he would soon know, for the visitor was by this time +half-way up the winding drive, sunk between high banks, which, leaving +the road a third of a mile from the house, presently forked, the left +branch swerving through a grove of beech trees to the front entrance, +the right making straight for the stables. + +The Squire met his visitor at the gate and, raising his voice, shouted +for Thomas. “I am sorry to trespass on you so early,” Ovington said as +he dismounted. “A little matter of business, Mr. Griffin, if I may +trouble you.” + +The old man did not say that it was no trespass, but he stood aside +punctiliously for the other to precede him through the gate. Then, +“You’ll stay to eat something after your ride?” he said. + +“No, I thank you. I must be in town by noon.” + +“A glass of Madeira?” + +“Nothing, Squire, I thank you. My business will not take long.” + +By this time they stood in the room in which the Squire lived and did +his business. He pointed courteously to a chair. He was shabby, in +well-worn homespun and gaiters, and the room was shabby, walled with +bound Quarterlies and old farm books, and littered with spurs and dog +leashes—its main window looked into the stable yard. But there was +about the man a dignity implied rather than expressed, which the spruce +banker in his shining Hessians owned and envied. The Squire could look +at men so that they grew uneasy under his eye, and for a moment, owning +his domination, the visitor doubted of success. But then again the room +was so shabby. He took heart of grace. + +“I shouldn’t trouble you, Mr. Griffin,” he said, sitting back with an +assumption of ease, while the Squire from his old leather chair +observed him warily, “except on a matter of importance. You will have +heard that there is a scheme on foot to increase the value of the +woollen industry by introducing a steam railroad. This is a new +invention which, I admit, has not yet been proved, but I have examined +it as a business man, and I think that much is to be expected from it. +A limited company is being formed to carry out the plan, if it prove to +be feasible. Sir Charles Woosenham has agreed to be Chairman, Mr. +Acherley and other gentlemen of the county are taking part, and I am +commissioned by them to approach you. I have the plans here——” + +“What do you want?” The Squire’s tone was uncompromising. He made no +movement towards taking the plans. + +“If you will allow me to explain?” + +The old man sat back in his chair. + +“The railroad will be a continuation of the Birmingham and Aldersbury +railroad, which is in strong hands at Birmingham. Such a scheme would +be too large for us. That, again, is a continuation of the London and +Birmingham railroad.” + +“Built?” + +“Oh no. Not yet, of course.” + +“Begun, then?” + +“No, but——” + +“Projected?” + +“Precisely, projected, the plans approved, the Bill in preparation.” + +“But nothing done?” + +“Nothing actually done as yet,” the banker admitted, somewhat dashed. +“But if we wait until these works are finished we shall find ourselves +anticipated. + +“Ah!” + +“We wish, therefore, to be early in the field. Much has appeared in the +papers about this mode of transport, and you are doubtless familiar +with it. I have myself inquired into it, and the opinion of financial +men in London is that these railroads will be very lucrative, paying +dividends of from ten to twenty-five per cent.” + +The Squire raised his eyebrows. + +“I have the plans here,” the banker continued, once more producing +them. “Our road runs over the land of six small owners, who have all +agreed to the terms offered. It then enters on the Woosenham outlying +property, and thence, before reaching Mr. Acherley’s, proceeds over the +Garth estate, serving your mills, the tenant of one of which joins our +board. If you will look at the plans?” Again Ovington held them out. + +But the old man put them aside. “I don’t want to see them,” he said. + +“But, Squire, if you would kindly glance——” + +“I don’t want to see them. What do you want?” + +Ovington paused to consider the most favorable light in which he could +place the matter. “First, Mr. Griffin, your presence on the Board. We +attach the highest importance to that. Secondly, a way-leave over your +land for which the Company will pay—pay most handsomely, although the +value added to your mills will far exceed the immediate profit.” + +“You want to carry your railroad over Garth?” + +“Yes.” + +“Not a yard!” The old man tapped the table before him. “Not a foot!” + +“But our terms—if you would allow me to explain them?” + +“I don’t want to hear them. I am not going to sell my birthright, +whatever they are. You don’t understand me? Well, you can understand +this.” And abruptly the Squire sat up. “I’ll have none of your d—d +smoking, stinking steam-wagons on my land in my time! Oh, I’ve read +about them in more places than the papers, sir, and I’ll not sell my +birthright and my people’s birthright—of clean air and clean water and +clean soil for any mess of pottage you can offer! That’s my answer, Mr. +Ovington.” + +“But the railroad will not come within a mile of Garth.” + +“It will not come on to my land! I am not blind, sir. Suppose you +succeed. Suppose you drive the mails and coaches and the stage-wagons +off the road. Where shall I sell my coach-horses and hackneys and my +tenants their heavy nags? And their corn and their beans? No, by G—d,” +stopping Ovington, who wished to interrupt him. “You may delude some of +my neighbors, sir, and you may know more about money-making, where it +is no question how the money is made, than I do! But I’ll see that you +don’t delude me! A pack of navigators upsetting the country, killing +game and robbing hen-roosts, raising wages and teaching honest folks +tricks? Not here! If Woosenham knew his own business, and Acherley were +not up to his neck in debt, they’d not let themselves be led by the +nose by——” + +“By whom, sir?” Ovington was on his feet by this time, his eyes +smoldering, his face paler than usual. They confronted each other. It +was the meeting, the collision of two powers, of two worlds, the old +and the new. + +“By whom, sir?” the Squire replied sternly—he too had risen. “By one +whose interests and breeding are wholly different from theirs and who +looks at things from another standpoint! That’s by whom, sir. And one +word more, Mr. Ovington. You have the name of being a clever man and I +never doubted it until to-day; but have a care that you are not over +clever, sir. Have a care that you do not lead your friends and yourself +into more trouble than you think for! I read the papers and I see that +everybody is to grow rich between Saturday and Monday. Well, I don’t +know as much about money business as you do, but I am an old man, and I +have never seen a time when everybody grew rich and nobody was the +loser.” + +Ovington had controlled himself well; and he still controlled himself, +but there was a dangerous light in his eyes. “I am sorry,” he said, +“that you can give me no better answer, Mr. Griffin. We hoped to have, +and we set some value on your support. But there are, of course—other +ways.” + +“You may take your railroad any way you like, so long as you don’t +bring it over Garth.” + +“I don’t mean that. If the railroad is made at all it must pass over +Garth—the property stretches across the valley. But the Bill, when +presented, will contain the same powers which are given in the later +Canal Acts—a single proprietor cannot be allowed to stand in the way of +the public interests, Mr. Griffin.” + +“You mean—by G—d, sir,” the Squire broke out, “you mean that you will +take my land whether I will or no?” + +“I am not using any threat.” + +“But you do use a threat!” roared the Squire, towering tall and gaunt +above his opponent. “You do use a threat! You come here——” + +“I came here—” the other answered—he was quietly drawing on his +gloves—“to put an excellent business investment before you, Mr. +Griffin. As you do not think it worth while to entertain it, I can only +regret that I have wasted your time and my own.” + +“Pish!” said the Squire. + +“Very good. Then with your permission I will seek my horse.” + +The old man turned to the window and opened it. “Thomas,” he shouted +violently. “Mr. Ovington’s horse.” + +When he turned again. “Perhaps you may still think better of it,” +Ovington said. He had regained command of himself. “I ought to have +mentioned that your nephew has consented to act as Secretary to the +Company.” + +“The more fool he!” the Squire snarled. “My nephew! What the devil is +he doing in your Company? Or for the matter of that in your bank +either?” + +“I think he sees more clearly than you that times are changed.” + +“Ay,” the old man retorted, full of wrath, and well aware that the +other had found a joint in his armor. “And he had best have a care that +these fine times don’t lead him into trouble!” + +“I hope not, I hope not. Good-day, Mr. Griffin. I can find my way out. +Don’t let me trouble you.” + +“I will see you out, if you please. After you, sir.” Then, with an +effort which cost him much, but which he thought was due to his +position, “You are sure that you will take nothing?” + +“Nothing, I thank you.” + +The Squire saw his visitor to the door; but he did not stay to see him +ride away. He went back to his room and to a side window at which it +was his custom to spend much time. It looked over the narrow vale, +little more than a glen, which the eminence, on which the house stood, +cut off from the main valley. It looked on its green slopes, on the +fern-fringed brook that babbled and tossed in its bottom, on the black +and white mill that spanned the stream, and on the Thirty Acre covert +that clothed the farther side and climbed to the foot of the great +limestone wall that towered alike above house and glen and rose itself +to the knees of the boundary hills. And looking on all this, the Squire +in fancy saw the railroad scoring and smirching and spoiling his +beloved acres. It was nothing to him, that in fact the railroad would +pass up the middle of the broad vale behind him—he ignored that. He saw +the hated thing sweep by below him, a long black ugly snake, spewing +smoke and steam over the green meadows, fouling the waters, darkening +the air. + +“Not in my time, by G—d!” he muttered, his knees quivering a little +under him—for he was an aging man and the scene had tried him. “Not in +my time!” And at the thought that he, the owner of all, hill and vale, +within his sight, and the descendant of generations of owners—that he +had been threatened by this upstart, this loan-monger, this town-bred +creature of a day, he swore with fresh vigor. + +He had at any rate the fires of indignation to warm him, and the +satisfaction of knowing that he had spoken his mind and had not had the +worst of the bout. But the banker’s feelings as he jogged homewards on +his hackney were not so happy. In spite of Bourdillon’s warning he had +been confident that he would gain his end. He had fancied that he knew +his man and could manage him. He had believed that the golden lure +would not fail. But it had failed, and the old man’s gibes accompanied +him, and like barbed arrows clung to his memory and poisoned his +content. + +It was not the worst that he must return and own that Arthur had been +wiser than he; that he must inform his colleagues that his embassy had +failed. Worse than either was the hurt to his pride. Certain things +that the Squire had said about money-making, his sneer about the +difference in breeding, his warning that the banker might yet find that +he had been too clever—these had pricked him to the quick, and the last +had even caused him a pang of uneasiness. And then the Squire had shown +so clearly the gulf that in his eyes lay between them! + +Ay, it was that which rankled: the knowledge, sharply brought home to +him, that no matter what his success, no matter what his wealth, nor +how the common herd bowed down to him, this man and his like would ever +hold themselves above him, would always look down on him. The fence +about them he could not cross. Add thousands to thousands as he might, +and though he conquered Lombard Street, these men would not admit him +of their number. They would ever hold him at arm’s length, would deal +out to him a cold politeness. He could never be of them. + +As a rule Ovington was too big a man to harbor spite, but as he rode +and fumed, a plan which he had already considered put on a new aspect, +and by and by his brow relaxed and he smote his thigh. Something +tickled him and he laughed. He thought that he saw a way to avenge +himself and to annoy his enemy, and by the time he reached the bank he +was himself again. Indeed, he had not been human if he had not by that +time owned that whatever Garth thought of him he was something in +Aldersbury. + +Three times men stopped him, one crossing the street to intercept him, +one running bare-headed from a shop, a third seizing his rein. And all +three sought favors, or craved advice, all, as they retreated, did so, +eyed askance by those who lacked their courage or their impudence. + +For the tide of speculation was still rising in the country, and even +in Aldersbury had reached many a back-parlor where the old stocking or +the money-box was scarcely out of date. Thousands sold their Three per +cents., and the proceeds had to go somewhere, and other proceeds, for +behind all there was real prosperity. Men’s money poured first into a +higher and then into a lower grade of security and raised each in turn, +so that fortunes were made with astonishing speed. The banks gave +extended credit; everything rose. Many who had bought in fear found +that they had cleared a profit before they had had time to tremble. +They sold, and still there were others to take their place. It seemed +as if all had only to buy and to sell and to grow rich. Only the very +cautious stood aside, and one by one even these slid tempted into the +stream. + +The more venturesome hazarded their money afar, buying shares in +steamship companies in the West Indies, in diamond mines in Brazil, or +in cattle companies in Mexico. The more prudent preferred undertakings +which they could see and which their limited horizon could compass, and +to these such a local scheme as the Valleys Railroad held out a +tempting bait. They knew nothing about a railroad, but they knew that +steam had been applied to ocean travel, and they knew Aldersbury and +the woollen district. Here was something the growth and progress of +which they could watch, and which once begun could not vanish in a +night. + +Then the silence of those within and the rumors spread without added to +its attractions. Each man felt that his neighbor was stealing a march +upon him, and that if he were not quick he would not get in on equal +terms. + +One of Ovington’s waylayers wished to know if the limit at which he had +been advised to sell his stock was likely to be reached. “I sold on +Saturday,” the banker answered, “two pounds above your limit, Davies. +The money will be in the bank in a week.” He spoke with Napoleonic +curtness, and rode on, leaving the man, amazed and jubilant, to +calculate his gains. + +The next wanted advice. He had a hundred in hand if Mr. Ovington would +not think it too small. “Call to-morrow—no, Thursday,” Ovington said, +hardly looking at him. “I’ll see you then.” + +The third ran bare-headed out of a shop. He was a man of more weight, +Purslow the big draper on Bride Hill, who had been twice Mayor of +Aldersbury; a tradesman, bald and sleek, whom fortune had raised so +rapidly that old subservience was continually at odds with new +importance. “Just a word, Mr. Ovington,” he stuttered, “a word, sir, by +your leave? I’m a good customer.” He had not laid aside his black apron +but merely twisted it round his waist, a sure sign, in these days of +his greatness, that he was flustered. + +The banker nodded. “None better, Purslow,” he answered. “What is it?” + +“What I says, then—excuse me—is, if Grounds, why not me? Why not me, +sir?” + +“I don’t quite——” + +“If he’s to be on the Board, he and his mash-tubs——” + +“Oh!” The banker looked grave. “You are thinking of the Railroad, +Purslow?” + +“To be sure! What else?—excuse me, sir! And what I say is, if Grounds, +why not me? I’ve been mayor twice and him not even on the Council? And +I’m not a pauper, as none knows better than you, Mr. Ovington. If it’s +only that I’m a tradesman, why, there ought to be a tradesman on it, +and I’ll be bound as many will follow my lead as Grounds’.” + +The banker seemed to consider. “Look here, Purslow,” he said, “you are +doing very well, not a man in Aldersbury better. Take my advice and +stick to the shop.” + +“And slave for every penny I make!” + +“Slow and sure is a good rule.” + +“Oh, damn slow and sure!” cried the draper, forgetting his manners. “No +offence, sir, I’m sure. Excuse me. But slow and sure, while Grounds is +paid for every time he crosses the street, and doubles his money while +he wears out his breeches!” + +“Well,” said Ovington, with apparent reluctance, “I’ll think it over. +But to sit on the Board means putting in money, Purslow. You know that, +of course.” + +“And haven’t I the money?” the man cried, inflamed by opposition. +“Can’t I put down penny for penny with Grounds? Ay, though I’ve served +the town twice, and him not even on the Council!” + +“Well, I’ll bear it in mind. I can say no more than that,” Ovington +rejoined. “I must consult Sir Charles. It’s a responsible position, +Purslow. And, of course, where there are large profits, as we hope +there may be, there must be risk. There must be some risk. Don’t forget +that. Still,” touching up his horse with his heel, “I’ll see what I can +do.” + +He gained the bank without further stay, and there the stir and bustle +which his practised eye was quick to mark sustained the note already +struck. There were customers coming and going: some paying in, others +seeking to have bills renewed, or a loan on securities that they might +pay calls, or accommodation of one kind or another. But with easy money +these demands could be granted, and many a parcel of Ovington’s notes +passed out amid smiling and general content. The January sun was +shining as if March winds would never blow, and credit seemed to be a +thing to be had for the asking. + +It was only within the last seven years that Ovington’s had ventured on +an issue of notes. Then, a little before the resumption of cash +payments, they had put them forth with a tentative, “If you had rather +have bank paper it’s here.” Some had had the bad taste to prefer the +Abraham Newlands, a few had even asked for Dean’s notes. But borrowers +cannot be choosers, the notes had gradually got abroad, and though at +first they had returned with the rapidity of a homing pigeon, the +readiness with which they were cashed wrought its effect, and by this +time the public were accustomed to them. + +Dean’s notes bore a big D, and Ovington’s, for the benefit of those who +could not read, were stamped with a large CO., for Charles Ovington. + +Alone with his daughter that evening the banker referred to this. +“Betty,” he said, after a long silence, “I am going to make a change. I +am going to turn CO. into Company.” + +She understood him at once, and “Oh, father!” she cried, laying down +her work. “Who is it? Is it Arthur?” + +“Would you like that?” + +She replied by another question. “Is he really so clever?” + +“He’s a gentleman—that’s much. And a Griffin, and that’s more, in a +place like this. And he’s—yes, he’s certainly clever.” + +“Cleverer than Mr. Rodd?” + +“Rodd! Pooh! Arthur’s worth two of him.” + +“Quite the industrious apprentice!” she murmured, her hands in her lap. + +“Well, you know,” lightly, “what happened to the industrious +apprentice, Betty?” + +She colored. “He married his master’s daughter, didn’t he? But there +are two words to that, father. Quite two words.” + +“Well, I am going to offer him a small share. Anything more will depend +upon himself—and Clement.” + +She sighed. “Poor Clement!” + +“Poor Clement!” The banker repeated her words pettishly. “Not poor +Clement, but idle Clement! Can you do nothing with that boy? Put no +sense into him? He’s good for nothing in the world except to moon about +with a gun. Last night he began to talk to me about Cobbett and some +new wheat. New wheat, indeed! Rubbish!” + +“But I think,” timidly, “that he does understand about those things, +father.” + +“And what good will they do him? I wish he understood a little more +about banking! Why, even Rodd is worth two of him. He’s not in the bank +four days in the week. Where is he to-day?” + +“I am afraid that he took his gun—but it was the last day of the +season. He said that he would not be out again. He has been really +better lately.” + +“Though I was away!” the banker exclaimed. And he said some strong +things upon the subject, to which Betty had to listen. + +However, he had recovered his temper when he sent for Arthur next day. +He bade him close the door. “I want to speak to you,” he said; then he +paused a moment while Arthur waited, his color rising. “It’s about +yourself. When you came to me I did not expect much from the +experiment. I thought that you would soon tire of it, being what you +are. But you have stood to it, and you have shown a considerable +aptitude for the business. And I have made up my mind to take you in—on +conditions, of course.” + +Arthur’s eyes sparkled. He had not hoped that the offer would be made +so soon, and, much moved, he tried to express his thanks. “You may be +sure that I shall do my best, sir,” he said. + +“I believe you will, lad. I believe you will. Indeed, I am thinking of +myself as well as of you. I had not intended to make the offer so +soon—you are young and could wait. But you will have to bring in a +certain sum, and capital can be used at present to great advantage.” + +Arthur looked grave. “I am afraid, sir——” + +“Oh, I’ll make it easy,” Ovington said. “This is my offer. You will put +in five thousand pounds, and will receive for three years twelve per +cent upon this in lieu of your present salary of one hundred and +fifty—the hundred you are to be paid as Secretary to the Company is +beside the matter. At the end of three years, if we are both satisfied, +you will take an eighth share—otherwise you will draw out your money. +On my death, if you remain in the bank, your share will be increased to +a third on your bringing in another five thousand. You know enough +about the accounts to know——” + +“That it’s a most generous offer,” Arthur exclaimed, his face aglow. +And with the frankness and enthusiasm, the sparkling eye and ready word +that won him so many friends, he expressed his thanks. + +“Well, lad,” the other answered pleasantly, “I like you. Still, you had +better take a short time to consider the matter.” + +“I want no time,” Arthur declared. “My only difficulty is about the +money. My mother’s six thousand is charged on Garth, you see.” + +This was a fact well known to Ovington, and one which he had taken into +his reckoning. Perhaps, but for it, he had not been making the offer at +this moment. But he concealed his satisfaction and a smile, and “Isn’t +there a provision for calling it up?” he said. + +“Yes, there is—at three months. But I am afraid that my mother——” + +“Surely she would not object under the circumstances. The increased +income might be divided between you so that it would be to her profit +as well as to your advantage to make the change. Three months, eh? +Well, suppose we say the money to be paid and the articles of +partnership to be signed four months from now?” + +Difficulties never loomed very large in this young man’s eyes. “Very +good, sir,” he said. “Upon my honor, I don’t know how to thank you.” + +“It won’t be all on your side,” the banker answered good-humoredly. +“Your name’s worth something, and you are keen. I wish to heaven you +could infect Clement with a tithe of your keenness.” + +“I’ll try, sir,” Arthur replied. At that moment he felt that he could +move mountains. + +“Well, that’s settled, then. Send Rodd to me, will you, and do you see +if I have left my pocket-book in the house. Betty may know where it +is.” + +Arthur went through the bank, stepping on air. He gave Rodd his +message, and in a twinkling he was in the house. As he crossed the hall +his heart beat high. Lord, how he would work! What feats of banking he +would perform! How great would he make Ovington’s, so that not only +Aldshire but Lombard Street should ring with its fame! What wealth +would he not pile up, what power would he not build upon it, and how he +would crow, in the days to come, over the dull-witted clod-hopping +Squires from whom he sprang, and who had not the brains to see that the +world was changing about them and their reign approaching its end! + +For at this moment he felt that he had it in him to work miracles. The +greatest things seemed easy. The fortunes of Ovington’s lay in the +future, the cycle half turned—to what a point might they not carry +them! During the last twelve months he had seen money earned with an +ease which made all things appear possible; and alert, eager, sanguine, +with an inborn talent for business, he felt that he had but to rise +with the flowing tide to reach any position which wealth could offer in +the coming age—that age which enterprise and industry, the loan, the +mill, the furnace were to make their own. The age of gold! + +He burst into song. He stopped. “Betty!” he cried. + +“Who is that rude boy?” the girl retorted, appearing on the stairs +above him. + +He bowed with ceremony, his hand on his heart, his eyes dancing. “You +see before you the Industrious Apprentice!” he said. “He has received +the commendation of his master. It remains only that he should lay his +success at the feet of—his master’s daughter!” + +She blushed, despite herself. “How silly you are!” she cried. But when +he set his foot on the lowest stair as if to join her, she fled nimbly +up and escaped. On the landing above she stood. “Congratulations, sir,” +she said, looking over the balusters. “But a little less forwardness +and a little more modesty, if you please! It was not in your articles +that you should call me Betty.” + +“They are cancelled! They are gone!” he retorted. “Come down, Betty! +Come down and I will tell you such things!” + +But she only made a mocking face at him and vanished. A moment later +her voice broke forth somewhere in the upper part of the house. She, +too, was singing. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Between the village and Garth the fields sank gently, to rise again to +the clump of beeches which masked the house. On the farther side the +ground fell more sharply into the narrow valley over which the Squire’s +window looked, and which separated the knoll whereon Garth stood from +the cliffs. Beyond the brook that babbled down this valley and turned +the mill rose, first, a meadow or two, and then the Thirty Acre covert, +a tangle of birches and mountain-ashes which climbed to the foot of the +rock-wall. Over this green trough, which up-stream and down merged in +the broad vale, an air of peace, of remoteness and seclusion brooded, +making it the delight of those who, morning and evening, looked down on +it from the house. + +Viewed from the other side, from the cliffs, the scene made a different +impression. Not the intervening valley but the house held the eye. It +was not large, but the knoll on which it stood was scarped on that +side, and the walls of weathered brick rose straight from the rock, +fortress-like and imposing, displaying all their mass. The gables and +the stacks of fluted chimneys dated only from Dutch William, but +tradition had it that a strong place, Castell Coch, had once stood on +the same site; and fragments of pointed windows and Gothic work, built +into the walls, bore out the story. + +The road leaving the village made a right-angled turn round Garth and +then, ascending, ran through the upper part of the Thirty Acres, +skirting the foot of the rocks. Along the lower edge of the covert, +between wood and water, there ran also a field-path, a right-of-way +much execrated by the Squire. It led by a sinuous course to the +Acherley property, and, alas, for good resolutions, along it on the +afternoon of the very day which saw the elder Ovington at Garth came +Clement Ovington, sauntering as usual. + +He carried a gun, but he carried it as he might have carried a stick, +for he had long passed the bounds within which he had a right to shoot; +and at all times, his shooting was as much an excuse for a walk among +the objects he loved as anything else. He had left his horse at the +Griffin Arms in the village, and he might have made his way thither +more quickly by the road. But at the cost of an extra mile he had +preferred to walk back by the brook, observing as he went things new +and old; the dipper curtseying on its stone, the water-vole perched to +perform its toilet on the leaf of a brook-plant, the first green shoots +of the wheat piercing through the soil, an old laborer who was not +sorry to unbend his back, and whose memory held the facts and figures +of fifty-year-old harvests. The day was mild, the sun shone, Clement +was happy. Why, oh, why were there such things as banks in the world? + +At a stile which crossed the path he came to a stand. Something had +caught his eye. It was a trifle, to which nine men out of ten would not +have given a thought, for it was no more than a clump of snowdrops in +the wood on his right. But a shaft of wintry sunshine, striking athwart +the tiny globes, lifted them, star-like, above the brown leaves about +them, and he paused, admiring them—thinking no evil, and far from +foreseeing what was to happen. He wondered if they were wild, or—and he +looked about for any trace of human hands—a keeper’s cottage might have +stood here. He saw no trace, but still he stood, entranced by the white +blossoms that, virgin-like, bowed meek heads to the sunlight that +visited them. + +He might have paused longer, if a sound had not brought him abruptly to +earth. He turned. To his dismay he saw a girl, three or four paces from +him, waiting to cross the stile. How long she had waited, how long +watched him, he did not know, and in confusion—for he had not dreamed +that there was a human being within a mile of him—and with a hurried +snatch at his hat, he moved out of the way. + +The girl stepped forward, coloring a little, for she foresaw that she +must climb the stile under the young man’s eye. Instinctively, he held +out a hand to assist her, and in the act—he never knew how, nor did +she—the gun slipped from his grasp, or the trigger caught in a bramble. +A sheet of flame tore between them, the blast of the powder rent the +air. + +“O my God!” Clement cried, and he reeled back, shielding his eyes with +his hands. + +The smoke hid the girl, and for a long moment, a moment of such agony +as he had never known, Clement’s heart stood still. What had he done? +oh, what had he done at last, with his cursed carelessness! Had he +killed her? + +Slowly, the smoke cleared away, and he saw the girl. She was on her +feet—thank God, she was on her feet! She was clinging with both hands +to the stile. But was she—“Are you—are you——” he tried to frame words, +his voice a mere whistle. + +She clung in silence to the rail, her face whiter than the quilted +bonnet she wore. But he saw—thank God, he saw no wound, no blood, no +hurt, and his own blood moved again, his lungs filled again with a +mighty inspiration. “For pity’s sake, say you are not hurt!” he prayed. +“For God’s sake, speak!” + +But the shock had robbed her of speech, and he feared that she was +going to swoon. He looked helplessly at the brook. If she did, what +ought he to do? “Oh, a curse on my carelessness!” he cried. “I shall +never, never forgive myself.” + +It had in truth been a narrow, a most narrow escape, and at last she +found words to say so. “I heard the shot—pass,” she whispered, and +shuddering closed her eyes again, overcome by the remembrance. + +“But you are not hurt? They did pass!” The horror of that which might +have been, of that which had so nearly been, overcame him anew, gave a +fresh poignancy to his tone. “You are sure—sure that you are not hurt?” + +“No, I am not hurt,” she whispered. “But I am very—very frightened. +Don’t speak to me. I shall be right—in a minute.” + +“Can I do anything? Get you some water?” + +She shook her head and he stood, looking solicitously at her, still +fearing that she might swoon, and wondering afresh what he ought to do +if she did. But after a minute or so she sighed, and a little color +came back to her face. “It was near, oh, so near!” she whispered, and +she covered her face with her hands. Presently, and more certainly, +“Why did you have it—at full cock?” she asked. + +“God knows!” he owned. “It was unpardonable. But that is what I am! I +am a fool, and forget things. I was thinking of something else, I did +not hear you come up, and when I found you there I was startled.” + +“I saw.” She smiled faintly. “But it was—careless.” + +“Horribly! Horribly careless! It was wicked!” He could not humble +himself enough. + +She was herself now, and she looked at him, took him in, and was sorry +for him. She removed her hands from the rail, and though her fingers +trembled she straightened her bonnet. “You are Mr. Ovington?” + +“Yes. And you are Miss Griffin, are you not?” + +“Yes,” smiling tremulously. + +“May I help you over the stile? Oh, your basket!” + +She saw that it lay some yards away, blackened by powder, one corner +shot away; so narrow had been the escape! He had a feeling of sickness +as he took it up. “You must not go on alone,” he said. “You might +faint.” + +“Not now. But I shall not go on. What——” Her eyes strayed to the wood, +and curiosity stirred in her. “What were you looking at so intently, +Mr. Ovington, that you did not hear me?” + +He colored. “Oh, nothing!” + +“But it must have been something!” Her curiosity was strengthened. + +“Well, if you wish to know,” he confessed, shamefacedly, “I was looking +at those snowdrops.” + +“Those snowdrops?” + +“Don’t you see how the sunlight touches them? What a little island of +light they make among the brown leaves?” + +“How odd!” She stared at the snowdrops and then at him. “I thought that +only painters and poets, Mr. Wordsworth and people like that, noticed +those things. But perhaps you are a poet?” + +“Goodness, no!” he cried. “A poet? But I am fond of looking at +things—out of doors, you know. A little way back”—he pointed up-stream, +the way he had come—“I saw a rat sitting on a lily leaf, cleaning its +whiskers in the sun—the prettiest thing you ever saw. And an old man +working at Bache’s told me that he—but Lord, I beg your pardon! How can +I talk of such things when I remember——?” + +He stopped, overcome by the recollection of that through which they had +passed. She, for her part, was inclined to ask him to go on, but +remembered that this, all this was very irregular. What would her +father say? And Miss Peacock? Yet, if this was irregular, so was the +adventure itself. She would never forget his face of horror, the appeal +in his eyes, his poignant anxiety. No, it was impossible to act as if +nothing had happened between them, impossible to be stiff and to talk +at arm’s length about prunes and prisms with a person who had all but +taken her life—and who was so very penitent. And then it was all so +interesting, so out of the common, so like the things that happened in +books, like that dreadful fall from the Cobb at Lyme in “Persuasion.” +And he was not ordinary, not like other people. He looked at snowdrops! + +But she must not linger now. Later, when she was alone in her room, she +could piece it together and make a whole of it, and think of it, and +compass the full wonder of the adventure. But she must go now. She told +him so, the primness in her tone reflecting her thoughts. “Will you +kindly give me the basket?” + +“I am going to carry it,” he said. “You must not go alone. Indeed you +must not, Miss Griffin. You may feel it more by and by. You may—go off +suddenly.” + +“Oh,” she replied, smiling, “I shall not go off, as you call it, now.” + +“I will only come as far as the mill,” humbly. “Please let me do that.” + +She could not say no, it could hardly be expected of her; and she +turned with him. “I shall never forgive myself,” he repeated. “Never! +Never! I shall dream of the moment when I lost sight of you in the +smoke and thought that I had killed you. It was horrible! Horrible! It +will come back to me often.” + +He thought so much of it that he was moving away without his gun, +leaving it lying on the ground. It was she who reminded him. “Are you +not going to take your gun?” she asked. + +He went back for it, covered afresh with confusion. What a stupid +fellow she must think him! She waited while he fetched it, and as she +waited she had a new and not unpleasant sensation. Never before had she +been on these terms with a man. The men whom she had known had always +taken the upper hand with her. Her father, Arthur even, had either +played with her or condescended to her. In her experience it was the +woman’s part to be ordered and directed, to give way and to be silent. +But here the parts were reversed. This man—she had seen how he looked +at her, how he humbled himself before her! And he was—interesting. As +he came back to her carrying the gun, she eyed him with attention. She +took note of him. + +He was not handsome, as Arthur was. He had not Arthur’s sparkle, his +brilliance, his gay appeal, the carriage of the head that challenged +men and won women. But he was not ugly, he was brown and clean and +straight, and he looked strong. He bent to her as if he had been a +knight and she his lady, and his eyes, grey and thoughtful—she had seen +how they looked at her. + +Now, she had never given much thought to any man’s eyes before, and +that she did so now, and criticised and formed an opinion of them, +implied a change of attitude, a change in her relations and the man’s; +and instinctively she acknowledged this by the lead she took. “It seems +so strange,” she said half-playfully—when had she ever rallied a man +before?—“that you should think of such things as you do. Snowdrops, I +mean. I thought you were a banker, Mr. Ovington.” + +“A very bad banker,” he replied ruefully. “To tell the truth, Miss +Griffin, I hate banking. Pounds, shillings, and pence—and this!” He +pointed to the country about them, the stream, the sylvan path they +were treading, the wood beside them, with its depths gilded here and +there by a ray of the sun. “A desk and a ledger—and this! Oh, I hate +them! I would like to live out of doors. I want”—in a burst of +candor—“to live my own life! To be able to follow my own bent and make +the most of myself.” + +“Perhaps,” she said with naïveté, “you would like to be a country +gentleman?” And indeed the lot of a country gentleman in that day was +an enviable one. + +“Oh no,” he said, his tone deprecating the idea. He did not aspire to +that. + +“But what, then?” She did not understand. “Have you no ambition?” + +“I’d like to be—a farmer, if I had my way.” + +That surprised as well as dashed her. She thought of her father’s +tenants and her face fell. “Oh, but,” she said, “a farmer? Why?” He was +not like any farmer she had ever seen. + +But he would not be dashed. “To make two blades of grass grow where one +grew before,” he answered stoutly, though he knew that he had sunk in +her eyes. “Just that; but after all isn’t that worth doing? Isn’t that +better than burying your head in a ledger and counting other folk’s +money while the sun shines out of doors, and the rain falls sweetly, +and the earth smells fresh and pure? Besides, it is all I am good for, +Miss Griffin. I do think I understand a bit about that. I’ve read books +about it and I’ve kept my eyes open, and—and what one likes one does +well, you know.” + +“But farmers——” + +“Oh, I know,” sorrowfully, “it must seem a very low thing to you.” + +“Farmers don’t look at snowdrops, Mr. Ovington,” with a gleam of fun in +her eyes. + +“Don’t they? Then they ought to, and they’d learn a lot that they don’t +know now. I’ve met men, laboring men who can’t read or write, and it’s +wonderful the things they know about the land and the way plants grow +on it, and the live things that are only seen at night, or stealing to +their homes at daybreak. And there’s a new wheat, a wheat I was reading +about yesterday, Cobbett’s corn, it is called, that I am sure would do +about here if anyone would try it. But there,” remembering himself and +to whom he was talking, “this can have no interest for you. Only +wouldn’t you rather plod home weary at night, feeling that you had done +something, and with all this”—he waved his hand—“sinking to rest about +you, and the horses going down to water, and the cattle lowing to be +let into the byres, and—and all that,” growing confused, as he felt her +eyes upon him, “than get up from a set of ledgers with your head aching +and your eyes muddled with figures?” + +“I’m afraid I have not tried either,” she said. But she smiled. She +found him new, his notions unlike those of the people about her, and +certainly unlike those of a common farmer. She did not comprehend all +his half-expressed thoughts, but not for that was she the less resolved +to remember them, and to think of them at her leisure. For the present +here was the mill, and they must part. At the mill the field-path which +they were following fell into a lane, which on the right rose steeply +to the road, on the left crossed a cart-bridge, shaken perpetually by +the roar and wet with the spray of the great mill-wheel. Thence it +wound upwards, rough and stony, to the back premises of Garth. + +He, too, knew that this division of the ways meant parting, and +humility clothed him. “Heavens, what a fool I’ve been,” he said, +blushing, as he met her eyes. “What must you think of me, prating about +myself when I ought to have been thinking only of you and asking your +pardon.” + +“For nearly shooting me?” + +“Yes—and thank God, thank God,” with emotion, “that it was not worse.” + +“I do.” + +“I ought never to carry a gun again!” + +“I won’t exact that penalty.” She looked at him very kindly. + +“And you will forgive me? You will do your best to forgive me?” + +“I will do my best, if you will not carry off my basket,” she replied, +for he was turning away with the basket on his arm. “Thank you,” as he +restored it, and in his embarrassment nearly dropped his gun. +“Good-bye.” + +“You are sure that you will be safe now?” + +“If you have no fresh accident with your firearms,” she laughed. +“Please be careful.” + +She nodded, and turned and tripped away. But she had hardly left him, +she had not passed ten paces beyond the bridge, before her mood +changed. The cloak of playfulness fell from her, reaction did its work. +The color left her cheeks, her knees shook as she remembered. She felt +again the hot blast on her cheek, lived through the flash, the shock, +the onset of faintness. Again she clung to the stile, giddy, +breathless, the landscape dancing about her. And through the haze she +saw his face, white, drawn, terror-stricken—saw it and strove vainly to +reassure him. + +And now—now he was soothing her. He was pouring out his penitence, he +was upbraiding himself. Presently she was herself again; her spirits +rising, she was playing with him, chiding him, exercising a new sense +of power, becoming the recipient of a man’s thoughts, a man’s hopes and +ambitions. The color was back in her cheeks now, her knees were steady, +she could walk. She went on, but slowly and more slowly, full of +thought, reviewing what had happened. + +Until, near the garden door, she was roughly brought to earth. Miss +Peacock, visiting the yard on some domestic errand, had discerned her. +“Josina!” she cried. “My certy, girl, but you have been quick! I wish +the maids were half as quick when they go! A whole afternoon is not +enough for them to walk a mile. But you’ve not brought the eggs?” + +“I didn’t go,” said Josina. “I was frightened by a gun.” + +“A gun?” + +“And I felt a little faint.” + +“Faint? Why, you’ve got the color of a rose, girl. Faint? Well, when I +want galeny eggs again I shan’t send you. Where was it?” + +“Under the Thirty Acres—by the stile. A gun went off, and——” + +“Sho!” Miss Peacock cried contemptuously. “A gun went off, indeed! At +your age, Josina! I don’t know what girls are coming to! If you don’t +take care you’ll be all nerves and vapors like your aunt at the +Cottage! Go and take a dose of gilly-flower-water this minute, and the +less said to your father the better. Why, you’d never hear the end of +it! Afraid because a gun went off!” + +Josina agreed that it was very silly, and went quickly up to her room. +Yes, the less said about it the better! + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +The terraced garden at Garth rested to the south and east on a +sustaining wall so high that to build it to-day would tax the resources +of three Squires. Unfortunately, either for defence or protection from +the weather, the wall rose high on the inner side also, so that he who +walked in the garden might enjoy the mellow tints of the old brickwork, +but had no view of the country except through certain loop-holes, +gable-shaped, which pierced the wall at intervals, like the port-holes +of a battleship. If the lover of landscape wanted more, he must climb +half a dozen steps to a raised walk which ran along the south side. +Thence he could look, as from an eyrie, on the green meadows below him, +or away to the line of hills to westward, or turning about he could +overlook the operations of the gardener at his feet. + +More, if it rained or blew there was at the south-west corner, and +entered from the raised walk, an ancient Dutch summer-house of brick, +with a pyramidal roof. It had large windows and, with much at Garth +that served for ornament rather than utility, it was decayed, time and +damp having almost effaced its dim frescoes. But tradition hallowed it, +for it was said that William of Orange, after dining in the hall at the +oaken table which still bore the date 1691, had smoked his pipe and +drunk his Schnapps in this summer-house; and thence had watched the +roll of the bowls and the play of the bias on the turf below. For in +those days the garden had been a bowling green. + +There on summer evenings the Squire would still drink his port, but in +winter the place was little used, tools desecrated it, and tubers took +refuge in it. So when Josina began about this time to frequent it, and, +as winter yielded to the first breath of spring, began to carry her +work thither of an afternoon, Miss Peacock should have had her +suspicions. But the good lady saw nothing, being a busy woman. Thomas +the groom did remark the fact, for idle hands make watchful eyes, but +for a time he was none the wiser. + +“What’s young Miss doing up there?” he asked himself. “Must be +tarnation cold! And her look’s fine, too! Ay, ’tis well to be them as +has nought to do but traipse up and down and sniff the air!” + +Naturally it did not at once occur to him that the summer-house +commanded a view of the path which ran along the brook side; nor did he +suppose that Miss had any purpose, when, as might happen perhaps once a +week, she would leave her station at the window and in an aimless +fashion wander down to the mill—and beyond it. She might be following a +duck inclined to sit, or later—for turkeys will stray—be searching for +a turkey’s nest. She might be doing fifty things, indeed—she was +sometimes so long away. But the time did come when, being by chance at +the mill, Thomas saw a second figure on the path beside the water, and +he laid by the knowledge for future use. He was a sly fellow, not much +in favor with the other servants. + +Presently there came a cold Saturday in March, a wet, windy day, when +to saunter by the brook would have too odd an air. But would it have an +odd look, Josina wondered, standing before the glass in her room, if +she ran across to the Cottage for ten minutes about sunset? The bank +closed early on Saturdays, and men were not subject to the weather as +women were. Twice she put on her bonnet, and twice she took it off and +put it back in its box—she could not make up her mind. He might think +that she followed him. He might think her bold. Or suppose that when +they met before others, she blushed; or that they thought the meeting +strange? And, after all, he might not be there—he was no favorite with +Mrs. Bourdillon, and his heart might fail him. In the end the bonnet +was put away, but it is to be feared that that evening Jos was a little +snappish with Miss Peacock when arraigned for some act of +forgetfulness. + +Had she gone she might have come off no better than Clement, who, +braving all things, did go. Mrs. Bourdillon did not, indeed, say when +he entered, “What, here again?” but her manner spoke for her, and +Arthur, who had arrived before his time, received the visitor with less +than his usual good humor. Clement’s explanation, that he had left his +gun, fell flat, and so chilly were the two that he stayed but twenty +minutes, then faltered an excuse, and went off with his tail between +his legs. + +He did not guess that he had intruded on a family difference, a trouble +of some standing, which the passage of weeks had but aggravated. It +turned on Ovington’s offer, which Arthur, pluming himself on his +success and proud of his prospects, had lost no time in conveying to +his mother. He had supposed that she would see the thing with his eyes, +and be as highly delighted. To become a partner so early, to share at +his age in the rising fortunes of the house! Surely she would believe +in him now, if she had never believed in him before. + +But Mrs. Bourdillon had been imbued by her husband with one fixed +idea—that whatever happened she must never touch her capital; that +under no circumstances must she spend it, or transfer it or alienate +it. That way lay ruin. No sooner, therefore, had Arthur come to that +part of his story than she had taken fright; and nothing that he had +been able to say, no assurance that he had been able to give, no gilded +future that he had been able to paint, had sufficed to move the good +woman from her position. + +“Of course,” she said, looking at him piteously, for she hated to +oppose him, “I’m not saying that it does not sound nice, dear.” + +“It is nice! Very nice!” + +“But I’m older than you, and oh, dear, dear, I’ve known what +disappointment is! I remember when your father thought that he had the +promise of the Benthall living and we bought the drawing-room carpet, +though it was blue and buff and your father did not like the +color—something to do with a fox, I remember, though to be sure a fox +is red! Well, my dear,” drumming with her fingers on her lap in a +placid way that maddened her listener, “he was just as confident as you +are, and after all the Bishop gave the living to his own cousin, and +the money thrown clean away, and the carpet too large for any room we +had, and woven of one piece so that we couldn’t cut it! I’m sure that +was a lesson to me that there’s many a slip between the cup and the +lip. Believe me, a bird in the hand——” + +“But this is in the hand!” Arthur cried, restraining himself with +difficulty. “This is in the hand!” + +“Well, I don’t know how that may be. I never was a business woman, +whatever your uncle may say when he is in his tantrums. But I do know +that your father told me, nine or ten times——” + +“And you’ve told me a hundred times!” + +“Well, and I’m sure your uncle would say the same! But, indeed, I don’t +know what he wouldn’t say if he knew what we were thinking of!” + +“The truth is, mother, you are afraid of the Squire.” + +“And if I am,” plaintively, “it is all very well for you, Arthur, who +are away six days out of seven. But I’m here and he’s here. And I have +to listen to him. And if this money is lost——” + +“But it cannot be lost, I tell you!” + +“Well, if it is lost, we shall both be beggars! Oh, dear, dear, I’m +sure if your father told me once he told me a hundred times——” + +“Damn!” Arthur cried, fairly losing his temper at last. “The truth is, +mother, that my father knew nothing about money.” + +At that, however, Mrs. Bourdillon began to cry and Arthur found himself +obliged to drop the matter for the time. He saw, too, that he was on +the wrong tack, and a few days later, under pressure of necessity, he +tried another. He humbled himself, he wheedled, he cajoled; and when he +had by this means got on the right side of his mother he spoke of +Ovington’s success. + +“In a few years he will be worth a quarter of a million,” he said. + +The figure flustered her. “Why, that’s——” + +“A quarter of a million,” he repeated impressively. “And that’s why I +consider this the chance of my life, mother. It is such an opportunity +as I shall never have again. It is within my reach now, and surely, +surely,” his voice shook with the fervor of his pleading, “you will not +be the one to dash it from my lips?” He laid his hand upon her wrist. +“And ruin your son’s life, mother?” + +She was shaken. “You know, if I thought it was for your good!” + +“It is! It is, mother!” + +“I’d do anything to make you happy, Arthur! But I don’t believe,” with +a sigh, “that whatever I did your uncle would pay the money.” + +“Is it his money or yours?” + +“Why, of course, Arthur, I thought that you knew that it was your +father’s.” She was very simple, and her pride was touched. + +“And now it is yours. And I suppose that some day—I hope it will be a +long day, mother—it will be mine. Believe me, you’ve only to write to +my uncle and tell him that you have decided to call it up, and he will +pay it as a matter of course. Shall I write the letter for you to +sign?” + +Mrs. Bourdillon looked piteously at him. She was very, very unwilling +to comply, but what was she to do? Between love of him and fear of the +Squire, what was she to do? Poor woman, she did not know. But he was +with her, the Squire was absent, and she was about to acquiesce when a +last argument occurred to her. “But you are forgetting,” she said, “if +your uncle takes offence, and I’m sure he will, he’ll come between you +and Josina.” + +“Well, that is his look-out.” + +“Arthur! You don’t mean that you’ve changed your mind, and you so fond +of her? And the girl heir to Garth and all her father’s money!” + +“I say nothing about it,” Arthur declared. “If he chooses to come +between us that will be his doing, not mine.” + +“But Garth!” Mrs. Bourdillon was altogether at sea. “My dear boy, you +are not thinking! Why, Lord ha’ mercy on us, where would you find such +another, young and pretty and all, and Garth in her pocket? Why, if it +were only on Jos’s account you’d be mad to quarrel with him.” + +“I’m not going to quarrel with him,” Arthur replied sullenly. “If he +chooses to quarrel with me, well, she’s not the only heiress in the +world.” + +His mother held up her hands. “Oh dear me,” she said wearily. “I give +it up, I don’t understand you. But I’m only a woman and I suppose I +don’t understand anything.” + +He was accustomed to command and she to be guided. He saw that she was +wavering, and he plied her afresh, and in the end, though not without +another outburst of tears, he succeeded. He fetched the pen, he +smoothed the paper, and before he handed his mother her bed-candle he +had got the fateful letter written, and had even by lavishing on her +unusual signs of affection brought a smile to her face. “It will be all +right, mother, you’ll see,” he urged as he watched her mount the +stairs. “It will be all right! You’ll see me a millionaire yet.” + +And then he made a mistake which was to cost him dearly. He left the +letter on the mantel-shelf. An hour later, when he had been some time +in bed, he heard a door open and he sat up and listened. Even then, had +he acted on the instant, it might have availed. But he hesitated, +arguing down his misgivings, and it was only when he caught the sound +of footsteps stealthily re-ascending that he jumped out of bed and lit +a candle. He slipped downstairs, but he was too late. The letter was +gone. + +He went up to bed again, and though he wondered at the queer ways of +women he did not as yet doubt the issue. He would recover the letter in +the morning and send it. The end would be the same. + +There, however, he was wrong. Mrs. Bourdillon was a weak woman, but +weakness has its own obstinacy, and by the morning she had reflected. +The sum charged on Garth was her whole fortune, her sole support, and +were it lost she would be penniless, with no one to look to except the +Squire, whom she would have offended beyond forgiveness. True, Arthur +laughed at the idea of loss, and he was clever. But he was young and +sanguine, and before now she had heard of mothers beggared through the +ill-fortune or the errors of their children. What if that should be her +lot! + +Nor was this the only thought which pressed upon her mind. That Arthur +should marry Josina and succeed to Garth had been for years her darling +scheme, and she could not, in spite of the hopes with which he had for +the moment dazzled her, imagine any future for him comparable to that. +But if he would marry Josina and succeed to Garth he must not offend +his uncle. + +So, when Arthur came down in the morning, and with assumed carelessness +asked for the letter she put him off. It was Sunday. She would not +discuss business on Sunday, it would not be lucky. On Monday, when, +determined to stand no more nonsense, he returned to the subject, she +took refuge in tears. It was cruel of him to press her so, when—when +she was not well! She had not made up her mind. She did not know what +she should do. To tears there is no answer, and, angry as he was, he +had to start for Aldersbury, leaving the matter unsettled, much to his +disgust and alarm, for the time was running on. + +And that was the beginning of a tragedy in the little house under +Garthmyle. It was a struggle between strength and weakness, and +weakness, as usual, sought shelter in subterfuge. When Arthur came home +at the end of the week his mother took care to have company, and he +could not get a word with her. She had no time for business—it must +wait. On the next Saturday she was not well, and kept her bed, and on +the Sunday met him with the same fretful plea—she would do no business +on Sunday! Then, convinced at last that she had made up her mind to +thwart him, he hardened his heart. He loved his mother, and to go +beyond a certain point did not consort with his easy nature, but he had +no option; the thing must be done if his prospects were not to be +wrecked. He became hard, cruel, almost brutal; threatening to leave +her, threatening to take himself off altogether, harassing her week +after week, in what should have been her happiest hours, with pictures +of the poverty, the obscurity, the hopelessness to which she was +condemning him! And, worst of all, torturing her with doubts that after +all he might be right. + +And still she resisted, and weak, foolish woman as she was, resisted +with an obstinacy that was infinitely provoking. Meanwhile only two +things supported her: her love for him, and the belief that she was +defending his best interests and that some day he would thank her. She +was saving him from himself. The odds were great, she was unaccustomed +to oppose him, and still she withstood him. She would not sign the +letter. But she suffered, and suffered terribly. + +She took to bringing in guests as buffers between them, and once or +twice she brought in Josina. The girl, who knew them both so well, +could not fail to see that there was something wrong, that something +marred the relations between mother and son. Arthur’s moody brow, his +silence, or his snappish answers, no less than Mrs. Bourdillon’s scared +manner, left her in no doubt of that. But she fancied that this was +only another instance of the law of man’s temper and woman’s +endurance—that law to which she knew but one exception. And if the girl +hugged that exception, trembling and hoping, to her breast, if Arthur’s +coldness was a relief to her, if she cared little for any secret but +her own, she was no more of a mystery to them than they were to her. +When the door closed behind her, and, accompanied by a maid, she +crossed the dark fields, she thought no more about them. The two +ceased—such is the selfishness of love—to exist for her. Her thoughts +were engrossed by another, by one who until lately had been a stranger, +but whose figure now excluded the world from her view. Her secret +monopolized her, closed her heart, blinded her eyes. Such is the law of +love—at a certain stage in its growth. + +Meanwhile life at the Cottage went on in this miserable fashion until +April had come in and the daffodils were in full bloom in the meadows +beside the river. And still Arthur could not succeed in his object, and +wondering what the banker thought of the delay and his silence, was +almost beside himself with chagrin. Then there came a welcome breathing +space. Ovington despatched him to London on an important and +confidential mission. He was to be away rather more than a fortnight, +and the relief was much even to him. To his mother it had been more, if +he had not, with politic cruelty, kept from her the cause of his +absence. She feared that he was about to carry out his threat and to +make a home elsewhere—that this was the end, that he was going to leave +her. And perhaps, she thought, she had been wrong. Perhaps, after all, +she had sacrificed his love and lost his dear presence for nothing! It +was a sad Easter that she passed, lonely and anxious, in the little +house. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +It was in the third week of April that Arthur returned to Aldersbury. +Ovington had not failed to let his correspondents know that the lad was +no common mercantile person, but came of a county family and had +connections; and Arthur had been fêted by the bank’s agents and made +much of by their friends. The negotiation which Ovington had entrusted +to him had gone well, as all things went well at this time. His +abilities had been recognized in more than one counting-house, and in +the general elation and success, civilities and hospitality had been +showered upon him. Mothers and daughters had exerted themselves to +please the nephew—it was whispered the heir—of the Aldshire magnate; +and what Arthur’s letters of credit had not gained for him, his +handsome face and good breeding had won. He came back, therefore, on +the best of terms with himself and more in love than ever with the +career which he had laid out. And, but for the money difficulty, and +his mother’s obstinacy, he would have seen all things in rose color. + +He returned at the moment when speculation in Aldersbury—and Aldersbury +was in this but a gauge of the whole country—was approaching its fever +point. The four per cent, consols, which not long before had stood at +72, were 106. The three per cents., which had been 52, had risen to 93. +India stock was booming at 280, and these prices, which would have +seemed incredible to a former generation, were justified by the large +profits accruing from trade and seeking investment. They were, indeed, +nothing beside the heights to which more speculative stocks were being +hurried. Shares in one mine, bought at ten pounds, changed hands at a +hundred and fifty. Shares in another, on which seventy pounds had been +paid, were sold at thirteen hundred. An instalment of £5 was paid on +one purchase, and ten days later the stock was sold for one hundred and +forty! + +Under such circumstances new ventures were daily issued to meet the +demand. Proposals for thirty companies came out in a week, and still +there appeared to be money for all, for the banks, tempted by the +prevailing prosperity, increased their issues of notes. It seemed an +easy thing to borrow at seven per cent., and lay out the money at ten +or fifteen, with certainty of a gain in capital. Men who had never +speculated saw their neighbors grow rich, and themselves risked a +hundred and doubled it, ventured two and saw themselves the possessers +of six. It was like, said one, picking up money in a hat. It was like, +said another, baling it up in a bucket. There seemed to be money +everywhere—money for all. Peers and clergymen, shop-keepers and maiden +ladies, servants even, speculated; while those who knew something of +the market, or who could allot shares in new ventures, were courted and +flattered, drawn into corners and consulted by troops of friends. + +All this came to its height at the end of April, and Arthur, sanguine +and eager, laden with the latest news from Lombard Street, returned to +Aldersbury to revel in it. He trod the Cop and the High Street as if he +walked on air. He moved amid the excitement like a young god. His nod +was confidence, his smile a promise. A few months before he had +doubted. He had viewed the rising current of speculation from without, +and had had his misgivings. Now the stream had caught him, and if he +ever reflected that there might be rocks ahead, he flattered himself +that he would be among the first to take the alarm. + +The confidence which he owed to youth, the banker drew from a past of +unvarying success. But the elder man did have his moments of mistrust. +There were hours when he saw hazards in front, and the days on which he +did not call for the Note Issues were few. But even he found it easier +to go with the current, and once or twice, so high was his opinion of +Arthur’s abilities, he let himself be persuaded by him. Then the mere +bustle was exhilarating. The door of the bank that never rested, the +crowded counter, the incense of the streets, the whispers where he +passed, all had their intoxicating effect. The power to put a hundred +pounds into a man’s pocket—who can abstain from, who is not flattered +by, the use of this, who can at all times close his mouth? And often +one thing leads to another, and advice is the prelude to a loan. + +It was above all when the railroad scheme was to the fore that the +banker realized his importance. It was his, he had made it, and it was +on its behalf that he was disposed to put his hand out farthest. The +Board, upon Sir Charles’s proposal—the fruit of a hint dropped by +Ovington—had fixed the fourth market-day in April for the opening of +the subscription list. Though the season was late, the farmers would be +more or less at liberty; and as it happened the day turned out to be +one of the few fine days of that spring. The sun, rarely seen of late, +shone, the public curiosity was tickled, the town was full, men in the +streets quoted the tea-kettle and explained the powers of steam; and +Arthur, as he forged his way through the good-tempered, white-coated +throng, felt to the full his importance. + +Near the door of the bank he met Purslow, and the draper seized his +arm. “One moment, sir, excuse me,” he whispered. “I’ve a little more I +can spare at a pinch. What do you advise, Mr. Bourdillon?” + +Arthur knew that it was not in his province to advise, and he shook his +head. “You must ask Mr. Ovington,” he said. + +“And he that busy that he’ll snap my nose off! And you’re just from +London. Come, Mr. Bourdillon, just for two or three hundred pounds. A +good ’un! A real good ’un! I know you know one!” + +Arthur gave way. The man’s wheedling tone, the sense of power, the +ability to confer a favor were too much for him. He named the Antwerp +Navigation Company. “But don’t stop in too long,” he added. And he +snatched himself away, and hurried on, and many were those who found +his frank eager face irresistible. + +As he ploughed his way through the crowd, his head on a level with the +tallest, he seemed to be success itself. His careless greeting met +everywhere a cheery answer, and more than one threw after him, “There +goes the old Squire’s nevvy! See him? He’s a clever ’un if ever there +was one!” They gave him credit for knowing mysteries dark to them, yet +withal they owned a link with him. He too belonged to the land. A link +with him and some pride in him. + +In the parlor where the Board met he had something of the same effect. +Sir Charles and Acherley had taken their seats and were talking of +county matters, their backs turned on their fellows. Wolley stood +before the fire, glowering at them and resenting his exclusion. Grounds +sat meekly on a chair within the door. But Arthur’s appearance changed +all. He had a word or a smile for each. He set Grounds at his ease, he +had a joke for Sir Charles and Acherley, he joined Wolley before the +fire. Ovington, who had left the room for a moment, noted the change, +and his heart warmed to the Secretary. “He will do,” he told himself, +as he turned to the business of the meeting. + +“Come, Mr. Wolley, come, Mr. Grounds,” he said, “pull up your chairs, +if you please. It has struck twelve and the bank should be open to +receive applications at half-past. I conveyed your invitation, +gentlemen, to Mr. Purslow two days ago, and I am happy to tell you that +he takes two hundred shares, so that over one-third of the capital will +be subscribed before we go to the public. I suppose, gentlemen, you +would wish him to take his seat at once?” + +Sir Charles and Acherley nodded, Wolley looked sullen but said nothing, +Grounds submitted. Neither he nor Wolley was over-pleased at sharing +with another the honor of sitting with the gentry. But it had to be +done. “Bring him in, Bourdillon,” Ovington said. + +Purslow, who was in waiting, slid into the room and took his seat, +between pride and humility. “I have reason to believe, gentlemen,” +Ovington continued, “that the capital will be subscribed within +twenty-four hours. It is for you to say how long the list shall remain +open.” + +“Not too long,” said Sir Charles, sapiently. + +“Shall I say forty-eight hours? Agreed, gentlemen? Very good. Then a +notice to that effect shall be posted outside the bank at once. Will +you see to that, Bourdillon?” + +“And what of Mr. Griffin?” Wolley blurted out the question before +Ovington could restrain him. The clothier was anxious to show Purslow +that he was at home in his company. + +“To be sure,” Ovington answered smoothly. “That is the only point, +gentlemen, in which my expectations have not been borne out. The +interview between Mr. Griffin and myself was disappointing, but I hoped +to be able to tell you to-day that we were a little more forward. Mr. +Wolley, however, has handed me a letter which he has received from +Garth, and it is certainly——” + +“A d——d unpleasant letter,” Wolley struck in. “The old Squire don’t +mince matters.” He had predicted that his landlord would not come in, +and he was pleased to see his opinion confirmed. “He says I’d better be +careful, for if I and my fine railroad come to grief I need not look to +him for time. By the Lord,” with unction, “I know that, railroad or no +railroad! He’d put me out as soon as look at me!” + +Sir Charles shuffled his papers uncomfortably. To hear a man like +Wolley discuss his landlord shocked him—he felt it a kind of treason to +listen to such talk. He feared—he feared more than ever—that the +caustic old Squire was thinking him a fool for mixing himself up with +this business. Good Heavens, if, after all, it ended in disaster! + +Acherley took it differently. He cared nothing for Griffin’s opinion; +he was in money difficulties and had passed far beyond that. He +laughed. “Put you out? I’ll swear he would! There’s no fool like an old +fool! But he won’t have the chance.” + +“No, I think not,” Ovington said blandly. “But his attitude presents +difficulties, and I am sure that our Chairman will agree with me that +if we can meet his views, it will be worth some sacrifice.” + +“Can’t Arthur get round him?” Acherley suggested. + +“No,” Arthur replied, smiling. “Perhaps if you——” + +“Will you see him, Mr. Acherley?” + +“Oh, I’ll see him!” carelessly. “I don’t say I shall persuade him.” + +“Still, we shall have done what we can to meet his views,” the banker +replied. “If we fail we must fall back—on my part most reluctantly—on +the compulsory clauses. But that is looking ahead, and we need not +consider it at present. I don’t think that there is anything else? It +is close on the half-hour. Will you see, Bourdillon, if all is ready in +the bank?” + +Arthur went out, leaving the door ajar. There came through the opening +a murmur of voices and the noise of shuffling feet. Ovington turned +over the papers before him. “In the event of the subscriptions +exceeding the sum required, what day will suit you to allot? Thursday, +Sir Charles?” + +“Friday would suit me better.” + +“Friday be it then, if Mr. Acherley—good. On Friday at noon, gentlemen. +Yes, Bourdillon?” + +Arthur did not sit down. He was smiling. “It’s something of a sight,” +he said. “By Jove it is! I think you ought to see it.” + +Ovington nodded, and they rose, some merely curious, others eager to +show themselves in their new role of dignity. Arthur opened the door +and stood aside. Beyond the door the cashier’s desk with its green +curtains formed a screen which masked their presence. Ovington +separated the curtains, and Sir Charles and Acherley peeped between +them. The others looked round the desk. + +The space devoted to the public was full. It hummed with low voices, +but above the hum sharp sentences from time to time rang out. “Here, +don’t push! It’s struck, Mr. Rodd! Hand ’em out!” Then, louder than +these, a lusty voice bawled, “Here, get out o’ my road! I want money +for a cheque, man!” + +The two clerks were at the counter, with piles of application forms +before them and their eyes on the clock. Clement and Rodd stood in the +background. The impassive attitude of the four contrasted strikingly +with the scene beyond the counter, where eighteen or twenty persons +elbowed and pushed one another, their flushed faces eloquent of the +spirit of greed. For it had got about that there was easy money and +much money to be made out of the Railroad shares—to be made in +particular by those who were first in the field. Some looked to make +the money by a sale at a premium, others foresaw a profit but hardly +knew how it was to come, more had heard of men who had suddenly grown +rich, and fancied that this was their chance. They had but to sign a +form and pay an instalment, and profit would flow in, they did not care +whence. They were certain, indeed, but of one thing, that there was +gain in it; and with every moment their number grew, for with every +moment a newcomer forced his way, smiling, into the bank. Meantime the +crowd gave good-humored vent to their impatience. “Let’s have ’em! Hand +’em out!” they murmured. What if there were not enough to go round? + +The man with the cheque, hopelessly wedged in, protested. “There, +someone hand it on,” he cried at last. “And pass me out the money, d—n +you! And let me get out of this.” + +The slip was passed from hand to hand, and “How’ll you have it, Mr. +Boumphry?” Rodd asked. + +“In shares!” cried a wit. + +“Notes and a pound in silver,” gasped Boumphry, who thought the world +had gone mad. “And dunno get on my back, man!” to one behind him. “I’m +not a bullock! Here, how’m I to count it when I canna get——” + +“A form!” cried a second wit. “Neither can we, farmer! Come, out with +’em, gentlemen. Hullo, Mr. Purslow! That you? Ha’ you turned banker?” + +The draper, who had showed himself over-confidently, fell back purple +with blushes. “Certainly an odd sight,” said the banker quietly. “It +promises well, I think, Sir Charles.” + +“Hanged well!” said Acherley. + +Sir Charles acquiesced. “Er, I think so,” he said. “I certainly think +so.” But he felt himself a little out of place. + +The minute hand touched the half-hour, and the clerks began to +distribute the papers. After watching the scene for a moment the Board +separated, its members passing out modestly through the house door. +They parted on the pavement, even Sir Charles unbending a little and +the saturnine Acherley chuckling to himself as visions of fools and fat +premiums floated before him. It was a vision which they all shared in +their different ways. + +Arthur was about to join the workers in the bank when Ovington beckoned +him into the dining-room. “You can be spared for a moment,” he said. +“Come in here. I want to speak to you.” He closed the door. “I’ve been +considering the matter I discussed with you some time ago, lad, and I +think that the time has come when it should be settled. But you’ve said +nothing about it and I’ve been wondering if anything was wrong. If so, +you had better tell me.” + +“Well, sir——” + +The banker was shrewd. “Is it the money that is the trouble?” + +The moment that Arthur had been dreading was come, and he braced +himself to meet it. “I’m afraid that there has been some difficulty,” +he said, “but I think now——” + +“Have you given your uncle notice?” + +Arthur hesitated. If he avowed that they had not given his uncle +notice, how weak, how inept he would appear in the other’s eyes! A wave +of exasperation shook him, as he saw the strait into which his mother’s +obstinacy was forcing him. The opportunity which he valued so highly, +the opening on which he had staked so much—was he to forfeit them +through her folly? No, a hundred times, no! He would not let her ruin +him, and, “Yes, we have given it,” he said, “but very late, I’m afraid. +My mother had her doubts and I had to overcome them. I’m sorry, sir, +that there has been this delay.” + +“But the notice has been given now?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then in three months, as I understand——” + +“The money will be ready, sir.” He spoke stoutly; the die was cast now, +and he must go through with it. After all it was not his fault, but his +mother’s; and for the rest, if the notice was not already given it +should be this very day. “It will be ready in three months, but not +earlier, I am afraid.” + +Ovington reflected. “Well,” he said, “that must do. And we won’t wait. +We will sign the agreement now and it shall take effect from next +Monday, the payment to be made within three months. Go through the +articles”—he opened his desk and took a paper from it and gave it to +Arthur—“and come in with one of the clerks at five o’clock and we will +complete it.” + +Arthur hardly knew what to Bay. “It’s uncommonly kind of you, sir!” he +stammered. “You may be sure I shall do my best to repay your kindness.” + +“Well, I like you,” the banker rejoined. “And, of course, I see my own +advantage in it. So that is settled.” + +Arthur went out taking the paper with him, but in the passage he +paused, his face gloomy. After all it was not too late. He could go +back and tell Ovington that his mother—but no, he could not risk the +banker’s good opinion. His mother must do it. She must do it. He was +not going to see the chance of a lifetime wasted—for a silly scruple. + +He moved at last, and as he went into the bank he jostled two persons +who, sheltered by the cashier’s desk, were watching, as the Board had +watched a few minutes before, the scene of excitement which the bank +presented. The one was Betty, the other was Rodd, the cashier. It had +occurred to Rodd that the girl would like to view a thing so unusual, +and he had slipped out and fetched her. They faced about, startled by +the contact. “Oh, it’s you!” said Betty. + +“Yes,” drily. “What are you doing here, Betty?” + +“I came to see the Lottery drawn,” she retorted, making a face at him. +“Mr. Rodd fetched me. No one else remembered me.” + +“Well, I should have thought that he—ain’t you wanted, Rodd?” There was +a new tone in Arthur’s voice. “Mr. Clement seems to have his hands +full.” + +Rodd’s face reddened under the rebuke. For a moment he seemed about to +answer, then he thought better of it. He left them and went to the +counter. + +“And what would you have thought?” Betty asked pertly, reverting to the +sentence that he had not finished. + +“Only that Rodd might be better employed—at his work. This is just the +job he is fit for, giving out forms.” + +“And Clement, too, I suppose? It is his job, too?” + +“When he’s here to do it,” with a faint sneer. “That is not too often, +Betty.” + +“Well, more often of late, anyway. Do you know what Mr. Rodd says?” + +“No.” + +“He says that he has seen just such a crowd as this in a bank before. +At Manchester seventeen years ago, when he was a boy. There was a run +on the bank in which his father worked, and people fought for places as +they are fighting to-day. He does not seem to think it—lucky.” + +“What else does he think?” Arthur retorted with contempt. “What other +rubbish? He’d better mind his own business and do his work. He ought to +know more than to say such things to you or to anyone.” + +Betty stared. “Dear me,” she replied, “we are high and mighty to-day! +Hoity toity!” And turning her shoulder on him, she became absorbed in +the scene before her. + +But that evening she was more than usually grave, and when her father, +pouring out his fourth and last glass of port—for he was an abstemious +man—told her that the partnership articles had been signed that +afternoon, she nodded. “Yes, I knew,” she said sagely. + +“How, Betty? I didn’t tell you. I have told no one. Did Arthur?” + +“No, father, not in so many words. But I guessed it.” And during the +rest of the evening she was unusually pensive. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Spring was late that year. It was the third week in April before the +last streak of snow faded from the hills, or the showers of sleet +ceased to starve the land. Morning after morning the Squire tapped his +glass and looked abroad for fine weather. The barley-sowing might wait, +but the oats would not wait, and at a time when there should have been +abundant grass he was still carrying hay to the racks. The lambs were +doing ill. + +Morning after morning, with an old caped driving-coat cast about his +shoulders and a shabby hunting-cap on his grey head, he would walk down +to the little bridge that carried the drive over the stream. There, a +gaunt high-shouldered figure, he would stand, looking morosely out over +the wet fields. The distant hills were clothed in mist, the nearer +heights wore light caps, down the vale the clear rain-soaked air showed +sombre woods and red soil, with here and there a lop-sided elm, +bursting into bud, and reddening to match the furrows. “We shall lose +one in ten of the lambs,” he thought, “and not a sound foot in the +flock!” + +One morning as he stood there he saw a man turn off the road and come +shambling towards him. It was Pugh, the man-of-all-work at the Cottage, +and in his disgust at things in general, the Squire cursed him for a +lazy rascal. “I suppose they’ve nothing to do,” he growled, “that they +send the rogue traipsing the roads at this hour!” Aloud, “What do you +want, my man?” he asked. + +Pugh quaked under the Squire’s hard eyes. “A letter from the mistress, +your honor.” + +“Any answer?” + +Reluctantly Pugh gave up the hope of beer with Calamy the butler. “I’d +no orders to wait, sir.” + +“Then off you go! I’ve all the idlers here I want, my lad.” + +The Squire had not his glasses with him, and he turned the letter over +to no purpose. Returning to his room he could not find them, and the +delay aggravated a temper already oppressed by the weather. He shouted +for his spectacles, and when Miss Peacock, hurrying nervously to his +aid, suggested that they might be in the Prayer Book from which he had +read the psalm that morning, he called her a fool. Eventually, it was +there that they were found, on which he dismissed her with a flea in +her ear. “If you knew they were there, why did you leave them there!” +he stormed. “Silly fools women be!” + +But when he had read the letter, he neither stormed nor swore. His +anger was too deep. Here was folly, indeed, and worse than folly, +ingratitude! After all these years, after forty years, during which he +had paid them their five per cent. to the day, five per cent. secured +as money could not be secured in these harum-scarum days—to demand +their pound of flesh and to demand it in this fashion! Without warning, +without consulting him, the head of the family! It was enough to make +any man swear, and presently he did swear after the manner of the day. + +“It’s that young fool,” he thought. “He’s written it and she’s signed +it. And if they have their way in five years the money will be gone, +every farthing, and the woman will come begging to me! But no, madam,” +with rising passion, “I’ll see you farther before I’ll pay down a penny +to be frittered away by that young jackanapes! I’ll go this moment and +tell her what I think of her, and see if she’s the impudence to face it +out!” + +He clapped on his hat and seized his cane. But when he had flung the +door wide, pride spoke and he paused. No, he would not lower himself, +he would not debate it with her. He would take no notice—that, by G—d, +was what he would do. The letter should be as if it had not been +written, and as to paying the money, why if they dared to go to law he +would go all lengths to thwart them! He was like many in that day, +violent, obstinate men who had lived all their lives among dependents +and could not believe that the law, which they administered to others, +applied to them. Occasionally they had a rude awakening. + +But the old Squire did not lack a sense of justice, which, obscured in +trifles, became apparent in greater matters. This quality came to his +rescue now, and as he grew cooler his attitude changed. If the woman, +silly and scatterbrained as she was, and led by the nose by that +impudent son of hers—if she persisted, she should have the money, and +take the consequences. The six thousand was a charge; it must be met if +she held to it. Little by little he accustomed himself to the thought. +The money must be paid, and to pay it he must sell his cherished +securities. He had no more than four hundred, odd—he knew the exact +figure—in the bank. The rest must be raised by selling his India Stock, +but he hated to think of it. And the demand, made without warning, hurt +his pride. + +He took his lunch, a hunch of bread and a glass of ale, standing at the +sideboard in the dining-room. It was an airy room, panelled, like most +of the rooms at Garth, and the pale blue paint, which many a year +earlier had been laid on the oak, was dingy and wearing off in places. +His den lay behind it. On the farther side of the hall was the +drawing-room, white-panelled and spacious, furnished sparsely and +stiffly, with spindle-legged tables, and long-backed Stuart chairs set +against the wall. It opened into a dull library never used, and +containing hardly a book later than Junius’ letters or Burke’s +speeches. Above, under the sloping roofs of the attics, were chests of +discarded clothes, wig-boxes and queerly-shaped carriage-trunks, which +nowadays would furnish forth a fancy-ball, an old-time collection +almost as curious as that which Miss Berry once viewed under the attics +of the Villa Pamphili, but dusty, moth-eaten, unregarded, unvalued. +Cold and bare, the house owned everywhere the pinch of the Squire’s +parsimony; there was nothing in it new, and little that was beautiful. +But it was large and shadowy, the bedrooms smelled of lavender, the +drawing-room of potpourri, and in summer the wind blew through it from +the hay-field, and garden scents filled the lower rooms. + +An hour later, having determined how he would act, the old man walked +across to the Cottage. As he approached the plank-bridge which crossed +the river at the foot of the garden he caught a glimpse of a petticoat +on the rough lawn. He had no sooner seen it than it vanished, and he +was not surprised. His face was grim as he crossed the bridge, and +walking up to the side door struck on it with his cane. + +She was all of a tremble when she came to him, and for that he was +prepared. That did not surprise him. It was due to him. But he expected +that she would excuse herself and fib and protest and shift her ground, +and pour forth a torrent of silly explanations, as in his experience +women always did. But Mrs. Bourdillon took him aback by doing none of +these things. She was white-faced and frightened, but, strange thing in +a woman, she was dumb, or nearly dumb. Almost all she had to say or +would say, almost all that he could draw from her was that it was her +letter—yes, it was her letter. She repeated that several times. And she +meant it? She meant what she had written? Yes, oh yes, she did. +Certainly, she did. It was her letter. + +But beyond that she had nothing to say, and at length, harshly, but not +as harshly as he had intended, “What do you mean, then,” he asked, “to +do with the money, ma’am, eh? I suppose you know that much?” + +“I am putting it into the bank,” she replied, her eyes averted. “Arthur +is going—to be taken in.” + +“Into the bank?” The Squire glared at her. “Into Ovington’s?” + +“Yes, into Ovington’s,” she answered, with the courage of despair. +“Where he will get twelve per cent. for it.” She spoke in the tone of +one who repeated a lesson. + +He struck the floor with his cane. “And you think that it will be safe +there? Safe, ma’am, safe?” + +“I hope so,” she faltered. + +“Hope so, by G—d? Hope so!” he rapped out, honestly amazed. “And that’s +all. Hope so! Well, all I can say is that I hope you mayn’t live to +regret your folly. Twelve per cent. indeed! Twelve——” + +He was going to say more, but the silly woman burst into tears and wept +with such self-abandonment that she fairly silenced him. After watching +her a moment, “Well, there, there, ma’am, it’s no good crying like +that,” he said irritably. “But damme, it beats me! It beats me. If that +is the way you look at it, why do you do it? Why do you do it? Of +course you’ll have the money. But when it’s gone, don’t come to me for +more. And don’t say I didn’t warn you! There, there, ma’am!” moved by +her grief, “for heaven’s sake don’t go on like that! Don’t—God bless +me, if I live to be a hundred, if I shall ever understand women!” + +He went away, routed by her tears and almost as much perplexed as he +was enraged. “If the woman feels like that about it, why does she call +up the money?” he asked himself. “Hope that it won’t be lost! Hope, +indeed! No, I’ll never understand the silly fools. Never! Hope, indeed! +But I suppose that it’s that son of hers has befooled her.” + +He saw, of course, that it was Arthur who had pushed her to it, and his +anger against him and against Ovington grew. He would take his balance +from Ovington’s on the very next market day. He would go back to +Dean’s, though it meant eating humble pie. He thought of other schemes +of vengeance, yet knew that when the time came he would not act upon +them. + +He was in a savage mood as he crossed the stable-yard at Garth, and +unluckily his eye fell upon Thomas, who was seated on a shaft in a +corner of the cart-shed. The man espied him at the same moment and +hurried away a paper—it looked like a newspaper—over which he had been +poring. Now, the Squire hated idleness, but he hated still more to see +a newspaper in one of his men’s hands. A laborer who could read was, in +his opinion, a laborer spoiled, and his wrath blazed up. + +“You d—d idle rascal!” he roared, shaking his cane at the man. “That’s +what you do in my time, is it! Read some blackguard twopenny trash when +you should be cleaning harness! Confound you, if I catch you again with +a paper, you go that minute! D’you hear? D’you think that that’s what I +pay you for?” + +The worm will turn, and Thomas, who had been spelling out an inspiring +speech by one Henry Hunt, did turn. “Pay me? You pay me little enough!” +he answered sullenly. + +The Squire could hardly believe his ears. That one of his men should +answer him! + +“Ay, little enough!” the man repeated impudently. “Beggarly pay, and +’tis time you knew it, Master.” + +The Squire gasped. Thomas was a Garthmyle man, who ten years before had +migrated to Lancashire. Later he had returned—some said that he had got +into trouble up north. However that may be, the Squire had wanted a +groom, and Thomas had offered himself at low wages and been taken. The +village thought that the Squire had been wrong, for Thomas had learned +more tricks in Manchester than just to read the newspaper, and, always +an ill-conditioned fellow, was fond of airing his learning in the +ale-house. + +Perhaps the Squire now saw that he had made a mistake; or perhaps he +was too angry to consider the matter. “Time I knew it?” he cried, as +soon as he could recover himself. “Why, you idle, worthless vagabond, +do you think that I do not know what you’re worth? Ain’t you getting +what I’ve always given?” + +“That’s where it be!” + +“Eh!” + +“That’s where it be! I’m getting what you gave thirty years agone! And +you soaking in money, Master, and getting bigger rents and bigger +profits. Ain’t I to have my share of it?” + +“Share of it!” the old man ejaculated, thunderstruck by an argument as +new as the man’s insolence. “Share of it!” + +“Why not?” Thomas knew his case desperate, and was bent on having +something to repeat to the awe-struck circle at the Griffin Arms. “Why +not?” + +“Why, begad?” the Squire exclaimed, staring at him. “You’re the most +impudent fellow I ever set eyes on!” + +“You’ll see more like me before you die!” Thomas answered darkly. “In +hard times didn’t we share ’em and fair clem? And now profits are up, +the world’s full of money, as I hear in Aldersbury, and be you to take +all and us none?” + +It was a revelation to the Squire. Share? Share with his men? Could +there be a fool so foolish as to look at the matter thus? Laborers were +laborers, and he’d always seen that they had enough in the worst times +to keep soul and body together. The duty of seeing that they had as +much as would do that was his; and he had always owned it and +discharged it. If man, woman or child had starved in Garthmyle he would +have blamed himself severely. But the notion that they should have more +because times were good, the notion that aught besides the county rate +of wages, softened by feudal charity, entered into the question, was a +heresy as new to him as it was preposterous. “You don’t know what you +are talking about,” he said, surprise diminishing his anger. + +“Don’t I?” the man answered, his little eyes sparkling with spite. +“Well there’s some things I know as you don’t. You’d ought to go to the +summer-house a bit more, Master, and you’d learn. You’d ought to walk +in the garden. There’s goings-on and meetings and partings as you don’t +know, I’ll go bail! But t’aint my business and I say nought. I do my +work.” + +“I’ll find another to do it this day month,” said the Squire. “And +you’ll take that for notice, my man. You’ll do your duty while you’re +here, and if I find one of the horses sick or sorry, you’ll sleep in +jail. That’s enough. I want no more of your talk!” + +He went into the house. Things had come to a pretty pass, when one of +his men could face him out like that. The sooner he made a change and +saw the rogue out of Garthmyle the better! He flung his stick into a +corner and his hat on the table and damned the times. He would put the +matter out of his mind. + +But it would not go. The taunt the man had flung at him at the last +haunted him. What did the rogue mean? And at whom was he hinting? Was +Arthur working against him in his own house as well as opposing him out +of doors? If so, by heaven, he would soon put an end to it! And by and +by, unable to resist the temptation—but not until he had sent Thomas +away on an errand—he went heavily out and into the terraced garden. He +climbed to the raised walk and looked abroad, his brow gloomy. + +The day had mended and the sun was trying to break through the clouds. +The sheep were feeding along the brook-side, the lambs were running +races under the hedgerows, or curling themselves up on sheltered banks. +But the scene, which usually gratified him, failed to please to-day, +for presently he espied a figure moving near the mill and made out that +the figure was Josina’s. From time to time the girl stooped. She +appeared to be picking primroses. + +It was the idle hour of the day, and there was no reason why she should +not be taking her pleasure. But the Squire’s brow grew darker as he +marked her lingering steps and uncertain movements. More than once he +fancied that she looked behind her, and by and by with an oath he +turned, clumped down the steps, and left the garden. + +He had not quite reached the mill when she saw him descending to meet +her. He fancied that he read guilt in her face, and his old heart sank +at the sight. + +“What are you doing?” he asked, confronting her and striking the ground +with his cane. “Eh? What are you doing here, girl? Out with it! You’ve +a tongue, I suppose?” + +She looked as if she could sink into the ground, but she found her +voice. “I’ve been gathering—these, sir,” she faltered, holding out her +basket. + +“Ay, at the rate of one a minute! I watched you. Now, listen to me. You +listen to me, young woman. And take warning. If you’re hanging about to +meet that young fool, I’ll not have it. Do you hear? I’ll not have it!” + +She looked at him piteously, the color gone from her face. “I—I don’t +think—I understand, sir,” she quavered. + +“Oh, you understand well enough!” he retorted, his suspicions turned to +certainty. “And none of your woman’s tricks with me! I’ve done with +Master Arthur, and you’ve done with him too. If he comes about the +place he’s to be sent to the right-about. That’s my order, and that’s +all about it. Do you hear?” + +She affected to be surprised, and a little color trickled into her +cheeks. But he took this for one of her woman’s wiles—they were +deceivers, all of them. + +“Do you mean, sir,” she stammered, “that I am not to see Arthur?” + +“You’re neither to see him nor speak to him nor listen to him! There’s +to be an end of it. Now, are you going to obey me, girl?” + +She looked as if butter would not melt in her mouth. “Yes, sir,” she +answered meekly. “I shall obey you if those are your orders.” + +He was surprised by the readiness of her assent, and he looked at her +suspiciously. “Umph!” he grunted. “That sounds well, and it will be +well for you, girl, if you keep to it. For I mean it. Let there be no +mistake about that.” + +“I shall do as you wish, of course, sir.” + +“He’s behaved badly, d—d badly! But if you are sensible I’ll say no +more. Only understand me, you’ve got to give him up.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“From this day? Now, do you understand?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +After that he had no more to say. He required obedience, and he should +have been glad to receive it. But, to tell the truth, he was a little +at a loss. Girls were silly—such was his creed—and it behoved them to +be guided by their elders. If they did not suffer themselves to be +guided, they must be brought into line sharply. But somewhere, far down +in the old man’s heart, and unacknowledged even by himself, lay an odd +feeling—a feeling of something like disappointment. In his young days +girls had not been so ready, so very ready, to surrender their lovers. +He had even known them to fight for them. He was perplexed. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +They were standing on the narrow strip of sward between the wood and +the stream, which the gun accident had for ever made memorable to them. +The stile rose between them, but seeing that his hands rested on hers, +and his eyes dwelt unrebuked on her conscious face, the barrier was but +as the equator, which divides but does not separate; the sacrifice to +propriety was less than it seemed. Spring had come with a rush, the +hedges were everywhere bursting into leaf. In the Thirty Acres which +climbed the hill above them, the thrushes were singing their May-day +song, and beside them the brook rippled and sparkled in the sunshine. +All Nature rejoiced, and the pulse of youth leapt to the universal +rhythm. The maiden’s eyes repeated what the man’s lips uttered, and for +the time to love and to be loved was all in all. + +“To think,” he murmured, “that if I had not been so awkward we should +not have known one another!” And, silly man, he thought this the height +of wisdom. + +“And the snowdrops!” She, alas, was on the same plane of sapience. “But +when—when did you first, Clem?” + +“From the first moment we met! From the very first, Jos!” + +“When I saw you standing here? And looking——” + +“Oh, from long before that!” he declared. And his eyes challenged +denial. “From the hour when I saw you at the Race Ball in the Assembly +Room—ages, ages ago!” + +She savored the thought and found it delicious, and she longed to hear +it repeated. “But you did not know me then. How could you—love me?” + +“How could I not? How could I see you and not love you?” he babbled. +“How was it possible I should not? Were we not made for one another? +You don’t doubt that? And you,” jealously, “when, sweet, did you +first—think of me?” + +Alas, she could only go back to the moment when she had tripped +heart-whole round the corner of the wood, and seen him standing, +solitary, wrapped in thought, a romantic figure. But though, to her +shame, she could only go back to that, it thrilled her, it made her +immensely happy, to think that he had loved her first, that his heart +had gone out to her before she knew him, that he had chosen her even +before he had spoken to her. Ay, chosen her, little regarded as she +was, and shabby, and insignificant amid the gay throng of the ballroom! +She had been Cinderella then, but she had found her glass slipper +now—and her Fairy Prince. And so on, and so on, with sweet and foolish +repetitions. + +For this was the latest of a dozen meetings, and Love had long ago +challenged Love. Many an afternoon had Clement waited under the wood, +and with wonder and reverence seen the maid come tripping along the +green towards him. Many a time had he thought a seven-mile ride a small +price to pay for the chance, the mere chance, of a meeting, for the +distant glimpse of a bonnet, even for the privilege of touching the +pebble set for a token on the stile. So that it is to be feared that, +if market days had found him more often at his desk, there had been +other days, golden days and not a few, when the bank had not held him, +when he had stolen away to play truant in this enchanted country. But +then, how great had been the temptation, how compelling the lure, how +fair the maid! + +No, he had not played quite fairly with his father. But the thought of +that weighed lightly on him. For this that had come to him, this love +that glorified all things, even as Spring the face of Nature, that +filled his mind with a thousand images, each more enchanting than the +last, and inspired his imagination with a magic not its own,—this +visited a man but once; whereas he would have long years in which he +might redeem the time, long years in which he might warm his father’s +heart by an attendance at the desk that should shame Rodd himself! Ay, +and he would! He would! Even the sacrifice of his own tastes, his own +wishes seemed in his present mood a small surrender, and one he owed +and fain would pay. + +For he was in love with goodness, he longed to put himself right with +all. He longed to do his duty to all, he who walked with a firmer step, +who trod the soil with a conquering foot, who found new beauties in +star and flower, he, so happy, so proud, so blessed! + +But this being his mood, there was a burden which weighed on him, and +weighing on him more heavily every day, and that was the part which he +was playing towards the Squire. It had long galled him, when absent +from her; of late it had begun to mar his delight in her presence. The +role of secret lover had charmed for a time—what more shy, more +elusive, more retiring than young love? And what more secret? Fain +would it shun all eyes. But he had now reached a farther stage, and +being honest, and almost quixotic by nature, he could not without pain +fall day by day below the ideals which his fancy set up. To-day he had +come to meet Josina with a fixed resolve, and a mind wound to the pitch +of action; and presently into the fair pool of her content—yet quaking +as he did so lest he should seem to hint a fault—he cast the stone. + +“And now, Jos,” he said, his eyes looking bravely into hers, “I must +see your father.” + +“My father!” Fear sprang into her eyes. She stiffened. + +“Yes, dear,” he repeated. “I must see your father—and speak to him. +There is no other course possible.” + +Color, love, joy, all fled from her face. She shivered. “My father!” +she stammered, pale to the lips. “Oh, it is impossible! It is +impossible! You would not do it!” She would have withdrawn her hands if +he had not held them. “You cannot, cannot mean it! Have you thought +what you are saying?” + +“I have, indeed,” he said, sobered by her fear, and full of pity for +her. “I lay awake for hours last night thinking of it. But there is no +other course, Jos, no other course—if we would be happy.” + +“But, oh, you don’t know him!” she cried, panic-stricken. And her +terror wrung his heart. “You don’t know him! Or what he will think of +me!” + +“Nothing very bad,” he rejoined. But more than ever, more than before, +his conscience accused him. He felt that the shame which burned her +face and in a moment gave way to the pallor of fear was the measure of +his guilt; and in proportion as he winced under that knowledge, and +under the knowledge that it was she who must pay the heavier penalty, +he took blame to himself and was strengthened in his resolve. “Listen, +Jos,” he said bravely. “Listen! And let me tell you what I mean. And, +dearest, do not tremble as you are trembling. I am not going to tell +him to-day. But tell him I must some day—and soon, if we do not wish +him to learn it from others.” + +She shuddered. All had been so bright, so new, so joyous; and now she +was to pay the price. And the price had a very terrible aspect for her. +Fate, a cruel, pitiless fate, was closing upon her. She could not +speak, but her eyes, her quivering lips, pleaded with him for mercy. + +He had expected that, and he steeled himself, showing thereby the good +metal that was in him. “Yes,” he said firmly, “we must, Jos. And for a +better reason than that. Because if we do not, if we continue to +deceive your father, he will not only have reason to be angry with you, +but to despise me; to look upon me as a poor unmanly thing, Jos, a +coward who dared not face him, a craven who dared not ask him for what +he valued above all the world! Who stole it from him in the dark and +behind his back! As it is he will be angry enough. He will look down +upon me, and with justice. And at first he will say ‘No,’ and I fear he +will separate us, and there will be no more meetings, and we may have +to wait. But if we are brave, if we trust one another and are true to +one another—and, alas, you will have to bear the worst—if we can bear +and be strong, in the end, believe me, Jos, it will come right.” + +“Never,” she cried, despairing, “never! He will never allow it!” + +“Then——” + +“Oh,” she prayed, “can we not go on as we are?” + +“No, we cannot.” He was firm. “We cannot. By and by you would discover +that for yourself, and you, as well as he, would have cause to despise +me. For consider, Jos, think, dear. If I do not seek you for my wife, +what is before us? To what can we look forward? To what future? What +end? Only to perpetual alarms, and some day, when we least expect it, +to discovery—to discovery that will cover me with disgrace.” + +She did not answer. She had taken her hands from him, she had taken +herself from him. She leant on the stile, her face hidden. But he dared +not give way, nor would he let himself be repulsed; and very tenderly +he laid his hand on her shoulder. “It is natural that you should be +frightened,” he said. “But if I, too, am frightened; if, seeing the +proper course, I do not take it, how can you ever trust me or depend on +me? What am I then but a coward? What is the worth of my love, Jos, if +I have not the courage to ask for you?” + +“But he will want to know——” her shoulders heaved in her agitation, “he +will want to know——” + +“How we met? I know. And how we loved? Yes, I am afraid so. And he will +be angry with you, and you will suffer, and I shall be God knows how +wretched! But if I do not go to him, how much more angry will he be! +And how much more ground for anger will he have! If we continue to meet +it cannot be long kept from him, and then how much worse will it be! +And I, with not a word to say for myself, with no defence, no plea! I, +who shall not then seem to him to be even a man.” + +“But he is so—so hard!” she whispered, her face still hidden. + +“I know, dear. And so firmly set in his prejudice and his pride. I +know. He will think me so far below you; he hates the bank and all +connected with it. He holds me a mere clerk, not one of his class, and +low, dear, I know it. But”—his voice rose a tone—“I am not low, Jos, +and you have discovered it. And now I must prove it to him. I must +prove it. And to make a beginning, I must be no coward. I must not be +afraid of him. For you, the times are past when he could ill-treat you. +And he loves you.” + +“He is very hard,” she murmured. It was his punishment throughout, that +though his heart was wrung for her he could not bear her share of the +suffering. But he dared not and he would not give way. “He will make me +give you up.” + +He had thought of that and was ready for it. “That must depend upon +you,” he said very soberly. “For my part, dear—but my part is easy—I +shall never give you up. Never! But if the trial be too sore for you +who must bear the heavier burden, if you feel that our love is not +worth the price you must pay, then I will never reproach you, Jos, +never. If you decide on that I will not say one word against it; no, +nor think one harsh thought of you. And then we need not tell him. But +we must not meet again.” + +She trembled; and it was natural, it was very natural, that she should +tremble. It was an age when discipline was strict and even harsh, and +she had been bred up in awe of her father, and in that absolute +subjection to him of which the women about her set the example. +Children were then to be seen and not heard. Girls were expected to +have neither wills nor views of their own. And in her case this was not +all. The Squire was a hard man. He was a man of whom those about him +stood in awe, and who if he had any of the softer affections hid them +under a mask of unpleasing reserve. Proud as he was of his caste, he +kept his daughter short of money and short of clothes. He saw her go +shabby without a qualm, and penniless, and rejoiced that she could not +get into mischief. If she lost a shilling on an errand or overpaid a +bill, he stormed and raved at her. Had she run up a debt he would have +driven her from the room with oaths. So that if, under the dry husk, +there was any kernel, any softer feeling—either for her or for the +young boy who had died in his first uniform at Alexandria—she had no +clue to the fact, and certainly no suspicion of it. + +Nor was even this the whole. One thing was known to Josina which was +not known to Clement. Garth was entailed upon her. Even the Squire +could not deprive her of the estate, and in the character of his heir +she wore for the old man a preciousness with which affection had +nothing to do. What he might have permitted to his daughter was matter +for grim conjecture. But that he would ever let his heiress, her whose +hand was weighted with the rents of Garth, and with the wide lands he +loved—that he would ever let her wed at her pleasure or out of her +class—this appeared to Josina of all things the most unlikely. + +It was no wonder then that the girl hesitated before she answered, or +that Clement’s face grew grave, his heart heavy, as he waited. But he +had that insight into the feelings of others which imagination alone +can give, and while she wavered or seemed to waver, he felt none of the +resentment which comes of wounded love. Rather he was filled with a +great pity for her, a deep tenderness. For it was he who was in fault, +he told himself. It was he who had made the overtures, he who had wooed +and won her fancy, he who had done this. It was his selfishness, his +thoughtlessness, his imprudence which had brought them to this pass, a +pass whence they could neither advance without suffering nor draw back +with honor. So that if she who must encounter a father’s anger proved +unequal to the test, if the love, which he did not doubt, was still too +weak to face the ordeal, it did not lie with him to blame her—even on +this day when bird and flower and leaf sang love’s pæan. No, perish the +thought! He would never blame her. With infinite tenderness, forgiving +her beforehand, he touched her bowed head. + +At that, at that touch, she looked up at last, and with a leap of the +heart he read her answer in her eyes. He read there a love and a +courage equal to his own; for, after all, she was her father’s +daughter, she too came of an old proud race. “You shall tell him,” she +said, smiling through her tears. “And I will bear what comes of it. But +they shall never separate us, Clem, never, never, if you will be true +to me.” + +“True to you!” he cried, worshipping her, adoring her. “Oh, Jos!” + +“And love me a little always?” + +“Love you? Oh, my darling!” The words choked him. + +“It shall be as you say! It shall be always as you say!” She was +clinging to him now. “I will do as you tell me! I will always—oh, but +you mustn’t, you mustn’t,” between tears and smiles, for his arms were +about her now, and the poor ineffectual stile had ceased to be even an +equator. “But I must tell you. I love you more now, Clement, more, more +because I can trust you. You are strong and will do what is right.” + +“At your cost!” he cried, shaken to the depths—and he thought her the +most wonderful, the bravest, the noblest woman in the world. “Ah, Jos, +if I could bear it for you!” + +“I will bear it,” she answered. “And it will not last. And see, I am +not afraid now—or only a little! I shall think of you, and it will be +nothing.” + +Oh, but the birds were singing now and the brook was sparkling as it +rippled over the shallows towards the deep pool. + +Presently, “When will you tell him?” she asked; and she asked it, with +scarce a quaver in her voice. + +“As soon as I can. The sooner the better. This is Saturday. I will see +him on Monday morning.” + +“But isn’t that—market-day?” faintly. “Can you get away?” + +“Does anything matter beside this?” he replied. “The sooner, dear, the +tooth is pulled, the better. There is only, one thing I fear.” + +“I think you fear nothing,” she rejoined, gazing at him with admiring +eyes. “But what is it?” + +“That someone should be before us. That someone should tell him before +I do. And he should think us what we are not, Jos—cowards.” + +“I see,” she answered thoughtfully. “Yes,” with a sigh. “Then, on +Monday. I shall sleep the better when it is over, even if I sleep in +disgrace.” + +“I know,” he said; and he saw with a pang that her color ebbed. But her +eyes still met his and were brave, and she smiled to reassure him. + +“I will not mind what comes,” she whispered, “if only we are not +parted.” + +“We shall not be parted for ever,” he assured her. “If we are true to +one another, not even your father can part us—in the end.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Josina had put a brave face on the matter, but when she came down to +breakfast on the Monday, the girl was almost sick with apprehension. +Her hands were cold, and as she sat at table she could not raise her +eyes from her plate. The habit of years is not to be overcome in an +hour, and that which the girl had to face was beyond doubt formidable. +She had passed out of childhood, but in that house she was still a +child. She was expected to be silent, to efface herself before her +elders, to have no views but their views, and no wishes that went +beyond theirs. Her daily life was laid out for her, and she must +conform or she would be called to heel. On love and marriage she must +have no mind of her own, but must think as her father permitted. If he +chose she would be her cousin’s wife, if he did not choose the two +would be parted. She could guess how he would treat her if she resisted +his will, or even his whim, in that matter. + +And now she must resist his will in a far worse case. Arthur was her +cousin. But Clement? She was not supposed even to know him. Yet she +must own him, she must avow her love for him, she must confess to +secret meetings with him and stolen interviews. She must be prepared +for looks of horror, for uplifted hands and scandalized faces, and to +hear shameful things said of him; to hear him spoken of as an upstart, +belonging to a class beneath her, a person with whom she ought never to +have come in contact, one whom her father would not think of admitting +to his table! + +And through all, she who was so weak, so timid, so subject, must be +firm. She must not flinch. + +As she sat at table she was conscious of her pale cheeks, and trembled +lest the others should notice them. She fancied that her father’s face +already wore an ominous gloom. “If you’ve orders for town,” he flung at +Miss Peacock as he rose, “you’ll need be quick with them. I’m going in +at ten.” + +Miss Peacock was all of a flutter. “But I thought, sir, that the Bench +did not sit——” + +“You’d best not think,” he retorted. “Ten, I said.” + +That seemed to promise a blessed respite, and the color returned to +Josina’s cheeks. Clement could hardly arrive before eleven, and for +this day she might be safe. But on the heels of relief followed +reflection. The respite meant another sleepless night, another day of +apprehension, more hours of fear; the girl was glad and she was sorry. +The spirit warred with the flesh. She did not know what she wished. + +And, after all, Clement might appear before ten. She watched the clock +and watched her father and in returning suspense hung upon his +movements. How he lingered, now hunting for a lost paper, now grumbling +over a seed-bill, now drawing on his boots with the old horn-handled +hooks which had been his father’s! And the clock—how slowly it moved! +It wanted eight, it wanted five, it wanted two minutes of ten. The hour +struck. And still the Squire loitered outside, talking to old +Fewtrell—when at any moment Clement might ride up! + +The fact was that Thomas was late, and the Squire was saying what he +thought of him. “Confound him, he thinks, because he’s going, he can do +as he likes!” he fumed. “But I’ll learn him! Let me catch him in the +village a week after he leaves, and I’ll jail him for a vagrant! Such +impudence as he gave me the other day I never heard in my life! He’ll +go wide of here for a character!” + +“I dunno as I’d say too much to him,” the old bailiff advised. “He’s a +queer customer, Squire, as you’d ought to have seen before now!” + +“He’ll find me a queer customer if he starts spouting again! Why, +damme,” irritably, “one might almost think you agreed with him!” + +Old Fewtrell screwed up his face. “No,” he said slowly, “I’m not saying +as I agree with him. But there’s summat in what he says, begging your +pardon, Squire.” + +“Summat? Why, man,” in astonishment, “are you tarred with the same +brush?” + +“You know me, master, better’n that,” the old man replied. “An’ I bin +with you fifty years and more. But, certain sure, times is changed and +we’re no better for the change.” + +“But you get as much?” + +“Mebbe in malt, but not in meal. In money, mebbe—I’m not saying a +little more, master. But here’s where ’tis. We’d the common before the +war, and run for a cow and geese, and wood for the picking, and if a +lad fancied to put up a hut on the waste ’twas five shillings a year; +and a rood o’ potato ground—it wasn’t missed. ’Twas neither here nor +there. But ’tisn’t so now. Where be the common? Well, you know, Squire, +laid down in wheat these twenty years, and if a lad squatted now, he’d +not be long of hearing of it. We’ve the money, but we’re not so well +off. That’s where ’tis.” + +The Squire scowled. “Well, I’m d—d!” he said. “You’ve been with me +fifty years, and——” and then fortunately or unfortunately the curricle +came round and the Squire, despising Fewtrell’s hint, turned his wrath +upon the groom, called him a lazy scoundrel, and cursed him up hill and +down dale. + +The man took it in silence, to the bailiff’s surprise, but his sullen +face did not augur well for the day, and when he had climbed to the +back-seat—with a scramble and a grazed knee, for the Squire started the +horses with no thought for him—he shook his fist at the old man’s back. +Fewtrell saw the gesture, and felt a vague uneasiness, for he had heard +Thomas say ugly things. But then the man had been in liquor, and +probably he didn’t mean them. + +The Squire rattled the horses down the steep drive with the confidence +of one who had done the same thing a thousand times. Turning to the +left a furlong beyond the gate, he made for Garthmyle where, at the +bridge, he fell into the highway. He had driven a mile along this when +he saw a horseman coming along the road to meet him, and he fell to +wondering who it was. His sight was good at a distance, and he fancied +that he had seen the young spark before, though he could not put a name +to him. But he saw that he rode a good nag, and he was not surprised +when the other reined up and, raising his hat, showed that he wished to +speak. + +It was Clement, of course, and with a little more wisdom or a little +less courage he would not have stopped the old man. He would have seen +that the moment was not propitious, and that his business could hardly +be done on the highway. But in his intense eagerness to set himself +right, and his anxiety lest chance should forestall him, he dared not +let the opportunity pass, and his hand was raised before he had well +considered what he would say. + +The Squire pulled up his horses. “D’you want me?” he asked, civilly +enough. + +“If I may trouble you, sir,” Clement answered as bravely as he could. +“It’s on important business, or—or I wouldn’t detain you.” Already, his +heart in his mouth, he saw the difficulty in which he had placed +himself. How could he speak before the man? Or on the road? + +The Squire considered him. “Business, eh?” he said. “With me? Well, I +know your face, young gentleman, but I can’t put a name to you.” + +“I am Mr. Ovington’s son, Clement Ovington, sir.” + +All the Squire’s civility left him. “The devil you are!” he exclaimed. +“Well, I’m going to the bank. I like to do my business across the +counter, young sir, to be plain, and not in the road.” + +“But this is business—of a different sort, sir,” Clement stammered, +painfully aware of the change in the other’s tone, as well as of the +servant, who was all a-grin behind his master’s shoulder. “If I could +have a word with you—apart, sir? Or perhaps—if I called at Garth +tomorrow?” + +“Why?” + +“It is upon private business, Mr. Griffin,” Clement replied, his face +burning. + +“Did your father send you?” + +“No.” + +“Then I don’t see,” the Squire replied, scowling at him from under his +bushy eyebrows, “what business you can have with me. There can be none, +young man, that can’t be done across the counter. It is only upon +business that I know your father, and I don’t know you at all. I don’t +know why you stopped me.” + +Clement was scarlet with mortification. “If I could see you a few +minutes—alone, sir, I think I could explain what it is.” + +“You will see me at the bank in an hour,” the old man retorted. +“Anything you have to say you can say there. As it is, I am going to +close my account with your father, and after that the less I hear your +name the better I shall be pleased. At present you’re wasting my time. +I don’t know why you stopped me. Good morning.” And in a lower tone, +but one that was perfectly audible to Clement, “D—d young +counterskipper,” he muttered, as he started the horses. “Business with +me, indeed! Confound his impudence!” + +He drove off at speed, leaving Clement seated on his horse in the +middle of the road, a prey to feelings that may be imagined. He had +made a bad beginning, and his humiliation was complete. + +“Young counterskipper!” That rankled—yet in time he might smile at +that. But the tone, and the manner, the conviction that under no +circumstances could there be anything between them, any relations, any +equality—this bit deeper and wounded more permanently. The Squire’s +view, that he addressed one of another class and another grade, one +with whom he could have no more in common than with the servant behind +him, could not have been made more plain if he had known the object of +the lad’s application. + +If he had known it! Good heavens, if he said so much now, what would he +have said in that case? Certainly, the task which love had set this +young man was not an easy one. No wonder Josina had been frightened. + +He had—he had certainly made a mess of it. His ears burned, as he sat +on his horse and recalled the other’s words. + +Meanwhile the Squire drove on, and with the air and movement he +recovered his temper. As he drew near to the town the market-traffic +increased, and sitting high on his seat he swept by many a humble gig +and plodding farm-cart, and acknowledged with a flicker of his +whip-hand many a bared head and hasty obeisance. He was not loved; men +who are bent on getting a pennyworth for their penny are not loved. But +he was regardful of his own people, and in all companies he was +fearless and could hold his own. Men did not love him, but they trusted +him, knowing exactly what they might expect from him. And he was +Griffin of Garth, one of the few in whose hands were all county power +and all county influence. As he drove down the hill toward the West +Bridge, seeing with the eye of memory the airy towers and lofty +gateways of the older bridge that had once stood there and for +centuries had bridled the wild Welsh, his bodily eyes noted the team of +the out-going coach which he had a share in horsing. And the coachman, +proudly and with respect, named him to the box-seat. + +From the bridge the town, girdled by the shining river, climbs +pyramid-wise up the sides of a cleft hill, an ancient castle guarding +the one narrow pass by which a man may enter it on foot. The smiling +plain, in the midst of which it rises, is itself embraced at a distance +by a ring of hills, broken at one point only, which happens to +correspond with the guarded isthmus; on which side, and some four miles +away, was fought many centuries ago a famous battle. It is a proud +town, looking out over a proud county, a county still based on ancient +tradition, on old names and great estates, standing solid and +four-square against the invasion that even in the Squire’s day +threatened it—invasion of new men and new money, of Birmingham and +Liverpool and Manchester. The airy streets and crowded shuts run down +on all sides from the Market Place to the green meadows and leafy +gardens that the river laps: green meadows on which the chapels and +quiet cloisters of religious houses once nestled under the shelter of +the walls. + +The Squire could remember the place when his father and his like had +had their town houses in it, and in winter had removed their families +to it; when the weekly Assemblies at the Lion had been gay with cards +and dancing, and in the cockpit behind the inn mains of cocks had been +fought with the Gentlemen of Cheshire or Staffordshire; when fine +ladies with long canes and red-heeled shoes had promenaded under the +lime trees beside the river, and the town in its season had been a +little Bath. Those days, and the lumbering coaches-and-six which had +brought in the families, were gone, and the staple of the town, its +trade in woollens and Welsh flannels, was also on the decline. But it +was still a thriving place, and if the county people no longer filled +it in winter, their stately houses survived, and older houses than +theirs, of brick and timber, quaint and gabled, that made the streets a +joy to antiquaries. + +The Squire passed by many a one, with beetling roof and two-storied +porch, as he drove up Maerdol. His first and most pressing business was +at the bank, and he would not be himself until he had got it off his +mind. He would show that d—d Ovington what he thought of him! He would +teach him a lesson—luring away that young man and pouching his money. +Ay, begad he would! + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +But as the Squire turned to the left by the Stalls he saw his lawyer, +Frederick Welsh—rather above most lawyers were the Welsh brothers, +by-blows it was said of a great house—and Welsh stopped him. “You’re +wanted at the Bench, Squire, if you please,” he said. “His lordship is +there, and they are waiting for you.” + +“But it’s not time—by an hour, man!” + +“No, but it’s a special case, and will take all day, I’m afraid. His +lordship says that he won’t begin until you come. It’s that case of——” +the lawyer whispered a few words. “And the Chief Constable does not +quite trust—you understand? He’s anxious that you should be there.” + +The Squire resigned himself, “Very well, I’ll come,” he said. + +He could go to the bank afterwards, but he might not have complied so +readily if his vanity had not been tickled. The Justices of that day +bore a heavier burden than their successors—_hodie nominis umbrae_. +With no police force they had to take the initiative in the detection +as well as in the punishment of crime. Marked men, belonging to a +privileged class, they had to do invidious things and to enforce +obnoxious laws. They represented the executive, and they shared alike +its odium and its fearlessness. For hardly anything is more remarkable +in the history of that time than the courage of the men who held the +reins. Unpopular, assailed by sedition, undermined by conspiracy, and +pressed upon by an ever-growing public feeling, the few held on +unblenching, firm in the belief that repression was the only policy, +and doubting nothing less than their right to rule. They dined and +drank, and presented a smiling face to the world, but great and small +they ran their risks, and that they did not go unscathed, the fate of +Perceval and of Castlereagh, the collapse of Liverpool, and the +shortened lives of many a lesser man gave proof. + +But even among the firm there are degrees, and in all bodies it is on +the shoulders of one or two that the onus falls. Of the one or two in +Aldshire, the Squire was one. My lord might fill the chair, Sir Charles +might assent, but it was to Griffin that their eyes wandered when an +unpleasant decision had to be taken or the public showed its teeth. And +the old man knew that this was so, and was proud of it. + +To-day, however, as he watched the long hand move round the clock, he +had less patience than usual. Because he must be at the bank before it +closed, everything seemed to work against him. The witnesses were +sullen, the evidence dragged, Acherley went off on a false scent, and +being whipped back, turned crusty. The Squire fidgeted and scowled, and +then, twenty minutes before the bank closed, and when with his eyes on +the clock he was growing desperate, the chairman suggested that they +should break off for a quarter of an hour. “Confound me, if I can sit +any longer,” he said. “I must have a mouthful of something, Griffin.” + +The Squire seldom took more than a hunch of bread at mid-day and could +do without that, but he was glad to agree, and a minute later he was +crossing the Market Place towards the bank. It happened that business +was brisk at the moment. Rodd, at a side desk, was showing a customer +how to draw a cheque. At the main counter a knot of farmers were +producing, with protruding tongues and hunched shoulders, something +which might pass for a signature. Two clerks were aiding them, and for +a moment the Squire stood unseen and unregarded. Impatiently he tapped +the counter with his stick, on which Rodd saw him, and, deserting his +task, came hurriedly to him. + +The Squire thrust his cheque across the counter. “In gold,” he said. + +The cashier scanned the cheque, his hand in the till. “Four, seven, +six-ten,” he murmured. Then his face grew serious, and without glancing +at the Squire he consulted a book which lay beside him. “Four, seven, +six-ten,” he repeated. “I am afraid—one moment, if you please, sir!” +Breaking off he made two steps to a door behind him and disappeared +through it. + +He returned a moment later, followed by Ovington himself. The banker’s +face was grave, but his tone retained its usual blandness. “Good day, +Mr. Griffin,” he said. “You are drawing the whole of your balance, I +see. I trust that that does not mean that you are—making any change?” + +“That is what it does mean, sir,” the Squire answered. + +“Of course, it is entirely your affair——” + +“Entirely.” + +“But we are most anxious to accommodate you. If there is anything that +we can put right, any cause of dissatisfaction——” + +“No,” said the Squire grimly. “There is nothing that you can put right. +It is only that I do not choose to do business with my family.” + +The banker bowed with dignity. The incident was not altogether +unexpected. “With most people, a connection of the kind would be in our +favor,” he said. + +“Not with me. And as my time is short——” + +The banker bowed. “In gold, I think? May we not send it for you? It +will be no trouble.” + +“No, I thank you,” the Squire grunted, hating the other for his +courtesy. “I will take it, if you please.” + +“Put it in a strong bag, Mr. Rodd,” Ovington said. “I shall still hope, +Mr. Griffin, that you will think better of it.” And, bowing, he wished +the Squire “Good day,” and retired. + +Rodd was a first-class cashier, but he felt the Squire eyes boring into +him, and he was twice as long in counting out the gold as he should +have been. The consequence was that when the Squire left the bank, the +hour had struck, Dean’s was closed, and the Bench was waiting for him. +He paused on the steps considering what he should do. He could not +leave so large a sum unguarded in the Justices’ room, nor could he +conveniently take it with him into the Court. + +At that moment his eyes fell on Purslow, the draper, who was standing +at the door of his shop, and he crossed over to him. “Here, man, put +this in your safe and turn the key on it,” he said. “I shall call for +it in an hour or two.” + +“Honored, I am sure,” said the gratified tradesman, as he took the bag. +But when he felt its weight and guessed what was in it, “Excuse me, +sir. Hadn’t you better seal it, sir?” he said. “It seems to be a large +sum.” + +“No need. I shall call for it in an hour. Lock it up yourself, Purslow. +That’s all.” + +Purslow, as pleased as if the Squire had given him a large order, +assured him that he would do so, and the old man stalked across to the +court, where business kept him, fidgeting and impatient, until hard on +seven. Nor did he get away then without unpleasantness. + +For unluckily Acherley, who had been charged to approach him about the +Railroad, had been snubbed in the course of the day. Always an +ill-humored man, he saw his way to pay the Squire out, and chose this +moment to broach the delicate subject. He did it with as little tact as +temper. + +“’Pon my honor, Griffin, you know—about this Railroad,” he said, +tackling the old man abruptly, as they were putting on their coats. +“You really must open your eyes, man, and move with the times. The +devil’s in it if we can stand still always. You might as well go back +to your old tie-wig, you know. You are blocking the way, and if you +won’t think of your own interests, you ought to think of the town. I +can tell you,” bluntly, “you are making yourself d—d unpopular there.” + +Very seldom of late had anyone spoken to the Squire in that tone, and +his temper was up in a minute. “Unpopular? I don’t understand you,” he +snapped. + +“Well, you ought to!” + +“Unpopular? What’s that? Unpopular, sir! What the devil have we in this +room to do with popularity? I make my horse go my way, I don’t go his, +nor ask if he likes it. Damn your popularity!” + +Acherley had his answer on his tongue, but Woosenham interposed. “But, +after all, Griffin,” he said mildly, “we must move with the times—even +if we don’t give way to the crowd. There’s no man whose opinion I value +more than yours, as you know, but I think you do us an injustice.” + +“An injustice?” the Squire sneered. “Not I! The fact is, Woosenham, you +are letting others use you for a stalking horse. Some are fools, and +some—I leave you to put a name to them! If you’d give two thoughts to +this Railroad yourself, you’d see that you have nothing to gain by it, +except money that you can do without! While you stand to lose more than +money, and that’s your good name!” + +Sir Charles changed color. “My good name?” he said, bristling feebly. +“I don’t understand you, Griffin.” + +One of the others, seeing a quarrel in prospect, intervened. “There, +there,” he said, hoping to pour oil on the troubled waters. “Griffin +doesn’t mean it, Woosenham. He doesn’t mean——” + +“But I do mean it,” the old man insisted. “I mean every word of it.” He +felt that the general sense was against him, but that was nothing to +him. Wasn’t he the oldest present, and wasn’t it his duty to stop this +folly if he could? “I tell you plainly, Woosenham,” he continued, “it +isn’t only your affair, if you lend your name to this business. You +take it up, and a lot of fools who know nothing about it, who know +less, by G—d, than you do, will take it up too! And will put their +money in it and go daundering up and down quoting you as if you were +Solomon! And that tickles you! But what will they say of you if the +affair turns out to be a swindle—another South Sea Bubble, by G—d! And +half the town and half the country are ruined by it! What’ll they say +of you then—and of us?” + +Acherley could be silent no longer. “Nobody’s going to be ruined by +it!” he retorted—he saw that Sir Charles looked much disturbed. +“Nobody! If you ask me, I think what you’re saying is d—d nonsense.” + +“It may be,” the Squire said sternly. “But just another word, please. I +want you to understand, Woosenham, that this is not your affair only. +It touches every one of us. What are we in this room? If we are those +to whom the administration of this county is entrusted, let us act as +such—and keep our hands clean. But if we are a set of money-changers +and bill-mongers,” with contempt, “stalking horses for such men as +Ovington the banker, dirtying our hands with all the tricks of the +money market—that’s another matter. But I warn you—you can’t be both. +And for my part—we don’t any longer wear swords to show we are +gentlemen, but I’m hanged if I’ll wear an apron or have anything to do +with this business. A railroad? Faugh! As if horses’ legs and Telford’s +roads aren’t good enough for us, or as if tea-kettles will ever beat +the Wonder coach—fifteen hours to London.” + +Acherley had been restrained with difficulty, and he now broke loose. +“Griffin,” he cried, “you’re damned offensive! If you wore a sword as +you used to——” + +“Pooh! Pooh!” said the Squire and shrugged his shoulders, while Sir +Charles, terribly put out both by the violence of the scene and by the +picture which the Squire had drawn, put in a feeble protest. “I must +say,” he said, “I think this uncalled for, Griffin. I think you might +have spared us this. You may not agree with us——” + +“But damme if he shall insult us!” Acherley cried, trembling with +passion. + +“Pooh, pooh!” said the Squire again. “I’m an old man, and it is useless +to talk to me in that strain. I’ve spoken my mind, and——” + +“Ay, and you horse two of the coaches!” Acherley retorted. “And make a +profit by that, dirty or no! But where’d your profit be, if your father +who rode post to London had stood pat where he was? And set himself +against coaches as you set yourself against the railroad?” + +That was a shrewd hit and the Squire did not meet it. Instead, “Well, +right or wrong,” he said, “that’s my opinion. And right or wrong, no +railroad crosses my land, and that’s my last word!” + +“We’ll see about that,” Acherley answered, bubbling with rage. “There +are more ways than one of cooking a goose.” + +“Just so. But——,” with a steady look at him, “which is the cook and +which is the goose, Acherley? Perhaps you’ll find that out some day.” +And the Squire clapped on his hat—he had already put on his shabby old +driving coat. But he had still a word to say. “I’m the oldest man +here,” he said, looking round upon them, “and I may take a liberty and +ask no man’s pleasure. You, Woosenham, and you gentlemen, let this +railroad alone. If you are going to move at twenty-five miles an hour, +then, depend upon it, more things will move than you wot of, and more +than you’ll like. Ay, you’ll have movement—movement enough and changes +enough if you go on! So I say, leave it alone, gentlemen. That’s my +advice.” + +He went out with that and stamped down the stairs. He had not sought +the encounter, and, now that he was alone, his knees shook a little +under him. But he had held his own and spoken his mind, and on the +whole he was content with himself. + +The same could not be said of those whom he had warned. Acherley, +indeed, abused him freely, but the majority were impressed, and Sir +Charles, who respected his opinion, was sorely shaken. He put no trust +in Acherley, whose debts and difficulties were known, and Ovington was +not there to reassure him. He valued the good opinion of his world, and +what, he reflected, if the Squire were right? What if in going into +this scheme he had made a mistake? The picture that Griffin had drawn +of town and country pointing the finger at him rose like a nightmare +before him, and would, he knew, accompany him home and darken his +dinner-table. And Ovington? Ovington was doubtless a clever man and, as +a banker, well versed in these enterprises. But Fauntleroy—Fauntleroy, +with whose name the world had rung these twelve months past, he, too, +had been clever and enterprising and plausible. Yet what a fate had +been his, and what losses had befallen all who had trusted him, all who +had been involved with him! + +Sir Charles went home an unhappy man. He wished that Griffin had not +warned him, or that he had warned him earlier. Of what use was a +warning when his lot was cast and he was the head and front of the +matter, President of the Company, Chairman of the Board? + +Meanwhile the Squire stood on the steps of the Court House, cursing his +man. The curricle was not there, Thomas was not there, it was growing +dark, and a huge pile of clouds, looming above the roofs to westward, +threatened tempest. The shopkeepers were putting up their shutters, the +packmen binding up their bundles, stall-keepers hurrying away their +trestles, and the Market Place, strewn with the rubbish and debris of +the day, showed dreary by the failing light. In the High Street there +was still some traffic, and in the lanes and alleys around candles +began to shine out. A one-legged sailor, caterwauling on a crazy +fiddle, had gathered a small crowd before one of the taverns. + +“Hang the man! Where is he?” the Squire muttered, looking about him +with a disgusted eye, and wishing himself at home. “Where is the +rogue?” + +Then Thomas, driving slowly and orating to a couple of men who walked +beside the carriage, came into view. The Squire roared at him, and +Thomas, taken by surprise, whipped up his horses so sharply that he +knocked over a hawker’s basket. Still storming at him the old man +climbed to his seat and took the reins. He drove round the corner into +Bride Hill, and stopped at Purslow’s door. + +The draper was at the carriage wheel before it stopped. He had the bag +in his hand, but he did not at once hand it up. “Excuse me, excuse the +liberty, sir,” he said, lowering his voice and glancing at Thomas, “but +it’s a large sum, sir, and it’s late. Hadn’t I better keep it till +morning?” + +The Squire snapped at him. “Morning? Rubbish, man! Put it in.” He made +room for the bag at his feet. + +But the draper still hesitated. “It will be dark in ten minutes, sir, +and the road—it’s true, no one has been stopped of late, but——” + +“I’ve never been stopped in my life,” the Squire rejoined. “Put it in, +man, and don’t be a fool. Who’s to stop me between here and Garth?” + +Purslow muttered something about the safe side, but he complied. He +handed in the bag, which gave out a clinking sound as it settled itself +beside the Squire’s feet. The old man nodded his thanks and started his +horses. + +He drove down Bride Hill, and by the Stalls, where the taps were +humming, and the inns were doing a great business. Passing one or two +belated carts, he turned to the right and descended to the bridge, the +old houses with their galleries and gables looming above him as for +three centuries they had loomed above the traveller by the Welsh road. +He rumbled over the bridge, the wide river flowing dark below him. Then +he trotted sharply up Westwell, passing by the inns that in old days +had served those who arrived after the gates were closed. + +Now he faced the open country and the wet west wind, and he settled +himself down in his seat and shook up his horses. As he did so his foot +touched the bag, and again the gold gave out a clinking sound. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +The Squire in his inmost heart had not derived much satisfaction from +his visit to the bank. He had left it with an uneasy feeling that the +step he had taken had not produced the intended effect. Ovington had +accepted the loss of his custom, not indeed with indifference, but with +dignity, and in a manner which left the old man little upon which to +plume himself. The withdrawal of his custom wore in the retrospect too +much of the look of spite, and he came near to regretting it, as he +drove along. + +Had he been present at an interview which took place after he had +retired, he might have been better pleased. The banker had not been +many minutes in the parlor, chewing the cud of the affair, before he +was interrupted by his cashier. In this there was nothing unusual; +routine required Rodd’s presence in the parlor several times in the +day. But his manner on the present occasion, and the way in which he +closed the door, prepared Ovington for something new, and “What is it, +Rodd?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, and disposing himself to +listen. + +“Can I have a word with you, sir?” + +“Certainly.” The banker’s face told nothing. Rodd’s was that of a man +who had made up his mind to a plunge. “What is it?” + +“I have been wishing to speak for some time, sir,” Rodd faltered. +“This——” Ovington understood at once that he referred to the Squire’s +matter—“I don’t like it, sir, and I have been with you ten years, and I +feel—I ought to speak.” + +Ovington shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t like it either,” he said. +“But it is of less importance than you think, Rodd. I know why Mr. +Griffin did it. And we are not now where we were. The withdrawal of a +few hundreds or the loss of a customer——” again he shrugged his +shoulders. + +“No,” Rodd said gravely. “If nothing more follows, sir.” + +“Why should anything follow? I know his reasons.” + +“But the town doesn’t. And if it gets about, sir?” + +“It won’t do us much damage. We’ve lost customers before, yet always +gained more than we lost. But there, Rodd, that is not what you came in +to say. What is it?” He spoke lightly, but he felt more surprise than +he showed. Rodd was a model cashier, performing his duties in a +precise, plodding fashion that had often excited Arthur’s ridicule; but +hitherto he had never ventured an opinion on the policy of the bank, +nor betrayed the least curiosity respecting its secrets. “What is it?” +Ovington repeated. “What has frightened you, man?” + +“We’ve a lot of notes out, sir!” + +The banker looked thoughtfully at the glasses he held in his hand. +“True,” he said. “Quite true. But trade is brisk, and the demand for +credit is large. We must meet the demand, Rodd, as far as we can—with +safety. That’s our business.” + +“And we’ve a lot of money out—that could not be got in in a hurry, +sir.” + +“Yes,” the banker admitted, “but that is our business, too. If we did +not put our money out we might close the bank to-morrow. That much of +the money cannot be got in at a minute’s notice is a thing we cannot +avoid.” + +The perspiration stood on Rodd’s forehead, but he persisted. “If it +were all on bills, sir, I would not say a word. But there is a lot on +overdraft.” + +“Well secured.” + +“While things are up. But if things went down, sir? There’s Wolley’s +account. I suspect that the last bills we discounted for him were +accommodation. Indeed, I am sure of it. And his overdraft is heavy.” + +“We hold the lease of his mill.” + +“But you don’t want to run the mill!” Rodd replied, putting his finger +on the weak point. + +The banker reflected. “That’s the worst account we have. The worst, +isn’t it?” + +“Mr. Acherley’s, sir.” + +“Well, yes. There might be a sounder account than that. But what is +it?” He looked directly at the other. “I want to know what has opened +your mouth? Have you heard anything? What makes you think that things +are going down?” + +“Mr. Griffin——” + +“No.” The banker shook his head. “That won’t do, Rodd. You had this in +your mind before he came in. You are pat with Wolley and Mr. Acherley; +bad accounts both, as all banks have bad accounts here and there. But +it’s true—we’ve been giving our customers rope, and they have bought +things that may fall. Still, they’ve made money, a good deal of money, +and we’ve kept a fair margin and obliged them at the same time. All +legitimate business. There must be something in your mind besides this, +I’m sure. What is it, lad?” + +The cashier turned a dull red, but before he could answer the door +behind him opened. Arthur came in. He looked at the banker, and from +him to Rodd, and his suspicions were aroused. “It’s four o’clock, sir,” +he said, and looked again at Rodd as if to ask what he was doing there. + +But Rodd held his ground, and the banker explained. + +“Rodd is a little alarmed for us,” he said, and it was difficult to be +sure whether he spoke in jest or in earnest. “He thinks we’re going too +fast. Putting our hand out too far. He mentions Wolley’s account, and +Acherley’s. + +“I was speaking generally,” Rodd muttered. He looked sullen. + +Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “I stand corrected,” he said. “I didn’t +know that Rodd ever went beyond his ledgers.” + +“Oh, he’s quite right to speak his mind. We are all in the same +boat—though we do not all steer.” + +“Well, I’m glad of that, sir.” + +“Still,” mildly, “it is a good thing to have an opinion.” + +“If it be worth anything.” + +“If opinions are going——” Betty had opened the door behind the banker’s +chair, and was standing on the threshold—“wouldn’t you like to have +mine, father?” + +“To be sure,” Arthur said. “Why not, indeed? Let us have it. Why not +have everybody’s? And send for the cook, sir, and the two clerks—to +advise us?” + +Betty dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, I am flattered.” + +“Betty, you’ve no business here,” her father said. “You mustn’t stop +unless you can keep your opinions to yourself.” + +“But what has happened?” she asked, looking around in wonder. + +“Mr. Griffin has withdrawn his account.” + +“And Rodd,” Arthur added, with more heat than the occasion seemed to +demand, “thinks that we had better put up the shutters!” + +“No, no,” the banker said. “We must do him justice. He thinks that we +are going a little too far, that’s all. And that the loss of Mr. +Griffin’s account is a danger signal. That’s what you mean, man, isn’t +it?” + +Rodd nodded, his face stubborn. He stood alone, divided from the other +three by the table, for Arthur had passed round it and placed himself +at Ovington’s elbow. + +“His view,” the banker continued, polishing his glasses with his +handkerchief and looking thoughtfully at them, “is that if there came a +check in trade and a fall in values, the bank might find its resources +strained—I’ll put it that way.” + +Arthur sneered. “Singular wisdom! But a fall—a general fall at any +rate—what sign is there of it?” He was provoked by the banker’s way of +taking it. Ovington seemed to be attaching absurd weight to Rodd’s +suggestion. “None!” contemptuously. “Not a jot.” + +“There’s been a universal rise,” Rodd muttered. + +“In a moment? Without warning?” + +“No, but——” + +“But fiddlesticks!” Arthur retorted. Of late it seemed as if his good +humor had deserted him, and this was not the first sign he had given of +an uncertain temper. Still, the phase was so new that two of those +present looked curiously at him, and his consciousness of this added to +his irritation. “Rodd’s no better than an old woman,” he continued. +“Five per cent. and a mortgage in a strong box is about his measure. If +you are going to listen to every croaker who is frightened by a shadow, +you may as well close the bank, sir, and put the money out on Rodd’s +terms!” + +“Still Rodd means us well,” the banker said thoughtfully, “and a little +caution is never out of place in a bank. What I want to get from him +is—has he anything definite to tell us? Wolley? Have you heard anything +about Wolley, Rodd?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Then what is it? What is it, man?” + +But Rodd, brought to bay, only looked more stubborn. “It’s no more than +I’ve told you, sir,” he muttered, “it’s just a feeling. Things must +come down some day.” + +“Oh, damn!” Arthur exclaimed, out of patience, and thinking that the +banker was making altogether too much of it—and of Rodd. “If he were a +weather-glass——” + +“Or a woman!” interjected Betty, who was observing all with bright +inscrutable eyes. + +“But as he isn’t either,” Arthur continued impatiently, “I fail to see +why you make so much of it! Of course, things will come down some day, +but if he thinks that with your experience you are blind to anything he +is likely to see, he’s no better than a fool! Because my uncle, for +reasons which you understand, sir, has drawn out four hundred pounds, +he thinks every customer is going to leave us, and Ovington’s must put +up the shutters! The truth is, he knows nothing about it, and if he +wishes to damage the bank he is going the right way to do it!” + +“Would you like my opinion, father?” Betty asked. + +“No,” sharply, “certainly not, child. Where’s Clement?” + +“Well, I’m afraid he’s away.” + +“Again? Then he is behaving very badly!” + +“That was the opinion I was going to give,” the girl answered. “That +some were behaving better than others.” + +“If,” Arthur cried, “you mean me——” + +“There, enough,” said her father. “Be silent, Betty. You’ve no business +to be here.” + +“Still, people should behave themselves,” she replied, her eyes +sparkling. + +Arthur had his answer ready, but Ovington forestalled him. “Very good, +Rodd,” he said. “A word on the side of caution is never out of place in +a bank. But I am not blind, and all that you have told me is in my +mind. Thank you. You can go now.” + +It was a dismissal, and Rodd took it as such, and felt, as he had never +felt before, his subordinate position. Why he did so, and why, as he +withdrew under Arthur’s eye, he resented the situation, he best knew. +But it is possible that two of the others had some inkling of the +cause. + +When he had gone, “There’s an old woman for you!” Arthur exclaimed. “I +wonder that you had the patience to listen to him, sir.” + +But Ovington shook his head. “I listened because there are times when a +straw shows which way the wind blows.” + +“But you don’t think that there is anything in what he said?” + +“I shall remember what he said. The time may be coming to take in +sail—to keep a good look-out, lad, and be careful. You have been with +us—how long? Two years. Ay, but years of expansion, of rising prices, +of growing trade. But I have seen other times—other times.” He shook +his head. + +“Still, there is no sign of a change, sir?” + +“You’ve seen one to-day. What is in Rodd’s head may be in others, and +what is in men’s heads soon reflects itself in their conduct.” + +It was the first word, the first hint, the first presage of evil; of a +fall, of bad weather, of a storm, distant as yet, and seen even by the +clearest eyes only as a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. But the word +had been spoken. The hint had been given. And to Arthur, who had paid a +high price for prosperity—how high only he could say—the presage seemed +an outrage. The idea that the prosperity he had bought was not a +certainty, that the craft on which he had embarked his fortune was, +like other ships, at the mercy of storm and tempest, that like other +ships it might founder with all its freight, was entirely new to him. +So new that for a moment his face betrayed the impression it made. Then +he told himself that the thing was incredible, that he started at +shadows, and his natural confidence rebounded. “Oh, damn Rodd!” he +cried—and he said it with all his heart. “He’s a croaker by nature!” + +“Still, we won’t damn him,” the banker answered mildly. “On the +contrary, we will profit by his warning. But go now. I have a letter to +write. And do you go, too, Betty, and make tea for us.” + +He turned to his papers, and Arthur, after a moment’s hesitation, +followed Betty into the house. Overtaking her in the hall, “Betty, what +is the matter?” he asked. And when the girl took no notice, but went on +with her chin in the air as if he had not spoken, he seized her arm. +“Come,” he said, “I am not going to have this. What is it?” + +“What should it be! I don’t know what you mean,” she retorted. + +“Oh yes, you do. What took you—to back up that ass in the bank just +now?” + +Then Betty astonished him. “I didn’t think he wanted any backing,” she +said, her eyes bright. “He seemed to me to talk sense, and someone else +nonsense.” + +“But you’re not——” + +“A partner in Ovington’s? No, Mr. Bourdillon, I am not—thank heaven! +And so my head is not turned, and I can keep my temper and mind my +manners.” + +“Oh, it’s Mr. Bourdillon now, is it?” + +“Yes—if you are going to behave to my friends as you did this +afternoon.” + +“Your friends!” scornfully. “You include Rodd, do you? Rodd, Betty?” + +“Yes, I do, and I am not too proud to do so. Nor too proud to be angry +when I see a man ten years younger than he is slap him in the face! I +am not so spoiled that I think everyone beneath me!” + +“So it’s Rodd now?” + +“It’s as much Rodd now,” her cheeks hot, her eyes sparkling, “as it was +anyone else before! Just as much and just as little. You flatter +yourself, sir!” + +“But, Betty,” in a coaxing tone, “little spitfire that you are, can’t +you guess why I was short with Rodd? Can’t you guess why I don’t +particularly love him? But you do guess. Rodd is what he is—nothing! +But when he lifts his eyes above him—when he dares to make eyes at +you—I am not going to be silent.” + +“Now you are impertinent!” she replied. “As impertinent as you were +mean before. Yes, mean, mean! When you knew he could not answer you! +Mean!” + +And without waiting for a reply she ran up the stairs. + +He went to one of the windows of the dining-room and looked across +Bride Hill and along the High Street, full at that hour of market +people. But he did not see them, his thoughts were busy with what had +happened. He could not believe that Betty had any feeling for Rodd. The +man was dull, commonplace, a plodder, and not young; he was well over +thirty. No, the idea was preposterous. And it was still more absurd to +suppose that if he, Arthur, threw the handkerchief—or even fluttered it +in her direction, for dear little thing as she was, he had not quite +made up his mind—she would hesitate to accept him, or would let any +thought of Rodd weigh with her. + +Still, he would let her temper cool, he would not stay to tea. Instead, +he would by and by ride his new horse out to the Cottage. He had not +been home for the weekend. He had left Mrs. Bourdillon to come to +herself and recover her good humor in solitude. Now he would make it up +with her, and while he was there he might as well get a peep at +Josina—it was a long time since he had seen her. If Betty chose to +adopt this unpleasant line, why, she could not blame him if he amused +himself. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +For a time after the Squire had driven away, Clement had sat his horse +and stared after him, and in his rage had wished him dead. He had +prepared himself for opposition, he had looked to be repulsed—he had +expected nothing else. But in the scene which his fancy had pictured, +his part had been one of dignity; he had owned his aspirations like a +man, he had admitted his insufficiency with modesty, he had pleaded the +power of love with eloquence, he had won even from the Squire a meed of +unwilling approbation. + +But the scene, as played, had run on other lines. The old man had +crushed him. He had sworn at him, refused to listen to him, had +insulted him, had treated him as no better than a shop-boy. And all +this had cut to the quick. For Clement, born after Ovington had risen +from the ranks, had his pride and his self-respect, and humiliated, he +cursed with all his soul the prejudice and hide-bound narrowness of the +Squire and all his caste. For the time he was more than a radical, he +was a republican. If by a gesture he could have swept away King and +Commons, lords and justices, he would not have held his hand. + +It took him some time to recover, and it was only when he found +himself, he hardly knew how, upon the bridge at Garthmyle that he grew +more cool. Even then he was not quite himself. He had vowed that he +would not see Josina again until he had claimed her from her father; +but the Squire’s treatment, he now felt, had absolved him from this, +and the temptation to see her was great. He longed to pour out his mind +to her, and to tell her how he had been insulted, how he had been +treated. Perhaps, even, he must say farewell to her—he must give her +up. + +For he was not all hero, and the task before him seemed for the time +too prodigious, the labor too little hopeful. The Hydra had so many +heads, and roared so fearfully that for a moment his courage sank +before it—and his love. He felt that he must yield, that he must see +Josina and tell her so. In any event she ought to know what had +happened, and presently he put up his horse at the inn and made by a +roundabout road for their meeting-place by the brook. + +There was but a chance that she would visit it, and in the meantime he +had to exercise what patience he might. His castles in the air had +fallen and he had not the spirit to rebuild them. He sat gazing moodily +on the rippling face of the water, or watched the ousel curtsying on +its stone; and he almost despaired. He had known the Squire to be +formidable, he now knew him to be impossible. He looked down the stream +to where Garth, lofty and fortress-like, raised its twisted chimneys +above the trees, and he shook his fist at it. Remote and islanded on +its knoll, rising amid ancestral trees, it stood for all that the +Squire stood for—governance, privilege, tradition, the past—all the +things he had not, all the things that mocked him. + +He lingered there, savoring his melancholy, until the sun went down +behind the hills, and then, attacked by the pangs of hunger, he made +his way back to the village inn. Here he satisfied his appetite on such +home-baked bread and yellow butter and nut-brown ale as are not in +these degenerate times; and for wellnigh an hour he sat brooding in the +sanded parlor surrounded by china cats and dogs—they too, would be of +value nowadays. At length with a heavy heart—for what was he to do +next?—he rode out of the yard, and crossing the bridge under the +shadowy bulk of the squat church tower, he set his horse’s head for +home. It was nearly dark. + +What was he to do next? He did not know, but as he rode through the +gloom, the solemn hills falling back on either side and the dark plain +widening before him, he took courage; he began to consider, with some +return of hope, what lay before him, and how he must proceed—if he were +not to give up. Clearly he must face the Squire, but it must be in the +Squire’s own house, where the Squire must hear him. The old man might +insult him, rave at him, order him out, but before he was put out he +would speak and ask for Josina, though the roof fell. There should be +no further mistake. And he would let the Squire know, if it came to +that, that he was a man, as good as other men. By heaven he would! + +He was not all hero. But there were some heroic parts about him, and he +determined that the very next morning he would ride out and would beard +the Hydra in its den, be its heads ever so many. He would win his +lady-love or perish! + +By this time he was half-way home. The market traffic on the road had +ceased, the moon had not yet risen, the night lay calm and still about +him. Presently as he crossed a wet, rushy flat, one of the loneliest +parts of the way, he saw the lights of a vehicle coming towards him. +The road at that point had not been long enclosed, and a broad strip of +common still survived on either hand, so that moving on this the +horse’s hoofs made no sound save a soft plop-plop where the ground was +wettest. He could hear, therefore, while still afar off, the tramp of a +pair of horses driven at a trot, and it occurred to him that this might +be the Squire returning late. If he could have avoided the meeting he +would have done so, though it was unlikely that the Squire would +recognize him in the dark. But to turn aside would be foolish. “Hang me +if I am going to be afraid of him!” he thought. And he touched up his +horse with his heel. + +Then an odd thing happened. While the carriage was still fifty yards +from him, one of the lights went out. His eyes missed it, but his brain +had barely taken in the fact when the second vanished also, as if the +vehicle had sunk into the ground. At the same moment a cry reached his +ears, followed by a clatter of hoofs on the road as if the horses were +being sharply pulled up. + +Clement took his horse by the head and bent forward, striving to make +out what was passing. A dull sound, as of a heavy body striking the +road reached him, followed by a silence that seemed ominous. Even the +wind appeared to have hushed its whisper through the rushes. + +“Hallo!” he shouted. “What is it? Is anything the matter?” He urged his +horse forward. + +His cry was lost in the crack of a whip, he heard the horses break +away, and without farther warning they came down upon him at a gallop, +the carriage bounding wildly behind them. He had just time to thrust +his nag to the side, and they were on him and past him, and whirling +down the road—a mere shadow, but as perilous and almost as noisy as a +thunderbolt. There was no doubt now that an accident had happened, but +before he could give help he had to master his horse, which had wheeled +about; and so a few seconds elapsed before he reached the scene—reached +it with his heart in his mouth—for who could say with what emergency he +might not have to deal? + +Certainly with a tragedy, for the first thing he made out was the form +of a man stooping over another who lay in the road. Clement drew a +breath of relief as he slipped from his saddle—he would not have to +meet the crisis alone. But as his foot touched the ground, he saw the +stooping man raise his hand with something in it, and he knew +instinctively that it was raised not to help but to strike. + +He shouted, and the blow hung in the air. The man, taken by surprise, +straightened himself, turned, and saw Clement at his elbow. He +hesitated; then, with an oath, he aimed his blow at the new-comer. + +Clement parried it, rather by instinct than with intention, and so +weakly, that the other’s weapon beat down his guard and cut his +cheek-bone. He staggered back and the villain raised his cudgel again. +Had the second blow fallen where it was aimed, it would have finished +the business. But Clement, aware now that he fought for his life, +sprang within the other’s guard, and before the cudgel alighted, +gripped him by the neckcloth. The man gave ground, tripped backwards +over the body that lay behind him, and in a twinkling the two were +rolling together on the road, Clement striving to beat in the ruffian’s +face with the butt-end of his whip, while the man tried vainly to +shorten his weapon and use it to purpose. + +It was a desperate struggle, in the mire, in the darkness—a struggle +for life carried on in a silence that was broken only by the +combatants’ breathing and a rare oath. Twice each rolled the other, and +once Clement, having the upper hand became aware that the fight had its +spectator. He had a glimpse of a ghastly face, one side of which had +been mangled by a murderous blow—a face that glared at them with its +remaining eye. He guessed rather than saw that the man lying in the +road had raised himself on an elbow, and he heard a gasping “At him, +lad! Well done, lad!” then in a turn of the struggle he lost the +vision. His opponent had him by the throat, he was undermost again—and +desperate. His one thought now was to kill—to kill the brute-beast +whose teeth threatened his cheek, whose hot breath burned his face, +whose hands gripped his throat. He struck again and again, and +eventually, supple and young, and perhaps the stronger, he freed +himself and staggered to his feet, raising his whip to strike. + +But the same thing happened to him which had happened to his assailant. +As he stepped back to give power to the blow, he fell over the third +man. He came down heavily, and for a moment he was at the other’s +mercy. Fortunately the rascal’s courage was at an end. He got to his +feet, but instead of pursuing his advantage, he snatched up something +that lay on the ground, and sped away down the road, as quickly as his +legs could carry him. + +Clement recovered his feet, but more slowly, for the fall had shaken +him. Still, his desire for vengeance was hot, and he set off in +pursuit. The man had a good start, however, and presently, leaving the +road and leaping the ditch, made off across the open common. To follow +farther promised little, for in a few seconds his figure, already +shadowy, melted into the darkness of the fields. Clement gave up the +chase, and turned back, panting and out of breath. + +He did not feel his wound, much less did he feel the misgivings which +had beset him when he came upon the scene. Instead, he experienced a +new and thrilling elation. He had measured his strength against an +enemy, he had faced death in fight, he felt himself equal to any and +every event. Even when stooping over the prostrate figure he saw the +mangled and bleeding face turned up to the sky it did not daunt him, +nor the darkness, nor the loneliness. The injured man seemed to be +aware of his presence for he made an attempt to rise; but he failed, +and would have fallen back on the road if Clement, dropping on one +knee, had not sustained his head on the other. It was the Squire. So +much he saw; but it was a Squire past not only scolding but speech, +whom he held in his arms and whose head he supported. To all Clement’s +questions he made no answer. It was much if he still breathed. + +Clement glanced about him, and his confidence began to leave him. What +was he to do? He could not go for help, leaving the old man lying in +the road; yet it was impossible to do much in the dark, either to +ascertain the extent of the Squire’s hurt, or to use means to stanch +it. The moon had not yet risen, the plain stretched dark about them, no +sound except the melancholy whisper of the wind in the rushes reached +him. There was no house near and it was growing late. No one might pass +for hours. + +Fortunately when he had reached this stage he remembered that he had +his tinder box and matches in his pocket, and he fumbled for them with +his disengaged hand. With an effort, he got them out. But to strike a +light and catch it in the huddled posture in which he knelt was not +easy, and it was only after a score of attempts that the match caught +the flame. Even so, the light it gave was faint, but it revealed the +Squire’s face, and Clement saw, with a shudder, that the left eye and +temple were terribly battered. But he saw, too, that the old man was +conscious, for he uttered a groan, and peered with the uninjured eye at +the face that bent over him. “Good lad!” he muttered, “good lad!” and +he added broken words which conveyed to Clement’s mind that it was his +man who had attacked him. Then—his face was so turned that it was +within a few inches of Clement’s shoulder—“You’re bloody, lad,” he +muttered. “He’s spoiled your coat, the d—d rascal!” + +With that he seemed to slip back into unconsciousness, and the light +went out. It left Clement in a strait to know what he ought to do, or +rather what he could do. Help he must get, and speedily, if he would +save the Squire’s life, but his horse was gone, and to walk away for +help, leaving the old man lying in the mud of the way seemed inhuman. +He must at least carry him to the side of the road. + +The task was no light one, for the Squire was tall, though not stout; +and before Clement stooped to it he cast a last look round. But silence +still wrapped all, and he was gathering his strength to lift the dead +weight, when a sound caught his ear, and he raised himself. A moment, +and joy!—he caught the far-off beat of hoofs on the turf. Someone was +coming, approaching him from the direction of Aldersbury. He shouted, +shouted his loudest and waited. Yes, he was not mistaken. The soft +plop-plop of hoofs grew louder, two forms loomed out of the darkness, a +horse shied, a man swore. + +“Here!” Clement cried. “Here! Take care! There’s a man in the road.” + +“Where?” Then, “Confound you, you nearly had me down! Are you hurt?” + +“No, but” + +“I’ve got your horse. I met him a couple of miles this side of the +town. What has——” + +Clement broke in. “There’s bad work here!” he cried, his voice shaky. +Now that help was at hand and the peril was over, he began to feel what +he had gone through. “For God’s sake get down and help me. Your uncle’s +man has robbed him and, I fear, murdered him.” + +“The Squire?” + +“Yes, yes. He’s lying here, half dead. We must get him to the side of +the road at once.” + +Arthur slipped from his saddle, and holding the reins of the two +horses, approached the group as nearly as the frightened beasts would +let him. “Quiet, fools!” he cried angrily. And then, “Good heavens!” in +a whisper, as he peered awe-stricken at the injured man. “Is he dead?” + +“No, but he’s terribly mauled. And we must get help. Help, man, and +quickly, if it is to be of any use. Shall I go?” + +“No, no, I’ll go,” Arthur answered, recoiling. What he had seen had +given him no desire to take Clement’s place. “Garthmyle is the nearer, +and I shall not be long. I’ll tie up your horse—that’ll be best.” + +There was an old thorn-tree standing solitary in the waste not many +yards away: a tree destined to be pointed out for years to come as +marking the spot where the old Squire was robbed. Arthur tied Clement’s +horse to this, then together they lifted the old man and carried him to +the side of the road. The moment that this was done, Arthur sprang on +his horse and started off. “Back soon,” he shouted. + +Clement had not seen his way to object, but it was with a heavy heart +that he resigned himself to another period of painful waiting. He was +cold, his face smarted, and at any moment the old man might die on his +hands. Meantime he could do nothing but wait. Or yes, he could do +something; chilled as he was, he took off his coat, and rolling it up, +he slipped it under the insensible head. + +Little had he thought that morning that he would ever pity the Squire. +But he did. The man who had driven away from him, hard, aggressive, +indomitable, asking no man’s help and meeting all men’s eyes with the +gaze of a master, now lay at his feet, crushed and broken; lay with his +head on the coat of the man he had despised, dependent on him for the +poor service that still might avail him. Clement felt the pathos of it, +and the pity. And his heart was sore for Josina. How would she meet, +how bear the shock that a short hour must inflict on her? + +He was thinking of her, when, long before he had dared to expect +relief, he heard a sound that resolved itself into the rattle of +wheels. Yes, there was a carriage coming along the road. + +Arthur had been fortunate. He had come upon the Squire’s horses, which +had been brought to a stand with the near wheels of the curricle wedged +in the ditch. He had found them greedily feeding, and he had let his +own nag go, and had captured the runaways. He had drawn the carriage +out of the ditch, and here he was. + +“Thank God!” Clement cried. “I think that he is still alive.” + +“And we’ve got to lift him in,” said Arthur, more practical. “He’s a +big weight.” + +It was not an easy task. But they tied up the horses to the thorn-tree, +and lifting the old man between them, they carried him with what care +they might to the carriage, raised him, heavy and helpless as he was, +to the step, and then, while one maintained him there, the other +climbed in and lifted him to the front seat. Clement got up behind and +supported his shoulders and head, while Arthur, first tying the +saddle-horse behind the carriage, released the pair, and with the reins +in his hands scrambled to his place. + +The thing was done and cleverly done, and they set off. But they dared +not travel at more than a walk, and never had the three miles to +Garthmyle seemed so long or so tedious. + +They were both anxious and both excited. But while in Clement’s mind +pity, a sense of the tragedy before him, and thought for Josina +contended with an honest pride in what he had done, the other, as they +drove along, was already calculating chances and busy with +contingencies. The Squire’s death—if the Squire died—would work a great +change, an immense change. Things which had yesterday been too doubtful +and too distant to deserve much thought would be within reach, would be +his for the asking. And he was the more inclined to consider this +because Betty—dear little creature as she was—had shown a spirit that +day that was not to his liking. Whereas Josina, mild and docile—it +might be that after all she would suit him better. And Garth—Garth with +its wide acres and its rich rent-roll would be hers; Garth that would +give any man a position to be envied. Its charms, while uncertain and +dependent on the whim and caprice of an arbitrary old man, had not +fixed him, for to attain to them he must give up other things, equally +to his mind. But now the case was or might be altered. He must wait and +watch events, and keep an open mind. If the Squire died—— + +A word or two passed between the couple, but for the most part they +were silent. Once and again the Squire moaned, and so proved that he +still lived. At last, where the road to Garth branched off, at the +entrance to the village, they saw a light in front, and old Fewtrell +carrying a lanthorn met them. The Squire’s absence had alarmed the +house, and he had come thus far in quest of news. + +“Oh, Lord, ha’ mercy! Lord, ha’ mercy!” the old fellow quavered as he +lifted his lanthorn and the light disclosed the group in the carriage, +and his master’s huddled form and ghastly visage. “Miss Jos said ’twas +so! Said as summat had happened him! Beside herself, she be! She’ve +been down at the gate this half-hour waiting on him!” + +“Don’t let her see him,” Clement cried. “Go, man, and send her back.” + +But, “That’s no good,” Arthur objected with more sense but less +feeling. “She must see him. This is women’s work, we can do nothing. +Let Fewtrell take your place and do you go for the doctor. You know +where he lives, and you’ll go twice as quick as he will, and there’s no +more that you can do. Take your horse.” + +Clement was unwilling to go, unwilling to have no farther part in the +matter. But he could not refuse. Things were as they were; in spite of +all that he had done and suffered, he had no place there, no standing +in the house, no right beside his mistress or call to think for her. He +was a stranger, an outsider, and when he had fetched the doctor, there +would, as Arthur had said, be nothing more that he could do. + +Nothing more, though as he rode over the bridge and trotted through the +village his heart was bursting with pity for her whom he could not +comfort, could not see; from whose side in her troubles and her +self-arraignment—for he knew that she would reproach herself—he must be +banished. It was hard. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +The Squire was late. + +A hundred years ago night fell more seriously. It closed in on a +countryside less peopled, on houses and hamlets more distant, and +divided by greater risks of flood and field. The dark hours were longer +and haunted by graver apprehensions. Every journey had to be made on +horses or behind them, roads were rough and miry, fords were plenty, +bridges scarce. Sturdy rogues abounded, and to double every peril it +was still the habit of most men to drink deep. Few returned sober from +market, fewer from fair or merry-making. + +For many, therefore, the coming of night meant the coming of fear. +Children, watching the great moths fluttering against the low ceiling, +or round the rush-light that cast such gloomy shadows, thought that +their elders would never come upstairs to bed. Lone women, quaking in +remote dwellings, remembered the gibbet where the treacherous +inn-keeper still moulded, and fancied every creak the coming of a man +in a crape mask. Thousands suffered nightly because the goodman +lingered abroad, or the son was absent, and in many a window the light +was set at dusk to guide the master by the pool. On market evenings +women stole trembling down the lane that the sound of wheels might the +sooner dispel their fears. + +At Garth it was youth not age that first caught the alarm. For Josina’s +conscience troubled her, and before even Miss Peacock, most fidgety of +old maids, had seen cause to fear, the girl was standing in the +darkness before the door, listening and uneasy. The Squire was seldom +late; it could not be that Clement had met him and there had been a—but +no, Clement was not the man to raise his hand against his elder—the +thought was dismissed as soon as formed. Yet why did not the Squire +come? Lights began to shine through the casements, she saw the candles +brought into the dining-room, the darkness thickened about her, only +the trunks of the nearer beeches gave back a gleam. And she felt that +if anything had happened to him she could never forgive herself. +Shivering, less with cold than with apprehension, she peered down the +drive. He had been later than this before, but then her conscience had +been quiet, she had not deceived him, she had had nothing with which to +reproach herself on his account. + +Presently, “Josina, what are you doing there?” Miss Peacock cried. She +had come to the open door and discovered the girl. She began to scold. +“Come in this minute, child! What are you starving the house for, +standing there?” + +But Josina did not budge. “He is very late,” she said. + +“Late? What nonsense! And what if he is late? What good can you do, +standing out there? I declare one might suppose your father was one of +those skimble-skambles that can’t pass a tavern door, to hear you talk! +And Thomas with him! Come in at once when I tell you! As if I should +not be the first to cry out if anything were wrong. Late indeed—why, +goodness gracious, I declare it’s nearly eight. What can have become of +him, child? And Calamy and those good-for-nothing girls warming their +knees at the fire, and no more caring if their master is in the river +than—Josina, do you hear? Do you know that your father is still out? +Calamy!” ringing a hand-bell that stood on the table in the hall, +“Calamy! Are you all asleep? Don’t you know that your master is not in, +and it is nearly eight?” + +Calamy was the butler. A tall, lanthorn-jawed man, he would have looked +lugubrious in the King’s scarlet which he had once worn; in his +professional black, or in his shirt sleeves, cleaning plate, he was +melancholy itself. And his modes and manners were at least as mournful +as his aspect—no man so sure as “Old Calamity” to see the dark side of +things or to put it before others. It was whispered that he had been a +Dissenter, and why the Squire, who hated a ranter as he hated the +devil, had ever engaged him, much less kept him, was a puzzle to +Garthmyle. That he had been his son’s servant and had been with the boy +when he died, might have seemed a sufficient reason, had the Squire +been other than he was. But no one supposed that such a thing weighed +with the old man—he was of too hard a grain. Yet at Garth, Calamy had +lived for a score of years, and been suffered with a patience which +might have stood to the credit of more reasonable men. + +“Nearly eight!” Miss Peacock flung at him, and repeated her statement. + +“We’ve put the dinner back, ma’am.” + +“Put the dinner back! And that’s all you think of, when at any minute +your master—oh, dear, dear, what can have happened to him?” + +“Well, it’s a dark night, ma’am, to be sure.” + +“Gracious goodness, can’t I see that? If Thomas weren’t with him——” + +The butler shook his head. “Under notice, ma’am,” he said. “I think the +worst of Thomas. On a dark night, with Thomas——” + +Miss Peacock gasped. + +“I should say my prayers, ma’am,” the butler murmured softly. + +Miss Peacock stared, aghast. “Under notice?” she cried. “Well, of all +the—’deed, and I wish you were all under notice, if that is the best +you’ve got to say.” + +“Hadn’t you better,” said Josina from the darkness outside, “send +Fewtrell to meet him with a lanthorn?” + +“And get my nose bitten off when your father comes home! La, bless me, +I don’t know what to do! And no one else to do a thing!” + +“Send him, Calamy,” said Josina. + +Calamy retired. Miss Peacock looked out, a shawl about her head. “Jos! +Where are you?” she cried. “Come in at once, girl. Do you think I am +going to be left alone, and the door open? Jos! Jos!” + +But Josina was gone, groping her way down the drive. When Fewtrell +followed with his lanthorn he came on her sitting on the bridge, and he +got a rare start, thinking it was a ghost. “Lord A’mighty!” he cried as +the light fell on her pale face. “Aren’t you afraid to sit there by +yourself, miss?” + +But Josina was not afraid, and after a word or two he shambled away, +the lanthorn swinging in his hand. The girl watched the light go +bobbing along as far the highway fifty yards on, saw it travel to the +left along the road, lost it for some moments, then marked it again, a +faint blur of light, moving towards the village. + +Presently it vanished and she was left alone with her fears. She +strained her ears to catch the first sound of wheels. The stream +murmured beneath her, a sick sheep coughed, the breeze whispered in the +hedges, the cry of an owl, thrice repeated, sank into silence. But that +was all, and in the presence of the silent world about her, of the +all-enveloping night, of the solemn stars shining as they had shone +from eternity, the girl knew herself infinitely helpless, without +remedy against the stroke of impending fate. She recognized that +lighted rooms and glowing fires and the indoor life did but deceive; +that they did but blind the mind to the immensity of things, to the +real issues, to life and death and eternity. Anguished, she owned that +a good conscience was the only refuge, and that she had it not. She had +deceived her father, and it would be her fate to endure a lasting +remorse. At last, her eyes opened, she fancied that she detected behind +the mask a father’s face. But too late, for the bridge which he had +crossed innumerable times, the drive, rough and rutted, yet the +harbinger of home, which he had climbed from boyhood to age, the +threshold which he had trodden so often as master—they would know him +no more! At the thought she broke down and wept, feeling all its +poignancy, all its pitifulness, and finding for the moment no support +in Clement, no recompense in a love which deceit and secrecy had +tainted. + +Doubtless she would not have taken things so hardly had she not been +overwrought; and, as it was, the first sound that reached her from the +Garthmyle road brought her to her feet. A light showed, moving from +that direction, travelling slowly through the darkness. It vanished, +and she held her breath. It came into view again, and she groped her +way forward until she stood in the road. The light was close at hand +now, though viewed from the front it moved so little that her worst +forebodings were confirmed. But now, now that she saw her fears +justified, the woman’s fortitude, that in enduring is so much greater +than man’s, came to her aid, and it was with a calmness that surprised +herself that she awaited the slow procession, discerned by the +lanthorn-light her father’s huddled form, and in a trembling voice +asked if he still lived. + +“Yes, yes!” Arthur cried, and hastened to reassure her. “He will do +yet, but he is hurt. Go back, Jos, and get his bed ready, and hot +water, and some linen. The doctor will be here in a minute.” + +His voice, firm and collected, struck the right note, and the girl +answered to it bravely. She made no lamentation, shed no tears—there +would be time for tears later—but gathering up her skirts she sped up +the drive, and before the carriage had passed the bridge she had given +the alarm in the house. There, in a moment, all was confusion. Miss +Peacock, whatever fears she had expressed, was ill prepared for the +fact, and it was Josina, who, steadied by that half-hour of +self-examination, stilled the outcry of the maids, gave the needful +orders, and seconded Calamy in carrying them out, had candles placed on +the stairs, and with her own hand brought out a stout chair. When the +carriage, the lanthorn gleaming sombrely on the shining trunks, drew +slowly out of the darkness, she was there with lights and brandy. For +her the worst was over. The scared faces of the women, their stifled +cries and confused hovering, were but a background to her steady +courage. + +Still, even she yielded the first place to Arthur. Whatever pity or +horror he had felt, he had had time to overcome, and to think both of +the present and the future. And he rose to the occasion. He directed, +arranged, and was himself the foremost worker. By the time Mr. Farmer, +the village doctor, arrived, he had done much which had to be done. The +Squire had been carried upstairs, and lay, breathing stertorously, on +his great four-post bed with the dingy drab curtains and the two +watch-pockets at the head; and everything which could be of use had +been brought to hand. + +The doctor shut out the frightened maids and shut out Miss Peacock. But +Arthur was only at the beginning of his resources. His nerve was good +and he aided Farmer in his examination, while Jos, standing out of +sight behind the curtain, calm but quivering in every nerve, handed to +him or to Calamy what they needed. Even then, however, and while he was +thus employed, Arthur found occasion to whisper a cheering word to the +girl, to reassure her and give her hope. He forced her to take a glass +of wine, and when Calamy, shaking his head, muttered that he had known +a man to recover who had been worse hurt—but he was a strong young +fellow—he damned the butler for an old fool, regardless of the fact +that coming from Calamy this was a cheerful prognostic. + +Presently he made her go downstairs. “Nothing more can be done now,” +said he. “The doctor thinks well of him so far. He and I will stay with +him to-night. You must save yourself, Jos. You will be needed +to-morrow.” + +He left the room with her, and as she would not go to bed he made her +lie down on a couch, and covered her with a cloak. He had dropped the +tone of patronage, almost of persiflage, which he had used to her of +late, and he was kindness itself, behaving to her as a brother; so that +she did not know how to be thankful enough for his presence, or for the +relief from responsibility which it afforded. Afterwards, looking back +on that long, strange night, during which lights burned in the rooms +till dawn, and odd meals were served at odd times, and stealthy feet +trod the stairs, and scared faces peeped in only to be +withdrawn—looking back on that strange night, and its happenings, it +seemed to her that without him she could not have lived through the +hours. + +In truth there was not much sleep for anyone. The village doctor, who +lived in top-boots, and went his rounds on horse-back, and by +old-fashioned people was called the apothecary, could say nothing for +certain; in the morning he might be able to do so. But in the +morning—well, perhaps by night, when the patient came to himself, he +might be able to form an opinion. To Arthur he was more candid. The eye +was beyond hope—it could not be saved, and he feared that the other eye +was injured; and there was serious concussion. He played with his fob +seals and looked sagely over his gold-rimmed spectacles as he mouthed +his phrases. Whether there was a fracture he could not say at present. + +He had seen in a long life and a country practice many such cases, and +was skilful in treating them. But—no active measures. “Dr. Quiet,” he +said, “Dr. Quiet, the best of the faculty, my dear. If he does not +always effect a cure, he makes no mistakes. We must leave it to him.” + +So morning came, and passed, and noon; and still nothing more could be +done. With the afternoon reaction set in; the house resigned itself to +rest. Two or three stole away to sleep. Arthur dozed in an arm-chair. +The clock struck with abnormal clearness, the cluck of a hen in the +yard was heard in the attics. So the hours passed until sunset +surprised a yawning house, and in the parlor they pressed one another +to eat, and in the kitchen unusual luxuries were consumed with a +ghoulish enjoyment, and no fear of the housekeeper. And still Farmer +could add nothing. They must wait and hope. Dr. Quiet! He praised him +afresh in the same words. + +Some hours earlier, and before Josina, after much scolding by Miss +Peacock, had retired to her room to lie down, Arthur had told his +story. + +He did not go into details. “It would only shock you, Jos,” he said. +“It was Thomas, of course, and I hope to heaven he’ll swing for it. I +suppose he knew that your father was carrying a large sum, and he must +have struck him, possibly as he turned to say something, and then +thrown him out. We must set the hue and cry after him, but Clement will +see to that. It was lucky that he turned up when he did.” + +She drew a sharp breath; this was the first she had heard of Clement. +And in her surprise “Clement?” she exclaimed. Then, covering her +confusion as well as she could, “Mr. Ovington? Do you mean—he was +there, Arthur?” + +“By good luck he was, just when he was wanted. Poor chap. I can tell +you it knocked him fairly down. All the same, I don’t know what might +not have happened if he had not come up. I sent him for Farmer, and it +saved time.” + +“I did not know that he had been there,” she murmured, too +self-conscious to ask further questions. + +“Well, you wouldn’t, of course. He’d been fishing, I fancy, and came +along just when it made all the difference. I don’t know what I should +have done without him.” + +“And Thomas? You are sure that it was Thomas? What became of him?” + +“He made off across the fields. It was dark and useless to follow +him—we had other things to think of, as you may imagine. Ten to one he +has made for Manchester, but Clement will see to that. Oh, we’ll have +him! But there, I’ll not tell you any more, Jos. You look ill as it is, +and it will only spoil your sleep. Do you go upstairs and lie down, or +you will never be able to go on.” And, Miss Peacock fussily seconding +his advice, Jos consented and went. + +Arthur’s manner had been kind, and Jos thought him kind. A brother +could not have been more anxious to spare her unpleasant details. But, +told as he had told it, the story left her under the impression that +Clement’s part had been secondary only, and slight, and that if there +were a person to whom she owed the preservation of her father’s life, +it was Arthur, and Arthur only. Which she was the more ready to +believe, in view of the masterly way in which he had managed all at the +house, had taken the upper hand in all, and saved her, and spared her. + +Yet Arthur had been careful to state no facts which could be +contradicted by evidence, should the whole come out—at an inquest, for +instance. He had foreseen the possibility of that, and had been +careful. Indeed, it was with that in his mind that he had—well, that he +had not gone into details. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +Clement had walked with the doctor to the door and had secured a last +word with Arthur outside, but he had not ventured to enter the house, +much less to ask for Josina. He knew how heavily the shock would fall +on her, and his heart was wrung for her. But he knew also, or he +guessed, that the poignancy of her grief would be sharpened by remorse, +and he felt that in the first outburst of self-reproach his presence +would be the last she would welcome. + +It was not a pleasant thought for a lover; but then how much worse, he +reflected, would it have been for her, had she never made up her mind +to confession. And in his own person how much better he now stood. He +had saved the Squire’s life, and had saved it in circumstances that +must do him credit. He had run his risks, and been put to the test, and +he had come manfully out of it; and he still felt that elation of +spirit, that readiness to do and dare, to meet fresh ventures, which +attends on a crisis successfully encountered. + +He was not in a mood to be dashed by trifles therefore, or Arthur, when +he came out to speak to him, would have dashed him, for Arthur was +rather short with him. “You can do nothing here,” he said. “We are +tumbling over one another. Get after that rascal. He has got away with +four hundred in gold and we must recover it. Watkins at the Griffin may +know where he’ll make for.” + +“He’s in livery, isn’t he?” + +“Begad, so he is! I’d not thought of that! I’ll have his place watched +in case he steals back to change. But do you see Watkins.” + +Clement took his dismissal meekly and went to Watkins. He soon learned +all that the inn-keeper knew, which amounted to no more than a +conviction that Thomas would make for Manchester. Watkins shook his +head over the livery. The rascal was no fool; he’d have got rid of +that. “Oh, he’s a clever chap, sir, and a gallus bad one.” he +continued. “He’d talk here that daring that he’d lift the hair on my +head. But I never thought that he’d devil enough,” in a tone of +admiration, “to attack the Squire! Well, he’ll swing this time, if he’s +taken! You’re not in very good fettle yourself, sir. You know that your +cheek’s bleeding?” + +“It’s nothing. And you think he’ll make for Manchester?” + +“As sure as sure! He’s done that this time, sir, as he never can be +safe but in a crowd. And where’d he go but where he knows? He’ll be in +Manchester before tomorrow night, and it’ll take you all your time, +sir, finding him there! It’s a mortal big place, I understand, and +he’ll have got rid of his livery, depend on it!” + +“I’ll find him,” Clement said. And he meant it. His blood was hot, he +had tasted of adventure and he found it more to his liking than +day-books and ledgers. And already he had made up his mind that it was +his business to pursue Thomas. He was angered by the rascal’s cowardly +attack upon an old man, and were it only for that he would take him. +But apart from that he saw that if he recovered the Squire’s money it +would be another point to his credit—if the Squire recovered. If the +old man did not, well, still he would have done something. As he rode +home, and passed the scene of the robbery, he laid his plans. + +He would leave the search in that district to the Head Constable at +Aldersbury. But he expected little from this. In those days if a man +was robbed it was the man’s own business and that of his friends to +follow the thief and seize him if they could. In London the Bow Street +Runners saw to it, and in one or two of the big cities there were +police officers organized on similar lines. But in the country there +were only parish constables, elderly men, often chosen because they +were past work. + +Clement knew, then, that he must rely on himself, and he tried to +imagine what Thomas would do, and what route he would take if he made +for Manchester. Not through Aldersbury, for there he would run the risk +of recognition. Nor would he venture into either of the direct roads +thence—through Congleton or by Tarporley; for it was along these roads +that he would be likely to be followed. How, then? Through Chester, +Clement fancied. The man was already on the Chester side of Aldersbury, +and he could make at once for that place, while in the full stream of +traffic between Chester and Manchester his traces would be lost. +Travelling on foot and by night, he might reach Chester about ten in +the morning, and probably, having money and being footsore, he would +take the first Manchester coach that left after ten. + +At this point Clement found himself crossing the West Bridge, the faint +scattered lights of the town rising to a point before him. His first +business was to knock up the constable and tell his tale. This done, he +made for the bank, where he found the household awaiting his coming in +some alarm, for it was close on midnight. Here he had to tell his story +afresh, amid expressions of wonder and pity, while Betty fetched sponge +and water and bathed his cheek; nor, modestly as he related his doings, +could he quite conceal the part that he had played. The banker +listened, approved, and for once experienced a new sensation. He was +proud of his son. Moreover, as a dramatic sequel to the Squire’s +withdrawal of the money, the story touched him home. + +Then Clement, as he ate his supper, came to his point. “I’m going after +him,” he said. + +The banker objected. “It’s not your business, my lad,” he said. “You’ve +done enough, I’m sure.” + +“But the point is—it’s bank money, sir.” Clement had grown cunning. + +“It was—this morning.” + +“And he was a client this morning—and may be tomorrow.” + +The banker considered. There was something in that; and this sudden +interest in the bank was gratifying. Yet—yet he did not quite +understand it. “You seem to be confoundedly taken up with this,” he +said, “but I don’t see why you need mix yourself up with it farther. +The scoundrel’s neck is in a halter and he won’t be taken without a +struggle. Have you thought of that?” + +“I’d take him if he were ten,” Clement said—and blushed at his own +enthusiasm. He muttered something about the man being a villain, and +the sooner he was laid by the heels the better. + +“Yes, by someone. But I don’t see why you need be the one.” + +“Anyway, I’m going to do it, sir,” Clement replied with unexpected +independence. “I shall go by the Nantwich coach at half-past five, drop +off at Altringham, and catch him as he goes through. True, if he goes +by Frodsham I may miss him, but I fancy that the morning coach by +Frodsham leaves Chester too early for him. And, after all, I can’t stop +every bolt-hole.” + +Ovington wondered anew, seeing his son in a new light. This was not the +idler with his eyes on the ledger and his thoughts abroad, whom he had +known in the bank, but a young man with purpose in his glance and a cut +on his cheek-bone, who looked as if he could be ugly if it came to a +pinch. A quite new Clement—or new at any rate to him. + +He reflected. The affair would be talked of, and certainly it would be +a feather in the bank’s cap if the money, which the Squire had +withdrawn, were recovered through the bank’s exertions. Viewed in that +light there was method in the lad’s madness, whatever had bitten him, +“Well, I think it is a dangerous business,” he said at last, “and it is +not your business. But go, if you will, only you must take Payne with +you.” + +Payne was the bank man-of-all-work, but Clement would not hear of +Payne. If he could be called at five, he asked no more. Even if all the +seats on the Victory were booked, they would find room for him +somewhere. + +“But your face?” Betty said. “Isn’t it painful? It’s turning black.” + +“I’ll bet that villain’s is as black!” he retorted. “I know I got home +on him once. Only let me be called.” + +But his father saw that, as he passed through the hall, he took one of +the bank pistols out of the case in which they were kept, and slipped +it into his pocket. The banker wondered anew, and felt perhaps more +anxiety than he showed. At any rate, it was he who called the lad at +five and saw that he drank the coffee that Betty had prepared, and that +he ate something. At the last, indeed, Clement feared that his father +might offer to accompany him, but he did not. Possibly he had decided +that if his son was bent on proving his mettle in this odd business, it +was wisest not to balk him. + +The sun was rising as Clement’s coach rattled down the Foregate between +the old Norman towers that crown the Castle Hill, and the long austere +front of the school, with its wide low casements twinkling in the first +beams. Early milk-carts drew aside to give the coach passage, +white-eyed sweeps gazed enviously after it, mob-caps at windows dreamt +of holidays and sighed to be on it and away. Soon it burst merrily from +the crowded houses and met the morning freshness and the open country +and the rolling fields. The mists were rising from the valley behind, +as the horses breasted the ascent above the old battle-field, swept +down the farther slope, and at eight miles an hour climbed up Armour +Hill between meadows sparkling with dew and coverts flickering with +conies. Down the hill at a canter, which presently carried it rejoicing +into Wem. There the first relay was waiting, and away again they went, +bowling over the barren gorse-clad heath that brought them presently +through narrow twisting streets to the White Lion at Whitchurch. Again, +“Horses on!” and merrily they travelled down the gentle slope to the +Cheshire plain, where miles of green country spread themselves in the +sunshine, a land of fatness and plenty, of cheese and milk and +slow-running brooks. The clock on Nantwich church was showing a half +after eight, as with a long flourish from the bugle they passed below +it, and halted for breakfast at the Crown, in the stubborn old +Round-head town. + +Half an hour to refresh, topping up with a glass of famous Nantwich +ale, and away again. But now the sun was high, the world abroad, the +roads were alive with traffic. Onwards from Nantwich, where they began +to run alongside the Ellesmere Canal, with its painted barges and gay +market boats, the road took on a new importance, and many a smiling +wayside house, Lion or Swan, cheered the travellers on their way. +Spanking four-in-hands, handled by lusty coachmen, the autocrats of the +road, chaises-and-four with postboys in green or yellow, white-coated +farmers and parsons on hackneys, commercials in gigs, and publicans in +tax-carts, pedlars, packmen, the one-legged sailor, and Punch and +Judy—all these met or passed them; and huge wains laden with Manchester +goods and driven by teamsters in smocks with long whips on their +shoulders. And the inns! The inns, with their swaying signs and open +windows, their benches crowded with loungers and their yards echoing +with the cry of “Next team!”—the inns, with their groaning tables and +huge joints and gleaming silver, these came so often, swaggered so +loudly, imposed themselves so royally, that half the life of the road +seemed to be in and about them. + +And Clement saw it all and rejoiced in it all, though his eyes never +ceased to search for a dour-looking man with a bruised face. He +rejoiced in the cantering horses and the abounding life about him, in +the freedom of it and the joyousness of it, his pulses leaping in tune +with it; and not the less in tune, so splendid a thing is it to be +young and in love, because he had fought a fight and slept only three +hours. He watched it all pass before him, and if he had ever believed +in his father’s scheme of an iron way and iron horses he lost faith in +it now. For it was impossible to believe that any iron road running +across fields and waste places could vie with this splendid highway, +this orderly procession of coaches, travelling and stopping and meeting +with the regularity of a weaver’s shuttle, these long lines of laden +wagons, these swift chaises horsed at every stage! He saw stables that +sheltered a hundred roadsters and were not full; ostlers to whom a +handful of oats in every peck gave a gentleman’s income; teams that +were clothed and curried as tenderly as children; mighty caravanserais +full to the attics. A whole machinery of transport passed under his +wondering eyes, and the railway, the Valleys Railway—he smiled at it as +at the dream of a visionary. + +They swept through Northwich before noon, and an hour later Clement +dropped off the coach in front of the Bowling Green Inn at Altringham, +and knew that his task lay before him. The little town had no church, +but it boasted for its size more bustle than he had expected, and as he +eyed its busy streets and its flow of traffic his spirits sank; it did +not call itself one of the gates of Manchester for nothing. However, he +had not come to stand idle, and the first step, to seek out a +constable, was easy. But to secure that worthy’s aid—he was but a +deputy, a pot-bellied, spectacled shoemaker—was another matter. The man +rolled up his leather apron and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses on to +his forehead, but he shook his head. “A very desperate villain,” he +said, “a very desperate villain! But lor’, master, a dark sullen chap +with a black eye and legs a little bandy? Why, I be dark and I be +bandy, and for black eyes—I’m afeared there’s more than one o’ that cut +on the road.” + +“But not to-day,” Clement urged. “He’ll come through to-day or +to-night.” + +“Ay, and more likely night than day. But how be I to see if he’s a +blackened peeper in the dark! I can’t haul a gentleman off a coach to +ask the color of his eyes.” + +“Well, anyway, do your best.” + +“We might bill him and cry him?” + +“That’s it! Do that!” Clement saw that that was about the extent of the +help he would get in this quarter. “Send the crier to me at the Bowling +Green, and I’ll write a bill—Five pounds reward for information!” + +The constable’s eyes twinkled. “Now you’re on a line, master,” he said. +“Now we’ll do summat, maybe!” + +Clement took the hint and bettered the line with a crownpiece, and +hastening back to his inn he took seisin of a seat in the coffee room +which commanded the main street. Here he wrote out a bill, and bribed a +waiter to keep the place for him: and in it he sat patiently, scanning +every person who passed. But so many passed that an hour had not +elapsed before he held his task hopeless, though he continued to +perform it. The constable had undertaken to go round the inns and to +set a watch on a side street; and the bill might do something. But his +fancy pictured half a dozen by-ways through the town, or the man might +avoid the town, or he might go by another route. Altogether it began to +seem a hopeless task, his fancied sagacity a silly conceit. But he had +undertaken the task, and as he had told his father he could not close +all holes. He could only set his snare across the largest and hope for +the best. + +Presently he heard the crier ring his bell and cry his man. “Oh yes! Oh +yes! Oh yes!” and the rest of it, ending with “God save the King!” And +that cheered him for a while. That was something. But as hour after +hour went by and coaches, carriages, and postchaises stopped and +started before the door, and pedestrians passed, and still no Thomas +appeared—though half a dozen times he ran out to take a nearer view of +some traveller, or to inspect a slumberer in a hay-cart—he began to +despair. There were so many chances against him. So many straws floated +by, half seen in the current. + +But Clement was dogged. He persisted, though hope had almost abandoned +him, and it was long after midnight before, sinking with fatigue, he +left his post. Even so he was out again by six, but if there was +anything of which he was now certain, it was that the villain had gone +by in the night. Still he remained, his eyes roving ceaselessly over +the passers-by, who were now few, now many, as the current ran fast or +slow, as some coach high-laden drew up before the door with a noisy +fanfaronade, or some heavy wagon toiled slowly by. + +It was in one of these slack intervals, when the street was tolerably +empty, that his eyes fell on a man who was loitering on the other side +of the way. The man had his hands in his pockets and a straw in his +mouth, and he seemed to be a mere idler; but as his eyes met Clement’s +he winked. Then, with an almost imperceptible gesture of the head, he +lounged away in the direction of the inn yard. + +Clement doubted if anything was meant, but grasping at every chance he +hurried out and found the man standing in the yard, his hands in his +pockets, the straw in his mouth. He was staring at an object, which, to +judge from his aspect, could have no possible interest for him—a pump. +“Do you want me?” Clement asked. + +“Mebbe, mister. Do you see that stable?” + +“Well?” + +“D’you go in there and I’ll—mebbe I’ll join you.” + +But Clement was suspicious. “I am not going out of sight of the +street,” he said. + +“Lord!” contemptuously. “Your man’s gone these six hours. He’s many a +mile on by now! You come into the stable.” + +The fellow’s looks did not commend him. He was blear-eyed and +under-sized, wearing a mangy rabbit-skin waistcoat, and no coat. He had +the air of a postboy run to seed. Still, Clement thought it better to +go with him, and in the stable, “Be you the gent that offered five +pounds?” the man asked, turning upon him. + +“I am.” + +“Then fork out, squire. Open your purse, and I’ll open my mouth.” + +“If you come with me to the constable——” + +“Not I. I ben’t sharing with no constable. That is flat.” + +“Well, what do you know?” + +“What you want to know. Howsumdever, if you’ll give me your word you’ll +act the gentleman?” + +“Who are you, my lad?” + +“Ostler at the Barley Sheaf in Malthouse Lane. You’re on? Right. I see, +you’re a gentleman. Well, your chap come in ’bout eleven last night on +an empty dray from Chester. He had four sacks of corn with him.” + +“Oh, but that can’t be the man!” Clement exclaimed, his face falling. + +“You listen, mister. He had four sacks of corn with him, and wagoner, +he’d bargained to carry him to Manchester. But they had quarrelled, and +t’other chucked off his sacks in our yard, and there was pretty nigh a +fight. Wagoner he went off and left him cursing, and he offered me a +shilling to find him a lift to Manchester first thing i’ the morning. +’Bout daylight there come in a hay-cart, but driver’d only take the man +and not the forage. Howsumdever, he said at last he’d take one sack, +and your chap up and asked me would I take care of t’other three till +he sent for ’em. I see he was mighty keen to get on, and I sez, ‘No,’ +sez I, ‘but I’ll buy ’em cheap.’ ‘Right,’ sez he, and surprising little +bones about it, and lets me have ’em cheap! So thinks I, who’s this as +chucks away money, and as he climbed up I managed to knock off his tile +and see his eye was painted, and he the very spot of your bill! I’d +half a mind to stop him, but he was over-weight for me—I’m a little +chap—and I let him go.’ He added some details which satisfied Clement +that the traveller was really Thomas. + +“Did you hear where he was going to in Manchester?” + +“Five pound, mister!” The man held out his grimy paw. + +Clement did not like the cunning in the bleary eyes, but he had gone so +far that he could hardly draw back. He counted out four one-pound +notes. “Now then?” he said, showing the fifth, but keeping a firm hold +on it. + +“The lad that took him is Jerry Stott—of the Apple-Tree Inn in Fennel +Street. You go to him, mister. One of these will do it.” + +Clement gave him the other note. “He didn’t tell you where he was +going?” + +“He very particlar did not. But I’m thinking you’ll net him at Jerry’s. +Do you take one of Nadin’s boys. He’s a desperate-looking chap. He gave +you that punch in the face, I guess?” with interest. + +“He did.” + +“Ah, well, you marked him. But you get one of Nadin’s boys. You’ll not +take him easy.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +Clement did not let the grass grow under his feet. An hour later he was +rattling over the stony pavements and through the crowded streets of +the busy town, which had grown in a short hundred years from something +little more than a village, to be the second centre of wealth and +population, of poverty and crime, within the seas; a centre on which +the eye of Government rested with unwinking vigilance, for without a +voice in Parliament and with half of its citizens deprived of civic +rights—since half were Nonconformists—it was the focus of all the +discontent in the country. In Manchester, if anywhere, flourished the +agitation against the Test Acts and the movement for Reform. Thence had +started the famous Blanketeers, there six years before had taken place +the Peterloo massacre. Thence as by the million filaments of some great +web was roused or calmed the vast industrial world of Lancashire. The +thunder of the power-loom that had created it, the roar of the laden +drays that shook it, deafened the wondering stranger, but more +formidable and momentous than either, had he known it, was the +half-heard murmur of an underworld striving to be free. + +Clement had never visited the cotton-town before, and on a more +commonplace errand he might have allowed himself to be daunted by a +turmoil and bustle as new to him as it was uncongenial. But with his +mind set on one thing, he heeded his surroundings only as they +threatened to balk his aim, and he had himself driven directly to the +Police Office, over which the notorious Nadin had so lately presided +that for most people it still went by his name. Fearless, resolute, and +not too scrupulous, the man had through twenty troublous years combated +the forces alike of disorder and of liberty; and before London had yet +acquired an efficient police, he had gathered round him a body of men +equal at least to the Bow Street Runners. He had passed, but his +methods survived; and half an hour after Clement had entered the office +he issued from it accompanied by a hard-bitten, sharp-eyed man in a +tall beaver hat and a long wide-skirted coat. + +“The Apple Tree? Oh, the Apple Tree’s on the square,” he informed +Clement. “And Jerry Stott? No harm in him, sir, either. He’ll speak +when he sees me.” + +“You don’t think we need another man?” + +“There’s one following. No use to go in a bunch. He’ll watch the front, +and we’ll go in by the yard. Got a barker, sir?” + +“Yes.” + +“’Fraid so. Well, don’t use it—show it if you like. Law’s law, and a +live dog’s worth more than its hide. Ay, that’s Chetham’s. Queer old +place, and—sharp’s the word, here we are,” as they turned off Long Mill +Gate, and entered the yard of an old-fashioned house, over the door of +which hung the sign of an apple-tree. The place was quiet, in +comparison with the street they had left, and “Here’s Jerry,” the +officer added, as they espied a young fellow, who in a corner of the +enclosure was striving to raise to his shoulder a truss of hay. He +ceased his efforts when he saw them. + +“We want a word with you,” said the officer. + +The man eyed them with dismay. “I never thout ’at he’d come to thee,” +he said. + +“The chap you brought in this morning?” + +“Ay, sure.” + +“Happen yes and happen no,” the policeman replied. “What’s it all +about?” + +“If he says I took his eauts he be a leear. I wurna wi’ the sack, not +to say alone ’at is, not five minutes, and yo’ may look at t’ sack and +see all’s theer as ever was! Never a handfu’ missing, tho’ the chap he +cursed and swore an’ took on, the mout ha’ been eauts o’ gowd! He’s a +leear iv he says I tetched ’em, but I never thout he’d t’ brass to come +to thee.” + +“Why not, lad?” + +“’Cause i’ the end he let up and steared at t’ sack leek a steck pig, +and then he fell a shriking ’i worse shap than ever, and away he goes +as iv a dog had bit him and down t’ Long Gate hell for leather!” + +“Which way? I see. Did he take the oats?” + +“Not he, nor t’ bag. An after mekking setch a din about his eauts! I +war no wi’ ’em five minutes.” + +The officer declined to commit himself. “Let us see them,” he said. + +Jerry led them to a tumble-down, black and white building at the rear +of the yard, with lattice work in its crazy windows and an old date +over the door. They followed him up a ladder and into a loft, where +were a frowsy bed or two, some old pack-saddles, and two or three +stools made out of casks sawn in two. On the floor in one place lay a +heap of oats trampled this way and that, and beside the heap an empty +sack. The officer picked up the sack, shook it and examined it. + +“What do you make of it?” Clement asked. + +“I don’t know what to make of it. Here, you, Jerry, fetch me a corn +measure!” And when he had thus rid them of the lad, “He may be carrying +out orders and telling a flash tale to put us off. Or he may be telling +the truth, and in that case it looks as if someone had been a mite +brighter than your man and cleared his stuff.” + +“But where is it?” + +“Ah! Just so, I’d like to know,” shaking his head. “Yes, Jerry, measure +it back into the sack. How much is there?” + +The lad began to gather up the oats and replace them in the bag, while +the two men looked on, perplexed and undecided. Suddenly Clement +stooped—a scrap of cord, doubtless the cord which had tied the neck of +the sack, had caught his eye. He picked it up, looked at it, then, with +a word, he handed it to the officer. “I think that settles it,” he +said, his eyes shining. There was a tiny twist of straw-plait, like a +rosette, knotted about the cord and still adhering to it. + +Nadin’s man looked at the plait and for a moment did not understand. +Then his face cleared. “By Joseph! You’re right, sir!” he exclaimed, +and slapped his thigh. “And sharp, sharp too. You’d ought to be one of +us! That settles it, it’s the backtrack we’ve to look to, but I’ll take +no chances.” And turning to the lad and addressing him in his harshest +voice, “See here, in an hour we shall know if you’ve told us the truth. +If you’ve not it will be the New Bailey and a pair of iron garters for +you. So if you’ve aught to add, out with it! It’s your last chance, +Jerry Stott.” + +But the lad protested that he’d told all the truth. It had happened +just as he had told them. + +The officer turned to Clement. “I think he’s on the square,” he said, +“but I’ll have him watched.” And he led the way down the ladder. When +they reached the street, he stepped out smartly, making nothing of the +crowd and bustle, the lumbering drays and over-hanging cranes through +which they had to thread their way. “We’ll catch the Altringham stage +at the Cross if we’re sharp,” he said. “It’ll be quicker than getting +out a po’chay and a lot cheaper.” + +They caught the stage, and alighted in Altringham before five. A walk +of as many minutes brought them to the Barley Sheaf, a wagoner’s house +at the corner of a lane in the poorest part of the town. The ostler, +from whom Clement had so lately parted, stood leaning against a post at +the entrance to the yard, his hands still in his pockets and the straw +still in his mouth. When he saw them a grin broke up his ugly face. +“He’ve been here,” he cried, “but,” triumphantly, “I’ve routed him, +mister! I sent him all ways!” + +The officer did not respond. “Why, the devil, didn’t you seize him?” he +growled. + +“What, me? And him double my size? And a desperate villain? ’Deed, I’d +to save my skin, mister, and only yon lad and a couple of childer in +the yard when he come. I see him first, sneaking a look round this yere +post, and thinks I, it’ll be a knife in the back or a punch in the face +for me if he’s heard I’ve rapped. So, first’s better than last, thinks +I, and seeing as he hung back I up to him bold as brass, but with one +eye on the lad too, and sez I, ‘Can you read?’ sez I. He looked at me’s +if he’d have my blood, but there was the lad and the childer a-staring, +so ‘Ay, I can,’ says he, ‘and can read you, you thieving villain!’ +‘Well, if you can read, read that,’ sez I, and pointed to a bill as was +posted on the gate. ‘I can’t,’ sez he, ‘and, happen you can tell me +what ’tis all about.’ He looks, and he sees ’tis the bill about he, and +painting him to the life. Anyways, he turns the color o’ whey and he +gives me a look as if he’d cut out my inwards, but he sees it’s no +good, for there was the lad and the childer, and he slinks off. Ay, I +routed him, I did, little as I be, mister!” + +“Right!” said Nadin’s man. “And now do you show us the sack as you +changed for his.” + +The man’s face fell amazingly, but Clement noted that he looked +surprised rather than frightened. “Eh?” he exclaimed. “Lord, now, who +told you, mister? He didn’t know.” + +“Never mind who told us. We know, and that’s enough. There was a twist +o’ plait round the cord?” + +“There were.” + +“You said nothing about it before. But out with it now, and do you take +care, my lad.” + +“Well, who axed me? Exchange is no robbery and I ain’t afeard. ’Twas +just this way. He sold me three sacks, ’s I told you, squire, and I was +hauling ’em off to stable when ‘Not that one!’ says he sharp. So then I +look at t’ one he was so set on keeping, and when his back was turned I +hefted it sly-like, and it seemed to me a good bit heavier than t’ +others. Then I spied the bit o’ plait about the cord, and thinks I, +being no fule, ’tis a mark. And when he went in for a squib o’ cordial +wi’ Jerry Stott I shifted t’ mark to another sack and loaded up, and +off he goes and he none the wiser, and no harm done. Exchange is no +robbery and you can’t do nowt to me for that.” + +“I don’t know,” said the officer darkly. “Let us see the sack.” + +“You’re not agoing——” + +“Do you hear? Jump, unless you want to get into trouble. You show us +that sack, and be quick about it, my lad.” + +Grumbling, but not daring to refuse, the old man led the way into the +stables, and there in an empty stall the three sacks stood upright. +“Which is the one you filched?” asked the man from Manchester. + +Reluctantly the ostler pointed it out. “Then you get me a horse-cloth.” + +“You’re not going—well, a wilful man must have his way. Will that serve +you? But if my oats is spilled and spiled——” + +Nadin’s man paid no heed to his remonstrance, but in a trice cut the +cord that tied the sack’s mouth, tipped it on its side, and let the +grain pour out in a golden stream. A golden stream it proved to be, for +in a twinkling something sparkled amid the corn, and here and there a +sovereign glittered. To Clement and the officer who had read the +riddle, this was no great surprise, though they viewed it with smiling +satisfaction. But the old man, stuck dumb by the sight of the treasure +that had been for a time in his power, turned a dirty white. He stood +gazing at the vision of wealth, greed in his eyes, his hands working +convulsively; and presently in a choked voice, “O, Lord! O, Lord!” he +muttered. “You’ll not take t’ all! You’ll not take t’ all! . It were +mine. I bought it.” + +“You came nigh to buying a pair o’ bracelets,” the officer replied +grimly. “You with stolen property in your possession to talk o’—thank +your stars your neck’s not to answer for it! No, we don’t need your +help. You sheer off. We can count it without you. You’ve done pretty +well as it is. Sheer off, unless you want the handcuffs on you!” + +The old ostler went, measuring the five pounds which he had made by the +treasure he had lost, and finding no comfort in the possession of that +which only an hour before had been a fortune to gloat over. But there +was no help for it. He had to swallow his rage. The officer called +after him to bring a sieve. He brought it sullenly, and his part was +done. All that was left to him was a vision of gold that grew more +dazzling with each telling of the tale. And very, very often he told +it. + +When he was gone they gathered up the oats and riddled them through the +sieve and recovered four hundred and thirty pounds. Thomas had taken a +mere handful for his spending. As Clement counted it, sovereign by +sovereign, into a knotted handkerchief which the other held, he, too, +gloated over it, for it spelled success. But the money reckoned and the +handkerchief knotted up, “And now for the man,” he said. + +But Nadin’s man shook his head. “We’d be weeks and not get him,” he +said. “You’d best leave him to us, sir. We’ll bill him in Manchester +and make the flash kens too hot for him. But there’s no knowing which +way he’ll turn. May be to Liverpool, or as like as not to Aldersbury. +Chaps like him are pigeons for homing. Back they go, though they know +they’ll be taken.” + +In the end Clement decided to stand content, and having given his +assistant a liberal fee, he took his seat next morning on the Victory +coach, travelling by Chester to Aldersbury. He was not vain, but it was +with some exultation that he began his journey, that he faced again the +free-blowing winds and the open pastures, heard the cheery notes of the +bugle, and viewed the old-fashioned marketplaces and roistering inns, +some of which he had passed three days before. He had not failed. He +had done something; and he thought of Jos, and he thought of the +Squire, and he thanked Providence that had put it in his power to turn +the tables on the old man. Surely after what he had done the Squire +must consider him. Surely after services so notable—and Lord, what luck +he had had—the Squire would be willing to listen to him? He recalled +the desperate struggle in the road, and the old man’s “At him, good +lad! At him!” and he thought of the sum—no small sum, and the old man +was avaricious—which his promptness had recovered. His hopes ran high. + +To be sure, there was another side to it. The Squire might not recover, +and then—but he refused to dwell on that contingency. No, the Squire +must recover, must receive and reward him, must own that after all he +was something better than a clerk or a shopboy. And all things would be +well, all roads be made smooth, all difficulties be cleared away. And +in time he and Jos—his eyes shone. + +Of course in the elation of the hour and flushed by success, he ignored +facts which he would have been wiser to remember, and over-leapt +obstacles which were not small. A little thought would have taught him +that the Squire was not the man to change his views in an hour, or to +swallow the prejudices of a life-time because a young chap had done him +a service. To be beholden to a man, and to give him your daughter, are +things far apart. + +And this Clement in cooler moments would have seen. But he was young +and in love, and he had done something; and the sun shone and the air +was sweet, and if, as the coach swung gaily up the Foregate between +School and Castle, his heart beat high and he already foresaw a +triumphant issue, who shall blame him? At any rate his case was +altered, and in comparison with his position a few days before, he +stood well. + +He alighted at the door of the Lion, and by a coincidence which was to +have its consequences the first person he met in the High Street was +Arthur Bourdillon. “Hallo!” Arthur cried, his face lighting up. “Back +already, man? Have you done anything?” + +“I’ve got the money,” Clement replied. And he waved the bag. + +“And Thomas?” + +“No, he gave us the slip for the time. But I’ve got the money, except a +dozen pounds or so.” + +“The deuce you have!” the other answered—and it was not quite clear +whether he were pleased or not. “How did you do it? Tell us all about +it.” He drew Clement aside on to some steps at the foot of St. +Juliana’s church. + +Clement ran briefly over his adventures. When he had done, “Deuced +sharp of you,” Arthur said. “Devilish sharp, I must say! Now, if you’ll +hand over I’ll take it out to Garth. I am on my way there, I’m just +starting, and I haven’t a moment to spare. If you’ll hand over——” + +But Clement made no move to hand over. Instead, “How is he?” he asked. + +“Oh, pretty bad.” + +“Will he get over it?” + +“Farmer thinks so. But there’s no hope for the eye, and he doubts about +the other eye. He’s not to use it for six weeks at least.” + +“He’s in bed?” + +“Lord, yes, and will be in bed for heaven knows how long—if he ever +gets up from it. Why, man, he’s had the deuce of a shake. The wonder is +that he’s alive, and it’s long odds that he’ll never be the same man +again.” + +“That’s bad,” Clement said. “And how is——” He was going to inquire +after Miss Griffin, but Arthur broke in on him. + +“Ask the rest another time,” he said. “I can’t stay now. I’m taking out +things that are wanted in a hurry and the curricle is waiting. This is +the first day I’ve been in town, for there’s no one there to do +anything except my cousin and the old Peahen. So hand over, old chap, +and I’ll take the stuff out. It will do the old man more good than all +the doctor’s medicine.” + +Clement hesitated. If he had not been carrying the money, he might have +made an excuse. He might at any rate have delayed the act. But the +money was the Squire’s, he could give no reason for taking it to the +bank, and he had not that hardness of fibre, that indifference to the +feelings of others which was needed if he was to say boldly that it was +he who had recovered the money and he who was going to hand it over. +Still he did hesitate, something telling him that the demand was +unreasonable. Then Arthur’s coolness, his assumption that what he +proposed was the natural course did its work. Clement handed over the +bag. + +“Right,” Arthur said, weighing it in his hand. “You counted it, I +suppose? Four hundred and thirty, or thereabouts?” + +“That’s it.” + +“Good! See you soon. Good-bye!” And well pleased with himself, +chuckling a little—for Clement’s discomfiture had not escaped +him—Arthur hurried away. + +And Clement went his way. But reality had touched his golden dreams, +and they had melted. The sun still shone, but it did not shine for him, +and he no longer walked with his head in the air. It was not only that, +by resigning the money and entrusting its return to another, he had +lost the advantage on which he had counted, but he had been worsted. He +had failed, in the contest of wits and wills, and, abuse his ill-luck +as he might, he owed the failure to himself—to his own weakness. He saw +it. + +It was possible that Arthur had acted in innocence. But Clement doubted +this, and he doubted it the more the longer he thought of it. He +fancied that he recognized a thing which had happened before: that this +was not the first time that Arthur had taken the upper hand with him +and jockeyed him into the worse position. As he crossed the threshold +of the bank, his self-confidence fell from him, he felt himself slip +into the old atmosphere, he became once more the inefficient. + +Nor was it any comfort to him that his father saw the matter in the +same light, and after listening with an appreciative face and some +surprise to his earlier adventures, made no effort to hide the chagrin +that he felt at the _dénouement_. “But why—why in the world did you do +that?” he exclaimed. “Give up the money after you had done the work? +And to Bourdillon, who had no more right to it than you had? Good +heavens, lad, it was the act of a fool! I’d not be surprised if old +Griffin never heard your name in connection with it!” + +“Oh, I don’t think Arthur——” + +“Well, I do.” The banker was vexed. “It’s clear that Arthur is a deal +sharper than you. As for the Squire, I hear that he is only +half-conscious, and what he hears, if he ever hears the tale at all, +will make little impression on him. Now if he had seen you, and you’d +handed over the money—if he had seen you, then the bank and you would +have got the credit.” + +“Still, Clem did recover it,” Betty said. + +“Ay, but who will ever know that he did?” + +“Still he did, and I believe that he’ll get a message from Garth +to-morrow. Now, see if you don’t, Clem. Or the next day.” + +But no message came on the morrow, or on the next day. No message came +at all; and though it was possible to attribute this to the Squire’s +condition—for he was reported to be very ill—and Clement did his best +to attribute it to that and to keep up his spirits, the tide of time +wears away even hope, and presently he began to see that he had built +on the sand. + +At any rate no message and no acknowledgment came, unless a perfunctory +word of thanks dropped by Arthur counted as such. And Clement had soon +to recognize that what he had done, he might as well, for any good it +was likely to do him, have left undone. His father, who had no thought +of anything but his son’s credit, was merely chagrined. But with +Clement, who had built high hopes upon the event, hopes of which his +father and Betty little dreamed, the wound went far deeper. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +The Squire raised himself painfully on his elbow and hid the bag +between pillow and tester, where he could assure himself of its +presence by a touch. Then he sank back with a grunt of relief and his +hand went to the keys, which also had their home under his pillow. He +clung to them—they were his badge of authority, of power. While he had +them, sightless as he was, he was still master; about his room, the +oak-panelled chamber, spacious but shabby, with the uneven floor and +the low wide casement, the life of the house still circled. + +“Good lad!” he muttered. “Good lad! Jos?” + +“Yes, father.” She rose and came towards him. + +“Where’s Arthur?” + +“He went out with your message.” + +“To be sure! To be sure! I’m forgetting.” + +But, once started on the road to recovery, he did not forget much. From +his high, four-post bed with the drab hangings in which his father and +grandfather had died, he gripped house and lands in a firm grip. +Morning by morning he would have his report of the lambs, of the wheat, +of the hay-corps, of the ploughing on the eight acres where the Swedish +turnips were to go. He would know what corn went to the mill, what +mutton to the house. The bounds-fence that Farmer Bache had neglected +was not forgotten, nor the young colt that he had decided to take +against Farmer Price’s arrears, nor the lease for lives that involved a +knotty point of which he proved himself to be in complete possession. + +Indeed, he showed himself indomitable, the old heart in him still +strong; so that neither the shock that he had borne, nor the pain that +he had suffered, nor the possibility of permanent blindness which they +could not wholly hide from him, sufficed to subdue or unman him. + +Only in one or two things was a change apparent. He reverted more often +to an older and ruder form of speech familiar to him when George the +Third was young, but which of late he had only used when talking with +his tenants. He said “Dunno you do this!” and “I wunt ha’ that!” used +“ship” for sheep, and “goold” for gold, called Thomas a “gallus bad +rascal,” and the like. + +And in another and more important point he was changed. For eyes he +must now depend on someone, and though he showed that he liked to have +Jos about him and bore with her when the Pea-hen’s fussiness drove him +to bad words, it was soon clear that the person he chose was Arthur. +Arthur was restored, and more than restored to favor. It was “Where’s +Arthur?” a score of times a day. Arthur must come, must go, must be +ever at his elbow. He must check such and such an account, see the +overseers about such an one, speak to the constable about another, go +into Aldersbury about the lease. Even when Arthur was absent the +Squire’s thoughts ran on him, and often he would mutter “Good lad! Good +lad!” when he thought himself alone. + +It was a real _bouleversement_, but Josina, supposing that Arthur had +saved her father’s life at the risk of his own, and had then added to +his merit by recovering the lost money, found it natural enough. For +the full details of the robbery had never been told to her. “Better +leave it alone, Jos,” Arthur had said when she had again shown a desire +to know more. “It was a horrid business and you won’t want to dream of +it. Another minute and that d—d villain would have—but there, I’d +advise you to leave it alone.” + +Jos, suspecting nothing, had not demurred, but on the contrary had +thought Arthur as modest as he was brave. And the doctor, with an eye +to his patient’s well-being, had taken the same view. “Put no questions +to him,” he said, “and don’t talk to him about it. Time enough to go +into it by and by, when the shock’s worn off. The odds are that he will +remember nothing that happened just before the scoundrel struck +his—that’s the common thing—and so much the better, my dear. Let +sleeping dogs lie, or, as we doctors say, don’t think about your +stomach till your victuals trouble you.” + +So Josina knew no particulars except that Arthur had saved his uncle’s +life, and Clement—she shuddered as she thought of it—had come up in +time to be of service. And no one at Garth knew more. But, knowing so +much, it was not surprising to her that Arthur should be restored to +favor, and, lately forbidden the house, should now rule it as a master. +And clearly Arthur, also, found the position natural, so easily did he +fall into it. He was up and down the old shallow stairs—which the +Squire, true to the fashions of his youth, had never carpeted—a dozen +times a day. He was as often in and out of his uncle’s bedroom, or +sitting on the deep window-seat on which generations of mothers had +sunned their babes; and all this with a laugh and a cheery word that +wondrously brightened the sick room. Alert, quick, serviceable, and +willing to take any responsibility, he made himself a favorite with +all. Even Calamy, who shook his head over every improvement in the +Squire, and murmured much of the “old lamp flickering before it went +out,” grew hopeful in his presence. Miss Peacock adored him. He put +Josina’s nose out of joint. + +Of the young fellow, whose moodiness had of late perplexed his +companions in the bank, not a trace remained. Had they seen him as he +was now they might have been tempted to think that a weight had been +lifted from him. But he seemed, for the time, to have forgotten the +bank. He rarely mentioned the Ovingtons. + +There was one at Garth, however, who had not forgotten either the bank +or the Ovingtons; and proved it presently to Arthur’s surprise. “Jos,” +said the Squire one afternoon. And when she had replied that she was +there, “Where is Arthur?” + +“I think he has just come in, sir.” + +“Prop me up. And send him to me. Do you leave us.” + +She went, wondering a little for she had not been dismissed before. She +sent Arthur, who, after his usual fashion, scaled the stairs at three +bounds. He found the old man sitting up in the shadow of the curtains, +a grotesque figure with his bandaged head. The air of the room was not +so much musty as ancient, savoring of worm-eaten wood and long decayed +lavender, and linen laid by in presses. On each side of the drab tester +hung a dim flat portrait, faded and melancholy, in a carved wooden +frame, unglazed; below each hung a sampler. “You sent for me, sir?” + +“Ay. When’s that money due?” + +The question was so unexpected that for a moment Arthur did not take it +in. Then the blood rushed to his face. “My mother’s money, sir?” + +“What else? What other money is there, that’s due? I forget things but +I dunno forget that.” + +“You don’t forget much, sir,” Arthur replied cheerfully. “But there’s +no hurry about that.” + +“When?” + +“Well, in two months from the twenty-first, sir. But there is not the +least hurry.” + +“This is the seventeenth?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Well, I’ll pay and ha’ done with it. But I’ll ha’ to sell stock. East +India Stock it is. What are they at, lad?” + +“Somewhere about two hundred and seventy odd, I think, sir.” + +“And how do you sell ’em?” The Squire knew a good deal about buying +stock but little about selling it, and he winced as he put the +question. But he bore the pang gallantly, for had not the boy earned +his right to the money and to his own way? Ay, and earned it by a +service as great as one man could perform for another? For the Squire +had no more reason than those about him to doubt that he owed his life +to his nephew. He had found him beside his bed when he had recovered +his senses, and putting together this and certain words which had +fallen from others, and adding his own hazy impressions of the +happenings of the night, and of the young man on whose shoulder he had +leant, he had never questioned the fact. “How do you go about to sell +’em?” he repeated. “I suppose you know?” + +“Oh, yes, sir, it’s my business,” Arthur replied. “You have to get a +transfer—they are issued at the India House. You’ve only to sign it +before two witnesses. It is quite simple, sir.” + +“Well, I can do that. Do you see to it, lad.” + +“You wouldn’t wish to do it through Ovington’s?” + +“No!” the Squire rapped out. “Do it yourself. And lose no time. Write +at once.” + +“Very well, sir. I suppose you have the certificates?” + +“’Course I have,” annoyed. “Isn’t the stock mine?” + +“Very good, sir. I’ll see to it.” + +“Well, see to it. And, mark ye, when you’re in Aldersbury see Welshes, +and tell them I’m waiting for that lease of lives. I signed the +agreement for the new lease six weeks ago and I should ha’ had the +lease by now. Stir ’em up, and say I must have it. The longer I’m +waiting the longer the bill will be! I know ’em, damn ’em, though +Welshes are not the worst.” + +When he had settled this he wanted a letter written, and Arthur sat +down at the oaken bureau that stood between the windows, its faded +green lining stained with the ink of a century and its pigeon-holes +crammed with receipts and sample-bags. While he wrote his thoughts were +busy with the matter that they had just discussed, but it was not until +he found himself standing at a window outside the room, staring with +unseeing eyes over the green vale, that he brought his thoughts to a +head, and knew that even at the eleventh hour he hesitated. + +Yes, he hesitated. The thing that he had so much desired, that had +presented itself to him in such golden hues, that had dazzled his +ambition and absorbed his mind, was within his grasp now, ready to be +garnered—and yet he hesitated. Ovington was a just man and beyond doubt +would release him and cancel the partnership agreement, if he desired +to have it cancelled. And he was very near to desiring it at this +moment. + +For he saw now that there were other things to be garnered—Garth, its +broad acres, its fine rent-roll, the old man’s savings, Josina. Secure +of the Squire’s favor he had but to stretch out his hand, and all these +things might be his; might certainly be his if he gave up the bank and +his prospects there. That step, if he took it, would remove his uncle’s +last objection; it would bind him to him by a triple bond. And it would +do more. It would ease his own mind, by erasing from the past—for he +would no longer need the five thousand—a thing which troubled his +conscience and harassed him when he lay awake at night. It would erase +that blot, it would make all clean behind him, and it would at the same +time remove the impalpable barrier that had risen between him and his +mother. + +It was still in his power to do all this. A word would do it. He had +only to go back to the Squire and tell him that he had changed his +mind, that he no longer wanted the money, and was not going into the +bank. + +He hesitated, standing at the window, looking on the green vale and the +hillside beyond it. Yes, he might do it. But what if he repented later? +And what security had he for those other things? His uncle might live +for years, long years, might live to quarrel with him and discard him. +Did not the proverb say that it was ill-work waiting for dead men’s +shoes? And Josina? Doubtless he might win Josina, for the wooing; he +had no doubt about that. But he was not sure that he wanted Josina. + +He decided at last that the question might wait. Until he had written +the letter to the brokers, until then, at any rate, either course was +open to him. He went downstairs. In the wainscoted hall, small and +square, with a high narrow window on each side of the door, his mother +and Josina were sitting on one of the window seats. The door stood +open, the spring air and the sunshine poured in. “I’m telling her that +she’s not looking well,” his mother said, as he joined them. + +“She spends too much time in that room,” he answered. Then, after a +moment’s thought, rattling the money in his fob, “Is Farmer coming +to-day?” + +“No.” The girl spoke listlessly. “I don’t think he is.” + +“He’s made a wonderful recovery,” his mother observed. + +“Yes—if it’s a real recovery.” + +“At any rate, the doctor hopes that he may come downstairs in ten days. +And then, I’m afraid, we shall have Josina to nurse.” + +The girl protested that she was well, quite well. But her heavy eyes +and the shadows under them belied her words. + +“Well, I’m off to town,” he said, “I have to see Welshes for him.” + +He left them, and ten minutes later he was on the road to Aldersbury, +still undecided, still uncertain what course he would pursue, and at +one moment accusing himself of a weakness that deserved the contempt of +every strong man, at another praising moderation and a country life. +Had he had eyes and ears for the things about him as he rode, he might +have found much to support the latter view. The cawing of rooks, the +murmur of wood-doves, the scents of late spring filled the balmy air. +The sky was pure blue, and beneath it the pastures shone yellow with +buttercups. Tree and field, bank and hedge-row rioted in freshest +green, save where the oak wood, slow to change and careless of fashion, +clung to its orange garb, or the hawthorn stood out, a globe of snow. +The cuckoo and the early corncrake told of coming summer, and behind +him the Welsh hills simmered in the first heat of the year. Clement, +had he passed that way, would have noted it all, and in the delight of +the eye and the spring-tide of all growing things would have found +ground to rejoice, whatever his trouble. + +But Arthur, wrapt in his own thoughts, barely noticed these things. He +rode with his eyes fixed on his horse’s ears, and only roused himself +when he saw the very man whom he wished to see coming to meet him. It +was Dr. Farmer, in the mahogany-topped boots, the frilled shirt, and +the old black coat—shaped as are our dress coats but buttoned tightly +round the waist—which the dust of a dozen summers and every road in the +district had whitened. + +“Hallo, doctor!” Arthur cried as they met. “Are you going up to the +house to-day?” + +“No, Mr. Bourdillon. But I can if necessary. How is he?” + +“That is what I want you to tell me. One can’t talk freely at the house +and I have a reason for wishing to know. How is he, doctor?” + +“Do you mean——” + +“Has this really shaken him? Will he be the same man again?” + +“I see.” Farmer rubbed his chin with the horn-handle of his +riding-crop. “Well—I see no reason at present why he should not be. +He’s one in a hundred, you know. Sound heart, good digestion, a little +gouty—but tough. Tough! You never know, of course. There may be some +harm we haven’t detected, but I should say that he had a good few years +of life in him yet.” + +“Ah!” + +“Of course, an unusual recovery—from such injuries. And I say nothing +about the sight. I’m not hopeful of that.” + +“Well,” said Arthur. “I’ll tell you why I asked. There’s a question +arisen about a lease for lives—his is one. But you won’t talk, of +course.” + +Farmer nodded. He found it quite natural. Leases for lives were still +common, and doctors were often consulted as to the value of lives which +survived or which it was proposed to insert. With another word or two +they parted and Arthur rode on. + +But he no longer doubted. To wait for eight or ten years, dependent on +the whims of an arbitrary and crotchety old man? No! Only in a moment +of imbecility could he have dreamed of resigning for this, the golden +opportunities that the new world, opening before him, offered to all +who had the courage to seize them. He had been mad to think of it, and +now he was sane. Garth was worth a mass. He might have served a year or +two for it. But seven, or it might be ten? No. Besides, why should he +not take the Squire at his word and make the best of both worlds, and +availing himself of the favor he had gained, employ the one to exploit +the other? He had his foot in at Garth and he was no fool, he could +make himself useful. Already, he was well aware, he had made himself +liked. + +It was noon when he rode into Aldersbury, the town basking in the first +warmth of the year, the dogs lying stretched in the sunshine. And he +was in luck, for, having met Farmer, he now met Frederick Welsh coming +down Maerdol. The lawyer, honestly concerned for his old friend, was +urgent in inquiry, and when he had heard the news, “Thank God!” he +said. “I’m as pleased to hear that as if I’d made a ten-pound note! +Aldshire without the Squire—things would be changing, indeed!” + +Arthur told him what the Squire had said about the lease. But that was +another matter. The Squire was too impatient. “He’s got his agreement. +We’ll draw the lease as soon as we can,” the lawyer said. “The office +is full, and more haste less speed. We’ll let him know when it’s +ready.” Like all old firms he was dilatory. There was no hurry. All in +good time. + +They parted, and Arthur rode up the street, alert and smiling, and many +eyes followed him—followed him with envy. He worked at the bank, he had +his rooms on the Town Walls, he chatted freely with this townsman and +that. He was not proud. But they never forgot who he was. They did not +talk to him as they talked even to Ovington. Ovington had risen and was +rich, but he came as they came, of common clay. But this young man, +riding up the street in the sunshine, smiling and nodding this way and +that, his hand on his thigh, belonged to another order. He was a +Griffin—a Griffin of Garth. He might lose his all, his money might fly +from him, but he would still be a Griffin, one of the caste that ruled +as well as reigned, that held in its grasp power and patronage. They +looked after him with envy. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +The week in early June which witnessed Arthur’s return to his seat at +the bank—that and the following week which saw his mother’s five +thousand pounds paid over for his share in the concern—saw the tide of +prosperity which during two years had been constantly swelling, reach +its extreme point. The commerce and wealth of the country, as they rose +higher and higher in this flood-time of fortune, astonished even the +casual observer. Their increase seemed to be without limit; they +answered to every call. They not only filled the old channels, but +over-ran them, irrigating, in appearance at least, a thousand fields +hitherto untilled. Abroad, the flag of commerce was said to fly where +it had never flown before; its clippers brought merchandise not only +from the Indies, East and West, and tea from China, and wool from +Sydney, and rich stuffs from the Levant, but Argosies laden with +freight still more precious were—or were reported to be—on their way +from that new Southern continent on the opening of which to British +trade so many hopes depended. The gold and silver of Peru, the diamonds +of Brazil, the untapped wealth of the Plate were believed to be afloat +and ready to be exchanged for the produce of our looms and spindles, +our ovens and forges. + +Nor was that produce likely to fail, for at home the glow of foundries, +working night-shifts, lit up the northern sky, and in many a Lancashire +or Yorkshire dale, old factories, brought again into service, shook, +almost to falling, under the thunder of the power-loom. Mills and +mines, potteries and iron-works changed hands from day to day, at +ever-rising prices. Men who had never invested before, save in the +field at their gate, or the house under their eyes, rushed eagerly to +take shares in these ventures, and in thousands of offices and parlors +conned their securities, summed up the swelling total of their gains, +and rushed to buy and buy again, with a command of credit which seemed +to have no bottom. + +To provide that credit, the banks widened their operations, increased, +on the security of stocks ever rising in value, their over-drafts, +issued batch after batch of fresh notes. The most cautious admitted +that accommodation must keep step with trade; and the huge strides +which this was making, the changed conditions, the wider outlook, the +calling in of the new world to augment the wealth of the old—all seemed +to demand an advance which promised to be as profitable as it was +warranted. To the ordinary eye the sun of prosperity shone in an +unclouded sky. Even the experienced, though they scanned the heavens +with care, saw nothing to dismay them. Only here and there an old fogey +whose memory went back to the crisis of ’93, or to the famous Black +Monday of twenty years earlier, uttered a note of warning; or some +mechanical clerk, of the stamp of Rodd, sunk in a rut of routine, +muttered of Accommodation Bills where his employer saw only legitimate +trade. But their croakings, feeble at best, were lost in the joyous +babble of an Exchange, enriched by commissions, and drunk with success. + +It was a new era. It was the age of gold. It was the fruit of +conditions long maturing. Men’s labor, aided by machinery, was +henceforth to be so productive that no man need be poor, all might be +rich. Experts, reviewing the progress which had been made and the +changes which had been wrought during the last fifty years, said these +things; and the vulgar took them up and repeated them. The Bank of +England acted as if they were true. The rate of discount was low. + +And while all men thus stretched out their hands to catch the golden +manna Aldersbury was not idle. The appetite for gain grows by what it +feeds upon and Aldersbury appetites had been whetted by early successes +in their own field. The woollen mills, sharing in the general +prosperity of the last two years, had done well, and more than one mill +had changed hands at unheard-of prices. The Valleys were said to be +full of money which, or part of it, trickled into the town, improving a +trade already brisk. Many had made large gains by outside speculations +and had boasted of them. Report had multiplied their profits, others +had joined in and they too had gained, and their gains had fired the +greed of their neighbors. Some had followed up their first successes. +Others prepared to extend their businesses, built new premises, put in +new-fangled glass windows, and by their action gave an impetus to +subordinate trades, and spread still farther the sense of well-being. + +On the top of all this had come the Valleys Railroad Scheme, backed by +Ovington’s Bank, and offering to everyone a chance of speculating on +his door-step: a scheme which while it appealed to local pride, had a +specious look of safety, since the railway was to be built under the +shareholders’ own eyes, across the fields they knew, and by men whom +they saw going in and out every day. + +There was a great run on it. Some of the gentry, following the old +Squire’s example, held aloof, but others put their hundreds into it, +not much believing in it but finding it an amusing gamble. The +townsfolk took it more seriously, with the result that a week after +allotment the shares were changing hands at a premium of thirty +shillings and there was still a busy market in them. Some who, tempted +by the premium, sold at a profit suspected as soon as they had sold +that they had thrown away their one chance of wealth, and went into the +market and bought again, and so the rise was maintained and even +extended. More than once Ovington put in a word of caution, reminding +his customers that the first sod was not yet cut, that all the work was +to do, that even the Bill was not yet passed. But his warnings were +disregarded. + +To the majority it seemed a short and easy way to fortune, and they +wondered that they had been so simple in the past as to know nothing of +it. It was by this way, they now saw, that Ovington had risen to +wealth, while they, poor fools, not yet admitted to the secret, had +gaped and wondered. And what a secret it was! To rise in the morning +richer by fifty pounds than they had gone to bed! To retire at night +with another fifty as good as in the bank, or in the old and now +despised stocking! The slow increment of trade seemed mean and +despicable beside their hourly growing profits, made while men slept or +dined, made, as a leading tradesman pithily said, while they wore out +their breeches on their chairs! Few troubled themselves about the Bill, +or the cutting of the first sod, or considered how long it would be +before the railroad was at work! Fewer still asked themselves whether +this untried scheme would ever pay. It was enough for them that the +shares were ever rising, that men were always to be found to buy them +at the current price, and that they themselves were growing richer week +by week. + +For the directors these were great days! They walked Bride Hill and the +Market Place with their heads high and their toes turned out. They +talked in loud voices in the streets. They got together in corners and +whispered, their brows heavy with the weight of affairs. They were +great men. The banker, it is true, did not like the pitch to which the +thing was being carried, but it was his business to wear a cheerful +face, and he had no misgivings to speak of, though he knew that success +was a long way off. And even on him the prosperity of the venture had +some effect. Sir Charles and Acherley, too, were not of those who +openly exulted; it is possible that the latter sold a few shares, or +even a good many shares. + +But Purslow and Grounds and Wolley? Who shall describe the importance +which sat upon their brows, the dignity of their strut, the gravity of +their nod, the mock humility of their reticence? Never did they go in +or go out without the consciousness that the eyes of passers-by were +upon them! Theirs to make men’s fortunes by a hint—and their bearing +betrayed that they knew it. Purslow’s apron was discarded, no longer +did he come out to customers in the street; if he still rubbed one hand +over the other it was in self-content. Grounds was dazzled, and wore +his Sunday clothes on week-days. Wolley, always a braggart, swaggered +and talked, closed his eyes to his commitments and remembered only his +gains. He talked of buying another mill, he even entered into a +negotiation with that in view. He was convinced that safety lay in +daring, and that this was the golden moment, if he would free himself +from the net of debt that for years had been weaving itself about him. + +He assumed the airs of a rich man, but he was not the worst. The +draper, if more honest, had less brains, and success threw him off his +balance. “A little country ’ouse,” he said, speaking among his +familiars. “I’m thinking of buying a little country ’ouse. Two miles +from town. A nice distance.” He recalled the fact that the founder of +Sir Charles’s family had been Mayor of Aldersbury in the days of Queen +Bess, and had bought the estate with money made in the town. “Who +knows,” with humility—“my lad’s a good lad—what may come of it? After +all there is nothing like land.” + +Grounds shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t double——” + +“Double itself in a month, Grounds? No. But all in good time. All in +good time. ’Istory repeats itself. My lad may be a parliament-man, yet. +I saw Ovington this morning.” Two months before it would have been “Mr. +Ovington.” “He’s sold those Anglo-Mexicans for me and it beats all! A +gold-mine! Bought at forty, sold at seventy-two! He wanted me to pay +off the bank, but not I, Grounds. When you can borrow at seven and +double the money in a month! No, no! Truth is, he’s jealous. He gets +only seven per cent. and sees me coining! Of course he wants his money. +No, no, I said.” + +Grounds looked doubtful. He was too cautious to operate on borrowed +money. “I don’t know. After all, enough is as good as a feast, +Purslow.” + +Purslow prodded him playfully. “Ay, but what is enough?” he chuckled. +“No. We’ve been let in and I mean to stay in. There’s plenty of fools +grubbing along in the old way, but you and me, we are inside now, +Grounds, and I mean to stay in. The days of five per cent are gone for +you and me. Gone! ’Twarn’t by five per cent. that Ovington got where he +is.” + +“My wife wants a silk dress.” + +“Let ’er ’ave it! And come to me for it! You can afford it!” He +strutted off. “Grounds all over!” he muttered. “Close; d—d close! +Hasn’t the pluck of a mouse—and a year ago he could buy me twice over!” +In fancy he saw his Jack a college-man and counsellor, and by and by he +passed various parks and halls before his mental vision and saw Jack +seated in them, saw him Sir John Purslow, saw him Member for +Aldersbury. He held his head high as he marched across the street to +his shop, jingling the silver in his fob. Queen Bess, indeed, what were +Queen Bess’s days to these? + +But a man cannot talk big without paying for the luxury. The draper’s +foreman asked for higher wages; his second hand also. Purslow gave the +rise, but, reminded that their pay was in arrear, “No, Jenkins, no,” he +said. “You must wait. Hang it, man, do you think I’ve nothing better to +do with my money in these days than pay you fellows to the day? ’Ere! +’ere’s a pound on account. Let it run! Let it run! All in good time, +man. Fancy my credit’s good enough?” + +And instead of meeting the last acceptance that he’d given to his +cloth-merchant, he took it up with another bill at two months—a thing +he had never done before. “Credit! Credit’s the thing in these days,” +he said, winking. “Cash? Excuse me! Out of date, man, with them that +knows. Credit’s the ’orse!” + +Arthur Bourdillon wore his honors more modestly, and courted the mean +with success. But even he felt the intoxication of this noontide +prosperity. At Garth he had doubted, and suffered scruples to weigh +with him. But no sooner had he returned to the bank than the atmosphere +of money enveloped him, and discerning that it was now in his power to +make the best of two worlds, hitherto inconsistent, he plunged with +gusto into the business. As secretary of the company he was a person to +be courted; as a partner, now recognized, in the bank, he was more. He +felt himself capable of all, for had not all succeeded with him? And +awake to the fact that the times were abnormal—though he did not deduce +from this the lesson he should have drawn—he thanked his stars that he +was there to profit by them, and to make the most of them. + +He was beyond doubt an asset to the bank. His birth, his manners, his +good looks, the infection of his laugh made him a favorite with gentle +and simple. And then he worked. He had energy, he was tireless, no task +was too hard or too long for him. But he labored under one +disadvantage, though he did not know it. He had had experience of the +rise, not of the fall. As far back as he had been connected with +Ovington’s, trade had continued to expand, things had gone well; and by +nature he was sanguine and leant towards the bold policy. He threw his +weight on that side, and, able and self-confident, he made himself +felt. Even Ovington yielded to the thrust of his opinion, was swayed by +him, and at times, perhaps, put a little out of his course. + +Not that Arthur was without his troubles. Naturally and inevitably a +cloud had fallen on the relation, friendly hitherto, between him and +Clement. Clement had grown cool to him, and the change was unwelcome, +for it was in Arthur’s nature to love popularity and to thrive and to +bask in the sunshine of it. But it could not be helped. Without +breaking eggs one could not make omelettes. Clement blamed him, he +knew, feeling, and with reason, that what he had done deserved +acknowledgment, and that it lay with Arthur to see that justice was +done. And Arthur, for his part, would have gladly acquitted himself of +the debt had it consisted with his own interests. But it did not. + +Had he suspected the tie between Clement and Josina he might have acted +otherwise. He might have foreseen the possibility of Clement’s gaining +the old man’s ear, might have scented danger, and played a more +cautious game. But he knew nothing of this. Garth and Clement stood +apart in his mind. Clement and Josina were as far as he knew barely +acquainted. He was aware, therefore, of no special reason why Clement +should desire to stand well at Garth, while he felt sure that his +friend was the last person to push a claim, or to thrust himself +uninvited on the Squire’s gratitude. + +Accordingly, and the more as the banker had not himself taken up the +quarrel, he put it aside as of no great importance. He shrugged his +shoulders and told himself that Clement would come round. The cloud +would pass, and its cause be forgotten. + +In the meantime he ignored it. He met Clement’s hostility with bland +unconsciousness, smiled and was pleasant. He was too busy a man to be +troubled by trifles. He was not going to be turned from his course by +the passing frown of a silly fellow, who could not hold an advantage +when he had won it. + +Betty was another matter. Betty was behaving ill and showing temper, in +league apparently with her brother and sympathizing with him. She was +changed from the Betty of old days. He had lost his hold upon her, and +though this fell in well enough with the change in his views—or the +possible change, for he had not quite made up his mind—it pricked his +conceit as much as it surprised him. Moreover, the girl had a sharp +tongue and was not above using it, so that more than once he smarted +under its lash. + +“Fine feathers make fine birds!” she said, as Arthur came bounding into +the house one day and all but collided with her. “Only they should be +your own, Mr. Daw!” + +“Oh, I give your father all the credit,” he replied, “only I do some of +the work. But you used not to be so critical, Betty.” + +“No? Well, I’ll tell you why if you like.” + +“Oh, I don’t want to know.” + +“No, I don’t think you do!” the girl retorted. “But I’ll tell you. I +thought your feathers were your own then. Now—I should be uneasy if I +were you.” + +“Why?” + +“You might fall among crows and be plucked. I can tell you, you’d be a +sorry sight in your own feathers!” + +He turned a dusky red. The shaft had gone home, but he tried to hide +the wound. “A dull bird, eh?” he said, affecting to misunderstand her. +“Well, I thought you liked dull birds. I couldn’t be duller than Rodd, +and you don’t find fault with him.” + +It was a return shot, aimed only to cover his retreat. But the shot +told in a way that surprised him. Betty reddened to her hair, and her +eyes snapped. + +“At any rate, Mr. Rodd is what he seems!” she cried. + +“Oh! oh!” + +“He’s not hollow!” + +“No! Of course not. A most witty, bright, amusing gentleman, the pink +of fashion, and—what is it?—the mould of form! Hollow? Oh, no, Betty, +very solid, I should say—and stolid!” with a grin. “Not a roaring +blade, perhaps—I could hardly call him that, but a sound, substantial, +wooden—gentleman! I am sure that your father values him highly as a +clerk, and would value him still more highly as——” + +“What?” + +“I need not put it into words—but it lies with you to qualify him for +the post. Rodd? Well, well, times are changed, Betty! But we live and +learn.” + +“You have a good deal to learn,” she cried, bristling with anger, +“about women!” + +He got away then, retiring in good order and pleased that he had not +had the worst of it; hoping, too, that he had closed the little +spitfire’s mouth. But there he found himself mistaken. The young lady +was of a high courage, and perhaps had been a little spoiled. Where she +once felt contempt she made no bones about showing it, and whenever +they met, her frankness, sharpened by a woman’s intuition, kept him on +tenter-hooks. + +“You seem to think very ill of me,” he said once. “And yet you trouble +yourself a good deal about me.” + +“You make a mistake!” she replied. “I am not troubling myself about +you. I’m thinking of my father.” + +“Ah! Now you are out of my reach. That’s beyond me.” + +“I wish he were!” + +“He knows his own business.” + +“I hope he does!” she riposted. And though it was the memory of Rodd’s +warning that supplied the dart, the animosity that sped it had another +source. The truth was that her brother had at last taken her into his +confidence. + +It was not without great unhappiness that he had seen all the hopes +which he had built upon the Squire’s gratitude come to nothing. He had +hoped, and for a time had been even confident; but nothing had +happened, no message, no summons had reached him. The events of that +night might have been a dream, as far as he was concerned. Yet he could +not see his way to blow his own trumpet, or proclaim what he had done. +He stood no better than before, and indeed his position was worse. + +For as long as the Squire lay bedridden and ill he could not go to him. +Even when the report came that he was mending, Clement hesitated. To go +to him, basing his claim on what had happened, to go to him and tell +the story, as he must, with his own lips—this presented difficulties +from which a man with delicate feelings might well shrink! + +Meanwhile a veil had fallen between him and Josina. He had sworn that +he would not see her again until he could claim her, and he supposed +her to be engrossed by her father’s illness and tied to his bedside. He +even, with a lover’s insight, inferred the remorse which she felt and +her recoil from a continuance of their relations. Meanwhile he did not +know what to do. He did not see any outlet. He was in an impasse with +no prospect of delivery. And while he felt that Arthur had behaved +ungenerously, while he even suspected that his friend had taken the +credit which was his own due, he had no clue to his motives, or his +schemes. + +It was Betty who first saw into the dark place. For one day, longing as +lovers long for a confidante, he had told her all, from the first +meeting with Josina to his final parting from the girl by the brook, +and his brief and unfortunate interview with her father on the road. +The romance charmed Betty, the audacity of it dazzled her; for, a +woman, she perceived more clearly than Clement the gulf between the +town and the country, the new and the old. She listened to his tale +with sighs and tears and little endearments, and led him on from one +thing to another. She could not hear too much of a story that hardly a +woman alive could have heard with indifference. She praised Josina to +the top of his bent, and if she could not give him much hope, she gave +sympathy. + +And, shrewdly, in her own mind she put things together. “Arthur is off +with the old love,” she thought, “and on with the new.” He had changed +sides, and that explained many things. So, with hardly any premises, +she jumped to a conclusion so nearly correct that, could Arthur have +read her mind, he would have winced even more than he did under the +thrusts of her satire. + +But she did not tell Clement. Her suspicions were not founded on +reason, and they would only alarm him, and he was gloomy enough as it +was. Instead, she cheered him and bade him be patient. Something might +turn up, and in no case could much be done until the Squire was well +enough to leave his room. + +At bottom she was not hopeful. She saw arrayed between Clement and his +love a host of difficulties, apart from Arthur’s machinations. The +pride of class, the old man’s obstinacy, the young girl’s timidity, +Josina’s wealth—these were obstacles hard to surmount. And Arthur was +on the spot ready to raise new barriers, should these be overcome. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +The money for Arthur’s share in the bank had been paid over in the +early part of June, but the transaction had not gone through with the +smoothness which he had anticipated. He had found himself up against a +thing which he had not taken into his reckoning; the jealousy with +which the old and the rich are apt to guard the secret of their wealth, +a jealousy in the Squire’s case aggravated by his blindness. Arthur had +felt the check and was forced to own, with some alarm, that high as he +stood in favor, a little thing might upset him. + +He had written to the brokers, requesting them to sell sufficient India +Stock to bring in a sum of six thousand pounds. They had replied that +they could not carry out the order unless they had the particulars of +the Stock and of the amount standing in the Squire’s name at the India +House. But when Arthur took the letter to the Squire’s room and read it +to him, the outcome surprised him. The old man sat up in bed and +confounded him by the vigor of his answer. “Want to know how much I +hold?” he cried. “D—n their impudence! Then they’ll not know! Want to +look at my books and see what I’m worth! What next? What is it to them +what I hold? You bid ’em sell—” beating the counterpane with his +stick—“you bid ’em sell two thousand two hundred pounds—at two hundred +and seventy-five, that’s near the mark! That’s all they’ve got to do, +the impudent puppies! Do you write, d’you hear, and tell ’em to do it!” + +Arthur cursed the old man’s unreasonableness, and wondered what he was +to do. If there was going to be all this difficulty about the +particulars, what about the certificates? How was he to get them? For +the Squire as he sat erect, thrusting forward his bandaged head, and +clutching the stick that lay beside him, grew almost threatening. He +was in arms in defence of his moneybags and his secrets, and his nephew +saw that it would take a bolder man than himself to cross him. + +He hesitated. “I am afraid, sir,” he ventured at last, “there’s a +difficulty here that I had not foreseen. The certificates——” + +“They don’t want the certificates—yet! Don’t they say so? Plain as a +pikestaff!” + +“Perhaps, sir,” doubtfully. “If Welshes have got them——” + +“Welshes have not got them!” + +Arthur did not know what to say to that. At last, in a tone as +reasonable as he could compass, “I am afraid the difficulty is, sir,” +he said, “that they cannot make out a transfer until they have the +particulars; which I fancy we can only get from the certificates.” + +“Then they may go to blazes!” the Squire replied, and he lay down with +his face to the wall. Not he! There might be officials at the India +House who knew this or that and Welshes, who had acted for him in +making one purchase or another, might know a part. But to no living man +had he ever entrusted the secret of his fortune, or the result of those +long years of stinting and sparing and saving that had cleared the +mortgaged estate, and had been continued because habit was strong and +age is penurious. No, to no man living! That was his secret while the +breath was in him. Afterwards—but he was not going to give it up yet. + +Presently he bade Arthur go, and Arthur went, troubled in his mind, and +much less assured of his position than he had been an hour before. He +thanked his stars that he had not given way to the temptation to cut +loose from the bank. It would never have done, he saw that now. And how +was he going to extract his money, his six thousand, from this +unreasonable old dotard—for so he styled him in his wrath? + +However, the riddle solved itself before many hours had passed. + +That afternoon he was absent, and Jos, about whom Miss Peacock was +growing anxious, had gone out to take the air. The butler, left on +guard, occupied himself with laying the table in the dining-room, +where, if the Squire tapped the floor, he could hear him. He heard no +summons, but presently as he went about his work he heard someone +moving upstairs and he pricked up his ears. Surely the Squire was not +getting out of bed? Weak and blind as he was—but again he heard heavy +footsteps, and, thoroughly alarmed, the man lost no time. He hurried up +the stairs, and entered his master’s room. The Squire was out of bed. +He was on his feet, clinging to the post at the foot of the bed, and +feeling helplessly about him with the other hand. + +“Lord, ha’ mercy!” Calamy cried, eying the gaunt figure with dismay. He +hastened forward to support it. + +The Squire collapsed on the bed as soon as he was touched. “I canna do +it,” he groaned, “I canna do it. It’s going round wi’ me. Who is it?” + +“Calamy, sir,” the butler answered, and added bluntly, “If you want to +get into your coffin, master, you’re going the right way to do it!” + +“Anyway, I canna do it,” the Squire repeated, and remained motionless +for a moment. “I couldn’t manage the stairs if ’twere ever so.” + +“You’d manage ’em one way. You’d fall down ’em. You get to bed, sir. +You get to bed. There, I’ll heave you up.” + +“I’m weaker than I thought,” the Squire muttered. He suffered himself +to be put into bed. + +“You’ve lost blood, sir, that’s what it is,” the butler said. “And at +your age it’s not to be replaced in a week, nor a fortnight. You lie +still, sir. Maybe in a month you’ll be tramping the stairs. But +blindfold—it’s the Lord’s mercy as you didn’t fall and only stop in +Kingdom Come! For if fall you did, I don’t know where else you’d stop.” + +“I’m afraid so. Anyway I canna do it!” + +“Only feet foremost.” + +The Squire sighed and turned himself to the wall, perhaps to hide the +tear that helplessness forced from old eyes. He couldn’t do it, and he +must put up with the consequences. He could not any longer be +sufficient to himself. It was a sad thought, but apparently he made up +his mind to it, for twenty-four hours later, when Jos and Arthur were +with him, he sent the girl away. When she had gone he sought under the +pillow for his keys, and after handling them for a time, “Is the door +shut? And no one here but you?” + +“We are quite alone, sir.” + +“No one within hearing, lad?” + +“Not a soul, sir.” + +“It’s not that I mistrust the wench,” the Squire muttered. “She’s a +Griffin and a good girl, a good girl. But she’s a tongue like other +women.” By this time he had found what he wanted, and holding the bunch +by one of the keys he offered it to Arthur. “That’s the key. Now you +listen to me. Go down to the dining-room, and don’t you do anything +till you’ve locked the door and seen there’s no one at the windows. The +panel, right side of the fireplace—are you minding me? Ay? Well, pass +your hand down the moulding next the hearth and you’ll feel a crack +across it, and, an inch below, another. They’re so small you as good as +can’t see them, when you know they’re there. Twist that bit, top part +to the right, and you’ll see a key-hole. Turn the key and pull, and the +panel comes open, and you’ll see a cupboard door behind it. Same key +unlocks it. Are you minding me?” + +“I am, sir, I quite understand.” + +“Well, on the middle shelf—you’ll see a box. The key to that box is the +next on the bunch. Open it and you will have the India Stock +Certificates.” The Squire sighed and for a moment was silent. “There’s +one for two thousand two hundred, which will do it. Bring it here. You +needn’t,” drily, “go routing among the others, once you’ve found it. +Then lock up, and slip the moulding into place. But be sure, lad, +before you do aught, that the door is locked.” + +“I will be careful,” Arthur assured him. “I quite understand, sir.” + +“It’s not that I distrust Jos,” the Squire repeated—as if he defended +himself against an accusation. “But tell a secret to a woman, and you +tell it to the parish.” + +“Shall I do it now, sir?” + +“Ay. And bring back the keys. Don’t let ’em out of your hands.” + +Arthur went downstairs, and as he descended the shallow steps he +smiled. Men, even the sharpest of men, were easy to manage if you had +patience. + +The afternoon was drawing in. The corners in the hall were growing dim. +The sky seen through the open door was pale green. The air came in from +the garden, sweet but chilly, laden with the scent of lilac and gilly +flowers. A single rook cawed. The peace of the country was upon all. He +could hear his mother and Josina talking somewhere within the house. + +He slipped into the dining-room and, locking himself in, looked round +him. The paint on the panelled walls was faded, blistered in places by +the sun, or soiled where elbows had rubbed it or the butler’s tray +standing against it through long years, had marked it. The panels were +large, dating from Dutch William or Anne, of chestnut and set in heavy +mouldings. + +Arthur glanced at the windows to make sure that he was unseen, then he +stepped to the hearth and felt for and found the bit of moulding, in +front of which, though he had forgotten to mention it, the Squire had +hung an old almanac. Arthur twisted the upper end to the right, +uncovered the key-hole, and within a minute had the inner door open. + +It masked a cupboard, contrived in the thickness of the chimney-breast, +perhaps at the time when the open shaft had been closed and a smaller +fireplace had been inserted. Inside, two shelves formed three +receptacles. In the uppermost were parcels of old letters secured with +dusty and faded ribands, and piled at random one on another—the relics +of the love-letters or law-letters of past generations. In the lowest +compartment were bigger bundles secured with straps, which Arthur +judged to contain leases and farm agreements, and the like. Some were +of late date—he took up one or two bundles and looked at the +endorsements—none of them appeared to be very old. + +The middle space displayed a row of old ledgers and farm books, and +standing alone before them a small iron box. It was with this no doubt +that his business lay and he tried his key in it. The key fitted. He +opened the box. + +It contained three certificates and, though he had been bidden not to +rout among them, he felt it his duty to ascertain—for he would probably +have to inform the brokers—what was the total of the Squire’s holding. +They all three represented India Stock, and Arthur’s eyes glistened as +he noted the amount and figured up the value in his mind. One, as the +Squire had said, was for two thousand two hundred, the other two were +for two thousand five hundred each. Arthur calculated that at the price +of the day they were worth little short of twenty thousand pounds. He +withdrew the smallest certificate and locked the box. He had done his +errand, but as he went about to close the cupboard-door he paused. He +had seen old letters, and modern agreements and the like. But no old +deeds. Where did the Squire keep the title deeds of Garth? They were +not here. + +At Welshes? Perhaps. + +Arthur glanced at the other side of the fireplace. There, precisely +corresponding with the almanac which he had removed, hung an +old-fashioned silver sconce with a flat back serving for a reflector. A +pair of snuffers flanked the candle-holder on one side, an extinguisher +on the other. It was a piece which Arthur had admired for its age but +had never seen in use. He stared at it, and as he closed the cupboard +and panel by which he stood, and replaced the bit of moulding, he +hesitated. With the keys in his hand he cast a glance at the windows, +then he crossed the hearth, took down the sconce, and ran his fingers +down the moulding. + +Yes, here were the cracks, barely to be discovered by the fingers and +not at all by the eye. The bit of moulding, when he twisted it, moved +stiffly, but it moved. With another glance over his shoulder he +inserted the key, then he listened. All was quiet in the house. +Outside, a wood-pigeon coo’d in a neighboring tree while a solitary +rook uttered a shrill “Bah-doo! Bah-doo!” not the common caw, but a cry +that he had often heard. + +Something in the stealthiness of his movements and the stillness of the +house, whispered a warning to him, and he paused, his arm raised. +Yet—why not? What could come of it? Knowledge was always useful, and if +his business had lain with this second cupboard his uncle would have +sent him to it as freely as to the other. With an effort he shook off +his scruples, and to satisfy himself that he was doing no wrong he +laughed. He turned the key and swung back the panel. He unlocked and +opened the inner door. + +Here there were but two divisions. The lower one was piled high with +plate; with a part, of a dinner-service, cups, bowls, candlesticks, +wine-jugs, salt-cellers—a collection that, tarnished and dull as the +pieces were, made Arthur’s mouth water. Among them lay half a dozen +leather cases which he fancied held jewellery, and more than a dozen +bulky parcels—spoons and forks and the like. They had not been +disturbed, it was plain, for years, and he dared not touch them. + +On the shelf were two iron boxes, and arrayed before them four parcels +of deeds, old and discolored, with ends of green riband hanging from +them, and here and there a great seal—one seal was of lead. They gave +out a damp, sour smell, the odor of slowly decaying sheepskin. Three of +the parcels related to farms which the Squire had bought within +Arthur’s memory. The fourth and largest bundle, in a coarse wrapper, +neatly bound about with straps, had a label attached to it, “The Title +Deeds of the Garth Estate,” and thrust under one of the straps was a +folded slip of parchment. Arthur opened this and saw that it was a +memorandum, dated fifty years before, of the deposit of the deeds to +secure the repayment of thirty-eight thousand pounds and interest. +Below were receipts for instalments repaid at intervals of years, and +opposite the last receipt appeared, in the Squire’s hand “Cancelled and +deeds returned—Thank God for His mercies!” + +Arthur felt a thrill of sympathy as he read the words. He returned the +slip to its place and softly closed the door. He swung back the panel +and secured it. He replaced the silver sconce. + +But though two inches of wood now intervened, he retained a vision of +the bundle of deeds. It was not large, he could have carried it under +his arm. But it meant, that little parcel, power, wealth, position, the +Garth Estate! It spoke to Arthur the banker—for whom wealth lay in +broad acres themselves, the farms and water-mills, the pieces of paper, +not in gold and silver—as eloquently as the coverts and dingles, the +wide-flung hill-side that he loved, spoke to the Squire. For the first +time Arthur coveted Garth, valuing it not as the Squire did for what it +was, hill and dale spread under heaven, but for what it was worth, for +what might be made of it, for the uses to which it might be put. + +“He has added to it. One could raise fifty thousand on it,” he thought. +And with fifty thousand what could one not do? With fifty thousand +pounds, free money, added to the bank’s resources, what might not be +done? It was a golden vision that he saw, as he stood in the evening +stillness with the scent of roses stealing into the room, and the +wood-pigeon cooing softly in the tree outside. Ay, what might he not +do! + +But the Squire might be growing suspicious. He roused himself, saw that +all was as he had found it, and unlocking the door, he went upstairs. + +“You’ve been a long time about it, young man,” the Squire grumbled. +“What’s amiss?” + +But Arthur was ready with his answer. “You told me to go about it +quietly, sir. So I waited until the coast was clear. It’s a capital +hiding-place. It’s not to be found in a minute even when you know where +it is.” + +“Ay, ay. It would take a clever rogue to find it,” complacently. + +“I suppose it’s old, sir?” + +“My grandfather put it in when the Scots were at Derby. And, mark ye, +no one knows of it but Frederick Welsh—and now you. D’you be careful +and keep your mouth shut, lad. You ha’ got the certificate?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Well, go about the business and get it done. And now do you send Jos +to me.” + +Arthur made a mental note that the old man was changing at last—was +losing that hard grip on all about him which he had maintained for half +a century; and he was confirmed in this idea by the ease with which the +India Stock transaction presently went through. The brokers showed +themselves unusually complaisant. They wrote that, as the matter was +personal to him, they were anxious that nothing should go wrong; and, +as his customer was blind, they were forwarding with the transfer on +which the particulars had been inserted a duplicate in blank, in order +that if the former were spoiled in the execution delay might be +avoided. This was irregular, but if the duplicate were not needed, it +could be returned and no harm done. + +Arthur thought this polite of them, and was flattered; he felt that he +was a client of value. But as it turned out the duplicate was not +needed; the Squire made nothing of the formality. His hand once +directed to the proper place, he signed his name boldly and plainly—as +he did most things; and Arthur and Jos added their signatures as +witnesses. Ten days later the money was received, and five-sixths of it +was paid over to the bank. The duplicate transfer, overlooked at the +moment, lay on the Squire’s bureau until it did not seem worth while to +return it. Then Arthur, tired of coming upon it every day, thrust it +out of sight in a pigeonhole. + +He had other things to think of, indeed, for he was in high feather in +these days, while the summer sun climbed slowly to the zenith and began +again to sink. He had two-fold interests. After a long day spent in the +bank he would ride out of town in the cool of the evening, and passing +down the winding streets under the gables of the old black and white +houses, he would cross the West Bridge. Bucketing his horse up the rise +that led from the river, he would leave the town behind and see before +him the road running straight and dusty towards the sunset-glow, which +still shone above the Welsh hills. From the fields on either side came +the sharp sound of the scythe-stone, the laughter of hay-makers, the +call of the wagoner to his team, the creaking of the laden wheels over +the turf. Partridges dusting themselves in the road scuttled out of his +way and presently took wing; rabbits watched him from the covert-edge. +The corncrake’s persistent note spoke rather of the hot hours that were +past than of the evening air that cooled his cheek. An aged simpleton +in a smocked frock, the clown of the country-side, danced a jig before +an ale-house; a stray bullock gazed patiently at him from a pound. The +country-side lay quiet about him, and despite himself he owned the +charm of peace, the fall of night, the end of labor. + +But his thoughts still dwelt on the day’s work. There had been a +discussion over Wolley’s account. Wolley had been behaving ill. +Ignoring the claim of the bank he had assigned a number of his railway +shares to meet a bill discounted elsewhere. The natural course would +have been to insist on the lien and to retain the shares. But the +consequences, as Ovington saw, might be serious. The step might not +only involve the bank in a loss, which he still hoped to avoid, but it +might imply taking over the mill—and it is not the business of bankers +to run mills. Arthur, on the other hand, who did not like the man, +would have cut the knot and sent him to the devil. + +In the end Ovington had decided against Arthur. “We must be careful,” +the banker had said. “Credit is like a house of cards. You take one +card away, you do not know how many may fall.” + +“But if we don’t teach him a lesson now?” + +“Quite true, lad. But—well, I will see him. If, as Rodd thinks, he is +drawing bills on men of straw, whose acceptances are worthless——” + +“That would be the devil!” + +“There will be an end of him—but not of him only. We must go warily, +lad. To throw him down now——” the banker shook his head. “No, we will +give him one more chance. I will talk to him.” + +“I should not have the patience.” + +“That is one of the things you have to learn.” + +Arthur reviewed the conversation as he rode, and retained his own +opinion. He thought Ovington too apprehensive. He would himself have +played a bolder game and cut Wolley and his losses, if losses there +must be. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he dismissed the matter and +allowed his thoughts to go before him to Garth, to the old man, to his +favor, and the path it opened to Josina. Yes, Josina. He was not doing +much there, but there was no hurry, and despite the charms of Garth he +had not quite made up his mind. When he did, he anticipated no +difficulty. + +Still something was due to her, were it only as a matter of form; and +she was pale and sweet and appealing. A little love-making would not be +unpleasant these summer evenings, though he had so far held off, +haunted by a foolish hankering after Betty: Betty with her sparkle and +color, her wit and high spirit, ay, and her very temper, mutinous +little rebel as she was—her temper which, manlike, he longed to tame. + +Ten minutes later saw him in the Squire’s room, entertaining him with +scraps of county gossip and the latest news from town. Into the dull +room, with its drab hanging and shadowy portraits, where the old man +sat by his fireless grate, he came like a gleam of sunshine, his laugh +lighting up the dim places, his voice expelling the tedium of the long +day. He brought with him the new Quarterly, or the last _Morning Post_. +He had news of what Sir Harry had lost at Goodwood, of Mytton’s last +scrape, of the poaching affray at my lord’s. He had a joke for Josina +and a teasing word for Miss Peacock—who idolized him. + +And he had tact. He could listen as well as talk. He heard with +interest who had called to ask after the Squire, whose landau and +outriders had turned on the narrow sweep, and whose curricle; what +humbler visitors had left their respects at the stables or the +backdoor, and what was Calamy’s last scrap of dolefulness. + +He was the universal favorite. He had taken the length of the Squire’s +foot; it had been an easier matter than he had anticipated. But even in +his cup there was a sour drop. He had his occasional misgivings and now +and then he suffered a shock. One day it was, “What about your coat, +lad?” + +“My coat?” Arthur stared at the old man. He did not understand. + +“Ay. You thought that I’d forgotten it. But I’m not that shaken. What +about it?” + +Now, between the darkness of the night and the confusion, Arthur had +not noticed the damage done to Clement’s overcoat. Consequently he +could make nothing of the Squire’s words and he tried to pass the +matter off. “Oh, it’s all right, sir,” he said. He waited for something +to enlighten him. + +“Can you wear it?” + +“Oh yes.” + +“The deuce you can!” The Squire was surprised. “Then all I can say is, +you’ve found a d—d good cleaner, lad. If you got that blood off—but as +you did, all’s well. I was afeared I’d owe you a new coat, my boy. I’d +not forgotten it, but I knew that you’d not be wearing it this weather, +and I thought in another week or two I’d be getting this bandage off. +Then I’d see how it was, and what we could do with it.” + +Arthur understood then, and a thrill of alarm ran through him. What if +the Squire began—but no, the danger was over, and as quickly as +possible he rid himself of fear. He was not a fool to start at shadows. +Things were going so well with him that he had no mind to spare for +trifles, and no time to look aside. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +July had passed into August. Who was it who whispered the first word of +doubt? Of misgiving? Where was felt the first shiver of distrust? What +lips first let drop the fatal syllables, a fall? Who in the secrecy of +some bank-parlor or some discounter’s office, sitting at the centre of +the spider’s web of credit, felt a single filament, stretched it may be +across half a world, shiver, and relax? And, refusing to draw the +unwelcome inference, sceptical of danger, felt perhaps a second shock, +ever so slight and ever so distant; and then, reading the message +aright, began to narrow his commitments, to draw in his resources, to +call in his money, to turn into gold his paper wealth? And so from that +dark office or parlor in Fenchurch Street or Change Alley, set in +motion, obscurely, imperceptibly at first, the mighty impetus that was +to reach to such tremendous ends? + +Who? Probably no one knew then, and certainly no one can say now. But +it is certain that in the late summer of that year, while the Squire +sat blinded in his drab-hued room at Garth, and Ovington’s hummed with +business, and Arthur rode gaily to and fro between the two, the thing +happened. Some one, some bank, perhaps some great speculator with irons +in many fires and many lands, took fright and acted on his fears—but +silently, stealthily, as is the manner of such. Or it may have been a +manufacturer on a great scale who looked abroad and fancied that he +saw, though still a long way off, that bugbear of manufacturers, a +glut. + +At any rate there came a check, unmarked by the vast majority, but of +which a whisper began to pass round the inner recesses of Lombard +Street—a fall, such as there had been a few months earlier, but which +then had been speedily made good. Aldersbury lay far beyond the +warning, or if a hint of it reached Ovington, it did not go beyond him. +He did not pass it on, even to Arthur, much less did it reach others. +Sir Charles, secluded within his park walls, was not in the way of +hearing such things, and Acherley and his like were busy with +preparations for autumn sport, getting out their guns and seeing that +their pink coats were aired and their mahogany tops were brought to the +right color. Wolley had his own troubles, and dealt with them after his +own reckless fashion, which was to retire one bill by another; he found +it all he could do to provide for to-day, without thinking what +to-morrow might bring forth, should his woollen goods become +unsaleable, or his bills fail to find discounters. And the multitude, +Grounds and Purslow and their followers, were happy, secure in their +ignorance, foreseeing no evil. + +This was the state of things at Aldersbury, as summer passed into +autumn. Men still added up their investments, and reckoned the amount +of their fortunes and chuckled over what they had made, and added to +the sum what they were sure of making, when the shares of this mine or +that canal company rose another five or ten points. Their wealth on +paper was still, to them, solid, abiding wealth, to be garnered and +laid by and enjoyed when it pleased them. And trade seemed still to +flourish, though not quite so briskly. There was still a demand for +goods though not quite so urgent a demand—and the price stuck a little. +The railway shares still stood at the high premium to which they had +risen, though for the moment they did not seem to be inclined to go +higher. + +But about the end of September—perhaps some one in London or Birmingham +or Liverpool had twitched the filament which connected it with +Aldersbury—Ovington called Arthur back as he was leaving the parlor at +the close of the day’s business. “Wait a moment,” he said, “I want you. +I have been thinking things over, lad, and I am not quite comfortable +about them.” + +“Is it Wolley?” Wolley’s case had been before them that morning and +sharp things had been said about his trading methods. + +“No, it’s not Wolley.” Having got so far Ovington paused, and Arthur +noticed that his face was grave. “No, though Wolley is a part of it. I +am always uneasy about him. But——” + +“What is it, sir?” + +“It is the general situation, lad. I don’t like it. I’ve an impression +that things have gone farther than they should. There is an amount of +inflation that, if things go smoothly, will be gradually reduced and no +harm done. But we have a large sum of money out”—he touched the pile of +papers before him—“and I should like to see it lessened. I hardly know +why, but I do not feel that the position is healthy.” + +“But our money is well covered.” + +“As things are.” + +“And we are as solvent, sir, as——” + +“As need be, with the ordinary time to meet the calls that may be made +upon us. But in the event of a sudden fall, of one big failure leading +to another—in the event of a sudden rush to present our notes?” + +“Even then, sir, we are well secured. We should have no difficulty in +finding accommodation.” + +“In ordinary circumstances, no—and if we alone needed it. We could go +to A. or B. or C, and there would be no difficulty. We have the money’s +worth and a good margin. But if A. and B. and C. were also short, what +then, lad?” + +Arthur felt something approaching contempt. The banker was inventing +bogies, imagining dangers, dreaming of difficulties where none existed. +He saw him in a new light, and discovered him to be timorous. “But that +state of things is not likely to occur,” he objected. + +“Perhaps not, but if it did?” + +“Have you had any hint?” + +“No. But I see that iron is down—since Saturday. And the Manchester +market was flat yesterday.” + +“Things that have happened before,” Arthur said. “I think, sir, it is +really Wolley’s affair that is troubling you.” + +“If it ended with Wolley it would be a small matter. No, I am not +thinking of that.” He looked before him and drummed upon the table with +his fingers. “But the positions calls for—caution. We must go no +farther. We must be careful how we grant accommodation no matter who +applies for it. We must raise our reserve. See, if you please, that we +do not discount a single bill without recourse to me—though, of course, +you will let nothing be noticed on the other side of the counter.” + +“Very good,” Arthur said. But he thought that the other’s caution was +running away with him. The sky seemed clear to him—he could discern no +sign of a storm, and he did not reflect that, as he had never been +present at a storm, the signs might escape him. “Very good,” he said, +“I’ll tell Rodd. I am sure it will please him,” and with that tiny +sting, he went out. + +The conversation had been held behind closed doors, yet it had its +effect. A chill seemed to fall upon the bank. The air became less +genial. Ovington’s face grew both keen and watchful. Arthur, perplexed +and puzzled, was more brusque, his speech shorter. Rodd’s face +reflected his superiors’ gravity. Only Clement, going about his branch +of the work with his usual stolid indifference, perceived no change in +the temperature, and, depressed before, was only a degree nearer to the +mean level. + +Poor Clement! There are situations in which it is hard to play the +hero, and he found himself in one of them. He had vowed that there +should be no more meetings and no more love-making until he had faced +and conquered his dragon. But meanwhile the dragon lay sick and blind +at the bottom of its den, guarded by its very weakness from attack, +while every hour and every day that saw nothing done seemed to remove +Clement farther from his mistress, seemed to set a greater distance +between them, seemed to blacken his face in her eyes. + +Yet what could he do? How could he wrest himself from the inaction—it +must seem to her the ignoble inaction—which pressed upon him? She +watched—he pictured her watching from her tower, or more precisely from +the terraced garden at Garth, for the deliverance which did not come, +for the knight whose trumpet never sounded! She watched, while he, weak +and shiftless, hung back in uncertainty, the inefficient he had ever +been! + +Ay, that he had ever been! It was that which hurt him. It was the sense +of that which wasted his spirits as sorely as the impatience, the +fever, of thwarted love. The spell of vigor which had for a few days +lifted him out of himself, and given him the force to meet and to +impress his fellows, had not only failed to win any real advantage, but +failing, it had left him less self-reliant than before. For he saw now +where he had failed. He saw that with the winning-card in his hand he +had allowed himself to be defeated by Arthur, and to be jockeyed out of +all the fruits of his labor, simply because he had lacked the moral +courage, the hardness of fibre, the stiffness to stand by his own! + +And he feared that it would ever be so. Arthur had got the better of +him, and the knowledge depressed him to the ground. He was not a man. +He was a weakling, a dreamer, good for neither one thing nor another! +As useless outside the bank as at his desk, below and not above the +daily tasks that he secretly despised. + +Yet what could he do? What was it in his power to do? He asked himself +that question a hundred times. He could not force himself on the +Squire, ill and confined to his bed as he was—and be sure, Arthur did +not make the best of his uncle’s condition. He could only wait, though +to wait was intolerable. He could only wait, while poor Josina first +doubted, then despaired! Wait while first hope, and then faith, and in +the end love died in her breast! Wait, till she thought herself +abandoned! + +Of course in his impatience and his humility Clement exaggerated both +the delay and its results. The days seemed weeks to him, the weeks +months. He fancied it a year since he had seen Josina. He did not +consider that she was no stranger to his difficulties, nor reflect that +though his silence might try her, and his absence cause her +unhappiness, she might still approve both the one and the other. As a +fact, the lesson which he had taught her at their last meeting had been +driven home by the remorse that had tortured her on that dreadful +night; and lonely hours in the sick room, much watching, and many a +thought of what might have been, had strengthened the impression. + +But Clement did not know this. He pictured the girl as losing all faith +in him, and as the weeks ran on, the time came when he could bear the +delay no longer, when he felt that he must either do something, or +write himself down a coward. So one day, after hearing in the town that +the Squire was able to leave his room, he wrote to Josina. He told her +that he should call on the morrow and see her father. + +And on the morrow he rode over, blind for once to the changes of +nature, of landscape and cloudscape that surrounded him. But he never +reached the house, for at the little bridge at the foot of the drive +Josina met him, and eager as he had been to see his sweetheart and to +hear her voice, he was checked by the change in her. It was a change +which went deeper than mere physical alteration, though that, too, was +there. The girl was paler, finer, more spiritual. Trouble and anxiety +had laid their mark on her. He had left her girl, he found her woman. A +new look, a look of purpose, of decision, gave another cast to her +features. + +She was the first to speak, and her words bore out the change in her. +“You must come no farther, Clement,” she said. And then as their hands +met and their eyes, the color flamed in her cheeks, her head drooped +flowerlike, she was for an instant the old Josina, the girl he had +wooed by the brook, who had many a time fallen on his breast. But for a +moment only. Then, “You cannot see him yet,” she announced. “Not yet, +for a long time, Clem. I met you here that I might stop you, and that +there might be no misunderstanding—and no more secrets.” + +And this she had certainly secured, for the place which she had chosen +for their meeting was overlooked, though at a distance, by the doorway +of the house, and by all the walks about it. + +But he was not to be so put off. “I must see him,” he said, and he told +himself that he must not be moved by her pleadings. It was natural that +she should fear, but he must not fear—and indeed he had passed beyond +fear. “No, dear,” as she began to protest, “you must let me judge of +this.” He held her hands firmly as he looked down at her. “I have +suffered enough, I have suffered as much as I can bear. I have had no +sight of you and no word of you for months, and I cannot endure this +longer. Every hour of every day I have felt myself a coward, a +deserter, a do-nothing! I have had to bear this, and I have borne it. +But now—now that your father is downstairs——” + +“You can still do nothing,” she said. “Believe, believe me,” earnestly, +“you can do nothing. Dear Clement,” and the tenderness which she strove +to suppress betrayed itself in her tone, “you must be guided by me, you +must indeed. I am with my father, and I know, I know that he cannot +bear it now. I know that it would be cruel to tell him now. He is +blind. Blind, Clement! And he trusts me, he has to trust me. To tell +him now would be to destroy his faith in me, to shock him and to +frighten him—irreparably. You must go back now—now at once.” + +“What?” he cried. “And do nothing? And lose you?” The pathos of her +appeal had passed him by, and only his love and his jealousy spoke. + +“No,” she answered soberly, “you will not lose me, if you have +patience.” + +“But have you patience?” + +“I must have.” + +“And I am to do nothing?” He spoke with energy, almost with anger. “To +go on doing nothing? I am to stand by and—and play the coward still—go +on playing it?” + +Her face quivered, for he hurt her. He was selfish, he was cruel; yet +she understood, and loved him for his cruelty. But she answered him +firmly. “Nothing until I send for you,” she said. “You do not think, +Clem. He is blind! He is dependent on me for everything. If I tell him +in his weakness that I have deceived him, he will lose faith in me, he +will distrust me, he will distrust everyone. He will be alone in his +darkness.” + +It began to come home to him. “Blind?” he repeated. + +“Yes.” + +“But for good? Do you mean—quite blind?” + +“Ah, I don’t know!” she cried, unable to control her voice. “I don’t +know. Dr. Farmer does not know, the physician who came from Birmingham +to see him does not know. They say that they have hopes—and I don’t +know! But I fear.” + +He was silent then, touched with pity, feeling at length the pathos of +it, feeling it almost as she felt it. But after a pause, during which +she stood watching his face, “And if he does not recover his sight?” + +“God forbid!” + +“I say God forbid too, with all my heart. Still, if he does not—what +then? When may I——” + +“When the time comes,” she answered, “and of that I must be the judge. +Yes, Clement,” with resolution. “I must be the judge, for I alone know +how he is, and I alone can choose the occasion.” + +The delay was very bitter to him. He had ridden out determined to put +his fate to the test, to let nothing stand between him and his love, to +over-ride excuses; and he could not in a moment make up his mind to be +thwarted. + +“And I must wait? I must go on waiting? Eating my heart out—doing +nothing?” + +“There is no other way. Indeed, indeed there is not.” + +“But it is too much. It is too much, Jos, that you ask!” + +“Then, Clement——” + +“Well?” + +“You must give me up.” She spoke firmly but her lips quivered, and +there were tears in her eyes. + +He was silent. At last, “Do you wish me to do that?” he said. + +She looked at him for answer, and his doubts, if he had doubted her, +his distrust, if it had been possible for him to distrust her, +vanished. His heart melted. They were a very simple pair of lovers, +moved by simple impulses. + +“Forgive me, oh, forgive me, dear!” he cried. “But mine is a hard task, +a hard task. You do not know what it is to wait, to wait and to do +nothing!” + +“Do I not?” Her eyes were swimming. “Is it not that which I am doing +every day, Clem? But I have faith in you, and I believe in you. I +believe that all will come right in the end. If you trust me, as I +trust you, and have to trust you——” + +“I will, I will,” he cried, repentant, remorseful, recognizing in her a +new decision, a new sweetheart, and doing homage to the strength that +trial and suffering had given her. “I will trust you, trust you—and +wait!” + +Her eyes thanked him, and her hands; and after this there was little +more to be said. She was anxious that he should go, and they parted. He +rode back to Aldersbury, thinking less of himself and more of her, and +something too of the old man, who, blind and shorn of his strength, had +now to lean on women, and suspicious by habit must now trust others, +whether he would or no. Clement had imagination, and by its light he +saw the pathos of the Squire’s position; of his helplessness in the +midst of the great possessions he had gathered, and the acres that he +had added, acre to acre. He who had loved to look on hill and covert +and know them his own, to whom every copse and hedgerow was a friend, +who had watched his marches so jealously and known the rotation of +every field, must now fume and fret, thinking them neglected, +suspecting waste, doubting everyone, lacking but a little of doubting +even his daughter. + +“Poor chap!” he muttered, “poor old chap!” He was sorry for the Squire, +but he was even more sorry for himself. Any other, he felt, would have +surmounted the obstacles that stopped him, or by one road or another +would have gone round them. But he was no good, he was useless. Even +his sweetheart—this in a little spirit of bitterness—took the upper +hand and guided him and imposed her will on him. He was nothing. + +In the bank he grew more taciturn, doing his business with less spirit +than before, suspecting Arthur and avoiding speech with him, meeting +his careless smile with a stolid face. His father, Rodd too, deemed him +jealous of the new partner, and his father, growing in these days a +little sharp in temper, spoke to him about it. + +“You took no interest in the business,” he said, “and I had to find +some one who would take an interest and be of use to me. Now you are +making difficulties and causing unpleasantness. You are behaving ill, +Clement.” + +But Clement only shrugged his shoulders. He had become indifferent. He +had his own burden to bear. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +Arthur, on the other hand, felt that things were going well with him. A +few months earlier he had decided that a partnership in Ovington’s +would be cheaply bought at the cost of a rupture with his uncle. Now he +had the partnership, he could look forward to the wealth and importance +which it would bring—and he had not to pay the price. On the contrary, +his views now took in all that he had been prepared to resign, as well +as all that he had hoped to gain. They took in Garth, and he saw +himself figuring not only as the financier whose operations covered +many fields, and whose riches were ever increasing, but as the landed +Squire, the man of family, whose birth and acres must give him a +position in society which no mere wealth could confer. The unlucky +night which had cost the old man so much, had been for Arthur the +birth-night of fortune. He could date from it a favor, proof, as he now +believed, against chance and change, a favor upon which it seemed +unlikely that he could ever overdraw. + +For since his easy victory on the question of the India Stock, he had +become convinced that the Squire was failing. The old man, once so +formidable, was changed; he had grown, if not weak, yet dependent. And +it could hardly be otherwise, Arthur reflected. The loss of sight was a +paralyzing deprivation, and it had fallen on the owner of Garth at a +time of life when any shock must sap the strength and lower the +vitality. For a while his will had reacted, he had seemed to bear up +against the blow, but age will be served, and of late he had grown more +silent and apathetic. Arthur had read the signs and drawn the +conclusion, and was now sure that, blind and shaken, the old man would +never again be the man he had been, or assert himself against an +influence which a subtler brain would know how to weave about him. + +Arthur was thinking of this as he rode into town one morning in +November, his back turned to the hills and the romance of them, his +face to the plain. It was early in the month. St. Luke’s summer, +prolonged that year, had come to an end a day or two before, and the +air was raw, the outlook sombre. Under a canopy of grey mist, the +thinning hedge-rows and dripping woods showed dark against clear blue +distances. But in the warmth of his thoughts the rider was proof +against weather, and when he came to the sedgy spot, never more dreary +to the view than to-day, which Thomas had chosen for his attack on the +Squire, he smiled. That little patch of ground had done much for him, +but at a price, of course—for there he had lost a friend, a good easy +friend in Clement. And Betty—Betty, whose coolness had caused him more +than one honest pang—he had no doubt that there had come a change in +her, too, from that date. + +But one had to pay a price for everything, and these were but small +spots on the sun of his success. Soon he had put the thought of them +from him, and, abreast of the first houses of the town, began to employ +his mind on the work of the day—revolving this and that, matters +outside routine which would demand his attention. He knew what was +likely to arise. + +Rarely in these days did he enter Aldersbury without a feeling of +elation. The very air of the town inspired him. The life of the +streets, the movement of the markets, the sight of the shopkeepers at +their doors, the stir and bustle had their appeal for him. He felt +himself on his own ground; it was here and not in the waste places that +his work lay, here that he was formed to conquer, here that he was +conquering fortune. Garth was very well—a grand, a splendid reserve; +but as he rode up the steep streets to the bank, he felt that here was +his vocation. He sniffed the battle, his eyes grew brighter, his figure +more alert. From some Huguenot ancestor had descended the Huguenot +appetite for business, the Huguenot ability to succeed. + +This morning, however, he did not reach the bank in his happiest mood. +Purslow, the irrepressible Purslow, stopped him, with a long face and a +plaint to match. “Those Antwerp shares, Mr. Bourdillon! Excuse me, have +you heard? They’re down again—down twenty-five since Wednesday! And +that’s on to five, as they fell the week before! Thirty down, sir! I’m +in a regular stew about it! Excuse me, sir, but if they fall much +more——” + +“You’ve held too long, Purslow,” Arthur replied. “I told you it was a +quick shot. A fortnight ago you’d have got out with a good profit. Why +didn’t you?” + +“But they were rising—rising nicely. And I thought, sir——” + +“You thought you’d hold them for a bit more? That was the long and +short of it, wasn’t it? Well, my advice to you now is to get out while +you can make a profit.” + +“Sell?” the draper exclaimed. “Now?” It is hard to say what he had +expected, but something more than this. “But I should not clear more +than—why, I shouldn’t make——” + +“Better make what you can,” Arthur replied, and rode on a little more +cavalierly than he would have ridden a few months before. + +He did not reflect how easy it is to sow the seeds of distrust. +Purslow, left alone to make the best of cold comfort, felt for the +first time that his interests were not the one care of the bank. For +the first time he saw the bank as something apart, a machine, cold, +impassive, indifferent, proceeding on its course unmoved by his +fortunes, good or bad, his losses or his gains. It was a picture that +chilled him, and set him thinking. + +Arthur, meantime, left his horse at the stables and let himself into +the bank by the house-door. As he laid his hat and whip on the table in +the hall, he caught the sound of an angry voice. It came from the bank +parlor. He hesitated an instant, then he made up his mind, and stepping +that way he opened the door. + +The voice was Wolley’s. The man was on his feet, angry, protesting, +gesticulating. Ovington, his lips set, the pallor of his handsome face +faintly tinged with color, sat behind his table, his elbows on the arms +of his chair, his fingertips meeting. + +Arthur took it all in. Then, “You don’t want me?” he said, and he made +as if he would close the door again. “I thought that you were alone, +sir.” + +“No, stay,” Ovington answered. “You may as well hear what Mr. Wolley +has to say, though I have told him already——” + +“What?” the clothier cried rudely. “Come! Let’s have it in plain +words!” + +“That we can discount no more bills for him until the account against +him is reduced. You know as well as I do, Mr. Wolley, that you have +been drawing more bills and larger bills than your trade justifies.” + +“But I have to meet the paper I’ve accepted for wool, haven’t I? And if +my customers don’t pay cash—as you know it is not the custom to +pay—where am I to get the cash to pay the wool men?” + +The banker took up one of two bills that lay on the table before him. +“Drawn on Samuel Willias, Manchester,” he said. “That’s a new name. Who +is he?” + +“A customer. Who should he be?” + +“That’s the point,” Ovington replied coldly. “Is he? And this other +bill. A new name, too. Besides, we’ve already discounted your usual +bills. These bills are additional. My own opinion is that they are +accommodation bills, and that you, and not the acceptors, will have to +meet them. In any case,” dropping the slips on the table, “we are not +going to take them.” + +“You won’t cash them? Not on no terms?” + +“No, we are going no further, Wolley,” the banker replied firmly. “If +you like I will send for the bill-book and ledger and tell you exactly +what you owe, on bills and overdraft. I know it is a large amount, and +you have made, as far as I can judge, no effort to reduce it. The time +has come when we must stop the advances.” + +“And you’ll not discount these bills?” + +“No!” + +“Then, by G—d, it’s not I will be the only one to be ruined!” the man +exclaimed, and he struck the table with his fist. The veins on his +forehead swelled, his coarse mottled face became disfigured with rage. +He glared at the banker. But even as Ovington met his gaze, there came +a change. The perspiration sprang out on his forehead, his face turned +pale and flabby, he seemed to shrink and wilt. The ruin, which +recklessness and improvidence had hidden from him, rose before him, +certain and imminent. He saw his mill, his house, his all gone from +him, saw himself a drunken, ruined, shiftless loafer, cadging about +public-houses! “For God’s sake!” he pleaded, “do it this once, Mr. +Ovington. Meet just these two, and I’ll swear they’ll be the last. Meet +these.” + +“No,” the banker said. “We go no farther.” + +Perhaps the thought that he and Ovington had risen from the ranks +together, that for years they had been equals, and that now the one +refused his help to the other, rose and mocked the unhappy man. At any +rate, his rage flared up anew. He swore violently. “Well, there’s more +than I will go down, then!” he said. “And more than will suit your +book, banker! Wise as you think yourself, there’s more bills out than +you know of!” + +“I am sorry to hear it.” + +“Ay, and you’ll be more sorry by and by!” viciously. “Sorry for +yourself and sorry that you did not give me a little more help, d—n +you! Are you going to? Best think twice about it before you say no!” + +“Not a penny,” Ovington rejoined sternly. “After what you have admitted +I should be foolish indeed to do so. You’ve had my last word, Mr. +Wolley.” + +“Then damn your last word and you too!” the clothier retorted, and went +out, cursing, into the bank, shouting aloud as he passed through it, +that they were a set of bloodsuckers and that he’d have the law of +them! Clement from his desk eyed him steadily. Rodd and the clerks +looked startled. The customers—there were but two, but they were two +too many for such a scene—eyed each other uneasily. A moment, and +Clement, after shifting his papers uncertainly, left his desk and went +into the parlor. + +Ovington and Arthur had not moved. “What’s the matter?” Clement asked. +The occurrence had roused him from his apathy. He looked from the one +to the other, a challenge in his eyes. + +“Only what we’ve been expecting for some time,” his father answered. +“Wolley has asked for further credit and I’ve had to say, no. I’ve +given him too much rope as it is, and we shall lose by him. He’s an +ill-conditioned fellow, and he is taking it ill.” + +“He wants a drubbing,” said Clement. + +“That is not in our line,” Ovington replied mildly. “But,” he +continued—for he was not sorry to have the chance of taking his son +into his confidence—“we are going to have plenty to think of that is in +our line. Wolley will fail, and we shall lose by him; and I have no +doubt that he is right in saying that he will bring down others. We +must look to ourselves and draw in, as I warned Bourdillon some time +ago. That noisy fellow may do us harm, and we must be ready to meet +it.” + +Arthur looked thoughtful. “Antwerps have fallen,” he said. + +“I wish it were only Antwerps!” the banker answered. “You haven’t seen +the mail? Or Friday’s prices? There’s a fall in nearly everything. +True,” looking from one to the other, “I’ve expected it—sooner or +later; and it has come, or is coming. Yes, Rodd? What is it?” + +The cashier had opened the door. “Hamar,” he said in a low voice, +“wants to know if we will buy him fifty of the railroad shares and +advance him the face value on the security of the shares. He’ll find +the premium himself. He thinks they are cheap after the drop last +week.” + +The banker shook his head. “No,” he said. “We can’t do it, tell Mr. +Hamar.” + +“It would support the shares,” Arthur suggested. + +“With our money. Yes! But we’ve enough locked up in them already. Tell +him, Rodd, that I am sorry, but it is not convenient at present.” + +“They are still at a premium of thirty shillings,” Arthur put in. + +“Is the door shut, Rodd?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Thirty shillings? And that might run off in a week, Mr. Secretary. No, +the time is come when we must not shilly-shally. I see your view and +the refusal may do harm. But we have enough money locked up in the +railway, and with the outlook such as it is, I will not increase the +note issues. They are already too large, as we may discover. We must +say no, Rodd, but tell him to come and see me this evening, and I will +explain.” + +The cashier nodded and went out. + +Ovington gazed thoughtfully at his joined finger-tips. “Is the door +closed?” he asked again, and assured that it was, he looked +thoughtfully from one to the other of the young men. He seemed to be +measuring them, considering how far he could trust them, how far it +would be well to take them into his confidence. Then, “We are going to +meet a crisis,” he said. “I have now no doubt about that. All over the +country the banks have increased their issues, and hold a vast quantity +of pawned stock. If the fall in values is continued, the banks must +throw the stock on the market, and there will be a general fall. At the +same time they will be obliged to restrict credit and refuse discounts, +which will force traders to throw goods on the market to meet their +obligations. Goods as well as stocks will fall. Alarm will follow, and +presently there will be a run on a weak bank and it will close its +doors. Then there will be a panic, and a run on other banks—a run +proportioned in violence to the amount of credit granted in the last +two years. We may have to meet a run on deposits at the same time that +we may be called upon to cash every note that we have issued.” + +“Impossible!” Arthur cried. “We could not do it.” + +“If you mean that the run is impossible,” the banker answered quietly, +“I much fear that events will confute you. If you mean that we could +not meet our obligations, well, we must strain every nerve to do so. We +must retain all the cash that comes in, and we must issue no more +notes, create no more credit. But even this we must do with discretion, +and above all not a whisper must pass beyond this room. I will speak to +Rodd. Hamar I will see this evening, and do what I can to sweeten the +refusal. We must wear confident faces however grave the crisis. We are +solvent, amply solvent, if time be given us to realize our resources; +but time may not be given us, and we may have to make great sacrifices. +You may be inclined to blame me——” he paused, and looked from one to +the other—Arthur stood frowning, his eyes on the carpet—“that I did not +take the alarm earlier? Well, I ought to have done so, perhaps. But——” + +“Nobody blames you, sir!” It was Clement who spoke, Clement, in whom +the last few minutes had made a marked change. His dulness and +listlessness had fallen from him, he stood upright and alert. The +imagination which had balked at the routine of banking, faced a crisis +with alacrity, and conscious that he had hitherto failed his father, he +welcomed with zest the opportunity of proving his loyalty, “Nobody +blames you, sir!” he repeated firmly. “We are here to stand by you, and +I am confident that we shall win through. If any bank can stand, +Ovington’s will stand. And if we don’t win through, if the public +insists on cutting its own throat, well”—a little ashamed of his own +enthusiasm—“we shall still believe in you, sir, you may be sure of +that!” + +“But isn’t—isn’t all this a little premature?” Arthur asked, his tone +cold and business-like. “I don’t understand why you think that all this +is coming upon us at a moment’s notice, sir? Without warning?” + +“Not quite without warning,” the banker rejoined with patience. +Clement’s declaration of faith had moved him more deeply than he +showed, and, having that, he could bear a little disappointment. “I +have hinted more than once, Arthur, that I was uneasy. But why, you +ask, this sudden alarm—now? Well, look at Richardson’s list of last +Friday’s prices. You have not seen it. Exchequer Bills that a week ago +were at par are at a discount. India Stock are down five points on the +day—a large fall for such a stock. New Four per Cents, have fallen 3, +Bank Stock that stood at 224 ten days ago is 214. These are not panic +falls, but they are serious figures. With Bank Stock falling ten points +in as many days, what will happen to the immense mass of speculative +securities held by the public, and on much of which calls are due? It +will be down this week; next week the banks will have to throw it out +to save their margins, and customers to pay their calls. It will fall, +and fall. The week after, perhaps, panic! A rush to draw deposits, or a +rush to cash notes, or, probably, both.” + +“Then you think—you must think”—Arthur’s voice was not quite under his +control—“that there is danger?” + +“It would be as foolish in me to deny it here,” the banker replied +gravely, “as it would be reckless in me to affirm it outside. There is +danger. We shall run a risk, but I believe that we shall win through, +though, it may be, by a narrow margin. And a little thing might upset +us.” + +Arthur was not of an anxious temperament—far from it. But he had +committed himself to the bank. He had involved himself in its fortunes +in no ordinary way. He had joined it against the wishes of his friends +and in the teeth of the prejudices of his caste. He had staked his +reputation for judgment upon its success, and assured that it would +give him in the future all for which he thirsted, he had deemed himself +far-sighted, and others fools. In doing this he had never dreamt of +failure, he had never weighed the possibility of loss. Not once had he +reflected that he might turn out to be wrong and robbed of the +prize—might in the end be a laughing-stock! + +Now as the possibility of all this, as the thought of failure, complete +and final, flooded his mind and shook his self-confidence, he flinched. +Danger! Danger, owned to by Ovington himself! Ah, he ought to have +known! He ought to have suspected that fortunes were not so easily +made! He ought to have reflected that Ovington’s was not Dean’s! That +it was but a young bank, ill-rooted as yet—and speculative! Ay, +speculative! Such a bank might fall, he was almost certain now that it +would fall, as easily as it had risen! + +It was a nerve-shaking vision that rose before him, and for a moment he +could not hide his disorder. At any rate, he could not hide it from two +jealous eyes. Clement saw and condemned—not fully understanding all +that this meant to the other or the sudden strain which it put upon +him. A moment and Arthur was himself again, and his first words +recovered for him the elder man’s confidence. They were practical. + +“How much—I mean, what extra amount of reserve,” he asked, “would make +us safe?” + +“Just so,” and in the banker’s eyes there shone a gleam of relief. +“Well, if we had twelve thousand pounds, in addition to our existing +assets, I think—nay, I am confident that that would place us out of +danger.” + +“Twelve thousand pounds.” + +“Yes. It is not a large sum. But it might make all the difference if it +came to a pinch.” + +“In cash?” + +“In gold, or Bank paper. Or in such securities as could be realized +even in a crisis. Twelve thousand added to our reserve—I think I may +say with confidence that with that we could meet any run that could be +made upon us.” + +“There is no doubt that we are solvent, sir?” + +“You should know that as well as I do.” + +“We could realize the twelve thousand eventually?” + +“Of course, or we should not be solvent without it.” For once Ovington +spoke a little impatiently. + +“Then could we not,” Arthur asked, “by laying our accounts before our +London agents obtain the necessary help, sir?” + +“If we were the only bank likely to be in peril, of course we could. +And even as it is, you are so far right that I had already determined +to do that. It is the obvious course, and my bag is being packed in the +house—I shall go to town by the afternoon coach. And now,” rising to +his feet, “we have been together long enough—we must be careful to +cause no suspicion. Do you, Clement, see Massy, the wine-merchant +to-day, and tell him that I will take, to lay down, the ten dozen of +’20 port that he offered me. And ask the two Welshes to dine with me on +Friday—I shall return on Thursday. And get some oysters from +Hamar’s—two barrels—and have one or two people to dine while I am away. +And, cheerful faces, boys—and still tongues. And now go. I must put +into shape the accounts that I shall need in town.” + +He dismissed them with calmness, but he did not at once fall to work +upon the papers. His serenity was that of the commander who, on the eve +of battle, reviews the issues of the morrow, and habituated to the +chances of war, knows that he may be defeated, but makes his +dispositions, folds his cloak about him, and lies down to sleep. But +under the cloak of the commander, and behind the mask that deceives +those about him, is still the man, with the man’s hopes and fears, and +cares and anxieties, which habit has rendered tolerable, and pride +enables him to veil. But they are there. They are there. + +As he sat, he thought of his rise, of his success, of step won after +step; of the praise of men and the jealousy of rivals which wealth had +won for him; and of the new machine that he had built up—Ovington’s. +And he knew that if fate went against him, there might in a very short +time be an end of all. Yesterday he and Wolley had been equals. They +had risen from obscurity together. To-day Wolley was a bankrupt. +To-morrow—they might be again equal in their fall, and Ovington’s a +thing to wonder at. Dean’s would chuckle, and some would call him a +fool and some a rogue, and all an upstart—one who had not been able to +keep his head. He would be ruined, and they would find no name too bad +for him. + +He thought of Betty. How would she bear it? He had made much of her and +spoiled her, she had been the apple of his eye. She had known only the +days of his prosperity. How would she bear it, how take it? He sighed. + +He turned at last to the papers. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +It was with a firmer tread that Clement went back to his desk in the +bank. He had pleased his father and he was pleased with himself. Here +at last was something to do. Here at last was something to fight. Here +at last was mettle in the banking business that suited him; and not a +mere counting of figures and reckoning of pennies, and taking in at +four per cent. and putting out at eight. His gaze, passing over the +ledger that lay before him, focussed itself on the unconscious +customers beyond the counter. He had the air of challenging them, of +defying them. They were the enemy. It was their folly, their greed, +their selfishness, their insensate desire to save themselves, let who +would perish, that menaced the bank, that threatened the security, the +well-being, the happiness of better men. It was a battle and they were +the enemy. He scowled at them. Supposing them to have sense, patience, +unselfishness, there would be no battle and no danger. But he knew that +they had it not in them. No, they would rush in at the first alarm, +like a flock of silly sheep, and thrusting and pushing and trampling +one another down, would run, each bent on his own safety, blindly on +ruin. + +From this moment the bank became to him a place of interest and color, +instead of that which it had been. Where there was danger there was +romance. Even Rodd, adding up a customer’s pass-book, his face more +thoughtful than usual, wore a halo, for he stood in peril. If the +shutters went up Rodd would suffer with his betters. He would lose his +place, he would be thrown on the world. He would lose, too, the trifle +which he had on deposit in the bank. And even Rodd might have his plans +and aims and ambitions, might be hoping for a rise, might be looking to +marry some day—and some one! + +Pheugh! Clement’s mouth opened, he stared aghast—stared at the wire +blind that obscured the lower half of the nearer window, as if all his +faculties were absorbed in reading the familiar legend, KNAB +S’NOTGNIVO, that showed darkly upon it. Customers, Rodd, the bank, all +vanished. For he had forgotten! He had forgotten Josina! In +contemplating what was exciting in the struggle before him he had +forgotten that his stake was greater than the stake of others—that it +was immeasurably greater. For it was Josina. He stood far enough below +her as it was, separated from her by a height of pride and prejudice +and convention, which he must scale if he would reach her. But he had +one point in his favor—as things were. His father was wealthy, and +standing a-tiptoe on his father’s money-bags he might possibly aspire +to her hand. So uplifted, so advantaged he might hope to grasp that +hand, and in the end, by boldness and resolution, to make it his own. + +That was the position as long as all went well at the bank: and it was +a position difficult enough. But if the money-bags crumbled and sank +beneath his feet? If in the crisis that was coming they toppled over, +and his father failed, as he might fail? If he lost the footing, the +one footing that money now gave him? Then her hand would be altogether +out of his reach, she would be far above him. He could not hope to +reach her, could not hope to gain her, could not in honor even aspire +to her? + +He saw that now. His stake was Josina, and the battle lost, he lost +Josina. He had been brave enough until he thought of that, reckless +even, welcoming the trumpet call. But seeing that, and seeing it +suddenly, he groaned. + +The sound recalled him to himself, and he winced, remembering his +father’s injunction to show a cheerful front. That he should have +failed so soon! He looked guiltily at Arthur. Had he heard? + +But Arthur had not heard. He was standing at a desk attached to the +wall, his back towards Clement, his side-face to the window. He had not +heard, because his thoughts had been elsewhere, and strange to say, the +subject which had engaged them had been also Josina. The banker’s +warning had been a sharp blow to him. He was practical. He prided +himself on the quality, and he foresaw no pleasure in a contest in +which the success that was his be-all and end-all would be hazarded. + +True, his mercurial spirit had already begun to rise, and with every +minute he leant more and more to the opinion that the alarm was +groundless. He thought that the banker was scaring himself, and seeing +bogies where no bogies were—as if forsooth a little fall meant a great +catastrophe, or all the customers would leave the bank because Wolley +did! But he none the less for that looked abroad. Prudently he reviewed +the resources that would remain to him in the event of defeat, and like +a cautious general he determined beforehand his line of retreat. + +That line was plain. If the bank failed, if a thing so cruel and +incredible could happen, he still had Garth. He still had Garth to fall +back upon, its lands, its wealth, its position. The bank might go, and +Ovington—confound him for the silly mismanagement that had brought +things to this!—might go into limbo with it, and Clement and Rodd and +the rest of them—after all, it was their native level! But for him, +born in the purple, there would still be Garth. + +Only he must be quick. He must not lose a day or an hour. If he waited +too long, word of the bank’s embarrassments might reach the old man, +re-awaken his prejudices, warp his mind, and all might be lost. The +influence on which he counted for success might cease to be his, and in +a moment he might find himself out in the cold. Weakened as the Squire +was, it would not be wise to trust too much to the change in him! + +No, he must do it at once. He would ride out that very day, and gain, +as he did not doubt that he would gain, the Squire’s permission to +speak to Josina. He would leave no room for accidents, and, setting +these aside, he did not doubt the result. + +He carried out his intention in spite of some demur on Clement’s part, +who in his new-born zeal thought that in his father’s absence the other +ought to remain on the spot. But Arthur had the habit of the upper +hand, and with a contemptuous fling at Clement’s own truancies, took it +now. He was at Garth before sunset of the short November day, and he +had not sat in the Squire’s room ten minutes before chance gave him the +opening he desired. + +The old man had been listening to the town news, and apparently had +been engrossed in it. But suddenly, he leant forward, and poked Arthur +with the end of his stick. “Here do you tell me!” he said. “What ails +the girl? I’ve no eyes, but I’ve ears, and there’s something. What’s +amiss with her, eh?” + +“Do you mean Josina, sir?” + +“Who else, man? I asked you what’s the matter with her. D’you think I +don’t know that there is something? I’ve all my senses but one, thank +God, and I can hear if I can’t see! What is it?” + +Arthur saw in a moment that here was the opportunity, he needed, and he +made haste to seize it. “The truth is, sir——” he said with a candor +which was attractive. “I was going to speak to you about Josina, I have +been wishing to do so for some time.” + +“Eh? Well?” + +“I have said nothing to her. But it is possible that she may be aware +of my feelings.” + +“Oh, that’s it, is it?” the Squire said drily. It was impossible to say +whether he was pleased or not. + +“If I had your permission to speak to her, sir?” Arthur felt, now that +he had come to the point, just the amount of nervousness which was +becoming. “We have been brought up together, and I don’t think that I +can be taking you by surprise.” + +“And you think it will be no surprise to her?” + +“Well, sir,” modestly, “I think it will not.” + +“More ways of killing a cat than drowning it, eh? That’s it, is it? +Haven’t spoken, but let her know? And you want my leave?” + +“Yes, sir, to ask her to be my wife,” Arthur said frankly. “It has been +my wish for some time, but I have hesitated. Of course, I am no great +match for her, but I am of her blood, and——” + +He paused. He did not know what to add, and the Squire did not help +him, and for the first time Arthur felt a pang of uneasiness. This was +not lessened when the old man asked, “How long has this been going on, +eh?” + +“Oh, for a long time, sir—on my side,” Arthur answered. There was an +ominous silence. The Squire might be taking it well or ill—it was +impossible to judge. He had not changed his attitude and still sat, +leaning forward, his hands on his stick, impenetrable behind his +bandages. It struck Arthur that he might have been premature; that he +might have put his favor to too high a test. It might have been wiser +to work upon Josina, and wait and see how things turned out. + +At last. “She’ll not go out of this house,” the Squire said. And he +sighed in a way unusual with him, even when he had been at his worst. +“That’s understood. There’s room for you here, and any brats you may +have. That’s understood, eh?” sharply. + +“Willingly, sir,” Arthur answered. A great weight had been lifted from +him. + +“And you’ll take her name, do you hear?” + +“Of course, sir. I shall be proud to do so.” + +The Squire sighed, and again he was silent. + +“Then—then I may speak to her, sir?” + +“Wait a bit! Wait a bit!” The Squire had more to say, it appeared. +“You’ll leave the bank, of course?” + +Arthur’s mind, trained to calculation, reviewed the position. Most +heartily he wished—though he thought that Ovington’s views were +unnecessarily dark—that he could leave the bank. But he could not. The +moment when Ovington might have released him, when the cancellation of +the articles had been possible, was past. The banker could no longer +afford to cancel them, or to lose the five thousand pounds that Arthur +had brought in. + +He hesitated, and the old man read his hesitation, and was wroth. “You +heard what I said?” he growled, and he struck his stick upon the floor. +“Do you think I am going to have my daughter’s husband counterskipping +in Aldersbury? Cheek by jowl with every grocer and linen-draper in the +town? Bad enough as it is, bad enough, but when you’re Jos’s +husband—no, by G—d, that’s flat! You’ll leave the bank, and you’ll +leave it at once, or you’re no son-in-law for me. I’ll not have the +name of Griffin dragged in the dirt.” + +Arthur had not anticipated this, though he might easily have foreseen +it; and he cursed his folly. He ought to have known that the old +question would be raised, and that it would revive the Squire’s +antagonism. He was like a fox caught in a trap, nay, like a fox that +has put its own foot in the trap; and he had no time to give any but a +candid answer. “I am afraid, sir,” he said. “I mean—I am quite willing +to comply with your wishes. But unfortunately there’s a difficulty. I +am tied to the bank for three years. At the end of three years——” + +“Three years be d—d!” In a passion the Squire struck his stick on the +floor. “Three years! I’m to sit here for three years while you go in +and out, partner with Ovington! Then my answer is, No! No! Do you hear? +I’ll not have it.” + +The perspiration stood on Arthur’s brow. Here was a _débâcle!_ An end, +crushing and complete, to all his hopes! Desperately he tried to +explain himself and mend matters. “If I could act for myself, sir,” he +said, “I would leave the bank to-morrow. But the agreement——” + +“Agreement? Don’t talk to me of agreements! You could ha’ helped it!” +the Squire snarled. “You could ha’ helped it! Only you would go on! You +went in against my advice! And for the agreement, who but a fool would +ha’ signed such an agreement? No, you may go, my lad. As you ha’ brewed +you may bake! You may go! If I’d known this was going on, I’d not ha’ +seen so much of you, you may be sure of that! As it is, Good-day! +Good-day to you!” + +It was indeed a _débâcle_; and Arthur could hardly believe his ears, or +that he stood in his own shoes. In a moment, in one moment he had +fallen from the height of favor and the pinnacle of influence, and +disowned and defeated, he could hardly take in the mischance that had +befallen him. Slowly he got to his feet, and as soon as he could master +his voice, “I’m grieved, sir,” he answered, “more grieved than I, can +say, that you should take it like this—when I have no choice. I am +sorry for my own sake.” + +“Ay, ay!” with grim irony. “I can believe that.” + +“And sorry for Josina’s.” + +He could think of no further plea at the moment—he must wait and hope +for the best; and he moved towards the door, cursing his folly, his all +but incredible folly, but finding no remedy. His hand was on the latch +of the door when “Wait!” the old man said. + +Arthur turned and waited; wondering, even hoping. The Squire sat, +looking straight before him, if that might be said of a blind man, and +presently he sighed. Then, “Here, come back!” he ordered. But again for +awhile he said no more, and Arthur waited, completely in the dark as to +what was working in the other’s mind. At last. “There, maybe I’ve been +hasty,” the old man muttered, “and not thought of all. Will you leave +the bank when you can, young man?” + +“Of course, I will, sir!” Arthur cried. + +“Then—then you may speak to her,” the Squire said reluctantly, and he +marked the reluctance with another sigh. + +And so, as suddenly as he had raised the objection, he withdrew it, to +Arthur’s intense astonishment. Only one conclusion could he draw—that +the Squire was indeed failing. And on that, with a hastily murmured +word of thanks, he escaped from the room, hardly knowing whether he +walked on his head or his feet. + +Lord, what a near thing it had been. And yet—no! The Squire—it must be +that—was a failing man. He had no longer the strength or the +stubbornness to hold to the course that his whims or his crabbed humor +suggested. The danger might not have been so real or substantial, after +all. + +Yet the relief was great, and coming on Miss Peacock, who was crossing +the hall with a bowl in her hand, he seized her by the waist and +whirled her round, bowl and all. “Hallo, Peacock! Hallo, Peacock!” he +cried in the exuberance of his joy. “Where’s Jos?” + +“Let go!” she cried. “You’ll have it over! What’s come to you?” + +“Where’s Jos? Where’s Jos?” + +“Good gracious, how should I know? There, be quiet,” in pretended +anger, though she liked it well enough. “What’s come to you? If you +must know, she’s moping in her room. It’s where I find her most times +when she’s not catching cold in the gardenhouse, and her father’s +noticed it at last. He’s in a pretty stew about her, and if you ask me, +I don’t think that she’s ever got over that night.” + +“I’ll cure her!” Arthur cried in a glow, and he gave Miss Peacock +another twirl. + +But he had no opportunity of trying his cure that evening, for Jos, +when she came downstairs, kept close to her father, and it was not +until after breakfast on the morrow that he saw her go into the garden +through the side-door, a relic of the older house that had once stood +there. To frame it a stone arch of Tudor date had been filled in, and +on either side of this, outlined in stone on the brick wall, was a +pointed window of three lights. But Arthur’s thoughts as he followed +Jos into the garden were far from such dry-as-dust matters. The +reaction after fear, the assurance that all was well, intoxicated him, +and in a glow of spirits that defied the November day he strode down +the walk under boughs that half-bare, and over leaves that +half-shrivelled, owned alike the touch of autumn. He caught sight of a +skirt on the raised walk at the farther end of the garden and he made +for it, bounding up the four steps with a light foot and a lover’s +haste. A handsome young fellow, with a conquering air! + +Jos was leaning on the wall, a shawl about her shoulders, her eyes bent +on the mill and the Thirty Acres; and her presence in that place on +that not too cheerful morning, and her pensive stillness, might have +set him wondering, had he given himself time to think. But he was full +of his purpose, he viewed her only as she affected it, and he saw +nothing except what he wished to see. When, hearing his footsteps, she +turned, her color did not rise—and that too might have told him +something. But had he spared this a thought, it would only have been to +think that her color would rise soon enough when he spoke. + +“Jos!” he cried, while some paces still separated them. “I’ve seen your +father! And I’ve spoken to him!” He waved his hand as one proclaiming a +victory. + +But what victory? Jos was as much in the dark as if he had never paid +court to her in those far-off days. “Is anything the matter?” she +asked, and she turned as if she would go back to the house. + +But he barred the way. “Nothing,” he said. “Why should there be? On the +contrary, dear. Don’t I tell you that I’ve spoken to the Squire? And he +says that I may speak to you.” + +“To me?” She looked at him candidly, with no inkling in her mind of +what he meant. + +“Yes! My dear girl, don’t you understand? He has given me leave to +speak to you—to ask you to be my wife?” And as her lips parted and she +gazed at him in astonishment, he took possession of her hand. The +position was all in favor of a lover, for the parapet was behind her, +and she could not escape if she would; while the ordeal through which +he had passed gave this lover an ardor that he might otherwise have +lacked. “Jos, dear,” he continued, looking into her eyes, “I’ve +waited—waited patiently, knowing that it was useless to speak until he +gave me leave. But now”—after all, love-making with that pretty +startled face before him, that trembling hand in his, was not +unpleasant—“I come to you—for my reward.” + +“But, Arthur,” she protested, almost too much surprised for words, “I +had no idea——” + +“Come, don’t say that! Don’t say that, Jos dear! No idea? Why, hasn’t +it always been this way with us! Since the day that we cut our names on +the old pew? Haven’t I seen you blush like a rose when you looked at +it—many and many a time? And if I haven’t dared to make love to you of +late, surely you have known what was in my mind? Have we not always +been meaning this—you and I?” + +She was thunder-struck. Had it been really so? Could he be right? Had +she been blind, and had he been feeling all this while she guessed +nothing of it? She looked at him in distress, in increasing distress. +“But indeed, indeed,” she said, “I have not been meaning it, Arthur, I +have not, indeed!” + +“Not?” incredulously. “You’ve not known that I——” + +“No!” she protested. “And I don’t think that it has always been so with +us.” Then, collecting herself and in a firmer voice, “No, Arthur, not +lately, I am sure. I don’t think that it has been so on your side—I +don’t, indeed. And I’m sure that I have not thought of this myself.” + +“Jos!” + +“No, Arthur, I have not, indeed.” + +“You haven’t seen that I loved you?” + +“No. And,” looking him steadily in the face, “I am not sure that you +do.” + +“Then let me tell you that I do. I do!” And he tried to possess himself +of her other hand, and there was a little struggle between them. “Dear, +dear girl, I do love you,” he swore. “And I want you, I want you for my +wife. And your father permits it. Do you understand—I don’t think you +do? He sanctions it.” + +He would have put his arm round her, thinking to overcome her +bashfulness, thinking that this was but maidenly pride, waiting to be +conquered. But she freed herself with unexpected vigor and slipped from +him. “No, I don’t wish it!” she said. And her attitude and her tone +were so resolute, that he could no longer deceive himself. “No! Listen, +Arthur.” She was pale, but there was a surprising firmness in her face. +“Listen! I do not believe that you love me. You have given me no cause +to think so these many months. Such a boy and girl affection as was +once between us might have grown into love in time, had you wished it. +But you did not seem to wish it, and it has not. What you feel is not +love.” + +“You know so much about love!” he scoffed. He was taken aback, but he +tried to laugh—tried to pass it off. + +But she did not give way. “I know what love is,” she answered firmly. +And then, without apparent cause, a burning blush rose to her very +hair. Yet, in defiance of this, she repeated her words. “I know what +love is, and I do not believe that you feel it for me. And I am sure, +quite sure, Arthur,” in a lower tone, “that I do not feel it for you. I +could not be your wife.” + +“Jos!” he pleaded earnestly. “You are joking! Surely you are joking.” + +“No, I am not joking. I do not wish to hurt you. I am grieved if I do +hurt you. But that is the truth. I do not want to marry you.” + +He stared at her. At last she had compelled him to believe her, and he +reddened with anger; only to turn pale, a moment later, as a picture of +himself humiliated and rejected, his plans spoiled by the fancy of this +foolish girl, rose before him. He could not understand it; it seemed +incredible. And there must be some reason? Desperately he clutched at +the thought that she was afraid of her father. She had not grasped the +fact that the Squire had sanctioned his suit, and, controlling his +voice as well as he could, “Are you really in earnest, Jos?” he said. +“Do you understand that your father is willing? That it is indeed his +wish that we should marry?” + +“I cannot help it.” + +“But—love?” Though he tried to keep his temper his voice was growing +sharp. “What, after all, do you know of—love?” And rapidly his mind ran +over the possibilities. No, there could be no one else. She knew few, +and among them no one who could have courted her without his knowledge. +For, strange to say, no inkling of the meetings between Clement and his +cousin had reached him. They had all taken place within a few weeks, +they had ceased some months back, and though there were probably some +in the house who had seen things and drawn their conclusions, the +favorers of young love are many, and no one save Thomas had tried to +make mischief. No, there could be no one, he decided; it was just a +silly girl’s romantic notion. “And how can you say,” he continued, +“that mine is not real love? What do you know of it? Believe me, Jos, +you are playing with your happiness. And with mine.” + +“I do not think so,” she answered gravely. “As to my own, I am sure, +Arthur. I do not love you and I cannot marry you.” + +“And that is your answer?” + +“Yes, it must be.” + +He forced a laugh. “Well, it will be news for your father,” he said. “A +clever game you have played, Miss Jos! Never tell me that it is not in +women’s nature to play the coquette after this. Why, if I had treated +you as you have treated me—and made a fool of me! Made a fool of me!” +he reiterated passionately, unable to control his chagrin—“I should +deserve to be whipped!” + +And afraid that he would break down before her and disgrace his +manhood, he turned about, sprang down the steps and savagely spurning, +savagely trampling under foot the shrivelled leaves, he strode across +the garden to the house. “The little fool!” he muttered, and he +clenched his hands as if he could have crushed her within them. “The +little fool!” + +He was angry, he was very angry, for hitherto fortune had spoiled him. +He had been successful, as men with a single aim usually are +successful. He had attained to most of the things which he had desired. +Now to fail where he had deemed himself most sure, to be repulsed where +he had fancied that he had only to stoop, to be scorned where he had +thought that he had but to throw the handkerchief, to be rejected and +rejected by Jos—it was enough to make any man angry, to make any man +grind his teeth and swear! And how—how in the world was he to explain +the matter to his uncle? How account to him for his confidence in the +issue? His cheeks burned as he thought of it. + +He was angry. But his wrath was no match for the disappointment that +warred with it and presently, as passion waned, overcame it. He had to +face and to weigh the consequences. The loss of Jos meant much more +than the loss of a mild and biddable wife with a certain charm of her +own. It meant the loss of Garth, of the influence that belonged to it, +the importance that flowed from it, the position it conferred. It meant +the loss of a thing which he had come to consider as his own. The +caprice of this obstinate girl robbed him of that which he had bought +by a long servitude, by much patience, by many a tiresome ride between +town and country! + +There, in that loss, was the true pinch! But he must think of it. He +must take time to review the position and consider how he might deal +with it. It might be that all was not yet lost—even at Garth. + +In the meantime he avoided seeing his uncle, and muttering a word to +Miss Peacock, he had his horse saddled. He mounted in the yard and +descended the drive at his usual pace. But as soon as he had gained the +road, he lashed his nag into a canter, and set his face for town. At +worst the bank remained, and he must see that it did remain. He must +not let himself be scared by Ovington’s alarms. If a crisis came he +must tackle the business as he alone could tackle business, and all +would be well. He was sure of it. + +Withal he was spared one pang, the pang of disappointed love. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +Arthur was at the bank by noon, and up to that time nothing had +occurred to justify the banker’s apprehensions or to alarm the most +timid. Business seemed to be a little slack, the bank door had a rest, +and there was less coming and going. But in the main things appeared to +be moving as usual, and Arthur, standing at his desk in an atmosphere +as far removed as possible from that of Garth, had time to review the +check that he had received at Josina’s hands, and to consider whether, +with the Squire’s help, it might not still be repaired. + +But an hour or two later a thing occurred which might have passed +unnoticed at another time, but on that day had a meaning for three out +of the five in the bank. The door opened a little more abruptly than +usual, a man pushed his way in. He was a publican in a fair way of +business in the town, a smug ruddy-gilled man who, in his younger days, +had been a pugilist at Birmingham and still ran a cock-pit behind the +Spotted Dog, between the Foregate and the river. He stepped to the +counter, his small shrewd eyes roving slyly from one to another. + +Arthur went forward to attend to him. “What is it, Mr. Brownjohn?” he +asked. But already his suspicions were aroused. + +“Well, sir,” the man answered bluntly, “what we most of us want, sir. +The rhino!” + +“Then you’ve come to the right shop for that,” Arthur rejoined, falling +into his humor. “How much?” + +“How’s my account, sir?” + +Arthur consulted the book which he took from a ledge below the counter. +In our time he would have scribbled the sum on a scrap of paper and +passed the paper over in silence. But in those days many customers +would have been none the wiser for that, for they could not read. So, +“One, four, two, and three and six-pence,” he said. + +“Well, I’ll take it,” the publican announced, gazing straight before +him. + +Arthur understood, but not a muscle of his face betrayed his knowledge. +“Brewers’ day?” he said lightly. “Mr. Rodd, draw a cheque for Mr. +Brownjohn. One four two, three and six. Better leave five pounds to +keep the account open?” + +“Oh, well!” Mr. Brownjohn was a little taken aback. “Yes, sir, very +well.” + +“One three seven, Rodd, three and six.” And while the customer, +laboriously and with a crimsoning face, scrawled his signature on the +cheque, Arthur opened a drawer and counted out the amount in Ovington’s +notes. “Twenty-seven fives, and two, three, six,” he muttered, pushing +it over. “You’ll find that right, I think.” + +Brownjohn had had his lesson from Wolley, who put up at his house, but +he had not learnt it perfectly. He took the notes, and thumbed them +over, wetting his thumb as he turned each, and he found the tale +correct. “Much obliged, gentlemen,” he muttered, and with a perspiring +brow he effected his retreat. Already he doubted—so willingly had his +money been paid—if he had been wise. He was glad that he had left the +five pounds. + +But the door had hardly closed on him before Arthur asked the cashier +how much gold he had in the cash drawer. + +“The usual, sir. One hundred and fifty and thirty-two, thirty-three, +thirty-four—one hundred and eighty-four.” + +“Fetch up two hundred more before Mr. Brownjohn comes back,” Arthur +said. “Don’t lose time.” + +Rodd did not like Arthur, but he did silent homage to his sharpness. He +hastened to the safe and was back in two minutes with twenty rouleaux +of sovereigns. “Shall I break them, sir?” he asked. + +“Yes, I think so. Ah!” as the door swung open and one of the Welsh +brothers entered. It was Mr. Frederick. Arthur nodded. “Good day, +Welsh, I was thinking of you. I fancy Clement wants to see you.” + +“Right—in one moment,” the lawyer replied. “Just put that——” + +But Arthur saw that he had a cheque to pay in—he banked at Dean’s but +had clients’ accounts with them—and he broke in on his business. +“Clement,” he said, “here’s Welsh. Just give him your father’s +message.” + +Clement came forward with his father’s invitation—oysters and whist at +five on Friday—and his opinion on a glass of ’20 he was laying down? He +kept the lawyer in talk for a minute or two, and then, as Arthur had +shrewdly calculated, the door opened and Brownjohn slid in. The man’s +face was red, and he looked heartily ashamed of himself, but he put +down his notes on the counter. He was going to speak when, “In a +moment, Brownjohn,” Arthur said. “What is it, Mr. Welsh?” + +“Just put this to the Hobdays’ account,” the lawyer answered recalled +to his business. “Fifty-four pounds two shillings and five-pence. And, +by the way, are you going to Garth on Saturday?” + +“On Saturday, or Sunday, yes. Can I do anything for you!” + +“Will you tell the Squire that that lease will be ready for signature +on Saturday week. If you don’t mind I’ll send it over by you. It will +save me a journey.” + +“Good. I’ll tell him. He has been fretting about it. Good-day! Now, Mr. +Brownjohn?” + +“I’d like cash for these,” the innkeeper mumbled, thrusting forward the +notes, but looking thoroughly ill at ease. + +“Man alive, why didn’t you say so?” Arthur answered, good-humoredly, +“and save yourself the trouble of two journeys? Mr. Rodd, cash for +these, please. I’ve forgotten something I must tell Welsh!” And +flinging the cash drawer wide open, he raised the counter-flap and +hurried after the lawyer. + +Rodd knew what was expected of him, and he took out several fistsful of +gold and rattled it down before him. Rapidly, as if he handled so many +peas, he counted out and thrust aside Mr. Brownjohn’s portion, swiftly +reckoned it a second time, then swept the balance back into the open +drawer. “I think you’ll find that right,” he said. “Better count it. +How’s your little girl that was ailing, Mr. Brownjohn?” + +Brownjohn muttered something, his face lighting up. Then he counted his +gold and sneaked out, impressed, as Arthur had intended he should be, +with his own unimportance, and more inclined than before to think that +he had made a mistake in following Wolley’s advice. + +But before the bank closed that day two other customers came in and +drew out the greater part of their balances. They were both men +connected in one way or another with the clothier, and the thing +stopped there. The following day was uneventful, but the drawings had +been unusual, and the two young clerks might have exchanged notes upon +the subject if their elders had not appeared so entirely unconscious. +As it was, it was impossible for them to think that anything out of the +common had happened. + +Worse, and far more important, than this matter was the fact that +stocks and shares continued to fall all that week. Night after night +the arrival of the famous “Wonder,” the fast coach which did the +journey from London in fifteen hours, was awaited by men who thought +nothing of the wintry weather if they might have the latest news. +Afternoon after afternoon the journals brought by the mail were fought +for and opened in the street by men whose faces grew longer as the week +ran on. Some strode up jauntily, and joined themselves to the group of +loungers before the coach-office, while others sneaked up privily, went +no farther than the fringe of the crowd, and there, gravitating +together by twos and threes, conferred in low voices over prices and +changes. Some, until the coach arrived, lurked in a neighboring +churchyard, raised above the street, and glancing suspiciously at one +another affected to be immersed in the study of crumbling gravestones; +while a few made a pretence of being surprised, as they passed, by the +arrival of the mail, or hiding themselves in doorways appeared only at +the last moment, and when they believed that they might do so +unobserved. + +One thing was noticeable of nearly all these; that they avoided one +another’s eyes, as if, declining to observe others, they became +themselves unseen. Once possessed of the paper they behaved in +different ways, according as they were of a sanguine or despondent +nature. Some tore the sheet open at once, devoured a particular column +and stamped or swore, or sometimes flung the paper underfoot. Others +sneaked off to the churchyard or to some neighboring nook, and there, +unable to wait longer, opened the journal with shaking fingers; while a +few—and these perhaps had the most at stake—dared not trust themselves +to learn the news where they might by any chance be overlooked, but +hurried homewards through “shuts” and by-lanes, and locked themselves +in their offices, afraid to let even their wives come near them. + +For the news was very serious to very many; the more so as, +inexperienced in speculation, they clung for the most part to the hope +of a recovery, and could not bring themselves to sell at a lower figure +than that which they might have got a week before. Much less could they +bring themselves to sell at an actual loss. They had sat down to play a +winning game, and they could not now believe that the seats were +reversed, and that they were liable to lose all that they had gained, +nay, in many cases much more than their stake. Amazed, they saw stocks +falling, crumbling, nay, sinking to a nominal value, while large calls +on them remained to be paid, and loans on them to be repaid. No wonder +that they stared aghast, or that many after a period of stupefaction, +at a state of things so new and so paralyzing, began to feel that it +was neck or nothing with them, and bought when they should have sold, +seeing that in any case the price to which stock was falling meant +their ruin. + +For a time indeed there was no public outcry and no great excitement on +the surface. For a time men kept their troubles to themselves, jealous +lest they should get abroad, and few suspected how common was their +plight or how many shared it. Men talk of their gains but not of their +losses, and the last thing desired by a business man on the brink of +ruin is that his position should be made public. But those behind the +scenes feared only the more for the morrow; for with this ferment of +fear and suspense working beneath the surface it was impossible to say +at what moment an eruption might not take place or where the ruin would +stop. One thing was certain, that it would not be confined to the +speculators, for many a sober trader, who had never bought shares in +his life, would fail, beggared by the bankruptcy of his debtors. + +Ovington returned on the Friday, and Arthur met him at the Lion, as he +had met him eleven months before. They played their parts well—so well +that even Arthur did not learn the news until the door of the bank had +closed behind them and they were closeted with Clement in the +dining-room. Then they learned that the news was bad—as bad as it could +be. + +The banker retained his composure and told his story with calmness, but +he looked very weary. Williams’—Williams and Co. were Ovington’s +correspondents in London—would do nothing, he told them. “They would +not re-discount a single bill nor hear of an acceptance. My own opinion +is that they cannot.” + +Arthur looked much disturbed. “As bad as that,” he said, “is it?” + +“Yes, and I believe, nay, I am sure, lad, that they fear for +themselves. I saw the younger Williams. He gave me good words, but that +was all; and he looked ill and harassed to the last degree. There was a +frightened look about them all. I told them that if they would +re-discount fifteen thousand pounds of sound short bills, we should +need no further help, and might by and by be able to help others. But +he would do nothing. I said I should go to the Bank. He let out—though +he was very close—that others had done so, and that the Bank would do +nothing. He hinted that they were short of gold there, and saw nothing +for it but a policy of restriction. However, I went there, of course. +They were very civil, but they told me frankly that it was impossible +to help all who came to them; that they must protect their reserve. +They were inclined to find fault, and said it was credit recklessly +granted that had produced the trouble, and the only cure was +restriction.” + +“But surely,” Arthur protested, “where a bank is able to show that it +is solvent?” + +“I argued it with them. I told them that I agreed that the cure was to +draw in, but that they should have entered on that path earlier; that +to enter on it now suddenly and without discrimination after a period +of laxity was the way to bring on the worst disaster the country had +ever known. That to give help where it could be shown that moderate +help would suffice, to support the sound and let the rotten go was the +proper policy, and would limit the trouble. But I could not persuade +them. They would not take the best bills, would in fact take nothing, +discount nothing, would hardly advance even on government securities. +When I left them——” + +“Yes?” The banker had paused, his face betraying emotion. + +“I heard a rumor about Pole’s.” + +“Pole’s? Pole’s!” Arthur cried, astounded; and he turned a shade paler. +“Sir Peter Pole and Co.? You don’t mean it, sir? Why, if they go scores +of country banks will go! Scores! They are agents for sixty or seventy, +aren’t they?” + +The banker nodded. His weariness was more and more apparent. “Yes, +Pole’s,” he said gloomily. “And I heard it on good authority. The truth +is—it has not extended to the public yet, but in the banks there is +panic already. They do not know where the first crash will come, or who +may be affected. And any moment the scare may spread to the public. +When it does it will run through the country like wild-fire. It will be +here in twenty-four hours. It will shake even Dean’s. It will shake us +down. My God! when I think that for the lack of ten or twelve thousand +pounds—which a year ago we could have raised three times over with the +stroke of a pen—just for the lack of that a sound business like this——” + +He broke off, unable to control his voice. He could not continue. +Clement went out softly, and for a minute or so there was silence in +the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock, the noise of wheels +in the street, the voices of passers-by—voices that drifted in and died +away again, as the speakers walked by on the pavement. Opposite the +bank, at the corner of the Market Place, two dogs were fighting before +a barber’s shop. A woman drove them off with an umbrella. Her “Shoo! +Shoo!” was audible in the silence of the room. + +Before either spoke again, Clement returned. He bore a decanter of +port, a glass, a slice of cake. “D’you take this, sir,” he said. “You +are worn out. And never fear,” cheerily, “we shall pull through yet, +sir. There will surely be some who will see that it will pay better to +help us than to pull us down.” + +The banker smiled at him, but his hand shook as he poured out the wine. +“I hope so,” he said. “But we must buckle to. It will try us all. A run +once started—have there been any withdrawals?” + +They told him what had happened and described the state of feeling in +the town. Rodd had been going about, gauging it quietly. He could do so +more easily, and with less suspicion, than the partners. People were +more free with him. + +Ovington held his glass before him by the stem and looked thoughtfully +at it. “That reminds me,” he said, “Rodd had some money with us—three +hundred on deposit, I think. He had better have it. It will make no +difference one way or the other, and he cannot afford to lose it.” + +Arthur looked doubtful. “Three hundred,” he said, “might make the +difference.” + +“Well, it might, of course,” the banker admitted wearily. “But he had +better have it. I should not like him to suffer.” + +“No,” Clement said. “He must have it. Shall I see to it now? The sooner +the better.” + +No one demurred, and he left the room. When he had gone Arthur rose and +walked to the window. He looked out. Presently he turned. “As to that +twelve thousand?” he said. “That you said would pull us through? Is +there no way of getting it? Can’t you think of any way, sir?” + +“I am afraid not,” Ovington answered, shaking his head. “I see no way. +I’ve strained our resources, I’ve tried every way. I see no way +unless——” + +“Yes, sir? Unless?” + +“Unless—and I am afraid that there is no chance of that—your uncle +could be induced to come forward and support us—in your interest.” + +Arthur laughed aloud, but there was no mirth in the sound. “If that is +your hope, if you have any idea of that kind, sir,” he said, “I am +afraid you don’t know him yet. I know nothing less likely.” + +“I am afraid that you are right. Still, your future is at stake. I am +sorry that it is so, lad, but there it is. And if it could be made +clear to him that he ran no risk?” + +“But could it? Could it?” + +“He would run no risk.” + +“But could he be brought to see that?” Arthur spoke sharply, almost +with contempt. “Of course he could not! If you knew what his attitude +is towards banks generally, and bankers, you would see the absurdity of +it! He hates the very name of Ovington’s.” + +The other yielded. “Just so,” he said. Even to him the idea was +unpalatable. “It was only a forlorn hope, a wild idea, lad, and I’ll +say no more about it. It comes to this, that we must depend on +ourselves, show a brave face, and hope for the best.” + +But Arthur, though he had scoffed at the suggestion which Ovington had +made, could not refrain from turning it over in his mind. He had +courage enough for anything, and it was not the lack of that which +hindered him from entertaining the project. The storm which was +gathering ahead, and which threatened the shipwreck of his cherished +ambition and his dearest hopes, was terrible to him, and to escape from +its fury he would have faced any man, had that been all. But that was +not all. He had other interests. If he applied to the Squire and the +Squire took it amiss, as it was pretty certain that he would, then not +only would no good be done and no point be gained, but the life-boat, +on which he might himself escape, if things came to the worst, would be +shipwrecked also. + +For that life-boat consisted in the Squire’s influence with Josina. The +Squire’s word might still prevail with the girl, silly and unpractical +as she was. It was a chance; no more than a chance, Arthur recognized +that. But at Garth the old man’s will had always been law, and if he +could be brought to put his foot down, Arthur could not believe that +Josina would resist him. And amid the wreck of so many hopes and so +many ambitions, every chance, even a desperate chance, was of value. + +But if he was to retain the Squire’s favor, if he was to fall back on +his influence, he must do nothing to forfeit that favor. Certainly he +must not hazard it by acting on a suggestion as ill-timed and hopeless +as that which the banker had put forward. Not to save the bank, not to +save Ovington, not to save anyone! The more, as he felt sure that the +application would do none of these things. + +Ovington did not know the old man. He did, and he was not going to sink +his craft, crank and frail as it already was, by taking in passengers. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +While the leaven of uneasiness, fermenting into fear, and liable at any +moment to breed panic, worked in Aldersbury, turning the sallow bilious +and the sanguine irritable—while the contents of the mail-bag and the +_Gazette_ were awaited with growing apprehension, and inklings of the +truth, leaking out, were turning to water the hearts of those who +depended on the speculators, life at Garth was proceeding after its +ordinary fashion. No word of what was impending, or might be impending, +travelled so far. No echo of the alarm that assailed the ears of +terrified men, forced on a sudden to face unimagined disaster, broke +the silence of the drab room, where the Squire sat brooding, or of the +garden where Josina spent hours, pacing the raised walk and looking +down on that strip of sward where the water skirted the Thirty Acres +wood. + +That strip of sward where she had met him, that view from the garden +were all that now remained to her of Clement, all that proved to her +that the past was not a dream; and they did much to keep hope alive in +her breast, and to hold her firm in her resolve. So precious indeed +were the associations they recalled, that while, with the hardness of a +woman who loves elsewhere, she felt little sympathy with Arthur in his +disappointment, she actively resented the fact that he had chosen to +address her there, and so had profaned the one spot, on which with some +approach to nearness, she could dream of Clement. + +Living a life so retired, and with little to distract her, she gave +herself to long thoughts of her lover, and lived and lived again the +stolen moments which she had spent with him. It was on these that she +nourished her courage and strengthened her will; for, bred to +submission and educated to obey, it was no small thing that she +contemplated. Nor could she have raised herself to the pitch of +determination which she had reached had she not gained elevation from +the thought that the matter now rested in her own hands, and that all +Clement’s trust and all his dependence were on her. She must be true to +him or she would fail him indeed. Honor no less than love required her +to be firm, let her timid heart beat as it might. + +On wet days she sat in the Dutch summer-house, the squat tower with the +pyramidal roof and fox-vane on top, which flanked the raised walk, and +had, when viewed from below, the look of a bastion. But the day after +Ovington’s return happened to be fine. It was one of those days of mild +sunshine and soft air, which occur in late autumn or early winter and, +by reason of their rarity, linger in the memory; and she was walking in +the garden when, an hour before noon, Calamy came to tell her that “the +master” was asking for her. “And very peevish,” he added, shaking his +head as he stalked away under the apple-trees, “as he’s like to be, +more and more till the end.” + +She overtook the man in the hall. “Is he alone, Calamy?” she asked. + +“Ay, but your A’nt’s been with him. He’s for going up the hill.” + +“Up the hill?” + +“Ay, he’s one that will walk while he can. But the next time, I’m +thinking,” shaking his head again, “it won’t be his feet he’ll go out +on.” + +“Mrs. Bourdillon has gone?” + +“Ay, miss, she’s gone—as we’re all going,” despondently, “sooner or +later. She brought some paper, for I heard her reading to him. It would +be his will, I expect.” + +Josina thought the supposition most unlikely, for if her father was +close with his money he was at least as close with his affairs. As long +as she could remember he had held himself in a crabbed reserve, he had +moved a silent master in a dependent world, even his rare outbursts of +anger had rather emphasized than broken his reticence. + +And since the attack which had consigned him to darkness he had grown +even more taciturn. He had not repelled sympathy; he had rendered it +impossible by ignoring the existence of a cause for it. While all about +him had feared for his sight and, as hope faded, had dreaded the +question which they believed to be trembling on his lips, he had either +never hoped, or, drawing his own conclusions, had abandoned hope. At +any rate, he had never asked. Instead he sat—when Arthur was not there +to enliven him or Fewtrell to report to him—wrapped in his own +thoughts, too proud to complain or too insensible to feel, and silent. +Whatever he thought, whatever he feared, he hid all behind an +impenetrable mask; and whether pride or patience or resignation were +behind that mark, none knew. Complaint, pity, sympathy, these, he +seemed to say, were for the herd. He had ruled; darkness and +helplessness had come upon him, but he was still the master. + +Arthur might think that he failed, but those who were always about him +saw few signs of it. To-day, when Josina entered his room she found him +on his feet, one hand resting on the table, the other on his cane. “Get +your hat and cloak,” he said. “I am going up the hill.” + +So far his longest excursion had been to the mill, and Josina thought +that she ought to remonstrate. “Won’t it be too far, sir?” she said. + +“Do as I say, girl. And tell Calamy to bring my hat and coat.” + +She obeyed him, and a minute later they left the house by the yard +door. He walked with a firm step, his hand sometimes on her shoulder, +sometimes on her arm; but aware how easily she might forget to warn him +of an obstacle, or to allow for his passage, she accompanied him with +her heart in her mouth. Yet she owned a certain sweetness in his +dependence on her, in the weight of his hand on her shoulder, in his +nearness. + +Before they left the yard he halted. “Look in the pig-styes,” he said. +“Tell me if that idle dog has cleaned them?” + +She went and looked, and assured him that they were in their usual +state. He grunted, and they moved on. Passing beneath the gable end of +the summer-house they descended the steep, rutted lane which led to the +mill. “The first day of the year was such a day,” the Squire muttered, +and raised his face that the sun might fall upon it. + +When they came to the narrow bridge beside the mill, with its roughened +causeway eternally shaken by the roar and wet with the spray of the +overshot wheel, she trembled. There was no parapet, and the bridge was +barely wide enough to permit them to pass abreast. But he showed no +fear, he stepped on to it firmly, and on the crown he halted. “Look +what water is in the pound,” he said. + +“Had I not better wait—till you are over, sir?” + +“Do as I say, girl! Do as I say!” He struck his cane impatiently on the +stones. + +She left him unwillingly, and more than once looked back, but always to +see him standing, gaunt and slightly stooping, his sightless eyes bent +on the groaning, laboring wheel, on the silvery cascade that poured +over its black flanges, on the fragment of rainbow that glittered where +the sun shot the spray with colors. He was seeing it all, as he had +seen it a thousand times: in childhood, when he had lingered and +wondered before it, fascinated by the rush and awed by the thunder of +the falling water; in youth, when with gun or rod he had just glanced +at it in passing; in manhood, when it had come to be one of the +amenities of the property, and he had measured its condition with an +owner’s eye; ay, and in later life, when to see it had been rather to +call up memories, than to form new impressions. Now, he would never see +it again with his eyes, and he knew it. And yet he had never seen it +more clearly than he did to-day, as he stood in darkness, with the cold +breath of the water-fall on his cheek. + +She grasped something of this as she hurried back, and satisfied as to +the pound he went on. They ascended the lane which, on the farther side +of the brook, led to the highway, and crossing the road began to climb +the rough track, that wound up through that part of the covert which +was above the road. + +Here and there a clump of hollies, a spreading yew, a patch of young +beech to which the leaves still clung, blocked the view, but for the +most part the eye passed unobstructed athwart trees stripped of +foliage, and disclosing here a huge boulder, there a pile of moss-grown +stones. A climb of a third of a mile, much of it steep, brought them +without mishap—though a hundred times she trembled lest he should +trip—to the abrupt glacis of sward that fringed, and in places ran up +into, the limestone face. + +It was broken by huge stones, precariously stayed in their descent, or +by outcrops of rock from which sprang slender birches, light, graceful, +their white bark shining. + +“Are we clear of the wood?” he asked, lifting his face to meet the +breeze. + +“Yes, sir.” + +He turned leftwards. “There’s a flat stone with a holly to north of it. +D’you see it? I’ll sit there.” + +She led him to it and he sat down on the stone, his stick between his +knees, the sunshine on his face. She sat beside him, and as she looked +over the expanse of pleasant vale and the ring of hills that compassed +it about, the sense of his blindness moved her almost to tears. At +their feet Garth, its red walls, its buildings and yards and policies, +lay as on a plan. Beyond it, the tower of Garthmyle Church rose in the +middle distance, a few thatched roofs peeping through the half-leafless +trees about it. Leftwards the valley narrowed as the Welsh hills closed +in, while to their right it melted into the smiling plain with its +nestling villages, its rows of poplars, its shining streams. She +fancied that he had been in the habit of coming to this place, and the +thought that he saw no more from it now than when he sat in his room +below, that he viewed nothing of the bright landscape spread beneath +her own eyes, swelled her breast with pity. She could have cast her +arms about him and wept as she strove to comfort him—could have sworn +to him that while he lived her eyes should be his! Ay, she could have +done this, all this—if he had been other than he was! + +Perhaps it was as well—or perhaps it was not as well—that she did not +give way to the impulse. For presently in a voice as dry as usual, “Do +you see the gable of Wolley’s Mill, girl? Carry your eyes right of the +hill, over the coppice at the corner of Archer’s Leasow?” + +She told him that she could see it. + +“That’s two miles away. It’s the farthest I own in that direction, but +there’s a slip of Acherley’s land between us and it. Now look down the +valley—d’you see five poplars in a row?” + +“Yes, sir, I see them.” + +“That’s our boundary towards the town. Behind us we march with the +watershed. Facing us—the boundary is the far fence of Whittall’s farm +at the foot of the hills.” + +“The black and white house, sir?” + +“Ay. Well, look at it, girl. There’s five thousand acres and a bit +over; and there’s two hundred and ninety people living on it—there’s +barely one of them I don’t know. I’ve looked after them, but I’ve not +cosseted them, and don’t you cosset them. And it’s not only the people; +there’s not a field I don’t know nor a bit of coppice that I can’t see, +nor a slate roof that I have not slated, and the Lord knows how much of +it I’ve drained. It’s been ours, the heart of it since Queen Bess, and +part of it since Mary; sometimes logged with debt, and then again +cleared. I came into it logged, and I’ve cleared it. It’s come down, +sometimes straight, sometimes sideways, but always in a man’s hands. +Well, it will soon be in a girl’s. In two or three years, more or less, +it will be yours, my girl. And do you mark what I say to you this day. +You’re the heir of tail, and I couldn’t take it from you, if I +would—but do you mark me!” He found her hand and gripped it so hard as +to give her pain, but she would not wince. “Don’t you part with an acre +of it! Not with an acre of it! Not with an acre of it! Do you hear me, +girl; or I think I’ll turn in my grave! If you are bidden to do it when +your son comes of age, you think of me and of this day, and don’t put +your hand to it! Hold to the land, hold to the land, and they as come +after you shall hold up their heads as we have held ours! It isn’t +money, it isn’t land bought with money, it’s the land that’s come down, +that will keep Griffins where Griffins have been. When I am gone do you +mark that! Whatever betide, let ’em say what they like, don’t you be +one of those that sell their birthright, the right to govern, for a +mess of pottage!” + +“I will remember, sir!” she said with tears. “I will, I will indeed!” + +“Ay, never forget it, don’t you forget this day. I ha’ brought you up +the hill on purpose to show you that. For fifty years I have spared and +lived niggardly and put shilling to shilling to clear that land and to +drain it and round it—and may be, for Acherley is a random spendthrift, +I’ll yet add that strip of his to it! I’ve lived for the land, that +those who come after me may govern their corner as Griffins have +governed it time out of mind. I’ve done my duty by the people and the +land. Don’t you forget to do yours.” + +She told him earnestly that she never would—she never would. After that +he was silent awhile. He let her hand go. But presently, and without +warning, “Why don’t you ha’ the lad?” + +Josina was surprised and yet not surprised; or if surprised at all, it +was at her own calmness. Her color ebbed, but she neither trembled nor +faltered. She had not even to summon up the thought of Clement. The +charge to which she had just listened clothed her with a dignity which +the prospect, spread before her eyes and insensibly raising her mind to +higher issues, helped to support. “I couldn’t, sir,” she said quietly. +“I do not love him.” + +“Don’t love him?” the Squire repeated—yet not half so angrily as she +expected. “What’s amiss with him?’” + +“Nothing, sir. But I do not love him.” + +“Love? Bah! Love’ll come! Maids ha’ naught to do with love! When +they’re married love’ll come fast enough, I’ll warrant! The lad’s +straight and comely and a proper age—and what else do you want? What +else do you want, eh? He’s of your own blood, and if he’s wild ideas +’tis better than wild oats, and he’ll give them up. He’s promised me +that, or I’d never ha’ said yes to him! Why, girl!” with sudden +exasperation, “’twas only the other day you were peaking and puling for +him! Peaking and puling like a sick sparrow, and I was saying, no! And +now—why, damme, what do you mean by it?” + +“It was all a mistake, sir,” she said with dignity. “I never did think +of him, or wish for him. It was a mistake.” + +“A mistake! What do you mean?” + +“You bade me think no more of him, and I obeyed. But—but I never had +any thought of him.” + +That did irritate the old man; it seemed to him that she played with +him. In a rage he struck his cane on the ground. “Damme!” he exclaimed. +“That’s womanlike all over! Give her what she wants and she doesn’t +want it. But, see here, I’ll not have it, girl. I know your flimsies +and you’ve got to have him! Do you hear?” + +He was enraged by this queer twist in her, and he blustered. But his +anger—and he felt it—lacked something of force. He did not know how to +bring it to bear. And when she did not reply to him at once, “Do you +forget that he saved my life?” he cried, dropping to a lower level. +“D’you forget that, you ungrateful wench?” + +“But he did not save mine, sir!” she answered, with astonishing spirit. +“Yet it is mine that you ask me to give him. And indeed, indeed, sir, +he does not love me.” + +“Then why should he want you?” he retorted. “But he’ll soon make you +sure of that, if you’ll let him. And you’ve got to take him. You’ve got +to take him. Let’s ha’ no more words about it. I’ve said the word.” + +“But I’ve not, sir,” she replied, with that new and astonishing courage +of hers. “And I cannot say it. I am grateful to him, I shall ever be +grateful to him for saving you—and he is my cousin. But he does not +love me, he has never made love to me. And am I, your daughter, to—to +accept him, the moment it suits him to marry me?” + +That touched the Squire’s pride. It gave him to think. “Never made love +to you?” he exclaimed. “What do you mean, girl?” + +“Until he came to me in the garden on Tuesday he never—he never gave me +reason to think that he would come. Am I,” with a tremor of indignation +in her voice, “of so little account, is that which you have just told +me that I may some day bring to him so little, that I must put all in +his hand the moment he chooses to lift it?” + +The Squire was bothered by that, and “You are like all women!” he +exclaimed. “I don’t know where to ha’ you. That’s where it is. You +twist and you turn, and you fib——” + +“I am not fibbing, sir.” + +“And you’ve as many quirks as—as a hunted hare. There’s no holding you! +My father would ha’ locked you up with bread and water till you did +what you were told, and my mother’d ha’ boxed your ears till she put +some sense into you. But we’re a d—d silly generation. We’re too soft!” + +She minded this little, as long as he did not put her to the supreme +test; as long as he did not ask her if there was anyone else, any other +lover. But his mind was now busy with Arthur. Was it true that the +young spark was thinking more of Garth than of the girl? More of the +heiress than of the sweetheart? More of lucre than of love? If so, d—n +his impudence! He deserved what he had got! From which point it was but +a step to thoughts of the bank. Ay, Arthur was certainly one who had +his plans for getting on, and getting on in ways to which no Griffin +had stooped before. Was this of a piece with them? + +The doubt had a cooling effect upon him. While Josina trembled lest the +fateful question should still be put, and clenched her little hands as +she summoned up fortitude to meet it—while she tried to still the +fluttering of her heart, the old man relapsed into thought, muttered +inarticulately, fell silent. + +She would have given much to know the direction of his thoughts. + +At last, “Well, you’re so clever you must settle your own affairs,” he +grumbled. “I’m d—d if I understand either of you, girl or man. In my +time if a wench said No, we took her and hugged her till she said Yes! +We didn’t go to her father. But since the old king died there’s no red +blood in the country—it’s all telling and no kissing. There, I’ve done +with it. Maybe when he turns his back on you, you’ll be wanting him +fast enough.” + +“No, sir, never!” she answered, overwhelmed by a victory so complete. + +“Anyway, don’t come fretting to me if you do! Your aunt told me that +you were pining for him, but I’m hanged if she knows more than I do—or +happen you don’t know your own mind. Now look out, and tell me if +they’ve finished thatching that wagoner’s cottage at the Bache?” + +“Yes, sir. I can see the new straw from here,” she said. + +“Have they brought it down over the eaves?” + +“I’m afraid I can’t see that. It’s too far.” + +“Mind me to ask Fewtrell. Now get me home. Where’s your arm? I’ll go +down through the new planting.” + +“But it’s not so safe, sir,” she remonstrated. “There’s the stone +stile, and——” + +“When I canna get over the stone stile I’ll not come up the hill. I +want to see the planting. D’you take me that way and tell me if the +rabbits ha’ got in. March, girl!” + +She obeyed him, but in fear and trembling, for there was not only the +awkward stile to climb, but the track ran over outcrops of rocks on +which even a careful walker might slip. However, he crossed the stile +with ease, aided less by her arm than by his own memory of its shape, +and of every stone that neighbored it; and it was only over the +treacherous surface of the rock that he showed himself really dependent +on her care. Memory could not help him here, and here it was, as he +leant on her shoulder, that she felt, her breast swelling with pity, +the real, the blood tie between them. Her heart went out to him, and +her eyes were dim with tears when at length they stood again on the +high road, and viewed, on a level with themselves but divided from them +by the trough of green meadows in which the brook ran, the gables and +twisted chimneys, the buttressed walls, that gave to Garth its air of a +fortress. + +The girl gazed at it, the old man’s hand still on her shoulder. It was +her home: she knew no other, she had never been fifty miles from it. It +stood for peace, safety, protection. She loved it—never more than now, +and never as much as now. And never as much as now had she loved her +father; never before had she understood him so well. The last hour had +wrought a change, dimly suspected by both, in their relations. They +stood on a level—more on a level, at any rate; with no gulf between +them but the natural interval of years, a green valley as it were, +which the eyes of understanding and the light foot of love could cross +at will. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +A week and a day went by after the banker’s return and there was no run +upon the bank. But afar off, in London and Manchester and Liverpool, +and even in Birmingham, there were shocks and upheavals, failures and +talk of failures, fear in high places, ruin in low. For there was no +doubt about the crisis now. The wheels of trade, which had for some +time been running sluggishly, stopped. It was impossible to sell goods, +for the prudent and foreseeing had already flung their products upon +the market, and glutted it, and later, others had come in and, forced +to find money, had sold down and down, procuring cash at any sacrifice. +Now it was impossible to sell at all. Men with the shelves of their +warehouses loaded with goods, men whose names in ordinary times were +good for thousands, could not find money to meet their trade bills, to +pay their wages, to discharge their household accounts. + +And it was still less possible to sell shares, for shares, even sound +shares, had on a sudden become waste paper. The bubble companies, +created during the frenzy of the past two years, were bursting on every +side, and the public, unable to discriminate, no longer put faith in +anything. Rudely awakened, they opened their eyes to reality. They saw +that they had dreamed, and been helped to dream. They discovered that +skates and warming pans were in no great request in the tropics, and +could not be exported thither at a profit of five hundred per cent. +They saw that churns and milkmaids, freighted to lands where the cattle +ran wild on the pampas and oil was preferred to butter, were no certain +basis on which to build a fortune. Their visions of South American +argosies melted into thin air. The silver from La Plata which they had +pictured as entering the mouth of the Thames, or at worst as within +sight from the Lizard, was discovered to be reposing in the darkness of +unopened seams. The pearling ships were yet to build, the divers to +teach, and, for the diamonds of the Brazils which this man or that man +had seen lying in skin packages at the door of the Bank of England, +they now twinkled in a cold and distant heaven, as unapproachable as +the Seven Stars of Orion. The canals existed on paper, the railways +were in the air, the harbors could not be found even on the map. + +The shares of companies which had passed from hand to hand at fourfold +and tenfold their face value fell with appalling rapidity. They fell +and fell until they were in many cases worth no more than the paper on +which they were printed. And the bursting of these shams, which had +never owned the smallest chance of success, brought about the fall of +ventures better founded. The good suffered with the bad. Presently no +man would buy a share, no man would look at a share, no bank advance on +its security. Men saw their fortunes melt day by day as snow melts +under an April sun. They saw themselves stripped, within a few weeks or +even days, of wealth, of a competence, in too many cases of their all. + +And the ruin was widespread. It reached many a man who had never +gambled or speculated. Business runs on the wheels of credit, and those +wheels are connected by a million unseen cogs. Let one wheel stop and +it is impossible to say where the stoppage will cease, or how many will +be affected by it. So it was now. The honest tradesman and the +manufacturer, striving to leave a competence to a family nurtured in +comfort, were involved in one common ruin with the spendthrift and the +speculator. The credit of all was suspect; from all alike the sources +of accommodation were cut off. Each in his turn involved his neighbor, +and brought him down. + +There was a great panic. The centres of commerce and trade were +convulsed. The kings of finance feared for themselves and closed their +pockets. The Bank of England would help no one. Men who had never +sought aid before, men who had held their heads high, waited, vain +petitioners, at its doors. + +Fortunately for Ovington’s, Aldersbury lay at some distance from the +centres of disturbance, and for a time, though the storm grumbled and +crackled on the horizon, the town remained calm. But it was such a calm +as holds the tropic seas in a breathless grip, before the typhoon, +breaking from the black canopy overhead, whirls the doomed bark away, +as a leaf is swept before our temperate blasts. Throughout those six +days, though little happened, anything, it was felt, might happen. The +arrival of every coach was a thing to listen for, the opening of every +mail-bag a terror, the presentation of every bill a pang, the payment +of every note a thing at which to wince; while the sense of danger, +borne like some infection on the air, spread mysteriously from town to +village, and village to hamlet, to penetrate at last wherever one man +depended on another for profit or for subsistence. And that was +everywhere. + +A storm impended, and no man knew where it would break, or on whom it +would fall. Each looked in his neighbor’s face and, seeing his fear +reflected, wondered, and perhaps suspected. If so-and-so failed, would +not such-an-one be in trouble? And if such-an-one “went,” what of +Blank—with whom he himself had business? + +The feeling which prevailed did not in the main go beyond uneasiness +and suspicion. But, in quarters where the facts were known and the +peril was clearly discerned, these days of waiting were days—nay, every +day was a week—of the most poignant anxiety. In banks, where those +behind the scenes knew that not only their own stability and their own +fortunes were at stake, but that if they failed there would be +lamentation in a score of villages and loss in a hundred homes, +endurance was strained to the breaking point. To show a cheerful face +to customers, to chat over the counter with an easy air, to smile on a +visitor who might be bringing in the bowstring, to listen unmoved to +the murmur in the street that might presage bad news—these things made +demands on nerve and patience which could not be met without distress. +And every hour that passed, every post that came in, added to the +strain. + +Under this burden Ovington’s bearing was beyond praise. The work of his +life—and he was over-old to begin it again—was in danger, and doubtless +he thought of his daughter and his son. But he never faltered. He had, +it is true, to support him the sense of responsibility, which steels +the heart of the born leader, even as it turns to water that of the +pretender; he knew, and doubtless he was strengthened by the knowledge, +that all depended on him, on his calmness, his judgment, his resources; +that all looked to him for guidance and encouragement, watched his +face, and marked his demeanor. + +But even so, he was the admiration of those in the secret. Not even +Napoleon, supping amid his marshals, and turning over to sleep beside +the watch-fire on the night before a battle, was more wonderful. His +son swore fealty to him a dozen times a day. Rodd, who had received his +money in silence, and now stood to lose no more than his place, +followed him with worshipping eyes and, perhaps, an easier mind. The +clerks, who perforce had gained some inkling of the position, were +relieved by his calmness, and spread abroad the confidence that they +drew from him. Even Arthur, who bore the trial less well, admired his +leader, suspected at times that he had some secret hope or some +undisclosed resources, and more than once suffered himself to be +plucked from depression by his example. + +The truth was that while financial ability was common to both, their +training had been different. The elder man had been always successful, +but he had been forced to strive and struggle; he had climbed but +slowly at the start, and there had been more than one epoch in his +career when he had stood face to face with defeat. He had won through, +but he had never shut his eyes to the possibility of failure, or to the +fact that in a business, which in those days witnessed every twenty +years a disastrous upheaval, no man could count on, though with +prudence he might anticipate, a lasting success. He had accepted his +profession with its drawbacks as well as its advantages. He had not +closed his eyes to its risks. He had viewed it whole. + +Arthur, on the other hand, plunging into it with avidity at a time when +all smiled and the sky was cloudless, had supposed that if he were once +admitted to the bank his fortune was made, and his future secured. He +knew indeed, and if challenged he would have owned, that banking was a +precarious enterprise; that banks had broken. He knew that many had +closed their doors in ’16, still more on one black day in ’93. He was +aware that in the last forty years scores of bankers had failed, that +some had taken their own lives, that one at least had suffered the last +penalty of the law. But he had taken these things to be +exceptions—things which might, indeed, recur, but not within his +experience—just as in our day, though railway accidents are not +uncommon, no man for that reason refrains from travelling. + +At any rate the thought of failure had not entered into Arthur’s mind, +and mainly for this reason he, who in fair weather had been most +confident and whose ability had shone most brightly, now cut an +indifferent figure. It was not that his talent or his judgment failed; +in these he still threw Clement and Rodd into the shade. But the risk, +suddenly disclosed, was too much for him. It depressed him. He grew +crabbed and soured, his temper flashing out on small provocation. He +sneered at Rodd, he snubbed the clerks. When it was necessary to refuse +a request for credit—and the necessity arose a dozen times a day—his +manner lacked the suavity that makes the best of a bad thing. + +In very truth they were trying times. Men who had bought shares through +Ovington’s, and might have sold them at a profit but had not, could not +understand why the bank would not now advance money on the security of +the shares, would not even pay calls on them, and had only advice, and +that unpalatable, at their service. They came to the parlor and argued, +pleaded, threatened, stormed. They would close their accounts, they +would remove them to Dean’s, they would publish the treatment that they +had received! Again, there were those who had bought railway shares, +which were now at a considerable discount and looked like falling +farther; the bank had issued them—they looked to the bank to take them +off their hands. More trying still were the applications of those who, +suddenly pressed for money, came, pallid and wiping their foreheads +with bandanna handkerchiefs, to plead desperately for a small +overdraft, for twenty, forty, seventy pounds—just enough to pay the +weekly wage-bill, or to meet their household outgoings, or to settle +with some pressing creditor. For all creditors were now pressing. No +man gave time, no man trusted another, and for those in the bank the +question was, How long would they trust Ovington’s? For every man who +left the doors of the bank after a futile visit, every man who went +away with his request declined, became a potential enemy, whose +complaint or chance word might breed suspicion. + +“Still, every day is a day gained,” the banker said as he dropped his +mask on the Friday afternoon and sank wearily into a chair. It was +closing time, and the clerks could be heard moving in the outer room, +putting away books, counting the cash, locking the drawers. Another day +had passed without special pressure. “Time is everything.” + +Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “It would be, if it were money.” + +“Well, I think that we are doing capitally—capitally so far,” said +Clement. + +“I am glad you are satisfied,” Arthur retorted. “We are four hundred +down on the day! I can’t think, sir”—peevishly—“why you let Purslow +have that seventy pounds.” + +“Well, he is a very old customer,” the banker replied patiently, “and +he’s hard hit—he wanted it for wages, and I fear that he’s behindhand +with them. And if we withhold all help, my boy, we shall certainly +precipitate a run. On Monday those bills of Badger’s fall due, and I +think will be met. We shall receive eleven hundred from them. On +Tuesday another bill for three hundred and fifty matures, and I think +is good. If we can go on till Wednesday we shall be a little stronger +to meet the crisis than we are to-day. And we can only live from day to +day”—wearily. “If Pole’s bank goes”—he glanced doubtfully at the +door—“I fear that Williams’s will follow. And then——” + +“There will be the devil to pay!” + +“Well, we must try to pay him!” + +“Bravo, sir!” Clement cried. “That’s the way to talk.” + +“Yes, it is no use to dwell on the dark side,” his father agreed. “All +the same”—he was silent a while, reviewing the position and making +calculations which he had made a hundred times before—“all the same, it +would make all the difference if we had that twelve thousand pounds in +reserve.” + +“By Jove, yes!” Arthur exclaimed. For a moment hope animated his face. +“Can you think of no way of getting it, sir?” + +The banker shook his head. “I have tried every quarter,” he said, “and +strained every resource. I cannot. I’m afraid we must fight our battle +as we are.” + +Arthur gazed at the floor. The elder man looked at him and thought +again of the Squire. But he would not renew his suggestion. Arthur knew +better than he what was possible in that quarter, and if he saw no +hope, there doubtless was no hope. At best the idea had been fantastic, +in view of the prejudice which the Squire entertained against the bank. + +While they pondered, the door opened, and all three looked sharply +round, the movement betraying the state of their nerves. But it was +only Betty who entered—a little graver and a little older than the +Betty of eight or nine months before, but with the same gleam of humor +in her eyes. “What a conclave!” she cried. She looked round on them. + +“Yes,” Arthur answered drily. “It wants only Rodd to be complete.” + +“Just so.” She made a face. “How much you think of him lately!” + +“And unfortunately he’s taken his little all and left us.” + +The shot told. Her eyes gleamed, and she colored with anger. “What do +you mean? Dad”—brusquely—“what does he mean?” + +“Only that we thought it better,” the banker explained, “to make Rodd +safe by paying him the little he has with us.” + +“And he took it—of course?” + +The banker smiled. “Of course he took it,” he said. “He would have been +foolish if he had not. It was only a deposit, and there was no reason +why he should risk it with us—as things are.” + +“Oh, I see. Things are as bad as that, are they? Any other rats?”—with +a withering look at Arthur. + +“I am afraid that there is no one else who can leave,” her father +answered. “The gangway is down now, my dear, and we sink or swim +together.” + +“Ah! Well, I fancy there’s one of the rats in the dining-room now. That +is what I came to tell you. He wants to see you, dad.” + +“Who is it?” + +“Mr. Acherley.” + +Ovington shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it is after hours,” he said, +“but—I’ll see him.” + +That broke up the meeting. The banker went out to interview his +visitor, who had been standing for some minutes at one of the windows +of the dining-room, looking out on the slender stream of traffic that +passed up and down the pavement or slid round the opposite corner into +the Market Place. + +Acherley was not of those who go round about when a direct and more +brutal approach will serve. Broken fortunes had soured rather than +tamed him, and though, when there had been something to be gained by +it, he had known how to treat the banker with an easy familiarity, the +contempt in which he held men of that class made it more natural to him +to bully than to fawn. Before he had turned to the street for amusement +he had surveyed the furniture of the room with a morose eye, had damned +the upstart’s impudence for setting himself up with such things, and +consoled himself with the reflection that he would soon see it under +the hammer. “And a d—d good job, too!” he had muttered. “What the +blazes does he want with a kidney wine-table and a plate-chest! It will +serve Bourdillon right for lowering himself to such people!” + +When the banker came to him he made no apology for the lateness of his +visit, but “Hallo!” he said bluntly, “I want a little talk with you. +But short’s the word. Fact is, I find I’ve more of those railway shares +than it suits me to keep, Ovington, and I want you to take a hundred +off my hands. I hear they’re fetching two-ten.” + +“One-ten,” the banker said. “They are barely that.” + +“Two-ten,” Acherley repeated, as if the other had not spoken. “That’s +my price. I suppose the bank will accommodate me by taking them?” + +Ovington looked steadily at him. “Do you mean the shares you pledged +with us? If so, I am afraid that in any event we shall have to put them +on the market soon. The margin has nearly run off.” + +“Oh, hang those!”—lightly. “You may as well account for them at the +same price—two and a half. I’ll consider that settled. But I’ve a +hundred more that I don’t want to keep, and it’s those I am talking +about. You’ll take them, I suppose—for cash, of course? I’m a little +pressed at present, and want the money.” + +“I am afraid that I must say, no,” Ovington said. “We are not buying +any more, even at thirty shillings. As to those we hold, if you wish us +to sell them at once—and I am inclined to think that we ought to——” + +“Steady, steady! Not so fast!” Acherley let the mask fall, and, drawing +himself to his full height—and tall and lean, in his long riding coat +shaped to the figure, he looked imposing and insolent enough—he tapped +his teeth with the handle of his riding whip. “Not so fast, man! Think +it over!”—with an ugly smile. “I’ve been of use to you. It is your turn +to be of use to me. I want to be rid of these shares.” + +“Naturally. But we don’t wish to take them, Mr. Acherley.” + +Acherley glowered at him. “You mean,” he said, “that the bank can’t +afford to take them? If that’s your meaning——” + +“It does not suit us to take them.” + +“But by G—d you’ve got to take them! D’you hear, sir? You’ve got to +take them, or take the consequences! I went into this to oblige you.” + +“Not at all,” Ovington said. “You came into it with your eyes open, and +with a view to the improvement of your property, if the enterprise +proved a success. No man came into it with eyes more open! To be frank +with you——” + +But Acherley cut him short. “Oh, d—n all that!” he cried. “I did not +come here to palaver. The long and short of it is you’ve got to take +the shares, or, by Gad, I go out of this room and I say what I think! +And you’ll take the consequences. There’s talk enough in the town +already as you know. It only needs another punch, one more good punch, +and you’re out of the ring and in the sponging house. And your +beautiful bank you know where. You know that as well as I do, my good +man. And if you want a friend instead of an enemy you’ll oblige me, and +no words about it. That’s flat!” + +The room was growing dark. Ovington stood facing such light as there +was. He looked very pale. “Yes, that’s quite flat,” he said. + +“Very good. Then what do you say to it?” + +“What I said before—No! No, Mr. Acherley!” + +“What? Do you mean it? Why, if you are such a fool as not to know your +own interests——” + +“I do know them—very well,” Ovington said, resolutely taking him up. “I +know what you want and I know what you offer. It is, as you say, quite +flat, and I’ll be equally—flat! Your support is not worth the price. +And I warn you, Mr. Acherley, and I beg you to take notice, that if you +say a word against the solvency of the bank after this—-after this +threat—you will be held accountable to the law. And more than that, I +can assure you of another thing. If, as you believe, there is going to +be trouble, it is you and such as you who will be the first to suffer. +Your creditors——” + +“The devil take them! And you!” the gentleman cried, stung to fury. +“Why, you swollen little frog!” losing all control over himself, “you +don’t think my support worth buying, don’t you? You don’t think it’s +worth a dirty hundred or two of your scrapings! Then I tell you I’ll +put my foot on you—by G—d, I will! Yes! I’ll tread you down into the +mud you sprang from! If you were a gentleman I’d shoot you on the Flash +at eight o’clock to-morrow, and eat my breakfast afterwards! You to +talk to me! You, you little spawn from the gutter! I’ve a good mind to +thrash you within an inch of your life, but there’ll be those ready +enough to do that for me by and by—ay, and plenty, by G—d!” + +He towered over the banker, and he looked threatening enough, but +Ovington did not flinch. He went to the door and threw it open. +“There’s the door, Mr. Acherley!” he said. + +For a moment the gentleman hesitated. But the banker’s firm front +prevailed, and with a gesture, half menacing, half contemptuous, +Acherley stalked out. “The worse for you!” he said. “You’ll be sorry +for this! By George, you will be sorry for this next week!” + +“Good evening,” said the banker—he was trembling with passion. “I warn +you to be careful what you say, or the law will deal with you.” And he +stood his ground until the other, shrugging his shoulders and flinging +behind him a last curse, had passed through the door. Then he closed +the door and went back to the fireplace. He sat down. + +The matter was no surprise to him. He knew his man, and neither the +demand nor the threat was unexpected. But he knew, too, that Acherley +was shrewd, and that the demand and the threat were ominous signs. More +forcibly than anything that had yet occurred, they brought before him +the desperate nature of the crisis, and the likelihood that, before a +week went by, the worst would happen. He would be compelled to put up +the shutters. The bank would stop. And with the bank would go all that +he had won by a life of continuous labor: the position that he had +built up, the status that he had gained, the reputation that he had +achieved, the fortune which he had won and which had so much exceeded +his early hopes. The things with which he had surrounded himself, they +too, tokens of his success, the outward and handsome signs of his rise +in life, many of them landmarks, milestones on the path of triumph—they +too would go. He looked sadly on them. He saw them, he too, under the +hammer: saw the mocking, heedless crowd handling them, dividing them, +jeering at his short-lived splendor, gibing at his folly in surrounding +himself with them. + +Ay, and one here and there would have cause to say more bitter things. +For some—not many, he hoped, but some—would be losers with him. Some +homes would be broken up, some old men beggared: and all would be laid +at his door. His name would be a byword. There would be little said of +the sufferers’ imprudence or folly or rashness: he would be the +scapegoat for all, he and the bank he had founded. Ovington’s Bank! +They would tell the story of it through years to come—would smile at +its rise, deride its fall, make of it a town tale, the tale of a man’s +arrogance, and of the speedy Nemesis which had punished it! + +He was a proud man, and the thought of these things, the visions that +they called up, tortured him. At times, he had borne himself a little +too highly, had presumed on his success, had said a word too much. +Well, all that would be repaid now with interest, ay, with compound +interest. + +The room was growing dark, as dark as his thoughts. The fire glowed, a +mere handful of red embers, in the grate. Now and again men went by the +windows, talking—talking, it might be, of him: anxious, suspicious, +greedy, ready at a word to ruin themselves and him, to cut their own +throats in their selfish panic. They had only to use common sense, to +control themselves, and no man would lose a penny. But they would have +no common sense. They would rush in and destroy all, their own and his. +For no bank called upon to pay in a day all that it owed could do so, +any more than an insurance office could at any moment pay all its +lives. But they would not blame themselves. They would blame him—and +his! + +He groaned as he thought of his children. Clement, indeed, might and +must fend for himself. And he would—he had proved it of late days by +his courage and cheerfulness, and the father’s heart warmed to him. But +Betty? Gay, fearless, laughing Betty, the light of his home, the joy of +his life! Who, born when fortune had already begun to smile on him, had +never known poverty or care or mean shifts! For whom he had been +ambitious, whom he had thought to see well married—married into the +county, it might be! Poor Betty! There would be an end of that now. +Past his prime and discredited, he could not hope to make more than a +pittance, happy if he could earn some two or three pounds a week in +some such situation as Rodd’s. And she must sink with him and accept +such a home as he could support, in place of this spacious old +town-house, with its oaken wainscots and its wide, shallow stairs, and +its cheerful garden at the back. + +His love suffered equally with his pride. + +He was thinking so deeply that he did not hear the door open, or a +light foot cross the room. He did not suspect that he was observed +until a pair of warm young arms slid round his neck, and Betty’s curls +brushed his check. “In the dumps, father?” she said. “And in the +dark—and alone? Poor father! Is it as bad as that? But you have not +given up hope? We are not ruined yet?” + +“God forbid!” he said, hardly able, on finding her so close to him, to +control his voice. “But we may be, Betty.” + +“And what then?” She clasped him more closely to her. “Might not worse +things happen to us? Might you not die and I be left alone? Or might I +not die, and you lose me? Or Clement? You are pleased with Clement, +father, aren’t you? He may not be as clever as—as some people. But you +know he’s there when you want him. Suppose you lost us?” + +“True, child. But you don’t know what poverty is—after wealth, +Betty—how narrowing, how irksome, how it galls at every point! You +don’t know what it is to live on two or three pounds a week, in two or +three rooms!” + +“They will bring us the closer together,” said Betty. + +“And to be looked down upon by those who have been your equals, and +shunned by those who have been your friends!” + +“Nice friends! We shall do better without them!” + +“And things will be said of me, things it will be hard to listen to!” + +“They won’t say them to me,” said Betty. “Or look out for my nails, +ma’am! Besides, they won’t be true, and who cares, father! Lizzie +Clough said yesterday I’d a cast in one eye, but does it worry me? Not +a scrap. And we’ll shut the door on our two or three rooms and let +them—go hang! As long as we are together we can face anything, +father—we can live on two pounds or two shillings or two pence. And +consider! You might never have known what Clement was, how lively, how +brave, how”—with a funny little laugh—“like me,” hugging him to her, +“if this had not happened—that’s not going to happen after all.” + +He sighed. He dealt with figures, she with fancy. “I hope not,” he +said. “At any rate I’ve two good children, and if it does come to the +worst——” + +“We’ll lock ourselves in and our false friends out!” she said; and for +a moment after that she was silent. Then, “Tell me, father, why did Mr. +Rodd take that money—when you need all that you can get together, and +he knows it? For he’s taking the plate to Birmingham to pledge, isn’t +he? So he must know it.” + +“He is, if——” + +“If it comes to the worst? I know. Then why did he take his money, when +he knew how things stood?” + +“Why did he take his own when we offered it?” the banker replied. “Why +shouldn’t he, child? It was his own, and business is business. He would +have been very foolish if he had not taken it. He’s not a man who can +afford to lose it.” + +“Oh!” said Betty. And for some minutes she said no more. Then she +roused herself, poked the fire, and rang for the lamp. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +“Well,” said the Squire peevishly, “I can do no more. Girls ha’ their +whimsies, and it’s much if you can hinder ’em running after Mr. Wrong +without forcing ’em to take Mr. Right. At any rate I’ve said what I +could for you, lad, and the end was as if I hadn’t. You must fight your +own battle. Jos hasn’t”—this would never have occurred to the Squire in +his seeing days—“too gay a life of it, and if you’re not man enough to +get on the soft side of her, with a clear field, why, damme, you don’t +deserve to have her.” + +“I was well enough with her,” Arthur said resentfully, “till lately. +But she is changed, sir.” + +“Well, like enough. Girls are like that.” + +“There may be—someone else.” + +The Squire snorted. “Who?” he said. “Who?”—more roughly. “You’re +talking nonsense.” + +Arthur could not say who. He could not name anyone. So far as he knew +there could not be anyone. But his temper, chafed by a week of suspense +and anxiety, was not smoothed by the old man’s refusal to do more. And +then to fail with Josina! To be rejected by Josina, the simple girl +whom, in his heart, he had regarded as a _pis alter_, on whom he had +designed to confer a half-contemptuous affection, on whose youthful +fancy he had played for his pastime! This was enough to try him, apart +from the fact that things in Aldersbury looked black, and that, losing +her, he lost the consolation prize to which he had looked forward to +make all good. So, taken to task by the Squire, he did not at once +assent. “Who?” he repeated gloomily. “Ah, I don’t know.” + +“Nor I!” the Squire retorted. “There is nobody. Truth is, my lad, the +man who has been robbed sees a face in every bush. However, there ’tis. +I’ve said my say, and I’ve done with it. Did you bring those deeds from +Welsh’s?” + +Arthur swallowed his mortification as best he might—fortunately the old +man could not see his face. “Yes,” he said. “I left them downstairs.” +The Squire had caught a cold, sitting out on the hill on the Saturday, +and had been for some days in his bedroom. + +“Well, I’m going to pay wages now,” he rejoined. “Bring ’em up after +dinner and I’ll sign ’em. You and the girl or Peacock can witness them. +And, hark you—here, wait a minute!” irascibly, for Arthur, giving as +much rein to his temper as he dared, had turned on his heel and was +marching off. “Take my keys and open the safe-cupboard downstairs, and +bring me up the agreement. I’ve got to compare it with the lease—I +shan’t sign it without! Lock the door, d’you hear, before you open the +cupboard, and have a care no one sees you.” + +“Very well,” Arthur said, and was half-way to the door when again, as +if to try his patience, the old man stopped him. “What’s this they’re +saying about Ovington’s, eh? ’Bout the bank? Pretty thing, if he’s let +you in and your money too! But I’m not surprised. I told you you were a +fool, young man, to dirty your hands in that bag, whatever you thought +to get out of it. And if you’re not going to get anything out of it, +but to leave your own in, as I hear talk of—what then? Come, let’s hear +what you have to say about it! I’d like to know.” + +“I don’t know what you’ve heard, sir,” Arthur answered, sparring for +time. For self-control, provoking as the old man was, he had no longer +need to fight. For he had seen, the moment the Squire spoke, that here, +here if he chose to avail himself of it, was his chance of the twelve +thousand! Here was an opening, if he had the courage to seize it. +Granted the chance was desperate, and the opening unpromising—a poorer +or less promising could hardly be. And the courage necessary was great. +But here it was. The Squire himself had brought up the subject. He knew +of the rumors: he had broken the ice. Here it was, and for a moment, +uncertain, wavering, giddy with the swift interchange of _pros_ and +_cons_, Arthur tried for time—time to think. “What was it? What did you +hear, sir?” he asked. + +“What did I hear?” the Squire answered. “Why, that they’re d—d +suspicious of them in the town. And I don’t wonder. Up in a night, and +cut off in a day, like a rotten mushroom!” He spoke with gusto, +forgetting for the moment what this might mean to his listener; who, on +his side, hardly heeded the brutality, so absorbed was he in the +question which he must answer—the question whether it would be wise or +foolish, ruin or salvation, to ask the Squire for help. “He’ll be +another Fauntleroy, ’fore he’s done,” the old man went on with relish. +“He’ll stretch a rope, you’ll see if he won’t! I told him as much +myself. I told him as much in those very words the day he came here +about his confounded silly toy of a railroad. He might take in +Woosenham and a lot of other fools, I told him, but he did not deceive +me. Now I hear that he’s going to burst up, and where’ll you be, my +lad? Where’ll you be? By Gad, you may be in the dock with him!” + +Certainly he might speak on that. The old man was harsh and +hard-fisted, but he was also hard-headed and very shrewd; and +conceivably the case might be so put to him that he might see his +profit in it. Certainly it might be so put that he might see a fair +prospect of saving his nephew’s five thousand at no great risk to +himself. The books might be laid before him, the figures be taken out, +the precise situation made clear. There was—it could not be put higher +than this—just a slender chance that he would listen, prejudiced as he +was. + +But twelve thousand! It was such a stupendous sum to name. It needed +such audacity to ask for it. And yet it was that or nothing. Less might +not serve; while to ask for less, to ask for anything at all, might +cost the petitioner the favor he had won—his standing in the house, and +the advantages which the Squire’s support might still gain for him. And +then it was such a forlorn hope, such a desperate, feckless venture! +No, he would be a fool to risk it. He dared not do it. He had not the +face. + +Yet, for a few seconds after the Squire had ceased to speak, Arthur +hesitated, confession trembling on his lips. The twelve thousand would +make all good, save all, redeem all—ay, and bind Ovington to him in +bonds of steel. But no, he dared not. He would be a fool to speak. And +instead of the words that had risen to his lips, “I think you mistake, +sir,” he said coldly. “I think you’ll find that this is all cry and +little wool! Of course money is tight, and there is trouble in the +City. I’ve heard talk of two or three weak banks being in difficulties, +and I should not wonder if one or two of them stopped payment between +this and Christmas. We are told that it is likely. But we are perfectly +solvent. It will take more than talk to bring Ovington’s down.” + +“Umph!” the Squire grumbled. “Well, maybe, maybe. You talk as if you +knew, and you ought to know. I hope you do know. After all—I don’t want +you to lose your money—Gad, a pretty fool you’d look, my lad! A pretty +fool, indeed! But as for Ovington, a confounded rascal, who thinks +himself a gentleman because he has filled his purse at some poor +devil’s expense—I’d see him break with pleasure.” + +“I don’t think you’ll have the pleasure this time!” Arthur retorted +with a bitterness which he could not repress—a bitterness caused as +much by his own doubts as by the other’s harshness. He left the room +without more, the keys in his hand, and went downstairs. + +It wanted about an hour of the Squire’s dinner-time, but Calamy had +laid the table early, and the dining-room was dark. Arthur carried in a +lamp from the hall, and himself closed the shutters. He locked the +door. Then he opened the nearer panel and the cupboard behind it, and +sought for and found the agreement—but all mechanically, his mind still +running on the Squire’s words, and now approving of the course he had +taken, now doubting if he had not missed his opportunity. The agreement +in his hand, his errand done, he closed the cupboard door, and was +preparing to close the panel, when, with his hand still on it, he +paused. More clearly than when his bodily eyes had rested upon them he +saw the contents of the cupboard. + +And one thing in particular, a small thing, but it was on this that his +mind focussed itself—the iron box containing the India Stock. He saw it +before him; it stood out dark, its every outline sharp. And with equal +clearness he saw its contents, the two certificates that remained in +it. He recalled the value of them, and almost against his will he +calculated their worth at the price of the day. India Stock, sound and +safe security as it was, had fallen more than thirty points since the +Squire had sold. It stood to-day, he thought, at two hundred and forty +or a little over or a little under—somewhere about that. At the lowest +figure five thousand pounds would fetch—just twelve thousand, he +calculated. + +Twelve thousand! + +He stood staring at the door, and even by the yellow light of the lamp +his face looked pale. Twelve thousand! And upstairs in a pigeon-hole of +the old bureau, where he had carelessly thrust it, was the blank +transfer. + +It seemed providential. It seemed as if the stock—stock to the precise +amount he required—had been placed there for a purpose. Twelve +thousand! And realizable, no matter what the pinch. If he borrowed it +for a month, what harm would there be? Or what risk? The bank was +solvent, he knew that: give it time, and it would stand as strong as +ever. Within a month, or two months at the most, he could replace the +stock, and no one would be the wiser. And the bank and his own fortune +would be saved. + +Whereas—whereas, if the bank failed, he lost everything. And what was +it his uncle had said? “A pretty fool you will look!” It was true, it +was horribly true. He would be the laughing stock of the county. Men of +his own class would say with a sneer that it served him right. And the +Squire—what would he say? His life would be a hell! + +Still he hesitated, though he told himself that it was not by boggling +at trifles that men arrived at great ends—nor by poltroonery. And who +would be the loser? No one. It would be all gain. The Squire, if he had +common sense, would be the first to wish it done. + +Yet, as he felt through the bunch, with fingers that shook a little, +for the small key that opened the box, he glanced fearfully over his +shoulder. But the door of the room was locked, the windows were +shuttered: no one could see him. No one could ever say what he had done +in that room. And he was lawfully there, at the Squire’s own request, +on his errand. + +Five minutes later he closed the door, closed the panel. He took up the +lamp with a steady hand and left the room. He went into the Squire’s +bedroom to return the keys, loitered a minute or two at the bureau, +then he went to his own room. On the table lay the lease and the +counterpart that he had brought from Aldersbury for the old man’s +signature. He closed and locked the door. + +It was some hour and a half later that, having finished dinner—and he +had talked more fluently at the meal, and with less restraint than of +late—he rose from the table with Miss Peacock and Josina. “I’ll come +with you,” he said. “I shall have my wine upstairs.” And then, turning +to Miss Peacock, “The Squire will want you to witness his signature,” +he said. “Will you come? He has to sign some deeds that Welsh’s have +sent.” + +Miss Peacock bewailed herself. She was in a flurry at the prospect. +“Oh, dear, dear,” she said, “I wish he didn’t! I am all of a twitter, +and then he scolds me. I am sure to put my name in the wrong place, or +write his or something.” + +Josina laughed. “What will you give me to go instead?” she asked. +“Come? But, there, I’ll go. In fact, he told me before dinner that I +was to go.” She moved towards the door. + +But Arthur did not move. He looked disturbed. “I don’t think that that +will do,” he said slowly. “Considering what it is—I think the Peahen +would be the better.” + +“But if she doesn’t like it?” Jos objected. “And I must go, Arthur, for +he told me to go. So the sooner the better. We have sat longer than +usual, and, though Calamy is with him, he won’t like to be kept +waiting.” + +Arthur seemed to consider it. “Oh, very well,” he said at last. He +followed her from the room. + +The Squire was sitting before the fire, at the small round table at +which he had eaten his meal. A decanter of port and a couple of glasses +stood at his elbow. Two candles in tall silver candlesticks shed a +circle of light on the table, and showed up his white head and his +hands, but failed to illumine the larger part of the room. The great +bed with its drab hangings, the lofty press with its brass handles, the +dark Windsor chairs, now lurked in and now sprang from the shadows, as +the fire flickered up or sank. On the verge of the circle of light the +butler moved mysteriously, now appearing, now disappearing; now coming +forward to set an inkstand and goose-quills beside the decanter, now +withdrawing to pile unseen plates upon an unseen tray. + +The Squire was tapping impatiently on the table when they entered. +“Well, you’re in no hurry for your wine to-night,” he said. “Have you +brought the papers? You might have a’most written them in the time +you’ve been.” + +“Sorry, sir,” said Arthur. “They are here. Will you sit here, Jos?” + +“Nay, nay, she must be near by,” the old man objected. His hearing was +still good. “Close up! Close up, girl! I want her eyes. And do you fill +your glass. Now have you all ready? Then do you read me the agreement +first, that I may see if the lease tallies. And read slowly, lad, +slowly. Calamy?” + +“I am here, sir,” lugubriously. “Where we’ll be tomorrow——” + +“D—n you, don’t whine, man, but snuff the candles. And then get out. Do +you hear?” + +Calamy mumbled that it would be all the same at the latter end. He went +out with his tray, and closed the door behind him. + +“Now!” said the Squire, and obediently to the word Arthur began to +read. Once or twice his voice failed him, and he had to clear his +throat. Josina would have thought that he was nervous, had she ever +known him nervous. Fortunately, the document was short, as legal +documents go, and some five minutes, during which the Squire sat +listening intently, saw it at an end. + +“Umph! Sounds all right,” he commented. “Sight o’ words! But there, +they’ve got to charge. Now do you give the girl the counterpart, and do +you read the lease, lad, and read it slowly, so as I may understand. +And hark you, Jos, speak up if there is any differ—nail it like a rat, +girl, and don’t go to sleep over it! Don’t you let me be cheated. Welsh +is as honest, and I’d as lief trust him, as another, but if aught’s +amiss it’s not he that will suffer, nor the confounded scamp of a clerk +that made the mistake. And see you there’s no erasures: I’m lawyer +enough to know that. Now, slow, lad, slow,” he commanded, “so that I +can take it in.” + +Arthur complied, and began to read slowly and carefully. But again he +had more than once to stop, his voice failing. He explained it by +saying that the light was not good, and he rose to snuff the candles. +The lease, too, was longer than the agreement, and was full of +verbiage, and it took some time to read, and some patience. But at long +last the delivery clause was reached. No discrepancy or erasure had +been discovered, and the Squire, whose attention had never faltered—he +was an excellent man of affairs—declared himself satisfied. + +“Well, there,” he said, in a tone of relief, “that’s done! Drink up, +lad, and wet your throttle.” He turned himself squarely to the table. +“Give me the pen I used last,” he continued. “And do you guide my hand +to the right place.” + +“I am afraid your pen was left to dry,” Arthur said, “and the nib has +opened. You’ll have to use a new one, sir, and try it first. And—the +sand? We shall want that. I am afraid it is downstairs. If Josina would +not mind running down for it?” + +“Pooh! pooh! Never mind the sand! Let ’em dry o’ themselves. Less +chance of blotting. Where’s the pen?”—holding out his hand for it. + +“Here, sir. Will you try it on this? If you’ll write your name in full, +as if you were signing the deeds”—he guided the Squire’s hand to the +place—“I shall see if it is right—and straight.” + +“Ay, ay, best be careful,” the Squire agreed, squaring himself to his +task. “’Twon’t do to spoil ’em. Here?” + +“Yes—just as you are now.” + +The old man bent over the table, his white hair shining in the centre +of the little circle of light cast by the candles. Slowly and +laboriously, in a tense silence, while Arthur, leaning over his +shoulder, followed each movement of the pen, and Josina, half in light, +half in shadow, watched them both from the farther side of the table, +he wrote his name. + +It was a perfect signature, though rather bolder and larger than usual, +and “Excellent!” Arthur cried in a tone of relief, which betrayed the +anxiety he had felt. “Good! It could not be better! Well done, sir!” He +removed the paper as he spoke, but in the act looked sharply across at +Josina. The girl’s eyes were upon him, but her face was in shadow, and +he could not read its expression. He hesitated a moment, the paper in +his hand, then he laid it on the table beside him—and out of her reach. + +“Right!” said the Squire. “Then, now for business. Let’s have the +lease. My hand’s in now.” + +Arthur laid it before him, and guided his hand to the place. “Is there +ink enough in the pen?” the old man asked. + +“Quite enough, sir. It won’t do to blot it.” + +“Right, lad, right!” The Squire wrote his name. “Now the counterpart!” +he continued briskly, holding the quill suspended. + +Arthur put it before him. He signed it, steadily and clearly. “All +right?” he asked. + +“Quite right. Couldn’t be better, sir.” + +“Then, thank God that’s done!” He sank back in his chair, and raised +his hand to take off his glasses, then remembered himself. “Pheugh!” he +said, “it’s a job when you can’t see.” But it was plain that he was +pleased with himself. + +Arthur turned to Josina. “Your turn next!” he said; and he gave her the +pen. He put the lease before her, and pointed to the place where she +was to sign. + +She was not as nervous as Miss Peacock, but she was anxious to make no +mistake. “Here?” she asked. + +“Yes, there. Be careful.” Arthur snuffed the candles, and as he did so +he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes searching the shadows. Then he +leant over her, watching her pen. + +She wrote her name, slowly and carefully. “Good!” he said, and he +removed the document. He set another before her, and silently showed +her with his finger where to write. She wrote her name. + +“Now here,” he said. “Here! But wait! Is there enough ink in the pen?” + +She dipped the pen in the inkpot to make sure, and shook it, that there +might be no danger of a blot. Again she wrote her name. + +“Capital!” he said. His voice betrayed relief. “That’s done, and well +done! Couldn’t be better. Now it’s my turn.” + +“But”—Jos looked up in doubt, the pen still in her hand—“but I’ve +signed three, Arthur! I thought there were but two.” + +“Three!” exclaimed the Squire, turning his head, his attention caught. +“Damme!”—peevishly—“what mess has the girl made now?” It was part of +his creed that in matters of business no woman was to be trusted to do +the smallest thing as it should be done. + +But Arthur only laughed. “No mess, sir,” he said. “Only a goose of +herself! She has witnessed your trial signature as well as the others. +That’s all. I thought I could make her do it, and she did it as +solemnly as you like!” He laughed a little loudly. “I shall keep that +Jos.” + +The Squire, pleased with himself, and glad that the business was over, +was in a good humor, and he joined in the laugh. “It will teach you not +to be too free with your signature, my girl,” he said. “When you come +some day to have a cheque book, you’ll find that that won’t do! Won’t +do, at all! Well, thank God, that’s done.” + +Arthur, who was stooping over the table, adding his own name, completed +his task. He stood up. “Yes, sir, that’s done. Done!” he repeated in an +odd, rising tone. “And now—the lease goes back to Welsh’s. Shall I lock +up the counterpart—downstairs, sir?” + +“No, lad,” the Squire announced. “I’ll do that myself o’ Monday.” + +“But it’s no trouble, sir.” He held out his hand for the keys. “And +perhaps the sooner it’s locked up—the tenant’s signed it, and it is +complete now—the safer.” + +But, “No, no, time enough!” the Squire persisted. “I’ll put it back on +Monday. I am not so helpless now I can’t manage that, and I shall be +downstairs o’ Monday.” + +For a moment Arthur hesitated. He looked as if something troubled him. +But in the end, “Very good, sir. Then that’s all?” he said. + +“Ay; put the counterpart in the old bureau there. ’Twill be safe there +till Monday. How’s the wine? Fill my glass and fill your own, lad. You +can go, Jos. Tell Calamy to come to me at half-past nine.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +The next day, Sunday, was raw and wet. Mist blotted out the hills, and +beneath it the vale mourned. The trees dripped sadly, pools gathered +about the roots of the beeches, the down-spouts of the eaves gurgled +softly in the ears of those who sat near the windows. Miss Peacock +alone ventured to church in the afternoon, Arthur walking with her as +far as the door, and then going on to the Cottage to have tea with his +mother. Josina stayed at home in attendance on her father, but ten +minutes after the others had left the house, he dismissed her with a +fractious word. + +She went down to the dining-room, where she could hear his summons if +he tapped the floor. She poked up the smouldering logs, and looked +through the windows at the dreary scene—the day was already drawing +in—then, settling herself before the fire, she opened a book. But she +did not read, indeed she hardly pretended to read, for across the page +of the Sunday volume, in black capitals, blotting out the type, forcing +itself on her brain, insistent, inexorable, unavoidable, the word +“When?” imprinted itself. + +Ay, when? When was she going to summon Clement, and give him leave to +speak? When was she going to keep her word, to make a clean breast of +it to her father and confront the storm, the violence of which her +worst fears could not picture or exaggerate? + +“When?” + +With every day of the past fortnight the question had confronted her +with growing insistence. Now, in this idle hour, with the house silent +about her, with nothing to distract her thoughts, it rose before her, +grim as the outlook. It would not be denied, it came between her and +the page, it forced itself upon her, it called for, nay, it insisted +upon, an answer. When? + +There was no longer any hope that the Squire would regain his sight, no +longer any fear for his general health. He was as well as he ever would +be, as well able to bear the disclosure. Delay on that ground was a +plea which could no longer avail her or deceive her. Then, when? Or +rather, why not now? Her conscience told her, as it had told her often +of late, that she was playing the coward, proving false to her word, +betraying Clement—Clement whom she loved, and whom, craven as she was, +she feared to acknowledge. + +Then, when? Surely now, or not at all. + +Alas, the longer she dwelt on the avowal she must make, the more +appalling the ordeal appeared. Her father, indeed, had been more gentle +of late; that walk on the hill had brought them closer together, and +since then he had shown himself more human. Glimpses of sympathy, even +of affection, had peeped through the chinks of his harshness. But how +difficult was the position! She must own to stolen meetings, to +underhand practices, to things disreputable; she must proclaim, maid as +she was, her love. And her love for whom? A stranger, and worse than a +stranger—a nobody. Then apart from her father’s contempt for the class +to which Clement belonged, and with which he was less in sympathy than +with the peasants on his lands, his prejudice against the Ovingtons was +itself a thing to frighten her! Hardly a day passed that he did not +utter some jibe at their expense, or some word that betrayed how sorely +Arthur’s defection rankled. And then his blindness—that added the last +touch of deceit to her conduct, that made worse and more clandestine +what had been bad before. As she thought of it, and imagined the avowal +and the way in which he would take it, the color left her cheeks and +she shivered with fright. She did not know how she could do it, or how +she could live through it. He would lose all faith in her. He would +pluck from his heart even that affection for her which she had begun to +discern under the mask of his sternness—to discern and to cherish. + +Yet time pressed, she could no longer palter with her love, she must be +true to Clement now or false, she must suffer for him now or play the +coward. She had given him her word. Was she to go back on it? + +Oh, never! never! she thought, and pressed her hands together. Those +spring days when she had walked with him beside the brook, when his +coming had been sunshine and her pulses had leapt at the sound of his +footsteps, when his eyes had lured the heart from her and the touch of +his lips had awakened the woman in her, when she had passed whole days +and nights in sweet musings on him—oh, never! + +No, he had urged her to be brave, to be true, to be worthy of him; and +she must be. She must face all for him. And it would be but for a time. +He had said that her father might separate them, and would separate +them: but if they were true to one another—— + +“Miss! Miss Josina!” + +She turned, her dream cut short, and saw Molly, the kitchen-maid, +standing in the doorway. She was surprised, for the stillness of a +Sunday afternoon held the house—it was the servants’ hour, and one at +which they were seldom to be found, even when wanted. “What is it?” she +asked, and stood up, alarmed. “Has my father called?” He might have +rapped, and deep in thought she might not have heard him. + +“No, miss,” Molly answered—and heaven knows if Molly had an inkling of +the secret, but certainly her face was bright with mischief. “There is +a gentleman asking for you, if you please, miss. He bid me give you +this.” She held out a three-cornered note. + +Josina’s face burned. “A gentleman?” she faltered. + +“Yes, miss, a young gentleman,” Molly answered demurely. + +Josina took the note—what else could she do?—and opened it with shaking +fingers. For a moment, such was her confusion, she failed to read the +few words it contained. Then she collected herself—the words became +plain: “Very urgent—forgive me and see me for ten minutes.—C.” + +Very urgent? It must be urgent indeed, or, after all she had said, he +would not come to her unbidden. She hesitated, looking doubtfully and +shamefacedly at Molly. But the eyes of young kitchen-maids are sharp, +and probably this was not the first glimpse Molly had had of the young +mistress’s love story, or of the young gentleman. “You can slip out +easy, miss,” she said, “and not a soul the wiser. They are all off +about their business.” + +“Where is he?” + +“He’s under the garden wall, miss—down the lane.” + +Jos took her courage in her hands. She snatched up a shawl from the +hall-table, and with hot cheeks she went out through the back regions, +Molly accompanying her as far as the yard. “I’ll be about the place, +miss,” the girl said—if no one else was enjoying herself, she was. +“I’ll rattle the milk-pail if—if you’re wanted.” + +Josina drew the shawl about her head, and went down the yard, passing +on her right the old stable, which bore over its door the same date as +the table in the hall—1691. A moment, and she saw Clement waiting for +her under the eaves of the Dutch summer-house, of which the sustaining +wall overhung the lane, and, with the last of the opposing outhouses, +formed a sort of entrance to the yard. + +She had been red enough under Molly’s gaze, resenting the confederacy +which she could not avoid. But the color left her face as her eyes met +her lover’s, and she saw how sad and downcast he looked, and how +changed from the Clement of her meetings. He was shabby, too—he who had +always been so neat—so that even before he spoke she divined that there +was something amiss, and knew at last, too, that there was nothing that +she would not do, no risk that she would not run, no anger or storm +that she would not face for this man before her. The mother in her +awoke, and longed to comfort him and shield him, to give all for him. +“Clement!” she cried, and, trembling, she held out her hands to him. +“Dear Clement! What is it?” + +He took her hands and held them; and if he had taken her in his arms +she would have forgiven him and clung to him. But he did not. He seemed +even to hold her from him. “Forgive me, dear, for sending for you,” he +said. “I thought to catch you going into church, but you were not +there, and there was nothing for it but this. Jos, I have bad news.” + +“Bad news?” she exclaimed. “What? Don’t keep me waiting, Clement! What +bad news?” + +“The worst for me,” he said. “For we must part. I have come to say +good-bye.” + +“Good-bye?” Oh, it was impossible! It was not, it could not be that! +“What do you mean?” she cried, and her eyes pleaded with him to take it +back. “Tell me! You cannot mean that we must part.” + +“I do,” he said soberly. “Something has happened, dear—something that +must divide us. Be brave, and I will tell you.” + +“You must,” she said. + +He told his story—rapidly, in clear short phrases which he had +rehearsed many times as he covered the seven miles from Aldersbury on +this dreary errand. He told her all, that which no one else must know, +that which she must not reveal. They expected a run on the bank. They +were sure, indeed, that a run must come, and though the issue was not +yet quite certain, though his father still had hope, he had, himself, +no hope. Within a week he would be a poor man, little better than a +beggar, dependent on his own exertions; with no single claim, no +possible pretensions to her hand, no ground on which he could appeal to +her father. It must be at an end between them, and he preferred to let +her know now rather than to wait until the blow had fallen. He thought +himself bound in honor to release her while he still had some footing, +some show of equality with her. + +She smiled when she had heard him out. She smiled in his face. “But if +I will not be released?” she said. And then, before he could answer +her, she bade him tell her more. What was this run? What did it mean? +She did not understand. + +He told her in detail, and, while he told her, they stood, two pathetic +figures in the mist and rain that dripped slowly and sadly from the +eaves of the Dutch summerhouse. She stood, pressing her hands together, +trying to comprehend. And he hid nothing: telling her even of the ten +or twelve thousand that, did they possess it, would save them; telling +her that which had decided him to bid her farewell—an item of news +which had reached the bank on the previous evening, after Arthur had +left for Garth. The great house of Poles, with a wide connection among +country banks, had closed its doors; and not only that, but Williams’s, +Ovington’s agents, had followed suit within six hours. The tidings had +come by special messenger, but would be known in the town in the +morning, and would certainly cause a panic and a run on both banks. +That news had been the last straw, he said. It had pushed him to a +decision. He had felt that he must give her back her word, and without +the loss of a day must put it in her power to say that there was +nothing between them. + +Once and again, as he told his tale, she put in a question, or uttered +a pitying exclamation. But for the most part she listened in silence, +controlling herself, suppressing the agitation which shook her. When he +had done, she put a question, but it was one so irrelevant, so +unexpected, so far from the mark, that it acted on him like a douche of +cold water. “What have you done to your coat?” she asked. “My coat?” + +“Yes.” She pointed to his shoulder. + +He glanced down at his coat, but he felt the check. Surely the ways of +women were strange, their manner of taking things past finding out. He +explained, but he could not hide his chagrin. “I wasn’t thinking, and +took the first that came to hand,” he said—“an old one. Does it +matter?” + +But she continued to stare at it. He was wearing a riding coat, high in +the collar, long in the skirts, shaped to the figure. On the light buff +of the cloth a stain spread downwards from shoulder to breast. The +right arm and cuff, too, were discolored, and it said much for the +disorder of his thoughts that he had ridden from town without noticing +it. She eyed the stain with distaste, with something like a shudder. +“It is blood,” she said, “isn’t it?” + +He shrugged his shoulders, yet himself viewed it askance. “Yes,” he +said. “I don’t know how you knew. I wore it that night, you know. I did +not mean to wear it again, but in my hurry——” + +“Do you mean the night that my father was hurt?” + +“Yes.” + +“You held him up in the carriage?” + +“Yes, but—” squinting at it—“I don’t think that it was done then. I +believe it was done when I was picking him up in the road, Jos, before +Bourdillon came. Indeed, I remember that your father noticed it—before +he fainted, you know.” + +“My father noticed it?” + +“Well, oddly enough, he did.” + +“While you were supporting him?” There was a strange light in her eyes, +and the blood had come back to her cheeks. “But where was Thomas—the +man—then?” + +“Oh, he had gone off, across the fields.” + +“Before Arthur came up, do you mean?” + +“To be sure, some time before. However——” + +But, “No, Clement, I want to understand this,” she insisted, breaking +in on him. Her voice betrayed her excitement, and to hold him to the +point she laid her hands on his shoulders, standing before him and +close to him. “Tell me again, and clearly. Do you mean that it was you +who drove Thomas off? Before Arthur came up?” + +He stared. “Well, of course it was,” he said. “Didn’t you know that? +Didn’t Arthur tell you?” + +She avoided the question, and instead, “Then it was your coat that was +spoiled?” she said. “This coat?” + +“Well, of course it was. You can see that.” + +She looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her pride in him showing in her +eyes. He had indeed justified her choice of him, her belief in him, her +confidence in him. He had done this and had said nothing. The day was +cold, and she was not warmly clad, but she felt no cold—now. It was +raining, but she was no longer aware of it. There had sprung up in her +heart, not only courage, but a faint, a very faint hope. + +He had come to dash her down, to fill her cup of sorrow to the brim, to +leave her lonely in the world and comfortless—for never, never could +she love another! And instead he had given her hope—a hope forlorn and +far off, gleaming faint as the small stars in distant Cassiopeia, and +often doubt, like an evening mist, would veil it. But it sparkled, she +saw it, she drew courage from it. + +Meanwhile, surprised by the turn her thoughts had taken, he was still +more surprised by the change in her looks, the color in her cheeks, the +light in her eyes. He did not understand, and for a moment, seeing +himself no hope but only sorrow and parting, he was tempted to think +that she trifled. What mattered it what coat he wore, or what had +stained it, or the details of a story old now, and which he supposed to +be as well known to her as to him? Perhaps she did not comprehend, and, +“Jos,” he said, inviting her to be serious, “do you understand that +this is our parting?” + +But “No! no!” she said resolutely. “We are not going to part.” + +“But don’t you see,” sadly, “that I cannot go to your father now? That +next week we may be beggars, and my father a ruined man? I could ask no +man, even a poor man, for his daughter now. I must work to live, work +as a clerk—as, I don’t know what, Jos, but in some position far removed +from your life, and far removed from your class. I could not speak to +your father now, and it is that which has brought me to you to—to say +good-bye, dearest—to part, Jos! The gates are closed, we must go out of +the garden, dear. And you”—he looked at her with yearning eyes—“must +forgive me, before we part.” + +“Perhaps we are not going to part,” she said. + +He shook his head. He would not deceive her. “Nothing else is +possible,” he said. + +“Perhaps, and perhaps not. At any rate,” putting her hands in his, and +looking at him with brave, loving eyes, “I would not undo one of those +days—in the garden! No, nor an hour of them. They are precious to me. +And for forgiving, I have nothing to forgive and nothing to regret, if +we never meet again, Clement. But we shall meet. What if you have to +begin the world again? We are both young. You will work for me. And do +you think that I will not wait for you, wait until you have climbed up +again, or until something happens to bring us together? Do you not know +that I love you more now, far more, in your unhappiness—that you are +more to me, a thousand times more to-day—than in your prosperity?” + +“Oh, Jos!” He could say no more, but his swimming eyes spoke for him. + +“But you must leave it to me now,” she continued. “After all, things +may turn out better than you think. You may not be ruined. People may +not be so foolish as to want all their money at once. Have hope, +and—and remember that I am always here, though you do not see me or +hear from me; that I am always here, thinking of you, waiting for you, +loving you, always yours, Clement, till you come—though it be ten years +hence.” + +“Oh, Jos!” His eyes were overflowing now. + +“You believe me, you do believe me, don’t you?” she said. “And now you +must go. But kiss me first. No, I do not mind who sees us, or who knows +that I am yours now. I am past that.” + +He took her in his arms and kissed her, not as he would have kissed her +an hour before, with passion, but in reverence and humility, in love +too sacred for words. Never till now had he known what a woman’s love +was, how much it gave, how little it asked, how pure in its highest +form it could be—and how strong! Nor ever till now had he known her, +this girl to whom he had once presumed to teach firmness, whose +weakness he had taken on himself to guide, whom he had thought to +encourage, to strengthen, to arm—he, who had not been worthy to kiss +the hem of her robe! + +Oh, the wonderful power of love, which had transformed her! Which had +made her what she was, and now laid him in the dust before her! + +Work for her, wait for her, live for her? Ah, would he not, and deem +himself happy though the years brought him no nearer, though the memory +of her, transfiguring his whole life, proved his only and full reward! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + + +An hour after Arthur had left the house on the Monday morning Josina +went slowly up the stairs to her father’s room. She was young and the +stairs were shallow, but the girl’s knees shook under her as she +mounted them, as she mounted them one by one, while her hand trembled +on the banister. Before now the knees of brave men, going on forlorn +hopes, have shaken under them, but, like these men, Josina went on, she +ascended step by step. She was frightened, she was horribly frightened, +but she had made a vow to herself and she would carry it out. How she +would carry it out, how she would find words to blurt out the truth, +how she would have the courage to live through that which would follow, +she did not know, she could not conceive. But her mind was fixed. + +She reached the shabby landing on which two or three sheep-skins laid +at the doors of the rooms served for carpet, and there, indeed, she +paused awhile and pressed her hand to her side to still the beating of +her heart. She gazed through the window. On the sweep below, Calamy was +shaking out the cloth, while two or three hens clucked about his feet, +and a cat seated at a distance watched the operation with dignity. In +the field beyond the brook a dog barked joyously as it rounded up some +sheep. Miss Peacock’s voice, scolding a maid, came up from below. All +was going on as usual, going on callous and heedless: while she—she had +that before her which turned her sick and faint, which for her, timid +and subject, was almost worse than death. + +And with her on this forlorn hope went no comrades, no tramp of +marching feet, no watching eyes of thousands, no bugle note to cheer +her. Only Clement’s shade—waiting. + +She might still draw back. But when she had once spoken there could be +no drawing back. A voice whispered in her ear that she had better think +it over—just once more, better wait a little longer to see if aught +would happen, revolve it once again in her mind. Possibly there might +be some other, some easier, some safer way. + +But she knew what that whisper meant, and she turned from the window +and grasped the handle of the door. She went in. Her father was sitting +beside the fire. His back was towards her, he was smoking his +after-breakfast pipe. She might still retreat, or—or she might say what +she liked, ask perhaps if he wanted anything. He would never suspect, +never conceive in his wildest moments the thing that she had come to +confess. It was not too late even now—to draw back. + +She went to the other side of the table on which his elbow rested, and +she stood there, steadying herself by a hand which she laid on the +table. She was sick with fear, her tongue clung to her mouth, her very +lips were white. But she forced herself to speak. “Father, I have +something—to tell you,” she said. + +“Eh?” He turned sharply. “What’s that?” She had not been able to +control her voice, and he knew in a moment that something was wrong. +“What ha’ you been doing?” + +Now! Now, or never! The words she had so often repeated to herself rang +in her ears. “Do you know who it was,” she said, “who saved you that +night, sir? The night you were—hurt?” + +He turned himself a little more towards her. “Who? Who it was?” he +repeated. “What art talking about, girl? Why, the lad, to be sure. Who +else?” + +“No, sir,” she said, shaking from head to foot, so that the table +rocked audibly under her hand. “It was Mr. Ovington’s son. And—and I +love him. And he wishes to marry me.” + +The Squire did not say a word. He sat, his head erect still as a stone. + +“And I want—to help him,” she added, her voice dying away with the +words. Her knees were so weak, that but for the support of the table +she must have sunk on the floor. + +Still the Squire did not speak. His jaw had fallen. He sat, arrested in +the attitude of listening, his face partly turned from her, his pipe +held stiffly in his hand. At last, “Ovington’s son wants to marry you?” +he repeated, in a tone so even that it might have deceived many. + +“He saved your life!” she cried. She clung desperately to that. + +“And you love him?” + +“Oh, I do! I do!” + +He paused as if he still listened, still expected more. Then in a low +voice, “The girl is mad,” he muttered. “My God, the girl is mad! Or I +am mad! Blind and mad, like the old king! Ay, blind and mad!” He let +the pipe fall from his hand to the floor, and he groped for his stick +that he might rap and summon assistance. But in his agitation he could +not find the stick. + +Then, as he still felt for it with a flurried hand, nature or despair +prompted her, and the girl who had never caressed him in her life, +never taken a liberty with him, never ventured on the smallest +familiarity, never gone beyond the morning and evening kiss, timidly +given and frigidly received, sank on the floor and clasped his knees, +pressed herself against him. “Oh, father, father! I am not mad,” she +cried, “I am not mad. Hear me! Oh, hear me!” A pause, and then, “I have +deceived you, I am not worthy, but you are my father! I have only, only +you, who can help me! Have mercy on me, for I do love him. I do love +him! I——” Her voice failed her, but she continued to cling to him, to +press her head against his body, mutely to implore him, and plead with +him. + +“My God!” he ejaculated. He sat upright, stiff, looking before him with +sightless eyes; as far as he could withholding himself from her, but +not actively repelling her. After an interval, “Tell me,” he muttered. + +That, even that, was more than she had expected from him. He had not +struck her, he had not cursed her, and she took some courage. She told +him in broken words, but with sufficient clearness, of her first +meeting with Clement, of the gun-shot by the brook, of her narrow +escape and the meetings that had followed. Once, in a burst of rage, he +silenced her. “The rascal! Oh, the d—d rascal!” he cried, and she +flinched. But she went on, telling him of Clement’s resolve that he +must be told, of that unfortunate meeting with him on the road, and +then of that second encounter the same night, when Clement had come to +his rescue. There he stopped her. + +“How do you know?” he asked. “How do you know? How dare you say——” And +now he did make a movement as if to repel her and put her from him. + +But she would not be repulsed. She clung to him, telling him of the +coat, of the great stains that she had seen upon it; and at last, “Why +did you hide this?” broke from him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” + +She told him that she had not known, that the part which Clement had +taken on that night was new to her also. + +“But you see him?” he snarled, speaking a little more like himself. +“You see him!” + +“Twice only—twice only since that night,” she vowed. “Indeed, indeed, +sir, only twice. Once he came to speak to you and tell you, but you +were ill, and I would not let him. And yesterday he came to—to give me +up, to say good-bye. Only twice, sir, as God sees me! He would not. He +showed me that we had been wrong. He said,” sobbing bitterly, “that we +must be open or—or we must be nothing—nothing to one another!” + +“Open? Open!” the Squire almost shouted. “D—d open! Shutting the stable +door when the horse is gone. D—n his openness!” And then, “Good Lord! +Good Lord!” with almost as much amazement as anger in his voice. That +all this should have been going on and he know nothing about it! That +his girl, this child as he had deemed her, should have been doing this +under his very eyes! Under his very eyes! “Good Lord!” But then rage +got the upper hand once more, and he cursed Clement with passion, and +again made a movement as if he would rise and throw her off. “To steal +a man’s child! The villain!” + +“Oh, don’t call him that!” she cried. “He is good, father. Indeed, +indeed, he is good. And he saved your life.” + +He sat back at that, as if her words shifted his thoughts to another +matter. “Tell me again,” he said, sternly, but more calmly. “He told +you this tale yesterday, did he? Well, tell me as he told you, do you +hear? And mind you, if you’re lying, you slut, he or you, ’twill come +up! I am blind, and you may think to deceive me now as you have +deceived me before——” + +“Never, never again, sir!” she vowed. Then she told him afresh, from +point to point, what she had learned on the Sunday. + +“Then the lad didn’t come up till after?” + +“Arthur? No, sir. Not till after Thomas was gone. And it was Clement +who followed Thomas to Birmingham and got the money back.” For Clement +had told her that also. + +When she had done, the Squire leant forward and felt again for his +stick, as if he were now equipped and ready for action. “Well, you +begone,” he said, harshly. “You begone, now. I’ll see to this.” + +But, “Not till you forgive me,” she entreated, holding him close, and +pressing her face against his unwilling breast. “And there’s more, +there’s more, sir,” in growing agitation, “I must tell you. Be good to +me, oh, be good to me! Forgive me and help him.” + +“Help him!” the Squire cried, and this time he was indeed amazed. “I +help him! Help the man who has gone behind my back and stolen my girl! +Help the man who—let me go! Do you hear me, girl! Let me get up, you +shameless hussy!” growing moment by moment more himself, as he +recovered from the shock of her disclosure, and could measure its +extent. “How do I know what you are? Or what he mayn’t have done to +you? Help, indeed? Help the d—d rascal who has robbed me? Who has dared +to raise his eyes to my girl—a Griffin? Who——” + +“He saved your life,” she cried, pleading desperately with him, though +he strove to free himself. “Oh, father, he saved your life! And I love +him! I love him! If you part us I shall die.” + +He could not struggle against her young strength, and he gave up the +attempt to free himself. He sank back in his chair. “D—n the girl!” he +cried. He sat silent, breathing hard. + +And she—she had told him, and she still lived! She had told him and he +had not cursed her, he had not struck her to the ground, he had not +even succeeded in putting her from him! She had told him, and the world +still moved about her, his gold watch, which lay on the table on a +level with her head, still ticked, the dog still barked in the field +below. Miss Peacock’s voice could still be heard, invoking Calamy’s +presence. She had told him, and he was still her father, nay, if she +was not deceived, he was more truly her father, nearer to her, more her +own, than he had ever been before. + +Presently, “Ovington’s son! Ovington’s son!” he muttered in a tone of +wonder. “Good God! Couldn’t you find a man?” + +“He is a man,” she pleaded, “indeed, indeed, he is!” + +“Ay, and you are a woman!” bitterly. “Fire and tow! A few kisses and +you are aflame for him. For shame, girl, for shame! And how am I to be +sure it’s no worse? Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?” + +She shivered, but she was silent. + +“Deceiving your father when he was blind!” + +She clung to him. He felt her trembling convulsively. + +After that he sat for a time as if exhausted, suffering her embrace, +and silent save when at rare intervals an oath broke from him, or, in a +gust of passion, he struck his hand on the arm of his chair. Once, “My +father would ha’ spurned you from the house,” he cried, “you jade.” She +did not answer, and a new idea striking him, he sat up sharply. “But +what—what the devil is all this about? What’s all this, if it’s over +and—and done with?” His tone was almost jubilant. “If he’s off with it? +Maybe, girl, I’ll forgive you, bad as you’ve been, if—if that’s so. Do +you say it’s over?” + +“No, no!” she cried. “He came——” + +“You told me——” + +“He came to say good-bye to me, because——” And then in words the most +moving that she could find, words sped from her heart, winged by her +love, she explained Clement’s errand, the position at the bank, the +crisis, the menace of ruin, the need of help. + +The Squire listened, his business instincts aroused, until he grasped +her meaning. Then he struck his hand on the table. “And he thought that +I should help them!” he cried, with grim satisfaction. “He thought +that, did he?” And he would not listen to her protests that it was not +Clement, that it was not Clement, it was she who—“He thought that? I +see it now, I see it all! But the fool, the fool, to think that! Why, I +wouldn’t stretch out my little finger to save his father from hell! And +he thought that? He took me for as big a fool as the silly girl he had +flattered and lured, and thought he could use, to save them from +perdition! As if he had not done me harm enough! As if he hadn’t stolen +my daughter from me, he’d steal my purse! Why, he must be the most d—d +impudent, cunning thief that ever trod shoe leather. He must be a cock +of a pretty hackle, indeed. He should go far, by G—d, with the nerve he +has. Far, by G—d! My daughter first and my purse afterwards! This son +of an upstart, whose grandfather would have sat in my servants’ hall, +he’d steal my——” + +“No, no!” she protested. + +“Yes, yes! Yes, yes! But he’ll find that he’s not got a girl to deal +with now! Help him? Save his bank? Pluck him from the debtors’ prison +he’s due to rot in! Why, I’ll see him—in hell first!” + +She had risen and moved from him. She was standing on the other side of +the table now. “He saved your life!” she cried. And she, too, was +changed. She spoke with something of his passion. “He saved your life!” +she repeated, and she stamped her foot on the floor. + +“Well, the devil thank him for it!” the Squire cried with zest. “And +you,” with fresh anger, “do you begone, girl! Get out of my room before +you try my patience too far!” He waved his stick at her. “Go, or I’ll +call up Calamy and have you put out! Do you hear? Do you hear? You +ungrateful, shameless slut! Go!” + +She had fancied victory, incredible, unhoped-for-victory to be almost +within her grasp; and lo, it was dashed from her hand, it was farther +from her than ever. And she could do no more. Courage, strength, hope +were spent, shaken as she was by the emotions of the past hour. She +could no no more; a little more and he might strike her. She crept out +weeping, and went, blinded by her tears, up the stairs, up, stair by +stair, to hide herself in her room. There had been a moment when she +had fancied that he was melting, but all had been in vain. She had come +close to him, but in the end he had put her from him. He had thrust her +farther from him than before. Her only consolation, if consolation she +had, was that she had spoken, that the truth was known, that she had no +longer any secret to weigh her down. But she had failed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + + +Meantime the old man, left to himself, sat for a while, deeply moved. +He breathed quickly, wiping his brow from time to time with a hand that +trembled, and for some minutes it was upon the last and the least +unwelcome aspect of the matter that he dwelt. So that was the point of +it all, was it? That was the end and the aim of this clandestine, this +disgraceful intrigue! This conspiracy! They had made this silly +woman-child, soft like all her sex, their puppet, and using her they +had thought that he, too, might be drawn into their game and used and +exploited for their profit. But they had been mad, mad, as they would +learn, to think it. They must have been mad to dream of it. Or +desperate. Ay, that must be it. Desperate! + +But as he grew cooler, and the first impulse, so natural in him, to pin +his enemies and shake them, began to lose its force, less pleasant +aspects of the matter rose before him. For the girl and her nonsense +and her bad, bad behavior, he did not tell himself, he would not allow, +that it was that which hurt him most. On the contrary, he affected to +put that from him—for the time. He told himself and strove to believe +that he could deal with it when it pleased him. He could easily put an +end to that folly. Girls were only girls, and she’d forget. He would +deal with that later. + +But Arthur’s five thousand—that would be lost, if the girl’s story were +true. Five thousand! It was a fine sum and a d—d pity! The Squire’s +avarice rose in arms as he thought of it. Five thousand! And that silly +woman, Arthur’s mother—he would have to provide for her. She would be +penniless, almost penniless. + +And Arthur himself? Confound him, what had the lad been doing? Why had +he been silent about the bank’s difficulties and the peril in which his +money stood? For, it was only two days ago that he had denied the +existence of any peril. And then, again, what was this story about that +unlucky night which had cost him his sight? If it really was young +Ovington who had come to his rescue and beaten off Thomas, why had not +Arthur said so? Why had he never let fall a single word about him, +never mentioned the young fellow’s name, never given him the credit +that—that was certainly due to him, rogue as he was, if this story were +true. There was something odd about that—the Squire moved uneasily in +his chair—something underhand and—and fishy! He had a glimpse of Arthur +in a new light, and he did not like what he saw. + +He liked it almost less, if that were possible, than he liked another +thing—the idea that this young Ovington’s silence was creditable to +him. If it were indeed he who had done the thing, why had he been quiet +all this time, and never even said “I did it”? If a gentleman had +behaved after that fashion, the Squire would have known what to think +of it. But that this low-bred young cub, who had behaved so +disgracefully to his daughter, should bear himself in that way—no, he +was not going to believe it. After all, the world wasn’t turned upside +down to that extent. + +No! For in his connection with the girl the young scamp had shown what +he was—a sneaking, underhand, interloping puppy. In connection with his +girl! As he thought of it, the veins swelled on the Squire’s forehead +and he shook with rage. His girl! “Damn him! Damn him!” he cried, +trembling with passion. And again and again he cursed the man who had +dared to raise his eyes to a Griffin—who had stolen his child’s heart +from him. No fate, no punishment, no lot was too bad for such a one. +Help him! Help him, indeed! + +The Squire laughed mirthlessly at the notion. + +After that there remained only his daughter to think of, and as he came +back to her and to her share in the matter, more, far more than he +wished, recurred to his memory: her prayers and her pleading, her +clinging arms and her caresses, the tears that had fallen on his hands, +her warm, slender body pressed against his. He could not forget the +sound of her voice in his ears, nor the touch of her hand, nor the feel +of her body. Words that she had used returned and beat on his old +heart, and beat and beat again, tormenting him, trying him, softening, +ay, softening him. He thought of the boy, dead these many years at +Alexandria, and, yes, she was all that he had, all. And he must thwart +her, he must make her unhappy. It was his duty. She knew not what she +asked. And she had behaved ill, ay, very ill. + +But on that, with a vividness which the reflection had never assumed +before—for the old man, like other old men, did not feel old—he saw +that he had but a very short span to live—a year or two, or it might be +three or four years. The last page of his life was all but turned, the +book was near its end. Two or three years and all that he treasured +would be hers. Even now he was dependent on her for care and affection, +and to the last he must be dependent. A little while and she would be +alone, her own mistress; and he who had ruled his lands and his people +for more than half a century would be a memory. A memory of what? + +Again, and yet again, he felt her arms about his knees, her little head +pressed against his breast. Again and yet again her tears, her prayers +beat upon his heart. She was a silly woman-child, a fool; but a dear +fool, made dear to him in the very hour of her misbehavior. It was his +duty to deny her. It was for him to order, for her to obey. And yet, +“He saved your life!” that cry so oft repeated, so often dinned into +his ears, that, too, came back to him. And before he was aware of it he +was wondering what manner of man this young fellow was, what spell he +had woven about the girl, whence his power over her. + +And why had the man been silent about that night? Had he in truth +intended to beard him and claim her in the road that morning—when they +met? He remembered it. + +The son of that man, Ovington! Lord Almighty! It could hardly be worse. +And yet “He saved your life!” The Squire could not get over that—if it +were true. If it were really true. + +He thought upon it long, forced out of the usual current of his life. +Miss Peacock, bringing up his frugal luncheon, found him silent, sunk +low in his chair, his chin upon his breast. So he appeared when anyone +stole in during the next two hours to attend to the fire or to light +his pipe. Calamy, safe outside the door, uttered his misgivings. “It’s +the torpor,” he told Miss Peacock, shaking his head. “That’s how it +takes them before the end, miss. I’ve seen it often. The torpor! He’ll +not be long now!” + +Miss Peacock scolded the butler, but was none the less impressed, and +presently she sought Josina, who was lying down in her room with a +headache. She imparted her fears to the girl, and unwillingly Jos rose, +and bathed her face and tidied her hair, and by and by came out. She +must take up the burden of life again. + +By that time Miss Peacock had disappeared, and Josina went down alone. +Half-way down the upper flight she halted, for she heard a slow, heavy +step descending the stairs below her. She looked down the well of the +staircase, and to her astonishment she saw her father going down before +her, stair by stair, his hand on the rail, a paper and his stick in the +other hand. It was not the first time that he had done such a thing, +but hitherto some one had always gone with him, to aid him should aid +be necessary. + +Josina’s first impulse was to hurry after him, but seeing the paper in +his hand and recognizing, as she fancied, the agreement that he had +signed on the Saturday, she followed him softly, without letting him +know that she was there. He reached the foot of the staircase, and with +an accustomed hand he groped for and found the door of the dining-room. +He pushed open the door and went in. He closed the door behind him, and +distinctly—the house was very quiet, it was the dead of the +afternoon—she heard him turn the key in the lock. + +That alarmed her, for if he fell or met with an accident, there would +be a difficulty in assisting him. She moved to the door and listened. +She heard him passing slowly and carefully across the floor, she heard +the table creak under his hand, as he reached it. A moment later her +ear caught the jingle of a bunch of keys. + +His visit had a purpose, then. He might be going to deposit the lease, +but she could not imagine where. His papers were in his own room or in +his bedroom. And Calamy had the wine, it could not be that he wanted. +For a moment her thoughts reverted to her own trouble, and she sighed. +Then she caught again the jingle of keys, and she listened, her head +bent low. What could he be doing? And would he be able to find the door +again? + +Presently the silence was broken by an oath, followed by a rustling +sound, as if he were handling papers. This lasted for quite a minute, +and then there came from the room a strange, half-strangled cry, a cry +that stopped the beating of her heart. She seized the handle of the +door and turned it, shook it. But the door, as she knew, was locked, +and, terrified, she cried, “Father! Father! What is it? What is it?” +She beat on the door. + +He did not answer, but she heard him coming towards her, moving at +random, striking against the table, overturning a chair. She trembled +for him; he might fall at any moment, and the door was locked. But he +did not fall. He reached the door and turned the key. The door opened. +She saw him. + +Her fears had not been baseless. The light in the doorway was poor on +that cheerless December day, but it was enough to show her that the +Squire’s face was distorted and drawn, altered by some strange shock. +And he was shaking in all his limbs. The moment that she touched him he +gripped her arm, and “Come here! Come here!” he ordered, his voice +piping and high. “Lock the door! Lock the door, girl!” And when she had +done this, “Do you see that cupboard? D’you see it?” + +She was alarmed, for, whatever might be its cause, she was sure that +the excitement under which he labored was dangerous for him. But she +had her wits about her, and the nerved herself to do what he wanted. +She saw the open cupboard, of the existence of which she had not known, +but she showed no surprise. “Yes, I see it, sir,” she said. She put his +arm through hers, striving to calm him by her presence. + +He drew her across the room till they stood before the cupboard. “Do +you see a box?” he demanded, hardly able to articulate the words in his +haste. “Ay? Then do you look in it, girl! Look in it. What is there in +it? Tell me, girl. Tell me quick! What is in it?” + +The box, its lid raised, stood on the shelf before him, and he laid his +trembling hand on it. She looked into it. “It is empty, sir,” she said. + +“Empty? Quite empty?” + +“Yes, sir, quite empty.” + +“Nothing in it?” desperately. “Are you sure, girl? Can you see nothing? +Nothing?” + +“Nothing, sir, I am quite sure,” she said. “There is nothing in it.” + +“No papers?” + +“No, sir, no papers.” + +An idea seemed to strike him. “They may ha’ fallen on the floor,” he +exclaimed. “Look! Look all about, girl! Look! Ah,” and there was +something like agony in the cry, “curse this blindness! I am helpless, +helpless as a child! Can you see no papers—on the floor, wench! Thin +papers? No? Nor on the shelves?” + +“No, sir. There is the lease you signed on Saturday. That is all.” + +“For God’s sake, make no mistake, make no mistake, girl!” he cried in +irrepressible agitation. “Look! Look ’em over. Two papers—thin +papers—no great size they are.” + +She saw that there was something very much amiss, and she searched +carefully, but there were no loose papers to be seen. There were boxes +on one shelf and bundles of deeds below them, and a great many packets +of letters on a shelf above them, but all tied up. She could see no +loose papers. None! + +He seemed on the verge of collapse, but a new thought came to his +support, and he drew her, almost as if he could see, to the other side +of the hearth. There he felt for and found the moulding of the panel, +he fumbled for the keyhole. But his shaking hands would not do his +will, and with a tremulous curse he gave the key to her, and obeying +his half-intelligible directions, she unlocked and threw wide first the +panel and then the door of the second cupboard. + +“Two small papers! Thin papers!” he reiterated. “Look! Look, girl! Are +they there? Some one may have moved them. He may have put them here. +Search, girl, search!” + +But though she obeyed him, looking everywhere, a single glance showed +her that there were no two papers there, papers such as he had +described. She told him what she saw—the bundles of ancient deeds, the +tarnished plate, the jewel cases. + +“But no—no loose papers?” + +“No, sir, I can see none.” + +Convinced at last, he uttered an exceeding bitter cry, a cry that went +to the girl’s heart. “Then he has robbed me!” he said. “He has robbed +me! A Griffin, and he has robbed me! Get—get me a chair, girl.” + +Horrified, she helped him to a chair, and he sank into it, and with a +shaking hand he sought for his handkerchief and wiped the moisture from +his lips. Then his hands fell until they rested on his lap, his chin +dropped on his breast. Two tears ran down his withered cheeks. “A +Griffin!” he whispered. “A Griffin! And he has robbed me!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + + +In Aldersbury there had been a simmering of excitement through all the +hours of that Monday. At the corner of the Market Place on which the +little statue of the ancient Prince looked down, in the shops on Bride +Hill, in the High Street under the shadow of St. Juliana’s, knots of +people had gathered, discussing, some with scared faces and low voices, +others with the gusto of unconcern, the rumors of troubles that came +through from Chester, from Manchester, from the capital; that fell from +the lips of guards in inn-yards, and leaked from the boots of coaches +before the Lion. Gibbon’s, one of the chief banks at Birmingham, had +closed its doors, Garrard’s had stopped payment at Hereford, there was +panic on the stones in Manchester, a bank had failed at Liverpool. It +was reported that a director had hung himself, a score had fled to +Boulogne, dark stories of ’15 and ’93 were revived. It was asserted +that the Bank of England had run out of gold, that cash payments would +be again suspended. In a dozen forms these and wilder statements ran +from mouth to mouth, gathered weight as they went, blanched men’s faces +and turned traders’ hearts to water. But the worst, it was agreed, +would not be known until the afternoon coaches came in and brought the +mails from London. Then—ah, then, people would see what they would see! + +Idle men, with empty pockets, revelled in news which promised to bring +all to their level. And malice played its part. Wolley, who had little +but a debtor’s prison in prospect, was in town and talking, bent on +revenge, and the few who had already withdrawn their accounts from +Ovington’s were also busy; foxes who had lost their tails, they felt +themselves marked men until others followed their example. Meanwhile, +Purslow and such as were in his case lay low, sweated in their +shop-parlors, conned their ledgers with haggard faces, or snarled at +their womenfolk. Gone now was the pride in stock and scrip, and +bounding profits! Gone even the pride in a directorship. + +Purslow, perhaps, more than anyone was to be pitied. A year before he +had been prosperous, purse-proud, free from debt, with a good business. +Now his every penny was sunk in unsaleable securities, his credit was +pledged to the bank, his counter was idle, while trade creditors whom +in the race for wealth he had neglected were pressing him hard. Worst +of all, he did not know where he could turn to obtain even the small +sum needed to pay the next month’s wages. + +But, though the pot was boiling in Aldersbury as elsewhere, it did not +at once boil over. The day passed without any serious run on either of +the banks. Men were alarmed, they got together in corners, they +whispered, they marked with jealous eyes who entered and who left the +banks. They muttered much of what they would do on the morrow, or when +the London mail came in, or when they had made up their minds. But to +walk into Ovington’s and face the clerks and do the deed required +courage; and for the most part they were not so convinced of danger, or +fearful of loss, as to be ready to face the ordeal. They might draw +their money and look foolish afterwards. Consequently they hung about, +putting off the act, waiting to see what others would do. The hours +slipped by and the excitement grew, but still they waited, watching +their neighbors and doing nothing, but prepared at any moment to rush +in and jostle one another in their panic. + +“By G—d, I’ll see I get my money!” said one. “You wait, Mr. Lello! You +wait and——” + +In another part, “I’d draw it, I’d draw it, Tom, if I were you! After +all, it’s your own money. Why, confound it, man, what are you afraid +of?” + +“I ain’t afraid of anything,” Tom replied surlily. “But Ovington gave +me a leg-up last December, and I’m hanged if I like to go in and——” + +“And ask for your own? Well, you are a ninny!” + +“Maybe. May—be,” jingling the money in his fob. “But I’ll wait. I’ll +wait till to-morrow. No harm done afore then!” + +A third had left Dean’s under a cloud, and if he quarrelled with +Ovington’s, where was he to go? While a fourth had bills falling due, +and did not quite see his way. He might be landing a trout and losing a +salmon. He would see how things went. Plenty of time! + +But though this was the general attitude, and the Monday passed without +a run of any consequence, a certain number of accounts were closed, and +the excitement felt boded ill for the morrow. It waxed rather than +waned as the day went on, and Ovington’s heart would have been heavy +and his alarm keen if the one had not been lightened and the other +dispersed by the good news which Arthur had brought from Garth that +morning—the almost incredibly good news! + +Aldersbury, however, was in ignorance of that news, and when Clement +issued from the bank a few minutes after the doors had closed, there +were still knots of people hanging about the corners of the Market +Place, watching the bank. He viewed them with a sardonic eye, and could +afford to do so; for his heart was light like his father’s, and he +could smile at that which, but for the good news of the morning, would +have chilled him with apprehension. He turned from the door, intending +to seek the Lime-Walks by the river, and, late as it was, to get a +breath of fresh air after the confinement of the day. But his intention +was never carried out. He had not gone half a dozen yards down the +street before his ear caught the sound of a horse breasting Bride Hill +at an unusual pace, and something in the speed at which it approached +warned him of ill. He waited, and his fears were confirmed. The +vehicle, a gig, drew up at the door of the bank, and the driver, a +country lad, began to get down. Clement retraced the half-dozen steps +that he had taken. + +“Who is it you want?” he asked. + +The lad sat down again in his seat. “Be Mr. Arthur here, sir?” he +inquired. + +“Mr. Bourdillon?” + +“Ay, sure, sir.” + +“No, he is not.” + +“Well, I be to follow ’ee wheresomever he be, axing your pardon!” + +“I’m afraid you can’t do that, my lad,” Clement explained. “He’s gone +to London. He went by coach this morning.” + +The lad scratched his head. “O Lord!” he said. “What be I to do? I was +to bring him back, whether or no. Squire’s orders.” + +“Squire Griffin?” + +“Ay, sure, sir. He’s in a taking, and mun see him, whether or no! +Mortal put about he were!” + +Clement thought rapidly, the vague alarm which he had felt taking solid +shape. What if the Squire had repented of his generosity? What if the +help, heaven-sent, beyond hope and beyond expectation, which had +removed their fears, were after all to fail them? Clement’s heart sank. +“Who sent you?” he asked. “The young lady?” + +“Ay, sure. And she were in a taking, too. Crazy she were.” + +Clement leapt to a decision. He laid his hand on the rail of the gig. +“Look here,” he said. “You’d better take me out instead, and, at any +rate, I can explain.” + +“But it were Mr. Arthur——” + +“I know, but he’s half-way to London by now. And he won’t be back till +Thursday.” + +He climbed up, and the lad accepted his decision and turned the horse. +They trotted down the hill between the dimly lighted shops, past +observers who recognized the Garth gig, by groups of men who loitered +and shivered before the tavern doors. They swung sharply into Maerdol, +where the peaks of the gables on either hand rose against a pale sky, +and a moment later they were crossing the bridge, and felt the cold +waft of the river breeze on their faces. Two minutes saw them trotting +steadily across the open country, the lights of the town behind them. + +Clement sat silent, lost in thought, wondering if he were doing right, +and fearing much that the Squire had repented of his generosity and was +minded to recall it. If that were so, the awakening from the hopes +which he had raised, and the dream of security in which they had lost +themselves, would be a cruel shock. Clement shrank from thinking what +its effect would be on his father, whose relief had betrayed the full +measure of his fears. And his own case was hardly better, for it was +not only his fortune that was at stake and that he had thought saved. +He had given rein, also, to his hopes. He had let them carry him far +into a roseate country where the sun shone and Josina smiled, and all +the difficulties that had divided them melted into air. There might be +need of time and patience; but with time and patience he had fancied +that he might win his way. + +It was cruel, indeed, then if the old man at Garth had changed his +mind, if he had played with them, only to deceive them, only to +disappoint them! And Clement could not but fear that it was so. The +closing day, the wintry air, the prospect before him, as they swung +across the darkening land, seemed to confirm his fears and oppress him +with misgivings. A long cloud, fish-shaped, hung lowering across the +western sky; below it, along the horizon, a narrow strip of angry +yellow, unnaturally bright, threw the black, jagged outline of the +hills into violent contrast, and shed a pale light on the intervening +plain. Ay, he feared the worst. He could think of nothing else that +could be the cause of this sudden, this agitated summons. The Squire +must have repented. He had changed his mind, and—— + +But here they were at the bridge. The cottages of the hamlet showed +here and there a spark of light. They turned to the left, and five +minutes later—the horse quickening its pace as they approached its +stable—they were winding up the sunken drive under the stark limbs of +the beeches. The house stood above them, a sombre pile, its chimneys +half obscured by the trees. + +Heavily Clement let himself down, to find Calamy at his elbow. The man +had been waiting for him in the dimly lighted doorway. “Mr. Bourdillon +has gone to London,” Clement explained. “I have come instead if I can +be of any use.” Then he saw that the butler did not know him, and “I am +Mr. Clement Ovington,” he added. “You’d better ask your master if he +would like to see me.” + +“There’s times when the devil’d be welcome,” the man replied bluntly. +“It’s tears and lamentations and woe in the house this night, but God +knows what it’s all about, for I don’t. Come in, come in, sir, in +heaven’s name, but I’m fearing it’s little good. The devil has us in +his tail, and if the master goes through the night—but this way, +sir—this way!” + +He opened a door on the left of the hall, pushed the astonished Clement +into the room, and over his shoulder, “Here’s one from the bank, at any +rate,” he proclaimed. “Maybe he’ll do.” + +Clement took in the scene as he entered, and drew from it an instant +impression of ill. The room was in disorder, lighted only by a pair of +candles, the slender flames of which were reflected, islanded in +blackness, in the two tall windows that, bald and uncurtained, let in +the night. The fire, a pile of wood ashes neglected or forgotten, was +almost out, and beside it a cupboard-door gaped widely open. A chair +lay overturned on the floor, and in another sat the Squire, gaunt and +upright, muttering to himself and gesticulating with his stick, while +over him, her curls falling about her neck, her face tragic and +tear-stained, hung his daughter, her shadow cast grotesquely on the +wall behind her. She had a glass in her hand, and by her on the table, +from which the cloth had fallen to the floor, stood water and a +medicine bottle. + +In their absorption neither of the two had heard Calamy’s words, and +for a moment Clement stood in doubt, staring at them and feeling that +he had been wrong to come. The trouble, whatever it was, could not be +what he had feared. Then, as he moved, half minded to withdraw, Josina +heard him, and turned. In her amazement, “Clement!” she cried. “You!” + +The Squire turned in his chair. “Who?” he exclaimed. + +“Who’s there? Has he come?” + +The girl hesitated. The hand that rested on the old man’s shoulder +trembled. Then—oh, bravely she took her courage in her hands, and “It +is Clement who has come,” she said—acknowledging him so firmly that +Clement marvelled to hear her. + +“Clement?” The old man repeated the word mechanically, and for a moment +he sought in his mind who Clement might be. Then he found the answer, +and “One of them, eh?” he muttered—but not in the voice that Clement +had anticipated. “So he won’t face me? Coward as well as rogue, is he? +And a Griffin! My God, a Griffin! So he’s sent him?” + +“Where is Arthur?” Josina asked sharply. + +“He left for London this morning—by the coach.” + +“Ay, ay,” the Squire said. “That’s it.” + +Clement plucked up courage. “And hearing that you wanted him, I came to +explain. I feared from what the messenger said that there was something +amiss.” + +“Something amiss!” The Squire repeated the words in an indescribable +tone. “That’s what he calls it! Something amiss!” + +Clement looked from one to the other. “If there is anything I can do?” + +“You?” bluntly. “Why, you be one of them!” + +“No!” Josina interposed. “No, father. He has no part in it! I swear he +has not!” + +But, “One of them! One of them!” the Squire repeated in the same +stubborn tone, yet without lifting his voice. + +“No!” Josina repeated as firmly as before; and the hand that rested on +her father’s shoulder slid round his neck. She held him half embraced. +“But he may tell you what has happened. He may explain, sir?” + +“Explain!” the Squire muttered. Contempt could go no farther. + +“Shall I tell him, sir?” + +“You’re a fool, girl! The man knows.” + +“I am sure he does not!” she said. + +Again Clement thought that it was time to interpose, “Indeed I do not, +sir,” he said. “I am entirely in the dark.” In truth, looking on what +he did, seeing before him the unfamiliar room, the dark staring +windows, and the old man so unlike himself and so like King Lear or +some figure of tragedy, he was tempted to think the scene a dream. “If +you will tell me what is the matter, perhaps I can help. Arthur left +this morning for London. He went to raise the money with which he was +entrusted——” + +“Entrusted?” the Squire cried with something of his old energy. He +raised his head and struck the floor with his stick. “Entrusted? That’s +what you call it, is it?” + +Clement stared. “I don’t understand,” he said. + +“What did he tell you?” Josina asked. “For heaven’s sake speak, +Clement! Tell us what he told you.” + +“Ay,” the Squire chimed in. “Tell us how you managed it. Now it’s done, +let’s hear it.” For the time scorn, a weary kind of scorn, had taken +the place of anger and subdued him to its level. + +But Clement was still at sea. “Managed it?” he repeated. “What do +you——” + +“Tell us, tell us—from the beginning!” Jos cried, at the end of her +patience. “About this money? What did Arthur tell you? What did he tell +you—this morning?” + +Then for the first time Clement saw what was in question, and he braced +himself to meet the shock which he foresaw. “He told us,” he said, +“what Mr. Griffin had consented to do—that he had given him securities +for twelve thousand pounds for the use of the bank and to support its +credit. He had the stock with him, and he received from the bank, in +return for it, an undertaking to replace the amount two months after +date with interest at seven per cent. It was thought best that he +should take it to London himself, as it was so large a sum and time was +everything. And he went by the coach this morning—to realize the +money.” + +Josina shivered. “He took it without authority,” she said, her voice +low. + +“He stole it,” the Squire said, “out of that cupboard.” + +“Oh, but that’s impossible, sir!” Clement replied with eagerness. He +felt an immense relief, for he thought that he saw light. He took note +of the Squire’s condition, and he fancied that his memory, if not his +mind, had given way. He had forgotten what he had done. That was it! +“That’s impossible, sir,” he repeated firmly. “He had a proper transfer +of the stock—India Stock it was—signed and witnessed and all in order.” + +“Signed and witnessed?” the Squire ejaculated. “Signed and—signed, your +grandmother! So that’s your story, is it? Signed and witnessed, eh?” + +But Clement was beginning to be angry. “Yes, sir,” he said. “That is +our story, and it is true.” He thought that he had hit on the truth, +and he clung to it. The Squire had signed and the next minute had +forgotten the whole transaction—Clement had heard of such cases. “He +had the transfer with him,” he continued, “signed by you and witnessed +by himself and—and Miss Griffin. I saw it myself. I saw the signatures, +and I have seen yours, sir, often enough on a cheque to know it. The +transfer was perfectly in order.” + +“In whose favor, young man?” + +“Our brokers’, sir.” + +The Squire flared up. “I did not sign it!” he cried. “It’s a lie, sir! +I signed nothing! Nothing!” + +But Josina intervened. She, poor girl, saw light. “Yes,” she said, “my +father did sign something—on Saturday after dinner. But it was a lease. +I and Arthur witnessed it.” + +“And what has that to do with it?” the Squire asked passionately. “What +the devil has that to do with it? I signed a lease and—and a +counterpart. I signed no transfer of stock, never put hand to it! +Never! What has the lease to do with it?” + +But Josina was firm. “I am afraid I see now, sir,” she said. “You +remember that you signed a paper to try your pen? And I signed it too, +father, by mistake? You remember? Ah!”—with a gesture of despair—“if I +had only not signed it!” + +The Squire groaned. He, too, saw it now. He saw it, and his head sank +on his breast. “Forger as well as thief!” he muttered. “And a Griffin!” + +And Clement’s heart sank too as he met the girl’s anguished eyes and +viewed the Squire’s bowed head and the shame and despair that clothed +themselves in an apathy so unlike the man. He saw that here was a +tragedy indeed, a tragedy fitly framed in that desolate room with its +windows staring on the night and its air of catastrophe; a tragedy +passing bank failures or the loss of fortune. And in his mind he cursed +the offender. + +But even as the words rose to his lips, doubt stayed them. There was, +there must be, some mistake. The thing could not be. He knew Arthur, he +thought that he knew Arthur; he knew even the darker side of him—his +selfishness, his lack of thought for others, his desire to get on and +to grow rich. But this thing Arthur never could have done! Clement +recalled his gay, smiling face, his frank bearing, his care-free eyes, +the habit he had of casting back a lock from his brow. No, he could not +have done this thing. “No, sir, no!” he cried impulsively. “There is +some mistake! I swear there is! I am sure of it.” + +“You’ve the securities?” + +“Yes, but I am sure——” + +“You’re all in it,” the Squire said drearily. And then, with energy and +in a voice quivering with rage, “He’s learned this at your d—d counter, +sir! That’s where it is. It’s like to like, that’s where it is. Like to +like! I might ha’ known what would happen, when the lad set his mind on +leaving our ways and taking up with yours. I might ha’ known that that +was the blackest day our old house had ever seen—when he left the path +his fathers trod and chose yours. You can’t touch pitch and keep your +hands clean. You ha’ stole my daughter—d—n you, sir! And you ha’ taught +him to steal my money. I mind me I bid your father think o’ Fauntleroy, +I never thought he was breeding up a Fauntleroy in my house.” And, +striking the table with all his old vitality, “You are thieves! thieves +all o’ you! And you ha’ taught my lad to thieve!” + +“That is not true!” Clement cried. “Not a word of that is true!” + +“You ha’ stole my daughter!” + +Clement winced. She had told him, then. + +“And now you ha’ stole my money!” + +“That, at least, is not true!” He held up his head. He stepped forward +and laid his hand on the table. “That is not true,” he repeated firmly. +“Yon do not know my father, Mr. Griffin, though you may think you do. +He would see the bank break a hundred times, he would see every penny +pass from him, before he would do this that you say has been done. Your +nephew told us what I have told you, and we believed him—naturally we +believed him. We never suspected. Not a suspicion crossed my father’s +mind or mine. We saw the certificates, we saw the transfer, we knew +your handwriting. It was in order, and——” + +“And you thought—you ha’ the impudence to tell me that you thought that +I should throw thousands, ay, thousands upon thousands into the +gutter—to save your bank?” + +“We believed what we were told,” Clement maintained. “Why not—as you +put the question, sir? Your nephew had five thousand pounds at stake. +His share in the bank was at stake. He knew as well as we did that with +this assistance the bank was secure. We supposed that for his sake and +the sake of his prospects——” + +“I don’t believe it!” the Squire retorted. “I’ll never believe it. Your +father’s a trader. I know ’em, and what their notion of honesty is. And +you tell me——” + +“I tell you that a trader is nothing if he be not honest!” Clement +cried hotly. “Honesty is to him what honor is to you, Mr. Griffin. But +we’ll leave my father’s name out of this, if you please, sir. You may +say what you like of me. I have deserved it.” + +“No,” said Josina. + +“Yes, I have deserved it, and I am ashamed of myself—and proud of +myself. But my father has done nothing and known nothing. And for this +money, when he learns the truth, Mr. Griffin, he will not touch one +penny of it with one of his fingers. It shall be returned to you, every +farthing of it, as soon as we can lay our hands on it. Every penny of +it shall be returned to you—at once!” + +“Ay,” dryly, “when you have had the use of it!” + +“No, at once! Without the loss of an hour!” + +“You be found out,” said the old man bitterly. “You be found out! +That’s it!” + +Clement read an appeal in Josina’s eyes, and he stayed the retort that +rose to his lips. “At any rate the money shall be restored,” he +said—“at once. I will start for town to-night, and if I can +overtake”—he paused, unwilling to utter Arthur’s name—“if I can +overtake him before he transfers the stock, the securities shall be +returned to you. In that case no harm will be done.” + +“No harm!” the Squire ejaculated. He raised his hand and let it fall in +a gesture of despair. “No harm?” + +But Clement was determined not to dwell on that side of it. “If I am +not able to do that,” he continued, “the proceeds shall be placed in +your hands without the delay of an hour. In which case you must let the +signature pass—as good, sir.” + +“Never!” the old man cried, and struck his hand on the table. + +“But after all it is yours,” Clement argued. “And you must see, sir——” + +“Never! Never!” the Squire repeated passionately. + +“You will not say that in cold blood!” Clement rejoined, and from that +moment he took a higher tone, as if he felt that, strange as the call +was, it lay with him now to guide this unhappy household. “You have not +considered, and you must consider, Mr. Griffin,” he continued, “before +you do that, what the consequences may be. If you deny your signature, +and anyone, the India House or anyone, stands to lose, steps may be +taken which may prove—fatal. Fatal, sir! A point may be reached beyond +which even your influence, and all you may then be willing to do, may +not avail to save your nephew.” + +The Squire groaned. Clement’s words called up before him and before +Josina, not only the thing which Arthur had done, but the position in +which he had placed himself. In this room, in this very room in which +men of honor—dull and prejudiced, perhaps, but men of honor, and proud +of their honor—had lived and moved for generations, he, their +descendant, had done this thing. The beams had stood, the house had not +fallen on him. But to Josina’s eyes the candles seemed to burn more +mournfully, the windows to stare more darkly on the night, the ashes on +the hearth to speak of desolation and a house abandoned and fallen. + +Clement hoped that his appeal had succeeded, but he was disappointed. +The old man in his bitterness and unreason was not to be moved—at any +rate as yet. He would listen to no arguments, and he suspected those +who argued with him. “I’ll never acknowledge it!” he said. “No, I’ll +never acknowledge it. I’ll not lie for him, come what may! He has done +the thing and disgraced our blood, and what matter who knows it—he has +done it! He has made his bed and must lie on it! He went into your bank +and learned your tricks, and now you’d have me hush it up! But I won’t, +d—n you! I’ll not lie for you, or for him!” + +Clement had a retort on his lips—for what could be more unfair than +this? But again Josina’s eyes implored him to be silent, and he crushed +back the words. He believed that by and by the Squire would see the +thing differently, but for the moment he could do no more, and he +turned to the door. + +There in the doorway, and for one moment, Josina’s hands met his, she +had one word with him. “You will save him if you can, Clement?” she +murmured. + +“Yes,” he promised her, “I will save him if I can.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + + +If the news which Arthur had conveyed to the bank on that Monday +morning had been much to Clement, it had been more to his father. It +had brought to Ovington immense relief at the moment when he had least +reason to expect it. The banker had not hidden the position from those +who must needs work with him; but even to them he had not imparted the +full measure of his fears, much less the extent of the suffering which +those fears occasioned him. The anxiety that kept him sleepless, the +calculations that tormented his pillow, the regret with which he +reviewed the past, the responsibility for the losses of others that +depressed him—he had kept these things to himself, or at most had +dropped but a hint of them to his beloved Betty. + +But they had been very real to him and very terrible. The spectre of +bankruptcy—with all the horror which it connoted for the mercantile +mind—had loomed before him for weeks past, had haunted and menaced him; +and its sudden exorcism on this Monday morning meant a relief which he +dared not put into words to others and shrank from admitting even to +himself. He who had held his head so high—no longer need he anticipate +the moment when he would be condemned as a reckless adventurer, whose +fall had been as rapid as his rise, and whom the wiseacres of +Aldersbury had doomed to failure from the first! That had been the +bitterest drop in his cup, and to know that he need not drain it, was +indeed a blessed respite. + +Still, he had received the news with composure, and through the day he +had moved to and fro doing his work with accuracy. But it was in a +pleasant dream that he had followed his usual routine, and many a time +he paused to tell himself that the thing was a fact, that Dean’s would +not now triumph over him, nor his enemies now scoff at him. On the +contrary, he might hope to emerge from the tempest stronger than +before, and with his credit enhanced by the stress through which he had +ridden. Business was business, but in the midst of it the banker had +more than once to stand and be thankful. + +And with reason. For if he who has inherited success and lives to see +it threatened suffers a pang, that pang is as nothing besides the +humiliation of the man who has raised himself; who has outstripped his +fellows, challenged their admiration, defied their jealousy, trampled +on their pride; who has been the creator of his own greatness, and now +sees that greatness in ruins. He had escaped that. He had escaped that, +thank God! More than once the two words passed his lips; and in secret +his thoughts turned to the great chief of men to whom in his own mind +and with a rather absurd vanity he had compared himself. Thank God that +his own little star had not sunk like his into darkness! + +It was relief, it was salvation. And that evening, as the banker sat +after his five o’clock dinner and sipped his fourth and last glass of +port and basked in the genial heat of the fire, while his daughter +knitted on the farther side of the hearth, he owned himself a happy +man. He measured the danger, he winced at the narrow margin by which he +had escaped it—but he had escaped! Dean’s, staid, long-established, +slow-going Dean’s, which had viewed his notes askance, had doubted his +stability and predicted his failure, Dean’s which had slyly put many a +spoke in his wheel, would not triumph. Nay, after this, would not he, +too, rank as sound and staid and well established, he who had also +ridden out the storm? For in crises men and banks age rapidly; they are +measured rather by events than by years. Those who had mistrusted him +would mistrust him no longer; those who had dubbed him new would now +count him old. As he stretched his legs to meet the genial heat and +sank lower in his chair he could have purred in his thankfulness. +Things had fallen out well, after all; he saw rosy visions in the fire. +Schemes which had lain dormant in his mind awoke. His London agents had +failed, but others would compete for his business, and on better terms. +The Squire who had so marvellously come to his aid would bring back his +account, and his example would be followed. He would extend, opening +branches at Bretton and Monk’s Castle and Blankminster, and the +railroad? He was not quite sure what he would do about the railroad; +possibly he might decide that the time was not ripe for it, and in that +case he might wind up the company, return the money, and himself meet +the expenses incurred. The loss would not be great, and the effect +would be prodigious. It would be a Napoleonic stroke—he would consider +it. He lost himself in visions of prosperity. + +And it would be all for Clement and Betty. He looked across the hearth +at the girl who sat knitting under the lamp-light, and his eyes +caressed her, his heart loved her. She would make a great match. +Failing Arthur—and of late Arthur and she had not seemed to hit it +off—there would be others. There would be others, well-born, who would +be glad to take her and her dowry. He saw her driving into town in her +carriage, with a crest on the panels. + +It was she who cut short his thoughts. She looked at the clock. “I +can’t think where Clement is,” she said. “You don’t think that there is +anything wrong, dad?” + +“Wrong? No,” he answered. “Why should there be!” + +“But he disappeared so strangely. He said nothing about missing his +dinner.” + +“He was to check some figures with Rodd this evening. He may have gone +to his rooms.” + +“But—without his dinner?” + +But the banker was not in the mood to trouble himself about trifles. +The lamp shone clear and mellow, the fire crackled pleasantly, a warm +comfort wrapped him round, the port had a flavor that he had not +perceived in it of late. Instead of replying to Betty’s question he +measured the decanter with his eye, decided that it was a special +occasion, and filled himself another glass. “Ovington’s Bank,” he said +as he raised it to his lips. But that to which he really drank was the +home that he saw about him, saved from rain, made secure. + +Betty smiled. “You’re relieved to-night, dad.” + +“Well, I am, Betty,” he admitted. “Yes, I am—and thankful.” + +“And that queer old man! I wonder,” as she turned her knitting on her +knee, “why he did it.” + +“I suppose for Arthur’s sake. He’d have lost pretty heavily—for him.” + +“But you didn’t expect that Mr. Griffin would come forward?” + +The banker allowed it. “No,” he said. “I don’t know that I ever +expected anything less. Such things don’t happen, my girl, very often. +But he will be no loser, and I suppose Arthur convinced him of that. He +is shrewd, and, once convinced, he would see that it was the only thing +to do.” + +“But not many people would have been convinced?” + +“No, perhaps not.” + +Betty knitted awhile. “I thought that he hated the bank?” she said, as +she paused to rub her chin with a needle. + +“He does—and me. But he loves his money, my dear.” + +“Still it isn’t his. It is Arthur’s.” + +“True. But he’s a man who cannot bear to see money lost. He thinks a +good deal of it.” + +“He is not alone in that,” Betty exclaimed. “Sometimes I feel that I +hate money! People grow so fond of it. They think only of themselves, +even when you’ve been ever so good to them.” + +“Well, it’s human nature,” the banker replied equably. “I don’t know +who it is that you have in your mind, my dear, but it applies to most +people.” He was going to say more when the door opened. + +“Mr. Rodd is here, asking for Mr. Clement, sir,” the maid said. “He was +to meet him at half after six, and——” + +“Ask Mr. Rodd to come in.” + +The cashier entered shyly. In his dark suit, with his black stock and +stiff carriage, he made no figure, where Arthur, or even Clement, would +have shone. But there were women in Aldersbury who said that he had +fine eyes, eyes with something of a dog’s gentleness in them; and +Arthur so far agreed that he dubbed him a dull, mechanical dog, and +often made fun of him as such. But perhaps Arthur did not always see to +the bottom of things. + +Ovington pushed the decanter and a glass towards him. “A glass of wine, +Rodd,” he said genially. He was not of those who undervalued his +cashier, though he knew his limitations. “The bank!” he said. + +“And those who have stood by it!” Betty added softly. + +Rodd drank the toast with a muttered word. + +“Mr. Rodd has not the same reason to be thankful that we have,” Betty +continued carelessly, holding her knitting up to the lamp. + +“Why not?” Her father did not understand. + +“Why,” innocently, as she lowered the knitting again, “he does not +stand to lose anything, does he?” + +“Except his place,” the cashier objected, his eyes on his glass. + +“Just so,” the banker rejoined. “And in that event,” moved to unusual +frankness, “we should have been all out together. And Rodd might not +have been the worst off, my girl. + +“Exactly,” Betty said. “I’m sure that he would take care of that.” + +The cashier opened his mouth to speak, but checked himself, and drank +off his wine. Then, as he rose, “If you know where Mr. Clement is, +sir——” + +“I don’t. I can’t think what has become of him,” the banker explained. +“He went out about four, and since then—hallo! That’s some one in a +hurry. It sounds like a fire.” + +A vehicle had burst in on the evening stillness. It came clattering at +a reckless pace up Bride Hill. It passed the bank, it rattled noisily +around the corner of the Market Place, and pounded away down the High +Street. + +“More likely some one hastening to get out of danger,” said Betty. “_A +sauve qui peut_, Mr. Rodd—if you know what that means.” + +The clerk, with a flushed cheek, avoided the question. “It might be +some one trying to catch the seven o’clock coach, sir,” he said. + +“Very likely. And if so he’s failed, for he’s coming back again. Ay, +here he comes, and he stopping here, by Jove! I hope that nothing’s +wrong.” + +The vehicle had, indeed, stopped abruptly before the house. They heard +some one alight on the pavement, a latchkey was thrust into the door. +“It’s Clement!” the banker exclaimed, his eyes on the door. “I hope he +does not bring bad news! Well, lad?” as Clement in his overcoat, his +hat on his head, appeared in the doorway. “What is it? Is anything +wrong?” + +“Very much wrong!” his son replied curtly, and he closed the door +behind him. He was pale, and his splashed coat and neck-shawl tied +awry, no less than his agitated face, confirmed their fears. + +“Out with it, lad! What is it? his father asked, fearing he knew not +what. + +“Bad news, sir!” was the answer. “I’m sorry to say I bring very bad +news!” + +“What?” + +“That loan of Mr. Griffin’s——” + +“The twelve thousand? Yes?”—anxiously—“well?” + +“It’s a fraud, sir! A cursed fraud!” + +There was a tense silence. Then, “Impossible!” the banker exclaimed. +But he grasped a chair to steady himself. His face had turned grey. + +“The Squire knows nothing of it!” Clement struck his open hand on the +back of a chair. “He never signed the transfer! He never gave any +authority for the loan!” + +“No, no, that’s impossible!” Ovington straightened himself with a sigh +of relief. What mare’s nest, what bee in the bonnet, was this? The lad +was dreaming—must be dreaming. “Impossible!” he repeated. “I saw it, +man, and read it! And I know the old man’s signature as well as I know +my own. You must be dreaming.” + +“I am not, sir!” Clement answered, and added bitterly, “It was Arthur +who was dreaming! Dreaming or worse, d—n him!”—the pent-up excitement +of the evening finding vent at last, and the sight of his father’s +stricken face whetting his rage. “He has robbed, ay, robbed his uncle, +and dishonored us! That is what he has done, sir. I am not dreaming! I +wish to heaven I were!” + +The banker no longer protested. “Well—tell us!” he said weakly. + +“It’s hard on you, sir——” + +“Never mind me! Tell me what you know.” They stood round Clement, +amazed and shocked, fearing the worst and yet incredulous, while he, +his weary face and travel-stained figure at odds with the lighted room +and the comfort about him, told his story. The banker listened. He +still hoped, hoped to detect some flaw, to perceive some +misunderstanding—so much, so very much, hung upon it. But even on his +mind the truth at last forced itself, and monstrous as the story, +incredible as Arthur’s action still appeared, he had at last to accept +it and its consequences—its consequences! + +He seemed to grow years older as he listened, but when Clement had +done, and the whole shameful story was told, he made no comment. The +position, indeed, was no worse than it had been twenty-four hours +before. He might still hope against hope, that, by putting a bold face +on matters, and by a dexterous use of his resources, he might ride out +the storm. But the reaction from a triumphant confidence was so sudden, +the failure of his recent expectations so overwhelming, that even his +firm spirit yielded. He sank into his chair. Betty laid her hand on his +shoulder and whispered some word of comfort in his ear, but he said +nothing. + +It was Clement who spoke the first word. “I am going after him,” he +said, his tone hard and practical. “I have thought it out, and by +posting all night I may be in London by noon to-morrow, and I may +intercept him either at the brokers’ or at the India House before he +has sold the stock. In that case I may be in time to stop him.” + +“Why?” the banker asked, looking up. “What have we to do with him? Why +should we stop him?” + +“For our own sakes as well as his,” Clement answered firmly. “For our +own good name, which is bound up with his. Think, think, sir, of the +harm it will do us if there is a prosecution—and the old man swears +that he will not acknowledge the signature! Besides I have promised to +stop him—if I can. If I am too late to do that, and he has sold the +stock, I can still get possession of the money, and it must be our +business to return it to the owner without the loss of an hour. Of an +hour, sir!” Clement repeated earnestly. “We must repudiate this +transaction from the outset. We must wash our hands of it at once, if +it be only to clear our own name.” + +The banker looked dazed. “But,” he said, as if his mind were beginning +to work again, “why should we—take all this trouble?” He hesitated, +then he began again. “We have done nothing. We are innocent. Why should +we——” + +“Stop him?” + +“Ay, or be in such a hurry to return the money? It is no fault of ours +if it does come to our hands. And, remember, if it lies with us only a +week”—he looked at his son, his face troubled—“only a week, the +position is such——” + +“No! no!” Clement cried, and for once he spoke preemptorily. “Not for a +day, father, not for an hour! And when you have thought it over as I +have, when you have had time to think it over, you will see that. You +will be the first, the very first, to see that, and to say that we must +have no part or share with Bourdillon in this; that if we must go down +we will go down with clean hands. To avail ourselves of this money, +even for a day, and though it would save the bank twice over, would be +to make us accomplices——” + +The banker stood up. “Right!” he said firmly. “You are right, lad!” He +drew a deep breath, the color returned to his face. He laid his hand on +Clement’s shoulder. “You are quite right, my boy, and I wasn’t myself +when I said that. You shall have no reason to blush for your father. +You are quite right. We will repudiate the transaction from the first. +We will have neither art nor part in it. We will return the money the +moment it comes into your hands!” + +“Thank God, sir, that you see it as I do.” + +“I do, I do! The money shall be paid over at once, though the shutters +go up the next hour. And we will fight our battle as we must have +fought it if this had never happened.” + +“With clean hands, at any rate, sir.” + +“Yes, lad, with clean hands.” + +“Oh, father, that’s splendid!” Betty cried, and she pressed herself +against him. “But as for Clement going, he must be worn out. Could not +Mr. Rodd go?” + +“Rodd will be of more use to you here,” Clement said. “You will be +short-handed as it is.” + +“We shall pay out the more slowly,” the banker answered with grim +humor. + +“And I doubt, besides,” said Clement, “if Bourdillon would listen to +Rodd.” + +“Will he listen to you?” + +“He will have to, or face the consequences!” And Clement looked as if +he meant it: a hard Clement this, with a new note in his voice. “From +the India House to Bow Street is not very far, and he will certainly go +to Bow Street—or the Mansion House—if he does not see reason. But he +will.” + +“He may, if you are with him before he parts with the securities. But +from this to noon to-morrow you will not do it in that time, my lad, at +night? Winter time, too? You’ll never do it!” + +But Clement averred that he would—in fourteen hours, with good luck. It +was for that reason that he had gone straight to the Lion and ordered a +chaise for eight o’clock and sent on word by the seven o’clock coach +for a relay to be ready at the Heygate Inn. He had also asked the Lion +to pass on word by any chaise starting in front of him. “So I hope for +two or three stages I shall find the horses ready. Betty, pack up some +food for me, that’s a good girl. I’ve only twenty minutes.” + +“And your travelling cloak?” she cried. “I’ll air it.” + +“You must eat something before you start,” said his father. + +“Yes, I will. And, Rodd, do you get me the bank pistols—and see that +they are loaded!” + +The banker nodded. “Yea, you’d better take them,” he said. “It’s an +immense sum—if you bring it back. It would be a terrible business if +you were robbed.” + +“Ay, for then we should share the blame,” Clement answered drily. “That +wouldn’t do, would it? But let me get the money, and I’ll not be +robbed, sir.” + +They parted, hurrying to and fro on their several errands, the banker +fetching money for the journey, Rodd loading the pistols, Betty setting +food before the traveller and cutting sandwiches for the journey, +Clement himself making some change in his dress. For ten minutes a +cheerful stir reigned in the house. But Ovington, though he yielded to +this and watched his son at his meal and filled his glass, and played +his part, did but feign. He knew that within a few minutes the door +would close on Clement, the house would relapse into silence, the +lights would go out, and he would be left to face the failure of all +the hopes, the plans and expectations which he had entertained through +the day. The odds against him, which had not seemed overwhelming +twenty-four hours before, now appeared invincible and not to be +resisted. He felt that the fates were opposed to him. He had had his +chance, and it had been withdrawn. As he climbed the stairs to bed, +climbed them slowly and with heavy feet, he read ruin in the flame of +his candle. As he undressed he heard the voices of revellers passing +the house at midnight, on their way from the Raven or the Talbot, and +he suspected derision in their tones. He fancied that they were talking +of him, jeering at him, rejoicing in his fall. In bed he lay long +awake, calculating, and trying to make of four, five. Could he hold out +till Wednesday? Till Thursday? Or would panic running through the town +on the morrow, like fire amid tinder, kindle the crowd and hurl it, +inflamed with greed and fear, upon his slender defences? + +He was buying honesty at a great price. But he thought of Clement and +Betty, and towards morning he fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + + +Travelling in the old coaching days was not all hardship. It had its +own, its peculiar pleasures. A writer of that time dwells with +eloquence on the rapture with which he viewed a fine sunrise from the +outside of a fast coach on the Great North Road; on the appetite with +which he fell to upon a five o’clock breakfast at Doncaster, on the +delight with which he heard the nightingales sing on a fine night as he +swept through Henley, on the satisfaction of seeing old Shoreditch +Church, which betokened the end of the journey. Men did not then hurry +at headlong speed along iron rails, with their heads buried in a +newspaper or in the latest novel. They learned to know and had time to +view the objects of interest that fringed the highway—to recognize the +farm at which the Great Durham Ox was bred, and the house in which the +equally great Sir Isaac Newton was born. If these things were strange +to the travellers and their appearance promised a good fee, the +coachman condescended from his greatness and affably pointed them out. + +But to sit through the long winter night, changing each hour from one +damp and musty post-chaise to another, to stamp and fume and fret while +horses were put to at every stage, to scold an endless succession of +incoming and fee an endless series of out-going postboys, each more +sleepy and sullen than the last—this was another matter. To be delayed +here and checked there and overcharged everywhere, to be fobbed off +with the worst teams—always reserved for night travellers—and to find, +once started on the long fourteen-mile stage, that the off-wheeler was +dead lame, to fall asleep and to be aroused with every hour—these were +the miseries, and costly miseries they were, of old-world journeying. +This was its seamy side. And many a time Clement, stamping his +stone-cold feet in wind-swept inn yards, or ringing ostlers’ bells in +stone-paved passages, repented that he had started, repented that he +had ever undertaken the task. + +Why had he, he asked himself more than once that bitter night. What was +Arthur Bourdillon to him that he should spend himself in an effort as +toilsome as it promised to be vain, to hold him back from the +completion of his roguery? Would Arthur ever thank him? Far from it. +And Josina? Josina, brave, loving Josina, who had risen to heights of +which he thrilled to think, she might indeed thank him—and that should +be enough for him. But what could she do to requite him, apart from her +father? And the Squire at Garth had stated his position, nor even if he +relented was he one to pour himself out in gratitude—he who hated the +name of Ovington, and laid all this at their door. It would be much if +he ever noticed him with more than a grunt, or ever gave one thought to +his exertions or their motive. + +No, he had let a quixotic, a foolish impulse run away with him! He +should have waited until Arthur had brought down the money, and then he +should have returned it. That had been the simple, the matter-of-fact +course, and all that it had been incumbent on him to do. As it was, for +what was he spending himself and undergoing these hardships? To hasten +the ruin of the bank, to meet failure half-way, to render his father +penniless a few hours earlier, rather than later. To mask a rascality +that need never be disclosed, since no one would hear of it unless the +Squire talked. Yes, he had been a fool to hurl himself thus through the +night, chilled to the bone, with fevered head and ice-cold feet, when +he might have been a hundred times better employed in supporting his +father in his need, in putting a brave front on things, and smiling in +the face of suspicion. + +To be sure, it was only as the night advanced, or rather in the small +hours of the morning, when his ardor had died down and Josina’s +pleading face was no longer before him, and the spirit of adventure was +low in him, that he entertained these thoughts. For a time all went +well. He found his relay waiting for him at the Heygate Inn by +Wellington, where the name of the Lion was all-powerful; and after +covering at top speed the short stage that followed, he drove, still +full of warmth and courage, into Wolverhampton at a quarter before +eleven. Over thirty miles in three hours! He met with a little delay +there; the horses had to be fetched from another stable, in another +street. But he got away in the end, and ten minutes later he was +driving over a land most desolate by day, but by night lurid with the +flares of a hundred furnace-fires. He rattled up to the Castle at +Birmingham at half an hour after midnight, found the house still +lighted and lively, and by dint of scolding and bribing was presently +on the road again with a fresh team, and making for Coventry, with +every inclination to think that the difficulties of posting by night +had been much exaggerated. + +But here his good luck left him. At the half-way stage he met with +disaster. He had passed the up coach half an hour before, and no orders +now anticipated him. When he reached the Stone Bridge there were no +horses; on the contrary, there were three travellers waiting there, +clamorous to get on to Birmingham. Unwarily he jumped out of his +chaise, and “No horses?” he cried. “Impossible! There must be horses!” + +But the ostler gave him no more than a stolid stare. “Nary a nag!” he +replied coolly. “Nor like to be, master, wi’ every Quaker in Birmingham +gadding up and down as if his life ’ung on it! Why, if I’ve——” + +“Quakers? What the devil do you mean?” Clement cried, thinking that the +man was reflecting on him. + +“Well, Quakers or drab-coated gentry like yourself!” the man replied, +unmoved. “And every one wi’ pistols and a money bag! Seems that’s what +they’re looking for—money, so I hear. Such a driving and foraging up +and down the land these days, it’s a wonder the horses’ hoofs bean’t +worn off.” + +“Then,” said Clement, turning about, “I’ll take these on to Meriden.” + +But the waiting travellers had already climbed into the chaise and were +in possession, and the postboy had turned his horses. And, “No, no, +you’ll not do that,” said the ostler. “Custom of the road, master! +Custom of the road! You must change and wait your turn.” + +“But there must be something on,” Clement cried in despair, seeing +himself detained here, perhaps for the whole night. + +“Naught! Nary a ’oof in the yard, nor a lad!” the man replied. “You’d +best take a bed.” + +“But when will there be horses?” + +“Maybe something’ll come in by daylight—like enough.” + +“By daylight? Oh, confound you!” cried Clement, enraged. “Then I’ll +walk on to Meriden.” + +“Walk? Walk on to——” the ostler couldn’t voice his astonishment. +“Walk?” + +“Ay, walk, and be hanged to you!” Clement cried, and without another +word plunged into the darkness of the long, straight road, his bag in +his hand. The road ran plain and wide before him, he couldn’t miss it; +the distance, according to Paterson, which he had in his handbag, was +no more than two miles, and he thought that he could do it in half an +hour. + +But, once away, under the trees, under the midnight sky, in the silence +and darkness of the country-side, the fever of his spirits made the +distance seem intolerable. As he tramped along the lonely road, +doubtful of the wisdom of his action, the feeling of strangeness and +homelessness, the sense of the uselessness of what he was doing, grew +upon him. At this rate he might as well walk to London! What if there +were no horses at Meriden? Or if he were stayed farther up the road? He +counted the stages between him and London, and he had time and enough +to despair of reaching it, before he at last, at a good four miles an +hour, strode out of the night into the semicircle of light which fell +upon the road before the Bull’s Head at Meriden. Thank heaven, there +were lights in the house and people awake, and some hope still! And +more than hope, for almost before he had crossed the threshold a sleepy +boots came out of the bar and met him, and “Horses? Which way, sir? Up? +I’ll ring the ostler’s bell, sir!” + +Clement could have blessed him. “Double money to Coventry if I leave +the door in ten minutes!” he cried, taking out his watch. And ten +minutes later—or in so little over that time as didn’t count—he was +climbing into a chaise and driving away: so well organized after +all—and all defects granted—was the posting system that at that time +covered England. To be sure, he was on one of the great roads, and the +Bull’s Head at Meriden was a house of fame. + +He had availed himself of the interval to swallow a snack and a glass +of brandy and water, and he was the warmer for the exercise and in +better spirits; pluming himself a little, too, on the resolution which +had plucked him from his difficulty at the Stone Bridge. But he had +lost the greater part of an hour, and the clocks at Coventry were close +on three when he rattled through the narrow, twisting streets of that +city. Here, early as was the hour, he caught rumors of the panic, and +hints were dropped by the night-men in the inn yard—in sly reply, +perhaps, to his adjurations to hasten—of desperate men hurrying to and +fro, and buying with gold the speed which meant fortune and life to +them. Something was said of a banker who had shot himself at +Northampton—or was it Nottingham?—of London runners who had passed +through in pursuit of a defaulter; of a bank that had stopped, “up the +road.” “And there’ll be more before all’s over,” said his informant +darkly. “But it’s well to be them while it lasts! They’ve money to +burn, it seems.” + +Clement wondered if this was an allusion to the crown piece that he had +offered. At any rate the ill-omened tale haunted him as he left the +city behind him, and, after passing under the Cross on Knightlow Hill, +and over the Black Heath about Dunsmoor, committed himself to the long, +monotonous stretch of road that, unbroken by any striking features, and +regularly dotted with small towns that hardly rose above villages, +extended dull mile after dull mile to London. The rumble of the chaise +and the exertions he had made began to incline him to sleep, but the +cold bit into his bones, his feet were growing numb, and as often as he +nodded off in his corner he slid down and awoke himself. Sleet, too, +was beginning to fall, and the ill-fitting windows leaked, and it was a +very morose person who turned out in the rain at Dunchurch. + +However, luck was with him, and he got on without delay to Daventry, +and had to be roused from sleep when his postboy pulled up before the +famous old Wheat-sheaf that, wakeful and alight, was ready with its +welcome. Here cheerful fires were burning and everything was done for +him. A chaise had just come in from Towcester. The horses’ mouths were +washed out while he swallowed a crust and another glass of brandy and +water, the horses were turned round, and he was away again. He composed +himself, shivering, in the warmer corner, and, thanking his stars that +he had got off, was beginning to nod, when the chaise suddenly tilted +to one side and he slid across the seat. He sat up in alarm and felt +the near wheels clawing at the ditch, and thought that he was over. A +moment of suspense, and through the fog that dimmed the window-panes +flaming lights blazed above him and over him, and the down mails +thundered by, coach behind coach—three coaches, the road quivering +beneath them, the horses cantering, the guards replying with a volley +of abuse to the postboy’s shout of alarm. Huge, lighted monsters, by +night the bullies of the road, they were come and gone in an instant, +leaving him staring with dazzled eyes into the darkness. But the shave +had not bettered his temper. The stage seemed a long one, the horses +slow, and he was fretting and fuming mightily, and by no means as +grateful as he should have been for the luck that had hitherto attended +him, when at last he jogged into Towcester. + +Alas, the inn here was awake, indeed, in a somnolent, grumpy, sullen +fashion, but there were no horses. “Not a chance of them,” said the +sleepy boots, nicking a dirty napkin towards the coffee room. “There +are two business gents waiting there to get on—life and death, ’cording +to them. They’re going up same way as you are, and they’ve first call. +And there’s a gentleman and his servant for Birmingham—down, they are, +and been waiting since eleven o’clock and swearing tremendous!” + +“Then I’ll take mine on!” Clement said, and whipped out into the night +and ran to his chaise. But he was too late. The gentleman’s servant had +been on the watch, he had made his bargain and stepped in, and his +master was hurrying out to join him. “The devil!” cried Clement, now +wide awake and very angry. “That’s pretty sharp!” + +“Yes, sir, sharp’s the word,” said the boots. It was evident that night +work had made him a misanthrope, or something else had soured him. +“They’d be no good for Brickhill anyway. It’s a long stage. You’ll take +a bed?” + +“Bed be hanged!” said Clement, wondering what he should do. This seemed +to be a dead stop, and very black he looked. At last, “I’ll go to the +yard,” he said. + +“There’s nobody up. You’d best——” and again the boots advised a bed. + +“Nobody up? Oh, hang it!” said Clement, and stood and thought, very +much at a standstill. What could he do? There was a clock in the +passage. He looked at it. It was close on six, and he had nearly sixty +miles to travel. Save for the delay at the Stone Bridge, he had done +well. He had kept his postboy up to the mark: he had spared neither +money nor prayers, nor, it must be added, curses. He had done a very +considerable feat, the difficulties of night porting considered. But he +had still fifty-eight miles before him, and if he could not get on now +he had done nothing. He had only wasted his money. “Any up coach due?” + +“Not before eight o’clock,” said the boots cynically. “Beaches the +Saracen’s Head, Snowhill, at three-thirty. You are one of these moneyed +gents, I suppose? Things is queer in town, I hear—crashes and what not, +something terrible, I am told. Blue ruin and worse. The master +here”—becoming suddenly confidential—“he’s in it. It’s U-p with him! +They seized his horses yesterday. That’s why—” he winked mysteriously +towards the silent stables. “Wouldn’t trust him, and couldn’t send a +bailiff with every team. That’s why!” + +“Who seized them?” Clement asked listlessly. But he awoke a second +later to the meaning of his words. + +“Hollins, Church Farm yonder. Bill for hay and straw. D’you know him?” + +“No, but—here! D’you see this?” Clement plucked out a crown piece, his +eyes alight. “Is there a postboy here? That’s the point! Asleep or +awake! Quick, man!” + +“A postboy? Well, there’s old Sam—he can ride. But what’s the use of a +postboy when there’s no horses?” + +“Wake him! Bring him here!” Clement retorted, on fire with an idea, and +waving the crown piece. “D’you hear? Bring him here and this is yours. +But sharp’s the word. Go, go and get him, man, it will be worth his +while. Haul him out! Tell him he must come! It’s money, tell him!” + +The boots caught the infection and went, and for three or four minutes +Clement stamped up and down in a fever of anxiety. By and by the +postboy came, half dressed, sulky, and rubbing his eyes. Clement seized +him by the shoulders, shook him, pounded him, pounded his idea into +him, bribed him. Five minutes later they were hurrying towards the +church, passing here and there a yawning laborer plodding through the +darkness to his work. The farmer at Hollins’s was dressing, and opened +his window to swear at them and at the noise the dogs were making. But, +“Three pounds! Three pounds for horses to Brickhill!” Clement cried. +The proper charge was twenty-six shillings at the eighteen-penny night +scale, and the man listened. “You can come with me and keep +possession!” Clement urged, seeing that he hesitated. “You run no risk! +I’ll be answerable.” + +Three pounds was money, much money in those days. It was good interest +on his unpaid bill, and Mr. Hollins gave way. He flung down the key of +the stables, and hurrying down after it, helped to harness the horses +by the light of a lanthorn. That done, however, the good man took +fright at the novelty, almost the impudence of the thing, and demanded +his money. “Half now, and half at Brickhill,” Clement replied, and the +sight of the cash settled the matter. Mr. Hollins opened the yard gate, +and two minutes later they were off, the farmer’s wife staring after +them from the doorway and, with a leaning to the safe side, shrilly +stating her opinion that her husband was a fool and would lose his +nags. + +“Never fear,” Clement said to the man. “Only don’t spare them! Time is +money to me this morning!” + +Fortunately, the horses had done no work the previous day and had been +well fed. They were fresh, and the old postboy, feeling himself in +luck, and exhilarated by what he called “as queer a start as ever was,” +was determined to merit the largest fee. The farmer, as they whirled +down Windmill Hill at a pace that carried them over the ascent and past +Plum Park, fidgeted uneasily in his seat, fearing broken knees and what +not. But seeing then that the postboy steadied his pair and knew his +business, he let it pass. As far as Stony Stratford the road was with +them, and thence to Fenny Stratford they pushed on at a good pace. + +It was broad daylight by now, the road was full of life and movement, +they met and passed other travellers, other chaises, one or two of the +early morning coaches. Men, topping and tailing turnips, stood and +watched them from the fields, a gleam of December sunrise warmed the +landscape. To the tedious nightmare of the long, dark hours, with their +endless stages and sleepy turn-outs and shadowy postillions, their +yawning inns and midnight meals, had succeeded sober daylight, plodding +realities, waking life; and Clement should have owned the relief. But +he did not, for a simple reason. During the night the end had been far +off and uncertain, a thing not yet to be dwelt upon or considered. Now +the end was within sight, a few hours must determine it one way or the +other, and his anxiety as the time passed, and now the horses slackened +their pace to climb a rise, now were detained by a flock of sheep, +centred itself upon it. He had endured so much that he might intercept +Arthur before the deed was done and the false transfer used, that to +fail Josina now, to be too late now, was a thing not to be considered. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + + +Still, the daylight had one good effect, it completed the reassurance +of Mr. Hollins. He could see his man now, and judging him to be good +for the money, he gave way to greed and proposed to run the horses on +to Dunstable. Clement thought that he might do worse and agreed, merely +halting for five minutes at the George at Brickhill, to administer a +quart of ale apiece to the nags, and to take one themselves. Then they +pressed on to Dunstable, which they reached at half-past eight. + +Even so, Clement had still thirty miles to cover. But the postboy, a +sportsman with his heart in the game, had ridden in, waving his whip +and shouting for horses, and his good word spread like magic. Two +minutes let the yard know that here was a golden customer, an +out-and-outer, and almost before Clement could swallow a cup of +scalding coffee and pocket a hot roll he had wrung the farmer’s hand, +fee’d old Sam to his heart’s content, and was away again, on the +ten-mile downhill stage to St. Albans. They cantered most of the way, +the postboy’s whip in the air and the chaise running after the horses, +and did the distance triumphantly in forty-three minutes. Then on, with +the reputation of a good paymaster, to Barnet—Barnet, that seemed to be +almost as good as London. + +Luck could not have stood by him better, and, now the sun shone, they +raced with taxed-carts, and flashed by sober clergymen jogging along on +their hacks. The midnight shifts to which he had been put, the +despairing struggle about Meriden and Dunchurch, were a dream. He was +in the fairway now, though the pace was not so good, and the hills, +with windmills atop, seemed to be set on the road at intervals on +purpose to delay him. Still he was near the end of his journey, and he +began to consider all the alternatives to success, all the various ways +in which he might yet fail. He might miss Bourdillon; he began to be +sure that he would miss him. Either he would be at the India Office +when Bourdillon was at the brokers’, or at brokers’ when he was at the +India Office; and, failing the India Office or the brokers’, he had no +clue to him. Or his quarry would have left town already, with the +treasure in his possession. Or they might pass one another in the +streets, or even on the road. He would be too late and he would fail, +after all his exertions! He began to feel sure of it. + +Yes, he had certainly been a fool not to think at starting of the +hundred chances, the scores of accidents that might occur to prevent +their meeting. And every minute that he spent on the road made things +worse. He had had yonder windmill in sight this half-hour—and it seemed +no nearer. He fidgeted to and fro, lowered a window and raised it +again, scolded the postboy, flung himself back in the chaise. + +At the Green Man at Barnet he got sulkily into his last chaise, and +they pounded down five miles of a gentle slope, then drove stoutly up +the easy ascent to Highgate. By this time the notion that Bourdillon +would pass him unseen had got such hold upon him—though it was the +unlikeliest thing in the world that Arthur could have got through his +business so early—that his eyes raked every chaise they met, and a +crowded coach by which they sped, as it crawled up the southern side of +the hill, filled him with the darkest apprehensions. Had he given a +moment’s thought to the state of the market, to the pressure of +business which it must cause, and to the crowd, greedy for transfers, +in which Arthur must take his turn, he would have seen that this fear +was groundless. + +However, the true state of things was by and by brought home to his +mind. He had directed the postboy to take him direct to the brokers’ in +the City, and he had hardly exchanged the pleasant country roads of +Highbury and Islington, with their villas and cow-farms, for the noisy, +dirty thoroughfares of north London, before he was struck by the +evidences of excitement that met his eyes. Lads, shouting raucously, +ran about the busier streets, selling broadsheets, which were fought +for and bought up with greedy haste. A stream of walkers, with their +faces set one way, hastened along almost as fast as his post-chaise. +Busy groups stood at the street corners, debating and gesticulating. As +he advanced still farther, and crossed the boundary and began to thread +the narrow streets of the City—it wanted a half hour of noon—he found +himself hampered and almost stopped by the crowd which thronged the +roadway, and seemed in its preoccupation to be insensible to the +obstacles that barred its way and into which it cannoned at every +stride. And still, with each yard that he advanced, the press +increased. The signs of ferment became more evident. Distracted men, +hatless and red-hot with haste, regardless of everything but the errand +on which they were bent, sprang from offices, hurled themselves through +the press, leaped on their fellows’ backs, tore on their way; while +those whom they had maltreated did not even look round, but continued +their talk, unaware of the outrage. Some pushed through the press, so +deep in thought that they saw no one and might have walked a country +lane, while others, meeting as by appointment, seized one another, +shook one another, bawled in each other’s faces as if both had become +suddenly deaf. And now and again the whole tormented mass, seething in +the narrow lanes or narrower alleys, swayed this way or that under the +impulse of some unknown mysterious impulse, some warning, some call to +action. + +Clement had never seen anything like it, and he viewed it with awe, his +ears deafened by the babel or pierced by the shrill cries of the +news-sellers who constantly bawled, “Panic! Great panic in the City! +Panic! List of banks closed!” He had heard as he changed at Barnet that +fourteen houses in the City had shut their doors, but he had not +appreciated the fact. Now he was to see with his own eyes shuttered +windows and barred doors with great printed bills affixed to them, and +huge crowds at gaze before them, groaning and hooting. Even the shops +bore singular and striking witness to the crisis, for in Cheapside +every other window exhibited a card stating that they would accept +bank-notes to any extent and for goods to any amount—a courageous +attempt to restore public confidence which deserved more success than +it won; while there, and on all sides, he heard men execrating the Bank +of England and loudly proclaiming—though this was not the fact—that it +had published a notice that it could no longer pay cash. + +Here was panic indeed! Here was an appalling state of things! And very +low his heart sank, as the chaise made a few yards, stopped, and +advanced again. What chance had Ovington’s, what hope of survival had +their little venture, when the very credit of the country tottered, and +here in the heart of London age-long institutions with vast deposits +and forty or fifty branches toppled down on all sides? When merchant +princes with tens of thousands in sound but unsaleable securities could +do nothing to save themselves, and men of world-wide fame, the giants +of finance, went humbly, hat in hand, to ask for time? + +Stranded, or moving at a snail’s pace, he caught scraps of the talk +about him. Smith’s in Mansion House Street had closed its doors. +Everett and Walker’s had followed Pole’s into bankruptcy. Wentworth’s +at York had failed for two hundred thousand pounds. Telford’s at +Plymouth had been sacked by an angry mob. The strongest bank in Norwich +was going or gone. The Bank of England had paid out eight millions in +gold within the week—and had no more. They were paying in one-pound +notes now, a set found God knows where—in the cellars, it was said. The +tellers were so benumbed with terror that they could not separate them +or count them. + +For the moment he forgot Arthur and Arthur’s business, and thought only +of his father and of their own plight. “We are gone!” he reflected, his +face almost as pale as the faces in the street. “We are ruined! There +is no hope. When this reaches Aldersbury we must close!” He could no +longer bear the inaction. He could not sit still. He paid off the +chaise—with difficulty, owing to the press—and pushed forward on foot. +But his mind still ran on Aldersbury, was still busy with the fate of +their own bank. He felt an immense pity for his father, and recognized +that until this moment, when panic in its most dreadful form stared him +in the face, he had not realized the catastrophe, or the sadness, or +the finality of it. They must close. They must begin the world again, +begin it at the bottom, in competition with a multitude of beggared +men, three-fourths of whom had never speculated, never touched a share, +never left the safe path of industrious commerce, but were now to pay +with all they possessed in the world, their daughters’ portions and +their sons’ fortunes, for the recklessness or the extravagance of +others. + +For a space there was vouchsafed to him the wider vision, and he saw +the thing that was passing in its true light. He saw the wave of ruin +spread from these crowded streets ever farther and farther, from city +to town and town to country; and where it passed it wrecked homes, it +made widows, it swept away the dowries of children, it separated +lovers, it overwhelmed the happiness of thousands and tens of +thousands. He saw the honest trader, whose father’s good name was his +glory, broken in heart and fortune through the failure of others, his +health shattered, his house sold over his head, his pensioners and +dependants flung into the workhouse. He saw deluded parsons doomed to +spend the close of their lives in a hopeless wrestle with debt, their +sons taken from school, their daughters sent out into a cold and +unfeeling world. He saw squires, the little gods of their domain, men +once wealthy, doomed to drink themselves into forgetfulness of the +barred entail and the lost estate; the great house would be closed, the +agent would squeeze the tenants, and they in turn the laborers, until +the very village shop would feel the pinch. Thousands upon thousands +would lose their hoarded savings, and, too old to begin again, would +sink, they and their children and their children’s children, into the +under-world, there to be lost amid the dregs of the population. + +And he and his? Why should they escape? How could they escape? It would +be much if they could feel, while they shared the common lot, that they +had deserved to escape, that they were not of those whose wild +speculations had brought this disaster on their kind. + +He had by this time fought his way as far as the end of Cheapside, and +here, where the roar was loudest and the contending currents mingled +their striving masses, where the voices of the news-boys were +shrillest, and the timid stood daunted, while even strong men paused, +measuring the human whirlpool into which they must plunge, Clement’s +eye was caught by a side-scene which was passing in the street hard by +the Mansion House. Raised above the crowd on the steps of a large +building, a haggard man was making an announcement—but in dumb show, +for no word could be heard even by those who stood beside him, and his +meaning could be deduced only from his gestures of appeal. The lower +windows of the house were shuttered, and the upper exhibited many +broken panes; but behind these and the cornice of the roof gleamed here +and there a pale frightened face, peering down at the proceedings +below. From the crowd collected before the haggard man rose a +continuous roar of protest, a forest of menacing hands, shrill cries +and curses, and now and again a missile, which, falling absurdly +short—for in that press no man could swing his arm—still bore witness +to the malice that urged it. Nearer to Clement on the skirts of the +throng, where they could see little and were perpetually elbowed by +impatient passersby, loitered a few who at a first glance seemed to be +uninterested—so apathetic were their attitudes, so absent was their +gaze. But a second glance disclosed the truth. They were men whom the +tidings of ruin, sudden and unforeseen, had stunned. Spiritless and +despairing, seeing only the home they had forfeited and the dear ones +they had beggared, they stood in the street, blind and deaf to what was +passing about them, and only by the mute agony of their eyes betrayed +the truth. + +The sight wrung Clement’s heart with pity, and he seized a news-lad by +the arm. “What is that place?” he shouted in his ear. In that babel no +man could make himself heard without shouting. + +The man looked at him suspiciously. “Yar! Yer kidding!” he said. “Yer +know as well as me!” + +Clement shook him in his impatience. “No, I don’t,” he shouted. “I’m a +stranger! What is it, man? A bank?” + +“Where d’yer come from?” the lad retorted, as he twisted himself free. +“It’s Everitt’s, that’s what it is! They closed an hour ago! Might as +well ha’ never opened!” + +He went off hurriedly, and Clement went too, plunging into the +maelstrom that divided him from Cornhill. But as he buffeted his way +through the throng, the faces of the ruined men went with him, coming +between him and the street, and with a sinking heart he fancied that he +read, written on them, the fate of Ovington’s. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + + +It was to Clement’s credit that, had his object been to save his +father’s bank, instead of to do that which might deprive it of its last +hope, he could not have struggled onward through the press more stoutly +than he did. But though the offices for which he was bound, situate in +one of the courts north of Cornhill, were no more than a third of a +mile from the point at which he had dismissed his chaise, the city +clocks had long struck twelve before, wresting himself from the human +flood, which panic and greed were driving through the streets, he +turned into this quiet backwater. + +He stood for a moment to take breath and adjust his dress, and even in +that brief space he discovered that the calm was but comparative. Many +of the windows which looked on the court were raised, as if the pent-up +emotions of their occupants craved air and an outlet even on that +December day; and from these and from the open doors below issued a +dropping fire of sounds, the din of raised voices, of doors recklessly +slammed, of feet thundering on bare stairs, of harsh orders. Clerks +rushing into the court, hatless and demented, plunged into clerks +rushing out equally demented, yet flew on their course without look or +word, as if unconscious of the impact. From a lighted window—many were +lit up, for the court was small and the day foggy—a hat, even as +Clement paused, flew out and bounded on the pavement. But no one heeded +it or followed it, and it was a passing clerk who came hurrying out a +little less recklessly than his fellows, whom Clement, after a moment’s +hesitation, seized by the arm. “Mr. Bourdillon here?” he asked +imperatively—for he saw that in no other way could he gain attention. + +“Mr. Bourdillon!” the man snapped. “Oh, I don’t know! Here, Cocky +Sands! Attend to this gentleman! Le’ me go! Le’ me go. D’ you hear?” + +He tore himself free, and was gone while he spoke, leaving Clement to +climb the stairs. On the landing he encountered another clerk, whom he +supposed to be “Cocky Sands,” and he attacked him. “Mr. Bourdillon? Is +he here?” he asked. + +But Mr. Sands eluded him, shouted over his shoulder for “Tom!” and +clattered down the stairs. “Can’t wait!” he flung behind him. “Find +some one!” + +However, Clement lost nothing by this, for the next moment one of the +partners appeared at a door. Clement knew him, and “Is Mr. Bourdillon +here?” he cried for the third time, and he seized the broker by the +button-hole. He, at any rate, should not escape him. + +“Mr. Bourdillon?” The broker stared, unable on the instant to recall +his thoughts, and from the way in which he wiped his bald and steaming +head with a yellow bandanna, it was plain that he had just got +something of moment off his mind. “Pheugh! What times!” he ejaculated, +fanning himself and breathing hard. “What a morning! You’ve heard, I +suppose? Everitt’s are gone. Gone within the hour, d—n them! Oh, +Bourdillon? It was Bourdillon you asked for? To be sure, it’s Mr. +Ovington, isn’t it? I thought so; I never forget a face, but he didn’t +tell me that you were here. By Jove!” He raised his hands—he was a +portly gentleman, wearing a satin under-vest and pins and chains +innumerable, all at this moment a little awry. “By Jove, what a find +you have there! Slap, bang, and tip to the mark, and no mistake! Hard +and sharp as nails! I take off my hat to him! There’s not a firm,” +mopping his heated face anew, “within half a mile of us that wouldn’t +be glad to have him! I’ll take my Davy there are not ten men in country +practice could have pushed the deal through, and squeezed eleven +thousand in cash out of Snell & Higgins on such a day as this! He’s a +marvel, Mr. Ovington! You can tell your father I said so, and I don’t +care who says the contrary.” + +“But is he here?” Clement cried, dancing with impatience. “Is he here, +man?” + +“Gone to the India House this—” he looked at his watch—“this half-hour, +to complete. He had to drop seven per cent. for cash on the nail—that, +of course! But he got six thousand odd in Bank paper, and five thou. in +gold, and I’m damned if any one else would have got that to-day, though +the stuff he had was as good as the ready in ordinary times. My +partner’s gone with him to Leadenhall Street to complete—glad to oblige +you, for God knows how many clients we shall have left after this—and +they’ve a hackney coach waiting in Bishopsgate and an officer to see +them to it. You may catch him at the India House, or he may be gone. +He’s not one to let the grass grow under his feet. In that case——” + +“Send a clerk with me to show me the Office!” Clement cried. “It’s +urgent, man, urgent! And I don’t know my way inside the House. I must +catch him.” + +“Well, with so much money—here, Nicky!” The broker stepped aside to +make room for a client who came up the stairs three at a time. “Nicky, +go with this gentleman! Show him the way to the India House. Transfer +Office—Letter G! Sharp’s the word. Don’t lose time.—Coming! Coming!” to +some one in the office. “My compliments to your father. He’s one of the +lucky ones, for I suppose this will see you through. It’s Boulogne or +this—” he made as if he held a pistol to his head—“for more than I care +to think of!” + +But Clement had not waited to hear the last words. He was half-way down +the stairs with his hand on the boy’s collar. They plunged into +Cornhill, but the lad, a London-bred urchin, did not condescend to the +street for more than twenty yards or so. Then he dived into a court on +the same side of the way, crossed it, threaded a private passage +through some offices, and came out in Bishopsgate Street. Stemming the +crowd as best they could they crossed this, and by another alley and +more offices the lad convoyed his charge into Leadenhall Street. A last +rush saw them landed, panting and with their coats wellnigh torn from +their backs, on the pavement on the south side of the street, in front +of the pillared entrance, and beneath the colossal Britannia that, far +above their heads and flanked by figures of Europe and Asia, presided +over the fortunes of the greatest trading company that the world has +ever seen. Through the doors of that building—now, alas, no more—had +passed all the creators of an oriental empire, statesmen, soldiers, +merchant princes, Clive, Lawrence, Warren Hastings, Cornwallis. Yet +to-day, the mention of it calls up as often the humble figure of a +black-coated white-cravated clerk with spindle legs and a big head, who +worked within its walls and whom Clement, had he called a few months +earlier, might have met coming from his desk. + +Here Clement, had he been without a guide, would have wasted precious +minutes. But the place had no mysteries for the boy, even on this day +of confusion and alarm. Skilled in every twist and turning, he knew no +doubt. “This way,” he snapped, hurrying down a long passage which faced +the entrance, and appeared to penetrate into the bowels of the +building. Then, “No! Not that way, stupid! What are you doing?” + +But Clement’s eyes, as he followed, had caught sight of a party of +three, who, issuing from a corridor on the right at a considerable +distance before them, had as quickly disappeared down another corridor +on the left. The light was not good, but Clement had recognized one of +them, and “There he is!” he cried. “He has gone down there! Where does +that lead to?” + +“Lime Street entrance!” the lad replied curtly, and galloped after the +party, Clement at his heels. “Hurry!” he threw over his shoulder, “or +they’ll be out, and, by gum, you’ll lose him! Once out and we’re done, +sir!” + +They reached the turning the others had taken and ran down it. The +distance was but short, but it was long enough to enable Clement to +collect his wits, and to wonder, while he prepared himself for the +encounter that impended, how Arthur would bear himself at the moment of +discovery. Fortunately, the party pursued had paused for an instant in +the east vestibule before committing themselves to the street, and that +instant was fatal to them. “Bourdillon!” Clement cried, raising his +voice. “Hi! Bourdillon!” + +Arthur turned as if he had been struck, saw him and stared, his mouth +agape. “The devil!” he ejaculated. + +But to Clement’s surprise his face betrayed neither the guilt nor the +fear which he had expected to see, but only amazement that the other +should be there—and some annoyance. “You?” he said. “What the devil are +you doing here? What joke is this? Did your father think that I could +not be trusted to see things through? Or that you were likely to do +better?” + +“I want a word with you,” said Clement. He was in no mood to mince +matters. + +“But why are you here?” with rising anger. “Why have you come after me? +What’s up?” + +“I’ll tell you, if you’ll step aside.” + +“You can tell me on the coach, then, for I have no time to lose now. I +mean to catch the three o’clock coach, and——” + +“No!” Clement said firmly. “I must speak to you here.” + +But on that the broker interposed, his watch in his hand, “Anyway, I +can stop,” he said. “Who is this gentleman?” + +“Mr. Ovington, junior,” Arthur said, with something of a sneer. “I +don’t know what he has come up for, but——” + +“But, at any rate, he’ll see you safe to the coach,” the other +rejoined. “And I must be off. I give you joy of it, Mr. Bourdillon. +Fine work! Fine work, by Jove! And I shall tell Mr. Ovington so when I +see him. You’re a marvel! My compliments to your father, young +gentleman,” addressing Clement. “Glad to have met you, but I can’t stay +now. Fifty things to do, and no time to do ’em in. The world’s upside +down to-day. Good morning! Good morning!” With a wave of the hand, his +watch in the other, he turned on his heel and strode back towards the +main entrance. + +The two looked at one another and the third, who made up the party, a +burly man in a red waistcoat and a curly-brimmed Regency hat, surveyed +them both. “Well, I’m hanged,” Arthur exclaimed, reverting sourly to +his first surprise. “Is everybody mad? Must you all come to town? I +should have thought that you’d have had enough to do at the bank +without this! But as you must——” then to the officer, who was carrying +a small leather valise, the duplicate of one which Arthur held in his +hand—“wait a minute, will you? And keep an eye on us. We shall not be a +minute. Now,” drawing Clement into a corner of the lodge, five or six +paces away, where, though a stream of people continually brushed by +them, they could talk with some degree of privacy. “What is it, man? +What is it? What has bought you up? And how the deuce have you come to +be here—by this time?” + +“I posted.” + +“Posted? From Aldersbury? In heaven’s name, why? Why, man?” + +Clement pointed to the bag. “To take that over,” he said. + +“This? Take this over?” Arthur turned a deep red. “What—what the devil +do you mean, man?” + +“You ought to know.” + +“I?” + +“Yes, you,” Clement retorted, his temper rising. “It’s stolen property, +if you will have it.” And he braced himself for the fray. + +“Stolen property?” + +“Just that. And my father has commissioned me to take charge of it, and +to restore it to its owner. Now you know.” + +For one moment the handsome face, looking into his, lost some of its +color. But the next, Arthur recovered himself, the blood flowed back to +his cheeks, he laughed aloud, laughed in defiance. “Why, you—you fool!” +he replied, in bitter contempt, “I don’t know what you are talking +about. Your father—your father has sent you?” + +“It’s no good, Bourdillon,” Clement answered. “It’s all known. I’ve +seen the Squire. He missed the certificates yesterday afternoon—almost +as soon as you were gone. He sent for you, I went over, and he knows +all.” + +He thought that that would finish the matter. To his astonishment +Arthur only laughed afresh. “Knows all, does he?” he replied. “Well, +what of it? And he found out through you, did he? Then a pretty fool +you were to put your oar in! To go to him, or see him, or talk to him! +Why, man,” with bravado, though Clement fancied that his eyes wavered +and that the brag began to ring false, “what have I done? Borrowed his +money for a month, that’s all! Taken a loan of it for a month or +two—and for what? Why, to save your father and you and the whole lot of +us. Ay, and half Aldersbury from ruin! I did it and I’d do it again! +And he knows it, does he? Through your d—d interfering folly, who could +not keep your mouth shut, eh! Well, if he does, what then? What can he +do, simpleton?” + +“That’s to be seen.” + +“Nothing! Nothing, I tell you! He signed the transfer, signed it with +his own hand, and he can’t deny it. The rest is just his word against +mine.” + +“No, it’s Miss Griffin’s, too,” Clement said, marvelling at the other’s +attitude and his audacity—if audacity it could be called. + +But Arthur, though he had been far from expecting a speedy discovery, +had long ago made up his mind as to the risk he ran. And naturally he +had considered the line he would take in the event of detection. He was +not unprepared, therefore, even for Clement’s rejoinder, and, “Miss +Griffin?” he retorted, contemptuously, “Do you think that she will give +evidence against me? Or he—against a Griffin? Why, you booby, instead +of talking and wasting time here, you ought to be down on your knees +thanking me—you and your father! Thanking me, by heaven, for saving you +and your bank, and taking all the risk myself! It would have been long +before you’d have done it, my lad, I’ll answer for that!” + +“I hope so,” Clement replied with biting emphasis. “And you may +understand at once that we don’t like your way, and are not going to be +saved your way. We are not going to have any part or share in robbing +your uncle—see! If we are going to be ruined, we are going to be ruined +with clean hands! No, it’s no good looking at me like that, Bourdillon. +I may be a fool in the bank, and you may call me what names you like. +But I am your match here, and I am going to take possession of that +money.” + +“Do you think, then,” furiously, “that I am going to run away with it?” + +“I don’t know,” Clement rejoined. “I am not going to give you the +chance. I am going to take it over and return it to the owner; it will +not go near our bank. I have my father’s authority for acting as I am +acting, and I am going to carry out his directions.” + +“And he’s going to fail? To rob hundreds instead of borrowing from one +money that you know will be returned—returned with interest in a month? +You fool! You fool!” with savage scorn. “That’s your virtue, is it? +That’s your honesty that you brag so much about? Your clean hands? +You’ll rob Aldersbury right and left, bring half the town to beggary, +strip the widow and the orphan, and put on a smug face! ‘All honest and +above board, my lord!’ when you might save all at no risk by borrowing +this money for a month. Why, you make me sick! Sick!” Arthur repeated, +with an indignation that went far to prove that this really was his +opinion, and that he did honestly see the thing in that light. “But you +are not going to do it. You shall not do it,” he continued, defiantly. +“I’ll see you—somewhere else first! You’ll not touch a penny of this +money until I choose, and that will not be until I have seen your +father. If I can’t persuade you I think I can persuade him!” + +“You’ll not have the chance!” Clement retorted. He was very angry by +now, for some of the shafts which the other had loosed had found their +mark. “You’ll hand it over to me, and now!” + +“Not a penny!” + +“Then you’ll take the consequences,” was Clement’s reply. “For as +heaven sees me, I shall give you in charge, and you will go to Bow +Street. The officer is here. I shall tell him the facts, and you know +best what the result will be. You can choose, Bourdillon, but that is +my last word.” + +Arthur stared. “You are mad!” he cried. “Mad!” But he was taken aback +at last. His voice shook, and the color had left his cheeks. + +“No, I am not mad. But we will not be your accomplices. That is all. +That is the bed-rock of it,” Clement continued. “I give you two minutes +to make up your mind.” He took out his watch. + +Rage and alarm do not better a man’s looks, and Arthur’s handsome face +was ugly enough now, had Clement looked at it. Two passions contended +in him: rage at the thought that one whom he had often out-manœuvred +and always despised should dare to threaten and thwart him; and +fear—fear of the gulf that he saw gaping suddenly at his feet. For he +could not close his eyes, bold and self-confident as he was, to the +danger. He saw that if Clement said the word and made the thing public, +his position would be perilous; and if his uncle proved obdurate, it +might be desperate. His lips framed words of defiance, and he longed to +utter them; but he did not utter them. Had they been alone, it had been +another matter! But they were not alone; the Bow Street man, idly +inquisitive, was watching him, and a stream of people, immersed each in +his own perplexities, and unconscious of the tragedy at his elbow, was +continually brushing by them. + +To do him justice, Arthur had hitherto seen the thing only by his own +lights. He had looked on it as a case of all for fortune and the rest +well lost, and he had even pictured himself in the guise of a hero, who +took the risks and shared the benefits. If the act were ill, at least, +he considered, he did it in a good cause; and where, after all, was the +harm in assuming a loan of something which would never be missed, which +would be certainly repaid, and which, in his hands, would save a +hundred homes from ruin? The argument had sounded convincing at the +time. + +Then, for the risk, what was it, when examined? It was most unlikely +that the Squire would discover the trick, and if he did he could not, +hard and austere as he was, prosecute his own flesh and blood. Nay, +Arthur doubted if he could prosecute, since he had signed the transfer +with his own hand—it was no forgery. At the worst, then and if +discovery came, it would mean the loss of the Squire’s favor and +banishment from the house. Both of these things he had experienced +before, and in his blindness he did not despair of reinstating himself +a second time. He had a way with him, he had come to think that few +could resist him. He was far, very far, from understanding how the +Squire would view the act. + +But now the mists of self-deception were for the moment blown aside, +and he saw the gulf on the edge of which he stood, and into which a +word might precipitate him. If the pig-headed fool before him did what +he said he would, and preferred a charge, the India House might take it +up; and, pitiless where its interests were in question, it might prove +as inexorable as the Bank had proved in the case of Fauntleroy only the +year before. In that event, what might not be the end? His uncle had +signed the transfer, and at the time that had seemed enough; it had +seemed to secure him from the worst. But now—now when so much hung upon +it, he doubted. He had not inquired, he had not dared to inquire how +the law stood, but he knew that the law’s uncertainties were proverbial +and its ambages beyond telling. + +And the India House, like the Bank of England, was a terrible foe. Once +launched on the slope, let the cell door once close on him, he might +slip with fatal ease from stage to stage, until the noose hung dark and +fearful before him, and all the influence, all the help he could +command, might then prove powerless to save him! It was a terrible +machine—the law! The cell, the court, the gallows, with what swiftness, +what inevitableness, what certainty, did they not succeed one +another—dark, dismal stages on the downward progress! How swiftly, how +smoothly, how helplessly had that other banker traversed them! How +irresistibly had they borne him to his doom! + +He shuddered. The officer of the law, who a few minutes before had been +his servant, fee-bound, obsequious, took on another shape. He grew +stern and menacing, and was even now, it might be, observing him, and +conceiving suspicion of him. Arthur’s color ebbed at the thought and +his face betrayed him. The peril might be real or unreal—it might be +only his imagination that he had to fight. But he could not face it. He +moistened his dry lips, he forced himself to speak. He +surrendered—sullenly, with averted eyes. + +“Have it your own way,” he said. “Take it.” And with a last attempt at +bravado, “I shall appeal to your father!” + +“That is as you will,” Clement said. He was not comfortable, and +sensible of the other’s humiliation, his only wish was to bring the +scene to an end as quickly as possible. He took up the bag and signed +to the officer that they were ready. + +“It’s some hundreds short. You know that?” Arthur muttered. + +“I can’t help it.” + +“He’ll be the loser.” + +“Well—it must be so.” Yet Clement hesitated, a little taken aback. He +did not like the thought, and he paused to consider whether it might +not be his duty to return to the brokers’ and undo the bargain. But it +would be necessary to repeat all the formalities at a cost of time that +he could not measure, and it was improbable that he would be able to +recoup the whole of the loss. Rightly or wrongly, he decided to go on, +and he turned to the officer. “I take on the business now,” he said, +sharply. “Where is the hackney-coach? In Bishopsgate? Then lead the +way, will you?” And, the bag in his hand, he moved towards the crowded +street. + +But with his foot on the threshold, something spoke in him, and he +looked back. Arthur was standing where he had left him, gloom in his +face; and Clement melted. He could not leave him, he could not bear to +leave him thus. What might he not do, what might he not have it in his +mind to do? Pity awoke in him, he put himself in the other’s place, and +though there was nothing less to his taste at that moment than a +companionship equally painful and embarrassing, he went back to him. +“Look here,” he said, “come with me. Come down with me and face it out, +man, and get it over. It’s the only thing to do, and every hour you +remain away will tell against you. As it is, what is broken can be +mended—if you’re there.” + +Arthur did not thank him. Instead, “What?” he cried. “Come? Come with +you? And be dragged at your chariot wheels, you oaf! Never!” + +“Don’t be a fool,” Clement remonstrated, pity moving him more strongly +now that he had once acted on it. He laid his hand on the other’s arm. +“We’ll work together and make the best of it. I will, I swear, +Bourdillon, and I’ll answer for my father. But if I leave you here and +go home, things will be said and there’ll be trouble.” + +“Trouble the devil!” Arthur retorted, and shook off his hand. “You have +ruined the bank,” he continued, bitterly, but with less violence, “and +ruined your father and ruined me. I hope you are content. You have been +thorough, if it’s any satisfaction to you. And some day I shall know +why you’ve done it. For your honesty and your clean hands, they don’t +weigh a curse with me. You’re playing your own game, and if I come to +know what it is, I’ll spoil it yet, d—n you!” + +“I don’t mind how much you curse me, if you will come,” Clement +answered, patiently. “It’s the only thing to be done, and when you +think it over in cold blood, you’ll see that. Come, man, and put a bold +face on it. It is the brave game and the only game. Face it out now.” + +Arthur looked away, his handsome face sullen. He was striving with his +passions, battling with the maddening sense of defeat. He saw, as +plainly as Clement, that the latter’s advice was good, but to take it +and to go with him, to bear for many hours the sense of his presence +and the consciousness of his scorn, his gorge rose at the thought. Yet, +what other course was open to him? What was he going to do? He had +little money with him, and he saw but two alternatives: to blow out his +brains, or to go, hat in hand, and seek employment at the brokers’ +where he was known. He had no real thought of the former +alternative—life ran strong in him and he was sanguine; and the latter +meant the overthrow of all his plans, and a severance, final and +complete, from Ovington’s. His lot thenceforth would, he suspected, be +that of a man who had “crossed the fight,” done something dubious, put +himself outside the pale. + +Whereas if he went with Clement now, humiliation would indeed be his. +But he would still be himself, and with his qualities he might live it +down, and in the end lose nothing. + +So at last, “Go on,” he said, sulkily. “Have it your own way. At any +rate, I may spoil your game!” He shut his eyes to Clement’s generosity. +If he gave a thought to it at all, he fancied that he had some purpose +to serve, some axe of his own to grind. + +They went out into the babel of the street, and, deafened by the cries +of the hawkers, elbowed by panic-stricken men who fancied that if they +were somewhere else they might save their hoards, shouldered by stout +countrymen, adrift in the confusion like hulks in a strange sea, they +made their way into Bishopsgate Street. Here they found the +hackney-coach awaiting them, and drove by London Wall to the Bull and +Mouth. A Birmingham coach was due to start at three, and after a gloomy +wrangle they booked places by it, and, while the officer guarded the +money, they sat down in the Coffee Room to a rare sirloin and a foaming +tankard. They ate and drank in unfriendly silence, two empty chairs +intervening; and more than once Arthur repented of his decision. But +already the force of circumstances was driving them together, for the +thoughts of each had travelled forward to Aldersbury—and to Ovington’s. +What was happening there? What might not already have happened there? +Hurried feet ran by on the pavement. Ominous words blew in at the +windows. Scared men rushed in with pallid, sweating faces, ate standing +and went out again. Other men sat listless, staring at the table before +them, eating nothing, or here and there, apart in corners whispered +curses over their meat. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + + +The news of the failures which convulsed the City on that Black Monday +did not reach Aldersbury until late on the Tuesday—the tidings came in +with the mails. But hours before that, and even before the opening of +the bank, things in the town had come to a climax. The women, always +more practical than the men and less squeamish, had taken fright and +been talking. In many a back parlor in Maerdol, and the Foregate, and +on the Cop, wives had spoken their minds. They wouldn’t be scared out +of asking for their own, by any banker that ever lived, they said. Not +they! “Would you, Mrs. Gittins?” quoth one. + +“Not I, ma’am, if I had it to ask for, as your goodman has. I’d not +sleep another night before I had it tight and right.” + +“No more he shall! What, rob his children for fear of a stuffy old +man’s black looks? But I’ll see him into the bank myself, and see that +he brings it out, too! I’ll answer for that!” + +“And you’re in the right, ma’am, seeing it’s yours. Money’s not that +easy got we’re to be robbed of it. Now those notes with CO. on them +they’re money anyways, I suppose? There’s nothing can alter them, I’m +thinking. I’ve two of them at home, that my lad——” + +“Oh, Mrs. Gittins!” And superior information raised its hands in +horror. “You understand nothing at all. Don’t you know they’re the +worst of all? If those shutters—go—up at that bank,” dramatically, +“they’ll not be worth the paper they’re printed on! You take my advice +and go this very minute and buy something at Purslow’s or Bowdler’s, +and get them changed. And you’ll thank me for that word, Mrs. Gittins, +as long as you live.” + +Upset was not the word for Mrs. Gittins, who had thought herself +outside the fray. “Well, they be thieves and liars!” she gasped. “And +Dean’s too, ma’am? You don’t mean to say——” + +“I wouldn’t answer even for them,” darkly. “If you ask me, I’d let some +one else have ’em, Mrs. Gittins. Thank the Lord, I’ve none of them on +my mind!” + +And on that Mrs. Gittins waddled away, and two minutes later stood in +Purslow’s shop, inwardly “all of a twitter,” but outwardly looking as +if butter would not melt in her mouth. But, alas! Purslow’s was out of +change that day; and so, strange to say, was Bowdler’s. Most +unlucky—great scarcity of silver—Government’s fault—should they book +it? But Mrs. Gittins, although she was all of a twitter, as she +explained afterwards, was not so innocent as that, and got away without +making her purchase. + +Still, that was the way talk went, up and down Bride Hill and in +Shocklatch, at front door and back door alike. And the men were not +ill-content to be bidden. Some had passed a sleepless night, and had +already made up their minds not to pass another. Others had had a nudge +or a jog of the elbow from a knowing friend, and had been made as wise +by a raised eyebrow as by an hour’s sermon. Worse still, some had got +hold of a story first set afloat at the Gullet—the Gullet was the +ancient low-browed tavern in the passage by the Market Place, where +punch flowed of a night, and the tradesmen of the town and some of +their betters were in the habit of supping, as their fathers and +grandfathers had supped before them. Arthur’s departure, quickly +followed by Clement’s—after dark and in a post-chaise, mark you!—had +not passed without comment; and a wiseacre had been found to explain +it. At first he had confined himself to nods and winks, but being +cornered and at the same time uplifted by liquor—for though the curious +could taste saloop at the Gullet, Heathcote’s ale was more to the taste +of the habitués, when they did not run to punch—he has whispered a +word, which had speedily passed round the circle and not been slow to +go beyond it. + +“Gone! Of course they’re gone!” was the knowing one’s verdict. “And +you’ll see the old man will be gone, too, before morning, and the +strong-box with him! Open? No, they’ll not open? Never again, ten +o’clock or no ten o’clock. Well, if you must have it, I got it from +Wolley not an hour back. And he ought to know. Wasn’t he hand in glove +with them? Director of the—oh, the Railroad Shares? Waste paper! Never +were worth more, my lad. If you put your money into that, it’s on its +way to London by this time!” + +“And Boulogne to-morrow,” said another, going one better, as he knocked +the ashes out of his pipe. “I’m seventy-five down by them, and that’s +the worst and the best for me! Those that are in deeper, I’m sorry for +them, but they’ve only themselves to thank! It’s been plain this month +past what was going to happen.” + +One or two were tempted to ask why he hadn’t drawn out his seventy-five +pounds, if he had been so sure. But they refrained, having a wambling, +a sort of sick feeling in the pit of their stomachs. He was a rude, +overbearing fellow, and there was no knowing what he might not bring +out by way of retort. + +The upshot of this and of a hundred other reports which ran about the +town like wild-fire, was that a full twenty minutes before the bank +opened on the Tuesday, its doors were the butt of a hundred eyes. Many +assembled by twos and threes in the High Street and on the Market +Place, awaiting the hour; while others took up their stand in the dingy +old Butter Cross a little above the bank, where day in and day out old +crones sat knitting and the poultry women’s baskets stood on market +days. Few thought any longer of concealment; the time for that was +past, the feeling of anxiety was too deep and too widespread. Men came +together openly, spoke of their fears and cursed the banker, or +nervously fingered their pass-books, and compared the packets of notes +that they had with them. + +Some watched the historic clock, but more watched, and more eagerly, +the bank. The door, the opening of which, if it were ever opened, meant +so much to so many, must have shrunk, seasoned wood as it was, under +the intensity of the gaze fixed upon it; while the windows of the +bank-house—ugh! the pretender, to set himself up after that fashion, +while all the time he was robbing the poor!—were exposed to a fire as +constant. Not a curtain moved or a blind was lowered, but the action +was marked and analyzed, deductions drawn from it, and arguments based +upon it. That was Ovington’s bedroom! No, that. And there was his girl +at the lower window—but he would not have been likely to take her with +him in any case. + +As a fact, had they been on the watch a little earlier, they would have +been spared one anxiety. For about nine o’clock Ovington had shown +himself. He had left the house, crossed with a grave face to the Market +Place, and rung the bell at Dean’s. He had entered after a brief parley +with an amazed man-servant, had been admitted to see one of the +partners, and at a cost to his pride, which only he could measure, the +banker had stooped to ask for help. Between concerns doing business in +the same town, relations must exist and transactions must pass even +when they are in competition; and Dean’s and Ovington’s had been no +exception to the rule. But the elder bank had never forgotten that they +had once enjoyed a monopoly. They had neither abandoned their claims +nor made any secret of their hostility, and Ovington knew that it was +to the last degree unlikely that they would support him, even if they +had the power to do so. + +But he had convinced himself that it was his duty to make the attempt, +however hopeless it might seem, and however painful to himself—and few +things in his life had been more painful. To play the suppliant, he who +had raised his head so high, and by virtue of an undoubted touch of +genius had carried it so loftily, this was bad enough. But to play the +suppliant to the very persons on whom he had trespassed, and whom he +had defied, to open his distresses to those to whom he had pretended to +teach a newer and sounder practice, to acknowledge in act, if not in +word, that they had been right and he wrong, this indeed was enough to +wring the proud man’s heart, and bring the perspiration to his brow. + +Yet he performed the task with the dignity, of which, as he had risen +in the world, he had learned the trick, and which even at this moment +did not desert him. “I am going to be frank with you, Mr. Dean,” he +said when the door had closed on the servant and the two stood eye to +eye. “There is going, I fear, to be a run on me to-day, and +unfortunately I have been disappointed in a sum of twelve thousand +pounds, which I expected to receive. I do not need the whole, +two-thirds of the sum will meet all the demands which are likely to be +made upon me, and to cover that sum I can lodge undeniable security, +bills with good names—I have a list here and you can examine it. I +suggest, Mr. Dean, that in your own interests as well as in mine you +help me. For if I am compelled to close—and I cannot deny that I may +have to close, though I trust for a short time only—it is certain that +a very serious run will be made upon you.” + +Mr. Dean’s eyes remained cold and unresponsive. “We are prepared to +meet it,” he answered frostily. “We are not afraid.” He was a tall man, +thin and dry, without a spark of imagination, or enterprise. A man +whose view was limited to his ledger, and who, if he had not inherited +a business, would never have created one. + +“You are aware that Poles’ and Williams’s have failed?” + +“Yes. I believe that our information is up to date.” + +“And that Garrard’s at Hereford closed yesterday?” + +“I am sorry to hear it.” + +“The times are very serious, Mr. Dean. Very serious.” + +“We have foreseen that,” the other replied. They were both standing. +“The truth is, we are paying for a period of reckless trading, +encouraged in my humble opinion, Mr. Ovington”—he could not refrain +from the stab—“by those who should have restrained it.” + +Ovington let that pass. He had too much at stake to retort. “Possibly,” +he said. “Possibly. But we have now to deal with the present—as it +exists. It is on public rather than on private grounds that I appeal to +you, Mr. Dean. A disaster threatens the community. I appeal to you to +help me to avert it. As I have said, securities shall be placed in your +hands, more than sufficient to cover the risk. Approved securities to +your satisfaction.” + +But the other shook his head. He was enjoying his triumph—a triumph +beyond his hopes. “What you suggest,” he said, a faint note of sarcasm +in his tone, “comes to this, Mr. Ovington—that we pool resources? That +is how I understand you?” + +“Practically.” + +“Well, I am afraid that in justice to our customers I must reply that +we cannot do that. We must think of them first, and of ourselves next.” + +Ovington took up his hat. The other’s tone was coldly decisive. Still +he made a last effort. “Here is the list,” he said. “Perhaps if you and +your brother went over it at your leisure?” + +But Dean waved the list away. “It would be useless,” he said. “Quite +useless. We could not entertain the idea.” He was already anticipating +the enjoyment with which he would tell his brother the news. + +With a heavy heart, Ovington replaced the list in his breast pocket. +“Very good,” he said. His face was grave. “I did not expect—to be +frank—any other answer, Mr. Dean. But I thought it was my duty to see +you. I regret your decision. Good-morning.” + +“Good-morning,” the other banker replied, and he rang for his +man-servant. + +“They’re gone,” he reflected complacently, as the door closed behind +his visitor. “Smashed, begad!” and with the thought he rid himself of a +sense of inferiority which had more than once troubled him in his +rival’s presence. He sat down to eat his breakfast with a good +appetite. The day would be a trying one, but Dean’s, at any rate, was +safe. Dean’s, thank God, had never put its hand out farther than it +could draw it back. How pleased his brother would be! + +That was the worst, immeasurably the worst, of Ovington’s experiences, +but it was not the only painful interview that was in store for him +before the bank opened that morning. Twice, men, applying, stealthy and +importunate, at the back door, forced their way in to him. They were +not of those who had claims on the bank and feared to be losers by it. +They were in debt to it, but desperate and pushed for money they saw in +the bank’s necessity their opportunity. They—one of the two was +Purslow—required only small sums, and both had conceived the idea that, +as the bank was about to fail, it would be all one to Ovington whether +he obliged them or not. It would be but a hundred or so the less for +the creditors, and as the bank had sold their pledged stocks they +thought that it owed them something. They had still influence, their +desperate straits were not yet known; if he obliged them they would do +this and that and the other—nebulous things—for him. + +Ovington, of course, could do nothing for them, but to harden his heart +against their appeals was not a good preparation for the work before +him, and when he entered the bank five minutes before ten, he had to +brace himself in order to show an unmoved front to the clerks. + +He need not have troubled himself. Rodd knew all, and the two lads, on +their way to the bank that morning, had been badgered out of such +powers of observation as they possessed. They had been followed, +cornered, snatched in this direction and that, rudely questioned, even +threatened. Were they going to open? Where was the gaffer? Was he gone? +They had been wellnigh bothered out of their lives, and more than once +had been roughly handled. It seemed as if all Aldersbury was against +them—and they did not like it. But Ovington had the knack of attaching +men to him, the lads were loyal, and they had returned only hard words +to those who waylaid them. Pay? They could pay all the dirty money in +Aldersbury! Mr. Ovington? Well, they’d see. They’d see where he was, +and be licking his boots in a week’s time. And they’d better take their +hands off them! The stouter even threatened fisticuffs. A little more +and he’d give his questioners a lick over the chops. Come now, give +over, or he’d show them a trick of Dutch Sam’s they wouldn’t like. + +The two arrived at the bank, panting and indignant, their coats half +off their backs; and Rodd, whose impeccable respectability no one had +ventured to assail, had to say a few sharp words before they settled +down and the counter assumed the calm and orderly aspect that, in his +eyes, the occasion required. He was himself simmering with indignation, +but he let no sign of it appear. He had made all his arrangements +beforehand, seen every book in its place, and the cash where it could +be handled—and a decent quantity, sufficient to impose on the +vulgar—laid in sight. After a few words had been exchanged between him +and Ovington, the latter retired to the desk behind the curtain, and +the other three took their places. Nothing remained but to watch—the +seniors with trepidation, the juniors with a not unpleasant +excitement—the minute hand of the clock. It wanted three minutes of +ten. + +And already, though from their places behind the counter the clerks +could not see it, the watching groups before the bank had grown into a +crowd. It lined the opposite pavement, it hung a fringe two-deep on the +steps of the Butter Cross, it extended into the Market Place, it +stretched itself half-way down the hill. And it made itself heard. The +voices of those who passed along the pavement, the scraps of talk half +caught, the sudden exclamation, merged in a murmur not loud but +continuous, and fraught with something of menace. Once, on the fringe +of the gathering, there was an outburst of booing, but it ceased as +suddenly as it had risen, suppressed by the more sober element; and +once a hand tried the doors, a voice surprisingly loud, cried, “They’re +fast enough!” and footsteps retreated across the pavement. The driver +of a cart descending the hill called to “Make way! Make way!” and that, +too, reached those within almost as plainly as if it had been said in +the room. Something, too, happened on it, for a shout of laughter +followed. + +It wanted two—it wanted one minute of ten. Rodd gave the order to open. + +The younger clerk stepped forward and drew the bolts. He turned the +key, and opened one leaf of the door. The other was thrust open from +without. The clerk slid under the counter to his place. They came in. + +They came in, three abreast, elbowing and pushing one another in their +efforts to be first. In a moment they were at the counter, darting +suspicious glances at the clerks and angry looks at one another, and +with them entered an atmosphere of noise and contention, of trampling +feet and peevish exclamations. The bank, so still a moment before, was +filled with clamor. There were tradesmen among them, a little uncertain +of themselves and thankful that Ovington was not visible, and one or +two bluff red-faced farmers who cared for nobody, and slapped their +books down on the counter; and there were also a few, of the better +sort, who looked straight before them and endeavored to see as little +as possible—with a sprinkling of small fry, clerks and lodging-house +keepers and a coal-hawker, each with his dirty note gripped tight in +his fist. The foremost rapped on the counter and cried “Here, Mister, +I’m first!” “No, I!” “Here, you, please attend to me!” They pressed +their claims rudely, while those in the rear uttered impatient +remonstrances, holding their books or their notes over the heads of +others in the attempt to gain attention. In a moment the bank was +full—full to the doors, full of people, full of noise. + +Rodd’s cold eye travelled over them, measured them, weighed them. He +was filled with an immense contempt for them, for their folly, their +greed, their selfishness. He raised his hand for silence. “This is not +a cock-fight,” he said in a tone as withering as his eye. “This is a +bank. When you gentlemen have settled who comes first. I will attend to +you.” And then, as the noise only broke out afresh and more loudly, +“Well, suppose I begin at the left hand,” he said. He passed to that +end of the counter. “Now, Mr. Buffery, what can I do for you. Got your +book?” + +But Mr. Buffery had not got his book, as Rodd had noticed. On that the +cashier slowly drew from a shelf below the counter a large ledger, and, +turning the leaves, began a methodical search for the account. + +But this was too much for the patience of the man last on the right, +who saw six before him, and had left no one to take care of his shop. +“But, see here,” he cried imperiously. “Mr. Rodd, I’m in a hurry! If +that young man at the desk could attend to me I shouldn’t take long.” + +Rodd, keeping his place in the book with his finger, looked at him. “Do +you want to pay in, Mr. Bevan?” he asked gravely. + +“No. I want forty-two, seven, ten. Here’s my cheque.” + +“You want cash?” + +“That’s it.” + +“Well, I’m the cashier in this bank. No one else pays cash. That’s the +rule of the bank. Now, Mr. Buffery,” leisurely turning back to the page +in the ledger, and running his finger down it. “Thirty-five, two, six. +That’s right, is it?” + +“That’s right, sir.” Buffery knuckled his forehead gratefully. + +“You’ve brought a cheque?” + +But Buffery had not brought a cheque. Rodd shrugged his shoulders, +called the senior clerk forward, and entrusted the customer, who was no +great scholar, to his care. Then he closed the ledger, returned it +carefully to the shelf, and turned methodically to the next in the +line. “Now, Mr. Medlicott, what do you want? Are you paying, or +drawing?” + +Mr. Medlicott grinned, and sheepishly handed in a cheque. “I’ll draw +that,” he mumbled, perspiring freely, while from the crowd behind him, +shuffling their feet and breathing loudly, there rose a laugh. Rodd +brought out the ledger again, and verified the amount. “Right,” he said +presently, and paid over the sum in Dean’s notes and gold. + +The man fingered the notes and hesitated. Rodd, about to pass to the +next customer, paused. “Well, ain’t they right?” he said. “Dean’s +notes. Anything the matter with them?” + +The man took them without more, and Rodd paid the next and the next in +the same currency, knowing that it would be remarked. “I’ll give them a +jog while I can,” he thought. “They deserve it.” And, sure enough, +every note of that bank that he paid out was presented across the +counter at Dean’s within the hour. It gave Mr. Dean something to think +about. + +No one, in truth, could have done the work better than Rodd. He was so +cool, so precise, so certain of himself. Nothing put him out. He +plodded through his usual routine at his usual leisurely pace. He +recked nothing of the impatient shuffling crowd on the other side of +the counter, nothing of the greedy eyes that grudged every motion of +his hand. They might not have existed for him. He looked through them. +A plodder, he had no nerves. He was the right man in the right place. + +At noon, taking with him a slip of paper, he went to report to +Ovington, who had retired to the parlor. They had paid out seventeen +hundred pounds in the two hours. At this rate they could go on for a +long time. There was only one large account in the room—should he call +it up and pay it? It might have a good effect. + +Ovington agreed, and Rodd returned to the counter. His eye sought out +Mr. Meredith. “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said austerely. +“But I suppose your time is worth something. If you’ll pass up your +cheque I’ll let you go.” + +The small fry clamored, but Rodd looked through them. “Eight hundred +and ten,” said Meredith with a sigh of relief, passing his cheque over +the heads of those before him. He was not ashamed of his balance, but +for the moment he was ashamed of himself. He began to suspect that he +had let himself be carried away with a lot of silly small chaps—yet his +fingers itched to hold the money. + +Rodd confirmed the account, fluttered a packet of notes, counted them +thrice and slowly, and tossed them to Mr. Meredith. “I make them +right,” he said, “but you’d better count them.” Then, to one or two who +were muttering something about illegal preference, “Bless your innocent +hearts,” he said, “you’ll all be paid!” And he took the next in order +as if nothing had happened. + +It had its effect, and so had a thing that half an hour later broke the +dreary monotony of paying out. A man at the back who had just pressed +in—for the crowd, reinforced by new arrivals, was very nearly as large +as at the hour of opening—raised his voice, complaining bitterly that +he could not stay there all day, and that he wanted to pay in some +money and go about his business. + +There was a stir of surprise. A dozen turned to look at him. + +“Good lord!” someone exclaimed. + +Only Rodd was unmoved. “Get a pay slip,” he said to the senior clerk, +who had been pretty well employed filling in cheques for the illiterate +and examining notes. “Now, gentlemen, fair play. Let his pass through. +Oh, it’s Mr. Walker, is it? How much, Mr. Walker?” + +“Two seven six, ten,” said Mr. Walker, laying a heavy canvas bag on the +counter. Rodd untied the neck of the bag and upset the contents, notes +and gold, before him. He counted the money with professional deftness, +whilst the clerk filled in the slip. “How’s your brother?” he asked. + +“Pretty tidy.” + +“And how are things in Wolverhampton?” + +“So, so! But not so bad as they were.” + +“Thank you. You’re the only sensible man I’ve seen to-day, and we shall +not forget it. Now, gentlemen, next please.” + +Mr. Walker was closely inspected as he pushed his way out, and one or +two were tempted to say a word of warning to him, but thought better of +it, and held their peace. About two in the afternoon a Mr. Hope of +Bretton again broke the chain of withdrawals. He paid in two hundred. +Him a man did pluck by the sleeve, muttering “Have a care, man! Have a +care what you’re doing!” But Mr. Hope, a bluff tradesman-looking person +only answered, “Thank ye, but I am up to snuff. If you ask me I think +you’re a silly set of fools.” + +News of him and of what he had said, and indeed of much more than he +had said, ran quickly through the crowd that wondered and waited all +day before the bank; that snapped up every rumor, and devoured the +wildest inventions. The bank would close at one! It would close at +three—the speaker had it on the best authority! It would close when so +and so had been paid! Ovington, the rascal, had fled. He was in the +bank, white as a sheet. He had attempted suicide. There was a warrant +out for him. The crowd moved hither and thither, like the colors in a +kaleidoscope. On its outer edges there was horseplay. Children chased +one another up and down the Butter Cross steps, fell over the old women +who knitted, were cuffed by the men, driven out by the Beadle—only to +return again. + +But under the trivialities there was tense excitement. Now and again a +man who had been slow to take the alarm forced his way, pale and +agitated, through the crowd, to vanish within the doors; or a +countryman, whom the news had only just reached in his boosey-close or +his rickyard—as they call a stackyard in Aldshire—rode up the hill, hot +with haste and cursing those who blocked his road, flung his reins to +the nearest bystander, and plunged into the bank as into water. And on +the fringe, hiding themselves in doorways, or in the dark mouths of +alleys, were men who stood biting their nails, heedless or unconscious +of what passed about them; or who came staggering up from the Gullet +with stammering tongues and eyes bloodshot with drink—men who a year +before had been well-to-do, sober citizens, fathers of families. All +one to them now whether Ovington’s stood or fell! They had lost their +all, and to show for it and for all that they had ever been worth had +but a few pieces of printed paper, certificates, or what not, which +they took out and read in corners, as if something of hope might still, +at the thousandth time of reading be derived from them, or which they +brandished aloft in the tavern with boasts of what they would have +gained if trickery had not robbed them. So, though the crowd had its +humors and was swept at times by gusts of laughter, the spectre of ruin +stood, gaunt and bleak, in the background, and many a heart quailed +before grim visions of bailiffs and forced sales and the workhouse—the +workhouse, that in Aldersbury, where they were nothing if not genteel, +they called the House of Industry. + +And Ovington, as he sat over his books, or peered from time to time +from a window, knew this, and felt it. He would not have been human if +he had not thought with longing of that twelve thousand, the use of +which had so nearly been his; ay, and with passing regret—for after all +was not the greatest good for the greatest number sound morality?—of +the self-denying ordinance which had robbed him of it. But harassed and +heavy-hearted as he was, he remained master of himself, and his bearing +was calm and dignified, when at a quarter to four, he showed himself, +for the first time that day, in the bank. + +It was still half-full, and the approach of closing time and the +certainty that they could not all be paid that day, along with the fear +that the doors would not open on the morrow, mightily inflamed those +who were not in the front rank. They clamored to be paid, brandishing +their books or their notes. Some tried prayers, addressing Rodd by +name, pleading their poverty or their services. Others reproached him +for his slowness, and swore that it was purposeful. And they would not +be still, they pushed and elbowed one another, rose on tiptoe and +shuffled their feet, quarrelled among themselves. + +Their voices filled the bank, passed beyond it, were heard in the +street. Rodd worked on bravely, but the perspiration stood on his brow, +while the clerks, flurried and nervous, looked now at the clock and now +at the malcontents whose violence and restlessness seemed to treble +their numbers. + +Then it was that Ovington came in, and on the instant the noise died +down, and there was silence. He advanced without speaking to within a +few feet of the counter. He was cold, composed, upright, dignified. And +still he did not speak. He surveyed his customers, his spectacles in +his hand. His eyes took in each. At length, “Gentlemen,” he said +quietly, “there is no need for this excitement. You will all be paid. +We are shorthanded to-day, but I had no reason to suppose that those +who know me as well as most of you do know me—and there are some here +who have known me all my life—would distrust me. However, as we are +shorthanded, the bank will remain open to-day until half-past four. Mr. +Rodd, you will see, if you please, that the requirements of those now +in the room are met. I need not add that the bank will open at the +usual time to-morrow. Good-day, gentlemen.” + +They raised a feeble cheer in their relief, and in the act of turning +away, he paused. “Mr. Ricketts,” he said, singling out one, “you are +here about those bills? They are important. If you will bring them +through to me—yes, if you please?” + +The man whom he had addressed, a banker’s clerk, followed him +thankfully into the parlor. His uneasiness had been great, for, though +he had not joined in his neighbors’ threats, his employers’ claim +exceeded those of all the rest put together. + +“We daren’t wait, Mr. Ovington,” he said apologetically. “Our people +want it. I take it, it is all right, sir?” + +“Quite,” Ovington said. “You have them here? What is the total?” + +“Eighteen hundred and twenty-eight, six, eight, sir.” + +Ovington examined the bills with a steady hand and wrote the amount on +a slip of paper. He rang the bell, and the younger clerk came in. +“Bring me that,” he said “as quickly as you can.” Then to his visitor, +“My compliments to Mr. Allwood. Will you tell him that his assistance +has been of material use to me, and that I shall not forget it? I was +sorry to hear of Gibbons’ failure.” + +“Yes, sir. Very unfortunate. Very unfortunate, indeed?” + +“He is no loser by them, I hope?” + +“Well, he is, sir, I am sorry to say.” + +“Ah, I am sorry.” And when the lad had brought in the money, and the +account was settled, “Are you returning to-night?” + +“No, sir. My instructions were to travel by daylight.” + +“Then you have an opportunity of stating outside, that you have been +paid? I am anxious, of course, to stop this foolish run.” + +The man said he would not fail to do so, and Ovington thanked him and +saw him out by the private door. Then, taking with him certain books +and the slips of paper that Rodd had sent in to him at hourly +intervals, he went into the dining-room. Things were no worse than he +had expected, but they were no better. Or, yes, they were, a few +hundreds better. + +Betty was there, awaiting him with an anxious face. She had had no +slips to inform her from hour to hour how things went, and she had been +too wise to intrude on her father. But many times she had looked from +the windows on the scene before the bank, on the shifting crowd, the +hasty arrivals, the groups that clung unwearied to the steps of the +Butter Cross; and though poverty—she was young—had few terrors for her, +she comprehended only too well what her father was suffering—ay, and, +though it was a minor evil, what a blister to his pride was this +gathering of his neighbors to witness his fall! + +So, though she could have put on an appearance of cheerfulness, she +felt that it would not accord with his mood, and instead, “Well, +father,” she said, with loving anxiety, “is it bad or good?” And, as he +sank wearily into his chair, she passed her arm about his shoulders. + +“Well,” he replied, with the sigh of a tired man, “it is pretty much as +we expected. I don’t know, child, that it is better or worse. But Rodd +will be here presently and he will tell us. He must be worn out, poor +chap. He has borne the brunt of the day, and he has borne it famously. +Famously! I offered to take his place at the dinner-hour but he would +not have it. He has not left the counter for five minutes at a time, +and he has shown splendid nerve.” + +“Then you have not missed the others much?” + +“No. We did not wish to pay out too quickly. Well—let us have some tea. +Rodd will be glad of it. He has not tasted food since ten o’clock.” + +“Did you go in, father?” + +“For a minute,” smiling, “to scold them.” + +“Oh, they are horrid!” + +“No, they are just frightened. Frightened, child! We should do the same +in their place.” + +“No,” Betty said stoutly. “I shouldn’t! And I could never like anyone +who did! Never!” + +“Did what?” + +“Took money from you when you wanted it so much! I think they’re mean! +Mean! And I shall never think anything else!” Betty’s eyes sparkled, +she was red with indignation. But the heat passed, and now she was +paler than usual, she looked sad. Perhaps she had forgotten how things +were, and now remembered; or perhaps—at any rate the glow faded and she +was again the Betty of late days—a tired and depressed Betty. + +She had seen to it that the fire was clear and the lamps burned +brightly; had she not visited the room a dozen times to see to it? And +now the curtains had been drawn, the tea-tray had come in, the kettle +sang on the hob, the silver and china, reflecting the lights, twinkled +a pleasant welcome to the tired man. Or they would have, if he could +have believed that the comfort about him was permanent. But how +long—the doubt tortured him—would it be his? How long could he ensure +it for others? The waiting, anxious crowd, the scared faces, the +clamorous customers, these were the things he saw, the things that +blotted out the room and darkened the future. These were the only +realities, the abiding, the menacing facts of life. He let his chin +fall on his hand, and gazed moodily into the fire. A Napoleon of +finance? Ay, but a Napoleon, crushed in the making, whose Waterloo had +met him at Arcola! + +He straightened himself when Rodd’s step was heard in the passage, and +he rose to take the last slip from the cashier’s hand. + +“Sit down, man, sit down,” he said. “Betty, give Rodd a cup of tea. He +must need it. Well?” putting on his glasses to consult the slip. + +“We’ve paid out thirteen thousand two hundred and ten, sir.” + +“Through one pair of hands! Well done! A fine feat, Rodd, and I shall +not forget it. Umph!” thoughtfully, “that is just about what we +expected. Neither much better nor much worse. What we did not +expect—but sit down and drink your tea, man. Betty!” + +“Yes, father.” + +“Pass the toast to him. He deserves all we can do for him. What we did +not expect,” reverting to the slip with a wrinkled brow, “were the +payments in. Four hundred and seventy odd! I don’t understand that. No +other sign of returning credit, Rodd? Was it some one we’ve obliged? +Very unlikely, for long memories are rare at such times as these. Who +was it?” + +Rodd was busy with his toast. Betty had passed it to him with a polite +smile. “There were two, sir, I think,” he said. He spoke as if he were +not quite certain. + +The banker looked up in surprise. “Think!” he said. “Why, you must +know.” + +“Well, there were two, sir, I am sure. But paying out all day——” + +“You’d remember who paid in, I should think. When there were but two. +You must remember who they were.” + +“One was from Wolverhampton, I know,” Rodd replied, “Mr. Watkins—or +Walker.” + +“Walker or Watkins? Of Wolverhampton? I don’t remember any customer of +that name. And the other? Who was he?” + +“From somewhere Bretton way. I could look him up.” + +The banker eyed Rodd closely. Had the day’s work been too much for him? +“You could look him up?” he rejoined. “Why, man, of course you could. +Four hundred and seventy! A bank has failed before now for lack of +less. All good notes, I suppose? No Gibbons’ or Garrards’, eh?” an idea +striking him. “But you’d see to that. If some one had the idea of +washing his hands that way—and the two banks already closed!” + +But Rodd shook his head. “No, sir. It was in gold and Bank of England +notes. I saw to that.” + +“Then I don’t understand it,” the banker decided. He sat pondering—the +thing had taken hold of his mind. Was it a trick? Did they mean to draw +out the amount next morning? But, no they would not risk the money, and +he would stand no worse if they drew it. An enemy could not have done +it, then. A friend? But such friends were rare and the sum was no +trifle. The amount was more than he had received for his plate, the +proceeds of which had already gone into the cash-drawer. He pondered. + +Meanwhile, “Another cup of tea?” Betty said politely. And as Rodd, +avoiding her eyes, handed her his cup, “It’s so nice to hear of +strangers helping us,” she continued with treacherous sweetness. “One +feels so grateful to them.” + +Rodd muttered something, his mouth full of toast. + +“It’s so fine of them to trust us, when they don’t know how things +are—as we do, of course. I think it is splendid of them,” Betty +continued. “Father, you must bring them to me, some day, when all these +troubles are over—that I may thank them.” + +But her father had risen to his feet. He was standing on the hearthrug, +a queer look on his face. “I think that they are here now,” he said. +“Rodd, why did you do it?” + +The cashier started. “I, sir? I don’t think I——” + +“Oh, you understand, man!” The banker was much moved. “You understand +very well. Walker of Wolverhampton? You’ve a brother at Wolverhampton, +I remember, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen him. This is your three +hundred, and all you could add to it. My G—d, man——” Ovington was +certainly moved, for he seldom swore, “but if we go you’ll lose it! You +must draw it out before the bank opens to-morrow.” + +“No,” said Rodd, who had turned red. “I shall do nothing of the sort, +sir. It’s as safe there as anywhere. I’m not afraid.” + +“But I don’t understand,” Betty said, looking from one to the other. It +couldn’t be true. It could not be that she had made such a—a dreadful +mistake! + +“There’s no Mr. Walker,” her father explained, “and no gentleman from +Bretton. They are both Rodd. It’s his money.” + +“Do you mean——” in a very small voice. “I thought that Mr. Rodd took +his money out!” + +“Only to put it in again when he thought that it might help us more. +But we can’t have it. He mustn’t lose his money, all I expect that +he——” + +“It came out of the bank,” Rodd said, “And there’s where it belongs, +and I’m not going,” stubbornly, “to take it out. I’ve been here ten +years—very comfortable, sir. And if the bank closed where’d I be? It’s +my interest that it shouldn’t close.” + +The banker turned to the fire and put one foot on the fender as if to +warm it. “Well, let it stay,” he said, but his voice was unsteady. “If +we have to close you’ll have done a silly thing—that’s all. But if we +don’t, you’ll not have been such a fool!” + +“Oh, we shall not close,” Rodd boasted, and he gulped down his tea, his +ears red. + +There was an embarrassing silence. Ovington turned. “Well, Betty,” he +said, attempting a lighter tone. “I thought that you were going to +thank—Mr. Walker of Wolverhampton?” + +But Betty, murmuring something about an order for the servants, had +already hurried from the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + + +That the Squire suffered was certain; whether he suffered more deeply +in pocket or in pride, whether he felt more poignantly the loss of his +hoarded thousands or the dishonor that Arthur had done to his name, +even Josina could not say. His ruling passions through life had been +pride of race and the desire to hoard, and it is certain that sorely +wounded in both points he suffered as acutely as age with its indurated +feelings can suffer. But after the first outburst, after the +irrepressible cry of anguish which the discovery of his nephew’s +treachery had wrung from him, he buried himself in silence. He sat +morose and unheeding, his hands clasping his stick, his sightless eyes +staring at the fire. He gave no sign, and sought no sympathy. He was +impenetrable. Even Josina would not guess what were his thoughts. + +Nor did she try to learn. The misfortune was too great, the injury on +one side beyond remedy, and the girl had the sense to see this. She +hung over him, striving to anticipate his wishes and by mute signs of +affection to give him what comfort she might. But she was too wise to +trouble him with words or to attempt to administer directly to a mind +which to her was a mystery, darkened by the veil of years that +separated them. + +She was sure of one thing, however, that he would not wish anything to +be said in the house; and she said nothing. But she soon found that she +must set a guard also on her looks. On the Tuesday Mrs. Bourdillon +“looked in,” as it was her habit to look in three or four times a week. +She had usually some errand to put forward, and her pretext on this +occasion was the Squire’s Christmas list. Near as he was, he thought +much of old customs, and he would not for anything have omitted to brew +a cask of October for his servants’ Christmas drinking, or to issue the +doles of beef to the men and of blankets to the women which had gone +forth from the Great House since the reign of Queen Anne. Mrs. +Bourdillon was never unwilling to gain a little reflected credit, or to +pay in that way for an hour’s job-work, so that there were few years in +which she did not contrive to graft a name or two on the list. + +That was apparently her business this afternoon. But Josina, whose +faculties were quickened by the pity which she felt for the unconscious +mother, soon perceived that this was not her only or, indeed, her real +motive. The visitor was not herself. She was nervous, the current of +her small talk did not run with its usual freedom, she let her eyes +wander, she broke off and began again. By and by as the strain +increased she let her anxiety appear, and at last, “I wish you would +tell me,” she said, “what is the matter with Arthur. He is not open +with me,” raising her eyes with a piteous look to Josina’s face. +“And—and he’s something on his mind, I’m sure. I noticed it on Sunday, +and I am sure you know. Is there”—and Josina saw with compassion that +her mittened hands were trembling—“is there anything—wrong?” + +The girl had her answer ready, for she had already decided what she +would say. “I am afraid that they are anxious about the bank,” she +said. “There is what they call a ‘run’ upon it.” + +The explanation was serious enough, but, strange to say, Mrs. +Bourdillon looked relieved. “Oh! And I suppose that they all have to be +there?” + +“Yes, I suppose so.” + +“And that’s all?” + +“I am afraid that that is enough.” + +“But—but you don’t mean that there may be a—a failure?” + +“I hope not. Indeed, I hope not. But people are so silly! They think +that they can all have their money out at once. And of course,” Josina +continued, speaking from a height of late-acquired knowledge, “a bank +lends its money out and cannot get it in again in a minute. But I’ve no +doubt that it will be all right. Mr. Ovington is very clever.” + +Mrs. Bourdillon sighed. “That’s bad,” she said. And she seemed to think +it over. “You know that all our money is in the bank now, Josina! I +don’t know what we should do if it were lost! I don’t know what we +should do!” But, all the same, Josina was clear that this was not the +fear that her visitor had had in her mind when she entered the room. +“Nor why Arthur was so set upon putting it in,” the good lady +continued. “For goodness knows,” bridling, “we were never in trade. Mr. +Bourdillon’s grandfather—but that was in the West Indies and quite +different. I never heard anyone say it wasn’t. So where Arthur got it +from I am sure I don’t know. And, oh dear, your father was so angry +about it, he will never forgive us if it is lost.” + +“I don’t think that you need be afraid,” Josina said, as lightly as she +could. “It’s not lost yet, you know. And of course we must not say a +word to anyone. If people thought that we were afraid——” + +“We? But I can’t see”—Mrs. Bourdillon spoke with sudden sharpness, +“what you have to do with it?” + +Josina blushed. “Of course we are all interested,” she said. + +Mrs. Bourdillon saw the blush. “You haven’t—you and Arthur—made it up?” +she ventured. + +Josina shook her head. + +“But why not? Now—now that he’s in trouble, Josina?” + +“I couldn’t! I couldn’t, indeed.” + +The mother’s face fell, and she sighed. She stared for awhile at the +faded carpet. When she looked up again, the old anxiety peeped from her +eyes. “And you don’t think that—there’s anything else?” she asked, as +she prepared to rise. + +“I am afraid that that is enough—to make them all anxious!” + +But later, when the other was gone, Josina wondered. What had aroused +the mother’s misgivings? What had brought that look of alarm to her +eyes? Arthur’s sudden departure might have vexed her, but it could +hardly have done more, unless he had dropped some hint, or she had +other grounds for suspicion? But that was impossible, Josina decided. +And she dismissed the thought. + +She went slowly upstairs. After all she had troubles enough of her own. +She had her father to think of—and Clement. They were her world, +hemispheres which, though her whole happiness depended upon it, she +could hardly hope to bring together, divided as they were by an ocean +of prejudice. How her father now regarded Clement, whether his hatred +of the name were in the slightest degree softened, whether under the +blow which had stunned him, he thought of her lover at all, or +remembered that it was he, and not Arthur, who had saved his life, she +had no notion. + +Alas! it would be but natural if the name of Ovington were more hateful +to him than ever. He would attribute—she felt that he did attribute +Arthur’s fall to them. He had said that it was the poison of trade, +their trade, their cursed trade, which had entered his veins, and, +contaminating the honest Griffin blood, had destroyed him. It was they +who had ruined him! + +And then, as if the stain were not enough, it was from them again that +it could not be hid. They knew of it, they must know of it. There must +be interviews about it, dealings about it, dealings with them. They +might feign horror of it, they who in the Squire’s eyes were the real +cause of it. They might hold up their hands at the fact and pity him! +Pity him! If anything, anything, she was sure, could add to her +father’s mortification, it was that the Ovingtons were involved in the +matter. + +With every stair, the girl’s heart sank lower. Once more in her +father’s room, she watched him. But she was careful not to let her +solicitude appear, and though she was assiduous for his comfort and +conduced to it by keeping Miss Peacock and the servants at a distance, +she said almost as little to him as he to her. From time to time he +sighed, but it was only when she reminded him that it was his hour for +bed that he let a glimpse of his feelings appear. + +“Ay,” he muttered, “I’m better there! Better there, girl!” And with one +hand on his stick and the other on his chair he raised himself up by +his arms as old men do. “I can hide my head there.” + +She lent him her shoulder across the room and strove by the dumb show +of her love to give him what comfort she might, what sympathy. But +tears choked her, and she thought with anguish that he was conquered. +The unbreakable old man was broken. Shame and not the loss of his money +had broken him. + +It would not have surprised her had he kept his bed next day. But +either there was still some spring of youth in him, or old age had +hardened him, for he rose as usual, though the effort was apparent. He +ate his breakfast in gloomy silence, and about an hour before noon he +declared it his will to go out. Josina doubted if he was fit for it, +but whatever the Squire willed his womenfolk accepted, and she offered +to go with him. He would not have her, he would have Calamy—perhaps +because Calamy knew nothing. “Take me to the stable,” he said. And +Josina thought “He is going to see the old mare—to bid her farewell.” + +It certainly was to his old favorite that he went, and he stood for +some minutes in her box, feeling her ears and passing his hand between +her forelegs to learn if she were properly cleaned; while the grey +smelled delicately about his head, and nuzzled with her lips in his +pockets. + +“Ay,” said Calamy after a while, “she were a trig thing in her time, +but it’s past. And what are the legs of a horse when it’s a race wi’ +ruin?” + +“What’s that?” The Squire let his stick fall to the ground. “What do +you mean?” he asked, and straightened himself, resting his hand on the +mare’s withers. + +“They be all trotting and cantering,” Calamy continued with zest, as he +picked up the stick, “trotting and cantering into town since morning, +them as arn’t galloping. They be covering all the roads wi’ the +splatter and sound of them. But I’m thinking they’ll lose the race.” + +“What do you mean?” the Squire growled. Something of his old asperity +had come back to him. + +“Mean, master? Why, that Ovington’s got the shutters up, or as good. +Their notes is no better than last year’s leaves, I’m told. And all the +country riding and spurring in on the chance of getting change for ’em +before it’s too late! Such-like fools I never see—as if the townsfolk +will have left anything for them! Watkins o’ the Griffin, he’s three +fi-pun notes of theirs, and he was away before it was light, and Blick +the pig-killer and the overseer with him, in his tax-cart. And parson +he’s gone on his nag—trust Parson for ever thinking o’ the moth and +rust except o’ Sunday! They’ve tithe money of his. And the old maid as +live genteel in the villa at the far end o’ the street, she’ve hired +farmer Harris’s cart—white as a sheet she was, I’m told! Wouldn’t even +stay to have the mud wiped off, and she so particular! And there’s +three more of ’em started to walk it. I’m told the road is black with +them—weavers from the Valleys and their missuses, every sort of ’em +with a note in his fist! There was two of them came here, wanted to see +Mr. Arthur—thought he could do something for ’em.” + +“D——n Mr. Arthur!” said the Squire. But inwardly he was thinking, +“There goes the last chance of my money! A drowning man don’t think +whether the branch he can reach is clean or dirty! But there never was +a chance. That young chap came to bamboozle me and gain time, and +that’s their play.” Aloud, “Give me my stick,” he said. “Who told +you—this rubbish?” + +“Why, it’s known at the Cross! The rooks be cawing it. Ovington is over +to Bullon or some-such foreign place, these two days! And Dean he won’t +be long after him! They’re talking of him, too. Ay, Parson should ha’ +thought of the poor instead of laying up where thieves break through +and steal. But we’re all things of a day!” + +“Take me to the house,” said the Squire. + +“Shadows as pass! Birds i’ the smoke!” continued the irrepressible +Calamy, smacking his lips with enjoyment. “Leaves and the wind blows! +Mr. Arthur—but there, your honor knows best where the shoe pinches. +Squire Acherley’s gone through on his bay, and Parson Hoggins with him, +and ‘Where’s that d—d young banker?’ he asks. Thinks I, if the Squire +heard you, you’d get a flip o’ the tongue you wouldn’t like! But he’s a +random-tandem talker as ever was! And”—halting abruptly—“by gum, I +expect here’s another for Mr. Arthur! There’s some one drove up the +drive now, and gone to the front door.” + +“Take me in! Take me in!” said the Squire peevishly, his heart very +bitter within him. For this was worse than anything that he had +foreseen. His twelve thousand pounds was gone, but even that +loss—monstrous, incredible, heart-breaking loss as it was—was not the +worst. Ruin was abroad, stalking the countryside, driving rich and +poor, the widow and the orphan to one bourne, and his name—his name +through his nephew—would be linked with it, and dragged through the +mire by it, no man so poor that he might not have a fling at it. He had +held his head high, he had refused to stoop to such things, he had +condemned others of his class, Woosenham and Acherley, and their like, +because they had lowered themselves to the traffic of the market-place. +But now—now, wherever men met and bragged of their losses and cursed +their deluders, the talk would be of his nephew! His nephew! They might +even say that he had had a share in it himself, and canvass and discuss +him, and hint that he was not above robbing his neighbors—but only +above owning to the robbery! + +This was worse, far worse than the worst that he had foreseen when the +lad had insisted on going his own way. Worse, far worse! Even his sense +of Arthur’s dishonor, even his remembrance of the vile, wicked, +reckless act which the young man had committed, faded beside the +prospect before him; beside the certainty that wherever, in shop or +tavern, men cursed the name of Ovington, or spoke of those who had +ruined the country-side, his name would come up and his share in the +matter be debated. + +Ay, he would be mixed up in it! He could not but be mixed up in it! His +nephew! His nephew! He hung so heavily on Calamy’s arm, that the +servant for once held his tongue in alarm. They went into the house—the +house that until now dishonor had never touched, though hard times had +often straitened it, and more than once in the generations poverty had +menaced it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + + +But before they crossed the threshold they were intercepted. Miss +Peacock, her plumage ruffled, and that which the Squire was wont to +call her “clack” working at high pressure, met them at the door. “Bless +me, sir, here’s a visitor,” she proclaimed, “at this hour! And won’t +take any denial, but will see you, whether or no. Though I told Jane to +tell him——” + +“Who is it?” + +“Goodness knows, but it’s not my fault, sir! I told Jane—but Jane’s +that feather-headed, like all of them, she never listens, and let him +in, and he’s in the dining-parlor. All she could say, the silly wench, +was, it was something about the bank—great goggle-eyes as she is! And +of course there’s no one in the way when they’re wanted. Calamy with +you, and Josina traipsing out, feeding her turkeys. And Jane says the +man’s got a portmanteau with him as if he’s come to stay. Goodness +knows, there’s no bed aired, and I’m sure I should have been told if——” + +“Peace, woman!” said the Squire. “Did he ask to see me, or——” with an +effort, “my nephew?” + +“Oh, you, sir! Leastwise that’s what Jane said, but she’s no more head +than a goose! To let him in when she knows that you’re hardly out of +your bed, and can’t see every Jack Harry that comes!” + +“I’ll see him,” the Squire said heavily. He bade Calamy take him in. + +“But you’ll take your egg-flip, Mr. Griffin? Before you——” + +“Don’t clack, woman, don’t clack!” cried the Squire, and made a blow at +her with his stick, but with no intention of reaching her. “Begone! +Begone!” + +“But, dear sir, the doctor! You know he said” + +“D—n you, I’ll not take it! D’you hear? I’ll not take it! Get out!” And +he went on through the house, the tap of his stick on the stone flags +going before him and announcing his coming. Half-way along the passage +he paused. “Did she say,” he asked, lowering his voice, “that he came +from the bank?” + +“Ay, ay,” Calamy said. “And like enough. Ill news has many feet. Rides +apace and needs no spurs. But if your honor will let me see him, I’ll +sort him! I’ll sort him, I’ll warrant! One’d think,” grumbling, “they’d +more sense than to come here about their dirty business as if we were +the bank!” The man was surprised that his master took the matter with +any patience, for, to him, with all the prejudices of the class he +served, it seemed the height of impertinence to come to Garth about +such business. “Let me see him, your honor, and ask what he wants,” he +urged. + +But the Squire ruled otherwise. “No,” he said wearily, “I’ll see him.” +And he went in. + +The front door stood open. “There’s a po-chay, right enough,” Calamy +informed him. “And luggage. Seems to ha’ come some way, too.” + +“Umph! Take me in. And tell me who it is. Then go.” + +The butler opened the door, and guided the old man into the room. A +glance informed him who the visitor was, but he continued to give all +his attention to his master, in this way subtly conveying to the +stranger that he was of so little importance as to be invisible. Nor +until the Squire had reached the table and set his hand on it did +Calamy open his mouth. Then, “It’s Mr. Ovington,” he announced. + +“Mr. Ovington?” + +“Ay, the young gentleman.” + +“Ah!” The old man stood a moment, his hand on the table. Then, “Put me +in my chair,” he said. “And go. Shut the door.” + +And when the man had done so, “Well!” heavily, “what have you come to +say? But you’d best sit. Sit down! So you didn’t go to London? Thought +better of it, eh, young man? Ay, I know! Talked to your father and saw +things differently? And now you’ve come to give me another dose of fine +words to keep me quiet till the shutters go up? And if the worst comes +to the worst, your father’s told you, I suppose, that I can’t +prosecute—family name, eh? That’s what you’ve come for, I suppose?” + +“No, sir,” Clement answered soberly. “I’ve not come for that. And my +father——” + +The Squire struck his stick on the floor. “I don’t want to hear from +him!” he cried with violence. “I want no message from him, d’you hear? +I’m not come down to that! And as for your excuses, young gentleman——” + +“I am not come with any excuses,” Clement answered, restraining himself +with difficulty—but after all the old man had had provocation enough to +justify many hard words, and he was blind besides. As he sat there, +glaring sightlessly before him, his hands on his stick, he was a +pathetic figure in his anger and helplessness. “I’ve been to town, as I +said I would.” + +The Squire was silent for some seconds. “And come back?” he exclaimed. + +“Well, yes, sir,” with a smile. “I’m here.” + +“Umph? How did you do it?” + +“I posted up and came down as far as Birmingham by the Bull and Mouth +coach. I posted on this morning.” + +“Well, you’ve been devilish quick!” The Squire admitted it reluctantly. +He hardly knew whether to believe the tale or not. “You didn’t wait +long there, that’s certain. And did as little, I suppose. Bank’s going, +I hear?” + +“I hope not.” + +“Pooh!” the Squire said impatiently. “You may speak out! Speak out, +man! There is no one here.” + +“There’s some danger, I’m afraid.” + +“Danger! I should think there was! More than danger, as I hear!” The +Squire drummed for a moment with his fingers on the table. He was +thinking not of the bank, or even of his loss, but of his nephew and +the scandal that would not pass by him. But he would not refer to +Arthur, and after a pause, “Well,” with an angry snort, “if that’s all +you’ve come to tell me, you might have spared yourself—and me. I cannot +say that your company’s very welcome, so if you please, we’ll dispense +with compliments. If that’s all——” + +“But that’s not all, sir,” Clement interposed. “I wish I could have +brought back the securities, or even the whole of the money.” + +The Squire laughed. “No doubt,” he said. + +“But I was too late to ensure that. The stock had already been +transferred.” + +“So he was quick, too!” + +“And selling for cash in the middle of such a crisis he had to accept a +loss of seven per cent. on the current price. But he suggests that if +you reinvest immediately, a half, at least, of this may be recovered, +and the eventual loss need not be more than three or four hundred. I +ought perhaps to have stayed in town to effect this, but I had to think +of my father, who was alone at the bank. However, I did what I could, +sir, and——” + +Clement paused; the Squire had uttered an exclamation which he did not +catch. The old man turned a little in his chair so as to face the +speaker. “Eh?” he said. “Do you mean that you’ve got any of the +money—here?” + +“I’ve eleven thousand and a bit over,” Clement explained. “Five +thousand in gold and the rest——” + +“What?” + +“Sir?” + +“Do you mean”—the Squire spoke haltingly, after a pause—he did not seem +to be able to find the right words. “Do you mean that you’ve brought +back the money?” + +“Not all. What I’ve told you, sir. There’s six thousand and odd in +notes. The gold is in two bags in the chaise.” + +“Here?” + +“At the door, sir. I’ll bring it in.” + +“Ay,” said the Squire passively. “Bring it in.” + +Clement went out and returned, carrying in two small leather bags. He +set them down at the Squire’s feet “There’s the gold, sir,” he said. +“I’ve not counted it, but I’ve no doubt that it is right. It weighs a +little short of a hundred pounds.” + +The old man felt the bags, then, standing up, he lifted them in turn a +few inches from the floor. “What does a thousand pounds weigh?” he +asked. + +“Between eighteen and nineteen pounds, sir.” + +“And the notes?” + +“I have them here.” Clement drew a thick packet from the pocket of his +inner vest and put it into the Squire’s hands. “They’re Bank of England +paper. They were short even at the bank, and wanted Bourdillon to take +it in one-pound notes, but he stood out and got these in the end.” + +The Squire handled the packet, felt its thickness, weighed it lovingly +in his hand. So much money, so much money in so small a space! Six +thousand and odd pounds! It seemed as if he could not let it go, but in +the end he placed it in the breast pocket of his high-collared old +coat, the shabby blue coat with the large gilt buttons that was his +common wear at home. The money secured, he sat, looking before him, +while Clement, a little mortified, waited for the word of +acknowledgment that did not come. At last, “Did you call at your +father’s?” the old man asked—irrelevantly, it seemed. + +Clement colored. He had not expected the question. “Well, I did, sir,” +he admitted. “Bourdillon——” + +“He was with you?” + +“As far as the town. He was anxious that the money should be seen to +arrive. He thought that it might check the run, and I agreed that it +might do some good, and that we might make that advantage of it. So I +took it through the bank.” + +“Pretty full, I expect, eh? Pretty full?” + +“Well,” ruefully, “it was, sir.” + +“A strong run, eh?” + +“I’m afraid so. It looked like it. It was full to the doors. That’s +why,” glancing at his watch as he stood by the window, the table +between him and the Squire, “I must get back to my father. We took it +through the bank and out by the garden, and put it in the chaise again +in Roushill.” + +“Umph! He came back to town with you?” + +“Bourdillon, sir? Yes—as far as the East Bridge. He left me there.” + +“Where is he?” + +Clement hesitated. “I hope that he’s gone to the bank, sir,” he said. + +He did not add, as he might have, that, after Arthur and he had left +the coach at Birmingham and posted on, there had been a passionate +scene between them. No doubt Arthur had never given up hope, but from +the first had determined to make another fight for it; and there was no +police officer at their elbows now. He had appealed to Clement by all +that he loved to take the money to the bank, and there to deal with it +as his father should decide. Finding Clement firm and his appeals +useless, he had given way to passion, he had stormed and threatened and +even shed tears; and at last, seizing the pistol case that lay at their +feet, he had sworn that he would shoot himself before the other’s eyes +if he did not give way. In his rage he had seemed to be capable of +anything, and there had been a struggle for the pistol, blows had been +exchanged, and worse might have come of it if the noise of the fracas +had not reached the postboy’s ears. He had pulled up, turned in his +saddle, and asked what the devil they would be at; he would have no +murder in his master’s carriage. + +That had shamed them. Arthur had given way, had flung himself back, +white and sullen, in his corner, and they had continued the journey on +such terms as may be imagined. But even so, Arthur had proved his +singular power of adaptation. The environs of the town in sight, he had +suggested that at least they should take the money through the bank. +Clement, anxious to make peace, had consented to that, and on the East +Bridge Arthur had called on the postboy to stop, had jumped out, and, +turning his back on his companion, had made off without a word. + +Clement said nothing of this to the Squire, though the scene had been +painful, and though he felt that something was due to him, were it but +a word of thanks, or an expression of acknowledgment. It had not been +his fault or his father’s, that the money had been taken; it was +through him that the greater part of it had been recovered, and now +reposed safe in the Squire’s pocket or in the bags at his feet. + +At the least, it seemed to him, the old man might remember that his +father was alone and needing him—was facing trouble, and, it might be, +ruin. He took up his hat. “Well, sir, that’s all,” he said curtly. “I +must go now.” + +“Wait!” said the Squire. “And ring the bell, if you please.” + +Clement stepped to the hearth, and pulled the faded drab cord, which +once had been blue, that hung near it. The bell in the passage had +hardly tinkled before Calamy entered. “Bid your mistress come here,” +said the old man. “Where is she? Fetch her?” + +The blood mounted to Clement’s face, and his pulses began to throb, his +ideas to tumble over one another. The old man, who sat before him, his +hands on his stick, stubbornly confronting the darkness, the old man, +whom he had thought insensible, took on another hue, became instead +inscrutable, puzzling, perplexing. Why had he sent for his daughter? +What was in his mind? What was he going to say? What had he—but even +while Clement wondered, his thoughts in a whirl, strange hopes jostling +one another in his brain, the door opened, and Josina came in. + +She came in with a timid step, but as soon as her eyes met Clement’s, +the color rose vividly to her cheeks, then left her pale. Her lip +trembled. But her look—fleeting as it was and immediately diverted to +her father—how he blessed her for that look! For it bade him take +confidence, it bade him have no fear, it bade him trust her. Silently +and incredibly, it took him under her protection, it pledged her faith +to him. + +And how it changed all for him! How it quelled, in a moment, the +disappointment and anger he was feeling, ay, and even the vague hopes +which the Squire’s action in summoning her had roused in him! How it +gave calmness and assurance where his aspirations had been at best to +the extravagant and the impossible. + +But, whatever his feelings, to whatever lover’s heaven that look raised +him, he was speedily brought to earth again. The old man had proved +himself thankless; now, as if he were determined to show himself in the +worst light, he proceeded to prove himself suspicious. “Come here, +girl,” he said, “and count these notes.” Fumbling, he took the parcel +from his pocket and handed it to her. “Ha’ you got them? Then count +them! D’you hear, wench? Count them! And have a care to make no +mistake! Lay ’em in piles o’ ten. They are hundreds, are they? +Hundreds, eh?” + +She untied the parcel, and brought all her faculties to bear on the +task, though her fingers trembled, and the color, rising and ebbing in +her cheeks, betrayed her consciousness that her lover’s eyes were upon +her. “Yes, sir, they are hundred-pound notes,” she said. + +“All?” + +“Yes, all, I think, sir.” + +“Bank of England?” He poked at her skirts with his stick. “Bank of +England, eh? Are you sure?” + +“Yes, sir, so far as I can see.” + +“Ay, ay. Well, count ’em! And mind what you are doing, girl!” + +Clement did not know whether to smile or to be angry, but a moment +later he felt no bent towards either. For with a certain dignity, “I +ha’ been deceived once,” the Squire continued. “I ha’ signed once and +paid for it. I’m in the dark. But I don’t act i’ the dark again. If I +can’t trust my own flesh and blood, I’ll not trust strangers. No, no! I +don’t know as there’s any one I can trust.” + +“I quite understand, sir,” Clement said—though it was the last thing he +had had it in his mind to say a moment earlier. + +“I don’t mind whether you understand or not,” the Squire retorted. “Ha’ +you done, girl?” after an interval of silence. + +“Not quite, sir. I have five heaps of ten.” + +“Well, well, get on. We are keeping the young man.” + +He spoke as he would have spoken of any young man in a shop, and +Clement winced, and Josina knew that he winced and she reddened. But +she went on with her work. “There are sixty-one, sir,” she said. “That +makes——” + +“Six thousand one hundred pounds. Ay, it’s right so far. Right so far. +And the gold”—he paused and seemed to be at a nonplus—“I’m afraid +’twould take too long to count it. Well, let it be. Get some paper and +write a receipt as I tell you.” + +“There is no need, sir,” Clement ventured. + +“There’s every need, young man. I’m doing business. Ha’ you got the +pen, girl? Then write as I tell you. ‘I, George Griffin of Garth, in +the County of Aldshire, acknowledge that I have this 16th day of +December 1825 received from Messrs. Ovington of Aldersbury, six +thousand one hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, and’—ha’ you got +that? Ha’ you got that?—‘two bags stated by them to contain five +thousand pounds in gold.’ Ha’ you got that down? Then show me the +place, and——” + +But as she put the pen in his hand he let it drop. He sat back in his +chair. “Ay, he showed me the place before,” he muttered, his chin on +his breast. “It was he gave me the pen, then, girl. And how be I to +know? How be I to know?” + +It came home to them—to them both. In his voice, his act, his attitude +was the pathos of blindness, its helplessness, its dependence, its +reliance on others—on the eyes, the hand, the honesty of others. The +girl leant over him. “Father,” she said, tears in her voice, “I +wouldn’t deceive you! You know I wouldn’t. I would never deceive you!” + +“Ha’ you never deceived me? Wi’ that young man?” sternly. + +“But——” + +“Ay, you have! You have deceived me—with him.” + +She could not defend herself, and, suppressing her sobs, “I will call +Calamy,” she said. “He can read. He shall count the notes.” + +But he put out his hand and grasped her skirts. “No,” he said. “What’ll +I be the better? Give me the pen. If you deceive me in this, wench—what +matter if the notes be short or not, or what comes of it?” + +“I would cut off my hand first!” she cried. “And Clement——” + +“Eh?” He sat up sharply. + +She was frightened, and she did not continue. “This is the place, sir,” +she said meekly. + +“Here?” + +“Yes, sir, where you are now.” + +He wrote his name. “Dry it,” he said. “And ring the bell. And there, +give it to him. He wants to be off. Odds are the shutters’ll be up +afore he gets there. Calamy!” to the man who had appeared at the door, +“see this gentleman off, and be quick about it. He’s no time to lose. +And, hark you, come back to me when he’s gone. No, girl,” sternly, “you +stay here. I want you.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + + +In ordinary times, news is slow to make its way to the ears of the +great. Protected from the vulgar by his deer park, looking out from the +stillness of his tall-windowed library on his plantations and his +ornamental water, Sir Charles Woosenham was removed by six miles of +fine champaign country from the common fret and fume of Aldersbury. He +no longer maintained, as his forefathers had maintained, a house in the +town, and in all likelihood he would not have heard the talk about the +bank, or caught the alarm in time, if one of his neighbors had not made +it his business to arouse him. + +Acherley, baffled in his attempt at blackmail, and thirsting for +revenge, had bethought him of the Chairman of the Valleys Railroad. He +had been quick to see that he could use him, and perhaps he had even +fancied that it was his duty to use him. At any rate, one fine morning, +some days before this eventful Wednesday, he had mounted his old +hunter, Nimrod, and had cantered across country by gaps and gates from +Acherley to Woosenham Park. He had entered by a hunting wicket, and +leaping the ha-ha, he had presented himself to Sir Charles ten minutes +after the latter had left the breakfast table, and withdrawn himself +after his fashion of a morning, into a dignified seclusion. + +Alas, two minutes of Acherley’s conversation proved enough to destroy +the baronet’s complacency for the day. Acherley blurted out his news, +neither sparing oaths nor mincing matters. “Ovington’s going!” he +declared. “He’s bust-up—smashed, man!” And striking the table with a +violence that made his host wince, “He’s bust-up, I tell you,” he +repeated, “and I think you ought to know it! There’s ten thousand of +the Company’s money in his hands, and if there’s nothing done, it will +be lost to a penny!” + +Sir Charles stared, stared aghast. “You don’t say so?” he exclaimed. “I +can’t believe it!” + +“Well, it’s true! True, man, true, as you’ll soon find out!” + +“But this is terrible! Terrible!” + +Acherley shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be terrible for him,” he +sneered. + +“But—but what can we do?” the other asked, recovering from his +surprise. “If it is as bad as you say——” + +“Bad? And do, man? Why, get the money out! Get it out before it is too +late—if it isn’t too late already. You must draw it out, Woosenham! At +once! This morning! Without the delay of a minute!” + +“I!” Sir Charles could not conceal the unhappiness which the proposal +caused him. No proposal, indeed, could have been less to his taste. He +would have to make up his mind, he would have to act, he would have to +set himself against others, he would have to engage in a vulgar +struggle. A long vista of misery and discomfort opened before him. “I? +Oh, but—” and with the ingenuity of a weak man he snatched at the first +formal difficulty that occurred to him—“but I can’t draw it out! It +needs another signature besides mine.” + +“The Secretary’s? Bourdillon’s? Of course it does! But you must get his +signature. D—n it, man, you must get it. If I were you I should go into +town this minute. I wouldn’t lose an hour!” + +Sir Charles winced afresh at the idea of taking action so strong. He +had not only a great distaste for any violent step, but he had also the +feelings of a gentleman. To take on himself such a responsibility as +was now suggested was bad; but to confront Ovington, who had gained +considerable influence over him, and to tell the banker to his face +that he distrusted his stability—good heavens, was it possible that +such horrors could be asked of him? Flustered and dismayed, he went +back to his original standpoint. “But—but there may be nothing in +this,” he objected weakly. “Possibly nothing at all. Mere gossip, my +dear sir,” with dignity. “In that case we might be putting ourselves in +the wrong—very much in the wrong.” + +Acherley did not take the trouble to hide his contempt. “Nothing in +it?” he replied, and he tossed off a second glass of the famous +Woosenham cherry-brandy which the butler, unbidden, had placed beside +him. “Nothing in it, man? You’ll find there’s the devil in it unless +you act! Enough in it to ease us of ten thousand pounds! If the bank +fails, and I’ll go bail it will, not a penny of that money will you see +again! And I tell you fair, the shareholders will look to you, +Woosenham, to make it good. I’m not responsible. I’ve no authority to +sign, and the others are just tools of that man Ovington, and afraid to +call their souls their own! You’re Chairman—you’re Chairman, and, by +G—d, they’ll look to you if the money is left in the bank and lost!” + +Sir Charles quailed. This was worse and worse! Worse and worse! He +dropped the air of carelessness which he had affected to assume, and no +more flustered man than he looked out on the world that day over a +white lawn stock or wore a dark blue coat with gilt buttons, and drab +kerseymeres with Hessians. But, again, true to his instincts, he +grasped at a matter of form, hoping desperately that it might save him +from the precipice towards which his friend was so vigorously pushing +him. “But—my good man,” he argued, “I can’t draw out the money—the +whole of the capital of the concern, so far as it is subscribed—on my +own responsibility! Of course I can’t!” wiping the perspiration from +his brow. “Of course I can’t!” peevishly. “I must have the authority of +the Board first. We must call a meeting of the Board. That’s the proper +procedure.” + +Acherley rose to his feet, openly contemptuous. “Oh, hang your +meeting!” he said. “And give a seven days’ notice, eh? If you are going +to stand on those P’s and Q’s I’ve said my say. The money’s lost +already! However, that’s not my business, and I’ve warned you. I’ve +warned you. You’ll not forget that, Woosenham? You’ll exonerate me, at +any rate.” + +“But I can’t—God bless my soul, Acherley,” the poor man remonstrated, +“I can’t act like that in a moment!” And Sir Charles stared aghast at +his too violent associate, who had brought into the calm of his life so +rude a blast of the outer air. “I can’t override all the formalities! I +can’t, indeed, even if it is as serious as you say it is—and I can +hardly believe that—with such a man as Ovington at the helm!” + +“You’ll soon see how serious it is!” the other retorted. And satisfied +that he had laid the train, he shrugged his shoulders, tossed off a +third glass of the famous cherry-brandy, and took himself off without +much ceremony. + +He left a flustered, nervous, unhappy man behind him. “Good G—d!” the +baronet muttered, as he rose and paced his library, all the peace and +pleasantness of his life shattered. “What’s to be done? And why—why in +the world did I ever put my hand to this matter!” One by one and +plainly all the difficulties of the position rose before him, the +awkwardness and the risk. He must open the thing to Bourdillon—in +itself a delicate matter—and obtain his signature. If he got that, he +doubted if he had even then power to draw the whole amount in this way, +and doubted, too, whether Ovington would surrender it, no meeting of +the Board having been held? And if he obtained the money, what was he +to do with it? Pay it into Dean’s? But if things were as bad as +Acherley said, was even Dean’s safe? For, of a certainty, if he removed +the money to Dean’s and it were lost, he would be responsible for every +penny—every penny of it! There was no doubt about that. + +Yet if he left it at Ovington’s and it were lost, what then? It was not +his custom to drink of a morning, but his perturbation was so great +that he took a glass of the cherry-brandy. He really needed it. + +He could not tell what to do. In every direction he saw some doubt or +some difficulty arise to harass him. He was no man of business. In all +matters connected with the Company he had leant on Ovington, and +deprived of his stay, he wavered, turning like a weathercock in the +wind, making no progress. + +For two days, though terribly uneasy in his mind, he halted between two +opinions. He did nothing. Then tidings began to come to his ears, low +murmurs of the storm which was raging afar off; and he wrote to +Bourdillon asking him to come out and see him—he thought that he could +broach the matter more easily on his own ground. But two days elapsed, +during which he received no answer, and in the meantime the warnings +that reached him grew louder and more disquieting. His valet let drop a +discreet word while shaving him. A neighbor hoped that he had nothing +in Ovington’s—things were in a bad way, he heard. His butler asked +leave to go to town to cash a note. Gradually he was wrought up to such +a pitch of uneasiness that he could not sleep for thinking of the ten +thousand pounds, and the things that would be said of him, and the +figure that he would cut if, after Acherley’s warning, the money were +lost. When Wednesday morning came, he made up his mind to take advice, +and he could think of no one on whose wisdom he could depend more +surely than on the old Squire’s at Garth; though, to be sure, to apply +to him was, considering his attitude towards the Railroad, to eat +humble pie. + +Still, he made up his mind to that course, and at eleven he took my +lady’s landau and postillions, and started on his sixteen-mile drive to +Garth. He avoided the town, though it lay only a little out of his way, +but he saw enough of the unusual concourse on the road to add to his +alarm. Once, nervous and fidgety, he was on the point of giving the +order to turn the horses’ heads for Aldersbury—he would go direct to +the bank and see Ovington! But before he spoke he changed his mind +again, and half-past twelve saw him wheeling off the main road and +cantering, with some pomp and much cracking of whips, up the rough +ascent that led to Garth. + +He was so far in luck that he found the Squire not only at home, but +standing before the door, a gaunt, stooping figure, leaning on his +stick, with Calamy at his elbow. “Who is it?” the old man asked, as he +caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the roll of the wheels. He +turned his sightless eyes in the direction of the approaching carriage. + +“I think it’s Sir Charles, sir,” Calamy answered. “It’s his jackets.” + +“Ay! Well, I won’t go in, unless need be. Go you to the stables and bid +’em wait.” + +Sir Charles alighted, and bidding the postillions draw off, greeted his +host. “I want your advice, Squire,” he said, putting his arm through +the old man’s, and, after a few ceremonial words he drew him a few +paces from the door. It was a clear, mild day, and the sun was shining +pleasantly. “I’m in a position of difficulty, Griffin,” he said. +“You’ll tell me, I know, that I’ve only myself to thank for it, and +perhaps that is so. But that does not mend matters. The position, you +see, is this.” And with many apologies and some shamefacedness he +explained the situation. + +The Squire listened with gloomy looks, and, beyond grunting from time +to time in a manner far from cheering, he did not interrupt his +visitor. “Of course, I ought not to have touched the matter,” the +baronet confessed, when he had finished his story. “I know what you +think about that, Griffin.” + +“Of course you ought not!” The Squire struck his stick on the gravel. +“I warned you, man, and you wouldn’t take the warning. You wouldn’t +listen to me. Why, damme, Woosenham, if _we_ do these things, if we +once begin to go on ‘Change’ and sell and buy, where’ll you draw the +line? Where’ll you draw the line? How are you going to shut out the +tinkers and tailors and Brummagem and Manchester men when you make +yourselves no better than them! How? By Jove, you may as well give ’em +all votes at once, and in ten years’ time we shall have bagmen on the +Bench and Jews in the House! Aldshire—we’ve kept up the fence pretty +well in Aldshire, and kept our hands pretty clean, too, and it’s been +my pride and my father’s to belong to this County. We’re pure blood +here. We’ve kept ourselves to ourselves, begad! But once begin this +kind of thing——” + +“I know, Griffin, I know,” Woosenham admitted meekly. “You were right +and I was wrong, Squire. But the thing is done, and what am I to do +now? If I stand by and this money is lost——” + +“Ay, ay! You’ll have dropped us all into a pretty scalding pot, then!” + +“Just so, just so.” The baronet had pleaded guilty, but he was growing +restive under the other’s scolding, and he plucked up spirit. “Granted. +But, after all, your nephew’s in the concern, Griffin. He’s in it, too, +you know, and——” + +He stopped, shocked by the effect of his words. For the old man had +withdrawn his arm and had stepped back, trembling in all his limbs. +“Not with my good will!” he cried, and he struck his stick with +violence on the ground. “Never! never!” he repeated, passionately. “But +you are right,” bitterly, “you are right, Woosenham. The taint is in +the air, the taint of the City and the ’Change, and we cannot escape it +even here—even here in this house! In the concern? Ay, he is! And I +tell you I wish to heaven that he had been in his grave first!” + +The other, a kindly man, was seriously concerned. “Oh. come, Squire,” +he said; and he took the old man affectionately by the arm again. “It’s +no such matter as all that. You make too much of it. He’s young, and +the younger generation look at these things differently. After all, +there’s more to be said for him than for me.” + +The Squire groaned. + +“And, anyway, my old friend,” Woosenham continued gently, “advise me. +Time presses.” He looked at his watch. “What shall I do? What had I +better do? I know I am safe in your hands.” + +The Squire sighed, but the other’s confidence was soothing, and with +the sigh he put off his own trouble. He reflected, his face turned to +the ground at his feet. “Do you think him honest?” he asked, after a +pause. + +“Who? Ovington?” + +“Ay,” gloomily. “Ovington? The banker there.” + +“Well, I do think he is. Yes, I do think so. I’ve no reason to think +otherwise.” + +“He’s a director, ain’t he?” + +“Of the Railroad? Yes.” + +“Responsible as you are?” + +“Yes, I suppose he is!” + +“A kind of trustee, then, ain’t he—for the shareholders.” + +Sir Charles had not seen it in that light before. He looked at his +adviser with growing respect. “Well, I take it he is—now you mention +it, Griffin,” he said. + +“Then”—this, it was plain, was the verdict, and the other listened with +all his ears—“if he is honest, he’ll not have mixed the money with his +own. He’ll not have put it to an ordinary account, but to a Trust +account—so that it will remain the property of the Company, and not be +liable to calls on him. That’s what he should have done, anyway. +Whether he has done it or not is another matter. He’s pressed, hard +pressed, I hear, and I don’t know that we can expect the last spit of +honesty from such as him. It’s not what I’ve been brought up to expect. +But,” with a return of his former bitterness, “we may be changing +places with ’em even in that! God knows! And I do know something that +gives me to believe that he may behave as he should.” + +“You do?” Sir Charles exclaimed, his spirits rising. “You do think so?” + +“Well, I do,” reluctantly. “I’ll speak as I know. But if I were you I +should go to him now and tell him, as one man to another, that that’s +what you expect; and if he hangs back, tell him plain that if that +money’s not put aside he’ll have to answer to the law for it. Whether +that will frighten him or not,” the Squire concluded, “I’m not lawyer +enough to say. But you’ll learn his mind.” + +“I’ll go in at once,” Sir Charles replied, thankfully. + +“I’m going in myself. If you’ll take me in—you’ve four horses—it will +save time, and my people shall fetch me out in an hour or so.” + +Sir Charles assented with gratitude, thankful for his support; and +Calamy was summoned. Two minutes later they got away from the door in a +splutter of flying gravel and dead beech leaves. They clattered down +the stony avenue, over the bridge, and into the high road. + +Probably of all those—and they were many—who travelled that day with +their faces set towards the bank, they were the last to start. If +Tuesday had been the town’s day, this was certainly the country’s day. +For one thing, there was a market; for another, the news of something +amiss, of something that threatened the little hoard of each—the +slowly-garnered deposit or the hardly-won note—had journeyed by this +time far and wide. It had reached alike the remote flannel-mill lapped +in the folds of the border-hills, and the secluded hamlet buried amid +orchards, and traceable on the landscape only by the grey tower of its +church. On foot and on horse-back, riding and tying, in gigs and +ass-carts, in market vans and carriers’ carts, the countryside came +in—all who had anything to lose, and many who had nothing at stake, but +were moved by a vague alarm. Even before daybreak the roads had begun +to echo the sound of their marching. They came by the East Bridge, +laboring up the steep, winding Cop; by the West Bridge and under the +gabled fronts of Maerdol, along the river bank, before the house of the +old sea-dog whose name was a household word, and whose portrait hung +behind the mayor’s chair, and so up the Foregate—from every quarter +they came. Before ten the streets were teeming with country-folk, whose +fears were not allayed by the news that all through the previous day +the townsfolk had been drawing their money. Sullen tradesmen, victims +of the general depression, eyed the march from their shop doors, and +some, fearing trouble, put up half their shutters. More took a +malicious amusement in telling the rustics that they were too late, and +that the bank would not open. + +The alarm was heightened by a chance word which had fallen from +Frederick Welsh. The lawyer’s last thought had been to do harm, for his +interest in common with all substantial men lay the other way. But that +morning, before he had dressed, or so much as shaved, his office and +even his dining-room had been invaded. Scared clients had overwhelmed +him with questions—some that he could answer and more that he could +not. He could tell them the law as to their securities, whether they +were lodged for safety, or pawned for loans, or mortgaged on general +account. But he could not tell them whether Ovington was solvent, or +whether the bank would open, or whether Dean’s was affected; and it was +for answers to these questions that they clamored. In the end, badgered +out of all patience, he had delivered a curt lecture on banking. + +“Look here, gentlemen,” he had said, imposing silence from his +hearth-rug and pressing his points with wagging forefinger, “do you +know what happens when you pay a thousand pounds into a bank? No, you +don’t? Well, I’ll tell you. They put a hundred pounds into the till, +and they lend out four thousand pounds on the strength of the other +nine hundred. If they lend more than that, or lend that without +security, they go beyond legitimate banking. Now you know as much as I +do. A banker’s money is out on bills payable in two months or four, +it’s out on the security of shares and farms and shop-stock, it’s lent +on securities that cannot be realized in five minutes. But it’s all +there, mark me, somewhere, in something, gentlemen; and I tell you +candidly that it’s my opinion that if you would all go home and wait +for your money till you need it, you’d all get it in full, twenty +shillings in the pound.” + +He meant no harm, but unfortunately the men who heard the lecture paid +no heed to the latter part, but went out, impressed with the former, +and spread it broad-cast. On which some cried, “That’s banking, is it! +Shameful, I call it!” while others said, “Well, I call it robbery! The +old tea-pot for me after this!” A few were for moving off at once and +breaking Ovington’s windows, and going on to Dean’s and serving them +the same. But they were restrained, things had not quite come to that; +and it was an orderly if excited throng that once more waited on Bride +Hill and in the Market Place for the opening of the doors. + +Not all who gathered there had anything to lose. Many were mere +onlookers. But here and there were to be seen compressed lips, pale +faces, anxious eyes. Here and there women gripped books in feverish +fingers or squeezed handkerchiefs into tight balls; and now and again a +man broke into bad words and muttered what he would do if they robbed +him. There were country shopkeepers who had lodged the money to meet +the traveller’s account, and trembled for its safety. There were girls +who saw their hard-earned portions at stake, and parsons whose hearts +ached as they thought of the invalid wife or the boy’s school-bill; and +there were at least a score who knew that if the blow fell the bailiff, +never far from the threshold, would be in the house. Before the eyes of +not a few rose the spectres of the poorhouse and a pauper funeral. + +Standing in groups or dotted amid the crowd were bigger +men—wool-brokers and cattle-dealers—men loud in bar-parlors and great +among their fellows, whose rubicund faces showed flabby and mottled, +and whose fleshy lips moved in endless calculations. How was this bill +to be met, and who would renew that one? Too often the end of their +calculations spelled ruin—if the bank failed. Ruin—and many were they +who depended on these big men: wage-earners, clerks, creditors, poor +relations! One man walking up and down under the arcade of the Market +House was the centre for many eyes. He was an auctioneer from a +neighboring town, a man of wide dealings, who, it was whispered, had +lodged with Ovington’s the proceeds of his last great sale—a sum +running into thousands and due every penny to the vendor. + +His case and other hard cases were whispered by one to another, and, +bruited about, they roused the passions even of those who were not +involved. Yet when the bank at length opened on the stroke of ten an +odd thing happened. A sigh, swelling to a murmur, rose from the dense +crowd, but no one moved. The expected came as the unexpected, there was +a moment of suspense, of waiting. No one advanced. Then some one raised +a shout and there was a rush for the entrance; men struggled and women +were thrust aside, smaller men were borne in on the arms of their +fellows. A wail rose from the unsuccessful, but no man heeded it, or +waited for his neighbor, or looked aside to see who it was who strove +and thrust and struggled at his elbow. They pushed in tumultuously, +their country boots drumming on the boards. Their entrance was like the +inrush of an invading army. + +The clerks, the cashier, Ovington himself, stood at the counter waiting +motionless to receive them, confronting them with what courage they +might. But the strain of the preceding day had told. The clerks could +not conceal their misgivings, and even Rodd failed to bear himself with +the chilling air which had yesterday abashed the modest. He shot +vindictive glances across the counter, his will was still good to +wither, but the crowd was to-day made up of rougher material, was more +brusque and less subservient. They cared nothing for him, and he +looked, in spite of his efforts, weary and dispirited. There was no +longer any pretence that things were normal or that the bank was not +face to face with a crisis. The gloves were off. They were no longer +banker and customers. They were enemies. + +It was Ovington himself who this morning stood forward, and in a few +cold words informed his friends that they would all be paid, requesting +them at the same time to be good enough to keep order and await their +turns, otherwise it would be impossible to proceed with the business. +He added a single sentence, in which he expressed his regret that those +who had known him so long should doubt, as he could only suppose that +they did doubt, his ability to meet his engagements. + +It was well done, with calmness and dignity, but as he ceased to +speak—his appearance had for the moment imposed silence—a disturbance +broke out near the door. A man thrust himself in. Ovington, already in +the act of turning, recognized the newcomer, and a keen observer might +have noted that his face, grave before, turned a shade paler. But he +met the blow. “Is that Mr. Yapp?” he asked. + +It was the auctioneer from Iron Ferry. “Ay, Mr. Ovington, it is,” he +said, the perspiration on his face, “and you know my position.” + +Ovington nodded. Yapp was one of five depositors—big men—whose claims +had been, for the last twenty-four hours, a nightmare to him. But he +let nothing be seen, and “Kindly let Mr. Yapp pass,” he said; “I will +deal with him myself.” Then, as one or two murmured and protested, +“Gentlemen,” he said sternly, “you must let me conduct my business in +my own way, or I close my doors. Let Mr. Yapp pass, if you please.” + +They let him through then, some grumbling, others patting him on the +back—“Good luck to you, Jimmy!” cried one well-wisher. The counter was +raised, and resettling his clothes about him, the auctioneer followed +Mr. Ovington into the parlor. The banker closed the door upon them. + +“How much is it, Mr. Yapp?” he asked. + +The man’s hand shook as he drew out the receipt. “Two thousand, seven +hundred and forty,” he said. “I hope to God it’s all right, sir?” His +voice shook. “It’s not my money, and to lose it would three parts ruin +me.” + +“You need not fear,” the banker assured him. “The money is here.” But +for a moment he did not continue. He stood, his eyes on the man’s face, +lost in thought. Then, “The money is here, and you can have it, Yapp,” +he said. “But I am going to be plain with you. You will do me the +greatest possible favor if you will leave it for a few days. The bank +is solvent—I give you my honor it is. No one will lose a penny by it in +the end. But if this and other large sums are drawn to-day I may have +to close for a time, and the injury to me will be very great. If you +wish to make a friend who may be able to return the favor ten-fold——” + +But Yapp shook his head. “I daren’t do it!” he declared, the sweat +springing out anew on his face. “It isn’t my money and I can’t leave +it! I daren’t do it, sir!” + +Ovington saw that it was of no use to plead farther, and he changed his +tone. “Very good,” he said, and he forced himself to speak equably. “I +quite understand. You shall have the money.” Sitting down at the table +he wrote the amount on a slip, and struck the bell that stood beside +his desk. The younger clerk came in. He handed him the slip. + +Yapp did not waver, but he remembered that good turns had been done to +him in that room, and he was troubled. “If it was my money,” he said +awkwardly, “or if there was anything else I could do, Mr. Ovington?” + +“You can,” Ovington replied. He had got himself in hand, and he spoke +cheerfully. + +“Well——” + +“You can hold your tongue, Yapp,” smiling. + +“It’s done, sir. I won’t have a tongue except to say that the money’s +paid. You may depend upon me.” + +“Thank you. I shall not forget it.” The clerk brought in the money, and +stayed until the sum was counted and checked and the receipt given. +Then, “That’s right, Mr. Yapp,” the banker said, and sat back in his +chair. “Show Mr. Yapp out, Williams.” + +Yapp followed the clerk. His appearance in the bank was greeted by half +a dozen voices. “Ha’ you got it?” they cried. + +He was a man of his word, and he slapped his pocket briskly. “Every +penny!” he said, and something like a cheer went up. “I’d not have +worried, but it wasn’t my money.” + +Ovington’s appeal to him had been a forlorn hope, and much, now it had +failed, did the banker regret it. But he had calculated that that +twenty-seven hundred pounds might just make the difference, and he had +been tempted. Left to himself he sat, turning it over, and wondering if +the auctioneer would be silent; and his face, now that the mask was +off, was haggard and careworn. He had slept little the night before, +and things were working out as he had feared that they would. + +Presently he heard a disturbance in the bank. Something had occurred to +break the orderly course of paying out. He rose and went out, a frown +on his face. He was prepared for trouble, but he found to his relief +that the interruption was caused by nothing worse than his son’s +return. + +Having given his word to Arthur to carry the money through the bank, +Clement had sunk whatever scruples he felt, and had made up his mind to +do it handsomely. He had driven up to the door with a flourish, had +taken the gold from the chaise under the public eye, and now, with all +the parade he could, he was bringing it into the bank. His brisk +entrance and cheery presence, and the careless words he flung on this +side and that as he pushed through the crowd, seemed in a trice to +clear the air and lift the depression. Not even Arthur could have +carried the thing through more easily or more flamboyantly. And that +was saying much. + +“Make way! Make way, if you please, gentlemen!” he cried, his face +ruddy with the sharp, wintry air. “Let me in, please! Now, if you want +to be paid, you must let the money come through! Plenty of money! +Plenty for all of you, gentlemen, and more where this comes from! But +you must let me get by! Hallo, Rawlins, is that you? You’re good at +dead weights. Here, lift it! What do you make of it?” And he thrust the +bag he carried into a stout farmer’s hands. + +“Well, it be pretty near fifty pund, I’d say,” Rawlins replied. +“Though, by gum, it don’t look within a third of it, Mr. Clement.” + +Clement laughed. “Well done!” he said. “You’re just about right. And +you can say after this, Rawlins, that you’ve lifted fifty pound weight +of gold! Now, make way, gentlemen, make way, if you please. There’s +more to come in! Plenty more.” + +He bustled through with the bag, greeted his father gaily, and placed +his burden on the floor beside him. Then he went back for the other +bag. He made a second countryman weigh this, grinned at his face of +astonishment, then taking up the two bags he went through with his +father to the parlor. + +His arrival did good. The clerks perked up, smiled at one another, went +to and fro more briskly. Rodd braced himself and, though he knew the +truth, began to put on airs, bandied words with a client, and called +contemptuously for order. And the customers looked sheepish. Gold! Gold +coming in like that in bags as if ’twere common stuff. It made them +think twice. A few, balancing in their minds a small possible loss +against the banker’s certain favor, hesitated and hung back. Two or +three even went out without cashing their notes and shrugged their +shoulders in the street, declaring that the whole thing was nonsense. +They had been bamboozled. They had been hoaxed. The bank was sound +enough. + +But behind the parlor door things wore a different aspect. + + + + +CHAPTER XL + + +The banker looked at the money lying at his feet. Clement looked at his +father. He noted the elder man’s despondent attitude, he read the lines +which anxiety had deepened on his brow, and his assumed gaiety fell +from him. He longed to say something that might comfort the other, but +_mauvaise honte_ and the reserve of years were too much for him, and +instead he rapidly and succinctly told his tale, running over what had +happened in London and on the road. He accounted for what he had +brought, and explained why he had brought it and at whose request. +Then, as the banker, lost in troubled thought, his eyes on the money, +did not speak, “It goes badly then, sir, does it?” he said. “I see that +the place is full.” + +Ovington’s eyes were still on the bags, and though he forced himself to +speak, his tone was dull and mechanical. “Yes,” he said. “We paid out +fifteen thousand and odd yesterday. About six thousand in odd sums +to-day. I have just settled with Yapp—two thousand seven hundred. Mills +and Blakeway have drawn at the counter—three thousand and fifty between +them. A packet of notes from Birmingham, eleven hundred. Jenkins sent +his cheque for twelve hundred by his son, but he omitted to fill in the +date.” + +“And you didn’t pay it?” + +“No, I didn’t pay it. Why should I? But he will be in himself by the +two o’clock coach. The only other account—large account outstanding—is +Owen’s for eighteen hundred. Probably he will come in by the same +coach. In the meantime—” he took a slip of paper from the table—“we +have notes for rather more than two thousand still out; half of these +may not, for one reason or another, be presented. And payable on demand +we still owe something like two or three thousand.” + +“You may be called upon for another six thousand, then, sir?” + +“Six at best, seven thousand or a little more at worst. And we had in +the till to meet it, a quarter of an hour ago, about three thousand. We +should not have had as much if Rodd had not paid in four hundred and +fifty.” + +“Rodd?” Clement eyes sparkled. “God bless him! He’s a Trojan, and I +shan’t forget it! Bravo, Rodd!” + +The banker nodded, but in a perfunctory way. “That’s the position,” he +said. “If Owen and Jenkins hold off—but there’s no hope of that—we may +go on till four o’clock. But if either comes in we must close. Close,” +bitterly, “for the lack of three thousand or four thousand pounds!” + +Clement sighed. Young as he was he was beginning to feel the effect of +his exertions, of his double journey, and his two sleepless nights. At +last, “No one will lose, sir?” he said. + +“No, no one, ultimately and directly, by us. And if we were an old +bank, if we were Dean’s even—” there was venom in the tone in which he +uttered his rival’s name “—we might resume in a week or a fortnight. We +might reopen and go on. But,” shrugging his shoulders, “we are not +Dean’s, and no one would trust us after this. It would be useless to +resume. And, of course, the sacrifices that we have made have been very +costly. We have had to rediscount bills at fifteen per cent., and sell +a long line of securities at a loss, and what is left on our hands may +be worth money some day, but it is worthless at present.” + +“Wolley’s Mill?” + +“Ay, and other things. Other things.” + +Clement looked at the floor, and again the longing to say something or +do something that might comfort his father pressed upon him. To himself +the catastrophe, save so far as it separated him from Josina, was a +small thing. He had had no experience of poverty, he was young, and to +begin the world at the bottom had no terrors for him. But with his +father it was different, and he knew that it was different. His father +had built up from nothing the edifice that now cracked and crumbled +about them. He had planned it, he had seen it rise and grow, he had +rejoiced in it and been proud of it. On it he had spent the force and +the energy of the best twenty years of his life, and he had not now, he +had no longer, the vigor or the strength to set about rebuilding. + +It was a tragedy, and Clement saw that it was a tragedy. And all for +the lack—pity rose strong within him—all for the lack of—four thousand +pounds. To him, conversant with the bank’s transactions, it seemed a +small sum. It was a small sum. + +“Ay, four thousand!” his father repeated. His eyes returned +mechanically to the money at his feet, returned and fixed themselves +upon it. “Though in a month we may be able to raise twice as much +again! And here—here”—touching it with his foot—“is the money! All, and +more than all that we need, Clement.” + +Then at last Clement perceived the direction of his father’s gaze, and +he took the alarm. He put aside his reserve, he laid his hand gently on +the elder man’s shoulder, and by the pressure of his silent caress he +strove to recall him to himself, he strove to prove to him that +whatever happened, whatever befell, they were one—father and son, +united inseparably by fortune. But aloud, “No!” he said firmly. “Not +that, sir! I have given my word. And besides——” + +“He would be no loser.” + +“No, we should be the losers.” + +“But—but it was not we, it was Bourdillon, lad!” + +“Ay, it was Bourdillon. And we are not Bourdillon! Not yet! Nor ever, +sir!” + +Ovington turned away. His hand shook, the papers that he affected to +put together on his desk rustled in his grasp. He knew—knew well that +his son was right. But how great was the temptation! There lay the +money at his feet, and he was sure that he could not be called to +account for it. There lay the money that would gain the necessary time, +that would meet all claims, that would save the bank! + +True, it was not his, but how great was the temptation. It was so great +that what might have happened had Clement not been there, had he stood +there alone and unfettered, it is impossible to say—though the man was +honest. For it was easy, nothing was more easy, than to argue that the +bank would be saved and no man, not even the Squire, would lose. It was +so great a temptation, and the lower course appeared so plausible that +four men out of five, men of average honesty and good faith, might have +fallen. + +Fortunately the habit of business integrity came to the rescue, and +reinforced and supported the son’s argument—and the battle was won. +“You are right,” the banker said huskily, his face still averted, his +hands trembling among the papers. “But take it away! For God’s sake, +boy, take it away! Take it out of my sight, or I do not know what I may +do!” + +“You’ll do the right thing, sir, never fear!” the son answered +confidently. And with an effort he lifted the two heavy bags and moved +towards the door. But on the threshold and as the door closed behind +him, “Thank God!” he whispered to himself, “Thank God!” And to Betty, +who met him in the hall and flung her arms about his neck—the girl was +in tears, for the shadow of anxiety hung over the whole house, and even +the panic-stricken maids were listening on the stairs or peering from +the windows—“Take care of him, Betty,” he said, his eyes shining. “Take +care of him, girl. I shall be back by one o’clock. If I could stay with +him now I would, but I cannot. I cannot! And don’t fret. It will come +right yet!” + +“Oh, poor father!” she cried. “Is there no hope, Clement?” + +“Very little. But worse things have happened. And we may be proud of +him, Betty. We’ve good cause to be proud of him. I say it that know! +Cheer up!” + +She watched him go with his heavy burden and his blunt common-sense +down the garden walk; and when he had disappeared behind the pear-tree +espaliers she went back to listen outside the parlor door. She had been +her father’s pet. He had treated her with an indulgence and a +familiarity rare in those days of parental strictness, and she +understood him well, better than others, better even than Clement. She +knew what failure would mean to him. It was not the loss of wealth +which would wound him most sorely, though he would feel that; but the +loss of the position which success had gained for him in the little +world in which he lived, and lived somewhat aloof. He had been thought, +and he had thought himself, cleverer than his neighbors. He had borne +himself as one belonging to, and destined for, a wider sphere. He had +met the pride of the better-born and the older-established with a +greater pride; and believing in his star, he had allowed his contempt +for others and his superiority to be a little too clearly seen. + +For all this he would now pay, and his pride would suffer. Betty, +lingering in the darker part of the hall, where the servants could not +spy on her, listened and longed to go in to him and comfort him. But +all the rules forbade this, she might not distract him at such a time. +Yet, had she known how deep was his depression as he sat sunk in his +chair, had she known how the past mocked him, and the long chain of his +successes rose and derided him, how the mirage of long-cherished hopes +melted and left all cold before him—had she guessed the full bitterness +of his spirit, she had broken through every rule and gone in to him. + +The self-made man! Proudly, disdainfully he had flung the taunt back in +men’s faces. Could they make, could they have made themselves, as he +had? And now the self-ruined man! He sat thinking of it, and the +minutes went by. Twice one of the clerks came in and silently placed a +slip beside him and went softly out. He looked at the slip, but without +taking in its meaning. What did it matter whether a few more or a few +less pounds had been drawn out, whether the drain had waxed or waned in +the last quarter of an hour? The end was certain, and it would come +when the two men arrived on the Chester coach. Then he would have to +bestir himself. Then he would have to resume the lead and play the man, +give back hardness for hardness and scorn for scorn, and bear himself +so in defeat that no man should pity him. And he knew that he could do +it. He knew that when the time came his voice would be firm and his +face would be granite, and that he would pronounce his own sentence and +declare the bank closed with a high head. He knew that even in defeat +he could so clothe himself with power that no man should browbeat him. + +But in the meantime he paid his debt to weakness, and sat brooding on +the past, rather than preparing for the future; and time passed, the +relentless hand moved round the clock. Twice the clerk came in with his +doom-bearing slips, and presently Rodd appeared. But the cashier had +nothing to say that the banker did not know. Ovington took the paper +and looked at the figures and at the total, but all he said was, “Let +me know when Owen and Jenkins come.” + +“Very good, sir.” Rodd lingered a moment as if he would gladly have +added something, would have ventured, perhaps, some word of sympathy. +But his courage failed him and he went out. + +Nor when Clement, half an hour afterwards, returned from his mission to +Garth did he give any sign. Clement laid his hand on his shoulder and +said a cheery word, but, getting no answer, or as good as none, he went +through to his desk. A moment later his voice could be heard rallying a +too conscious customer, greeting another with contemptuous good humor, +bringing into the close, heated atmosphere of the bank, where men +breathed heavily, snapped at one another, and shuffled their feet, a +gust of freer brisker air. + +Another half-hour passed. A clerk brought in a slip. The banker looked +at it. No more than seven hundred pounds remained in the till. “Very +good,” he said. “Let me know when Mr. Owen and Mr. Jenkins come.” And +as the door closed behind the lad he fell back into his old posture of +depression. There was nothing to be done. + +But five minutes later Clement looked in, his face concerned. “Sir +Charles Woosenham is here,” he said in a low voice. “He is asking for +you.” + +The banker roused himself. The call was not unexpected nor quite +unwelcome. “Show him in,” he said; and he took up a pen and drew a +sheet of paper towards him that he might appear to be employing +himself. + +Sir Charles came in, tall, stooping a little, his curly-brimmed hat in +his hand; the dignified bearing with which he was wont to fence himself +against the roughness of the outer world a little less noticeable than +usual. He was a gentleman, and he did not like his errand. + +Ovington rose. “Good morning, Sir Charles,” he said, “you wanted to see +me? I am unfortunately busy this morning, but I can give you ten +minutes. What is it, may I ask?” He pushed a chair toward his visitor. + +But Woosenham would not sit down. If the man was down he hated to—but, +there, he had come to do it. “I am sure it is all right, Mr. Ovington,” +he said awkwardly, “but I am concerned about the—about the Railway +money, in fact. The sum is large, and—and—” stammering a little—“but I +think you will understand my position?” + +The banker smiled. “You wish to know if it’s safe?” he said. + +“Well, yes—precisely,” with relief. “You’ll forgive me, I am sure. But +people are talking.” + +“They are doing more,” Ovington answered austerely—he no longer smiled. +“They are doing their best to ruin me, Sir Charles, and to plunge +themselves into loss. But I need not go into that. You are anxious +about the Railroad money? Very good.” He rang the bell and the clerk +came in. “Go to the strong-room,” the banker said, taking some keys +from the table, “with Mr. Clement, and bring me the box with the +Railway Trust.” + +“I am sorry,” Sir Charles said, when they were alone, “to trouble you +at this time, but——” + +Ovington stopped him. “You are perfectly in order,” he said. “Indeed, I +am glad you have come. The box will be here in a minute.” + +Clement brought it in, and Ovington took another key and unlocked it. +“It is all here,” he explained, “except the small sum already expended +in preliminary costs—the sum passed, as you will remember, at the last +meeting of the Board. Here it is.” He took a paper which lay on the top +of the contents of the box. “Except four hundred and ten pounds, ten +shillings. The rest is invested in Treasury Bills until required. The +bills are here, and Clement will check them with you, Sir Charles, +while I finish this letter. We have, of course, treated this as a Trust +Fund, and I think that the better course will be for you to affix your +seal to the box when you have verified the contents.” + +He turned to his letter, though it may be doubted whether he knew what +he was writing, while Sir Charles and Clement went through the box, +verified the securities, and finally sealed the box. That done, +Woosenham would have offered fresh apologies, but the banker waved them +aside and bowed him out, directing Clement to see him to the door. + +That done, left alone once more, he sat thinking. The incident had +roused him and he felt the better for it. He had been able to assert +himself and he had confirmed in good will a man who might yet be of use +to him. But he was not left alone very long. Sir Charles had not been +gone five minutes before Rodd thrust a pale face in at the door, and in +an agitated whisper informed him that Owen and Jenkins were coming down +the High Street. A scout whom the cashier had sent out had seen them +and run ahead with the news. “They’ll be here in two minutes, sir,” +Rodd added in a tone which betrayed his dismay. “What am I to do? Will +you see them, sir?” + +“Certainly,” Ovington answered. “Show them in as soon as they arrive.” + +He spoke firmly, and made a brave show in Rodd’s eyes. But he knew that +up to this moment he had retained a grain of hope, a feeling, vague and +baseless, that something might yet happen, something might yet occur at +the last moment to save the bank. Well, it had not, and he must steel +himself to face the worst. The crisis had come and he must meet it like +a man. He rose from his chair and stood waiting, a little paler than +usual, but composed and master of himself. + +He heard the disturbance that the arrival of the two men caused in the +bank. Some one spoke in a harsh and peremptory tone, and something like +an altercation followed. Raised voices reached him, and Rodd’s answer, +civil and propitiatory, came, imperfectly, to his ear. The peremptory +voice rose anew, louder than before, and the banker’s face grew hard as +he listened. Did they think to browbeat him? Did they think to bully +him? If so, he would soon—but they were coming. He caught the sound of +the counter as Rodd raised it for the visitors to pass, and the advance +of feet, slowly moving across the floor. He fixed his eyes on the door, +all the manhood in him called up to meet the occasion. + +The door was thrown open, widely open, but for a moment the banker +could not see who stood in the shadow of the doorway. Two men, +certainly, and Rodd at their elbow, hovering behind them; and they must +be Owen and Jenkins, though Rodd, to be sure, should have had the sense +to send in one at a time. Then it broke upon the banker that they were +not Owen and Jenkins. They were bigger men, differently dressed, of +another class; and he stared. For the taller of the two, advancing +slowly on the other’s arm, and feeling his way with his stick, was +Squire Griffin, and his companion was no other than Sir Charles, +mysteriously come back again. + +Prepared for that which he had foreseen, Ovington was unprepared for +this, and the old man, still feeling on his unguarded side with his +stick, was the first to speak. “Give me a chair,” he grunted. “Is he +here, Woosenham?” + +“Yes,” Woosenham said, “Mr. Ovington is here.” + +“Then let me sit down.” And as Sir Charles let him down with care into +the chair which the astonished banker hastened to push forward, “Umph!” +he muttered, as he settled himself and uncovered his head. “Tell my +man”—this to Rodd—“to bring in that stuff when I send for it. Do you +hear? You there? Tell him to bring it in when I bid him.” Then he +turned himself to the banker, who all this time had not found a word to +say, and indeed had not a notion what was coming. He could only suppose +that the Squire had somehow revived Woosenham’s fears, in which case he +should certainly, Squire or no Squire, hear some home truths. “You’re +surprised to see me?” the old man said. + +“Well, I am, Mr. Griffin. Yes.” + +“Ay,” drily. “Well, I am surprised myself, if it comes to that. I +didn’t think to be ever in this room again. But here I am, none the +less. And come on business.” + +The banker’s eyes grew hard. “If it is about the Railroad moneys,” he +said, “and Sir Charles is not satisfied——” + +“It’s none of his business. Naught to do with the Railroad,” the Squire +answered. Then sharply, “Where’s my nephew? Is he here?” + +“No, he is not at the bank to-day.” + +“No? Well, he never should ha’ been! And so I told him and told you. +But you would both have your own way, and you know what’s come of it. +Hallo!” breaking off suddenly, and turning his head, for his hearing +was still good. “What’s that? Ain’t we alone?” + +“One moment,” Ovington said. Rodd had tapped at the door and put in his +head. + +The cashier looked at the banker, over the visitors’ heads. “Mr. Owen +and Mr. Jenkins are here,” he said in a low tone. “They wish to see +you. I said you were engaged, sir, but——” his face made the rest of the +sentence clear. + +Ovington reddened, but retained his presence of mind. “They can see me +in ten minutes,” he said, coldly. “Tell them so.” + +But Rodd only came a little farther into the room. “I am afraid,” he +said, dropping his voice, “they won’t wait, sir. They are——” + +“Wait?” The word came from the Squire. He shot it out so suddenly that +the cashier started. “Wait? Why, hang their infernal impudence,” +wrathfully, “do they think their business must come before everybody’s? +Jenkins? Is that little Jenkins—Tom Jenkins of the Hollies?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Then d—n his impudence!” the old man burst forth again in a voice that +must have wellnigh reached the street. “Little Tom Jenkins, whose +grandfather was my foot-boy, coming and interrupting my business! God +bless my soul and body, the world is turned upside-down nowadays. Fine +times we live in! Little—but, hark you, sirrah, d’you go and tell him +to go to the devil! And shut the door, man! Shut the door!” + +“Tell them I will see them in ten minutes,” said the banker. + +But the old man was still unappeased. “That’s what we’re coming to, is +it?” he fumed. “Confound their impudence,” wiping his brow, “and +they’ve put me out, too! I dunno where I was. Is the door closed? Oh, +’bout my nephew! I didn’t wish it, I’ve said that, and I’ve said it +often, but he’s in. He’s in with you, banker, and he’s lugged me in! +For, loth as I am to see him in it, I’m still lother that any one o’ my +name or my blood should be pointed at as the man that’s lost the +countryside their money! Trade’s bad, out of its place. But trade that +fails at other folks’ cost and ruins a sight of people who, true or +false, will say they’ve been swindled——” + +“Stop!” the banker could bear it no longer, and he stepped forward, his +face pale. “No one has swindled here! No one has been robbed of his +money. No one—if it will relieve your feelings to know it, Mr. Griffin +will lose by the bank in the end. I shall pay all demands within a few +weeks at most.” + +“Can you pay ’em all to-day?” asked the Squire, at his driest. + +“It may be that I cannot. But every man to whom the bank owes a penny +will receive twenty shillings in the pound and interest, within a few +weeks—or months.” + +“And who will be the loser, then, if the bank closes? Who’ll lose, +man?” + +“The bank. No one else.” + +“But you can’t pay ’em to-day, banker?” + +“That may be.” + +“How much will clear you? To pay ’em all down on the nail,” +truculently, “and tell ’em all to go and be hanged? Eh? How much do you +need for that?” + +Ovington opened his mouth, but for a moment, overpowered by the +emotions that set his temples throbbing, he could not speak. He stared +at the gaunt, stooping figure in the chair—the stooping figure in the +shabby old riding-coat with the huge plated buttons that had weathered +a dozen winters—and though hope sprang up in him, he doubted. The man +might be playing with him. Or, he might not mean what he seemed to +mean. There might be some mistake. At last, “Five thousand pounds would +pull us through,” he said in a voice that sounded strange to himself, +“as it turns out.” + +“You’d better take ten,” the Squire answered. “There,” fumbling in his +inner pocket and extracting with effort a thick packet, “count five out +of that. And there’s five in gold that my man will bring in. D’you give +me a note for ten thousand at six months—five per cent.” + +“Mr. Griffin——” + +“There, no words!” testily. “It ain’t for you I’m doing it, man. +Understand that! It ain’t for you. It’s for my name and my nephew, +little as he deserves it! Count it out, count it out, and give me back +the balance, and let’s be done with it.” + +Ovington hesitated, his heart full, his hands trembling. He was not +himself. He looked at Woosenham. “Perhaps, Sir Charles,” he said +unsteadily, “will be good enough to check the amount with me!” + +“Pshaw, man, if I didn’t think you honest I shouldn’t be here, whether +or no. No such fool! I satisfied myself of that, you may be sure, +before I came in. Count it, yourself. And there! Bid ’em bring in the +gold.” + +The banker rang the bell and gave the order. He counted the notes, and +by the time he had finished, the bags had been brought in. “You’ll ha’ +to take that uncounted,” the Squire said, as he heard them set down on +the floor, “as I took it myself.” + +“My son will have seen to that,” Ovington replied. He was a little more +like himself now. He sat down and wrote out the note, though his hand +shook. + +“Ay,” the Squire agreed, “I’m thinking he will have.” And turning his +head towards Woosenham, “He’s a rum chap, that,” he continued, with a +chuckle and speaking as if the banker were not present. “He gave me a +talking-to—me! D’you know that he got to London in sixteen hours, in +the night-time?” + +“Did he, by Jove! Our friend at Halston could hardly have beaten that.” + +“And nothing staged either! Railroads!” scornfully. “D’you think +there’s any need o’ railroads when a man can do that? Or that any +railroad that’s ever made will beat that? Sixteen hours, by George, a +hundred and fifty-one miles in the night-time!” + +Sir Charles, who had been an astonished spectator of the scene, gave a +qualified assent, and by that time Ovington was ready with his note. +The Squire pouched it with care, but cut short his thanks. “I’ve told +you why I do it,” he said gruffly. “And now I’m tired and I’ll be +getting home. Give me your arm, Woosenham. But as we pass I’ve a word +to say to that little joker in the bank.” + +He had his word, and a strange scene it was. The two great men stood +within the counter, the old man bending his hawk-like face and +sightless eyes on the quailing group beyond it, while the clerks looked +on, half in awe and half in amusement. “Fools!” said the Squire in his +harshest tone. “Fools, all of ye! Cutting your own throats and tearing +the bottom out of your own money-bags! That’s what ye be doing! And +you, Tom Jenkins, and you, Owen, that should know better, first among +’em! You haven’t the sense to see a yard before you, but elbow one +another into the ditch like a pair of blind horses! You deserve to be +ruined, every man of you, and it’s no fault o’ yourn that you’re not! +Business men? You call yourselves business men, and run on a bank as if +all the money was kept in a box under the counter ready to pay you! Go +home! Go home!” poking at them with his stick. “And thank God the +banker has more sense than you, and a sight more money than your +tuppenny ha’penny accounts run to! Damme, if I were master here, if one +single one o’ you should cross my door again! But there, take me out, +Woosenham; take me out! Pack o’ fools! Pack o’ dumb fools, they are!” + +The two marched out with that, but the Squire’s words ran up and down +the town like wild-fire. What he had said and how he had said it, and +the figure little Tom Jenkins of the Hollies had cut, was known as far +as the Castle Foregate before the old man had well set his foot on the +step of his carriage. The crowd standing about Sir Charles’s four bays +in the Market Place and respectfully gazing on the postillions’ yellow +jackets had it within two minutes. Within four it was known at the +Gullet that the old Squire was supporting the bank, and had given Welsh +Owen such a talking-to as never was. Within ten, the news was being +bandied up and down the long yard at the Lion, where they stabled a +hundred horses, and was known even to the charwomen who, on their +knees, were scrubbing the floors of the Assembly Rooms that looked down +on the yard. Dean’s, at which a persistent and provoking run had been +prosecuted since morning, got it among the first; and Mr. Dean, testy +and snappish enough before, became for the rest of the day a terror and +a thunder-cloud to the junior clerks. Nay, the news soon passed beyond +Aldersbury, for the three o’clock up-coach swept it away and dropped it +with various parcels and hampers at every stage between the Falcon at +Heygate and Wolverhampton. Not a turn-pike man but heard it and spread +it, and at the Cock at Wellington they gave it to the down-coach, which +carried it back to Aldersbury. + +Owen, it was known, had drawn his money. But Jenkins had thought better +of it. He had gone out of the bank with his cheque in his hand, and had +torn it up _coram public_ in the roadway; and from that moment the run, +its force already exhausted, had ceased. Half an hour later he would +have been held a fool who looked twice at an Ovington note, or +distrusted a bank into which, rumor had it, gold had been carried by +the sackful. Had not the Bank of England sent down a special messenger +bearing unstinted credit? And had not the old Squire of Garth, the +closest, stingiest, shrewdest man in the county, paid in thirty, forty, +fifty thousand pounds and declared that he would sell every acre before +the bank should fail? Before night a dozen men were considering +ruefully the thing that they had done or pondering how they might, with +the least loss of dignity, undo it. Before morning twice as many wives +had told their husbands what they thought of them, and reminded them +that they had always said how it would be—only they were never listened +to! + +At the Gullet in the Shut off the Market Place, where the tap never +ceased running that evening, and half of the trade of the town pressed +in to eat liver and bacon, there was no longer any talk of Boulogne. +All the talk ran the other way. The drawers of the day were the butts +of the evening, and were bantered and teased unmercifully. Their +friends would not be in their shoes for a trifle—not they! They had +cooked their goose with a vengeance—no more golden eggs for them! And +very noticeable was it that whenever the banker’s name came up, voices +dropped and heads came together. His luck, his power, his resources +were discussed with awe and in whispers. There were not a few +thoughtful faces at the board, and here and there were appetites that +failed, though the suppers served in the dingy low-ceiled room at the +Gullet, dark even at noon-day, were famous for their savoriness. + + +Very different was the scene inside the bank. At the counter, indeed, +discipline failed the moment the door fell to behind the last customer. +The clerks sprang to their feet, cheered, danced a dance of triumph, +struck a hundred attitudes of scorn and defiance. They cracked silly +jokes, and flung paper darts at the public side; they repaid by every +kind of monkey trick the alarms and exertions from which they had +suffered during three days. They roared, “Oh, dear, what can the matter +be!” in tones of derision that reached the street. They challenged the +public to come on—to come on and be hanged! They ceased to make a noise +only when breath failed them. + +But in the parlor, whither Clement, followed after a moment’s +hesitation by Rodd, had hastened to join and to congratulate his +father, there was nothing of this. The danger had been too pressing, +the margin of safety too narrow to admit of loud rejoicing. The three +met like ship-wrecked mariners drawn more closely together by the +ordeal through which they had passed, like men still shaken by the +buffeting of the waves. They were quiet, as men amazed to find +themselves alive. The banker, in particular, sat sunk in his chair, +overcome as much by the scene through which he had passed as by a +relief too deep for words. For he knew that it was by no art of his +own, and through no resources of his own that he survived, and his +usual self-confidence, and with it his aplomb, had deserted him. In a +room vibrating with emotion they gazed at one another in thankful +silence, and it was only after a long interval that the older man let +his thoughts appear. Then “Thank God!” he said unsteadily, “and you, +Clement! God bless you! If we owe this to any one we owe it to you, my +boy! If you had not been beside me, God knows what I might not have +done!” + +“Pooh, pooh, sir,” Clement said; yet he did but disguise deep feeling +under a mask of lightness. “You don’t do yourself justice. And for the +matter of that, if we have to thank any one it is Rodd, here.” He +clapped the cashier on the shoulder with an intimacy that brought a +spark to Rodd’s eyes. “He’s not only stuck to it like a man, but if he +had not paid in his four hundred and fifty——” + +“No, no, sir, we weren’t drawn down to that—quite.” + +“We were mighty near it, my lad. And easily might have been.” + +“Yes,” said the banker; “we shall not forget it, Rodd. But, after all,” +with a faint smile, “it’s Bourdillon we have to thank.” And he +explained the motives which, on the surface at least, had moved the +Squire to intervene. “If I had not taken Bourdillon in when I did——” + +“Just so,” Clement assented drily. “And if Bourdillon had not——” + +“Umph! Yes. But—where is he? Do you know?” + +“I don’t. He may be at his rooms, or he may have ridden out to his +mother’s. I’ll look round presently, and if he is not in town I’ll go +out and tell him the news.” + +“You didn’t quarrel?” + +Clement shrugged his shoulders. “Not more than we can make up,” he said +lightly, “if it is to his interest.” + +The banker moved uneasily in his chair. “What is to be done about him?” +he asked. + +“I think, sir, that that’s for the Squire. Let us leave it to him. It’s +his business. And now—come! Has any one told Betty!” + +The banker rose, conscience-stricken. “No, poor girl, and she must be +anxious. I quite forgot,” he said. + +“Unless Rodd has,” Clement replied, with a queer look at his father. +For Rodd had vanished while they were talking of Arthur, whom it was +noteworthy that neither of them now called by his Christian name. + +“Well go and tell her,” said Ovington, reverting to his everyday tone. +And he turned briskly to the door which led into the house. He opened +it, and was crossing the hall, followed by Clement, who was anxious to +relieve his sister’s mind, when both came to a sudden stand. The banker +uttered an exclamation of astonishment—and so did Betty. For Rodd, he +melted with extraordinary rapidity through a convenient door, while +Clement, the only one of the four who was not taken completely by +surprise, laughed softly. + +“Betty!” her father cried sternly. “What is the meaning of this?” + +“Well, I thought—you would know,” said Betty, blushing furiously. “I +think it’s pretty plain.” Then, throwing her arms round her father’s +neck, “Oh, father, I’m so glad, I’m so glad, I’m so glad!” + +“But that’s an odd way of showing it, my dear.” + +“Oh, he quite understands. In fact”—still hiding her face—“we’ve come +to an understanding, father. And we want you”—half laughing and half +crying—“to witness it.” + +“I’m afraid I did witness it,” gravely. + +“But you’re not going to be angry? Not to-day? Not to-day, father.” And +in a small voice, “He stood by you. You know how he stood by you. And +you said you’d never forget it.” + +“But I didn’t say that I should give him my daughter.” + +“No, father; she gave herself.” + +“Well, there!” He freed himself from her. “That’s enough now, girl. +We’ll talk about it another time. But I’m not pleased, Betty.” + +“No?” said Betty, gaily, but dabbing her eyes at the same time. “He +said that. He said that you would not be pleased. He was dreadfully +afraid of you. And I said you wouldn’t be pleased, too. But——” + +“Eh?” + +“I said you’d come to it, father, by and by. In good time.” + +“Well, I’m——” But what the banker was, was lost in the peal of laughter +that Clement could no longer restrain. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + + +Arthur, after he had dropped from the post-chaise that morning, did not +at once move away. He stood on the crown of the East Bridge, looking +down the river, and the turmoil of his feelings was such as for a time +to render thought of the future impossible, and even to hold despair at +bay. The certainty that his plan would have succeeded if it had not +been thwarted by the very persons who would have profited by it, and +the knowledge that but for their scruples all that he had at stake in +the bank would have been saved—this certainty and this knowledge, with +the fact that while they left him to bear the obloquy they had denied +him the prize, so maddened him that for a full minute he stood, +grasping the stone balustrade of the bridge, and whispering curses at +the current that flowed smoothly below. + +The sunshine and the fair scene did but mock him. The green meadows, +and the winding river, and the crescent of stately buildings, +spire-crowned, that, curving with the stream, looked down upon it from +the site of the ancient walls, did but deride his misery. For, how many +a time had he stood on that spot and looked on that scene in days when +he had been happy and carefree, his future as sunny as the landscape +before him! And now—oh, the cowards! The cowards, who had not had the +courage even to pick up the fruit which his daring had shaken from the +bough. + +Ay, his daring and his enterprise! For what else was it? What had he +done, after all, at which they need made mouths? It had been but a loan +he had taken, the use for a few weeks of money which was useless where +it lay, and of which not a penny would be lost! And again he cursed the +weakness of those who had rendered futile all that he, the bolder +spirit, had done, who had consigned themselves and him to failure and +to beggary. He had bought their safety at his own cost, and they had +declined to be saved. He shook with rage, with impotent rage, as he +thought of it. + +Presently a man, passing over the bridge, looked curiously at him, +paused and went on again, and the incident recalled him to himself. He +remembered that he was in a place where all knew him, where his +movements and his looks would be observed, where every second person +who saw him would wonder why he was not at the bank. He must be going. +He composed his face and walked on. + +But whither? The question smote him with a strange and chilly sense of +loneliness. Whither? To the bank certainly, if he had courage, where +the battle was even now joined. He might fling himself into the fray, +play his part as if nothing had happened, smile with the best, ignore +what he had done and, if challenged, face it down. And there had been a +time when he could have done this. There had been a time, when Clement +had first alighted on him in town, when he had decided with himself to +play that rôle, and had believed that he could carry it off with a +smiling face. And now, now, as then, he maintained that he had done +nothing that the end did not justify, since the means could harm no +one. + +But at that time he had believed that he could count on the complicity +of others, he had believed that they would at least accept the thing +that he had done and throw in their lot with his, and the failure of +that belief, brag as he might, affected him. It had sapped his faith in +his own standards. The view Clement had taken had slowly but surely +eclipsed his view, until now, when he must face the bank with a smile, +he could not muster up the smile. He began to see that he had committed +not a crime, but a blunder. He had been found out! + +He walked more and more slowly, and when he came, some eighty yards +from the bridge and at the foot of the Cop, to a lane on his left which +led by an obscure shortcut to his rooms, he turned into it. He did not +tell himself that he was not going to the bank. He told himself that he +must change his clothes, and wash, and eat something before he could +face people. That was all. + +He reached his lodgings, beneath the shadow of an old tower that looked +over the meadows to the river, without encountering any one. He even +stole upstairs, unseen by his landlady, and found the fire alight in +his sitting-room, and some part of a meal laid ready on the table. He +washed his hands and ate and drank, but instinctively, as he did so, he +hushed his movements and trod softly. When he had finished his meal he +stood for a moment, his eyes on the door, hesitating. Should he or +should he not go to the bank? He knew that he ought to go. But the wear +and tear of three days of labor and excitement, during which he had +hardly slept as many hours, had lowered his vitality and sapped his +will, and the effort required was now too much for him. With a sigh of +relief he threw up the sponge, he owned himself beaten. He sank into a +chair and, moody and inert, he sat gazing at the fire. He was very +weary, and presently his eyes closed, and he slept. + +Two hours later his landlady discovered him, and the cry which she +uttered in her astonishment awoke him. “Mercy on us!” she exclaimed. +“You here, sir! And I never heard a sound, and no notion you were come! +But I was expecting you, Mr. Bourdillon. ‘He won’t be long,’ I says to +myself, ‘now that that plaguy bank’s gone and closed—worse luck to it!” + +“Closed, has it?” he said, dully. + +“Ay, to be sure, this hour past.” Which of course was not true, but +many things that were not true were being said in Aldersbury that day. +“And nothing else to be expected, I am told, though there’s nobody +blames you, sir. You can’t put old heads on young shoulders, asking +your pardon, sir, as I said to Mrs. Brown no more than an hour ago. It +was her Johnny told me—he came that way from school and stopped to +look. Such a sight of people on Bride Hill, he said, as he never saw in +his life, ’cept on Show Day, and the shutters going up just as he came +away.” + +He did not doubt the story—he knew that there was no other end to be +expected. “I am only just from London,” he said, feeling that some +explanation of his ignorance was necessary. “I had no sleep last night, +Mrs. Bowles, and I sat down for a moment, and I suppose I fell asleep +in my chair.” + +“Indeed, and no wonder. From London, to be sure! Can I bring you +anything up, sir?” + +“No, thank you, Mrs. Bowles. I shall have to go out presently, and +until I go out, don’t let me be disturbed. I’m not at home if any one +calls. You understand?” + +“I understand, sir.” And on the stairs, as she descended, a pile of +plates and dishes in her arms, “Poor young gentleman,” she murmured, +“it’s done him no good. And some in my place would be thinking of their +bill. But his people will see me paid. That’s where the gentry come +in—they’re never the losers, whoever fails.” + +For a few minutes after she had retired he dawdled about the room, +staring through the window without seeing anything, revolving the news, +and telling himself, but no longer with passion, that the game was +played out. And gradually the idea of flight grew upon him, and the +longing to be in some place where he could hide his head, where he +might let himself go and pity himself unwatched. Had his pockets been +full he would have returned to London and lost himself in its crowds, +and presently, he thought—for he still believed in himself—he would +have shown the world what he could do. + +But he had spent his loose cash on the journey, he was almost without +money, and instinct as well as necessity turned his thoughts towards +his mother. The notion once accepted grew upon him, and he longed to be +at the Cottage. He felt that there he might be quiet, that there no one +would watch him, and stealthily—on fire to be gone now that he had made +up his mind—he sought for his hat and coat and let himself out of the +house. + +There was no one in sight, and descending from the Town Wall by some +steps, he crossed the meadows to the river. He passed the water by a +ferry, and skirting the foot of the rising ground on the other side, he +presently struck into the Garthmyle road a little beyond the West +Bridge. + +He trudged along the road, his hat drawn down to his eyes, his +shoulders humped, his gaze fixed doggedly on the road before him. He +marched as men march who have had the worst of the battle, yet whom it +would be unwise to pursue too closely. At first he walked rapidly, +taking where he could a by-path, or a short-cut, and though the hills, +rising from the plain before him, were fair to see on this fine winter +day, as the sun began to decline and redden their slopes, he had no eye +for them or for the few whom he met, the road-man, or the carter, who, +plodding beside his load of turnips or manure, looked up and saluted +him. + +But when he had left the town two or three miles behind he breathed +more freely. He lessened his pace. Presently he heard on the road +behind him the clip-clop of a trotting horse, and not wishing to be +recognized, he slipped into the mouth of a lane, and by and by he saw +Clement Ovington ride by. He flung a vicious curse after him and, +returning to the road, he went on more slowly, chewing the sour cud of +reflection, until he came to the low sedgy tract where the Squire had +met with his misadventure, and where in earlier days the old man had +many a time heard the bittern’s note. + +He was in no hurry now, for he did not mean to reach the Cottage until +Clement had left it, and he stood leaning against the old thorn tree, +viewing the place and thinking bitterly of the then and the now. And +presently a spark of hope was kindled in him. Surely all was not +lost—even now! The Squire was angry—angry for the moment, and with +reason. But could he maintain his anger against one who had saved his +life at the risk of his own? Could he refuse to pardon one, but for +whom he would be already lying in his grave? With a quick uplifting of +the spirit Arthur conceived that the Squire could not. No man could be +so thankless, so unmindful of a benefit, so ungrateful. + +Strange, that he had not thought of that before! Strange—that under the +pressure of difficulties he had let that claim slip from his mind. It +had restored him to his uncle’s favor once. Why should it not restore +him a second time? Properly handled—and he thought that he could trust +himself to handle it properly—it should avail him. Let him once get +speech of his uncle, and surely he could depend on his own dexterity +for the rest. + +Hope awoke in him, and confidence. He squared his shoulders, he threw +back his head, he strode on, he became once more the jaunty, gallant, +handsome young fellow, whom women’s eyes were wont to follow as he +passed through the streets. But, steady, not so fast. There was still +room for management. He had no mind to meet Clement, whom he hated for +his interference, and he went a little out of the way, until he had +seen him pass by on his return journey. Then he went on. But it was now +late, and the murmur of the river came up from shadowy depths, the +squat tower of the church was beginning to blend with the dark sky, +lights shone from the cottage doors, when he passed over the bridge. He +hastened on through the dusk, opened the garden-gate, and saw his +mother standing in the lighted doorway. She had missed Clement, but had +gathered from the servant who had seen him that Arthur might be +expected at any moment, and she had come to the door with a shawl about +her head, that she might be on the look-out for him. + +Poor Mrs. Bourdillon! She had passed a miserable day. She had her +own—her private grounds for anxiety on Arthur’s account, and that +anxiety had been strengthened by her last talk with Josina. She was +sure that something was wrong with him, and this had so weighed on her +spirits and engrossed her thoughts, that the danger that menaced the +bank and her little fortune had not at first disturbed her. But as the +tale of village gossip grew, and the rumors of disaster became more +insistent, she had been forced to listen, and her fears once aroused, +she had not been slow to awake to her position. Gradually Arthur’s +absence and her misgivings on his account had taken the second place. +The prospect of ruin, of losing her all and becoming dependent on the +Squire’s niggard bounty, had closed her mind to other terrors. + +So at noon on this day, unable to bear her thoughts alone, she had +walked across the fields and seen Josina. But Josina had not been able +to reassure her. The girl had said as little as might be about Arthur, +and on the subject of the bank was herself so despondent that she had +no comfort for another. The Squire had gone to town—for the first time +since he had been laid up—in company with Sir Charles, and Josina +fancied that it might be upon the bank business. But she hardly dared +to hope that good could come of it, and Mrs. Bourdillon, who flattered +herself that she knew the Squire, had no hope. She had returned from +Garth more wretched than she had gone, and had she been a much wiser +woman than she was, she would have found it hard to meet her son with +tact. + +When she heard his footsteps on the road, “Is it you?” she cried. And +as he came forward into the light, “Oh, Arthur!” she wailed, “what have +you brought us to? What have you done? And the times and times I’ve +warned you! Didn’t I tell you that those Ovingtons——” + +“Well, come in now, mother,” he said. He stooped and kissed her on the +forehead. He was very patient with her—let it be said to his credit. + +“But, oh dear, dear!” She had lost control of herself and could not +stay her complaints if she would. “You would have your way! And you see +what has come of it! You would do it! And now—what am I to say to your +uncle?” + +“You can leave him to me,” Arthur replied doggedly. “And for goodness’ +sake, mother, come in and shut the door. You don’t want to talk to the +village, I suppose? Come in.” + +He shepherded her into the parlor and closed the door on them. He was +cold, and he went to the fire and stooped over it, warming his hands at +the blaze. + +“But the bank?” + +“Oh, the bank’s gone,” he said. + +She began to cry. “Then, I don’t know what’s to become of us!” she +sobbed. “It’s everything we have to live upon! And you know it wasn’t I +signed the order to—to your uncle! I never did—it was you—wrote my +name. And now—it has ruined us! Ruined us!” + +His face grew darker. “If you wish to ruin us,” he said, “at any rate +if you wish to ruin me, you’ll talk like that! As it is, you’ll not +lose your money, or only a part of it. The bank can pay everyone, and +there’ll be something over. A good deal, I fancy,” putting the best +face on it. “You’ll get back the greater part of it.” Then, changing +the subject abruptly, “What did Clement Ovington want?” + +“I don’t—know,” she sobbed. But already his influence was mastering +her; already she was a little comforted. “He asked for you. I didn’t +see him—I could not bear it. I suppose he came to—to tell me about the +bank.” + +“Well,” ungraciously, “he might have spared himself the trouble.” And +under his breath he added a curse. “Now let me have some tea, mother. +I’m tired—dog tired. I had no sleep last night. And I want to see Pugh +before he goes. He must take a note for me—to Garth.” + +“I’m afraid the Squire——” + +“Oh, hang the Squire! It’s not to him,” impatiently. “It’s to Josina, +if you must know.” + +She perked up a little at that—she had always some hope of Josina; and +the return to everyday life, the clatter of the tray as it was brought +in, the act of giving him his tea and seeing that he had what he liked, +the mere bustling about him, did more to restore her. The lighted room, +the blazing fire, the cheerful board—in face of these things it was +hard to believe in ruin, or to fancy that life would not be always as +it had been. She began again to have faith in him. + +And he, whose natural bent it was to be sanguine, whose spirits had +already rebounded from the worst, shared the feeling which he imparted. +That she knew the worst was something; that, at any rate, was over, and +confidently, he began to build his house again. “You won’t lose,” he +said, casting back the locks from his forehead with the gesture +peculiar to him. “Or not more than a few hundreds at worst, mother. +That will be all right. I’ll see to that. And my uncle—you may leave +him to me. He’s been vexed with me before, and I’ve brought him round. +Oh, I know him. I’ve no doubt that I can manage him.” + +“But Josina?” timidly. “D’you know, she was terribly low, Arthur—about +something yesterday. She wouldn’t tell me, but there was something. She +didn’t seem to want to talk about you.” + +He winced, and for a moment his face fell. But he recovered himself, +and, “Oh, I’ll soon put that right,” he answered confidently. “I shall +see her in the morning. She’s a good soul, is Josina. I can count on +her. Don’t you fret, mother. You’ll see it will all come right—with a +little management.” + +“Well, I know you’re very clever, Arthur. But Jos——” + +“Jos is afraid of him, that’s all.” And laughing, “Oh, I’ve an arrow in +my quiver, yet, mother. We shall see. But I must see Jos in the +morning. Is Pugh there? I’ll write to her now and ask her to meet me at +the stile at ten o’clock. Nothing like striking while the iron is hot.” + +On the morrow he did not feel quite so confident. The sunshine and open +weather of the day before had given place to rain and fog, and when, +after crossing the plank-bridge at the foot of the garden, he took the +field path which led to Garth, mist hid the more distant hills, and +even the limestone ridge which rose to her knees. The vale had ceased +to be a vale, and he walked in a plain, sad and circumscribed, bounded +by ghostly hedges, which in their turn melted into grey space. That the +day should affect his spirits was natural, and that his position should +appear less hopeful was natural, too, and he told himself so, and +strove to rally his courage. He strode along, swinging his stick and +swaggering, though there was no one to see him. And from time to time +he whistled to prove that he was free from care. + +After all, the fact that it rained did not alter matters. Wet or dry he +had saved the Squire’s life, and a man’s life was his first and last +and greatest possession, and not least valued when near its end. He who +saved it had a claim, and much—much must be forgiven him. Then, too, he +reminded himself that the old man was no longer the hard, immovable +block that he had been. The loss of sight had weakened him; he had +broken a good deal in the last few months. He could be cajoled, +persuaded, made to see things, and surely, with Josina’s help, it would +not be impossible to put such a color on the—the loan of the securities +as might make it appear a trifle. Courage! A little courage and all +would be well yet. + +He was still hopeful when he saw Josina’s figure, muffled in a cloak +and poke-bonnet, grow out of the mist before him. The girl was waiting +for him on the farther side of the half-way stile, which had been their +trysting place from childhood; and what slight doubt he had felt as to +her willingness to help him died away. He whistled a little louder, and +swung his stick more carelessly, and he spoke before he came up to her. + +“Hallo, Jos!” he cried cheerfully. “You’re before me. But I knew that I +could count on you, if I could count on any one. I only came from +London last night, and”—his stick over his shoulder, and his head +thrown back—“I knew the best thing I could do was to see you and get +your help. Why?” In spite of himself his voice fell a tone. “What’s the +matter?” + +“Oh, Arthur!” she said. That was all, but the two words completed what +her look had begun. His eyes dropped. “How could you? How would you do +it?” + +“Why—why, surely you’re not going to turn against me?” he exclaimed. + +“And he was blind! Blind! And he trusted you. He trusted you, Arthur.” + +“The devil!” roughly—for how could he meet this save by bluster? “If +we’re going to talk like that—but you don’t understand, Jos. It was +business, and you don’t understand, I tell you. Business, Jos.” + +“He does.” + +Two words only, but they rang a knell in his ears. They gripped him in +the moment of his swagger, left him bare before her, a culprit, dumb. + +“He has felt it terribly! Terribly,” she continued. “He was blind, and +you deceived him. Whom can he trust now, Arthur?” + +He strove to rally his confidence. He could not meet her gaze, but he +tapped a rail of the stile with his stick. “Oh, but that’s nonsense!” +he said. “Nonsense! But, of course, if you are against me, if you are +not going to help me——” + +“How can I help you? He will not hear your name.” + +“I can tell you how—quite easily, if you will let me explain?” + +She shook her head. + +“But you can. If you are willing, that is. Of course, if you are not——” + +“What can I do? He knows all.” + +“You can remind him of what I did for him,” he answered eagerly. “I +saved his life. He would not be alive now but for me. You can tell him +that. Remind him of that, Jos. Tell him that sometime after dinner, +when he is in a good humor. He owes his life to me, and that’s not a +small thing—is it? Even he must see that he owes me something. What’s a +paltry thousand or two thousand? And I only borrowed them; he won’t +lose a penny by it—not a penny!” earnestly. “What’s that in return for +a man’s life? He must know——” + +“He does know!” she cried; and the honest indignation in her eyes, the +indignation that she could no longer restrain, scorched him. For this +was too much, this was more than even she, gentle as she was, could +bear. “He does know all—all, Arthur!” she repeated severely. “That it +was not you—not you, but Clement, Mr. Ovington, who saved him! And +fought for him—that night! Oh, Arthur, for shame! For shame! I did not +think so meanly of you as this! I did not think that you would rob +another——” + +“What do you mean?” He tried to bluster afresh, but the stick shook in +his hand. “Confound it, what do you mean?” + +“What I say,” she answered firmly. “And it is no use to deny it, for my +father knows it. He knows all. He has seen Clement——” + +“Clement, eh?” bitterly. “Oh, it’s Clement now, is it?” He was white +with rage and chagrin, furious at the failure of his last hope. “It’s +that way, is it? You have gone over to that prig, have you? And he’s +told you this?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you believe him?” + +“I do.” + +“You believe him against me?” + +“Yes,” she said, “for it is the truth, Arthur. I know that he would not +tell me anything else.” + +“And I? Do you mean to say that I would?” + +She was silent. + +It was check and mate, the loss of his last piece, the close of the +game—and he knew it. With all in his favor he had made one false move, +then another and a graver one, and this was the end. + +He could not face it out. There was no more to be said, nothing more to +be done, only shame and humiliation if he stayed. He flung a word of +passionate incoherent abuse at her, and before she could reply he +turned his back on her and strode away. Sorrowfully Jos watched him as +he hurried along the path, cutting at the hedge with his stick, cursing +his luck, cursing the trickery of others, cursing at last, perhaps, his +own folly. She watched him until the ghostly hedges and the misty +distances veiled him from sight. + +Ten minutes later he burst in upon his mother at the Cottage and +demanded twenty pounds. “Give it me, and let me go!” he cried. “Do you +hear? I must have it! If you don’t give it me, I shall cut my throat!” + +Scared by his manner, his haggard eyes, his look of misery, the poor +woman did not even protest. She went upstairs and fetched the sum he +asked for. He took it, kissed her with lips still damp with rain, and +bidding her send his clothes as he should direct—he would write to +her—he hurried out. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + + +“I wun’t do it! I wun’t do it!” the Squire muttered stubbornly. “Mud +and blood’ll never mix. Shape the chip as you will, ’tis part of the +block! Girls’ whimsies are women’s aches, and they that’s older must +judge for them. She’d only repent of it when ’twas too late, and I’ve +paid my debt and there’s an end of it.” + +From the hour of that scene at Ovington’s he had begun to recover. From +that moment he began to wear a stiff upper lip and to give his orders +in hard, sharp tones, as he had been wont to give them in days when he +could see; as if, in truth, his irruption into the life of the town and +his action at the bank had re-established him in his own eyes. Those +about him were quick to see the change—he had taken, said they, a new +lease of life. “Maybe, ’tis just a flicker,” Calamy observed +cautiously; but even he had to admit that the flame burned higher for a +time, and privately he advised the new man who filled Thomas’s place +“to hop it when the master spoke,” or he’d hop it to some purpose. + +The result was that there was a general quickening up in the old house. +The master’s hand was felt, and things moved to a livelier time. To +some extent pride had to do with this, for the rumor of the Squire’s +doings in Aldersbury had flown far and wide and made him the talk of +the county. He had saved the bank. He had averted ruin from hundreds. +He had saved the country-side. He had paid in thirty, forty, fifty +thousand pounds. Naturally his people were proud of him. + +And doubtless the bold part he had played had given the old man a +fillip; others had stood by, while he, blind as he was, had asserted +himself, and acted, and rescued his neighbors from a great misfortune. +But the stiffness he showed was not due to this only. It was assumed to +protect himself. “I wun’t do it! I wun’t do it! It’s not i’ reason,” he +told himself over and over again; and in his own mind he fought a +perpetual battle. On the one side contended the opinions of a lifetime +and the prejudices of a caste, the beliefs in which he had been brought +up, and a pride of birth that had come down from an earlier day; on the +other, the girl’s tremulous gratitude, her silence, the touch of her +hand on his sleeve, the sound of her voice, the unceasing appeal of her +presence. + +Ay, and there were times when he was so hard put to it that he groaned +aloud. No man was more of a law to himself, but at these times he fell +back on the views of others. What would Woosenham say of it? How would +he hold up his hands? And Chirbury—whose peerage he respected, since it +was as old as his own family, if he thought little of the man? And +Uvedale and Cludde? Ay, and Acherley, who, rotten fellow as he was, was +still Acherley of Acherley? They had held the fort so stoutly in +Aldshire, they had repelled the moneyed upstarts so proudly, they had +turned so cold a shoulder on Manchester and Birmingham! They had found +in their Peninsular hero, and in that little country churchyard where +the maker of an empire lay resting after life’s fever, so complete a +justification for their own claims to leadership and to power! And no +one had been more steadfast, more dogged, more hide-bound in their +pride and exclusiveness than he. + +Now, if he gave way, what would they say? What laughter would there not +be from one end of the county to the other, what sneers, what talk of +an old man’s folly and an old man’s weakness! For it was not even as if +the man’s father had been a Peel or the like, a Baring or a Smith! A +small country banker, a man just risen from the mud—not even a stranger +from a distance, or a merchant prince from God knows where! Oh, it was +impossible. Impossible! Garth, that had been in the hands of +gentlefolk, of Armigeri from Harry the Eighth, to pass into the hands, +into the blood of—no, it was impossible! All the world of Aldshire +would jeer at it, or be scandalized by it. + +“I wun’t do it!” said the Squire for the hundredth time. It was more +particularly at the thought of Acherley that he squirmed. He despised +Acherley, and to be despised by Acherley—that was too much! + +“Of course,” said a small voice within him, “he would take the name of +Griffin, and in time——” + +“Mud’s mud,” replied the Squire silently. “You can’t change it.” + +“But he’s honest,” quoth the small voice. + +“So’s Calamy!” + +“He saved——” + +“And I ha’ paid him! Damme, I ha’ paid him! Ha’ done!” And then, “It’s +that blow on the head has moithered me!” + +Things went on in this way for a month, the Squire renewing his vigor +and beginning to tramp his fields again, or with the new man at his +bridle-hand to ride the old grey from point to point, learning what the +men were doing, inquiring after gaps, and following the manure to the +clover-ley, where the oats and barley would presently go in. Snow lay +on the upper hills, grizzling the brown sheets of bracken, and dappling +the green velvet of the sloping ling; the valley below was frost-bound. +But the Squire had a fire within him, a fire of warring elements, that +kept his blood running. He was very sharp with the men and scolded old +Fewtrell. As for Thomas’s successor, the lad learned to go warily and +kept his tongue between his teeth. + +The girl had never complained; it seemed as if that which he had done +for her had silenced her, as if, she, too, had taken it for payment. +But one day she was not at table, and Miss Peacock cut up his meat. She +did not do it to his mind—no hand but Jos’s could do it to his mind—and +he was querulous and dissatisfied. + +“I’m sure it’s small enough, sir,” Miss Peacock answered, feebly +defending herself. “You said you liked it small, Mr. Griffin.” + +“I never said I liked mince-meat! Where is the girl? What ails her?” + +“It’s nothing, sir. She’s been looking a little peaky the last week or +two. That’s all. And to-day——” + +“Why didn’t you tell me?” + +“It’s only a headache, sir. She’ll be well enough when the spring +comes. Josina was always nesh—like her mother.” + +The Squire huddled his spoon and fork together, and pushed his plate +away, muttering something about d—d sausage meat. Her mother? How old +had her mother been when she—he could not remember, but certainly a +mere child beside him. Twenty-five or so, he thought. And she was nesh, +was she? He sat, shaving his chin with unsteady fingers, eating +nothing; and when Calamy, hovering over his plate, hinted that he had +not finished, he blew the butler out of the room with a blast of +language that made Miss Peacock, hardened as she was, hold up her +hands. And though Jos was at breakfast next morning, and answered his +grumpy questions as if nothing were amiss, a little seed of fear had +been sown in the Squire’s mind that grew as fast as Jonah’s gourd, and +before noon threatened to shut out the sun. + +A silk purse could not be made out of a sow’s ear. But a good leather +purse, that might pass in time—the lad was stout and honest. And his +father, mud, certainly, and mud of the pretentious kind that the Squire +hated: mud that affected by the aid of gilding to pass for fine clay. +But honest? Well, in his own way, perhaps: it remained to be seen. And +times were changing, changing for the worse; but he could not deny that +they were changing. So gradually, slowly, unwelcome at the best, there +grew up in the old man’s mind the idea of surrender. If the money were +paid back, say in three months, say in six months—well, he would think +of it. He would begin to think of it. He would begin to think of it as +a thing possible some day, at some very distant date—if there were more +peakiness. The girl did not whine, did not torment him, did not +complain; and he thought the more of her for that. But if she ailed, +then, failing her, there was no one to come after him at Garth, no one +of his blood to follow him—except that Bourdillon whelp, and by G—d he +should not have an acre or a rood of it, or a pound of it. Never! +Never! + +Failing her? The Squire felt the air turn cold, and he hung, shivering, +over the fire. What if, while he sought to preserve the purity of the +old blood, the old traditions, he cut the thread, and the name of +Griffin passed out of remembrance, as in his long life he had known so +many, many old names pass away—pass into limbo? + +Ay, into limbo. He saw his own funeral procession crawl—a long black +snake—down the winding drive, here half-hidden by the sunken banks, +there creeping forth again into the light. He saw the bleak sunshine +fall on the pall that draped the farm-wagon, and heard the slow heavy +note of the Garthmyle bell, and the scuffling of innumerable feet that +alone broke the solemn silence. If she were not there at window or door +to see it go, or in the old curtained pew to await its coming—if the +church vault closed on him, the last of his race and blood! + +He sat long, thinking of this. + +And one day, nearly two months after his visit to the bank—in the +meantime he had been twice into town at the Bench—he was riding on the +land with Fewtrell at his stirrup, when the bailiff told him that there +was a stranger in the field. + +“Which field?” he asked. + +“Where they ha’ just lifted the turnips,” the man said. “Oh!” said the +Squire. “Who is it? What’s he doing there?” + +“Well, I’m thinking,” said Fewtrell, “as it’s the young gent I’ve seen +here more ’n once. Same as asked me one day why we didn’t drill ’em in +wider.” + +“The devil, he did!” the Squire exclaimed, kicking up the old mare, who +was leaning over sleepily. + +“Called ’em Radicals,” said Fewtrell, grinning. “Them there Radical +Swedes,” says he. “Dunno what he meant. ‘If you plant Radicals, best +plant ’em Radical fashion,’ says he.” + +“Devil he did!” repeated the Squire. “Said that, did he?” + +“Ay, to be sure. He used to come across with a gun field-way from +Acherley; oh, as much as once a week I’d see him. And he’d know every +crop as we put in, a’most same as I did. Very spry he was about it, +I’ll say that.” + +“Is it the banker’s son?” asked the Squire on a sudden suspicion. + +“Well, I think he be,” Fewtrell answered, shading his eyes. “He be +going up to the house now.” + +“Well, you can take me in,” to the groom. “I’ll go by the gap.” + +The groom demurred timidly; the grey might leap at the gap. But the +Squire was obstinate, and the old mare, who knew he was blind as well +as any man upon the place, and knew, too, when she could indulge in a +frolic and when not, bore, him out delicately, stepping over the +thorn-stubs as if she walked on eggs. + +He was at the door in the act of dismounting when Clement appeared. +“D’you want me?” the old man asked bluntly.’ + +“If you please, sir,” Clement answered. He had walked all the way from +Aldersbury, having much to think of and one question which lay heavy on +his mind. That was—how would it be with him when he walked back? + +“Then come in.” And feeling for the door-post with his hand, the Squire +entered the house and turned with the certainty of long practice into +the dining-room. He walked to the table as firmly as if he could see, +and touching it with one hand he drew up with the other his chair. He +sat down. “You’d best sit,” he said grudgingly. “I can’t see, but you +can. Find a chair.” + +“My father has sent me with the money,” Clement explained. “I have a +cheque here and the necessary papers. He would have come himself, sir, +to renew his thanks for aid as timely as it was generous and—and +necessary. But”—Clement boggled a little over the considered phrase, he +was nervous and his voice betrayed it—“he thought—I was to say——” + +“It’s all there?” + +“Yes, sir, principal and interest.” + +“Have you drawn a receipt?” + +“Yes, sir, I’ve brought one with me. But if you would prefer that it +should be paid to Mr. Welsh—my father thought that that might be so?” + +“Umph! All there, is it?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +The old man did not speak for awhile. He seemed to be at a loss, and +Clement, who had other and more serious business on his mind, and had +his own reasons for feeling ill at ease, waited anxiously. He was +desperately afraid of making a false step. + +Suddenly, “Who was your grandfather?” the Squire asked. + +Clement started and colored. “He had the same name as my father,” he +said. “He was a clothier in Aldersbury.” + +“Ay, I mind him. I mind him now. And his father, young man?” + +“His name was Clement,” and foreseeing the next question, “he was a +yeoman at Easthope.” + +“And his father?” + +Clement reddened painfully. He saw only too well to what these +questions were tending. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. + +“And you set up—you set up,” said the Squire, leaning forward and +speaking very slowly, “to marry my heiress?” + +“No, sir, your daughter!” Clement said, his face burning. “If she’d not +a penny——” + +“Pho! Don’t tell me!” the old man growled, and to Clement’s +surprise—whose ears were tingling—he relapsed into silence again. It +was a silence very ominous. It seemed to Clement that no silence had +ever been so oppressive, that no clock had ever ticked so loudly as the +tall clock that stood between the windows behind him. “You know,” said +the old man at last, “you’re a d—d impudent fellow. You’ve no birth, +you’re nobody, and I don’t know that you’ve much money. You’ve gone +behind my back and you’ve stole my girl. You’ve stole her! My father’d +ha’ shot you, and good reason, before he’d ha’ let it come to this. But +it’s part my fault,” with a sigh. “She’ve seen naught of the world and +don’t know the difference between silk and homespun or what’s fitting +for her. You’re nobody, and you’ve naught to offer—I’m plain, young +gentleman, and it’s better—but I believe you’re a man, and I believe +you’re honest.” + +“And I love her!” Clement said softly, his eyes shining. + +“Ay,” drily, “and maybe it would be better for her if her father +didn’t! But there it is. There it is. That’s all that’s to be said for +you.” He sat silent, looking straight before him with his sightless +eyes, his hands on the knob of his stick. “And I dunno as I make much +of that—’tis easy for a man to love a maid—but the misfortune is that +she thinks she loves you. Well, I’m burying things as have been much to +me all my life, things I never thought to lose or part from while I +lived. I’m burying them deep, and God knows I may regret it sorely. But +you may go to her. She’s somewhere about the place. But”—arresting +Clement’s exclamation as he rose to his feet—“you’ll ha’ to wait. +You’ll ha’ to wait till I say the word, and maybe ’tis all moonshine, +and she’ll see it is. Maybe ’tis all a girl’s whimsy, and when she +knows more of you she’ll find it out.” + +“God bless you, sir!” Clement cried. “I’ll wait. I’m not afraid. I’ve +no fear of that. And if I can make myself worthy of her——” + +“You’ll never do that,” said the old man sternly, as he bent lower over +his stick. He heard the door close and he knew that Clement had +gone—gone on wings, gone on feet lighter than thistle-down, gone, young +and strong, his pulses leaping, to his love. + +The Squire was too old for tears, but his lip trembled. It was not +alone the sacrifice that he had made that moved him—the sacrifice of +his pride, his prejudices, his traditions. It was not only the +immolation of his own will, his hopes and plans—his cherished plans for +her. But he was giving her up. He was resigning that of which he had +only just learned the worth, that on which in his blindness he depended +every hour, that which made up all of youth and brightness and +cheerfulness that was left to him between this and the end. He had sent +the man to her, and they would think no more of him. And in doing this +he had belied every belief in which he had been brought up and the +faith which he had inherited from an earlier day—and maybe he had been +a fool! + +But by and by it appeared that they had not forgotten him, or one, at +any rate, had not. He had not been alone five minutes before the door +opened behind him, and closed again, and he felt Josina’s arms round +his neck, her head on his breast. “Oh, father, I know, I know,” she +cried. “I know what you have done for me! And I shall never forget +it—never! And he is good. Oh, father, indeed, indeed, he is good!” + +“There, there,” he said, stroking her head. “Go back to him. But, mind +you,” hurriedly, “I don’t promise anything yet. In a year, maybe, I’ll +talk about it.” + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVINGTON’S BANK *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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